Not So Observant

I like to think of myself as a fairly observant person. I often am able to figure out who the killers are before the big reveal in books and movies. If I hear weird noises, I check the clock in case I have to talk to the cops later (maybe I should read/watch less of the aforementioned books and movies). On walks, I study a person I pass and then see how much I can remember later. Again, practice for a future situation where I have to give a description of a perp to the police. Okay, I seriously need to cut back on the murder mysteries, thrillers and crime dramas.

All this to say that when it comes to an attractive member of the opposite sex, I am totally oblivious. I can tell you what the weird ones look like, but the good looking ones? Not so much.

I have two recent examples of this. A couple weeks ago, a friend and I were at an Icebreaker sample sale. For those of you unfamiliar with the Icebreaker brand, they make amazing wool gear that is soft enough to wear next to your skin. And full retail is crazy expensive so the only way I can touch their gear is at the sample sale. My friend had warned me that events like this were a great place to check out guys. And we already had something in common in liking high-quality outdoor performance gear. I learned that night that sale shopping and checking out guys at the same time is not a good mixer for me. After we were sitting down to tots and a beer, post-sale, my friend asked me if I noticed anyone extra cute. Anyone who? All I saw were amazing clothes 80% off and other women trying to get to the cute stuff before me.

A couple weeks later I was telling the same friend about this cute guy I’ve seen running the waterfront at lunch when I’m taking my walk. Here’s how the conversation went:
Abby: What did he look like?
Heidi: He was cute. He had a nice beard. And he’s obviously a runner which is cool.
A: Aside from having a beard, what did he look like?
H: Cute.
A: Okay, lets try this, how tall was he?
H: Hmmmmm. Taller than me?
A: Most people are taller than you.
H: Then yes, he was definitely taller than me.
A: What about his eyes?
H: (Pause) He definitely had eyes.

This went on for a while. Clearly a goal for 2012 needs to be to transition from worrying about potentially having to accurately report a crime and focusing on cute boys I see. After all, I’ve never even seen a crime, aside from the drug deals in Old Town and occasional jaywalking. I can’t imagine it’s too much of a hardship to focus my attention on good looking guys. As far as goals for the new year go, I think that is the best one yet I’ve come up with.

She's Got L'eggs

“She’s got legs, and she knows how to use them,” sang the L’eggs advertisements back in the day. I didn’t realize how far back in the day until I read an article saying that L’eggs was running its first advertisements in 15 years. Apparently they believe that Kate Middleton and 80 year old women around the globe are enough to bring the torture devices back.

I own exactly one pair of panty hose, which I bought for my first job eight years ago. They’re still in the cardboard container. I keep them because I like to imagine the look on some alien archeologist’s face when he comes to learn about the life that used to inhabit Earth and finds a pair of pantyhose. Because how funny is it to think of an alien picking those up, thinking WTF, and then trying to figure out WTF those were used for, much less why they were created?

Today I wore a pair of tights, thinking they couldn’t possibly be as bad as panty hose were. After all, everyone else looks so cute in them. Tights are only mildly less annoying than panty hose. They are just warmer and still a huge inconvenience. And aside from the extra effort they take every time a bathroom break is taken, they just plain don’t fit right. I have never found a pair of panty hose or tights that fit right. I’m convinced that not a single pair of them actually fit a woman in the world. They come in exactly three sizes for a million different body sizes. We can come up with hundreds of styles and sizes for jeans, but we can’t create panty hose that fit a person? How utterly ridiculous is that? As I write this, I’m constantly adjusting the tights that in order to fit over my legs, also have to be long enough to reach my neck. I wish I were joking.

I’ve read multiple articles about how Kate Middleton wears panty hose and if anyone is going to bring them back its her. Kate is beautiful, but I’m willing to bet that she wouldn’t wear them either if she didn’t have to. Panty hose are a propriety thing. And an old fashioned thing. All of which the British monarchy represents. You think she’s choosing to wear panty hose? Please, she wears them because if she didn’t, instead of writing articles about how she’s bringing them back the media would be focusing on how un-proper, un-ladylike and un-royal she is.

You know who openly admits to disliking panty hose? Michelle Obama. I’m siding with her. Plus her arms are amazing. Until they can make me panty hose that actually fit, I’m out. Someone please invent the tights or panty hose where I can buy them by leg width and length, so I don’t have to wear them up to my neck, as well as ones that aren’t so tight at the waste that they squeeze fat out of a Victoria Secret model. I recommend that whoever created the yoga pant work on the tights issue. Until then, L’eggs, good luck bringing panty hose back into style.

Gobble Gobble

I love tradition, especially around the holidays. For me, the holidays aren’t about the feast or the presents, but about being with family. Unfortunately this year, what has become my Thanksgiving tradition is not happening. Normally I head to my Auntie Gayle and Uncle Jeff’s house and stay with them for the long weekend, as it is a long trip to Montana for dinner. This year, they have opted to visit their youngest son in Denver, leaving their two older children, their spouses and I adrift on Turkey Day.

So my Turkey tradition since I started college is not happening this year. I was pondering what to do when my dad offered to fly me home. It’s so rare that I get to go home to Montana during any part of the year other than Christmas, I took him up on it. One of my ousted cousins and her husband are also coming over to MT to eat turkey.

Going home for Thanksgiving got me thinking about my holiday memories. Don’t be horrified by this next statement, but the food isn’t my favorite part. I know, the horror. But let’s think about this, even though I’m a slightly less picky eater now than I was a kid, I still don’t like my food to touch. Feast days designed around seeing how much food you can fit onto a single plate are tough on a girl who still doesn’t like her mashed potatoes touching the stuffing.

I don’t remember how old I was for the worst Thanksgiving ever. We lived in the little blue house in town, although since my parents painted it soon after buying it, I’m not sure why I still think of it as the little blue house. I’m guessing I was still in elementary school, somewhere between 3rd and 6th grades. That was the year my mom not only made every horrible vegetable you can think of, but also made me try all of them. Instead of my plate being covered in my favorite mashed potatoes and gravy, it had the dreaded brussel sprouts and squash on it. Luckily, after gagging repeatedly while still at the table, I was sent to the bathroom while everyone else finished dinner. Fine by me as long as I didn’t have to eat the damn sprouts and squash.

To this day, the idea of squash still makes my stomach turn. For the first time in 20 years, a brussel sprout passed my lips this past spring. But only because my aunt drowned them in butter. They weren’t terrible. I’d consider eating them again if they were baked.

Now since I rarely go home for Thanksgiving, I can submit my food requests. Ironically, things that I didn’t like as a kid are on the list now. I’m talking pierogi’s, not squash and brussel sprouts. And now the Thanksgiving I spent in the bathroom is a funny memory for all. Jokes on you squash.

Responsible is the New Sexy

One of my dearest and closest friends often describes me as stable. It’s true, I am. But that isn’t the first adjective I want used to describe me to the opposite sex. Stable isn’t sexy and alluring. Almost any other adjective would be better. Cute, witty, smart, short, great taste in shoes, outdoorsy, citified, and sarcastic or as one friend likes to say about me, I have some bite. Stable? How boring is that. And I am, stable and what could be perceived as boring, but that isn’t exactly fly paper for the opposite sex.

Ironically, I was talking to a friend about guys and she mentioned having a single guy friend. She went on to describe him as cute, responsible, has a good job, lives downtown, etc. My response? “You had me at responsible.” At what age do we forgo the sexier adjectives and start becoming attracted to the boring adjectives like responsible and stable?

We used to want to date the high school quarterback because he was a jock and that position is perceived as sexy. Now we want to date the guy who brings home a consistent paycheck, pays his student loans on time and doesn’t have credit card debt. Smoking used to be the major deal-breaker. As you get older and build your own life, fiscal irresponsibility ends up at the top of that list as well. Even my friends who are married say one of the things they love most about their spouse is that they are responsible.

If what we perceive as desirable in the opposite sex changes this much from ages 15 to 30, I can’t imagine what I’ll be looking for when I’m 80. Teeth, perhaps?

HTC 2011 - The Aftermath

I truly love Hood to Coast. I’m giddy for days leading up to the race, like a kid before Christmas. Okay, like me before Christmas. It is an amazing event, uniting runners from all fifty states and around the world. (Warning, this is incredibly long because I merged two into one, because I’m pretty sure everyone is pretty over listening to me ramble about HTC.)

First off, major kudos must to go to the 3,500+ volunteers it takes to get this event off the ground. Without them, we could not run. Double kudos to the volunteers who get stuck in Mist at 3 am. You folks are truly amazing. Thank you for attempting to organize chaos, for yelling our team numbers out so we can get our next runner in the chute, for picking up garbage, for pointing the way so we don’t get lost in the turns and for cheering us on when we’d all rather be sleeping. I hope you got plenty of thank-you’s on the course. My team thanked every yellow-volunteer shirt we saw – even after the race.

The thing I love most about this event is the runners. You’ll never meet a nicer group of 15,000 runners. It’s rare to get passed by someone who doesn’t say, “great job, keep it up!” Often times, you have entire conversations with people passing you. One girl passing me told me I had a great pace going and then we had an entire conversation about our different GPS units we were using and how accurate they were, etc. Other teams pull over on the side of the road to cheer on their own team mates . . . and any other runner that happens to go by. Due to the severe heat this year, every van offered water to any runner, regardless of what team they were on.

Leg 4, my first leg, was going to be the worst of the three. It had no shade, was long, and was alongside a major road, Hwy 26. That being said, it was also my best run. I pulled in sub-nine minute miles which was great and passed Lou, one of the two guys who have run HTC all 30 years. I was running between noon and one and it was the hottest weekend of the year. Six miles downhill and the last mile was uphill. At the top of that hill, with about half a mile to go, I walked for about 20 yards. I figured I was either going to have to walk or puke, and puking was going to take way more time and not get me any closer to the exchange. I’ve never been so happy to see an exchange. Well, until the last leg anyway.
Leg 4 Stats: Miles – 7.17; Time - 1:02:44, Avg. Pace – 8:45 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 79 ft, Elev. Loss – 647 ft.

Leg 16, my second leg, was interesting because I had a running buddy. One of the guys in our van is training for a 100 mile race and needed to log some extra miles. So for the night run, instead of just running his leg 15, he ran 14, 15 and 16. What would have been an incredibly boring run for four miles on highway 30 turned out to be not too bad. Because we were running my pace and not his, Stephen could keep a running dialogue going. Every once in a while I’d ask him a question that would let him ramble on for a while to keep the conversation going. And then when a volunteer would cheer us on, he’d tell them that the two of us were running all the way to Seaside, just us. Ha! It was an amusing and entertaining four miles.
Leg 16 Stats: Miles – 4.09; Time - 38:11, Avg. Pace – 9:15 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 67 ft, Elev. Loss – 75 ft.

The third leg always sucks. I don’t care how great of shape you’re in, it hurts. The third leg is where you have to be stronger in mind than in body because your legs want to stop. Your body is telling you that it’s already ran twice, you haven’t slept and you haven’t really had a decent meal. It’s done. And this is where I tell myself that I’m a whole lot closer to the van and being done if I just run the damn thing. This year was a surprise for me though. My legs weren’t nearly as shot as they usually were at this point. Normally it’s like running with tree trunks for legs, but my legs felt pretty good. I don’t know if it’s because my first two legs has less rolling hills than in years past or if was the weight training and stronger legs overall, but whatever the reason, this leg didn’t suck as much as usual. Don’t get me wrong, it was hard as hell, but mostly I just felt tired, not completely thrashed. And there is no feeling better than handing off that slimy, sweaty disgusting slap bracelet of a baton for the last time. The knowledge that you’re done and you never have to run again is like aloe on a sunburn. You still hurt, but you’re feeling oh so much better.
Leg 28 Stats: Miles – 4.08; Time – 37:41, Avg. Pace – 9:12 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 267 ft, Elev. Loss – 90 ft.

I love HTC, the volunteers, the runners, almost everything about it. This year, in time for the 30th anniversary, 250 teams were added to the race. Keeping in mind that I love HTC, adding 500 vans to the course created a cluster of epic proportions. I know there are teams out there that had no issues or saw no difference in traffic from previous years. Consider yourself lucky, and please understand how incredibly frustrating this experience was for the thousands of us who were adversely affected by the traffic issues. When an elite team loses the race because their vans are stuck in traffic, something needs to be fixed. (I know they were penalized because they broke a rule, and yes we should all know the rules, but the issue stemmed from the fact that they couldn’t get their next runners to where they needed to be.)

I was in Van 1 and traffic for us started backing up around exchange 18, at the fairgrounds. This would be the first, but not the last time, our runner beat the van there. After finally getting to our runner and making the van exchange, it was 1am and all we want to do is get to Mist and roll our sleeping bags out on the hard, uneven ground. A trip that normally takes 50 minutes took almost two hours. The last hour of which was in bumper to bumper traffic trying to get into the field at Mist.

After successfully making the exchange at Mist, we started running again around 5am. The first three exchanges went fine. We were barely moving, but at least we were going faster than the runner. By the time I was finishing up my last leg this was no longer the case. My van passed me about 10 minutes into my estimated 40 minute run. By the time I was nearing the end, current runners would knock on their vans as they ran by, the next runner would hop out of the van and run with them the rest of the way and continue on. The finishing runner then had to walk back to the van. For my leg, this was probably only a quarter mile. That was as short as the trek got.

While not having to pull into the exchanges and park can reduce time, it also means there is never a Honey Bucket break. Prior to the sixth runner taking off, with vans barely moving, runners started bailing out of the vans and heading to the woods. The official rules say that you’re only to use Honey Buckets. Whoever wrote those rules clearly has never run this race, because by the last set of legs you’re lucky to be able to stop for a Honey Bucket.

The last van exchange is always the worst. Cell phones don’t work. Walkie talkies work about half a mile away. The problem is that the runner is about 2 miles ahead of the van at this point so you just have to pray that the other van is there and ready to go. This is where you see people bailing out of their vans miles early to run up to the exchange. Our last runner had to walk about a mile and a half back to the van.

Once we got to the beach, things got really interesting. Our last runner was headed into Seaside and Van 2 was stuck in traffic that wasn’t moving. In the end, Van 2 never made it to the beach, which was disappointing as they had 5 new HTC runners. After talking to others, we weren’t the only ones this happened to. Many, many Van 2’s either never made it to the beach or managed to get there 90-120 minutes after their runner. There were a lot of teams running across the finish line with 7 instead of 12. In the previous three years I’ve done this, Van 2 is usually there within 15 minutes of the runner and the finish line is experienced as a team.

Despite the traffic cluster f#$% of epic proportions, team #567 – Dancing Elk, did fantastic. We hit every exchange and most importantly, every van exchange, including the ones where both cell phones and walkie talkies don’t work! Ours were not the runners left standing on the side of the road in Mist in the middle of the night having to wait for 45-90 minutes for their next runner to show up. After the race I was thinking that I’d be okay taking a break next year. Someone just emailed me and asked if they put a van of 6 together could I do the other? Two days after the race I’ve already forgotten the traffic, pain and exhaustion and am looking forward to 2012.

The Blue Team

I started playing ball at age five. I believe it was the summer after kindergarten. I was on one of the town’s two co-ed T-ball teams. I was on the blue team and we were awesome. No official score is kept, but even a five year old is aware of which team crossed home plate more often.

Come third grade, or age nine, ball was no longer co-ed. Girls moved on to softball and boys moved to baseball. This was slow-pitch softball and I wasn’t in love. Luckily I injured myself on like the second day of practice and was in a leg brace for the rest of the season. I kept playing for the next few years, mostly to hang out with my friends, not because I particularly enjoyed it.

And then something interesting happened. We moved to modified fast pitch. No windup like in fast pitch, but the pitch was flat and we could steal. Suddenly softball was more interesting. Even better, we started winning. My most interesting play ever occurred during this time period. I was playing second base, in-field pop fly to the pitcher, who tips it off their glove, I reach out with my right (non-glove) hand and snag it. Out.

Over the years I’ve played almost every position on the field, with the exception of first base. I’ve been hit by a ball more times than I can count, have a permanent dent in my left shin bone from using it to stop wild throws from the catcher down to second, have taken a throw down to third in the eye (I was safe) and have had a ball thrown at me so hard I had the laces imprinted on me for weeks (safe, again). This was one of the first sports I played where I learned how important the coach was. I loved the coach I had all through elementary and junior high school. Once I started playing high school ball, I was less enthused with the sport. Eventually I traded softball for golf and started assistant coaching the third and fourth grade girls’ softball team.

The great thing about softball is that it’s something you can play for the rest of your life. Even the small town I grew up in has adult softball leagues. I started a team for my office years ago and then passed the coaching torch on to a fellow co-worker. After a couple year hiatus, and primarily due to their desperation for a) bodies who are girls so they can play co-ed and b) girls who can throw a ball, I rejoined my company team this year.

While I understand the game and know how to throw a ball, at the start of each season, I need to get over my fear of the ball. I’m not kidding when I say I have a dent in my shin from being hit by a softball so many times in the same place. It’s no wonder it takes some getting used to each season. So last night a few of us got together to practice. The good news is I can still throw a ball. I can also still not only hit one, but place it as well. And best of all, I can still take a hit to my body and still make the play.

It’s interesting to me that those skills you start learning at five are still intuitive at thirty, after years of not playing. It’s a good skill to have, to be able to throw, field and hit a ball. I’m not good enough to make Team USA by any means, but certainly good enough to impress the guys. And at this stage of life, that’s almost as much fun as winning.

While I don’t normally post pictures, this one seemed appropriate. The Blue Team, circa 1987 I think. I’m the one dressed like a banana in all yellow. Don’t ask why, I was six.

Just Run

In my mind, when I run, I look like Kara Goucher or Shalane Flanagan. I’m enough of a realist to know that this is far from the case, I’m red and sweaty and not nearly as graceful, but I’m all about whatever helps me log the miles. If picturing my running as fluid and fast as those women’s, rather than what is probably closer to a uneven, foot dragging, short stride works, I say why the heck not.

To be honest, after being a runner for about 10 years, I hardly thing about my gait or what I look like anymore. In my minds eye, I’m as fluid and serene looking as Kara or Shalane, but I really don’t care what I look like to others. I just run. Admittedly I’m distracted on occasion by the good looking or good smelling guy passing me or a cute shirt or shoes on another girl, but I’m not really giving anyone else or their running style any thought.

I don’t remember what it was like to start running, but I can spot a new runner. It’s not because they’re slow or overweight or have bright shiny white new shoes, it has more to do with their body language screaming self-consciousness. When I see newbie runners, I silently cheer for them in my head. I think to myself that I hope they get passed feeling awkward and start to enjoy it. If they’re overweight and clearly struggling, I think to myself good for them for moving and getting out there. I, nor does any other experienced runner I know, judge or mock other runners. Okay, once a friend and I commented on the most awkward gait I’ve ever seen, but we weren’t mocking so much as trying to figure out how it could possibly be comfortable to run like that.

I understand why running can be intimidating for new runners. You’re told all you need is a pair of good running shoes. But then you start running and see that everyone not only has good shoes, but high performance clothing (no cotton for runners!), GPS watches, water belts and on and on. You start reading articles about running and get confused about how you’re actually supposed to eat, when to drink water, when to sleep. And then there are the people complaining about not making a Boston qualifying time or breaking a 5 minute mile. I remember reading about Kara being so excited post baby to get back down to a 5:30 mile. I hated her just a little since on a great day I can run an 8:30 – 8:45 minute mile. Fellow runners are nice, but it is an intimidating sport to start.

A year or so ago my dad starting running. He wouldn’t say he’s running, more of a run/walk mix, and either way I’m incredibly proud of him for giving it a shot. Now that he’s been doing it for a year, with some arm twisting, I can talk him into letting me join him. And just like I’ve tried to convince him, I’d like to convince other newbie runners – other runners don’t care what you look like. We don’t think you look funny running. We certainly don’t question why you’re running. We’re proud of you for getting out there and giving it a shot.

Run, walk, hell you can skip for all I care. No one expects you to be able to run 10 miles right off the bat. No one expects you to run sub-six minute miles. No one even expects you to run sub 12 minutes miles. No one expects you to look pretty while running. The important part is that you’re out there. And even if you feel self-conscious, remember that no other runner is making fun of you or laughing at you in their head. And we runners certainly don’t care about what non-runners think of us. Just run and enjoy the pain, frustration and most importantly, joy, that comes with being a runner.

Hood to Coast 2011

Hood to Coast is just over two weeks away. 200 miles of running from Mt. Hood to Seaside, Oregon. 625 vans. 15,000 runners. 3,000 volunteers. It’s a pretty amazing feet (pun intended) for all involved, since it takes the average team around 30 hours to complete. This will be my fourth year, and every year brings some new wisdom and experience.

The first year was organized chaos. We had no idea what we were doing, only that we knew we wanted to run this relay. We knew we needed vans and running clothes. Come to find out you also need headlamps and reflective vests and tape and safety pins and on and on and on. Needless to say, I now have a detailed list of everything needed. Not knowing how much to train, I over trained, and after the race didn’t run for months afterwards, had to get a cortisone shot in my hip and had to go through physical therapy. Lesson learned. This race was an experience for sure. In the words of my friend and year one team mate Joe, “this would be really fun if you didn’t have to do all this running shit.”

The second year was organized. I was running the same legs as the year before so I knew exactly what to expect. Van and race wise, everything went smoothly. The problem with having done this race previously though, was now I knew exactly what to expect. As in I knew exactly how painful that third leg was to run. Year two I managed to talk my brother into joining my team. Being as my brother is generally pretty awesome, it was fun to get to do something unusual like this with him. Year two was also the discovery of the most amazing spreadsheet ever. The one someone had designed to estimate where each runner would be when, specifically for HTC. This makes life much easier since our attempt at creating this the previous year was far less than perfect.

By the third year, I could get us organized in my sleep. But this year brought some additional challenges and points of interest. I had decided, and communicated to the entire team, that I did not want to be in charge of reserving vans this year. Come June, we still had no vans. And Portland is out of vans for this weekend by the previous December. So my favorite brother got us a full sized van out of Seattle. The other van managed to find a van from 1985 at the last minute so everything worked out. This was also the year that I was the sole girl in a van full of guys. I can hold my own with guys, but it still made things interesting. I also ended up running my most difficult set of lets this year. Not only did I have a seven plus miler in the night, I ended with a six miler. After no sleep and 12 miles already ran, the last thing you want to do is run another six miles. I opted for getting over quickly and took minutes off my projected time. Nothing is quite as sweet as the feeling of being done.

Year four, I’ve gone back to being the one who reserves vans. I’ve gotten smarter though and rent them from the place down the street from work, not from the airport rental agencies. I’ve also talked my uncle into driving for us again this year. And perhaps my most amazing trick I pulled this year was finding a van mom. My dear friend Ada doesn’t run, but is a huge fan of everyone in my van (I have a really great van this year). She wanted to be part of the team and I suggested that we could use treats for the van. So not only is she hooking us up with baked goods for our 200 mile journey, she’s also making us dinner after the first set of legs. The biggest bummer is that my brother is deployed in Kuwait and can’t run with us this year. Although he’ll probably wake up at 3am on race weekend, picture us running over the Cascades into the night and think, “suckers.”

Unfortunately year four also brought on some laziness. My running hasn’t been quite where I’d like it to be. (i.e. over training is not an issue this year) It hasn’t come as easy as it usually does. I’m less motivated than ever. Partly because I know I can do this. It might hurt, but I’ll get through it no problem. So with two weeks to go, I really need to get my butt in gear. As the race gets closer, I’m getting more excited and less full of dread. I’m in a van for thirty plus hours with some of my favorite friends and it can’t really get any better than that.

The running might not be there, but the vans, lights, vests, packing lists and everything else we need is. And since the whole point is to have fun on this ridiculously long and crazy journey, I say bring it on. All the way from Hood to Coast.

S'more of What?

I’m just going to come out and say it. I don’t like s’mores. I know, the horror. How can a person not like s’mores? I’ve never actually admitted this until I read a recent article about someone else who didn’t like s’mores. Upon discovering that I wasn’t alone in this un-American dislike, I decided to come out of the s’more closet.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of a s’more, I just don’t like the taste. And I’m usually the first person to make sure we have the ingredients on a camping trip. I enjoy watching other people go through the process and enjoying their supposed deliciousness, I just don’t enjoy it myself. While s’mores are a camping treat for most, my camping treat was Oreo’s and orange soda. Two things I never got as a child unless we were camping.

So what’s with the hate on s’mores? For one, I don’t like marshmallows which are the main ingredient. I don’t even like roasting them because they always light on fire. Seriously, we set kids up for utter failure and disappointment by telling them to roast something that is highly flammable. Generation after generation has to play the same trick on the up and coming generation. You don’t learn how to properly roast a mallow until you’re a teenager and then who has the patience?

For two, I don’t care for graham crackers. Sure, I like the crumbs mixed into a delicious batch of Nanaimo Bars, but a graham cracker as a stand alone? No thanks. It’s kind of like eating honey flavored cardboard. I’ll admit to sometimes eating them just to soak up the liquid contents of my stomach while camping. We’re no longer talking orange soda, here.

Thirdly, I don’t particularly care for Hershey milk chocolate. Never have. It’s a poor man’s chocolate. Average at best. Now, if you sandwich a caramello in that s’more, we still won’t be in business, but we’ll be much closer than we were with the Hershey bar.

Finally, I don’t like my food to touch. And I don’t like to have my hands dirty. Have you ever eaten a s’more and come away with clean hands? Nope. And the chocolate is always cold. They say the mallow will melt it, but it never does.

I never really cared for s’mores even as a kid. As an adult, I eat one probably every five years or so just to confirm that they still aren’t good. I really do enjoy watching my little cousins try to create and then eat them though. Perhaps that is why they live on, the joy we get from passing on such an odd tradition makes it worth having to eat one every once in a while.

And while I don’t like the taste of s’mores, they did help create one of the best lines in movie history . . .
“S’more of what? How can I have some more of something if I haven’t had anything yet?”
“You’re killing me Smalls!”

Prozac

I’ve mentioned multiple times how amazing my family is. So amazing that I have friends on a waiting list to be adopted into the fam. Not only do we all like do hang out with each other, we enjoy many of the same things. Likely at the top of this list is music. The majority of us are passionate about music in some way.

I’m unsure how my grandparents felt about music, but all my aunts play(ed) the piano and my dad played the trumpet. Both my brother and I took piano lessons along the way (he still remembers his one recital song to impress chicks) and we were also in band growing up. And there was always music on. One of my fondest memories is driving home from Missoula on Saturday nights wiht my mom listening to the oldies.

The families deep love and appreciation of music led to my cousin issuing the following decree for our upcoming get together at Priest Lake. We were to bring our top 5 happy songs. Our Prozac of music if you will. Songs that make you want to get up and dance when you hear them.

I spent a couple days writing down possibilities and then crossing them off the list. As a disctraction I emailed my dad, the smartest technologically challenged man I know, and told him I’d get his 5 on my iPod if he sent me the list. He replied in 30 seconds. I’m not even kidding. Thirty seconds to come up with his list of 5. To be fair though, he hasn’t listened to any new music for the last 30 years, which makes it a bit easier when you’re just dealing with 2-3 decades. Meanwhile, I still had lists going, trying to decide the best approach. Do I go by decade? Types of happiness they instill? Break it down by genres?

I started creating playlists on my iTunes and dragging songs in there as I scrolled through my list. After the first pass, I had approximately 40 happy songs. The thought of narrowing it down to 5 was daunting. It took me literally days to get my list down to 9. And it’s not getting any smaller. I figure my brother won’t be there, so I can borrow from his 5. So now I have my list of 5 happy songs (or nine, to be more accurate) and a playlist of 40 runner-ups.

So after a week of playing around, here are my top 9 happy songs (in alphabetical order by artist):
1. AC/DC – You Shook Me All Night Long
- Because have you ever not had fun dancing to this song? And its always played at high school dances, weddings, etc. So fun.
2. Black Eyed Peas – I Gotta Feeling
- Reminds me of 2009, which was my most fun year thus far and always puts me in a good mood.
3. Creedence Clearwater Revival – Up Around the Bend
- CCR was obviously going to be on the list, it was just a matter of picking a song. Think of this as being representative of CCR in general.
4. Def Leppard – Pour Some Sugar on Me
- See notes on AC/DC
5. Doobie Brothers – China Grove
- Reminds me of boating in the summers on the Clark Fork.
6. Garth Brooks – Friends in Low Places
- Four notes. All the man has to do is play four notes and the crowd goes completely insane. Seriously impressive. Plus, this was the first song I used to say “ass” in the mysterious third verse as a kid.
7. Ke$ha – TikTok
- I know. Not stellar, but this song always wants to make me dance! And I always have fun singing along with it. “Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy . . .”
8. Lady Gaga – Edge of Glory
- My current favorite Lady G song. Representative of most of her stuff because as crazy as she is, she puts out some fun music.
9. Taylor Swift – Love Story
- I heart Taylor Swift. And she sings within my range so she always makes an appearance while I’m singing in my car. Because I enjoy not sounding like a goat. Even if its just me in the car.

And just for fun, here is what my parents chose:
Dad (no particular order and just his fav, not necessarily happy)
1. Crosby Stills and Nash – Southern Cross
2. CCR – Cotton Fields
3. Dire Straits – Brothers in Arms
4. Dire Straits – Tunnel of Love
5. Bob Seger – In Your Time

Mom (one per decade for the last 50 years)
1. Grass Roots – Midnight Confessions
2. Bob Seger – Old Time Rock and Roll
3. Journey – Don’t Stop Believin’
4. Chumbawamba – Tubthumping
5. Jason Mraz – I’m Yours

It’ll be interesting to see what form everyone else’s Prozac comes in.

If I Had $2,000,000

Two million dollars. That is how much Kim Kardashian’s engagement ring cost. I’m having a hard time fathoming either plunking down the full amount for a ring, or imagining what the monthly payments on that sucker has to be. Two million dollars. That is so many zeros, that when I write transition letters at work, helping clients facilitate moving large sums of money around in their portfolios, I use abbreviations and don’t even type the zeros.

Since I heard how much a 20.5 carat diamond costs, I’ve been imagining what I’d do with two million dollars. Bare Naked Ladies gave me some ideas of what to do if I had one million dollars, like riding around in a limo just because you can, or buying a new chesterfield, green dress or a fur coat (“but not a real fur coat, that’s cruel”). But no one to date has prepared me for what I’d do with two million dollars. So I’ve had to use my imagination.

One thing I can tell you is I wouldn’t be wearing two million dollars. Especially as one small, or likely giant in this case, piece of jewelry on my finger. One, because clearly that screams, “Please rob me, I’m loaded!” and two, because I can think of much better things to do with that kind of money. I was talking about this to a co-worker and she agreed. Her idea was that if she was going to pay that much money for something to wear, it had better be some kind of suit that made her look super-model like. Or made her look like whatever she wanted to be that day. Agreed, two million dollars on a super suit that can change your appearance at will is a much better use of the money than a ring. Unless the ring has magic powers that we don’t know about yet.

With two million dollars, I would buy myself a house. (Thanks BNL for pointing me in the right direction). But I would buy it outright so I didn’t have to worry about those pesky mortgage payments and I’d be able to afford to buy something in the neighborhood I already live in and love. Most importantly, I’d be able to afford more than 300 square feet! Second, I would buy my family a vacation home. I haven’t decided if this home will be in Hawaii or Priest Lake, ID, but a house we will have for all to vacation at. Then I would travel in style. I don’t mean Paris Hilton style, but I’d stay in nice hotels (goodbye, hostels!), eat great food, etc.

And if for some reason that didn’t use up all the money, I could afford to take my friends and family traveling with me. Or help send the kidlets in my life to college. Or buy my brother a dog. Or buy myself a pool. And a trainer. And a personal chef. There are so many amazing things I can think of to do with two million dollars, that don’t include wearing it on a finger.

I’m sure KK is thrilled with her two million dollar ring that outdid her sister’s ring and cost half as much as her house. But being the middle class gal that I am, I can’t help but ponder the places I could go and things I could do with that kind of money . . .

Fixing Things

My generation can’t fix a damn thing. I’m not even talking about national debt or homelessness. Nothing as serious as that. We can barely unclog a drain. Don’t even thing about rebuilding a deck or replacing a window. I wish I were joking, but my generation is the one that would rather have handyman on speed dial than order those Sears’ home improvement books to re-grout their own bathroom.

Case in point, when one of my friends bought a condo, she asked me to come over to help install lights and put things up on the wall. Compared to her, I had more experience with the cordless drill and between the two of us, we managed to get everything installed. Even more impressive, everything was level and at the same height. When I told my dad about this, his response was, “Where did you learn to use a drill?” Trial and error on a number of rental units, as it turns out. I can almost always actually hit a nail with a hammer too, that’s how talented I am, and my current rental has the lack of holes and dents in the walls to prove it. (I subscribe to the belief that a wall is replaceable, my thumb is not.)

Many moons ago I was sort of seeing this guy who at the time was trying to impress me. Girls, don’t you wish the trying to impress you period lasted a bit longer? Anyway, while listing qualities that are impressive in the opposite sex, handiness and the ability to fix things came up. His response was, “How do you feel about someone who can afford to hire someone to do it right the first time?” That’ll work too. But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that along with being good with kids, nothing impresses a girl quite as much as being able to fix things yourself.

While my generation has given way to calling the handyman, my dad’s generation can fix anything. They can also build anything. My dad is truly impressive that way. The one thing he’s not great with is cars. And that’s where my uncle comes in. He too, can fix and build anything. Including cars.

On a recent trip to Seattle, I noticed my car was making a horrible sound. I thought it was coming from a wheel well and sounded like the tire was rubbing against something. So I got down on my knees and looked around under the car. “Yup,” I thought to myself, “four tires and the undercarriage of a car. Just as I suspected.” Since the car still drove fine and didn’t smell I kept on driving since the alternative was spending time in Centrailia wondering what was wrong with my car. Luckily I was headed to my uncle’s house anyway and figured I’d ask him to take a look.

The whole reason for going to Seattle was because I was flying in and out of SeaTac on my way to Italy. My uncle drove my car to drop me off at the airport and confirmed my suspicion that it was the brakes. Of course, not having any idea where the brakes are on my car, I was really just guessing. Amazing fixer and wonderful uncle that he is, not only had he diagnosed the problem by the time I returned from Italy, he had replaced the brake and a U-joint or something. I may have tuned out the actual words once I realized it was fixed and I didn’t have to drive a car with a horrible sound or take it into a shop. I was just thrilled the problem was solved.

This whole story is to illustrate that my generation can’t fix a damn thing. I don’t know a single friend or their significant others who would have been able to diagnose a brake problem and then fix it. And when I’m the one who gets called in to drill holes and install light fixtures, something is seriously wrong.

Boys of my generation, if you want to really impress a girl, being able to fix something will get you huge points. Carhartts and a tool belt won’t hurt either.

Girls on the Run

One of the cool things about being a kid in a city like Portland is the sheer number and wide array of after school programs. My after school program typically consisted of doing the breakfast dishes and watching “Saved by the Bell.” One of the options for elementary school girls here in Ptown is called, “Girls On The Run,” where the girls train to run a 5-K race.

The program was looking for running buddies for the girls, ages 8-11, to help pace and encourage them. Being a runner myself, and believing that physical activity is incredibly important for kids, I signed up to be a running buddy. The time commitment is minimal, only one practice 5-K and then one race in June. Last night was our practice run, where we met our running buddies for the first time. It was raining and freezing cold but you couldn’t help but be affected by all the energy and excitement coming from those 240 girls.

I had the chance to talk to a number of other volunteer running buddies and the amazing thing is that most of them were just like me. There were a handful of teachers volunteering, but for the most part it was female runners volunteering their time and money to run with young girls. Few people had any ties with the schools or the girls, but everyone wanted to be a part of introducing a young girl to the amazingness that is running.

My buddy, Amya, was quite the runner. We ran the first ¾ of a mile without stopping once. We were previously warned to expect a lot of sprinting and walking, which turned out to be quite accurate. Amya like to sprint up the hills, which even this morning still baffles me. At first I was a little worried about what to talk to her about (I was prepared to bring up Justin Bieber if I got desperate), but I needn’t have worried. Amya was very interested in socializing with her friends and when she wasn’t doing that, could carry on a conversation by herself. The hardest part of the run was when she asked me what I did for work. How do you explain investment consulting to a 10-year old? She kept up a running chatter for the three miles and I learned that she is the oldest of five kids, her favorite part of fourth grade is PE, she’s going to sleep over camp this summer and her uncle doesn’t like people or dogs.

Parents, friends and siblings lined the running loop cheering every girl on. Encouragement came not only from the assigned running buddy, but from every other person in the park. Most of the other adult buddies I talked to were all volunteering for the first time, but I doubt it will be the last. Perhaps the most amazing part was the finish. It was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many adults. Watching the girls cross the finish, with cowbells and cheers ringing in the air, and a huge smile across their face was incredibly touching. They were so proud of themselves, and rightly so. Parents of the girls, tearing up themselves, had cameras flashing like crazy.

All that excitement and it was just a practice run! It’ll be exciting to run with the girls for their first real 5-K.

Life's A Journey

Way back in 2007, I took a trip to South Africa. While it was an amazing trip, the 20 hours on a plane each direction just about killed me. At that time I vowed that it would be a good long while until I took that kind of trip again. I’ve stuck to that and have only traveled within the US since then. The longest flight I’ve been on since then is to Hawaii, which since I live on the West Coast, is still only a fraction of the 20 hours it took to get to South Africa. This Sunday, that all changes when I board a plane to Italy.

I’m at the point where I’ve traveled enough that I enjoy the destination, but despise the journey to get there. I know, I know, Aerosmith’s “Amazing” tells us that “Life’s a journey, not a destination,” but I’m thinking they travel a little higher class than I do. They’re up there in those business class seats that recline into full on beds, (cot sized bets, but beds none the less) while I’m stuck in coach, trying to get comfortable in my 12 square inches of space and then debating on whether or not I wake the aisle person up so I can go to the restroom or can I wait until they wake up?

Since that brutal 2007 trip, I’ve invested in some necessary travel accessories. Perhaps the best investment was in a pair of Bose noise cancelling headphones. Crazy expensive yet crazy amazing and worth every penny. I’ve also acquired a plane pillow and a Kindle, both of which will be taking their inaugural trip to Italy with me. I’ve come to the realization that just like anything else you get serious about; it pays off to make some financial investments in travel gear. Just like most serious runners I know have a Garmin watch, most serious travelers I know have the noise cancelling headphones.

Regardless of how dreary I find plane travel, I am looking forward to this trip. It will be my mom’s first trip abroad, which for some reason is making me all the more excited. Although I’m not entirely sure that isn’t due to the fact that I don’t have to sit next to strangers on the plane. Best of all, we signed up for an 11 day tour, which means I didn’t have to plan a thing. At this point, I barely know where we’re even going, which is so unlike me. I’m not too worried though. After all, I have 13 hours on a plane to curl up with my Italian guide book.

Ripped in 30

I had the most amazing experience yesterday. I wish I could say that I wished upon a falling star and it came true or that I ran into Joel McHale and decided to leave his wife and kids for me, but no, this was a far more mundane amazing experience.

If you read this blog regularly (i.e. my friend Robyn) you know that I recently tried out Jillian Michaels 30-Day Shred workout video. I made it a solid two weeks before skipping a day and over time actually did the full 30 days. Like with all my good intentions, somewhere along the way life gets in the way and I had to skip a day here and there. It probably took me 40 days to get the 30 days in. I realized that the workout system she uses might be good for me when I repeatedly found myself selecting the toughest workout. Lucky for me, she came out with a new video in March that follows the same principles. So I bought it.

The new video is called “Ripped in 30,” and the best thing I can say about it is it freaking hurts. It works muscles I didn’t even know I had. And muscles that I thought I used regularly, but clearly didn’t use them up to Jillian’s standards. Thank goodness she recommends doing this 5-6 days a week, which is much more reasonable than 30 days in a row.

I’m on the Week 2 workout currently, which is where the most amazing thing happened. At one point during the workout you have to do spiderman pushups. She calls them something else, but essentially you do pushups while bringing one knee up and to the side (like you’re climbing a wall) while doing a pushup. So balancing on one leg, doing a pushup and doing a crazy oblique thing with your non-balancing leg. In full disclosure, I’m doing these particular pushups on my knees (girly, or modified, if you will) because they’re hard as hell. Two days ago I couldn’t do them. Yesterday, I was able to do them correctly and completely. I was pretty damn impressed with myself.

That was my amazing experience. That I was able to do something this difficult and intense when I couldn’t do it the day before. That’s what I love about Jillian’s work out videos. They hurt, make you want to die and/or throw up, but you see results and changes over short periods of time. Even when you’re lying in a sweaty heap after finishing the last set you feel empowered. I’m almost looking forward to doing those spiderman pushups tonight. Almost.

The Amazing Friend(s)

Growing up in a small town is different from growing up in a city in a number of ways. Where you find your friends is a major one of those differences. I remember talking to my boss early on in my working career and she was talking about her kids’ friends. They had friends from after school clubs and athletic teams and from places and activities I didn’t even know existed. As a kid, I had friends from school. There were 50 of us in the class and 30 miles to the next small town, so you were mostly friends with the people you went to school with K-12.

The good thing about small town friends is you’ve known each other forever. The bad thing is you’ve known each other forever. It’s too easy to be placed in or put other people in a box of how you think they act or what they believe. It’s hard to make changes in yourself. And there are very few other people to be friends with, because there are so few people in the area.

I remember sitting in a class in junior high once and somebody saying how they were sure that these people were going to be the best friends they’d ever have. I remember realizing that while I might maintain friendships with these people, I was still looking for the truly great friends. I longed for those types of friends. I knew other people that had amazing friends from college and at the time, I suspected that this is where my best friends in the world would come from. I longed for those types of friends. I enjoyed the people I met in college and still keep in touch with my friends from that era, but it’s the friends I’ve made post college that are my favorite and most treasured friends.

Recently I met up with some friends from grad school. Many classes, thousands of dollars and a few years later, four of us still get together regularly. We had so much fun at dinner the other night the waitresses actually asked if we really had to go because we were such a fun table. We’ve been through grad school, break ups, divorces and babies together. What is perhaps even more amazing and special about these friends is that no topic is off limits. My friends have been very open about their divorces and what they’re going through which has been very educational. (And makes me an even firmer believer in the pre-nup.) It’s fun to hassle the lone guy about his dates post-divorce, and pepper him with questions like we would do a girlfriend.

There are also the friends I’ve met through work. The friend that constantly challenges me to go outside of my comfort zone. The friend that I can call at 2 am if needed and the first thing they said would be, “where are you, I’m grabbing my keys.” The friends that share your hobbies and passions like baking and crafts. The friend that lets her kids be a faux niece and nephew to you because those kids are so freaking awesome it doesn’t matter that there isn’t actually a blood relation. The friends, and their significant others, who let you visit frequently.

It’s nice to realize so many years later that amazing friends are out there. You might not find these friends when you’re five or fifteen. It might take twenty-five years. But it’s pretty spectacular when it happens.

Twenty Minutes of Terror

"Ready? Dive." I took one last gulp of air and began swimming towards the bottom of the lake. It got darker and murkier with each kick. Once on the bottom of the lake: one, two, three full strokes and then I began kicking my way back to the surface. Once there, those of us in the water lined up with the person on the dock. "Ready? Dive." I kicked my way back to the bottom of the lake. I'd done this dozens of times this summer, but this time was different. This time, with each stroke, I was praying I wouldn't find a body.

I was fifteen when my mom dragged me to the town swimming pool to get me a job. I found the manager terrifying. But I got the job. I don't even remember having to prove I could swim. I ended up spending the next three summers doing what I discovered was the best summer job in town. I got to sit outside all day getting a tan. And making sure no one drowned. Most days, the toughest part of my job was talking a kid into retrieving my whistle when I inevitably lost control of swinging it around my fingers and sent it flying over the fence or in the pool.

As easy as my job was, by the time August rolled around, I was ready to be done working and go back to school. I found myself longing for the days when I could wear underwear instead of a swimsuit. By mid-August, I begin fervently wishing for a lightening storm so we could close the pool down for the afternoon. None the less, a summer in a wet swimsuit beat working the deli at the grocery store or doing trail repair for the forest service.

It wasn't until I was trying to decide what to do the summer after high school graduation that I realized just how great a gig lifeguarding was. Not only was it something that came easy to me, and wasn't difficult, it turns out it was something you could do anywhere. I ended up with a job lifeguarding on a lake for a summer camp in upstate New York in the summer of 1999.

This was the first time I'd lifeguarded on anything other that a swimming pool. My first day, we had to swim the length of the lake. It was man made and luckily it wasn't huge. Also lucky for me, I had stuffed a swim suit into my carry on bag when I flew out to NY. The airline lost my luggage and the only change of clothes I had was my swimsuit. For three days. The major difference between a lake and a pool is obviously the visibility. There are also no lane lines to follow and I can see the fish and seaweed that I'm trying to pretend isn't in the lake.

The other major difference about working at the camp in New York were the kids I was lifeguarding for. In the pool where I grew up, most of the kids could swim. It was eye opening to be around inner city kids that had rarely been in water outside of the bathtub. I found myself jumping in that lake after more kids on my first day than I ever had in three summers at the pool. These kids really could not swim. And didn't realize that they could not swim. I quickly learned to only wear clothes to the lake that could get wet because chances were that I was jumping in unexpectedly.

Because there were so many kids down at the lake at one time, we had buddy calls every few minutes and would count the pairs of kids in the water. More often than not, the count matched what it was supposed to be and everyone went on swimming. Occasionally the number was off and we found ourselves racing for the water to find a missing kid. The majority of the time of the time this happened, we barely got in the water before the kids were found sitting on the beach.

Unfortunately the majority of the time wasn't every time and I found myself swimming along the bottom of the lake praying that I wouldn't find a body. Because by this point we'd been diving for so long that it was more likely a recovery mission. In between prayers, I was reviewing CPR in my head. We were almost to the point where we left the swimming area and started swimming the lake, continuing to looks for the kids' bodies when we got word that they'd been found. They had neglected to check out of the swimming area and were found in their cabin. Which when you're thinking you're going to find a body, was the best possible outcome.

It wasn't until I dragged myself out of the lake, emotionally exhausted, that I noticed half the camp sitting quietly on the hillside, watching us. The kids were obviously in trouble and had to make a very public apology to the ten of us that had been diving for them for the last twenty minutes. It wasn't until then that I realized how important this job was. It was more than getting a great tan. I was actually responsible for lives. To this day, those are still the most terrifying twenty minutes of my life.

How Much??

The other day I decided to look up the current cost of the college where I got my undergraduate degree. Linfield now costs over $39,000 a year for tuition, room and board, etc. That is significantly more than I paid to go there. My entire MBA didn’t even cost that much! After I got over the shock of how much the price tag for my undergraduate degree had gone up since I was there, I decided that I was pretty glad I was done with all my higher education.

I mentioned the recent tuition number to a friend who had also attended Linfield. She also voiced the thought that it’s a good thing we’re already done with that. Although, if we were paying that price now, we’d be much younger. Which got me thinking, is it better to be 30 or 18?

Most likely an 18-year old out say 18 without hesitating. But with birthdays comes wisdom. The main bonus of being 18 that I can think of is that your metabolism still runs. That is the only thing I could think of to go in the pro side of being 18 again. At 30, I’m done with school, I live on my own, have a disposable income, can do what I want when I want, can go to a bar, and don’t need anyone’s permission for anything. There is something to be said for that kind of freedom. My car is also significantly nicer than the one I drove at 18.

You spend your twenties discovering who you are and becoming comfortable in your own skin. You make lifelong friends in your twenties. You get to make poor decisions and have them only affect you (not a family). So many positive things happened in my twenties that I’m excited to keep moving forward, and have no desire to back in time. Being comfortable with yourself makes you a much happier person.

Seeing the current price tag of college made me very glad that I’m out of that phase of my life. Although it did make me wonder if I should start a college savings account for any possible future children before I had them. With birthdays, you get not only wisdom but responsibility. But at the end of the day, it’s still awfully good to be 30.

Learning to Travel

As a kid, I did all my traveling with my family. Obviously. My mom made us take a mandatory family vacation every summer. I have strong memories of me being a surly teenager, sitting in the back of the minivan with my head phones on for the entire trip. I also have memories of the things we actually did and saw and at this age, can appreciate all that my mom did to make these trips happen. I’ve seen a lot of places in the western half of the US due to my mom’s annual family vacation requirement. Perhaps most importantly, I learned how to travel.

My brother and I are champion road-trippers. We can drive all day long, only stopping at rest stops and gas stations. I credit this to my parents doing long road trips with us when we were little. I remember briefly waking up when my parents buckled my seat belt at 4am so we could begin driving to Canada. I’d promptly fall back asleep and wake up when it was day light. We had a Subaru wagon back then and of course my brother and I had the usual fights about his stuff always creeping onto my side of the car. The middle section of the backseat was obviously mine. I was older, and at that time, bigger. End of discussion. My folks would probably tell you that was far from the end of the discussion (hence the next car being a minivan with separate seats).

The thing about long road trips is eventually you get good at them. You learn how to entertain yourself in a car for hours on end. You learn that it takes as long as it takes to get somewhere and asking “are we there yet,” and irritating your dad is not going to make the trip go any faster. You also learn not to smack your gum because it will immediately go out the window. Ahh, childhood travel memories.

Eventually I graduated on to doing trips with friends. In high school I got to go to Missoula for shopping and movies, to Schweitzer to go skiing, to Silver Mountain to see a concert, etc. At one point, I got to do an overnight trip, but that was because we were visiting a college campus and our parents were tired of driving us all over the place.

In college I did my first multi day road trips with friends. Eventually once I started working and had some disposable income, I did some overseas trips with friends. This is where I learned how important it is to be a good traveler. When you’re on a plane for twenty hours, even inflight movies get old at some point. And you’re going to be annoyed by the people you’re traveling with. At some point during my childhood, I realized that my parents had somehow abolished (too much) whining while traveling. I also learned that not everyone had this particular travel skill.

Oddly enough, I’ve come full travel circle. In May, I’m taking a trip to Italy. With my mom. Part of me feels like I’m regressing a bit. After all, you’re supposed to travel with your parents when you’re 3, not when you’re 30. But at this point, I’ve actually traveled more than my mom. Or at least to farther destinations. And there is something to be said for having a relationship with your mom that you don’t hesitate to spend almost two weeks together traveling.

I’ve been on the hunt for a new travel buddy the past few years. All my friends got married and started families, which makes it difficult for them to go bum around a foreign country for a couple weeks a year. In a way it makes sense to go back to traveling with the person who taught me to travel in the first place. And we’ll be in Italy! Tough to argue with that.

Thank You, ESPN

In my mind, documentaries have always been synonymous with the really boring shows my dad always watched on the History Channel when I was growing up. As a teenager, ancient black and white film footage about weaponry of the past 600 years was not exactly how I wanted to spend my TV time. Although looking back I’m hesitant to argue that hours of MTV’s The Real World was a better decision.

While I rarely choose to watch a documentary, if there is something I’ve gotten interested in then I’ll watch the documentary. Okay fine, I’ve willingly watched one about the 1996 disaster on Mt. Everest. I’d read about it and then decided to watch National Geographic’s documentary. I even used a Netflix movie (not streaming) for that one. For me, documentaries are like non-fiction. There are the few you have to read (i.e. The Big Short, Freakonomics, etc.), but for the most part I avoided them. After being inspired by a guy I used to know to branch out of my fiction glut, I discovered that I enjoyed biographies. The trick with non-fiction, and apparently documentaries, is to find something you’re interested in.

Thus, I am happy to say that I have recently discovered the amazingness that is the documentary. Thank you, ESPN. Why am I not surprised that it was ESPN who tricked me into documentaries? That channel is the reason I’m constantly tempted to pay for cable.

A few rainy Saturday’s ago, I was puttering around the house with the TV on for company. At first, I didn’t even know what I was watching, but I unexpectedly found myself stopping whatever it was I was doing and sitting down to watch this show. I didn’t even read a book while watching, which is a feat for me. It was a show about SMU (Southern Methodist University) getting the “Death Penalty” in college football back in the 80’s. I’d never even heard of SMU or the death penalty (other than in the usual sense) and found myself barely moving for the next two hours, desperate to know how this all turned out.

Eventually I figured out that this show was a product of ESPN, something they called “30 for 30.” I had no idea what this was but wanted to know if there were more. As it turns out, there are loads of them done over the past couple years. And lucky for me, Netflix has the whole gamut of 30 for 30 documentaries. Last weekend I watched, “The U.” Finally I understood what my guy friends were talking about when discussing “The Miami Rule.” Just like the SMU film, I was fascinated and enthralled for the entire running time. There are at least 10 more of these in my Netflix queue. All at the top.

Apparently I’m not only a sucker for sports, I’m a sucker for documentaries about sports. My next 30 for 30 leaves my documentary comfort zone of college football, so hopefully I’ll find it just as interesting. Who would have that that there were interesting documentaries out there? While I’m still not tempted to sit down and watch the History Channel, at least now I appreciate a good sports documentary. Thank you, ESPN.

Shock Therapy

I am a sucker for anything that promises results in a short period of time. Better abs in 10 workouts or less? Sold. Which is how I fell into the trap of Jillian Michael’s 30-Day Shred. She promises up to 20 lost pounds in 30 days. I’ve been a big fan of the Biggest Loser and hers for ages. So much so, that I occasionally daydream about eating enough to gain 200 pounds so I could go on the show. Then reality set in when I did the math on how much it would cost me in food and new fat kid clothes to be fat enough to go on the show, not to mention health care costs. I decided maybe it was better to be only slightly overweight and just buy one of her videos. Being hesitant to buy anything without actually trying it after purchasing a horrible yoga video, I borrowed the 30-Day Shred from the library.

As previously mentioned, the cover of this video states that you can lose “Up to 20 pounds in 30 days.” There isn’t even an asterisk at the end of the statement that takes you to the back of the disk to point out that these results are not normal. After my first Lesson 1 workout, I knew why. No one could possibly survive doing this for an entire 30 days and the one person that had lost the 20 pounds.

None the less, I have stuck with it for 6 days thus far. I’m going to Italy in about two months and have some serious motivation to make room in my pants for pasta and bread. Hence the reason I’m still torturing myself with this insanity. After a couple of sessions I did notice myself getting stronger however. Where I originally couldn’t use weights for the entire arm segments, all the sudden I could. My form improved and the frequency in which I called Jillian a bitch to my television decreased.

The thing I hated about Level 1 was the jumping jacks. I’ve hated jumping jacks since I was in elementary school and we had to do them for PE. I would rather do almost anything than jumping jacks. And day four sent me over the jumping jack edge. On the fifth day, I decided to give Level 2 a shot to see if it had less of those damn jumping jacks.

As I lay in a sweaty heap on my floor after completing Level 2 for the first time, I was quite pleased that this level only had one 30-second burst of jumping jacks in the warm up. The bad news was that I was seriously considering throwing up after doing this workout. On Sunday I decided that I’d prefer throwing up to jumping jacks and hit the button for Level 2 again.

I have no idea if I’ll actually be able to do this for a full 30 days, but that is the goal. Like I said, I’m a sucker for big promises of an improved body in trade for a little pain. So much in fact that not only have I placed an order to acquire my very own copy of the 30-Day Shred, I’ve also pre-ordered her next video based on the same system.

I primarily run for my workouts so my goal was to shock my body a bit into doing something that it isn’t used to. At the time, I was thinking a gentle shock, like from static electricity. This is more like putting your finger in a light socket shocking. Only 24 more days of shock therapy to go.

Open

Every now and then I get the feeling that the universe is trying to tell me something. And in the cases when I’m not paying attention or choosing to ignore, beat me over the head with something. I haven’t believed in resolutions since I was a kid. I got to the gym on a regular basis and can affirm that New Year’s resolutioners really do quit going by the end of January. Abstract resolutions aren’t sustainable. Concrete goals are. So I’ve always been more of a goal person. This year however, the universe is definitely trying to tell me something.

It started with an article in Runner’s World. Kristin Armstrong had written an article about choosing a word for the year to be the theme, motto, bottom line of 2011. Not one to be held back by mere rules, Kristin picked three words: joy, connection and balls. I immediately began thinking of what my word for 2011 would be. I really wanted to copy balls, but since I probably need to tone that part of me down, I decided it wasn’t the right choice this year. I liked the idea of this so much that I shared it with one of my cousins. She in turn pointed me in the direction of another person who wrote about choosing a word for the year and informed me she had done so herself the previous year. At this point, I was still just appreciating the idea of a word, but wasn’t fully committed to the idea. While still pondering the idea of finding the perfect word for me, I watched Eat, Love, Pray. Not my typical choice in movie, but this is where the universe started to beat me over the head. One of the themes of that movie is the main character trying to find her word. Okay universe, I’m listening.

I decided I didn’t want my word to be something that had to do with the outside me. I didn’t want to be “slim” or “diet” for a year. If I was going to do this, then I may as well challenge myself. Because nobody is a better competitor against myself than me. I pondered the word cake for a while, and then ice cream. And then realized I’d gotten off track and I should probably eat some real food. I decided to stop thinking about it and let the word come to me. It was already the end of January, and clearly I hadn’t been punished for not having chosen a word at midnight on the 31st. However long it took for me to settle on a word was how long it would take and that would be okay. Gee, this exercise has already taught me patience!

After days of mulling words over in my mind, I believe I’ve settled on “open.” This year I’m going to be open to getting out of my comfort zone, trying new things and meeting new people. Open to trying weird foods or going someplace new. Open to seeing what the universe is going to bring me in this new decade of life. I thought about adding austerity to the list, but that sounded about as much fun diet. So I’m sticking with open for the time being, with an option to supplement the list as the year progresses.

Open. It’ll be interesting to see what the year, and my word, brings.

Long-Term Investing

I have this theory that the shows Friends and Sex and the City cover almost every topic that can possibly come up in life. Add How I Met Your Mother into the mix and all the holes are plugged. There is an answer for and an episode of TV that covers any situation we may encounter as adults. In working in the finance industry for the past eight-ish years, I’ve come to discover that finance can also be translated to real world scenarios. And perhaps best of all, we think we’re hilarious when coming up with these finance/life analogies. (I’ve yet to determine if anyone outside of finance finds these analogies amusing or useful).

Years ago, we came up with the theory that people can be categorized into the same asset buckets that we use for finance. I’m sure I’ve written about this phenomenon, and the corresponding explanation, in a previous blog so I won’t bore you with the details here. Suffice to say that it was unanimously determined that if I were an asset class, I’d be fixed income. After some additional discussion, I argued my way up to being deemed Core Plus (fixed income that is allowed to invest in up to 10% high yield, which is riskier fixed income). Long story short, I’m stable and not terribly exciting. No one in our office lines up to listen to the visiting bond manager speak. It’s not super sexy like hedge funds or emerging markets, but it’s something that most people feel is important enough to be included in their portfolios.

Years ago, I had some friends that were introducing me to another friend of theirs. Little did I know that apparently the most used adjective to describe me was “stable.” It wasn’t until I’d been hanging out with this person for a while that he said, “They were right, you really are stable!” I’m pretty sure he thought he was giving me a compliment. Boys, I have to tell you; stable should not be the lead off batter when giving compliments. It is not a homerun. Girls would prefer to be told they’re beautiful or cute or even funny, but stable implies boring.

He wasn’t wrong though, I am stable and consistent and even keeled. I don’t have huge mood swings and make very conscious decisions about all aspects of my life. So yes, all this adds up to stable. Although I’d argue that I keep the boring side to myself, my friends get the fun part of stable. The part that organized the majority of our fun outings.

It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a study that my company had completed recently that I realized how good being stable was. In our industry, clients want to invest with money managers who are the best. So we did a study to see over time, who was the best? It turns out, that while being ranked number one is sexy any given year, a manager who performed consistently in the middle of the pack is the better performer over a longer track record.

So applying that logic to real life, an investment in me isn’t going to make you rich instantly. Even my friends would tell you that I’m a long term investment since I warm up slowly. I’m not a flashy or sexy investment, but over the long term, I’m a pretty solid investment. Now I just have to find the right long-term investor.

Childhood Vacations

One of the things I always appreciated about my parents, well appreciate now, is that they dragged my brother and I all over the western States and Canada to make sure we saw things. I’ve been to Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills in South Dakota, Banff and Lake Louise in Alberta, seen the red dirt in Southern Utah and been to many a battlefield and National Park.

As an adult, I’m impressed with the fact that my mom forced us to take a family vacation every year to experience something together. Now I realize that it was likely a financial stress to do this each year, but it was something that my mom believed was really important. Because of that, I’m one of the few people who live in Oregon who have actually been to Crater Lake. And now that I am an adult, I wish I had a do-over at a lot of those places they took us to see. For at least half of the trips I was a very surly teenager, sulking in the back seat of our mini van and the other half I was too young to remember clearly.

Over the past few years, I’ve started to re-see some of these places. I took a trip home one summer and did Glacier and Yellowstone for the first time in at least 15 years. We also squeezed in a side trip to Big Hole National Battlefield, which I studied as a kid in Montana History. I had an opportunity to go back up Vancouver Island this past summer. And I always try and make a stop at Disneyland when in Southern California. My dad and I were just talking about how we’d like to go see Custer’s Last Stand again. I have a very distinct memory of visiting that particular battlefield, but would like to see it again as an adult who better understands the history and significance of that event.

As we kids got older, we’d often travel with another family. Our dads are best friends and enjoy the same things so I wish I were kidding when I say that I’m sure we’ve stopped at 90% of the historical markers in the Pacific Northwest. We frequently took trips out to the coast in the summers together. I have a picture from one summer around 6th grade with us four kids standing in front of Multnomah Falls. Amazingly through the years, I’ve stayed good friends with their son, Nate, and since he only lives a few short hours from me, we try and make a habit of meeting up every few months. I’ll either stop by on my way home from Seattle or we make plans to go explore someplace.

When we opt for the exploring option, we often end up going back to places we went as kids. Over Memorial Day, we met at Mt. St. Helens, as neither of us had been there in close to 20 years. It was so foggy that day you couldn’t even see the mountain, but it was fun to go back someplace that we’d been as kids. Next weekend we’re meeting up on the Oregon Coast to go to the Lewis and Clark National Park. If you’re from Montana, you’ve studied Lewis and Clark. I’ve gone so far, thanks to my dad, to having floated down a section of the Missouri River that they did hundreds of years before me. And as a kid, no trip to the Oregon Coast was complete without a stop at Fort Clatsop.

I’ve tried for years to get my Portland friends to go with me to Fort Clatsop again, and even when we’re already out at the coast for a long weekend, I’ve had no luck. So I was thrilled when Nate suggested we head there to meet up next weekend. After talking to him though, the Goertzens must have done Fort Clatsop more than his family, because I distinctly remember walking around there and buying a souvenir to hopefully get extra credit in 7th grade Montana History. Nate however, remembers our dads going to see the Fort and accidently taking his glasses with them, while we played on the beach.

I’m so thankful that my mom made us go to all kinds of places we thought were boring as kids. It’s nice to be able to say I’ve been to and seen well known places. And some lesser known places. And for taking me while I was a surly teenager. The woman should get a medal for that alone. Even more importantly, I’m thankful that she installed a desire to travel and see things in me, even if it’s something in my backyard. And it’s fun to have those childhood friends to re-discover your past trips with. Watch out Fort Clatsop, we’re coming back.

The Taj III

For Christmas, Santa brought me a new tent. The Taj III. A Taj Mahal made for 3 people. Or two people and some gear. Or a tent palace for just me. One that (hopefully) doesn’t leak at all, much less through every single part of the tent. Before leaving to return to my small Portland apartment, my dad suggested we practice setting it up in the basement.

Tent makers have gotten smarter and now print the directions right on the bag. No more excuses that you used the directions to start a fire last time and now you can’t remember how to set up your tent (I’m not even making that story up). However step one was to stake down the tent if it was windy out. I licked my finger, stuck it up in the air and just as I suspected, no wind in the basement. So I quit reading step one and moved to step two. Do you remember those tests that said “read all questions before beginning,” and of course the last question/direction was to sign your name, and don’t answer any of the questions? Yeah, I always sucked at that one too. And the directions didn’t make sense to me (of course I’d missed half of step one). So like I do with most of my life, I figured I’d do it my own way.

It wasn’t until my dad stopped even attempting to help me that I realized maybe we should look at the directions again. Since he is clearly smarter than I am, I made him read them. They made more sense coming from him than from the bag for some reason. Eventually we successfully set up the tent in the basement, rain fly and all.

Having successfully set up my tent once, I am ready to go camping! Unfortunately the high temperature is about 40 (F) and it’s been raining an awful lot. While my tent may not leak, I rarely choose to camp in the rain. So I did the next best thing and emailed all my friends to set up a weekend to go camping this summer.

Since I am the only person in my crew of friends to have grown up in the country, it’s my responsibility to get these city folks in the outdoors every now and then. We’ve gone at least three times now and every year I try and introduce new people. This year I think I’ve talked one of my favorite friends into going camping for the first time. Her stipulations were a shower and a Starbucks nearby. The shower isn’t a problem. The chai tea latte she prefers may be trickier. I’ve told her it’s a done deal, even though it’s a bit of a trek to the Starbucks. No worries though, my friend Jake usually brings his latte machine and generator to run it.

I told you, these are city folks. Latte machines are a necessity of camping for them. And to be completely honest, I’ve never turned down the freshly made Americano over cowboy coffee when I go with them. Or the shower. The first year I pulled out my hatchet and no one could figure out why I’d brought an axe camping. Last year, someone brought dura-flame logs to start the fire. And then proceeded to up-wrap them and be stumped about how to get them lit.

While my friends may not be Montana camping trained, the best thing about them is they always try. They continue to humor me year after year with a camping trip. They always sign on to come along, have fun and make a memorable experience. We’ve camped in the rain and sunshine together. Played line tag in the sand dunes, sat on the beach looking at the stars, gone swimming in the rain, and laughed around the campfire. They may not be experienced lifelong campers, but we always manage to have a heck of a good time.

Going Home

I like to read the advice columns from “Dear Prudie.” Not only does she offer interesting advice, it reminds me of how crazy and dramatic free my life is. Around the holidays is an especially interesting time to read the advice columns, because people’s families are insane. People having knock out fights over who cooks dinner and who’s invited. Lucky for me, my family gets along just fine.

In what appears to be the complete opposite of many people’s family gatherings, going home for Christmas is the most relaxing time I have all year. I have nothing I have to do and my cell phone doesn’t even work out there. Heck, even showering is optional. The most strenuous part of my day tends to be me duking it out with my piano. Since I only get to play once a year for a week, the first half of the week is a little rough while I try and force my fingers to move as fast as they did in high school.

I thought it would be weird to go home as an adult, but it’s not. It’s nice to be able to enjoy a bottle of wine with the family while we hang out in the kitchen getting dinner ready. My parents no longer yell at me to get my butt out of bed in the morning. Although since I no longer sleep until noon, that could be part of the reason. They don’t ask me to do much, especially since I willingly clean the kitchen all day long. And this year I even got a covered parking spot in the barn!

Best of all, I no longer have to fight with my brother over what to have for breakfast. This year, out of delight to have both children home (I’m assuming), my mom made both French toast and pancakes! I’m the French toast person, my brother is the pancakes. She did grumble a bit about the fact that we both still snitch bacon while she was cooking it though.

It’s amazing to go for a walk and not see a single other person or car. Just the occasional horse, cow, turkey, or deer. With the mountains rising majestically around our little valley and the sun shining, that stroll down LBC is one of my favorites in the world. So much a favorite, that I even did it when it was below zero this year (F).

Every time I have to leave it makes me sad. I didn’t even like saying goodbye to the dog this time. When I was in college and it was time to leave, my dad would start my car for me and leave money on the dash. This time he packed me an amazing lunch so I didn’t have to eat gas station food.

It’s nice to have a home that is a refuge instead of a battlefield like all those people that write in to Dear Prudie. I wish it were closer so I could relax more often in the comforts of my parents’ home. But knowing that come the end of December I’ll be admiring the mountains and trees with the wildlife meandering their way through the backyard while sitting next to a roaring fire makes the rest of the year a little easier.