40 and Fired

What's Wrong with Canned Soup?

2011-08-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well over a year ago, I made the declaration we would no longer eat canned soup. Between lengthy ingredient lists containing soy, dairy, gluten and copious amounts of salt, I decided to unearth my domestic roots and sweat it out over a 5-gallon stock pot. I'm sure you can guess how long that experiment lasted. But, while I stopped making soup on a regular basis, I still refuse to buy it in a can. We've had no shortage of chili over the past twelve months, but chili isn't what I crave when my nose is dripping, my head's clogged beyond belief and it feels like an extended family of Irishmen is River Dancing on my chest.

Which is exactly how I felt today.

After awaking from a four-hour feverish nap, made worse upon discovering I had a 100lb dog spooning against me, all I wanted was soup. We literally live in the middle of nowhere, and there wasn't a can of soup to be found. And, sadly, the solution to my dilemma felt like an early Julia Childs episode, 'first you take a chicken....'. Which is exactly what I did.

The pot was soon full of organic chicken, organic veggies, parsley (which actually turned out to be cilantro-of course) from our meager container garden and rice--I wanted noodles, but figured this was already about a $20 bowl of soup, and wasn't about to add another $5 of gluten-free pasta to the mix.

And then, I dosed off again. I awoke to the smell of cinnamon. Seems in my feverish, famished state, I'd brilliantly put a cinnamon doughnut in the oven. Boy did it taste good. This is no time to examine the hypocrisy of keeping frozen pastries on hand, but not canned soup.

Once my steaming salvation was ready, I inhaled bowl after bowl, and it was worth the effort. Even better? When I mustered the energy to shuffle up the garage to put the left-overs in the freezer, I discovered soup. Lots and lots of frozen, homemade soup.

Isn't Yoga Rejuvenating?

2011-08-20T20:50:00.000-07:00

When I first did yoga fifteen years ago, I recall peaceful music, gentle moves with kind corrections and a sense of relaxation. And I liked it.

But now it all seems so agro. Hot yoga, spin yoga and flow yoga to Lady Gaga. By the time I make it to the aptly named Corpse pose, I'm usually so relieved and exhausted, I fall sound asleep. I'd done Downward Facing Dog a few times, usually on the way to other poses, but it's been the base/rest pose for the last four classes I've attended. Call it what you want, but when my arms are shaking uncontrollably and sweat is dripping from my nose, I'm not relaxed.

The intentions I set for the class should be larger than me, but instead they've become desperate prayers to survive each class without hurting or embarrassing myself.

I have no shame in going to child's pose, for the entire class if necessary, but that's when the gentle corrections turn admonishing. "Rest until you catch your breath," quickly becomes, "you can rejoin the group at any time...how about now."

My last class, the one involving Lady Gaga, came complete with a teacher that counted how long you had to hold the pose, much like a new age aerobics class. Because that's restorative.

I've made a pledge to myself to attend class once a week. The past four weeks have been at four different studios. Sure, there are many types of yoga, and perhaps a bit of education would help. For now, I'll keep broadening my yoga experiences until I find the right fit.

Namaste.

Will There Be Interesting Snacks?

2011-07-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

Running was proving difficult for me this spring. With another go at the Gore-tex TransRockies Run on the race calendar, long miles were a must. But an ever increasing list of injuries made me realize something had to change. Resting, different shoes and lots of cross training and strengthening had not made a difference--not true, I did have stomach muscles, but they were doing nothing to help my plantar fasciitis.

Which is how I ended up at a Chi Running camp, this past June. If Danny Dreyer and his crew couldn't fix me, then I was going to quit running forever. I know, real mature.

But fix me they did! They gave me the skills to achieve proper alignment, the first step to good running form, and a checklist of micro adjustments to make during any run, when twinges or niggles send their warning signal, "Hey you, just because you're tired, doesn't mean you can be sloppy!". Crazy but true, before the week of camp came to an end, my ITB problems and shin splints were gone. Within two weeks, even plantar fasciitis was no longer an issue. My first few steps every morning are still hesitant out of habit, but no more shooting heel pain!

John even noticed my stride was different. His exact comment was somewhere along the lines of, "I wouldn't exactly call it pretty, but you look like you can keep it up forever." And this was when he saw me at mile 15 of a 17 mile training run.

I'm still slow and far from perfect, but this new direction is good. I even smile when I run, a welcome change to my former grimace, alluding to dark, pain-induced desires to push people off their bikes and drop kick small woodland creatures.

So you can imagine my excitement for the free Chi Running workshop offered in Carbondale tonight. One of the teachers from NC will even be speaking. Time for a little review and form polish.

Now the question is who's going--ahh, the endless summer shuffle of wants and responsibilities. John has decided not to go in order to cut some new trails at the house. Which means the girls may stay or go. Adair is pretty sure she'll go--final decision hinges on whether she gets to operate any trail clearing equipment or just clears debris. I know the answer, so she'll be coming with me.

After thinking about it a bit, Taylor wanted to know the time, length and format of the event. She then asked, "Will there be interesting snacks?". Ugh! Explaining that the focus was running and that we could eat before, after and even bring our own snacks for during wasn't enough. Considering the child requested pad thai for breakfast, no standard cocktail fare will prove interesting. Thankfully Harry Potter does. Taylor will be right here, reading.

And yes, I'm going to jump back into writing weekly updates, hopefully, after a two month and three week unplanned hiatus--it's my blog after all. I am sorry, but life, deadlines and I'm not sure what else, have been conspiring against me. Next time, maybe I should have some interesting snacks to help me bridge the chaos.

Would a Princess Have a Dead Dog in her Bathroom?

2011-05-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

Before we get to the question at hand, yes I realize it's been an entire month since I made a posting. I apologize and know that I have wracked myself with guilt-although that didn't accomplish much. It's been a month full of deadlines, a road trip, a work trip and endless snow. Trying to do better is all I can promise because, while I would like the snow to give it a rest, it appears deadlines, road trips and work trips are continuing to fill up the calendar.

The royal wedding got me dreaming about being a princess. Mind you, there are some rather substantial road blocks. I'm married, am American, have no royal lineage and never did anything to market myself to available princes. And the idea of kissing other people's babies, popping out my own babies who would be counting the days to my demise so they could rule the country and being on constant alert not to have the paparazzi catch me picking my nose are not top on my list of career ambitions.

But the upsides are rather intoxicating: a staff, fat bank account, exotic trips....maybe I could learn to wave like a queen.

So why the dead dog question? During the Pattillo household spring cleaning day today, I happened to dust our bathroom and noticed a pretty box on the shelf. It took me a moment to remember the box held the ashes of a much-loved, but dead, pet. And poor Harley has been sitting on the shelf, watching over our daily grooming habits, for almost two years. We have plans to spread his ashes and even a place in the yard. However, the time never seems right. What a downer to darken a bright, family day with, "okay, who's ready to go spread some ashes?"

Logistics also come into play. We have to do it during the brief window without snow on the ground, and, considering how infrequently I dust, a season can pass without me noticing Harley on the shelf.

He'll find a final resting spot eventually. And I suppose it would be no more unusual for a princess to have a dead dog in her bathroom than it is for me to have one. In fact, I'll ask the first princess I meet.

A Break in the Routine

2011-04-01T20:01:00.000-07:00

A very convincing argument can be made regarding our daily life being like a vacation. And on many days, I would agree.

Not the days when its snowing sideways and there are snowdrifts to be shoveled. Or any day involving cleaning the house, brushing dingle berries off a dog or simultaneous deadlines and school commitments. Fresh tracks on a powder day, having Mushroom Rock trail to myself or counting wildflower varieties in the upper meadow are fodder for ad campaigns. Living where others want to vacation has its upsides...and downsides too, notably having to earn a living and buy a house in such a popular market. Aspen home prices have been in the news as of late. Sure, the cheapest, stand-alone dwelling in town is a single-wide trailer priced at $599,000--but the papers aren't mentioning it used to be listed at twice the price!

But even endless snow, blue skies and a sweet apres scene (literally--would you like marshmallows or whipped cream with your hot chocolate?) get stale come spring. Which is why I've spent the last week kicking back in flip-flops, riding a beach cruiser and taking afternoon naps in Cedar Key, FL. Grandparents live here, weather is sunny and warm, there's plenty of fresh seafood being hauled from the local waters and it's a welcome change of pace.

Tomorrow, temps in both places are supposed to be 70 degrees and sunny. And many folks in Colorado are already riding their beach cruisers and wearing flip-flops. At our mountain top abode we've gotten two feet of snow this week. So for now, I'll sleep with the door open and be lulled by the sounds of surf on the beach. Come Sunday, spring skiing at Snowmass will be a perfect ending to our relaxing island routine.

It's Not My Homework

2011-03-08T20:21:00.000-08:00

College graduation was so long ago, it no longer feels real. Many, such as my husband, were inspired to continue on for higher learning. Me? Not really. Sure, I love to learn, read and 'expand my mind' as much or more than the next person. But the thought of tedious applications, dry lectures, endless homework, test rooms silent except for nervous throat clearing....no thanks.

Thus, the rigors of 4th and 6th grade are even more foreign to my aging mind. Plus, I've already learned and forgotten that information once, why revisit it?

Well because my daughters are certain I could research and write their papers on magnetism, roseate spoonbills or Guatemala in a fraction of the time it will take them. No doubt, but it's their turn to learn the process.

I'm not asking them to get straight A's or make the honor roll. Hell, they attend a Waldorf school which doesn't even have grades. But without a common measurement standard, success becomes vague. So what makes my kids successful?

Being the person your classmates and teachers can count on to stay outside and work on a quinzee hut until it's finished. Standing up, against the group, to offer support for a perceived wrong/slight/injustice. Accepting every bit of extra work offered because its fun. Looking at a challenge in their own unique way and working with classmates to find a solution.

Their plenitude of admirable traits makes the occasional shortcoming all the more difficult to bear. But, the girls will write their own papers, awkward sentences and all, and grow from accomplishing the task. Sure, I'll help here and there. One day I might even tell them about my atrocious spelling and comma confusion. Well, maybe not. At least they aren't asking for my help with math!

A Family Divided

2011-02-26T20:28:00.000-08:00

When we moved to Colorado nine years ago, we had plenty of sound reasons for uprooting our children and saying goodbye to my east coast hometown. Fresh air, quality of life, leaving behind immediate reminders of 9/11 and the realization that life is fleeting.

The Eastern Shore of Maryland has many wonderful attributes, but big mountain skiing is not on the list, or even in the state. And we wanted to ski. As an end cap to a dream that began ten years prior, we once again found ourselves driving cross country to Colorado, but this time with two kids and two dogs in tow.

We arrived in town after the slopes had closed for the day, so it took a whole 12 hours before we were able to get our then three-year old on skis. Adair was non-plussed. But we knew our children would soon love skiing as much as we did.

Adair began lessons when she was four. To our dismay, they were nothing more than a duty she tearfully endured. Around the age of eight, she actually started to enjoy skiing, by ten she switched to telemark and now we have to hustle to keep up with her.

Taylor showed great promise - at first. As a saintly instructor pried Adair from my leg, Taylor would walk into class, deposit her gear in a cubby and help herself to the assortment of morning snacks. The payoff came during the glorious year when they both loved skiing. And then, just as Adair was gaining confidence on the slopes, Taylor decided she hated skiing, snowboarders, hot chocolate and everything associated with the sport.

Our rationalization to her protestations was that, when you live in the Rocky Mountains, skiing is a fact of life. Plus we would be remiss in our parenting if she didn't learn the basics. We agreed she could stop upon passing level 7. More years of tearful drop-offs ensued, and many a day ended with one of us carrying Taylor down a slope, to the base.

She progressed to a level six by the end of last year, yet regressed to a level four this season. We were on the brink of waving a white flag, when Taylor said she wanted to learn to snowboard. Sliding on snow and being happy is our goal. But John, Adair and I telemark--all of us. Of course she wants to snowboard.

Lessons begin tomorrow. While Taylor snowboards, the rest of us will skin up Buttermilk--Adair's first time. If snowboarding truly makes Taylor happy, then it's a beautiful thing. John even volunteered to take up snowboarding to keep her company. I didn't. Maybe freeing the heel doesn't always free the mind. But as long as I see a post-lesson smile, we can be a family divided.

When Worlds Collide

2011-02-14T08:05:00.000-08:00

My real life is great, truly rather amazing...most of the time anyway! Yet during down times, mindless drives and long runs, my mind wanders to a parallel life. In this imaginary world, where I'm forever 32 and an 'easy button' is always close at hand, rules are created to keep others the hell out of my way. I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course.

Usually these day dreams are rather short, and I manage to grab the handle bars and continue on in the real world. But last week, the real world rudely inserted itself into my parallel universe.

I was waiting at a stop light. And waiting and waiting. Long enough to inspire me to time the light. Once I started timing, the clock ticked through 6 minutes and 37 seconds before I snapped. During this period, four other cars pulled up behind me. I was certain the added weight would trigger the light, but it didn't.

This intersection is one I pass through with some regularity, and never before had the light been noteworthy in its length. I convinced my parallel universe alter ego 'ALLISON' the light was broken. Thus the only obvious option was to proceed through the light with caution.

So I proceeded. Did I mention I was making a left turn.....on red? Seems the fifth car back in line was a state trooper. Ah, back to the real world.

He did not see the humor in my indiscretion, nor did he believe my argument about the light being out-of-order. He just looked at me incredulously and said, "you know I have to give you a ticket don't you?" In the real world yes. But in my alternate world, there is always a choice. Again, no sense of humor.

John says it was my East coast roots shining through--I may be able to dress like a laid back mountain chick, but I certainly can't act like one. After signing the ticket, I drove to Denver and back. Due to my illusionary world crumbling around me, I behaved and obeyed the speed limit the entire way--ugh.

I paid the ticket too. Yes, 'ALLISON' would go fight a good fight in court, but I lost my nerve. As it is, I have jury duty on my assigned court date. Perhaps I should reconsider and try to be on my own jury. Although I'm sure there's a rule against it.

I Really Don't Hate Football......

2011-02-06T11:01:00.000-08:00

.......It's just not my thing. For those who enjoy it and play it, good on ya. The sport boosts our economy and makes a lot of people very happy.

But personally, I do not see the draw in spending a beautiful afternoon inside, yelling at the television, wearing an unflattering polyester jersey with someone else's name on it and eating cheese-laden, fried food. Before you balk, I've always felt the same way about televised golf. Cocktails, hushed coversations and fancy hor d'ouvres don't make it any more appealing. Why watch it, when you can play it. The Tour De France and the Olympics are my exceptions because I just can' t play that way, and I think they are actually fun to watch. Hypocrisy? Not in mind, just further argument for chocolate and vanilla.

During college, I was an average student at a good school, and usually ended up watching the Superbowl in a classroom as part of an advertising study. Extra credit is extra credit. Plus I've always found the ads more entertaining than most of the plays or the over-hyped and dubbed 'performances' passed off as half-time shows. Although, I'm forever intrigued when the play line is over-layed on the field without obscuring any of the players. Ask a room full of avid fans how that is done, only if you want all conversation to come to a screeching halt.

All of this adds up to make my current situation all the more interesting. John is off skiing with our house guest, and the two will return with several other friends, just in time for kick-off of the game and our Superbowl festivities. Translation: I'm in charge of the party. Since they left this morning, I've read two magazines, eaten all of the chocolate in the house, made a to-do list and, just for fun, tossed the list in the fireplace.

It's against my competitive nature to throw a bad party, so I'll rally. But first I might read another magazine and take the girls for a back country ski. No doubt the game will proceed whether or not I wash our windows.

The Winter Outdoor Retailer Trade Show from A to Z

2011-01-28T09:44:00.000-08:00

I never thought Salt Lake City, UT, would become my place for twice-a-year adventure, socializing and work pilgrimages, but I was mistaken. Every January and July/August, about half the town of Carbondale, and thousands of others from around the world, pack business cards, notebooks and swag bags and make their way to Utah for the Outdoor Retailer trade show.

Imagine 350,000 square feet of space, under one roof, filled with the latest and greatest in clothes, shoes, skis, packs and pretty much any hard or soft goods needed for outdoor adventure, mixed with hard bodied/easy on the eyes professional athletes, wanna-be's, buyers, journalists, beer and caffeine and you've got OR. Yes, it's work. But it's good work if you can get it!

Summing up the gear, interactions, parties and absolute lack of sleep is rather mind-boggling. So I'm not going to even try. Instead, I'll give a stream of consciousness taste of the scene....in alphabetical order because, somehow, it makes sense.

Alta, alpacas, Avia

Brighton, Brooks, beer, beer thirty, ballroom wander, Buffs for dogs, Black Diamond, Bee Friendly Farming

Chaco's new boots, Camelbak, Costa sunglasses, Chocolate GU--mmmm, Craft, Columbia

Dahlgren, Demo Day, dogs to adopt, Dale of Norway

Eagle Creek, Easton Mountain Products

Familiar faces in new places, freshies, films, friends, fat boards

Grace Potter, GU Chomps for lunch, G3, Goode poles, GoLite shoes, serious gnar gnar, Gore-tex, gloves

Hydroflask, Hi-tec, honey vodka from New Zealand, Haiku, hats, Honey Stinger

Icebreaker clothes, snowshoe and dinner, Isis, Ibex, Inter-Connect--not this time

Julbo

Kahtoola, Kombi, Karhu

Lole, LEKI, Little Hotties

Mountain Hardwear fun, Montrail Winter Wobble, martinis, Merrell, Marker, Moving Comfort, Muck Boots, men dressed in sheep's clothing-really, Moon boots

New Balance, Nathan, NOLS

Overland Equipment, Off The Beaten Track, Oboz, 110% Recovery

Patagonia, Polarmax, Project Athena, prayer wheels, Polartec

dry Q

Ryder's, Royal Robbins coffee bar, Ryka, Red Vine licorice

Shaux Pas galore, Salomon, Smith, Skirt Sports, Sanuk, Sport Science, Sherpa Adventure Gear, Sigg, Saucony, skiing, snowshoeing, shoes, shoes and shoes, socks, stickers

Thorlos, Tecnica, Tilley

Ugh, there aren't enough hours in the day--yup it's a lame one

Vestpac, Venus de Miles, Vokl

Wolverine, worthy causes

X (I've got nothing)

Yurbuds

Zeal Optics

Whew, now it's time to get organized and start testing!

The Meaning of a Number

2011-01-18T22:31:00.000-08:00

I've been out of the dating game for a while. Seriously, decades, like since the first George Bush was president. And to clear up any rumors before they start, I plan to remain that way.

But yesterday, a guy gave me his number. No just me, but two of us in the car. I hitched a ride to a trade show with two friends, both younger than me. We dropped our first friend off at her hotel, and, as we were leaving, the 20-something parking attendant gave us his number, with the line, "call me later, if you get bored."

I was able to refrain from riotous laughter until we pulled away from the curb, with our emergency brake engaged. More hilarity ensued. We decided Micah was just being nice and forgot all about the exchange.

Later I got to wondering, what was he thinking, I mean really thinking?

-Maybe he was actually just giving his number to Jen, who was probably about his age.
-Perhaps he had no clue of my age.
-Or, please tell me no, maybe he had a 'mom' or 'older woman' fetish.
-He gives his number to all females he meets.
-His second job is as a gigolo and he was trolling for customers.

I can deal with the first two scenarios, but the third is more than I can handle. So I choose the first answer, Jen was his primary objective, but I was welcome to come along. And let's just leave it at that! As for the others, he actually did seem more genuine, but what do I know?!

Alas, in the end, we weren't bored and I guess Micah had to spend the evening alone.

Thank You Martha Stewart

2011-01-16T17:21:00.000-08:00

I've purposefully avoided, actually more not gotten around to it, but....writing a blog yet this year. Many feel a new year should be full of hope, inspiration and positive sentiments for the days to come. And that's great as long as I don't have to do it.

Let's talk feathers. Early afternoon today, John was watching football, the girls were in the tub and all pets were outside. Thus I had a few moments of peace and quiet. I sat down with some lunch and the January 2010 issue of Martha Stewart Living. Continuing with the theme of inspiration and positive sentiments, Martha convinced me, that I too could run an organized home. First step was folding, labeling and organizing the linen closet.

But we don't have a linen closet--a little over sight from when we built the house. So, we created one. The girls' old art armoire, which until five hours ago was a condo for garage mice, was spit-shined and moved into the house. With that step towards my home of peace and plenitude complete, it was time to wash pillows.

I actually should have thrown them out. According to Martha's domesticity diva charts, my pillows should have seen the dark side of a landfill roughly two and a half decades ago. But the second best option, in my mind, was to wash them. They came out of the washer looking great. I put them into the dryer with a towel and some flannel sheets, hoping everything would fluff to decadent proportions.

About 30 minutes into the drying cycle, I noticed an odd smell. When I looked in the glass front door, all I could see were feathers. Thousands of feathers. And the smell? We have a propane dryer, so the feathers were smoldering too. Even Lucille Ball couldn't have come up with this nightmare.

First step was opening the dryer door, only once I was armed with a running shop vac. I sucked up what I could and carried the entire soggy mess outside. Wet feathers are supremely nasty. More vacuuming ensued. And more. And more. The lint tray was so full, I had to put one foot on the dryer for leverage to pry it from it's slot. When it finally gave way, it looked like a chicken had exploded in the laundry room.

The dogs and cats took the opportunity to sneak in the open door and tracked feathers all about the house. They rolled in the wet, feathered sheets outside, came inside and shook. Brilliant.

All old pillows are now in the trash. Most feathers are out of the dryer, but I just rewashed the flannel sheets--flannel and terry cloth hold feathers surprisingly well--so the cycle begins anew.

To make this somewhat educational, let's review what we learned today:
--Martha Stewart has someone else take care of her pillows
--Machine washing and drying vintage pillows isn't a good idea
--The smell of burning feathers will take away your appetite for poultry

Feathers are still flying around our house like freshly fallen snow. But I go out of town tomorrow, which makes it less onerous, at least for me! Thank you Martha Stewart. Once I have a staff, we can talk pillows. Oh, and have a Happy New Year!

My Non-Resolution

2010-12-31T07:35:00.000-08:00

When it comes to sugar, I'm a hypocrite.

I know how toxic it is, limit how much my kids eat and even write articles warning of its dangers. Yet, I eat it anyway.

On Monday, I ate a healthy breakfast--not looking for kudos, just setting up the day. The rest of the day was spent working towards an afternoon deadline, while eating freeze-dried Astronaut Ice Cream (I helped Santa by putting some in my Christmas stocking) and a chocolate bar dipped in peanut butter. No wonder my late night snow shoe was for crap.

Sadly this isn't the first time I've committed such egregious eating horrors. Repeated efforts have convinced me that tic-tacs and an egg nog latte are not enough lunch for two-a-day workouts. And four Hershey's kisses do not provide the requisite calories for yo-yo's on Tiehack.

Of course I know better. But, being a mom, I give my kids first dibs on available snacks. Avoiding gluten and dairy makes it harder for grab-n-go food, and I don't want to be bothered with deciding what to eat as I rush to fit in a workout, before school pick-up, dinner, meetings, etc.

For my non-resolution, more common sense survival skills really, I'll try to do a better job stashing healthy food in pockets, packs and my car. I'm even going to cut back on sugar, and plan to eat sweet treats only on special occasions (and no, a random Tuesday won't count). However chocolate counts as medicinal. That's a resolution even I can do.

My Left Toenail

2010-12-29T11:57:00.001-08:00

Fingernails and toenails are something I never really give much thought, until they are gone.

As I child, I bit my nails with a frenzied passion, but photos of Princess Di, in all of her regal splendor, with stubby gnawed on fingers, made me quit faster than any bribes, threats or bitter nail potions.

Once past the biting stage, I didn't have the patience for polish. In high school, I never understood how girls had the time to change colors on a daily basis. For a few years, I gave in to a quick coat of clear polish to add a bit of shine, but decided it wasn't worth the bother.

During the post-college wedding circuit days, I would go in for a manicure or pedicure every few months, yet that phase passed about the same time I started running a lot. I had to drive home from more than one pedicure barefoot because I showed up in sweaty running shoes, and ruined many more with sock impressions left in still damp nail paint.

I used to like my running shoes on the small size, same for ski boots. My reasoning was a sense of increased responsiveness and proprioception. The result was lots of dead toenails. At first, they would alternate. Left big toe, right middle toe, right little toe, but eventually my left big toenail decided to bear the brunt of my footwear transgressions, and falls off every year or two.

For a long time, this loss was merely an end-of-season inconvenience, but now it's just gross. About six years ago, the nail started to grow in unusual waves and ripples. Plus it no longer attaches to my nail bed. Doctors used to suggest I paint it, but a lovely discoloration accompanies the disfiguration, so only the darkest of colors would do. The latest professional recommendation is to wear a bandage....forever. Given my love for flip-flops, a perma-bandage is a smart idea.

This year, my nail and I decided to part ways after the GTTR. Honestly, it was a relief, both from physical discomfort and basic bother.

And it was actually growing in, yet again. Not much, but about a third of the way. Until a Mrs. Claus mishap on Christmas Eve. Santa brought the girls snow skates with bindings, and those suckers are heavy and hard. One was sitting on the foot board of my bed, when I clumsily leaned over to fetch some scissors. I knocked the skate off the foot board, and it landed squarely on my woeful, left, big toe--but somehow, just that one.

As I was writhing on the ground in shock and pain, John leaned over to investigate. He was incredulous that a snow skate could cause such damage, and even suggested it was a positive thing because at least it was my ugly toe. Had I not been singularly focused on squeezing my foot to stop the pain, I'm fairly certain I would have done something un-holiday like, such as dropping a snow skate on his foot.

It still hurts and all signs point to another summer with no toenail. That's just great. You know those over sized t-shirts with bikini clad bodies printed on them? Well I could use a pair of toe socks adorned with nicely pedicured feet. In the meantime, I'll go for some fun bandages.

Visions of Sugarplums

2010-12-14T04:24:00.001-08:00

Well, not so much. I actually couldn't sleep due to visions of the following list, which I received firing squad style, from my family, in less than 10 minutes yesterday afternoon. The real kicker is that I, yes I, was relaxing for a moment in the hot pool, before heading to the lap lanes to wreak havoc and mayhem.

The pre-Christmas to-do list is huge, but I was ignoring it. Thankfully my family had it ready to go.

Did you get presents to the Post Office? Are there any presents under the tree yet? When will Christmas cards be ready? We are still making homemade teacher gifts aren't we? You are you coming to both of my play performances this week aren't you? What are we bringing to the cast party? Did you get my Secret Santa gift? I didn't know we could buy something, what should I get for my Secret Santa gifts? Is my costume finished? Is it okay if I invited some friends for a sleepover at our house...this weekend? Why haven't we made Christmas cookies yet? Are the empty decoration boxes away? Did you get the wreaths made or hung?

Enough!

The important things will get done, the not-so-important won't. As to what's important and what's not, I'll just have to see what is crossed off the 'to-do' list by the time Santa flies.

St. Nick was a Bust

2010-12-07T06:54:00.000-08:00

St. Nicholas Day is one of many festive holidays observed at our house. But this year was a bust.

The concept is for children to leave shoes outside the door (think row upon row of adorable wooden clogs in the Netherlands of old), and St. Nick comes along to fill the shoes of well-mannered children with treats.

He was supposed to visit on Sunday night, but I was unprepared and thus neglected to remind the girls about their shoes. Thankfully St. Nick made an appearance at school, and the girls, hoping he was still in town, left their shoes out last night.

Adair recently announced she no longer believes in most of the 'fairy nonsense' and that John makes a horrible tooth fairy. But she won't let go of Santa because Daddy seared her young and impressionable brain with the idea that only those who believe get the good presents. Meaning she was not about to leave her favorite shoes outside in the snow.

So, our bench had Taylor's shiny-clean, brand new snow boots and Adair's ratty old running shoes. Love the preteen spirit!

And we were ready too. JP picked up pastries on his way home, with a few extra for insurance against dropping, breakage or any other typical, comedic Pattillo misfortune. He was up early to plow the driveway, filled the girls' shoes and, since all went smoothly, ate the extra--slam dunk!

The girls ran out to fetch their shoes, dumped them on the table and found.....snow. That's it, just snow, no pastries.

Adair rolled her eyes, but Taylor lost it and decided she must have been naughty this year. While there is truth to her theory, this was not the time or place to discuss it. How did a sweet tradition go so wrong and now what were we going to have for breakfast?

While John was explaining how he really did see filled shoes on his way by the bench this morning, Hayduke, the dog, walked over to investigate the commotion and promptly vomited his belly full of undigested and completely recognizable St. Nick pastries at my feet.

Mystery solved. And breakfast appetites gone. On to the next holiday!

Traveling Light

2010-12-04T20:24:00.001-08:00

I don't know how to travel light. I like the idea, but it never works for me.

A friend and I shared a hotel room in Boulder the other night. Knowing Kelly is a master of efficiency in all things, especially packing, I didn't' want to show up for an 18 hour stay with my large duffel bag. Instead I chose a 'grown-up' wheelie suitcase and regretted every single moment.

Kelly flew in and appeared with one bag, roughly the same size as my purse. I was driving and had my bag and two more pair of shoes that didn't fit in the bag--doesn't everyone need 5 shoe options (including three pair of boots) for a maximum of two outfit changes? Of course the weather was warmer than I anticipated, so I had to stop at a store on the way and grab a pair of lightweight leggings.

When I walked into the room, I now had a shopping bag, suitcase and two pair of shoes, in addition to my purse and computer bag. So much for efficiency.

And somehow, clothes doubled in space requirements during my brief sojourn. Luckily Kelly departed before me, so I wasn't feeling pressured to appear organized. Which was a good thing because it wasn't going to happen.

When I left the room, in addition to my bag (the new leggings fit inside), purse, computer bag and extra shoes, I was carrying a coat, unused running shoes and my toiletry kit because they no longer fit in the suitcase.

The house rule during my formative years was, if you can carry it, you can take it. While I admire those who effortlessly fit all they need in a half full, easy-to-carry bag, I've decided to stick with my childhood guideline. Sure, I'll be drenched in sweat by the time I get anywhere, but will have plenty of other clothing options! So I'm switching back to my forgiving duffel bag, and giving up on the idea of traveling light, at least until I'm too old to heft my stuff.

If I Take You To A Movie....

2010-11-22T19:15:00.000-08:00

There's series of children's books illustrating entertaining and fantastical chains of events: If you Give a Moose a Muffin, If you Give a Pig a Pancake, If you Give a Mouse a Cookie, etc.

Today, I had my very own typical chain of events. Perhaps not fantastical, but entertaining in the fact, that whether you want to admit it or not, you can relate.

My darling children don't have school this week. And after a morning spent juggling work and the girls, we were all at wits end. I finally negotiated one hour of peace and quiet in exchange for taking them to a movie matinee, complete with popcorn and candy.

Truth be told, it wasn't even a productive hour, but the deal had been dealt. Off we went to the movies.

Movie theater popcorn is one of my major food vices. If I have it, I cannot stop eating it until the bucket is scraped clean. Before kids, I went to the movies often enough, that it was possible to convince myself to go without, but not now. I cheapskate it and bring my own water, but otherwise bring on the popcorn, butter and candy (M&Ms or Junior Mints are the best).

Today's story begins with Brandon at the concession stand, convincing me to order one large popcorn instead of two mediums because they were really the same size (despite the vast price difference), and the larges had free refills--I so didn't need to know that.

If I Take You To A Movie
If I take you to a movie, I'm going to eat way too much.
Then I will feel fat and bloated, and want to go for a run.
But we won't get home in time for me to run before the unload groceries/fix dinner/bath/bedtime mayhem begins.
So I won't eat dinner, which will cause my blood sugar to drop, and me to get really grouchy.
Then I will blame the entire situation on John because, for some illogical reason, its always his fault.
(FYI - That's where we are at the moment).
I will go to bed hungry and wake up with even less patience.
Which means by about 10:30 am, I'll be saying, "If I take you to a movie...."

Actually tomorrow I think we'll go bowling. If I remember correctly, they have decent pizza and cold beer. Oh, and really cute shoes.

Preventative Medicine Makes Sense, But Where's the Fun?

2010-11-18T20:48:00.000-08:00

Preventative medicine sounds good in theory. Eat right, exercise, get plenty of sleep, maintain a healthy weight and don't smoke. I can do this!

For the most part, I've led a healthy adult life. Okay, maybe only partially, but my path is a whole lot better than the majority and I believe strongly in extra credit points for good behaviour.

With a lifetime of consistent exercise, dabbling in vegetarianism every now and again, being mostly gluten free for two years, eschewing dairy (when its convenient) for six months, an average of two to three drinks per week (if you take the number of drinks I've had in my entire life and divide that by my age, I'm guessing that's about right--welcome to math according to me), taking supplements four or five days a week, often eating organic food and doing a two week raw food cleanse (once was enough), I was expecting a fat bank account of bonus points.

Not so much. Nothing is wrong, but with a focus on preventative medicine, it appears there are "some more steps I can take to ensure my long term health." And the bag of marshmallows I'm eating at the present is no where on the list.

Some suggestions from my kindly health care providers:
-watch my cholesterol (as in not watch it go up, but do something about lowering it. Oh, and turns out doctors find it relevant, and rather alarming, if an immediate relative just had a stroke--who knew)
-take more supplements (not a double dose of my kids Gummi Vites, but real supplements with specific purposes)
-avoid all sugars and processed foods--forever (nothing is forever and you cannot make me stop with these marshmallows, although they are making me feel a bit queasy)
-white foods are a NO (don't worry, my marshmallows are pink and green)
-no more dairy or gluten--forever (enough with forever)

And there was more, but by this point all I saw, where my doctor had been sitting, was a mute, mouth moving in the middle of a giant hot-fudge sundae with cookie crumbles, M&M's and lots of fake red cherries on top. Check please, I'm out of here.

This is all good and well, and intellectually I know these are worthwhile suggestions. But where is the fun? The spontaneity? The plate of hand-made gnocchi with prosciutto, sage and Fontina at an ancient, side-street trattoria in Florence? An overloaded, grease dripping down my chin Reuben at a chaotic NYC deli? A melt-in-your-mouth shrimp burger with cheese and slaw and fries at the beach in North Carolina? Or the honey dipped, fried dough puffs (that I WILL try next time) from a street vendor in Agra?

My oldest grand-dad lived until he was 93, and 90 of those years were awesome. He said his downfall came after he stopped swimming his daily laps at 90. He lived a life of moderation, for the most part, and had fun. Big Grand-dad died suddenly of a stroke at 67. But I seriously think he was eating dessert at the time. I remember him being happy and healthy, and at least his demise was fast.

So, here comes the shocker....I'm making my own rules. I will continue to exercise daily, but have dessert too. A balance will be struck between eating sticks and twigs (I actually have a snack by that name in the cabinet) and Fat Belly Burgers (they rock). I will take my vitamins and may even research meditation--doesn't mean I'll do it, but the thought is in the ethers. And Cazadores tequila has no gluten or dairy.

Me and Make-up

2010-11-12T18:19:00.000-08:00

When it comes to make-up, well....it just isn't my thing. Sure, applying concealer is a daily chore, but beyond that, I lose interest. I mean how on earth can there be so many different colors, shades, brands and configurations? And do I really have to throw everything out once a year? Plus my day usually involves some form of sweat inducing activity and the last thing I need to worry about is make-up melting off my face and scaring the children.

But there is one exception. On the rare occasions when I go to department stores, I love to make strafing runs through the cosmetics/perfume department to see how many samples I can try at once. Ten fingers means ten different colors plus the perfumes. I go in on one side looking like me and come out the other resembling a carnival performer on acid, with the added bonus of smelling like a French whore.

And this is a serious game. Making it through the department un-accosted by sales staff means victory. If a sales attendant asks to help me, game over--no more fingers in pots of colored creams, glitter and rouge. When they suggest I actually buy something, I leave dejected.

As much as the girls have begun to enjoy the game, even they refuse to let me enter a Sephora cosmetics emporium. After a successful gambit, John gives me the pathetic look usually saved for back alley junkies--although I've often caught a whiff of him and his dueling cologne samples, and invoke the hypocrisy defense.

Imagine my horror when I realized I actually needed new concealer. Aspen has a nice make-up store called the Cos-Bar. It's too tight for my typical raid run, so I'd never actually been in to visit. But visit I did.

Cosmetics sales ladies are generally the girliest of girls and they make me nervous. I steeled myself, grabbed my empty concealer jar and bravely walked in the door. After showing what I needed, I was told it was "the absolute wrong product for me". Civilian translation--they were out of it. We settled on a different product, which should do everything from erase sun spots, smooth wrinkles, give me bigger biceps and make my boobs grow one cup size. I'm in!

"You do use base concealer don't you?". Ugh! I had done so well, but Beautiful Betsy caught me thinking of how amazing life will be with my new concealer. She seemed so nice, sincere and genuinely concerned about my well-being. I wavered.

"Why, no."

"Well you must try some. It's yellow, which is the new green as far as red spot concealers go."

WTF?

So I bought some. It doesn't seem to live up to any of the claims on the box, but is a handy size for writing notes on the girls' mirrors when I go out of town.

And I managed to try two different hand lotions, one perfume, a blush and an eyeshadow on my way out the door. No questions asked. I won! My prize? A stick of yellow concealer, which is the new green.

Sick Humor

2010-11-10T19:15:00.000-08:00

Seriousness is proving elusive. Mind you, it's generally overrated, but good to be able to access when needed. At the moment, I cannot stop laughing.

Timing is everything.

Yesterday was my annual gyno exam. About midway through my check-up, the over-eager nurse practitioner announced she thought I have TB.

I said I didn't know you could diagnose Tuberculosis from a pelvic exam, and proceeded to lose it in laughter. She didn't' see the humor.

In fact, she suggested I have to take my health more seriously and this was no laughing matter. I explained that in the last ten minutes, she had scraped my cervix, palpitated my ovaries and uterus and taken a painful biopsy (I might feel a little pinch--my ass) from a body part I've never heard of. If I didn't laugh, I was going to burst into tears and chase her around the examination room with her damn scalpel.

Back to the TB suggestion. It's not TB. I picked up an environmental cough in India. Somewhere between running 100 miles behind exhaust belching Jeeps, touring cities blanketed in smog and fleeing my burning hotel through thick, black, noxious smoke, my lungs got pissed. I don't blame them.

She would still like me to get a chest X-Ray. Hmm, tomorrow is my first mammogram. Since I'm petite in the chest department, maybe they'll throw in the chest X-Ray for free. Or perhaps I can just turn and squirm the proper way. I'll ask at any rate.

For friends battling breast cancer, I know its no laughing matter. But I really do think laughter is the best medicine. Go ahead and giggle, hopefully it's contagious.

Rough Edges

2010-11-07T09:07:00.000-08:00

In the world of Waldorf education, there is a lot of focus on smoothing "rough edges". The explanation (in my words) being that we come into this world as opinionated individuals with sharp edges. Thus it becomes our life work to smooth these edges and meld, or at least function smoothly, in society. Examples being the development of an internal edit button, not living off your Id and looking beyond one's personal objectives to the collective good.

I thought I was doing okay, not well but at least okay, in this regard until I went to India. Like water finding the faults in a rock, India worked it's way into the weaknesses of my psyche and blew them wide open. Now the challenge comes in polishing all of those new facets.

My journey to India has two fairly distinct parts.

The first was the Himalayan Run & Trek. We ran more than 100 miles over five days, on an old cobble/jeep/yak road that snaked its way along the ridge line between India and Nepal. The terrain and sights were an ever changing mix of beasts of burden, school children, country villages, cobbles, sand, ruts, prayer flags, roots, steps, ridiculous mountain vistas and lush jungles. Between running, taking in the scenery and bonding with new friends, there wasn't much time to do more than eat, drink and sleep in preparation for the next stage. The result was a processing delay/buffer between seeing something and having the experience truly resonate.

But after running 100 miles, the exhaustion creeps in and defenses falter. That's when my real Indian education began.

I was traveling with a smaller group, most who had been to India before. They were generous with experiential advice, words of warning and wry smiles as I sucked up every nuanced detail. Pre-departure, I was told that whatever my issues, and we all have issues, India would completely exacerbate them. I was expecting the crowds, extreme poverty or lack of sanitation to bother me. Yes, these all stirred emotions of anger, overwhelm, disgust and sadness. But upon closer examination, I realized there was actually harmony amidst the chaos.

Turns out my challenges came in accepting a complete loss of control and the realization that I had to depend upon others.

On a harrowing drive from Agra to Delhi, my British car mate looked at me and said, "you have to let go and trust in fate, karma or whatever it may be--if it's your time to die, there is nothing you can do about it."

While he provided a bit more introspective reality than I wanted to ponder at such an early hour, he was right. Once I stopped obsessing about each near miss with an over loaded camel drawn cart or Kamikaze goods carrier truck and let the continuous cacophony of horns fade into the background, the madness began to make some sense. Mind you, I will never drive in India, but have complete regard for those who do and do it well.

I am a control freak, details my drug of choice. How, when, where, with whom--I want to know it all in an attempt to maximize every experience. But in India, no one cared. Situations would unfold and outcomes be determined whether I jumped up and down until I was blue in the face or not. I realized it would be easier to simply sit back and let things unfold--just because I realized this doesn't mean I did it, but I can certainly see how it would've helped.

Only children generally have one of two personality types (warning, gross generalization ahead). Some are self-centered and demanding, while others, such as myself, gravitate towards the self-sufficient, loner end of the spectrum with just a few high-maintenance tendencies. But in India, my independent streak was a liability and friends necessary for survival. From the driver who always seemed to be at the right place just when you needed him, to my British car mate passing along 10 rupees (about 25 cents) as a mandatory "tip" for the maniacal bathroom attendant, to the cool headed early morning call announcing we had to evacuate our hotel because it was on fire (mind you, no smoke alarms were going off) - I could not do India alone. And I wouldn't want to. Experiencing the insanity with others, laughing ands sharing stories was too much fun.

My long suffering husband, always first in line to be my knight in shining armor, was relieved I finally eschewed some of my loner ways, yet also a bit jealous he was not present for the epiphany. But between night frights caused by lingering effects of anti-malaria medicine and the swath of emotional wreckage I've left in my wake as the result of a bullshit meter resting on empty (how can I strengthen my weak ankles for running--take up biking; why are you leaving so soon--because I'm not having fun; aren't you going to apologize--it's not my fault you're a moron), John has been busy.

Last night, a doctor friend shared stories from his days as a medical intern at a state hospital in Delhi. His experiences of monkeys and parrots in rooms, no medicine and death inducing waits made mine look as if I'd spent the past two weeks at Disney World. However, he spoke with a passion which belied his true love of the country.

Someone who had been listening in on our conversation said, "I guess you both are glad you never have to go back." You can imagine his shock when we said in unison that we couldn't wait.

"But why," he asked.

The why, my friend, is something you have to experience for yourself, rough edges and all.

The Adventure Begins

2010-10-20T23:09:00.000-07:00

I'm packed. Not how I normally would mind you. If you look closely, there are more pharmaceuticals, vitamins, enzymes, electrolyte replacement packs and protein bars in my bag than clothes. But hopefully prevention will make the trip, and it will certainly make it easier to get dressed.

I'm even taking the medium sized TNF duffel, not the huge one. I figure I'll be enough of an anomaly without lugging around a bag larger than most people's cars. Sunscreen and socks are stuffed in my shoes--no sunburned feet if something explodes, clothes rolled instead of folded, copies of my passport and itinerary covertly stashed and I seem to be rather organized (the 12:15 blog posting doesn't count).

This is an odd feeling! Just goes to show how nervous I am about this trip. Nerves or not, I'm off to India tomorrow, and its time to relax into the experience. The agenda is not my own, but it's incredible. Seriously, I get to see 4 of the world's 5 tallest peaks, plus the Taj Majal in one trip!

My goals are to: take in as many of the sights, sounds and even smells I can; soak up the culture; maintain my sense of humor; run a respectable 'off the couch' marathon and just be. I'm leaving my turbo tourist ways at home. Sipping chai (that's boiled for at least a minute--of course) and watching the sunrise over Mt. Everest sounds just about right. Ha, that sounds flipping nuts! Anyway, I'm trying.

Which is why I'm not bringing a computer. One less hassle. So, it will be two whole weeks before I share my adventures. In the meantime, you can just imagine. I haven't read Eat, Pray, Love, but I expect my trip to be more like a National Lampoon Family Vacation in India--laughs, toilet humor (really just toilet focus--for the life of me I cannot wipe with my left hand) and comically timed misunderstandings. Watch out India, here I come!

Namaste.

Martyr or Superhero?

2010-10-15T23:30:00.000-07:00

Rarely are there enough hours in the day to do what I need to accomplish. I'll admit to having a rather cumbersome "to do" list, but I don't feel that's a bad thing. Tardiness is a given when I'm involved and it is not done as a sign of disrespect or to gain control of the situation. But waiting is wasting time, and I'm a rather impatient waiter, so I instead choose to fit in 'just one more thing', which is usually one thing too many.

No doubt I have some sort of psychosis, but that is not my point. The point is whether I'm a martyr, as I'm accused by my husband, or a superhero for getting so much done in the time at hand?

According to the American Heritage Dictionary (published in 1982--it's been awhile since college!), a martyr is 1. One who chooses to suffer death rather than renounce religious principles. 2. A person who makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order to further a belief, cause or principle. There are more, but they get tedious.

I'm up at 1 in the morning writing this as I wait for cupcakes, for tomorrow's party, to finish baking. While sleep would be nice, I'm not "suffering" and I'm certainly not attempting to further a cause, just cross something off my party list. Truth of the matter is, I also function better at night and baking the cupcakes now is much better than it would be at six in the morning. I have to bake them and this is when it works.

I think I'm a superhero, although my costume is getting a bit snug thanks to all of the birthday treats. Six hours until I need to wake up, plenty of time to finish baking and get some rest. No martyrdom involved. But first I'm going to fold some laundry, so I can cross one thing off the "to-do" list for tomorrow.

A Letter to the Ass From Lane Four

2010-10-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Ass,

How did it feel when you began swimming laps? If you can't remember, I'll help.

It was about 18 months ago, you were 30 pounds overweight and clueless. Those of us who have been at it a while gave you pointers, watched you gain confidence, saw the pounds melt away and tried to model good etiquette.

Unfortunately, your skill has not kept on pace with your confidence, and my hydrophobic dogs have more pool etiquette than you ever will.

As you kindly pointed out to my daughter and me on Thursday, lane four is, in fact, for the faster swimmers. Which is why I was surprised, although momentarily impressed, when you hopped in our lane. Until you decided to speak.

Your suggestion for, "us ladies to continue our swimming lesson when the serious athletes weren't in the lanes," left me speechless.

In all honesty, I normally wouldn't have my daughter in lane four, but she hopped in after I started and the other lanes had multiple occupants--including you.

My prepubescent child had just shared her body image concerns and her desire to begin swimming regularly. Her concerns are unfounded, but worrisome none-the-less to a mom. Don't fret, she is built like Nicole DeBoom and will go far once she finds her sport.

Did you see her stroke? It's beautiful. Especially next to your gyrations with the mask/snorkel/fins/paddle/water wing combo you use to stay afloat.

Our goal for the day was to swim half a mile. Sadly, you crushed her spirit on lap 7 out of 13. I don't know how dense you must be to have missed her tears.

Instead of pulling your goggles out as far as they would go and letting them snap back on your sorry face or punching you in the nose (believe me I considered both), I focused my adrenaline on Adair and pushed her to swim one more lap. All she wanted to do was quit. For good.

How did it feel to see her on your toes when you made the turn? Good thing you were wearing flippers, or else you would have been 'chicked' by an 11-year old.

Next time, remember how it felt when you began. Or, better yet, pick another lane.

Regards,

The Bitch in the Red Bikini