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.
July 27, 2009
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.
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