I’ve been in and out of women’s locker rooms since probably the fifth grade. That adds up to approximately 18 years of seeing half or totally naked girls/women. As I’ve transferred from the high school locker room to a locker room at a public gym I’ve noticed some things.
First of all lets be honest . . . . we all look. Whether we mean to or not, sometimes you see something surprising like nipple rings out of the corner of your eye and you do a double take. Sometimes you see someone with super ripped abs or a really nice body. I’ll be honest and admit that I’ve checked out a girls butt before because it was amazing. And more often than any of us would like you see someone who is either really old or really chubby. And it is these people who walk around butt as naked.
So with a birthday approaching in a few short hours, I have some vows for the gym I’d like to make as I age.
•I will always wear shower shoes.
•I will groom all parts of my body
•I will never wear underwear that comes up to my armpits
•I will always wear cute underwear. Or at least not grandma underwear.
•If my boobs hang down to my knees, I will wear a sports bra
•I will not have a conversation with a complete stranger while they are fully clothed and I am not.
•And when I am old and wrinkly and still going to the gym, I will strut around butt ass naked without a care in the locker room.
December 16, 2009
December 10, 2009
I Am NOT Tiger Woods
I am amazed that two weeks into the Tiger scandal, I still cannot get enough. It’s all disturbing and disappointing and yet I cannot stop reading about it. Which led me to reading an article by Jason Whitlock, whom I typically think is amusing and entertaining while giving us an interesting view into the world of sports. But I have a hard time with his recent article regarding how the Tiger scandal is about more than sex. Whitlock seems to think that it, or at least the public’s outrage, is about race.
Whitlock frequently stretches to make any issue into a race issue. He thinks that the country is upset because it was a mixed race man, who let’s face it, most of us think of as Black because it’s easier than listing all his ethnicities, cheating on a white woman. I don’t care if you’re green or purple or blue or any combination thereof, my indignation has nothing to do with the color of their skin. It has to do with the fact that a man cheated repeatedly on his wife. Even worse is that according to many of the women that have come forward, Tiger had some sort of ongoing relationship with these women.
I personally have never met either Tiger or Elin. I have no idea what they agreed to before getting married. For all I know they agreed to have an open marriage or they’re swingers. I would assume however, that even a non-traditional marriage means that you don’t publically humiliate your spouse and children. Some people want Tiger to speak up and tell us all what is and has been going on in his marriage. I have no problem with them keeping their private life private. In fact, I hope that they do. The less I hear about how good Tiger is in bed or whether or not he prefers to wear a condom the better.
Do I think that Tiger asked to be put on a Tim Tebow type shrine as Mr. Perfect? Not at all. Regardless of whether or not you asked for a pedestal, you know when you’re on one. And that means that your decisions and actions are going to be looked at and scrutinized. We as the public put Tiger on a pedestal. We helped to create that iconic image. And as always, we’re disappointed when our icons fall off those big ass pedestals. I’ve never aspired to be like Tiger Woods. I don’t even have the energy to aspire to golf like him. And despite knowing that no one is perfect, including idols, it is disappointing to find out that they’re just as human as the rest of us.
So yes, Tiger has had multiple relationships with women outside his marriage. Based on Elin’s coming after him with a golf club, which I find incredibly amusing and ironic, I’m guessing that even if the marriage was open, public humiliation wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. Here’s the thing that really gets me though. After two weeks, I still can’t get past this one tid bid. Tiger Woods went to Stanford, which is notorious for not bending its academic standards for athletes. The guy is worth a billion dollars. Yet somehow the supposedly smart guy with more money than he can possibly spend didn’t think of buying a second phone? A “little black phone,” if you will. I guess brains, money and good looks aren’t everything after all.
Whitlock frequently stretches to make any issue into a race issue. He thinks that the country is upset because it was a mixed race man, who let’s face it, most of us think of as Black because it’s easier than listing all his ethnicities, cheating on a white woman. I don’t care if you’re green or purple or blue or any combination thereof, my indignation has nothing to do with the color of their skin. It has to do with the fact that a man cheated repeatedly on his wife. Even worse is that according to many of the women that have come forward, Tiger had some sort of ongoing relationship with these women.
I personally have never met either Tiger or Elin. I have no idea what they agreed to before getting married. For all I know they agreed to have an open marriage or they’re swingers. I would assume however, that even a non-traditional marriage means that you don’t publically humiliate your spouse and children. Some people want Tiger to speak up and tell us all what is and has been going on in his marriage. I have no problem with them keeping their private life private. In fact, I hope that they do. The less I hear about how good Tiger is in bed or whether or not he prefers to wear a condom the better.
Do I think that Tiger asked to be put on a Tim Tebow type shrine as Mr. Perfect? Not at all. Regardless of whether or not you asked for a pedestal, you know when you’re on one. And that means that your decisions and actions are going to be looked at and scrutinized. We as the public put Tiger on a pedestal. We helped to create that iconic image. And as always, we’re disappointed when our icons fall off those big ass pedestals. I’ve never aspired to be like Tiger Woods. I don’t even have the energy to aspire to golf like him. And despite knowing that no one is perfect, including idols, it is disappointing to find out that they’re just as human as the rest of us.
So yes, Tiger has had multiple relationships with women outside his marriage. Based on Elin’s coming after him with a golf club, which I find incredibly amusing and ironic, I’m guessing that even if the marriage was open, public humiliation wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. Here’s the thing that really gets me though. After two weeks, I still can’t get past this one tid bid. Tiger Woods went to Stanford, which is notorious for not bending its academic standards for athletes. The guy is worth a billion dollars. Yet somehow the supposedly smart guy with more money than he can possibly spend didn’t think of buying a second phone? A “little black phone,” if you will. I guess brains, money and good looks aren’t everything after all.
When Beauty Rituals Backfire
When I was at home in Montana this past Thanksgiving, I was given the task of going through my closet there and getting rid of anything I didn’t want or boxing up what I did want for storage. Along with my American Girl doll, some prized stuffed animals, and Cabbage Patch kids were boxes full of photos. Here’s what I learned from pictures: a) I was pretty stinking cute as a toddler, b) I took a ridiculous number of pictures in junior high and high school (and still do) and c) I had the hairiest eyebrows ever!
While I didn’t appreciate it at the time, today I am eternally grateful for the beauty torture ritual my mother started me on at an early age. That’s right, the waxing of the eyebrows. I was in sixth grade when my mom took me to get it done for the first time. As I recall, I was going in for a hair cut and she somehow managed to slip this little piece of torture in at the last minute. All I remember is that it hurt like hell. Here’s the problem with waxing, I don’t dread the first side. That never seems to be an issue. But after you’re done waxing one side of whatever body part you may be waxing, you have to make it even. I think you’re body releases extra pain receptors once the first side is done because now you remember how uncomfortable or painful it really is.
Despite hating the eyebrow waxing ritual for its physical pain and the mocking I received from friends at the time (all of whom later ended up waxing their eyebrows), today I am grateful that my mom cared enough to torture me. Now days, I just wax my own eyebrows. It’s cheap and easy. The problem with this is that I am not a professional waxer. And occasionally the wax gets away from me.
Last night I decided an eyebrow waxing was in order. I had plugged in the wax and then forgot about it because I was watching a movie. Two hours later, the wax was a bit more pliable that usual. And may have gotten into more brow than I intended. You know what the problem with wax it? It’s kind of like gravity, what goes up must come down. Or in this case, what wax goes on must come off. Somehow. While I probably could have gotten it off some other way, I figured it couldn’t be that bad, right? Try telling that to the matching bald spots I now have in both my eyebrows.
What really amuses me is that I managed to ruin not one, but both eyebrows. I seriously have a little bald spot in the middle of each brow. While it’s probably not noticeable to someone who isn’t observant (i.e. boys), if you’re looking at them it is definitely noticeable.
Alas, the good thing about hair is that is always grows back. Unless you have alopecia. In the meantime, I’m stealing a move from the “I’m going bald but don’t want to own up to it” play book. That’s right, I am calling in . . . . the comb over. Where I am desperately trying to get the remaining eyebrow hair to strategically cover up the bald spots.
Alas, there is nothing I can do but will my hair to grow faster. And really, it could have been worse. I could be missing the whole brow. Now wouldn’t that make for an interesting photo to find years down the road?
While I didn’t appreciate it at the time, today I am eternally grateful for the beauty torture ritual my mother started me on at an early age. That’s right, the waxing of the eyebrows. I was in sixth grade when my mom took me to get it done for the first time. As I recall, I was going in for a hair cut and she somehow managed to slip this little piece of torture in at the last minute. All I remember is that it hurt like hell. Here’s the problem with waxing, I don’t dread the first side. That never seems to be an issue. But after you’re done waxing one side of whatever body part you may be waxing, you have to make it even. I think you’re body releases extra pain receptors once the first side is done because now you remember how uncomfortable or painful it really is.
Despite hating the eyebrow waxing ritual for its physical pain and the mocking I received from friends at the time (all of whom later ended up waxing their eyebrows), today I am grateful that my mom cared enough to torture me. Now days, I just wax my own eyebrows. It’s cheap and easy. The problem with this is that I am not a professional waxer. And occasionally the wax gets away from me.
Last night I decided an eyebrow waxing was in order. I had plugged in the wax and then forgot about it because I was watching a movie. Two hours later, the wax was a bit more pliable that usual. And may have gotten into more brow than I intended. You know what the problem with wax it? It’s kind of like gravity, what goes up must come down. Or in this case, what wax goes on must come off. Somehow. While I probably could have gotten it off some other way, I figured it couldn’t be that bad, right? Try telling that to the matching bald spots I now have in both my eyebrows.
What really amuses me is that I managed to ruin not one, but both eyebrows. I seriously have a little bald spot in the middle of each brow. While it’s probably not noticeable to someone who isn’t observant (i.e. boys), if you’re looking at them it is definitely noticeable.
Alas, the good thing about hair is that is always grows back. Unless you have alopecia. In the meantime, I’m stealing a move from the “I’m going bald but don’t want to own up to it” play book. That’s right, I am calling in . . . . the comb over. Where I am desperately trying to get the remaining eyebrow hair to strategically cover up the bald spots.
Alas, there is nothing I can do but will my hair to grow faster. And really, it could have been worse. I could be missing the whole brow. Now wouldn’t that make for an interesting photo to find years down the road?
December 9, 2009
Everything I Need to Know About Shopping I Learned From My Mother
Two of the best skills I have in life I learned from my mother. One – always look for the rack that says “SALE” on it. Two – how to do sale math.
My mom once told me a story about shopping when my brother and I were pretty little. After entering the department store, I told my brother that we had to find the racks that had S-A-L-E on them. That lesson went down pretty easy. The next lesson was slightly more intimidating.
Growing up, math was not my strong suit. In fact, I sucked at it. So I remember being super annoyed while shopping with my mother and her deciding to teach me how to figure out the sale price of an item when it only had the 25% off sign on the rack. Really Mom? I have to suck at math all week long in school and now you’re trying to make me do it on the weekend too?
As it turns out, sale math is not that difficult. And the little tricks she taught me have served me well throughout my life. Of course, I still calculate sale prices using elementary school math. I figure out what 10% off would be, because all you have to do is move a decimal, and double or triple accordingly. Yes, I could do 30% in my head but it is so much easier elementary school style.
To this day, I have no idea what time Train A and B will meet when they leave their respective stations going some unknown mph. I remember nothing from calculus and couldn’t calculate the sine of something if I had a gun to my head. I can however, do sale math like a champ.
My mom once told me a story about shopping when my brother and I were pretty little. After entering the department store, I told my brother that we had to find the racks that had S-A-L-E on them. That lesson went down pretty easy. The next lesson was slightly more intimidating.
Growing up, math was not my strong suit. In fact, I sucked at it. So I remember being super annoyed while shopping with my mother and her deciding to teach me how to figure out the sale price of an item when it only had the 25% off sign on the rack. Really Mom? I have to suck at math all week long in school and now you’re trying to make me do it on the weekend too?
As it turns out, sale math is not that difficult. And the little tricks she taught me have served me well throughout my life. Of course, I still calculate sale prices using elementary school math. I figure out what 10% off would be, because all you have to do is move a decimal, and double or triple accordingly. Yes, I could do 30% in my head but it is so much easier elementary school style.
To this day, I have no idea what time Train A and B will meet when they leave their respective stations going some unknown mph. I remember nothing from calculus and couldn’t calculate the sine of something if I had a gun to my head. I can however, do sale math like a champ.
November 23, 2009
Civil War 09
I have a friend who thinks that his being able to see the Beavs play, either from the stands or at home in his living room, has an effect on the outcome. Often during tense moments, he disappears, returning only once things have settled down again. He may just have a weak bladder and truly has to use the bathroom during these nerve-racking plays, but personally I think he really can’t handle the pressure. And up until this past Saturday, I tended to make fun of him for this.
What happened on Saturday you ask? Only the second biggest game of the Pac-10 2009 season. Oregon v. Arizona . . . the team that wins out goes to the Rose Bowl. But if Arizona loses a game, and the Beavs win out, guess who’s spending New Years in Pasadena? After two over times, Oregon managed to squeak one out over Arizona. And just when I managed to calm myself down from watching such a good game, a major realization hit me. Winner of Civil War now goes to the Rose Bowl. Either I am spending New Years in Pasadena, or the Duck fan who sits next to me at work is.
The chance to go to the Rose Bowl is always exciting, unless you’re USC and the Rose Bowl is your consolation prize and all you have to do is drive across town to play. And after last year’s Civil War, I’m already nervous. This is the second year in a row that the Beavs have held their bowl destiny in their own hands. Win out and you see roses. Lose and go to some obscure bowl. And last year the Beavs took a beating during Civil War . . . one that happened to be the worst beating ever on their home turf.
I spent a lot of Sunday running scenarios in my head. Could the Beavs pull out a win at Autzen? It’s been done before. But the Ducks look pretty darn good. Up until Saturday, the lowest number of points they had posted against competitors was 42. And while the Beavs have some solid defense, we haven’t been putting up those kinds of numbers on offense. The trick will be to shut down Masoli and James. And this was the point in my thought process that I realized I knew too much about football for a girl.
As much as I make fun of my friend who thinks he controls the outcome of a play by leaving the room, I am already nervous for the game. It really could go either way. And I really want to spend New Years in sunny Southern California rather than snowy Montana. I realize that my being nervous or what I wear will have exactly zero out come on the game. Deep down I am completely rational. But there is something about being a fan that caters to the irrational. Something inside us that says if I wear orange for the next week and a half, I can somehow control the outcome of the biggest Civil War in history.
If wearing orange or knocking on wood or sending happy thoughts into the universe gives the Beavs even an ounce of advantage on the 3rd . . . . well then I am perfectly happy to be a crazy fan. Go Beavs.
What happened on Saturday you ask? Only the second biggest game of the Pac-10 2009 season. Oregon v. Arizona . . . the team that wins out goes to the Rose Bowl. But if Arizona loses a game, and the Beavs win out, guess who’s spending New Years in Pasadena? After two over times, Oregon managed to squeak one out over Arizona. And just when I managed to calm myself down from watching such a good game, a major realization hit me. Winner of Civil War now goes to the Rose Bowl. Either I am spending New Years in Pasadena, or the Duck fan who sits next to me at work is.
The chance to go to the Rose Bowl is always exciting, unless you’re USC and the Rose Bowl is your consolation prize and all you have to do is drive across town to play. And after last year’s Civil War, I’m already nervous. This is the second year in a row that the Beavs have held their bowl destiny in their own hands. Win out and you see roses. Lose and go to some obscure bowl. And last year the Beavs took a beating during Civil War . . . one that happened to be the worst beating ever on their home turf.
I spent a lot of Sunday running scenarios in my head. Could the Beavs pull out a win at Autzen? It’s been done before. But the Ducks look pretty darn good. Up until Saturday, the lowest number of points they had posted against competitors was 42. And while the Beavs have some solid defense, we haven’t been putting up those kinds of numbers on offense. The trick will be to shut down Masoli and James. And this was the point in my thought process that I realized I knew too much about football for a girl.
As much as I make fun of my friend who thinks he controls the outcome of a play by leaving the room, I am already nervous for the game. It really could go either way. And I really want to spend New Years in sunny Southern California rather than snowy Montana. I realize that my being nervous or what I wear will have exactly zero out come on the game. Deep down I am completely rational. But there is something about being a fan that caters to the irrational. Something inside us that says if I wear orange for the next week and a half, I can somehow control the outcome of the biggest Civil War in history.
If wearing orange or knocking on wood or sending happy thoughts into the universe gives the Beavs even an ounce of advantage on the 3rd . . . . well then I am perfectly happy to be a crazy fan. Go Beavs.
November 20, 2009
Rough Life
You know your life is rough when the biggest decision you’re trying to make is how to fit all your travel plans into the next year. Seriously. This is my biggest conundrum right now.
I travel a lot. So much in fact that when making small talk with me, people always ask “so where is your next trip to?” Some might say that the travel is excessive, but I am young and single. What better way to spend my disposable income than on travel and wine? And the occasional designer handbag? This year alone I had five major trips. Not major as in overseas, but I did five very cool vacations: Hawaii, Lake Shasta, Priest Lake, Vegas and Alaska.
As the remainder of my travel for this year is simply going home to Montana for the holidays, I’ve begun to ponder my trips for 2010. I turn 30 next year. The number itself doesn’t bother me, but I feel like I should do something awesome to celebrate it. And I’ve decided that Greece would be awesome. I’ve even found a travel group that doesn’t charge the single person surcharge. The problem is that between my other already scheduled travel and work, I’m finding it difficult to make the dates work.
Do I try to “squeeze” in a trip to Greece next year? Or do I wait an extra year so I can go during the time of year that I’d like to go? If I don’t go to Greece, I have a free place to stay in Hawaii during April and May and a discounted plane ticket. And who doesn’t love Hawaii?
I also have an amazing family trip planned for June. The whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, first cousins once removed (cousins kids), are taking a boat and exploring the area where my dad and his sisters grew up in BC. Since it is only accessible by boat, this is pretty much a once in a lifetime opportunity. Twenty some odd family members on a boat together for a week? Good thing we all get along!
Before you know it, it’s time for Hood to Coast and then its football season. So we’re back to the Greece or no Greece dilemma. Like I said, sometimes life is pretty rough.
I travel a lot. So much in fact that when making small talk with me, people always ask “so where is your next trip to?” Some might say that the travel is excessive, but I am young and single. What better way to spend my disposable income than on travel and wine? And the occasional designer handbag? This year alone I had five major trips. Not major as in overseas, but I did five very cool vacations: Hawaii, Lake Shasta, Priest Lake, Vegas and Alaska.
As the remainder of my travel for this year is simply going home to Montana for the holidays, I’ve begun to ponder my trips for 2010. I turn 30 next year. The number itself doesn’t bother me, but I feel like I should do something awesome to celebrate it. And I’ve decided that Greece would be awesome. I’ve even found a travel group that doesn’t charge the single person surcharge. The problem is that between my other already scheduled travel and work, I’m finding it difficult to make the dates work.
Do I try to “squeeze” in a trip to Greece next year? Or do I wait an extra year so I can go during the time of year that I’d like to go? If I don’t go to Greece, I have a free place to stay in Hawaii during April and May and a discounted plane ticket. And who doesn’t love Hawaii?
I also have an amazing family trip planned for June. The whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, first cousins once removed (cousins kids), are taking a boat and exploring the area where my dad and his sisters grew up in BC. Since it is only accessible by boat, this is pretty much a once in a lifetime opportunity. Twenty some odd family members on a boat together for a week? Good thing we all get along!
Before you know it, it’s time for Hood to Coast and then its football season. So we’re back to the Greece or no Greece dilemma. Like I said, sometimes life is pretty rough.
November 19, 2009
Boys
I love boys. For many reasons, but mostly because they aren’t girls. They tend to lack the drama and emotions that girls have, thus making friendships with guys somewhat easier. Of course I also don’t expect nearly as much from my guy friendships as I do my girl friendships. I don’t expect them to remember it’s my birthday or notice that I got my hair cut or complement me on an outfit. And despite my telling them a million times that a girl does not want to hear this, I am never surprised when they say “you look tired today.”
Because I have lower expectations from guys, it tends to catch me off guard when they do something nice or thoughtful all on their own accord. The first time this happened, one of the guys was dropping me off at my home. He insisted on waiting until I got inside before pulling away. I tried to tell him that it was 20 feet and well lit, but to this day, he still waits until I get inside the building before taking off.
It is important for every girl, especially single girls, to have at least one guy friend with a truck. I feel a little bit bad for him, because within our group of friends, there are two single girls. And we have both moved at least once. And anytime I need a truck for something, guess who I call. He’s pretty great about it though, always willing to lend his truck and his muscles. You gotta love the guys who are willing to help you out no matter how much it sucks, because as hard as I try, I cannot move a couch by myself.
One of my really good girlfriends got married a year or so ago. I’ve met her husband on several occasions, but it’s always been in big groups and we’re both quiet people so there hasn’t been a lot of chatting. I ended up driving to a Beaver game with them this season, which means multiple hours in the car and plenty of time to bond. After spending some quality time with my girl friend and her hubby in the car, I decided that he’s pretty great. What made him awesome however came at the end of the night. I had a table in the back of their car and after pulling up to my place, he immediately hops out to help me carry the table inside, with no prompting from his wife. Major kudos to the guy who automatically helps someone out.
Apparently I also love boys for their thoughtfulness. They don’t necessarily notice a hair cut or new shoes, but my guys step up when it matters. It might be saving me a seat at a function, carrying something heavy or making sure I get home safely. Sometimes I have to remind myself of their good traits, but at the end of the day, guys aren’t so bad.
Because I have lower expectations from guys, it tends to catch me off guard when they do something nice or thoughtful all on their own accord. The first time this happened, one of the guys was dropping me off at my home. He insisted on waiting until I got inside before pulling away. I tried to tell him that it was 20 feet and well lit, but to this day, he still waits until I get inside the building before taking off.
It is important for every girl, especially single girls, to have at least one guy friend with a truck. I feel a little bit bad for him, because within our group of friends, there are two single girls. And we have both moved at least once. And anytime I need a truck for something, guess who I call. He’s pretty great about it though, always willing to lend his truck and his muscles. You gotta love the guys who are willing to help you out no matter how much it sucks, because as hard as I try, I cannot move a couch by myself.
One of my really good girlfriends got married a year or so ago. I’ve met her husband on several occasions, but it’s always been in big groups and we’re both quiet people so there hasn’t been a lot of chatting. I ended up driving to a Beaver game with them this season, which means multiple hours in the car and plenty of time to bond. After spending some quality time with my girl friend and her hubby in the car, I decided that he’s pretty great. What made him awesome however came at the end of the night. I had a table in the back of their car and after pulling up to my place, he immediately hops out to help me carry the table inside, with no prompting from his wife. Major kudos to the guy who automatically helps someone out.
Apparently I also love boys for their thoughtfulness. They don’t necessarily notice a hair cut or new shoes, but my guys step up when it matters. It might be saving me a seat at a function, carrying something heavy or making sure I get home safely. Sometimes I have to remind myself of their good traits, but at the end of the day, guys aren’t so bad.
November 5, 2009
Things that Grind My Gears
Things that grind my gears . . .
My normal day to day activities do not require the use of a car. I drive very infrequently. And in this pedestrian friendly city, I’m very annoyed at how often cars will not stop for a pedestrian in a crosswalk. There is a crosswalk on my way home that is notorious for the fact that you have to walk into traffic before anyone will stop for you.
The crosswalk is probably only a year or two old. That intersection was enough of an issue that a crosswalk has been put in since I’ve been living downtown. And still cars do not stop. I’ll forgive the one lone car blazing through not paying attention. Lucky for them, and my health insurance carrier, I am paying attention. What irritates me is when there is a steady stream of cars, I am clearly visible waiting to cross and no one slows down. I will step in front of you and your car and force you to stop. And then I will proceed to walk slower than an old lady who needs hip replacement surgery.
In fact, the majority of the times I use this crosswalk, I have to step into the middle of the street before anyone will stop. One time I even had a guy swerve around me while I was in the middle of the crosswalk because he couldn’t wait for five seconds. And what are sometimes worse than cars are the bikers. Bikers, if you want to be respected on the road and treated like a car, then you have to follow the rules of the road too. Which means that you have to stop for pedestrians at crosswalks. And stoplights, but that is a whole new rant. To the people that do stop and let me use the crosswalk as needed, I not only hustle across the street, I give a courtesy wave and thank you.
The other thing that really grinds my gears . . . rudeness. I am a modern girl, I don’t expect you to hold the door open for me, but I do expect that you won’t trample me trying to get through it first. I have literally been shoved out of the way by a business man trying to board public transportation before me. On the flip side, I have homeless people telling me good morning and to have a nice day when I walk past them on my commute to work. If people that have very little can be polite and courteous, I don’t see why everyone can’t.
The gym is another place that seems to grow rudeness like a Petri dish grows bacteria. Yesterday I was at the gym headed upstairs to the cardio machines. A guy cut me off on the stairs and then cut me off again to take the machine I was headed towards. I hate waiting for a machine as much as the next person, but is it really worth knocking someone out of the way for? And what always makes it worse is the person who cuts you off for a machine only stays on there for an average of two minutes. Really buddy? Two whole minutes? Don’t burn yourself out. The weight area is another place without manners. Just because you leave a water bottle by a machine doesn’t mean it’s yours. There is this thing called sharing. Most of us learned it as toddlers. Some of you need a refresher on the concept.
And those are just a few of the things that grind my gears.
My normal day to day activities do not require the use of a car. I drive very infrequently. And in this pedestrian friendly city, I’m very annoyed at how often cars will not stop for a pedestrian in a crosswalk. There is a crosswalk on my way home that is notorious for the fact that you have to walk into traffic before anyone will stop for you.
The crosswalk is probably only a year or two old. That intersection was enough of an issue that a crosswalk has been put in since I’ve been living downtown. And still cars do not stop. I’ll forgive the one lone car blazing through not paying attention. Lucky for them, and my health insurance carrier, I am paying attention. What irritates me is when there is a steady stream of cars, I am clearly visible waiting to cross and no one slows down. I will step in front of you and your car and force you to stop. And then I will proceed to walk slower than an old lady who needs hip replacement surgery.
In fact, the majority of the times I use this crosswalk, I have to step into the middle of the street before anyone will stop. One time I even had a guy swerve around me while I was in the middle of the crosswalk because he couldn’t wait for five seconds. And what are sometimes worse than cars are the bikers. Bikers, if you want to be respected on the road and treated like a car, then you have to follow the rules of the road too. Which means that you have to stop for pedestrians at crosswalks. And stoplights, but that is a whole new rant. To the people that do stop and let me use the crosswalk as needed, I not only hustle across the street, I give a courtesy wave and thank you.
The other thing that really grinds my gears . . . rudeness. I am a modern girl, I don’t expect you to hold the door open for me, but I do expect that you won’t trample me trying to get through it first. I have literally been shoved out of the way by a business man trying to board public transportation before me. On the flip side, I have homeless people telling me good morning and to have a nice day when I walk past them on my commute to work. If people that have very little can be polite and courteous, I don’t see why everyone can’t.
The gym is another place that seems to grow rudeness like a Petri dish grows bacteria. Yesterday I was at the gym headed upstairs to the cardio machines. A guy cut me off on the stairs and then cut me off again to take the machine I was headed towards. I hate waiting for a machine as much as the next person, but is it really worth knocking someone out of the way for? And what always makes it worse is the person who cuts you off for a machine only stays on there for an average of two minutes. Really buddy? Two whole minutes? Don’t burn yourself out. The weight area is another place without manners. Just because you leave a water bottle by a machine doesn’t mean it’s yours. There is this thing called sharing. Most of us learned it as toddlers. Some of you need a refresher on the concept.
And those are just a few of the things that grind my gears.
October 23, 2009
Black & White Make Gray
My mom once joked that I have been thirty-five years old since I was three. She’s absolutely right; I am definitely an old soul. Whether that is good or bad, who knows, it just simply is for me. I’ve had my version of life figured out for a very long time. What I’ve had to learn along the way however is that not everyone does. And much to my consternation at the time I came upon this realization, we aren’t all old souls. Despite being wise to this information in my old age, one of the hardest lessons I have to learn over and over again is that life isn’t black and white. Much to my dismay, I keep stumbling upon large shades of gray in various life situations.
Like I said, as an old soul, I’ve had my version of life figured out since forever. Part of this and my being a black and white person includes a high moral standard that I hold myself to, and unfortunately tend to hold others to. I’m so black and white, that I never even mixed the two colors in art class as a child. As I’ve gotten older that the moral issues that have to be dealt with have changed, and with that change comes gray. We move from the black of its wrong to cheat on a test to the gray of cheating significant others.
I am adamantly against cheating on a significant other. Whether you are married and cheating or single with a married person, I think it is unacceptable. My friends all know this about me. Which is why I found myself surprised on multiple occasions when friends have told me that they were a cheater or a cheatee. (Cheatee: a single person who is canoodling with a married person.) What do you say to a friend who tells you something like that? Is there a right thing to say in that situation? I don’t know, but stuck with I care about you but don’t agree with that decision. When you see people cheat in movies, you tend to think less of them. Have you see the movie “Unfaithful?” Nobody likes Diane Lane at the end of that movie. Oddly enough, real life isn’t as black and white as the movies. I found shades of gray in a situation where I never expected there to be any. Because at the end of the day, these people were still my good friends. Making what I considered to be a poor choice didn’t change who these people were deep down or the reasons why we were friends.
On a lighter note, I had recently decided to do a spending diet, where I attempted not to eat out or shop on line for thirty days. What I realized after a week of being good and sticking to the plan was that things come up. I had an unplanned birthday happy hour to attend and another friends going away party. Things that I hadn’t planned for but were important and I needed to be at because they were for really good friends. I’d already missed one friends wedding, all hell was going to break lose if I missed her going away party. Things like that are important. And the world didn’t cave in because I broke my spending diet, which I had intended to be a black and white issue. Although not super significant in the grand scheme of things, it was a good reminder that life isn’t set in stone or perfect. That entering the gray zone is okay every now and again.
Being an old soul, I know exactly what is right and wrong for me. What is black and what is white. For me. That’s the distinction that I need to remember. That life isn’t black and white for everyone. And that it’s good to surround myself with people who aren’t afraid to dip in to the gray. Turns out you learn something about yourself when dipped into the gray, willing or not. And the gray can be fun. So despite my better judgment, bring on the gray. In appropriate amounts of course.
Like I said, as an old soul, I’ve had my version of life figured out since forever. Part of this and my being a black and white person includes a high moral standard that I hold myself to, and unfortunately tend to hold others to. I’m so black and white, that I never even mixed the two colors in art class as a child. As I’ve gotten older that the moral issues that have to be dealt with have changed, and with that change comes gray. We move from the black of its wrong to cheat on a test to the gray of cheating significant others.
I am adamantly against cheating on a significant other. Whether you are married and cheating or single with a married person, I think it is unacceptable. My friends all know this about me. Which is why I found myself surprised on multiple occasions when friends have told me that they were a cheater or a cheatee. (Cheatee: a single person who is canoodling with a married person.) What do you say to a friend who tells you something like that? Is there a right thing to say in that situation? I don’t know, but stuck with I care about you but don’t agree with that decision. When you see people cheat in movies, you tend to think less of them. Have you see the movie “Unfaithful?” Nobody likes Diane Lane at the end of that movie. Oddly enough, real life isn’t as black and white as the movies. I found shades of gray in a situation where I never expected there to be any. Because at the end of the day, these people were still my good friends. Making what I considered to be a poor choice didn’t change who these people were deep down or the reasons why we were friends.
On a lighter note, I had recently decided to do a spending diet, where I attempted not to eat out or shop on line for thirty days. What I realized after a week of being good and sticking to the plan was that things come up. I had an unplanned birthday happy hour to attend and another friends going away party. Things that I hadn’t planned for but were important and I needed to be at because they were for really good friends. I’d already missed one friends wedding, all hell was going to break lose if I missed her going away party. Things like that are important. And the world didn’t cave in because I broke my spending diet, which I had intended to be a black and white issue. Although not super significant in the grand scheme of things, it was a good reminder that life isn’t set in stone or perfect. That entering the gray zone is okay every now and again.
Being an old soul, I know exactly what is right and wrong for me. What is black and what is white. For me. That’s the distinction that I need to remember. That life isn’t black and white for everyone. And that it’s good to surround myself with people who aren’t afraid to dip in to the gray. Turns out you learn something about yourself when dipped into the gray, willing or not. And the gray can be fun. So despite my better judgment, bring on the gray. In appropriate amounts of course.
October 19, 2009
Ted Mosby
Throughout our years, we come into many versions of the perfect guy. First it’s Prince Charming, who can do the waltz perfectly. Then it’s some teen heart throb, like Jason Priestly or Mark Paul Gosselaar. Then it’s the high school quarterback, etc. The guy I am currently pining after? Ted Mosby. *sigh*
Like Prince Charming, he’s fictional, but has all those qualities that us single girls are looking for. He has a full time job, is witty and charming, and has the best hair. The writers of “How I Met Your Mother” have done a great job creating the perfect guy that the modern, semi-grown up girls love.
Here’s the thing though, he’s the coolest guy yet goes season through season, looking for his perfect significant other. He has a fair number of dates, and a fair number of nights as the sexless innkeeper, but can’t quite seem to find the right person. Heck, since Robyn (one of the other characters on the show), he can’t find anyone to even date long term. And if Ted Mosby, the guy that all us twenty something girls want to date, can’t find the relationship, where does that leave the rest of us?
The funny thing is, despite the fact that Ted Mosby is a fictional character, we all have a Ted in our lives. And like the CBS Ted, our own Ted’s have charm, personality, looks and occasionally the hair, yet can’t seem to find the right girl. And like the CBS Ted and his co-stars, all parties are perfectly happy being platonic friends with our real life Ted’s. Mine sits next to me at work.
Ted Mosby is pretty much the perfect guy in my opinion. And since he’s still somehow single, there’s hope that someday he and I will randomly meet and live happily ever after. And if he and I are not destined to be, at least the show is prefaced by him telling his kids how he met their mother, which means there is a happy ending in there somewhere. And if Ted gets his happy ending, I’m willing to bet that most of us will too at some point. Perhaps if we all start trading our platonic real-life Ted’s. And until then, we have Monday nights.
Like Prince Charming, he’s fictional, but has all those qualities that us single girls are looking for. He has a full time job, is witty and charming, and has the best hair. The writers of “How I Met Your Mother” have done a great job creating the perfect guy that the modern, semi-grown up girls love.
Here’s the thing though, he’s the coolest guy yet goes season through season, looking for his perfect significant other. He has a fair number of dates, and a fair number of nights as the sexless innkeeper, but can’t quite seem to find the right person. Heck, since Robyn (one of the other characters on the show), he can’t find anyone to even date long term. And if Ted Mosby, the guy that all us twenty something girls want to date, can’t find the relationship, where does that leave the rest of us?
The funny thing is, despite the fact that Ted Mosby is a fictional character, we all have a Ted in our lives. And like the CBS Ted, our own Ted’s have charm, personality, looks and occasionally the hair, yet can’t seem to find the right girl. And like the CBS Ted and his co-stars, all parties are perfectly happy being platonic friends with our real life Ted’s. Mine sits next to me at work.
Ted Mosby is pretty much the perfect guy in my opinion. And since he’s still somehow single, there’s hope that someday he and I will randomly meet and live happily ever after. And if he and I are not destined to be, at least the show is prefaced by him telling his kids how he met their mother, which means there is a happy ending in there somewhere. And if Ted gets his happy ending, I’m willing to bet that most of us will too at some point. Perhaps if we all start trading our platonic real-life Ted’s. And until then, we have Monday nights.
October 12, 2009
That's My Name
For the first five years that I worked downtown, I walked past the same Starbucks every day. Actually, I went by about eight of them, but one quickly became a favorite. I stopped in usually at least once a week to get my usual Americano with room and sometimes a bite to eat. Because I was there on a fairly regular basis, Starbucks does what it does best, customer service. They knew my order when I walked in and had already started making it before I got to the counter. One barista there was so nice that he’d slip me extra treats when I ordered food. We knew each other so well in fact, that we’d wave and exchange hellos if we ran into each other in other parts of Portland.
Sadly, my company left that part of town. Now instead of walking past Starbucks on my way to work, I walk past homeless shelters and have to be diligent about watching where I step. Puddles don’t just happen spontaneously when it hasn’t rained in days. Although the homeless folks are mostly friendly, often saying good morning or telling me how beautiful I am (I’m pretty sure its because I have all my teeth), it’s not the same as someone knowing who you are when you walk through the door.
That all changed again recently. And this time it wasn’t Starbucks. It was the gym. That’s right, the people at the gym know me by name. Although it makes sense since I’m there at the same time 4-5 times per week, it still threw me off the first time it happened. I walked into the gym like I always do on my way home from work, because its right smack in the middle of my commute home, and I was greeted by the check in girl who called me by my first name. Without even glancing at my membership card.
To this day, I am still greeted by my first name when I check in at the gym. You know you go to a place too often when they know your drink order or name or what your favorite scone is. But if you frequent a place so often that they know you as more that just a random customer, it’s probably not a bad thing that the place is the gym.
Sadly, my company left that part of town. Now instead of walking past Starbucks on my way to work, I walk past homeless shelters and have to be diligent about watching where I step. Puddles don’t just happen spontaneously when it hasn’t rained in days. Although the homeless folks are mostly friendly, often saying good morning or telling me how beautiful I am (I’m pretty sure its because I have all my teeth), it’s not the same as someone knowing who you are when you walk through the door.
That all changed again recently. And this time it wasn’t Starbucks. It was the gym. That’s right, the people at the gym know me by name. Although it makes sense since I’m there at the same time 4-5 times per week, it still threw me off the first time it happened. I walked into the gym like I always do on my way home from work, because its right smack in the middle of my commute home, and I was greeted by the check in girl who called me by my first name. Without even glancing at my membership card.
To this day, I am still greeted by my first name when I check in at the gym. You know you go to a place too often when they know your drink order or name or what your favorite scone is. But if you frequent a place so often that they know you as more that just a random customer, it’s probably not a bad thing that the place is the gym.
October 2, 2009
Red, White & Blue
I’ve never considered myself patriotic. To me, liberty and freedom is simply a way of life that I’ve never had to question. I was born and raised in the US and don’t know any different. Red, white, blue and the pursuit of happiness simply is.
I was 20 years old when 9/11 happened and I remember it vividly. It was terrible, the realization that a group of people could hate my country that much. This was the start of me changing my attitude towards America, or at least when I paused to think about what we had here. My protective bubble that I had been raised it now had an awfully big hole in it.
Then I had the opportunity to start traveling internationally. It ticked me off that others would travel with a Canadian flag on their backpacks and lie about being Americans. I’m guessing the Canadians aren’t real happy with a bunch of idiot Americans passing themselves off as their countrymen either. I wasn’t even sure why I really cared about something so inconsequential, but I did. If I put flags on my travel bags, I would have a Canadian and American flag – I’m a citizen of both countries. But why deny and be ashamed of where you came from? As a nation, we haven’t been perfect by any means, but what nation has? As an individual, I felt like I had an opportunity to undue any unjust stereotypes American travelers had. That we weren’t all loud, obnoxious and rude. That we could respect other people’s customs, especially when in their country. That we could be calm, polite and slow to anger . . . even when getting screamed at in Japanese for having the nerve to visit the Hiroshima Memorial.
So when did the big change come? I think it’s when my favorite brother had to go to war. When I realized that whether I agreed with this war or not, soldiers were dying. Not for our own freedom that we take for granted, but for the chance that other people could potentially experience the same thing. (And for oil, but I digress.) And despite my severe dislike that the US is in the Middle East at all, the soldiers and what they’re representing I respect and appreciate. I love that about Americans, that we can hate the war, but still say thank you to a soldier we pass in the airport.
I’ve heard the national anthem more times than I can possible remember. Pre 9/11, it was something you had to sit through to get to the start of a game and politely clapped for when it was over. Post 9/11, I love that people cheer and yell during the last few lines. It puts a big goofy grin on my face every time. Finally people are excited to be Americans.
Without the terrible tragedies that we as a country have suffered together in the past decade, I don’t know that we as a country could have gotten to a place where we’re proud again. I’m not sure I would have gotten to a place where I cared. I hope that the excitement continues and twenty years from now, people still cheer for “the land of the free and the home of the brave.” I hope that I continue to be pro-American. And I hope that through misfortune and uncertainty we are able to create an atmosphere where the next generation can continue to be proud that they are Americans.
I was 20 years old when 9/11 happened and I remember it vividly. It was terrible, the realization that a group of people could hate my country that much. This was the start of me changing my attitude towards America, or at least when I paused to think about what we had here. My protective bubble that I had been raised it now had an awfully big hole in it.
Then I had the opportunity to start traveling internationally. It ticked me off that others would travel with a Canadian flag on their backpacks and lie about being Americans. I’m guessing the Canadians aren’t real happy with a bunch of idiot Americans passing themselves off as their countrymen either. I wasn’t even sure why I really cared about something so inconsequential, but I did. If I put flags on my travel bags, I would have a Canadian and American flag – I’m a citizen of both countries. But why deny and be ashamed of where you came from? As a nation, we haven’t been perfect by any means, but what nation has? As an individual, I felt like I had an opportunity to undue any unjust stereotypes American travelers had. That we weren’t all loud, obnoxious and rude. That we could respect other people’s customs, especially when in their country. That we could be calm, polite and slow to anger . . . even when getting screamed at in Japanese for having the nerve to visit the Hiroshima Memorial.
So when did the big change come? I think it’s when my favorite brother had to go to war. When I realized that whether I agreed with this war or not, soldiers were dying. Not for our own freedom that we take for granted, but for the chance that other people could potentially experience the same thing. (And for oil, but I digress.) And despite my severe dislike that the US is in the Middle East at all, the soldiers and what they’re representing I respect and appreciate. I love that about Americans, that we can hate the war, but still say thank you to a soldier we pass in the airport.
I’ve heard the national anthem more times than I can possible remember. Pre 9/11, it was something you had to sit through to get to the start of a game and politely clapped for when it was over. Post 9/11, I love that people cheer and yell during the last few lines. It puts a big goofy grin on my face every time. Finally people are excited to be Americans.
Without the terrible tragedies that we as a country have suffered together in the past decade, I don’t know that we as a country could have gotten to a place where we’re proud again. I’m not sure I would have gotten to a place where I cared. I hope that the excitement continues and twenty years from now, people still cheer for “the land of the free and the home of the brave.” I hope that I continue to be pro-American. And I hope that through misfortune and uncertainty we are able to create an atmosphere where the next generation can continue to be proud that they are Americans.
September 30, 2009
The Stride of Pride
I had gone for a quick run early one Saturday morning and passed a guy who smelled delicious. But not man delicious like, soap and maybe some light cologne. Girl delicious, like coconuts and flowers. With the smell of the tropics lingering in my nose I thought to myself, does it still count as the walk of shame if you’re dressed in normal clothes, but you clearly helped yourself to some girls’ shampoo and body wash?
I posed this question to my fellow cube mates, all of whom happen to be male, the next week at work. Turns out it’s not a walk of shame at all . . . it’s the stride of pride. After I stopped laughing and realized they were serious I was mystified by the double standard. Their theory was that as long as you’re having a good time and no one gets hurt, why should it be shameful? And common sense gets the square.
This leads to the whole question of double standards though. Why do women get the shame and met get the pride? And why we’re on the subject, why are women who sleep around whores but men are studs?
One of my guys informed me that this is the way of the world. While women get some of the unpleasant labels for not yet socially acceptable behavior, we also get some benefits that men don’t get. Doors are held open for us, drinks are purchased for us at bars, we’re not expected to pay on the first date (although the check tug-of-war is highly encouraged) and if we’re on a sinking ship, we get the lifeboats first.
I don’t recall having done the walk of shame, but if it happens in the future I’m going to call it the stride of pride. I’m willing to trade lifeboat privileges for that.
I posed this question to my fellow cube mates, all of whom happen to be male, the next week at work. Turns out it’s not a walk of shame at all . . . it’s the stride of pride. After I stopped laughing and realized they were serious I was mystified by the double standard. Their theory was that as long as you’re having a good time and no one gets hurt, why should it be shameful? And common sense gets the square.
This leads to the whole question of double standards though. Why do women get the shame and met get the pride? And why we’re on the subject, why are women who sleep around whores but men are studs?
One of my guys informed me that this is the way of the world. While women get some of the unpleasant labels for not yet socially acceptable behavior, we also get some benefits that men don’t get. Doors are held open for us, drinks are purchased for us at bars, we’re not expected to pay on the first date (although the check tug-of-war is highly encouraged) and if we’re on a sinking ship, we get the lifeboats first.
I don’t recall having done the walk of shame, but if it happens in the future I’m going to call it the stride of pride. I’m willing to trade lifeboat privileges for that.
September 24, 2009
Don't Scare the Animals
Picture yourself walking through a meadow. You hear a noise and turn in that direction to investigate. You’ve stumbled upon a very cute, but slightly destructive, Panda Bear! Maybe we should be walking through a bamboo forest instead of a meadow. None the less, you find yourself looking into the eyes of a Panda Bear. It’s so cute you want to pet it and make friends with it and take it home with you. But alas, it’s a wild animal so step one is to not scare it off. You extend your hand slowly to let the panda get your scent . . . . and then where the hell do you go from there? How do you not scare the panda away?
I ask this question because I find myself in this situation. Not with a Panda, but instead with a cute but slightly destructive human. I’m trapped in this relationship somewhere between friendship and ridiculousness. And despite knowing I should just get out of the whirlpool, part of me enjoys the ride simply from an excitement stand point. As long as I’m in the whirlpool, something interesting is going on in my life. So keep in mind throughout the rest of this rant, that yes, I know that the whole situation is ridiculous and should just get myself out of it. Unfortunately boredom is less fun than drama.
At the start of the summer, I did something that I know usually gets me in trouble. Despite knowing that I should just put the shovel down, I opened my big fat mouth anyway and told my friend exactly what I think. This is never a good plan. The short version is that this friend stopped talking to me. Shocking. After three months had gone by, you can imagine my surprise when I finally heard from them.
Once again, I told it like it was, in as much of an “I’m not a crazy bitch and you’re an arrogant moron” way possible, figuring that this time for sure I had ruined whatever remains of friendship may still be salvageable. I did a bit of mourning over the loss of the relationship because ending relationships, whatever form they are in, sucks. Then I did something really stupid. About a month after the most recent exchange, I emailed the friend asking a question about something that of all my friends only they would know about. Much to my shock and surprise, I actually got a response.
This is the part where I’ve spotted the Panda in the meadow. I know its there, and it’s cute, but I also know that they outweigh me but 100 – 150 pounds. It’s like the classic bad boy attraction issue – you’re interested but the potential for danger (and excitement) is high. I opted to play things safe, sending a thank you for the information reply with a plan to send a happy birthday email in a few months. Suddenly and without warning, the panda makes a friendly move toward me, in the form of a text message. Now what the hell do I do with that?
Part of me is thrilled that the panda is making friendly overtures, and the other part of me is trying to figure out how to not scare the panda away. So while walking on eggshells around the metaphorical panda bear, which is just as uncomfortable as it sounds, I am working on a new life goal . . . don’t scare the animals. And maybe try to keep my thoughts to myself.
I ask this question because I find myself in this situation. Not with a Panda, but instead with a cute but slightly destructive human. I’m trapped in this relationship somewhere between friendship and ridiculousness. And despite knowing I should just get out of the whirlpool, part of me enjoys the ride simply from an excitement stand point. As long as I’m in the whirlpool, something interesting is going on in my life. So keep in mind throughout the rest of this rant, that yes, I know that the whole situation is ridiculous and should just get myself out of it. Unfortunately boredom is less fun than drama.
At the start of the summer, I did something that I know usually gets me in trouble. Despite knowing that I should just put the shovel down, I opened my big fat mouth anyway and told my friend exactly what I think. This is never a good plan. The short version is that this friend stopped talking to me. Shocking. After three months had gone by, you can imagine my surprise when I finally heard from them.
Once again, I told it like it was, in as much of an “I’m not a crazy bitch and you’re an arrogant moron” way possible, figuring that this time for sure I had ruined whatever remains of friendship may still be salvageable. I did a bit of mourning over the loss of the relationship because ending relationships, whatever form they are in, sucks. Then I did something really stupid. About a month after the most recent exchange, I emailed the friend asking a question about something that of all my friends only they would know about. Much to my shock and surprise, I actually got a response.
This is the part where I’ve spotted the Panda in the meadow. I know its there, and it’s cute, but I also know that they outweigh me but 100 – 150 pounds. It’s like the classic bad boy attraction issue – you’re interested but the potential for danger (and excitement) is high. I opted to play things safe, sending a thank you for the information reply with a plan to send a happy birthday email in a few months. Suddenly and without warning, the panda makes a friendly move toward me, in the form of a text message. Now what the hell do I do with that?
Part of me is thrilled that the panda is making friendly overtures, and the other part of me is trying to figure out how to not scare the panda away. So while walking on eggshells around the metaphorical panda bear, which is just as uncomfortable as it sounds, I am working on a new life goal . . . don’t scare the animals. And maybe try to keep my thoughts to myself.
September 23, 2009
Hood to Coast 09
197 miles of sheer awesomeness. How else can you describe a race that has over 12,000 runners, 3,500 volunteers with a route starting at the top of Mt. Hood and ending at the Oregon coast? The best part about this race is that’s it’s not about winning. It’s all about guts.
To clarify, the 197 miles is split between 12 runners. Each individual runs three legs for a total mileage varying between 15 and 19 miles. Even though there is an overall elevation drop of 6,000 feet along the way, each leg comes with its own set of challenges. Van 1 (runners 1-6) have to run down Mt. Hood, which is not easy on the knees. Van 2 (runners 7-12) have to clear the Cascade Mountain Range. Every runner has at least one leg in the dead of night with only a flashlight to see where they’re going and at least one leg in the intense August sun. With the average team taking 28 hours from start to finish, any sleep a team can get is usually either in the van with five other smelly people or in a sleeping bag thrown down in a field. This is an adventure race at its best.
The first leg is easy. If you are any kind of runner, the hardest part about the first leg is controlling the pace. Your team registered 10 months ago, you’ve been training all summer long, adrenaline is pumping because race day is here and you finally have that slap bracelet (HTC’s version of a baton) around your wrist. People are out in their yards cheering you on, they have the sprinklers running into the street because its hot out and some of them even hand out water. One house was even handing out beer. As I suspected, I ran faster than I should have, but I’ve come up with a new philosophy this year . . . the faster I run the faster its over with. I wanted to get those brutal rolling hills over with. While running from Sandy into downtown Portland, the energy is up and everyone is excited to get their first leg behind them.
The key to getting ready for the next set of legs is two-fold. Step one is a shower. The next “shower” you will get after the second leg will be with baby wipes. A shower now will keep you feeling human after running again at 2am. Step two is pizza. After the first leg, pizza is pretty much a requirement and it tastes amazing knowing you have at least 10 more miles to run in the coming hours. After that you just try to relax until its time to run again.
The second leg, for many teams, is run in total darkness. Runners are required to wear a reflective vest and carry a light, with most runners opting for headlamps. The second leg that I’ve run the past two years is considered by many to be the toughest leg of the race. Six miles in total, four and a half of them uphill and half of it on a gravel logging road. If I hadn’t been raised in the country and been familiar with the sounds of the night and the lack of streetlights, this leg would be frightening.
The trick to my second leg is all in the playlist on my ipod. When I’m handed the “baton” (a slap bracelet circa 1988), my leg is already going uphill. This year I led with the theme song from “Pirates of the Caribbean.” The theory being that if Johnny Depp can kick some bad pirate ass while swinging from ship to ship, I can certainly run a few miles uphill. Another key song is Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” This comes in handy after you’ve been running uphill for miles on end and you need to think about anything other than the fact that you still see lights not only ahead of you, but above you, meaning that there is still some elevation to climb.
Having run this leg previously I had a plan this year. The first three miles I was going to bust my butt while I still had pavement. The first couple miles are uphill and then I had almost a mile of downhill and flat before hitting the gravel. This is where I would make up time. One of the most amazing things about this race is your fellow runners. The few men who passed me only had words of encouragement. Vans, who have stopped to cheer on their runners, cheer on every runner that goes by. They’ll even cheer you on if you’re passing their runner! One van, had parked at the half way point to let runners know where they were at. As I hit the gravel uphill, I was prepared for some pain in the next two miles. Gravel slips, it was misting so visibility wasn’t great and aside from running uphill, it was just hard to find a good track to run in.
With only about a mile of uphill left to go, I started to hurt. Although I was passing enough people to keep me motivated, my thoughts went to Steve Prefontaine. I had watched the movie “Without Limits” earlier in the week to get pumped up and one thing he said had stuck with me. He talked about how he knew he would win because he could endure more pain than anyone else. If Pre could endure enough pain to run close to a three minute mile, I can keep running uphill. This is where the race is more about guts than speed. It doesn’t matter how fast you cross the Cascades, all that matters is that you don’t stop running.
Despite the night runs being challenging because they’re in the dark, they are often the most fun. It’s pretty rare that you opt to go running in the middle of the night on your own, and even more rare that you have the chance to do it with thousands of other runners. Everybody is wide awake and hanging out at the exchanges. The granges along the way sell pancakes all night long. It’s a testament to how amazing our bodies are that they know when it’s okay to collapse and when its time to keep going. Everyone does great until we make the exchange with Van 1 at Mist and then your body shuts down. It’s all you can do to get to the next van exchange so you can sleep for a couple of hours. As you get to exchange 30, a volunteer asks “sleep or exchange?” Seven weary voices (six runners and a driver) adamantly respond “SLEEP!”
It doesn’t even matter that it’s misting out, a tarp is thrown down and sleeping bags piled on top of it. You make sure alarms are set and everyone collectively passes out. Two hours later, alarms start to go off as we expect our Van 1 to be here shortly. The boys utilize the woods in close proximity while the girls go hunting for a Honey Bucket. Teeth are brushed camping style, any form of caffeine available is inhaled, and everything gets stuffed back into the van, including us runners.
Sooner than we expected, it’s time for us to run again. Amazingly, we all feel pretty good only running on two hours of “sleep.” The thing to understand about the third leg is this: it hurts. It doesn’t matter how good of shape you’re in. You’re running on little to no sleep, you’ve already ran around 10 miles and been stuffed in and out of a van with no real opportunity to stretch. One of the bad things about this not being the first time I’ve run HTC is I know exactly what that third leg feels like. My goal on the third leg is only to survive. No time records need to be set here, it’s all about finishing. After being cheered on by the various volunteers and other vans, including the Japanese team, the end is in sight. Nothing feels quite as good as handing off that baton for the last time. I can take another bath using baby wipes and put on dry clothes and relax till we get to Seaside.
27 and a half hours after we started, team “Dude, Where’s My Van?” is crossing the finish line. Medals are picked up, pictures are taken, the final time sheet is turned in and we’re officially done. We’re exhausted, sore, sweaty, smelly and wet because the weather gods thought it would be fun to throw rain into the mix this year. But we’re done. While some part of me is relieved that it’s over, another part is mourning that this is the end. We leave the beach in good spirits piling into the van one last time. With visions of showers, clean clothes and our own beds in our heads, we head back to Portland. It’s only a month and a half before registration for next year is due.
To clarify, the 197 miles is split between 12 runners. Each individual runs three legs for a total mileage varying between 15 and 19 miles. Even though there is an overall elevation drop of 6,000 feet along the way, each leg comes with its own set of challenges. Van 1 (runners 1-6) have to run down Mt. Hood, which is not easy on the knees. Van 2 (runners 7-12) have to clear the Cascade Mountain Range. Every runner has at least one leg in the dead of night with only a flashlight to see where they’re going and at least one leg in the intense August sun. With the average team taking 28 hours from start to finish, any sleep a team can get is usually either in the van with five other smelly people or in a sleeping bag thrown down in a field. This is an adventure race at its best.
The first leg is easy. If you are any kind of runner, the hardest part about the first leg is controlling the pace. Your team registered 10 months ago, you’ve been training all summer long, adrenaline is pumping because race day is here and you finally have that slap bracelet (HTC’s version of a baton) around your wrist. People are out in their yards cheering you on, they have the sprinklers running into the street because its hot out and some of them even hand out water. One house was even handing out beer. As I suspected, I ran faster than I should have, but I’ve come up with a new philosophy this year . . . the faster I run the faster its over with. I wanted to get those brutal rolling hills over with. While running from Sandy into downtown Portland, the energy is up and everyone is excited to get their first leg behind them.
The key to getting ready for the next set of legs is two-fold. Step one is a shower. The next “shower” you will get after the second leg will be with baby wipes. A shower now will keep you feeling human after running again at 2am. Step two is pizza. After the first leg, pizza is pretty much a requirement and it tastes amazing knowing you have at least 10 more miles to run in the coming hours. After that you just try to relax until its time to run again.
The second leg, for many teams, is run in total darkness. Runners are required to wear a reflective vest and carry a light, with most runners opting for headlamps. The second leg that I’ve run the past two years is considered by many to be the toughest leg of the race. Six miles in total, four and a half of them uphill and half of it on a gravel logging road. If I hadn’t been raised in the country and been familiar with the sounds of the night and the lack of streetlights, this leg would be frightening.
The trick to my second leg is all in the playlist on my ipod. When I’m handed the “baton” (a slap bracelet circa 1988), my leg is already going uphill. This year I led with the theme song from “Pirates of the Caribbean.” The theory being that if Johnny Depp can kick some bad pirate ass while swinging from ship to ship, I can certainly run a few miles uphill. Another key song is Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” This comes in handy after you’ve been running uphill for miles on end and you need to think about anything other than the fact that you still see lights not only ahead of you, but above you, meaning that there is still some elevation to climb.
Having run this leg previously I had a plan this year. The first three miles I was going to bust my butt while I still had pavement. The first couple miles are uphill and then I had almost a mile of downhill and flat before hitting the gravel. This is where I would make up time. One of the most amazing things about this race is your fellow runners. The few men who passed me only had words of encouragement. Vans, who have stopped to cheer on their runners, cheer on every runner that goes by. They’ll even cheer you on if you’re passing their runner! One van, had parked at the half way point to let runners know where they were at. As I hit the gravel uphill, I was prepared for some pain in the next two miles. Gravel slips, it was misting so visibility wasn’t great and aside from running uphill, it was just hard to find a good track to run in.
With only about a mile of uphill left to go, I started to hurt. Although I was passing enough people to keep me motivated, my thoughts went to Steve Prefontaine. I had watched the movie “Without Limits” earlier in the week to get pumped up and one thing he said had stuck with me. He talked about how he knew he would win because he could endure more pain than anyone else. If Pre could endure enough pain to run close to a three minute mile, I can keep running uphill. This is where the race is more about guts than speed. It doesn’t matter how fast you cross the Cascades, all that matters is that you don’t stop running.
Despite the night runs being challenging because they’re in the dark, they are often the most fun. It’s pretty rare that you opt to go running in the middle of the night on your own, and even more rare that you have the chance to do it with thousands of other runners. Everybody is wide awake and hanging out at the exchanges. The granges along the way sell pancakes all night long. It’s a testament to how amazing our bodies are that they know when it’s okay to collapse and when its time to keep going. Everyone does great until we make the exchange with Van 1 at Mist and then your body shuts down. It’s all you can do to get to the next van exchange so you can sleep for a couple of hours. As you get to exchange 30, a volunteer asks “sleep or exchange?” Seven weary voices (six runners and a driver) adamantly respond “SLEEP!”
It doesn’t even matter that it’s misting out, a tarp is thrown down and sleeping bags piled on top of it. You make sure alarms are set and everyone collectively passes out. Two hours later, alarms start to go off as we expect our Van 1 to be here shortly. The boys utilize the woods in close proximity while the girls go hunting for a Honey Bucket. Teeth are brushed camping style, any form of caffeine available is inhaled, and everything gets stuffed back into the van, including us runners.
Sooner than we expected, it’s time for us to run again. Amazingly, we all feel pretty good only running on two hours of “sleep.” The thing to understand about the third leg is this: it hurts. It doesn’t matter how good of shape you’re in. You’re running on little to no sleep, you’ve already ran around 10 miles and been stuffed in and out of a van with no real opportunity to stretch. One of the bad things about this not being the first time I’ve run HTC is I know exactly what that third leg feels like. My goal on the third leg is only to survive. No time records need to be set here, it’s all about finishing. After being cheered on by the various volunteers and other vans, including the Japanese team, the end is in sight. Nothing feels quite as good as handing off that baton for the last time. I can take another bath using baby wipes and put on dry clothes and relax till we get to Seaside.
27 and a half hours after we started, team “Dude, Where’s My Van?” is crossing the finish line. Medals are picked up, pictures are taken, the final time sheet is turned in and we’re officially done. We’re exhausted, sore, sweaty, smelly and wet because the weather gods thought it would be fun to throw rain into the mix this year. But we’re done. While some part of me is relieved that it’s over, another part is mourning that this is the end. We leave the beach in good spirits piling into the van one last time. With visions of showers, clean clothes and our own beds in our heads, we head back to Portland. It’s only a month and a half before registration for next year is due.
September 22, 2009
I Lie
It’s inevitable, that at some point in your childhood, you will be placed in an awkward position with friends. I’m not talking about saying no to drugs or alcohol. Long before that, you are issued an invitation to do something that you really do not want to do. Maybe it’s going to a party (or what passes for a party in elementary school), or meeting up with a friend at the swimming pool or potentially the worst of all, a sleep over invitation you do not want to accept.
This summer I was reminded once again, what a smart mom mine was. Much, much smarter than I gave her credit for at the time. She reminded me that back in the day we had a code system of some sort so that when we called to ask if we could do something, she would know whether or not it was something we actually wanted to do. Most likely, she could just tell by the tone of our voice (to this day the woman is frighteningly accurate at this), but the system was there none the less. Although I don’t remember this code system or word (or mom’s intuition), I do remember her asking me “Do you want me to say no?” To which I would give positive affirmation. And with that, my mother willingly took the bad guy position and I didn’t have to do something I didn’t want to.
Much to my dismay, I’ve discovered as an adult that there are even more invitations you don’t want to accept, however I no longer have to ask my mom for permission. I have friends that I know blame their spouses if they want to get out of something, which would come in equally as handy. And let’s face it, less weird than calling mom for permission in your late twenties. When you’re single and don’t have a constant and easy excuse such as a spouse, pet, elderly grandparent near by you have to take care of, etc., a girl has to get more creative. And by creative I mean you have to get really good at lying.
Lucky for me “thou shall not lie to get out of stuff you don’t want to do” was not one of the Ten Commandments. I’ll admit, it’s pushing the envelope a smidge, but I’m nothing if not a rebel. So yes, I lie to get out of things I don’t want to do. I had planned on giving some examples, however these are excuses that I may need to use again in the future and I have friends that read my blog. Instead, I will tell you that I will undoubtedly lie to get out of showers – both wedding and baby. But everyone already knew I did that anyway.
And I’m not the only one who does this. Remember the Sex and the City episode where Charlotte is on a horrible date and runs into Carrie in the same restaurant? Carrie then calls Charlotte and all she has to say is “Hey Charlotte, something bad happened.” And poof, Charlotte is able to ditch her terrible date. Trust me, the idea for that little scene was not original. Everybody (I’m assuming that men do this too) has this contingency plan.
All this to say that at times, it would be nice to revert 15 or 20 years (I’m close to a heart attack right now as I realize how long its been since my childhood) and have that automatic out. To not have to make an excuse or come up with a solid lie. To simply be able to ask permission and be told no. Alas, that is no longer the case. So it’s a good thing I have no moral issue with being a champion fibber.
This summer I was reminded once again, what a smart mom mine was. Much, much smarter than I gave her credit for at the time. She reminded me that back in the day we had a code system of some sort so that when we called to ask if we could do something, she would know whether or not it was something we actually wanted to do. Most likely, she could just tell by the tone of our voice (to this day the woman is frighteningly accurate at this), but the system was there none the less. Although I don’t remember this code system or word (or mom’s intuition), I do remember her asking me “Do you want me to say no?” To which I would give positive affirmation. And with that, my mother willingly took the bad guy position and I didn’t have to do something I didn’t want to.
Much to my dismay, I’ve discovered as an adult that there are even more invitations you don’t want to accept, however I no longer have to ask my mom for permission. I have friends that I know blame their spouses if they want to get out of something, which would come in equally as handy. And let’s face it, less weird than calling mom for permission in your late twenties. When you’re single and don’t have a constant and easy excuse such as a spouse, pet, elderly grandparent near by you have to take care of, etc., a girl has to get more creative. And by creative I mean you have to get really good at lying.
Lucky for me “thou shall not lie to get out of stuff you don’t want to do” was not one of the Ten Commandments. I’ll admit, it’s pushing the envelope a smidge, but I’m nothing if not a rebel. So yes, I lie to get out of things I don’t want to do. I had planned on giving some examples, however these are excuses that I may need to use again in the future and I have friends that read my blog. Instead, I will tell you that I will undoubtedly lie to get out of showers – both wedding and baby. But everyone already knew I did that anyway.
And I’m not the only one who does this. Remember the Sex and the City episode where Charlotte is on a horrible date and runs into Carrie in the same restaurant? Carrie then calls Charlotte and all she has to say is “Hey Charlotte, something bad happened.” And poof, Charlotte is able to ditch her terrible date. Trust me, the idea for that little scene was not original. Everybody (I’m assuming that men do this too) has this contingency plan.
All this to say that at times, it would be nice to revert 15 or 20 years (I’m close to a heart attack right now as I realize how long its been since my childhood) and have that automatic out. To not have to make an excuse or come up with a solid lie. To simply be able to ask permission and be told no. Alas, that is no longer the case. So it’s a good thing I have no moral issue with being a champion fibber.
I Spend How Much on Travel?
Some people make New Year’s Resolutions. I am not one of those people. I do occasionally make goals, however. This year my goal was to travel more. I looked around and saw too many people talking about traveling, but never taking the opportunity to do it. I figure if you can’t spend all your disposable income on travel when you’re young and single, when can you?
The first half of the year was a bit slow travel wise, which is common unless I fit in a ski trip somewhere. Since I had to take the ski season off to rehab a running injury, travel was at a dead stop until May. In the spring, I had a friend ask if I wanted to go to Hawaii. They answer to this question is always yes. Then I had another friend ask if I wanted to go to Lake Shasta and rent a houseboat with a bunch of friends. Not only was this travel, this was something I’d never done before. Obviously I said yes.
So throughout the year, I’ve gone to Hawaii and Lake Shasta, made a couple trips up to Seattle and to the Oregon Coast, spent a week at Priest Lake, ID with the family and followed the Oregon State Beavers to Las Vegas to see them play UNLV. With one more trip scheduled to Alaska in October, I feel like I’ve done a pretty solid job meeting my travel goal for this year. Not only have I been all over the place, I went to places I’ve never been to before.
In general, I have an odd view of how to budget my income, but I believe in saving for a trip before doing it. So I have a savings account strictly dedicated to travel. There are times when my travel account has more money in it than my emergency savings account. If you’re going to make travel a priority, make it a priority. Since I have the money for a trip all saved up, I rarely take the time to figure out how much money I’m spending on my travel addiction. Enter Mint.com.
Mint.com is this amazing website I’ve discovered that aggregates all of your financial information from savings accounts to loans to 401(k)s to credit cards, etc. You name it, Mint will track it. Once everything is aggregated, you can assign labels to your spending so you can easily track what you’re spending money on. A very cool way to discover that my student loans are expensive and that I shop too much.
I decided to check out how much I had spent on each category over the past three months. Coming in right behind rent and home expenses, there it was . . . travel. While it’s slightly frightening to realize that 20% of my spending has been spent on traveling, I don’t regret it a bit. I made travel a priority this year and it cost some money, but I wouldn’t trade the experiences I’ve had or the things I’ve seen to get even a smidge of the money back.
To some, the money I spend on traveling and the amount of travel that I do would seem extravagant. To me, the life experiences gained along the way are well worth the cost. And if that book title is true, and there really are a thousand places to see before you die, well then I better get cracking.
The first half of the year was a bit slow travel wise, which is common unless I fit in a ski trip somewhere. Since I had to take the ski season off to rehab a running injury, travel was at a dead stop until May. In the spring, I had a friend ask if I wanted to go to Hawaii. They answer to this question is always yes. Then I had another friend ask if I wanted to go to Lake Shasta and rent a houseboat with a bunch of friends. Not only was this travel, this was something I’d never done before. Obviously I said yes.
So throughout the year, I’ve gone to Hawaii and Lake Shasta, made a couple trips up to Seattle and to the Oregon Coast, spent a week at Priest Lake, ID with the family and followed the Oregon State Beavers to Las Vegas to see them play UNLV. With one more trip scheduled to Alaska in October, I feel like I’ve done a pretty solid job meeting my travel goal for this year. Not only have I been all over the place, I went to places I’ve never been to before.
In general, I have an odd view of how to budget my income, but I believe in saving for a trip before doing it. So I have a savings account strictly dedicated to travel. There are times when my travel account has more money in it than my emergency savings account. If you’re going to make travel a priority, make it a priority. Since I have the money for a trip all saved up, I rarely take the time to figure out how much money I’m spending on my travel addiction. Enter Mint.com.
Mint.com is this amazing website I’ve discovered that aggregates all of your financial information from savings accounts to loans to 401(k)s to credit cards, etc. You name it, Mint will track it. Once everything is aggregated, you can assign labels to your spending so you can easily track what you’re spending money on. A very cool way to discover that my student loans are expensive and that I shop too much.
I decided to check out how much I had spent on each category over the past three months. Coming in right behind rent and home expenses, there it was . . . travel. While it’s slightly frightening to realize that 20% of my spending has been spent on traveling, I don’t regret it a bit. I made travel a priority this year and it cost some money, but I wouldn’t trade the experiences I’ve had or the things I’ve seen to get even a smidge of the money back.
To some, the money I spend on traveling and the amount of travel that I do would seem extravagant. To me, the life experiences gained along the way are well worth the cost. And if that book title is true, and there really are a thousand places to see before you die, well then I better get cracking.
September 17, 2009
Spending Diet
For someone who is frugal, I have a serious spending problem. Because I can, I've gotten into the habit of buying things I want, when I want. Notice that need was no where in that sentence. At work, we're no longer allowed on Facebook, so SteepandCheap.com has become my most visited website. (Amazing deals by the way.) It's gotten so out of hand, that the guys I sit with at work regularly ask what I bought online and how much I saved. As much as I love shopping math, math where you add up what you saved and not what you spent, I need to curb my unintentional contributions to keep the economy from collapsing.
Realistically, my spending is not that much out of control. My impulse buys are less than $100 at a time and I'm no where near going into debt over this issue, but it’s been bothering me. Case in point, I've been on the lookout for a pair of nice polarized sunglasses. SteepandCheep had some the other day with interchangeable lenses made for small faces. At 80% off, they were a steal so I grabbed them. Twenty-four hours later I found myself purchasing another pair because I thought they were cuter. Once they arrive, I’ll need to return at least one pair. Unless they’re both just awesome. Sigh.
When I first started working, I was making very little money and brought my lunch to work 99% of the time. After a few promotions and pay increases and I find myself eating out simply out of laziness or because I don’t feel like eating what I brought for lunch. While this isn’t breaking my bank, I can’t help but feeling like there are better things to spend my money on. And things to spend on that don’t make my pants snug.
After a recent flight, I decided to bite the bullet and purchase a pair of Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones. They sell for $200-300. Initially I was just going to put them on my credit card and then transfer the money from my saving account over. But then I stopped to think, what ever happened to saving up for a purchase before you bought it? When did I stop wanting something bad enough to save for it ahead of time? There is something to be said for the satisfaction felt when you purchase something you know you saved up for it ahead of time.
Somehow the universe seemed to have heard my random wandering of thoughts and this morning I saw an article on families who went on a 30 day spending diet. Obviously I was intrigued. There are two main ways to do this: 1) set a budget for the month and stick to it or 2) cut out all luxuries. Since I do not believe in traditional budgeting and therefore don’t do it, this was clearly not for me. But luxuries . . . luxuries I believe in.
So rather like an impulse purchase, I have impulsively decided to attempt a 30 day spending diet. The goal being to cut out enough luxuries to save for my Bose headphones. I must save $300 before October 22 in order to purchase them in time for my next flight. That's saving $10 per day. Intimidating, but doable considering I spent $9 on a sandwitch for lunch yesterday.
Wish me luck. Spending control and Bose headphones, here I come.
Realistically, my spending is not that much out of control. My impulse buys are less than $100 at a time and I'm no where near going into debt over this issue, but it’s been bothering me. Case in point, I've been on the lookout for a pair of nice polarized sunglasses. SteepandCheep had some the other day with interchangeable lenses made for small faces. At 80% off, they were a steal so I grabbed them. Twenty-four hours later I found myself purchasing another pair because I thought they were cuter. Once they arrive, I’ll need to return at least one pair. Unless they’re both just awesome. Sigh.
When I first started working, I was making very little money and brought my lunch to work 99% of the time. After a few promotions and pay increases and I find myself eating out simply out of laziness or because I don’t feel like eating what I brought for lunch. While this isn’t breaking my bank, I can’t help but feeling like there are better things to spend my money on. And things to spend on that don’t make my pants snug.
After a recent flight, I decided to bite the bullet and purchase a pair of Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones. They sell for $200-300. Initially I was just going to put them on my credit card and then transfer the money from my saving account over. But then I stopped to think, what ever happened to saving up for a purchase before you bought it? When did I stop wanting something bad enough to save for it ahead of time? There is something to be said for the satisfaction felt when you purchase something you know you saved up for it ahead of time.
Somehow the universe seemed to have heard my random wandering of thoughts and this morning I saw an article on families who went on a 30 day spending diet. Obviously I was intrigued. There are two main ways to do this: 1) set a budget for the month and stick to it or 2) cut out all luxuries. Since I do not believe in traditional budgeting and therefore don’t do it, this was clearly not for me. But luxuries . . . luxuries I believe in.
So rather like an impulse purchase, I have impulsively decided to attempt a 30 day spending diet. The goal being to cut out enough luxuries to save for my Bose headphones. I must save $300 before October 22 in order to purchase them in time for my next flight. That's saving $10 per day. Intimidating, but doable considering I spent $9 on a sandwitch for lunch yesterday.
Wish me luck. Spending control and Bose headphones, here I come.
September 15, 2009
I Did NOT See This Coming!
I was so busy trying not to become my mother, I did not see this coming. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with my mother, she’s fabulous, I just prefer to be me. When I catch myself doing things that remind me of my mom, it tends to freak me out a bit. So you can’t imagine the panic I felt when I realized I was also becoming my dad.
I always knew I had similarities to my dad, I got his incredibly short legs and we’re both charmingly sarcastic (my mother may disagree with the charming part). It’s the other little things that have snuck up on me that came as a shock. Girls work so hard at not becoming their mothers that we fail to see that we are equally likely to become our fathers and it blindsides us.
A couple months ago I was on a camping trip with some friends. Being the country girl, I tend to be the camping expert in the group. I found myself waking earlier than everyone else, getting the morning fire started, cleaning up camp and getting coffee started. It wasn’t until the second morning that I realized that had my father been there, he would have been the one doing all of that. I’m not sure if that is just good camping training or what, but it shocked (and scared) the hell out of me.
It snuck up on me again as I just finished scrawling my signature across a check. I’ve never been able to reproduce my mom’s signature; she has this loopy, girly E that I cannot duplicate for the life of me. My father’s signature, one giant R, is another story all together. Not only can I reproduce it, I’ve made fun of him for the ridiculousness of it. My signature has gotten progressively sloppier over the years as I’ve given up trying to have the handwriting of a bubbly teenage girl. Despite that, I was a bit shocked to look down at the check however and see that the only noticeable letters in my signature were an H, an M and a G. Where did the rest of my name go? Disturbing as it is that my signature is following in my father’s handwriting, I have to admit that my current signature looks pretty darn cool if you ask me.
Both my parents are pretty great, but kids want to be their own person. Or at least preserve the idea that they are totally individual and haven’t picked up anything other than genetics from our parents. As I age, I find myself doing or saying something that is way too similar to what my parents do or say. Although I strive for individuality, it’s pretty hard not to see the writing on the wall. Or the signature on the check in this case. Handwriting I can handle, but I fear the day when the words “eat or starve” come out of my mouth. Here’s hoping all us kids keep the best parts of our parents and not the parts that drove us nuts.
I always knew I had similarities to my dad, I got his incredibly short legs and we’re both charmingly sarcastic (my mother may disagree with the charming part). It’s the other little things that have snuck up on me that came as a shock. Girls work so hard at not becoming their mothers that we fail to see that we are equally likely to become our fathers and it blindsides us.
A couple months ago I was on a camping trip with some friends. Being the country girl, I tend to be the camping expert in the group. I found myself waking earlier than everyone else, getting the morning fire started, cleaning up camp and getting coffee started. It wasn’t until the second morning that I realized that had my father been there, he would have been the one doing all of that. I’m not sure if that is just good camping training or what, but it shocked (and scared) the hell out of me.
It snuck up on me again as I just finished scrawling my signature across a check. I’ve never been able to reproduce my mom’s signature; she has this loopy, girly E that I cannot duplicate for the life of me. My father’s signature, one giant R, is another story all together. Not only can I reproduce it, I’ve made fun of him for the ridiculousness of it. My signature has gotten progressively sloppier over the years as I’ve given up trying to have the handwriting of a bubbly teenage girl. Despite that, I was a bit shocked to look down at the check however and see that the only noticeable letters in my signature were an H, an M and a G. Where did the rest of my name go? Disturbing as it is that my signature is following in my father’s handwriting, I have to admit that my current signature looks pretty darn cool if you ask me.
Both my parents are pretty great, but kids want to be their own person. Or at least preserve the idea that they are totally individual and haven’t picked up anything other than genetics from our parents. As I age, I find myself doing or saying something that is way too similar to what my parents do or say. Although I strive for individuality, it’s pretty hard not to see the writing on the wall. Or the signature on the check in this case. Handwriting I can handle, but I fear the day when the words “eat or starve” come out of my mouth. Here’s hoping all us kids keep the best parts of our parents and not the parts that drove us nuts.
August 20, 2009
Oh Brother
Over the past few months, I’ve been forced to spend some quality time with my younger brother. How do you force two people in their twenties to hang out? Well, he had season tickets to the Mariners. Thus, I was forced to spend time with him in order to use him for the tickets on occasion.
A weird thing happened this summer though as I spent more time than usual hanging out with my brother. Turns out, I actually like the guy. Yeah, it came as a shock to me too. I’ve never not gotten along with him, even growing up we never really fought with each other. It probably helps that despite our very different personalities, we enjoy doing the same things. However, this was the first summer where it actually hit me that if we weren’t related, this is a guy I would be friends with.
This summer isn’t the first time we’ve ever spent quality time together. A couple years ago, my family found out that Rob would have to serve in the Army over in Kuwait for 9-12 months. So he and I went on a ski trip to Utah the winter before he left. While we had a good time skiing together, I did have to whack him multiple times with my ski pole to get him to pull his head out. In my defense, the kid was 22 at the time. All 22 year old boys are dumb as a box of rocks. Any girl will tell you that.
Flash forward a few years and now we get along well enough to see each other much more frequently. It does help that he lives in Seattle now instead of being stationed in Kuwait or Alabama, but I think it’s more than that. Somewhere along the way, he grew up and I relaxed. And now he has Mariner tickets.
And despite my having to sleep on his couch if I go up to Seattle, the kid cooks a good breakfast in the morning. And its nice to have a brother who will translate a boys point of view, since to a girl they may as well be speaking in Cumbric (it’s a dead language, I totally wikied it). Mostly it’s nice to have someone to hang out with that enjoys doing the same things. Especially if you only want to hit them with a ski pole occasionally. Because hey, it’s still my brother.
A weird thing happened this summer though as I spent more time than usual hanging out with my brother. Turns out, I actually like the guy. Yeah, it came as a shock to me too. I’ve never not gotten along with him, even growing up we never really fought with each other. It probably helps that despite our very different personalities, we enjoy doing the same things. However, this was the first summer where it actually hit me that if we weren’t related, this is a guy I would be friends with.
This summer isn’t the first time we’ve ever spent quality time together. A couple years ago, my family found out that Rob would have to serve in the Army over in Kuwait for 9-12 months. So he and I went on a ski trip to Utah the winter before he left. While we had a good time skiing together, I did have to whack him multiple times with my ski pole to get him to pull his head out. In my defense, the kid was 22 at the time. All 22 year old boys are dumb as a box of rocks. Any girl will tell you that.
Flash forward a few years and now we get along well enough to see each other much more frequently. It does help that he lives in Seattle now instead of being stationed in Kuwait or Alabama, but I think it’s more than that. Somewhere along the way, he grew up and I relaxed. And now he has Mariner tickets.
And despite my having to sleep on his couch if I go up to Seattle, the kid cooks a good breakfast in the morning. And its nice to have a brother who will translate a boys point of view, since to a girl they may as well be speaking in Cumbric (it’s a dead language, I totally wikied it). Mostly it’s nice to have someone to hang out with that enjoys doing the same things. Especially if you only want to hit them with a ski pole occasionally. Because hey, it’s still my brother.
August 13, 2009
Super Glue
Anyone who has been a runner for a period of time has been a victim of a rumbly tummy situation. You’re mid run and all the sudden, your innards have a mind of their own. And they want to be doing something other than running. Right. Now.
I’ve been pretty lucky the times I’ve needed to use a restroom during a run. Either I’m on a trail that has an outhouse at the base or I’m close enough to home that it works out. I’ve heard horror stories, so I was counting my lucky stars when my stomach started to act up during my run the other day and I happened to be running on a treadmill and the gym. A gym with a restroom. As much as I hate stopping mid run, I decided that would be a much wiser decision to use the restroom and then continue my run.
Did I mention that I’d already run three miles in a warm gym? Which means I’m sweaty. And it’s warm enough that even my legs are sweating. This will be important in a minute. So I’ve hopped off the treadmill and am in the restroom. Only when I stand up, half the seat cover comes with me. Why? Because I’m sweaty so the paper is sticking to me. No biggie, this has happened before, I’m thinking I’ll just peel it off. Except it won’t come off!! The seat cover has somehow been permanently attached to my skin. AND IT’S NOT COMING OFF!
Now I’m starting to panic just slightly because I can’t figure out how on earth to get the damn paper off my legs. And at least four other people have come and gone so now it seems like I’m just setting up camp in the restroom. I despise public restrooms. And now I hate toilet seat covers. I can’t just leave the paper there, what if it starts falling off when I start to run again? Seriously, how the hell am I going to get this paper off my legs?!
I tried picking at it, but I can’t see the backs of my thighs very well and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t really getting anywhere. So I desperately started to rub the paper stuck parts, hoping that the paper would please, please peel off my damn legs. It seemed to actually be working! I think I got most of the paper off, but again, I can’t see the backs of my legs so I’m just guessing. I think I also found a bruise, but couldn’t really be sure if it was a shadow. Finally I’m as sure as I’m going to be that I got the seat cover unattached from my body. Of course now the bathroom stall looks like a hamster shredded a Kleenex or six in it, but at least the paper is off my legs.
I was finally able to leave the restroom and return to my run. Still secretly praying that I really did get all the paper off. Lesson learned – sweat and toilet seat covers make super glue.
I’ve been pretty lucky the times I’ve needed to use a restroom during a run. Either I’m on a trail that has an outhouse at the base or I’m close enough to home that it works out. I’ve heard horror stories, so I was counting my lucky stars when my stomach started to act up during my run the other day and I happened to be running on a treadmill and the gym. A gym with a restroom. As much as I hate stopping mid run, I decided that would be a much wiser decision to use the restroom and then continue my run.
Did I mention that I’d already run three miles in a warm gym? Which means I’m sweaty. And it’s warm enough that even my legs are sweating. This will be important in a minute. So I’ve hopped off the treadmill and am in the restroom. Only when I stand up, half the seat cover comes with me. Why? Because I’m sweaty so the paper is sticking to me. No biggie, this has happened before, I’m thinking I’ll just peel it off. Except it won’t come off!! The seat cover has somehow been permanently attached to my skin. AND IT’S NOT COMING OFF!
Now I’m starting to panic just slightly because I can’t figure out how on earth to get the damn paper off my legs. And at least four other people have come and gone so now it seems like I’m just setting up camp in the restroom. I despise public restrooms. And now I hate toilet seat covers. I can’t just leave the paper there, what if it starts falling off when I start to run again? Seriously, how the hell am I going to get this paper off my legs?!
I tried picking at it, but I can’t see the backs of my thighs very well and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t really getting anywhere. So I desperately started to rub the paper stuck parts, hoping that the paper would please, please peel off my damn legs. It seemed to actually be working! I think I got most of the paper off, but again, I can’t see the backs of my legs so I’m just guessing. I think I also found a bruise, but couldn’t really be sure if it was a shadow. Finally I’m as sure as I’m going to be that I got the seat cover unattached from my body. Of course now the bathroom stall looks like a hamster shredded a Kleenex or six in it, but at least the paper is off my legs.
I was finally able to leave the restroom and return to my run. Still secretly praying that I really did get all the paper off. Lesson learned – sweat and toilet seat covers make super glue.
July 27, 2009
Tan Fat
I own two pairs of Nike Tempo running shorts. I disliked the fist pair so much that I ended up buying a second pair. I’ll admit that this was not my most genius of moments. How did I get sucked into a second pair? Because every girl I know and every girl I see at the gym all have these shorts and wear them constantly. And they’re cute! Most people love these shorts. I have moved from a strong dislike to hating them.
My biggest issue with the shorts is that I was not born genetically gifted in the thigh region. That’s code for I have big thighs. It’s just the way it is, I can tone them up, but at the end of the day, they’re still just big. Do I wish I had cute, shapely thighs? Yes. But lucky for me, I have such a charming personality that the size of my thighs doesn’t seem to matter.
These shorts hit a little higher than mid thigh because hey, they’re running shorts, and all running shorts tend to be ridiculously short or practically non existent. For lying around the house or going to the grocery store, these shorts are fine. Once I attempt to actually do something physical in them, the problems begin. These shorts are a little short for my comfort zone to start with, so imagine my disgust when I start to run and they naturally ride even higher! There I am running along, flashing fleshy white chubby thighs to all who happen to pass by. This is not hot. And then I find myself focusing more on my stupid shorts than on running. Which makes the run suck. Which makes me hate the shorts even more.
After multiple attempts at running in the original shorts, I bought a second pair in a size larger, hoping they would add a bit of length. Nope, those ones not only ride up on my thighs, they also fall off at the waist and sag in all the wrong places. So now these Tempo shorts are on the inactive list. As in when I haven’t done laundry for weeks upon weeks, I’ll bust them out to wear around the house.
Yesterday they happened the be the first pair I grabbed out of the drawer and since it was almost 100 degrees out, I decided that more skin and less clothes would actually be a good thing. After lounging around in them all day, I decided to go for a quick run to stretch my legs. I knew the run would be short and I was too lazy to change my shorts so I just went in those.
Just as I suspected, the shorts still rode up my legs and drove me crazy. There was one noticeable difference since the last time I wore them though . . . . my thighs are now tan! It’s amazing the difference a tan can make on your self esteem, especially in relation to your fleshier parts. My thighs are still far from cute, but as I looked down during my run, they didn’t look nearly as bad as they usually did in these shorts.
It just goes to show that once again my mother was right . . . tan fat is better than white fat. As for the shorts, even tan thighs aren’t enough to make me want to take them off the inactive duty list.
My biggest issue with the shorts is that I was not born genetically gifted in the thigh region. That’s code for I have big thighs. It’s just the way it is, I can tone them up, but at the end of the day, they’re still just big. Do I wish I had cute, shapely thighs? Yes. But lucky for me, I have such a charming personality that the size of my thighs doesn’t seem to matter.
These shorts hit a little higher than mid thigh because hey, they’re running shorts, and all running shorts tend to be ridiculously short or practically non existent. For lying around the house or going to the grocery store, these shorts are fine. Once I attempt to actually do something physical in them, the problems begin. These shorts are a little short for my comfort zone to start with, so imagine my disgust when I start to run and they naturally ride even higher! There I am running along, flashing fleshy white chubby thighs to all who happen to pass by. This is not hot. And then I find myself focusing more on my stupid shorts than on running. Which makes the run suck. Which makes me hate the shorts even more.
After multiple attempts at running in the original shorts, I bought a second pair in a size larger, hoping they would add a bit of length. Nope, those ones not only ride up on my thighs, they also fall off at the waist and sag in all the wrong places. So now these Tempo shorts are on the inactive list. As in when I haven’t done laundry for weeks upon weeks, I’ll bust them out to wear around the house.
Yesterday they happened the be the first pair I grabbed out of the drawer and since it was almost 100 degrees out, I decided that more skin and less clothes would actually be a good thing. After lounging around in them all day, I decided to go for a quick run to stretch my legs. I knew the run would be short and I was too lazy to change my shorts so I just went in those.
Just as I suspected, the shorts still rode up my legs and drove me crazy. There was one noticeable difference since the last time I wore them though . . . . my thighs are now tan! It’s amazing the difference a tan can make on your self esteem, especially in relation to your fleshier parts. My thighs are still far from cute, but as I looked down during my run, they didn’t look nearly as bad as they usually did in these shorts.
It just goes to show that once again my mother was right . . . tan fat is better than white fat. As for the shorts, even tan thighs aren’t enough to make me want to take them off the inactive duty list.
July 24, 2009
The Evolution of Dads
Upon hearing squeals of toddler delight, I looked up from my book to see what was going on. Expecting to see Mia (our groups token child thus far) and her Mama playing, I realized that all the girls were doing their own thing, while all the guys were playing with Mia, doing their best to entertain her. It was interesting to see, especially since I have no recollection of that kind of scenario in my own childhood. It may have happened and maybe I just don’t remember it, but I think the roles of dads have changed significantly with my generation.
Case in point, I ran into one of my co-workers husbands in the hall at work not too long ago, his arms full with both their girls. Turns out they were both sick and he had just taken them to the doctor. I honestly do not remember my dad taking me to the doctor once. I remember him taking me to see the Rainbow Bright movie in a theatre when I was about 5 (major kudos for that – despite the fact that he brought a book with him), but never the doctor. Granted, it was easier for my mom to get off work, but it never entered my mind to call my dad if I was sick. To this day I still call my mom to complain that I don’t feel good.
Every time I walk down the hall at work, I find myself walking past offices of obviously proud dads. Every guy here, under the age of 40, proudly displays pictures of his kids all over his office. More often than not, screen savers, computer backgrounds and custom calendars are also pictures of their kids. Neither of my parents were big picture people, I’m pretty sure my mom still has my 5th grade picture on her desk, and possibly one from 9th grade. In our house growing up, they proudly displayed (and still do) my kindergarten picture on top of the piano. The most recent addition is my senior picture, which actually made it on the wall, but there aren’t many pictures on display in between. I realize that pictures aren’t a big deal to my parents, but I happen to love them. And I love walking past the guys’ offices with pictures of their kids. It gives you a nice warm feeling inside to realize that these guys love their kids so much. So for father’s day this year, I gave my dad a picture of my brother and me for his desk at work. I’m doubtful it ever makes it to his office, but I thought it was worth a shot. And hey, easy cheesy fathers day gift!
One of my favorite stories about my new dad friends had to do with swimming lessons. His daughter is Mia, and she’s about 19 months old, so really not old enough to swim, but they signed her up for “mommy and me” swim lessons. That title may now be un-PC but when I was teaching swim lessons, that’s what it was. Anyway, mommy didn’t want to go swimming so daddy takes her. I’m not sure that there is much out there a whole lot cuter than a dad taking his daughter to swim lessons. With maybe the exception of a handful of movie stars. And newborn puppies.
Along with swim lessons, I hear a number of the dads in my office talking about heading to their kids’ (insert appropriate sport here) games/meets/etc. I was born with a love of sports and while I was never great at them, I loved to play. Which had to suck for my parents because when you grow up in the middle of nowhere MT, an away game doesn’t mean across town – it means across the state. It all started with t-ball at age 5. This quickly turned into softball, which was at least within the county and then swim team in the summers, which was across all of Western Montana. I don’t remember my dad missing a single swim meet, which is really very cool. Lucky for my parents, in junior high and high school, the athletes travel on a bus to away games. I spent a lot of time on a bus . . . and my parents, my mom especially, spent a lot of time in the car an on bleachers following me.
By the time high school rolled around, I was playing three sports a year. It’s still amazing to me how parents will follow their kid around from gym to gym to watch them play sports when it’s a real possibility that the kid and or the team aren’t even good. For me, that sport was basketball. I was okay, a very long way from great, but had a 99% free throw average so managed to pick up some playing time. I remember my mom coming to almost all the games, although she never made the 4 hour trip to Eureka, and her making my dad come to one home game a season. So you can imagine my surprise when volleyball season rolled around and my dad willingly came to games. And I don’t just mean home games, but actually hopped in the car and followed my team around the state. I remember coming home from a game and having my dad quiz me on what all the signals the ref used meant. It was never a doubt in my mind that my mom would be at games and follow me around yelling for the team, but my first season playing varsity volleyball, it came as a shock every time I heard “Let’s go Hawks!” in my dads voice. My dad doesn’t put a lot of effort into doing anything he doesn’t want to do, so it was a very special surprise when he willingly and actively became interested in something I loved to do.
Flash forward 28 years after I left my post on the moon picking grapes, and I have a pretty solid relationship with my dad. (My mom too, she’s my rock, but this blog is about dads.) I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do target practice with or tool around on a boat for an afternoon than with my dad. What I am most encouraged by in seeing the dads of my generation is the possibility that a stronger relationship will take hold sooner between father and child. I love the world where I commonly see guys hiking with their kids strapped to them, or the dads taking t heir kids to get their feet wet in the fountain on a hot day. Or even dads who brave the grocery store with a young one just to give mom a break. So while evolution has brought us things like global warming, nuclear weapons and Britney Spears, its encouraging seeing evolution moving us in some positive directions too.
Case in point, I ran into one of my co-workers husbands in the hall at work not too long ago, his arms full with both their girls. Turns out they were both sick and he had just taken them to the doctor. I honestly do not remember my dad taking me to the doctor once. I remember him taking me to see the Rainbow Bright movie in a theatre when I was about 5 (major kudos for that – despite the fact that he brought a book with him), but never the doctor. Granted, it was easier for my mom to get off work, but it never entered my mind to call my dad if I was sick. To this day I still call my mom to complain that I don’t feel good.
Every time I walk down the hall at work, I find myself walking past offices of obviously proud dads. Every guy here, under the age of 40, proudly displays pictures of his kids all over his office. More often than not, screen savers, computer backgrounds and custom calendars are also pictures of their kids. Neither of my parents were big picture people, I’m pretty sure my mom still has my 5th grade picture on her desk, and possibly one from 9th grade. In our house growing up, they proudly displayed (and still do) my kindergarten picture on top of the piano. The most recent addition is my senior picture, which actually made it on the wall, but there aren’t many pictures on display in between. I realize that pictures aren’t a big deal to my parents, but I happen to love them. And I love walking past the guys’ offices with pictures of their kids. It gives you a nice warm feeling inside to realize that these guys love their kids so much. So for father’s day this year, I gave my dad a picture of my brother and me for his desk at work. I’m doubtful it ever makes it to his office, but I thought it was worth a shot. And hey, easy cheesy fathers day gift!
One of my favorite stories about my new dad friends had to do with swimming lessons. His daughter is Mia, and she’s about 19 months old, so really not old enough to swim, but they signed her up for “mommy and me” swim lessons. That title may now be un-PC but when I was teaching swim lessons, that’s what it was. Anyway, mommy didn’t want to go swimming so daddy takes her. I’m not sure that there is much out there a whole lot cuter than a dad taking his daughter to swim lessons. With maybe the exception of a handful of movie stars. And newborn puppies.
Along with swim lessons, I hear a number of the dads in my office talking about heading to their kids’ (insert appropriate sport here) games/meets/etc. I was born with a love of sports and while I was never great at them, I loved to play. Which had to suck for my parents because when you grow up in the middle of nowhere MT, an away game doesn’t mean across town – it means across the state. It all started with t-ball at age 5. This quickly turned into softball, which was at least within the county and then swim team in the summers, which was across all of Western Montana. I don’t remember my dad missing a single swim meet, which is really very cool. Lucky for my parents, in junior high and high school, the athletes travel on a bus to away games. I spent a lot of time on a bus . . . and my parents, my mom especially, spent a lot of time in the car an on bleachers following me.
By the time high school rolled around, I was playing three sports a year. It’s still amazing to me how parents will follow their kid around from gym to gym to watch them play sports when it’s a real possibility that the kid and or the team aren’t even good. For me, that sport was basketball. I was okay, a very long way from great, but had a 99% free throw average so managed to pick up some playing time. I remember my mom coming to almost all the games, although she never made the 4 hour trip to Eureka, and her making my dad come to one home game a season. So you can imagine my surprise when volleyball season rolled around and my dad willingly came to games. And I don’t just mean home games, but actually hopped in the car and followed my team around the state. I remember coming home from a game and having my dad quiz me on what all the signals the ref used meant. It was never a doubt in my mind that my mom would be at games and follow me around yelling for the team, but my first season playing varsity volleyball, it came as a shock every time I heard “Let’s go Hawks!” in my dads voice. My dad doesn’t put a lot of effort into doing anything he doesn’t want to do, so it was a very special surprise when he willingly and actively became interested in something I loved to do.
Flash forward 28 years after I left my post on the moon picking grapes, and I have a pretty solid relationship with my dad. (My mom too, she’s my rock, but this blog is about dads.) I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do target practice with or tool around on a boat for an afternoon than with my dad. What I am most encouraged by in seeing the dads of my generation is the possibility that a stronger relationship will take hold sooner between father and child. I love the world where I commonly see guys hiking with their kids strapped to them, or the dads taking t heir kids to get their feet wet in the fountain on a hot day. Or even dads who brave the grocery store with a young one just to give mom a break. So while evolution has brought us things like global warming, nuclear weapons and Britney Spears, its encouraging seeing evolution moving us in some positive directions too.
July 22, 2009
I'm Living in a Glove Box
My very first car was a baby blue Plymouth Sundance. I called her the Blue Beast and she started to shake if you got above 65 mph. While speed was not her forte, she did have a roomy glove box. Why does the glove box matter you ask? Because come summer time, the glove box was inevitably filled with things for impromptu over nights. Toothbrush and toothpaste, supplies for contacts, and possibly a fresh pair of underwear all took up residence in my glove box during the summer. I lived about 20 minutes outside of town so having the necessary toiletries on hand made for less driving late at night.
Why all the reminiscing about my old glove box? Because this summer my apartment is starting to feel like that old glove box. One of the things I like about my apartment complex is that it comes with a storage unit in the basement. This is perfect for storing all of my offseason equipment. It’s filled with cook ware I don’t use all the frequently, luggage, camping gear, skis, golf clubs, etc. It probably has stuff I’ve forgotten I even own since its stuffed floor to ceiling.
The problem is that this summer, I have so much going on that nothing seems to be making it back into the storage unit before I need it again. Now this wouldn’t seem like a big deal to most, but I’m one of those ridiculous people who unpacks immediately after returning from a trip. Baring any weird circumstances, I am usually unpacked with everything in its rightful place within an hour or so of walking through the door. It’s a sickness, I know. So you can imagine how I feel about the fact that my sleeping bag has been floating around my living room for a month and will continue to do so for at least another one.
I really do keep meaning to put things away. Part of the problem is I have a mental block about going to the storage unit. It smells funny down there and since my unit is so packed (neatly, of course), it’s a bit of a production to take things out of there and/or put them back. Then there’s the fact that I’ll need the sleeping bag again next weekend, or the weekend after that, so why go to all the hassle of putting it back in the storage unit only to get it out again? Which is why there’s an air mattress taking up residence underneath an end table in my living room and a sleeping bag wedged between my couches. Oh, and don’t forget the golf clubs and camping chair tucked in behind the front door.
It’s starting to drive me crazy. Almost all of those items are going on a trip in a little over a week and I’m temped to put them in my car now just so I don’t have to look at them. Because seriously, who wants to live in a glove box?
Why all the reminiscing about my old glove box? Because this summer my apartment is starting to feel like that old glove box. One of the things I like about my apartment complex is that it comes with a storage unit in the basement. This is perfect for storing all of my offseason equipment. It’s filled with cook ware I don’t use all the frequently, luggage, camping gear, skis, golf clubs, etc. It probably has stuff I’ve forgotten I even own since its stuffed floor to ceiling.
The problem is that this summer, I have so much going on that nothing seems to be making it back into the storage unit before I need it again. Now this wouldn’t seem like a big deal to most, but I’m one of those ridiculous people who unpacks immediately after returning from a trip. Baring any weird circumstances, I am usually unpacked with everything in its rightful place within an hour or so of walking through the door. It’s a sickness, I know. So you can imagine how I feel about the fact that my sleeping bag has been floating around my living room for a month and will continue to do so for at least another one.
I really do keep meaning to put things away. Part of the problem is I have a mental block about going to the storage unit. It smells funny down there and since my unit is so packed (neatly, of course), it’s a bit of a production to take things out of there and/or put them back. Then there’s the fact that I’ll need the sleeping bag again next weekend, or the weekend after that, so why go to all the hassle of putting it back in the storage unit only to get it out again? Which is why there’s an air mattress taking up residence underneath an end table in my living room and a sleeping bag wedged between my couches. Oh, and don’t forget the golf clubs and camping chair tucked in behind the front door.
It’s starting to drive me crazy. Almost all of those items are going on a trip in a little over a week and I’m temped to put them in my car now just so I don’t have to look at them. Because seriously, who wants to live in a glove box?
July 16, 2009
Ten Years and Counting
With my ten-year high school reunion quickly approaching, I’ve been giving some thought to how things have changed over the past ten years. The important changes aren’t being able to say I have a B.S. or an M.B.A., but how other parts of my life, especially the social aspects, have changed over the years.
Ten years ago I lived in a very small town in rural Montana. I had to drive two hours to purchase underwear that didn’t come in a Haynes Her Way Six Pack from the local drug store. Like most small towns, there were advantages and disadvantages to growing up this way. Thompson Falls wasn’t exactly a cultural mecca, but my parents did a really good job making sure my brother and I were exposed to things not readily accessible to us like museums, Broadway shows, the ballet (the Nutcracker totally counts), and different parts of the US, Canada and Mexico. Although I didn’t appreciate being dragged to a Genghis Kahn exhibit at the time, and I’d still think it was pretty boring today, I appreciate that my parents took the time and effort to give me those types of experiences.
Back in the day, my house was the gathering place. We had a large day light basement with a ping pong and foosball table, a trampoline and plenty of room outside to run around. There was always food and drinks available and more weekends than not my friends and I ended up hanging out at my house. Now that I am an adult and have to buy my own groceries, I realize that having 10-15 growing kids at your house every weekend is not a cheap endeavor, but knowing where their kid was and providing a safe environment was more important to my parents than the money shelled out for Mountain Dew and Doritos.
Those days the conversations ranged from who was going with who to the homecoming dance to what we wanted to be when we grew up to how much we hated our rival high school, Plains. I don’t want to discount those years as frivolous, but we weren’t exactly trying to solve world hunger. I went to school, played three sports a year, and worked as a life guard in the summer. Looking back, life was just as it should be for a teenager. Even if you include getting my car taken away as a form of grounding for doing something stupid.
Ten years later I’m living in a trendy part of downtown Portland, Oregon, where I can purchase real underwear at any number of stores within a 5 mile radius and no longer have to explain to the bus driver why I am riding the school bus instead of driving my own car. My friends and I still aren’t trying to solve world hunger, but our topics of discussion have changed considerably. We recently toasted to the fact that none of us have to go back to school again. We all have our advanced degrees with the exception of one who moved up quick enough that it’s not necessary for him at this point. We may still not know what we want to be when we grow up, but we all have a pretty solid idea and in the interim are making decent money.
Instead of throwing sleeping bags in the bag of a truck and driving up the mountain to go camping or driving to Missoula to watch a movie, we take trips to Lake Shasta or Las Vegas. We spend our Saturdays tailgating at Oregon State football games instead of going to our respective high schools Friday night football game. Instead of Mountain Dew we’re drinking beer and instead of Doritos we’re eating vegetables. Well, most of the time anyway. And instead of playing organized sports, most of us have gym memberships or run or bike or do something to get physical activity into our lives. Most days I’m quite happy that the era of Suicides and Daily Doubles is over for me, but sometimes it would be nice having someone making you be active and get you into shape.
Amongst the girls, there are still conversations about the guys in our lives (minus the part about who we’re going to prom with), but an equal amount of discussion time is dedicated to health. I recently found myself in the middle of a conversation about fiber. I’m only 28, when did fiber intake become a primary topic of conversation? Weddings, babies, birth control, and even hemorrhoids have come up in recent conversations. I guarantee you hemorrhoids didn’t come up in conversation at 18!
Ten years has gone by quick. In the words of my cousin when he heard it was my ten-year reunion, “Daaaaammmmmnnnnnn.” Now I have to work to support myself, from paying bills to keeping my self in mass quantities of shoes. Life isn’t quite as simple as it was at 18, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s a good thing when you can look back over the past ten years, the years that probably encompass the most amount of change in a person’s life, and feel pretty good about where you’ve ended up. Even if it means talking about fiber and hemorrhoids.
Ten years ago I lived in a very small town in rural Montana. I had to drive two hours to purchase underwear that didn’t come in a Haynes Her Way Six Pack from the local drug store. Like most small towns, there were advantages and disadvantages to growing up this way. Thompson Falls wasn’t exactly a cultural mecca, but my parents did a really good job making sure my brother and I were exposed to things not readily accessible to us like museums, Broadway shows, the ballet (the Nutcracker totally counts), and different parts of the US, Canada and Mexico. Although I didn’t appreciate being dragged to a Genghis Kahn exhibit at the time, and I’d still think it was pretty boring today, I appreciate that my parents took the time and effort to give me those types of experiences.
Back in the day, my house was the gathering place. We had a large day light basement with a ping pong and foosball table, a trampoline and plenty of room outside to run around. There was always food and drinks available and more weekends than not my friends and I ended up hanging out at my house. Now that I am an adult and have to buy my own groceries, I realize that having 10-15 growing kids at your house every weekend is not a cheap endeavor, but knowing where their kid was and providing a safe environment was more important to my parents than the money shelled out for Mountain Dew and Doritos.
Those days the conversations ranged from who was going with who to the homecoming dance to what we wanted to be when we grew up to how much we hated our rival high school, Plains. I don’t want to discount those years as frivolous, but we weren’t exactly trying to solve world hunger. I went to school, played three sports a year, and worked as a life guard in the summer. Looking back, life was just as it should be for a teenager. Even if you include getting my car taken away as a form of grounding for doing something stupid.
Ten years later I’m living in a trendy part of downtown Portland, Oregon, where I can purchase real underwear at any number of stores within a 5 mile radius and no longer have to explain to the bus driver why I am riding the school bus instead of driving my own car. My friends and I still aren’t trying to solve world hunger, but our topics of discussion have changed considerably. We recently toasted to the fact that none of us have to go back to school again. We all have our advanced degrees with the exception of one who moved up quick enough that it’s not necessary for him at this point. We may still not know what we want to be when we grow up, but we all have a pretty solid idea and in the interim are making decent money.
Instead of throwing sleeping bags in the bag of a truck and driving up the mountain to go camping or driving to Missoula to watch a movie, we take trips to Lake Shasta or Las Vegas. We spend our Saturdays tailgating at Oregon State football games instead of going to our respective high schools Friday night football game. Instead of Mountain Dew we’re drinking beer and instead of Doritos we’re eating vegetables. Well, most of the time anyway. And instead of playing organized sports, most of us have gym memberships or run or bike or do something to get physical activity into our lives. Most days I’m quite happy that the era of Suicides and Daily Doubles is over for me, but sometimes it would be nice having someone making you be active and get you into shape.
Amongst the girls, there are still conversations about the guys in our lives (minus the part about who we’re going to prom with), but an equal amount of discussion time is dedicated to health. I recently found myself in the middle of a conversation about fiber. I’m only 28, when did fiber intake become a primary topic of conversation? Weddings, babies, birth control, and even hemorrhoids have come up in recent conversations. I guarantee you hemorrhoids didn’t come up in conversation at 18!
Ten years has gone by quick. In the words of my cousin when he heard it was my ten-year reunion, “Daaaaammmmmnnnnnn.” Now I have to work to support myself, from paying bills to keeping my self in mass quantities of shoes. Life isn’t quite as simple as it was at 18, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s a good thing when you can look back over the past ten years, the years that probably encompass the most amount of change in a person’s life, and feel pretty good about where you’ve ended up. Even if it means talking about fiber and hemorrhoids.
July 11, 2009
Everything You Can Do . . . I Can Do Too!
If I had to pick a show tune that best described me, it would undoubtedly be Annie Get Your Gun’s “Everything you can do I can do better, everything you can do I can do to.” There are some things I realize I can’t do better that the guys, for example I’m quite aware of my genetic disadvantages for dunking a basketball, but for the most part I’ve done my best to keep up with the guys. I can do anything they can do too.
In my quest to keep up with the guys I’ve done some ridiculous things over the years. I’ve jumped off of cliffs that I shouldn’t have and skied down mountains way out of my comfort zone. On the plus side, I made myself learn to do things like drive a ski boat, paddle a boat correctly, and I camp like a champ.
Living by myself has also helped to fuel my independent, I don’t need any help, if a guy can do it I can do it too attitude. I own a cordless drill and a level and can hang anything. I can change a tire. I am strong enough to move most of my furniture by myself. I even hooked up my own sound system between my TV and stereo.
While I’ve become increasingly independent and capable, I’ve forgotten how nice it is occasionally to have guys help you out. This recently came to light in two different ways. The first being that I just read Steve Harvey’s “Act Like A Lady, Think Like Man.” I find the differences in men and women fascinating, plus a single girl needs all the help she can get! One of the things that Harvey mentions is that guys know girls can do things for themselves, however guys still like to feel needed and to take care of things that are considered manly. It makes them feel useful and needed. In my aspirations to be an island whenever possible and taking care of everything myself, I forget that asking for or accepting help occasionally doesn’t mean that I’m putting anyone out.
The second thing that happened was I had a small accident while attempting to climb up a natural rock water slide. I of course tried it first myself with no help. To get to the top you had to use a rope and climb up the left side of the falls on slick wet rock wall. I almost made it up when I lost my footing and found myself dangling from a rope by one hand getting pummeled by a waterfall. Apparently other people were concerned, but my thought at the time was simply “well this did not go according to plan, but hey, all that lifting is coming in handy since I can hold myself up with one arm!” I managed to get myself turned around enough to go down the slide with some semblance of control and what I hope was some impression of dignity. And a lot of new bruises.
Since attempt number one was a bit of a bust, I planned on trying again. As I was swimming back to the rope, two of the guys in my group caught up with me. These two weren’t even my best guy friends who were also on the trip, just a brother and cousin of one of my guys. None the less, they automatically jumped up to help, one holding the rope at the bottom and one climbing up ahead of me to help me make the switch from the rope to the slide. This time around everything went smoother and I made it down the slide like one is supposed to.
Could I have gotten up the rock wall and down the slide myself? Yes, eventually. But as I reached out for the hand at the top helping me to get situated to go down the slide and let go of the rope, I decided that having help every now and then wasn’t a bad thing. Despite how much we bag on them, guys are innately good. And help coming from unexpected places or guys has a way of making a girl feel good.
Another perfect example of guys wanting/needing to help is this past winter I was supposed to drive across town to a party when Portland was hit with a huge winter snow storm. Three of my guy friends called to see if they could pick me up so I didn’t have to drive. Ironically, I am the one with the most snow driving experience. None the less, I let one of the guys chauffeur me around town on a snowy night.
In my never ending quest for self improvement, my newest goal is to realize that asking for or accepting help doesn’t make me weak. I can do everything guys can do (with the obvious exception of peeing standing up), but that doesn’t mean that occasionally I can’t take advantage of their bigger muscles and their desire to help a girl out occasionally. The good ones were raised and trained to do this; I may as well let them make their mamas proud.
In my quest to keep up with the guys I’ve done some ridiculous things over the years. I’ve jumped off of cliffs that I shouldn’t have and skied down mountains way out of my comfort zone. On the plus side, I made myself learn to do things like drive a ski boat, paddle a boat correctly, and I camp like a champ.
Living by myself has also helped to fuel my independent, I don’t need any help, if a guy can do it I can do it too attitude. I own a cordless drill and a level and can hang anything. I can change a tire. I am strong enough to move most of my furniture by myself. I even hooked up my own sound system between my TV and stereo.
While I’ve become increasingly independent and capable, I’ve forgotten how nice it is occasionally to have guys help you out. This recently came to light in two different ways. The first being that I just read Steve Harvey’s “Act Like A Lady, Think Like Man.” I find the differences in men and women fascinating, plus a single girl needs all the help she can get! One of the things that Harvey mentions is that guys know girls can do things for themselves, however guys still like to feel needed and to take care of things that are considered manly. It makes them feel useful and needed. In my aspirations to be an island whenever possible and taking care of everything myself, I forget that asking for or accepting help occasionally doesn’t mean that I’m putting anyone out.
The second thing that happened was I had a small accident while attempting to climb up a natural rock water slide. I of course tried it first myself with no help. To get to the top you had to use a rope and climb up the left side of the falls on slick wet rock wall. I almost made it up when I lost my footing and found myself dangling from a rope by one hand getting pummeled by a waterfall. Apparently other people were concerned, but my thought at the time was simply “well this did not go according to plan, but hey, all that lifting is coming in handy since I can hold myself up with one arm!” I managed to get myself turned around enough to go down the slide with some semblance of control and what I hope was some impression of dignity. And a lot of new bruises.
Since attempt number one was a bit of a bust, I planned on trying again. As I was swimming back to the rope, two of the guys in my group caught up with me. These two weren’t even my best guy friends who were also on the trip, just a brother and cousin of one of my guys. None the less, they automatically jumped up to help, one holding the rope at the bottom and one climbing up ahead of me to help me make the switch from the rope to the slide. This time around everything went smoother and I made it down the slide like one is supposed to.
Could I have gotten up the rock wall and down the slide myself? Yes, eventually. But as I reached out for the hand at the top helping me to get situated to go down the slide and let go of the rope, I decided that having help every now and then wasn’t a bad thing. Despite how much we bag on them, guys are innately good. And help coming from unexpected places or guys has a way of making a girl feel good.
Another perfect example of guys wanting/needing to help is this past winter I was supposed to drive across town to a party when Portland was hit with a huge winter snow storm. Three of my guy friends called to see if they could pick me up so I didn’t have to drive. Ironically, I am the one with the most snow driving experience. None the less, I let one of the guys chauffeur me around town on a snowy night.
In my never ending quest for self improvement, my newest goal is to realize that asking for or accepting help doesn’t make me weak. I can do everything guys can do (with the obvious exception of peeing standing up), but that doesn’t mean that occasionally I can’t take advantage of their bigger muscles and their desire to help a girl out occasionally. The good ones were raised and trained to do this; I may as well let them make their mamas proud.
July 10, 2009
I'm On A Boat
One of my favorite things about television and movies is their ability to play the most appropriate song for what is going on in any particular scene. For example, the scene in Love Actually where Keira Knightley figures out that her hubby’s best friend is in love with her and the Dido song comes on? Perfect. Sometimes I wish someone would make my life into a TV show just so some audio guys could follow me around with mood setting and/or mood appropriate music. Unfortunately no one has deemed my life interesting enough for such treatment yet.
Luckily Apple came along and invented the iPod, negating the need for my own personal sound entourage. Now I just have to flip through a couple thousand songs to find the most appropriate one for the day. A person needs different theme songs during their life to enhance events, big or small. For example, recent events in my life led me to making the All-American Rejects “Gives You Hell” my own personal anthem. It’s very cathartic to have a song to represent your feelings in various situations. I think this is why P!nk’s recent album is such a huge hit. The songs are all about her light switch relationship with her hubby and all of us can relate to what she’s singing about. Because it really is all your fault. Well said P!nk.
While my personal theme song changes often (you know, the one that would be the opening for my TV show), every now and again a song comes along that epitomizes an event so well that every time that song comes on it bring back the memories. Green Day’s “Good Riddance” reminds me of the end of high school. I love the songs that remind you of happy and fun times or major events. Like driving with the windows down in the summer on Little Beaver Creek Road singing along to " . . . Baby One More Time" or "No Scrubs."
Summer ’09 has blessed us with one of the best theme songs in a while. Since I was using some of my vacation days to spend time with friends on a houseboat on Lake Shatsa, The Lonely Islands “I’m on a boat” fit the bill perfectly. Not only was the song played about a million times during the adventure, but you’d catch people singing or humming it under their breath as well. Because hello, we were on a boat!
Another friend and I even went so far as to try and teach the two-year old on the boat the lyrics. Don’t worry, we used the clean version. Plus he really only knows the word boat so this is how it usually went down:
M&H: “I’m on a boat!”
J: “BOAT!”
Three days into the trip his mom finally figured out exactly what song we were trying to teach him. Luckily she didn’t listen to the rest of the lyrics too closely.
Forevermore “I’m on a Boat!” will be the Shasta theme song. Ten years from now I’ll be driving down the road and when that song comes on the radio (the non-explicit version of course) I’ll remember those few fun days in the sun when we really were on a boat. Where I got up on a wake board for the first time, how we remembered the Beaver flags and decorative lights but forgot soap and salt & pepper shakers, getting beaten down by a natural waterslide, waking up to Mia screaming bloody murder and spending hours in the lake on our floaties and floating cooler.
“Take a good look at me ‘cause I’m sailing on a boat . . .”
Luckily Apple came along and invented the iPod, negating the need for my own personal sound entourage. Now I just have to flip through a couple thousand songs to find the most appropriate one for the day. A person needs different theme songs during their life to enhance events, big or small. For example, recent events in my life led me to making the All-American Rejects “Gives You Hell” my own personal anthem. It’s very cathartic to have a song to represent your feelings in various situations. I think this is why P!nk’s recent album is such a huge hit. The songs are all about her light switch relationship with her hubby and all of us can relate to what she’s singing about. Because it really is all your fault. Well said P!nk.
While my personal theme song changes often (you know, the one that would be the opening for my TV show), every now and again a song comes along that epitomizes an event so well that every time that song comes on it bring back the memories. Green Day’s “Good Riddance” reminds me of the end of high school. I love the songs that remind you of happy and fun times or major events. Like driving with the windows down in the summer on Little Beaver Creek Road singing along to " . . . Baby One More Time" or "No Scrubs."
Summer ’09 has blessed us with one of the best theme songs in a while. Since I was using some of my vacation days to spend time with friends on a houseboat on Lake Shatsa, The Lonely Islands “I’m on a boat” fit the bill perfectly. Not only was the song played about a million times during the adventure, but you’d catch people singing or humming it under their breath as well. Because hello, we were on a boat!
Another friend and I even went so far as to try and teach the two-year old on the boat the lyrics. Don’t worry, we used the clean version. Plus he really only knows the word boat so this is how it usually went down:
M&H: “I’m on a boat!”
J: “BOAT!”
Three days into the trip his mom finally figured out exactly what song we were trying to teach him. Luckily she didn’t listen to the rest of the lyrics too closely.
Forevermore “I’m on a Boat!” will be the Shasta theme song. Ten years from now I’ll be driving down the road and when that song comes on the radio (the non-explicit version of course) I’ll remember those few fun days in the sun when we really were on a boat. Where I got up on a wake board for the first time, how we remembered the Beaver flags and decorative lights but forgot soap and salt & pepper shakers, getting beaten down by a natural waterslide, waking up to Mia screaming bloody murder and spending hours in the lake on our floaties and floating cooler.
“Take a good look at me ‘cause I’m sailing on a boat . . .”
July 1, 2009
Cinderella & the Skinny Jeans
Last Friday night, I was getting ready to go to dinner with my mom. Since my skinny jeans currently button without cutting off circulation and don’t make my thighs look like overstuffed sausages, I decided this was the perfect time to wear them. The only problem with the skinny jeans is that they are excessively long, which means I have to wear very tall heels with them. We’re not talking stilettos, but a solid three inch heal is required for these jeans. Even though I am a total shoe whore and love the ideal of heels, I am a flats girl at heart because lets face it, most heels hurt!
As I perused my closets full of shoes, I was debating which heels were the perfect ones for the occasion. Yes, you read that right, closets full. Technically only one is a closet, with multiple layers of shoes stacked upon each other due to lack of space. I also store shoes under my bed and in a file cabinet drawer at work. Anyway, I was perusing the piles of shoes, trying to decide which ones were perfect for a Friday night dinner. One of the red pairs? What about the teal patent leather? Or the classic black pointy toed pumps? And then my eyes caught them. The three inch black patent leather sling backs. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. Since they’re taller than I am normally comfortable in, I hesitated to wear them for an evening out. Luckily I was taught at an early age that it takes pain to be beautiful. And I remembered that since I would be sitting most of the evening through dinner, I would really only have to stand in them for a short period of time. I can walk in the tall shoes, but having to stand around in them all night? I don’t how those girls from Sex and the City did it. I once walked home from a party barefoot because my feet hurt so badly from my heels. In January.
There was a brief period of time where I wondered if I was the only crazy girl who did this kind of thing. Buy really cute, but uncomfortable shoes, and then wear them based on whether or not she’d actually have to place any weight on her feet while the shoes were on. The thought flittered out of my mind over the excitement of my skinny jeans buttoning easily and I went to dinner in the patent leather sling backs.
The next day I was reading a book and my question from the previous evening came back to me. There was a scene in the book where the main girl was going through her closet, making the obligatory “to get rid of” pile so that the closet doors could actually shut. Her friend noticed a super cute pair of shoes in the discard pile, and inquired as to why on earth anyone would get rid of such a cute pair of shoes. The answer was obviously because despite their cuteness, they hurt like hell. Fast forward a few paragraphs, and the shoes were moved to the keep pile, since the main character figured she could wear the shoes on a night when she would mostly be sitting down. Since I had picked shoes the previous night partly based on the fact that I would be sitting most of the evening, I had a good chuckle over this. Clearly, I’m not the only crazy one!
It’s no wonder that guys don’t understand a girl’s obsession with shoes. For them, they just need a couple pairs of practical and comfortable shoes. Girl shoes go way beyond practical and comfortable. Starting at a young age, we’re trained on fairy tales to fit your fat foot in the glass slipper. Glass slippers could not have been comfortable, yet Cinderella danced for an evening in them regardless. Why? Because they completed the outfit. Obviously Disney didn’t want to come right out and say it takes pain to be beautiful, but come on, they put the girl in glass freaking high heels.
The relationship between a girl and her shoes is not meant to be logical or pain free. Cute shoes and looking fabulous comes at a price. But every once in a while it’s nice when the price includes a chair.
As I perused my closets full of shoes, I was debating which heels were the perfect ones for the occasion. Yes, you read that right, closets full. Technically only one is a closet, with multiple layers of shoes stacked upon each other due to lack of space. I also store shoes under my bed and in a file cabinet drawer at work. Anyway, I was perusing the piles of shoes, trying to decide which ones were perfect for a Friday night dinner. One of the red pairs? What about the teal patent leather? Or the classic black pointy toed pumps? And then my eyes caught them. The three inch black patent leather sling backs. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. Since they’re taller than I am normally comfortable in, I hesitated to wear them for an evening out. Luckily I was taught at an early age that it takes pain to be beautiful. And I remembered that since I would be sitting most of the evening through dinner, I would really only have to stand in them for a short period of time. I can walk in the tall shoes, but having to stand around in them all night? I don’t how those girls from Sex and the City did it. I once walked home from a party barefoot because my feet hurt so badly from my heels. In January.
There was a brief period of time where I wondered if I was the only crazy girl who did this kind of thing. Buy really cute, but uncomfortable shoes, and then wear them based on whether or not she’d actually have to place any weight on her feet while the shoes were on. The thought flittered out of my mind over the excitement of my skinny jeans buttoning easily and I went to dinner in the patent leather sling backs.
The next day I was reading a book and my question from the previous evening came back to me. There was a scene in the book where the main girl was going through her closet, making the obligatory “to get rid of” pile so that the closet doors could actually shut. Her friend noticed a super cute pair of shoes in the discard pile, and inquired as to why on earth anyone would get rid of such a cute pair of shoes. The answer was obviously because despite their cuteness, they hurt like hell. Fast forward a few paragraphs, and the shoes were moved to the keep pile, since the main character figured she could wear the shoes on a night when she would mostly be sitting down. Since I had picked shoes the previous night partly based on the fact that I would be sitting most of the evening, I had a good chuckle over this. Clearly, I’m not the only crazy one!
It’s no wonder that guys don’t understand a girl’s obsession with shoes. For them, they just need a couple pairs of practical and comfortable shoes. Girl shoes go way beyond practical and comfortable. Starting at a young age, we’re trained on fairy tales to fit your fat foot in the glass slipper. Glass slippers could not have been comfortable, yet Cinderella danced for an evening in them regardless. Why? Because they completed the outfit. Obviously Disney didn’t want to come right out and say it takes pain to be beautiful, but come on, they put the girl in glass freaking high heels.
The relationship between a girl and her shoes is not meant to be logical or pain free. Cute shoes and looking fabulous comes at a price. But every once in a while it’s nice when the price includes a chair.
June 22, 2009
Things that go BOOM!
I always joke that my favorite movies are ones where things blow up. The more bullets spent and explosions there are the better the movie in my book. In reality, what I’m trying to say is I enjoy action packed movies. Making me watch a slow drama is equivalent to shoving bamboo shoots under my finger nails.
I didn’t realize how violent my movie tendencies were until I logged onto Netflix the other day. One of the things I like about Netflix is it will tell you that since you liked X movie, we think you might also enjoy Y movie. It will also create entire categories of movies it thinks you will like. Imagine my surprise when I go to check my queue one day and Netflix informs me it has created a “Violent Thrillers” category based on my taste in movies. Seriously, violent thrillers.
At first my thought was, this can’t be right, where did Netflix get this idea? And then I started scrolling through the movies under that category – yup, all movies I’d seen and really enjoyed. All movies with lots of bullets and explosions. Movies like American Gangster, Kill Bill and Wanted. Who knew I had such violent tendencies?
To be fair, I should have seen this coming. I’m the only girl I know who can keep up with the boys in discussing James Bond films. This morning in fact we were arguing over how many times Pierce Brosnan had played 007 (4) and which film had the character Solitaire (To Live and Let Die). I was right on both accounts. Now James Bond films aren’t the most violent movies on earth, but let’s be honest, the guy has no qualms about killing people when necessary.
What does it say about a person, when their most watched moves tend to be of a violent nature? Now I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that if I ever went off the deep end and started shooting up my office, one of things people would say was “well, she did prefer violent movies.” I’m also willing to bet that if I ever get married people wouldn’t think to say “she was a big fan of the romantic comedies,” which I am also a fan of. Hey, I may like explosions, but I’m still a girl.
Really I think it means I have a very short attention span. Movies where things blow up are loud and tend to keep you from falling asleep or diverting you attention. The same cannot be said for quiet movies that take place in the English country side where girls prance around the garden and drink tea for fun.
So thank you Netflix, for creating a category just for me. Although I’d prefer it didn’t use the term violent to describe my movie preferences, I’d be way more upset it the categories “Animation for Grownups” (a real thing!), “tearjerkers” or “super swashbucklers” had come up instead. After looking through the list of genera’s available, suddenly violent thrillers no longer seems so bad. Bring on the BOOMs!
I didn’t realize how violent my movie tendencies were until I logged onto Netflix the other day. One of the things I like about Netflix is it will tell you that since you liked X movie, we think you might also enjoy Y movie. It will also create entire categories of movies it thinks you will like. Imagine my surprise when I go to check my queue one day and Netflix informs me it has created a “Violent Thrillers” category based on my taste in movies. Seriously, violent thrillers.
At first my thought was, this can’t be right, where did Netflix get this idea? And then I started scrolling through the movies under that category – yup, all movies I’d seen and really enjoyed. All movies with lots of bullets and explosions. Movies like American Gangster, Kill Bill and Wanted. Who knew I had such violent tendencies?
To be fair, I should have seen this coming. I’m the only girl I know who can keep up with the boys in discussing James Bond films. This morning in fact we were arguing over how many times Pierce Brosnan had played 007 (4) and which film had the character Solitaire (To Live and Let Die). I was right on both accounts. Now James Bond films aren’t the most violent movies on earth, but let’s be honest, the guy has no qualms about killing people when necessary.
What does it say about a person, when their most watched moves tend to be of a violent nature? Now I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that if I ever went off the deep end and started shooting up my office, one of things people would say was “well, she did prefer violent movies.” I’m also willing to bet that if I ever get married people wouldn’t think to say “she was a big fan of the romantic comedies,” which I am also a fan of. Hey, I may like explosions, but I’m still a girl.
Really I think it means I have a very short attention span. Movies where things blow up are loud and tend to keep you from falling asleep or diverting you attention. The same cannot be said for quiet movies that take place in the English country side where girls prance around the garden and drink tea for fun.
So thank you Netflix, for creating a category just for me. Although I’d prefer it didn’t use the term violent to describe my movie preferences, I’d be way more upset it the categories “Animation for Grownups” (a real thing!), “tearjerkers” or “super swashbucklers” had come up instead. After looking through the list of genera’s available, suddenly violent thrillers no longer seems so bad. Bring on the BOOMs!
June 9, 2009
Labels Are My Crack
It all started when I moved to Portland. Suddenly I had a different group of friends, ones who had jobs and money, not the poor college kids I’d spent the last four years with. At first, I just watched from a distance, wondering what it was like. Eventually I received some of my own as gifts, just to try. Before I knew it, my normally frugal self was spending my own hard money on it. When I made an impulse purchase last week on my way home from work, the severity of the situation finally hit me. My name is Heidi, and I am an addict. Designer labels are my crack.
Growing up in rural Montana, I thought labels were North Face and Levi Silvertabs. I knew nothing of the world of Coach, Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo. That all changed when I moved to Portland, where every girl in the city has at least one Coach purse. For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom why labels mattered so much and why people spent so much money on them. And then I fell in love. No, not with a man, with a purse. It was a black, satiny, box-like Kate Spade. I have no idea what the actual name was. I call her Kate. The best mom in the world gave it to me for a birthday one year. The best mom in the world also gave me a small Coach and small Prada to start my collection. From then on I was hooked.
I have girlfriends who update their designer duds with the same regularity as their underwear. I tend to go with classic things I can use for a long time. Because lets face it, even though I love my labels, my frugal side usually wins out. For the first time this past December, I spent my very own money on not one, but two Kate Spade purses. To be fair, I bought them on sale through a crazy discounted website and got two for less than the price of one regularly priced purse, but I bought them none the less. I call one Kate the Second and the other Party Kate.
Buying designer labels is like taking up running. The first time is the hardest and it just gets easier from there. Since December, I’ve managed to acquire (i.e. purchase with my own money) two pairs of Coach sunglasses and a Coach coin purse. I did hold off on the Kate Spade wallet and another Coach purse. Why all the Coach and Kate you ask? Because as far as designer things go, they’re the bottom of the rung and I can’t even justify spending money on those. I can’t imagine the heart attack I would have if I bought something at full price, much less if I ventured into Louis Vuitton or Manolo Blahnik and actually purchased something.
Last Friday was when I realized I had a problem. I stopped by Nordstrom Rack on my way home and there they were. They called out to me as soon as I saw them. The perfect white sunglasses. My brother had recently informed me that girls who wear white sunglasses are hot. I figured I didn’t have anything to loose testing out that theory (besides a couple bucks) so I had my eyes open for a pair. They came home with me.
It’s a slippery slope I tell you. The first time, you’re sick to your stomach that you actually spent that much money on a purse or a pair of sunglasses and before you know it, you’re impulse purchasing them on a rainy Friday afternoon like it was nothing. I’m starting to seriously worry that Coach and Kate are my gate way drugs. Because from where I’m sitting, a pair of Manolo’s would look pretty fabulous on my feet.
Growing up in rural Montana, I thought labels were North Face and Levi Silvertabs. I knew nothing of the world of Coach, Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo. That all changed when I moved to Portland, where every girl in the city has at least one Coach purse. For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom why labels mattered so much and why people spent so much money on them. And then I fell in love. No, not with a man, with a purse. It was a black, satiny, box-like Kate Spade. I have no idea what the actual name was. I call her Kate. The best mom in the world gave it to me for a birthday one year. The best mom in the world also gave me a small Coach and small Prada to start my collection. From then on I was hooked.
I have girlfriends who update their designer duds with the same regularity as their underwear. I tend to go with classic things I can use for a long time. Because lets face it, even though I love my labels, my frugal side usually wins out. For the first time this past December, I spent my very own money on not one, but two Kate Spade purses. To be fair, I bought them on sale through a crazy discounted website and got two for less than the price of one regularly priced purse, but I bought them none the less. I call one Kate the Second and the other Party Kate.
Buying designer labels is like taking up running. The first time is the hardest and it just gets easier from there. Since December, I’ve managed to acquire (i.e. purchase with my own money) two pairs of Coach sunglasses and a Coach coin purse. I did hold off on the Kate Spade wallet and another Coach purse. Why all the Coach and Kate you ask? Because as far as designer things go, they’re the bottom of the rung and I can’t even justify spending money on those. I can’t imagine the heart attack I would have if I bought something at full price, much less if I ventured into Louis Vuitton or Manolo Blahnik and actually purchased something.
Last Friday was when I realized I had a problem. I stopped by Nordstrom Rack on my way home and there they were. They called out to me as soon as I saw them. The perfect white sunglasses. My brother had recently informed me that girls who wear white sunglasses are hot. I figured I didn’t have anything to loose testing out that theory (besides a couple bucks) so I had my eyes open for a pair. They came home with me.
It’s a slippery slope I tell you. The first time, you’re sick to your stomach that you actually spent that much money on a purse or a pair of sunglasses and before you know it, you’re impulse purchasing them on a rainy Friday afternoon like it was nothing. I’m starting to seriously worry that Coach and Kate are my gate way drugs. Because from where I’m sitting, a pair of Manolo’s would look pretty fabulous on my feet.
June 5, 2009
Storms and Showers
Ptown has been plagued by extremely hot weather in the past two weeks. High 80’s up to 90 degrees even, which is not the norm for this time of year. The worst part was it wasn’t just hot, it was muggy as hell. To the point that I stopped straightening my hair for work, because the humidity made it curly on my walk to work anyway. It got so bad that I actually wanted it to rain. Last night, I got my wish.
I was at the gym, finishing up my run, when I noticed that it had gotten pretty dark outside considering it was only around 530pm. Then the wind started to pick up. Ahhh, this is the storm that is being talked about on every single TV in the gym. I picked up the pace for the last mile, hoping to be able to beat the worst of the storm home.
Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave the gym, a torrential down pour had started outside. It even smelled like rain out, which is something I really miss by living in an area that is constantly dripping. When I had left the house that morning, it had already been 70 degrees out so of course I had no jacket and no umbrella. After running five miles in a very stuffy gym with no air, I was already dripping a bit myself, so I figured this was as good a time as any to make sure I still don’t melt in the rain.
Lucky for me, it was still warm outside, but I was soaked within the first block. I slowly trudged my way home, my feet sloshing around in my shoes after only 2 blocks. Rain drops stuck to my eye lashes and when I looked up, I even got smacked right in the eye ball with a big fat rain drop.
Ten slow and very wet blocks later, I made it home, sweaty, wet and starting to get cold. This of course is when the sky really decided to open up and provide Ptown with a very rare treat – a thunder storm. I wanted nothing more than a nice hot shower, but something held me back.
You see, as a kid, I had spent all my waking hours at the local swimming pool during the summers. Whenever it started thundering, the lifeguards booted us out of the pool until there hadn’t been any thunder for at least 10 minutes. As a teenager, I became one of those lifeguards, kicking kids out of the pool whenever the thunder and lightening started. So you can imagine my confusion as I tried to reconcile my previous experiences with my intense desire to take a shower right then.
So I did what any intelligent and independent 28 year old would do – I called my parents to ask them if I would be struck by lightening if I took a shower during a thunder storm. My mom responded with a chucking “no,” quickly followed up by “but let me check with your father.” My father of course responded with a “no,” in a tone of voice reserved for his “what the hell kind of stupid question is that?” moments.
So, I took a shower and did not get struck by lightening. All the guys I work with thought this story was hysterical – how could I not know that I could take a shower during a storm? But seriously, I’d spent a significant part of my life being not being able to get in the water during storms, what was a girl to think?
The next step was of course Google. As it turns out, the Internet community is very split among the pro-shower and no-shower. It’s all very dramatic . . . so much so that I imagine it will be a huge part of the next presidential election. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but people have very strong opinions on whether or not you should shower during a thunder storm. It turns out that the issue isn’t the water, but the fact that the current will travel through the pipes and anything touching them.
Despite my years of training to avoid water during a lightening storm, I am making the educated decision to take a shower if I need one. Because ya, I’m a rebel like that.
I was at the gym, finishing up my run, when I noticed that it had gotten pretty dark outside considering it was only around 530pm. Then the wind started to pick up. Ahhh, this is the storm that is being talked about on every single TV in the gym. I picked up the pace for the last mile, hoping to be able to beat the worst of the storm home.
Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave the gym, a torrential down pour had started outside. It even smelled like rain out, which is something I really miss by living in an area that is constantly dripping. When I had left the house that morning, it had already been 70 degrees out so of course I had no jacket and no umbrella. After running five miles in a very stuffy gym with no air, I was already dripping a bit myself, so I figured this was as good a time as any to make sure I still don’t melt in the rain.
Lucky for me, it was still warm outside, but I was soaked within the first block. I slowly trudged my way home, my feet sloshing around in my shoes after only 2 blocks. Rain drops stuck to my eye lashes and when I looked up, I even got smacked right in the eye ball with a big fat rain drop.
Ten slow and very wet blocks later, I made it home, sweaty, wet and starting to get cold. This of course is when the sky really decided to open up and provide Ptown with a very rare treat – a thunder storm. I wanted nothing more than a nice hot shower, but something held me back.
You see, as a kid, I had spent all my waking hours at the local swimming pool during the summers. Whenever it started thundering, the lifeguards booted us out of the pool until there hadn’t been any thunder for at least 10 minutes. As a teenager, I became one of those lifeguards, kicking kids out of the pool whenever the thunder and lightening started. So you can imagine my confusion as I tried to reconcile my previous experiences with my intense desire to take a shower right then.
So I did what any intelligent and independent 28 year old would do – I called my parents to ask them if I would be struck by lightening if I took a shower during a thunder storm. My mom responded with a chucking “no,” quickly followed up by “but let me check with your father.” My father of course responded with a “no,” in a tone of voice reserved for his “what the hell kind of stupid question is that?” moments.
So, I took a shower and did not get struck by lightening. All the guys I work with thought this story was hysterical – how could I not know that I could take a shower during a storm? But seriously, I’d spent a significant part of my life being not being able to get in the water during storms, what was a girl to think?
The next step was of course Google. As it turns out, the Internet community is very split among the pro-shower and no-shower. It’s all very dramatic . . . so much so that I imagine it will be a huge part of the next presidential election. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but people have very strong opinions on whether or not you should shower during a thunder storm. It turns out that the issue isn’t the water, but the fact that the current will travel through the pipes and anything touching them.
Despite my years of training to avoid water during a lightening storm, I am making the educated decision to take a shower if I need one. Because ya, I’m a rebel like that.
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