Warning: I don't know where I'm going with this post.

This morning, I was walking my dog.  You may know him, he's a bit of a big deal.  His name is JD Thaddeus Cooper ("Just Dog" or anything else that fits the moment).  We normally walk with his best friend, one Duke (last name TBD).  Today we were alone in the predawn, walking below the stars and satellites, in 13 degrees of introverted bliss before the next April snow storm hits around 1:00pm.  JD perked up his ears and then sat down, listening.  It's a great thing when he does this, because he twitches his Aussie ears, he pulls them all the way forward, then all the way back, so he looks kind of annoyed (see video Exhibit A).  At times like this one, he sits with his old man face pointed out to the world, quietly reading the park newspaper.

So I stopped.  Why not?  I stopped and stood next to my dog, listening to see what he heard.  Was Duke on his way to the park?  Was there a deer nearby?  Let's let him have his moment.  Then I heard it.  A soft, low "whooooot" from an owl.  JD has little use for songbirds, but is enamored with owls, turkeys and falcons.  I know, he's a little weirdo.  I located the owl visually, shadowed in the dawning grayness, perched upon a tall light post.  It took flight, massive wide wings, lazily flapping, and landed in the trees, where another owl began hooting in response.  We sat there and listened to these two owls cooing and hooing to each other for about 5 minutes, and I thought, "when did this stop being amazing?  At what point did I just begin walking the dog to get him out and get him home?"

So that was it; a little moment to recenter how amazing life is when you're simply out in it, no phone, no screens, experiencing a moment of beauty.  Thanks, JD.

So today's song (tune) of the day is contemplative; soft.  Appropriately called "A Shadow and a Thought."  An original Hanneke Cassel tune. If you don't know her, you should.  You know that thing about me?  The one where I've met a TON of famous people and only fangirled one?  Well, now it's two.  I couldn't help it; she was standing there, talking to someone else, and a million flashbacks of perfect and terrible moments set to her tunes went through my mind.  And I just walked up and hugged her.  I'm not even a hugger, guys. There were just no words to tell her how beautiful, complicated, simple, and meaningful her music is.  She is a rare gift.  You should know her.  And she didn't TOTALLY freak out when I hugged her; just a little.  She did become slightly more uncomfortable with the subsequent verbal diarrhea. Hopefully our next conversation made things better, because when someone's work is that personal to you, you'd hate to think that you personally but a wall up that will never come down between you.  Because you're weird and overly attuned to the intricacies of tunes and songs.  Always have been.  Sorry not Sorry.  If you've never stood in your kitchen, spinning around to a particularly good moment of loud piping or fiddling, or anything that touches you, you are missing out, my friend.

Anywho, HERE is the tune.  Thank you, Hanneke. My Dad told me a few weeks ago that I was a very grateful person, and I am glad they raised me to be one.  Life is hard enough without bright-siding it (hence the blog).  Did you know that if you donate a certain amount of money to Manyhopes.org, Hanneke will let you name one of her original tunes?  I'm just saying...
this is how you get tunes like "Artsy Smartsy Phoebe," which is a GREAT tune. :)

My Goal in Life is to Be Eileen to This Girl :)

There's a girl in my building who is a mini-me.  She looks like I did at her age, she is smart and funny and math makes her cry.  It's a strange thing to see someone so wholly reflected in who you were at that age; same thought processes, motivators, social problems.  She sits squarely where I did in school socially; not popular, not unpopular, wanting everyone to like her, but also has her own personality.  We spend some time together every week when I pick her up from school, and slowly but surely, I've slipped into the role that a dear woman named Eileen played in my life; at least that has become the goal.
Eileen was the cool, artsy, smart employee of the radio station a 30 second walk through the woods away.  I don't know if you know much about my childhood but it was pretty privileged if you ask me (which you did by clicking into this blog).  We lived in the woods on a dirt road, a quarter mile from school and beach and swimmer's itch.  It was a small jaunt to my father's work, a public radio station out in the woods with a 555 foot tower that I may have gotten caught trying to climb once. Maybe.  A woman named Eileen worked there, along with an eccentric group of hippies, conservatives, grammaticians, and musicians that I still think of with great affection.  Eileen had the distinction of being super cool in my mind; she brought her dog to work, she made crossword puzzles from SCRATCH, without computer help, she had a rubber stamp collection and colored pencils that kept me busy for days, and she had one of those ergonomic chairs that I took to college because it was so unique and cool. Apparently I was a hipster before it was a thing.

Eileen encouraged every creative bone in my body, as well as both my brothers'.  She'd take us for the evening or the weekend and we'd watch old movies and play games.  Every winter we'd make gingerbread men that my brothers always turned into zombies or monsters and she thought everything we came up with was great.  My parents never gave our cookies away, I'll just say that.   Her family was the coolest ever - her dad was an Irish story teller who had played in a big band before writing for the Detroit Free Press, her sister was an animator for Disney when they still drew cartoons.  She (Maureen) taught me to make hair scrunchies from any and all material laying around.  Any and all.  Upholstery scraps, panties, she never saw material she couldn't use for something.

Anyway, when I was a teen, I lost contact with Eileen and it was a real bummer, a hole that I felt for a long time.  We were able to connect a few years ago, and it has been great to have her in my life again and watch her with her family, just as marvelous as I remember.  Enough waxing nostalgic.

So, picking up this girl from school has been fun; on a few occasions she's come over and baked cookies or run basic science experiments in the kitchen like sucking smoke into a baby enema thingy and squeezing it back out, jello and food coloring experiments and the like.  We also made cupcakes in the shape of dog doo because we could.  I was asked to help her with math, and I hesitated because math always made me cry.  My brother, Jeff, was about the only one who could help me without making me cry (her mom asked me how, and I can't remember).  It was always so frustrating; math is supposed to be the same in every country, and I always got weird answers; I couldn't understand why I didn't get it.  Lydz is the same.  She can do it, she just doesn't see the point of doing the same kind of problem over and over again for the sake of doing it, and works better with story problems.  We were working on long division and multiplying multiple lines, blah blah blah. She can do it fine, she just doesn't like it, so after 5 problems, she starts rushing through just to finish it (just like I did).  So I went to Hobby Lobby earlier and bought some watercolor stuff and promised her we could do watercolor after we finished math.  At the end of each section, we had a 30 second dance party.  I played her favorite band on Pandora, we made it work.  It was so crazy to watch basically myself.  I knew when she was burning out, I knew what would bring her back, it was just nuts.  That's when I realized I could possibly pass on the gift that Eileen gave to me.  Having someone outside your family think you're cool when you're a kid is surprisingly confidence building.  She deserves confidence. And she's MUCH better at watercolor than I am. Anyway...

Last week she had an ice skating recital, and of course we went.  We brought JD, who was amazing, and also a hero.  A lady was walking down the bleachers instead of the stairs, and she started to fall; her trajectory was terrifying; the raised bump where your neck meets the spine was aimed perfectly at the concrete floor.  JD backed up and caught her.  She hit his back and he sat down, and she slid softly onto the ground.  Not only that, but for the next few seconds, as people were asking if she was ok before helping her up, he just sat there, with that stupid Aussie Grin, being adorable.  Big day for pride!  So that's what you do, as this kind of adult investor; you sit through a 2 hour recital because your goofball is at the end of the second half and you need a good seat while your awesome service dog sits in between your legs and is amazing, as each little girl in her skates and bathrobe stops to pet him on her way to her program.  I'd do it again.  She's the tall one, the anchor at the end of the line.  Yeah, that's pretty apt.

So last week was the last week she lived in my building.  I picked her up Thursday and realized it was the last convenient night to have her over, and she would be alone for a few hours if I left her at home, so I had her over and I pulled out a bunch of falling apart books and magazines.  We made collages, she discovered fountain and calligraphy pens and is subsequently obsessed.  I even pulled out my emerald and gold flake ink and let her go nuts.  We had fun.  I got a text later that night from her mom that said, "...I've heard 'Elle is SO cool' about 13 times, and one, 'Tim is SO lucky.'" So apparently it works both ways, in the confidence department.

I don't know how Eileen feels now that I'm adult, if she is as nostalgic about my childhood as I am, but I hope that Lydz is half as blessed as I was by that woman, who thought everything I did was so cool, and never told me something was a dumb idea or done badly.

Oof. Trolls and the Anti-Feminist Movement

OOF.

I've stayed away from political posts, I've tried to make my facebook page a beacon of light.  I see a man putting up a wall on the southern end of our country, when all along, I thought he was afraid of legion Middle Eastern terrorists in planes and cars, not desperate humans in small groups trying to escape death and poverty...on foot.  It may as well be isolationist 1916 (or 1961), and I don't know if saying nothing is ok anymore.  The power given to hate was instantaneous, and my compassion forces me to feel anxious, as if the rules that govern the people are hollow, and can be so easily changed or ignored. If there is no base mentality for better life for all, what's the moral code for? Can I simply not follow the rules because I don't believe in them? How many people do? But I digress.

I have not seen myself as a feminist.  I plod along, trying to bring peace and love.  I don't love labels, but yes, I do feel the burn when I pay more for my health insurance despite having no children and no hospital stays, no surgeries, but because I am a woman.  I have resentment over the fact that if I put my car in my name and a man's name, I get a better insurance rate because some actuary somewhere decided my sex makes me more of an accident risk, though I've never had one.  Maybe I do get paid as much as a man, but my bills are higher as a single female.  I have no tax breaks, no piggy back benefits, but big whoop. I have my independence and I enjoy my life.  This actually means something to me.

Yesterday I was sent a meme of a perfectly tailored, plumped lip, manicured and hair-styled blonde (suuuure) holding up a sign that says she will not make men the enemy and she will not promote feminism.

I found it ignorant.  Logically speaking, why would a feminist hate men, to which she aspires to be equal?  I made a facebook post as such (against my better judgement).  And immediately, a man told me that feminism has become more about man hating. Another man liked it. I responded with the illogical-ness of the statement and (admittedly) threw in a dig about how in this photo, the woman looks like she is in competition against other women for the attention of a man (my cynical side wanted to rip into the photo like, why would she want to do all that bling on her nails if there was no man paying for it, yada yada yada, but that's not helpful and it was bad enough that I said what I did).  He sent me back a message asking me to explain myself and that even though I didn't want to hear it, men and women are equal.

I see his perspective; I do.  A married man would think we are equal and paid and treated equal, but it felt like he wanted me to say he was the enemy here.  I didn't.  I realized his perspective, he does not realize mine; that does not make him my enemy.  MAYBE men think women hate them because they often tell women to sit down, everything is fine.  Resentment builds in a conversation, forget a world history of male dominance.  Maybe we are paid the same, but I'm spending more as a single woman and that cannot be denied.

Firstly, in text, asking someone to "please explain" their reasoning and how they came to that conclusion comes off as arrogant and condescending; it shows that one feels above the conversation, above the issue, and above the other person.  This is not a mathlete competition.

Secondly, women have to spend so much money to be taken seriously in a workplace, or pretty much anywhere.  We have to buy makeup, clothes, shoes, be the right weight, be funny, able to make jokes about other women and we BETTER do our hair with products and colors so that we are taken seriously in a conversation or a job interview.  Men can wear slacks and a shirt with 5 o'clock shadow and they are taken seriously.  If a woman walked into a job interview (even an internal one for a promotion) without her hair and makeup done, without high heels and in slacks and a shirt, would you hire her?  This just seems like  headache; like she's probably gay and a protected class and she's going to cause problems for the company in the future; boy doesn't that seem like a lot of work?  Plus, we need a face for the business; she's overweight and wearing pants (or flat shoes or her hair is short/not tied up perfectly, etc).  This does not just apply to men, women bosses are guilty of these things too, and I've watched over 15 years in the workforce as the same patterns emerge.  A guy can come in hungover with an untucked shirt and dirty pants and he can get to work, get promoted, stay mobile. A women comes in because her toddler kept her up and she has "Tired Eyes," which somehow equates to a low work ethic and she can't move up because clearly she doesn't "take care of herself." Feminists buck these kinds of double standards.  That's why they are seen as hippies, as women who don't shave, as women who are combative.  They want to be seen as the same, but they feel the pressure to be seen as "having it all together all the time" like a soccer mom image from the suburbs.  Do not try and tell me they are equal either.  At least they have wine (that is a joke).  When I see a woman in a photo claiming to be anti feminist (another label!!) looking like a barbie doll in pink, I feel like this point is made.

So when a feminist (since we are SO interested in labels) tries to present herself as she is without spending resources on makeup, hair, shoes, clothes, this season's anything, she is seen as not caring about her appearance, therefore career and she is often looked over.  Even if she DOES spend those resources, other women say things like, "oh, those are last season" or "I wish I had your bravery to wear that!" If you think confidence can override this perception, it can't.  The employer makes judgements immediately that range from "People of Walmart" to "CEO" based on their image.  I'm not saying beauty queens get hired for their looks and are brainless; there are so many brilliant, caring, ethical, capable amazing women who want to contribute to a workplace and a family life, but we don't all have the resources or time to be all nines all the time.  And even the smart beauty queen can't come in to work without her makeup done; you all know the comments that would arise.

Thirdly, feminists (there's that word again) don't hate men.  OK, some of them do.  But a real feminist knows they need men to help create the equality they so terribly desire; to offset the image of double standards.  Women can multi task; we love it. This often manifests in us taking on more responsibility than our pay demands, because it stimulates our brain and makes us feel productive.  We want to stay busy, show our devotion by acts.  This leads to resentment (that we brought on ourselves) because we see others just doing the same minimum and getting regular raises, promotions, results.  It also feels like we deserve it more because we can do it, and have been doing it, along with figuring out the copy machine and driving coworkers home, fine tuning presentations, watering the plants, making appointments, taking phone calls, and anything else this looks like.  So when it looks like they hate men, more than likely they do not, but once again, the structure has shown that there is no reason to try.  But if we don't try, can we live with ourselves?  Do we give up like in Atlas Shrugged, and realize that it doesn't matter?  Sure.  But then, what if we all do?  Oh, I know; half the country doesn't vote and we build a literal wall between our neighbors instead of feeding our children or cleaning the water pumped into their houses for drinking and bathing.  This is why men think feminists hate them.  Women are tired of the same status quo that they watch every day.  Women have compassion enough to try and be good humans, in order to stay in their positions if nothing else.  Enough to still care for others while allowing themselves to come second. But it becomes combative and improper to try to come first, so a label is made and they get a pat on the head to sit down; "You don't need to act like that, you're trying to get attention."  YES. They are the patient in the hospital with the cracked ribs trying to get pain relief, but since the doctor can't "see" the injury and there's nothing to do for it, they're just here for pain pills.  YES.  They become frustrated for a reason.  They become resentful and angry, and it has, at times, been aimed at men in an attempt to get them to help.

So here's an idea; HELP.  If a woman acts like she hates a man, it's because she's working toward a goal by herself.  Always.  At home or at work.  It doesn't mean her goal is stupid, it doesn't mean it's not a valid goal.  It means she has to navigate around yet another blockade in the hopes of making the whole environment better.  FOR EVERYONE.  And get a new label instead of changing the meaning of words.  Or just stop.  Could we stop?

End of speech.

Today's song of the day should come as no surprise. Lyrics: Sit Still, Look Pretty 

Family Recipes

So here I am, today.  I haven't blogged in a while (while not due to lack of interesting musings, more to misplacement of time into a box of good intentions).  Perhaps we shouldn't dwell on it.  The point is, today I have most of the day off, a rarity, and while I was at work this morning, I received a text from my beautiful, lovely mother with the following question: "Do you have a favorite from me...the recipe I make...?"  I saw the text as I was leaving and smiled.  I mean, recipes are attached to memories, no?  She may as well have asked if I have a favorite movie (all my number 1 choices are equal, and there are legion).  So in order to answer her question, you all have to deal with me processing the information here (sorry not sorry).

So it's been like a few years, but here's a song for you.  And here is the same artist, performing one of my mom's favorite songs. I put it up top, in case you want to hear it as you read (both instrumentals).

The first recipe that popped into my head was my mother's taco salad; a dish almost exclusively served in a crystal starburst bowl, and one of the earliest I remember.  But I don't really LIKE taco salad.  It was brought to many a potluck or Sunday dinner in between church services, and at different ages, I had different problems with it.  When I was 4, I didn't like the kidney beans.  When I was 10, I wanted Ranch dressing on it.  When I was 15 I hated the phase she was in that I lovingly call "the black-eyed pea rebellion," but at least I ate the kidney beans.  Looking back on it, she started using more black eyed peas after my southern great grandmother passed away, solidifying my belief that recipes are no more than train physical mementos of transient memories, bringing back a moment with a lost loved one.  Perhaps this is why I have always been enchanted with hand written recipe cards and church cookbooks.

In the end, this is why I want my mother's ever changing recipe for taco salad; so that I can live those moments as a child, sitting on a piano bench on Sunday afternoons, stuck between the kids' and adult's tables, seeing people at the age I remember them best.  The smile of my piano teacher, who was nearly another mother to me, full of encouragement and discipline.  The way her long, slender fingers gracefully passed the bowl to my mother while she inhaled and made a nearly imperceptible click in the back of her throat that I heard a million times as she sat next to me, fumbling over the piano keys as I did.  The pastor's daughter, who thought I was such a cool older kid and wanted to be like me, her fiery hair alight in the sun as we crunched on the chips together, me feeling somewhat superior because I had a fan.  Captain Awesome, enjoying the very same taco salad on my mother's patio just last summer, raving over the flavors, bringing him into my taco salad memory bank.  The point is, you don't always ask for recipes because they taste good; you ask because it was a staple of your life that turns into a deposit in a memory bank.

Secondly, I thought about her Chicken Spaghetti recipe that she discovered the year she home-schooled my brother and me, I think from his home economics textbook.  It was wildly expensive to make, and the only time I remember Velveeta being used in our home, but for that year, it was THE DISH.  It was also very flavorful, and reminded me of how I didn't love red sauce on my spaghetti, and my mother would saute noodles in butter for me...I was a difficult child, who didn't like my food touching and I wish I could say I grew out of it.  I would love that recipe, but would I ever make it?  Did we eat too much of it and burn out?

Thirdly, I favor her pumpkin cookies, for which I have a recipe already, tucked away in my handwritten book of favorite recipes.  Same with the Dilly Bread and her wedding cake recipe, which I will NEVER endeavor to make, but I think about the edges she cut off the cake to decorate it, and how we were allowed to eat those (the BEST strawberry shortcake ever in the history of the world), and how she always kept things in the oven for storage, forcing us to check before turning it on after we moved into town (and how the oven in the house until I was 13 was finicky but she knew how to time it right).  And how transporting wedding cake was always a family affair, each kid holding a layer, lifting it off our laps as we ran over bumps when we knew they were coming up in the road.  See? Recipes were never about food.

And then, Last summer she revisited egg rolls, which I remember helping with before I was 10, then don't remember for a long time after.  I was visiting her in Michigan, and she needed toasted sesame oil.  I had gone to Trader Joe's on my way out of town to bring her delicacies, and had on impulse bought a bottle of toasted sesame oil for myself.  It was (literally) the only thing I left at home, because I didn't see myself dragging it all over the Midwest for no reason.  She and I must have gone to 6 different stores looking for it, and couldn't find it.  We made do, but all I could think about was that stupid bottle of sesame oil, sitting in Minnesota being useless.  But man those egg rolls were good; I made a sweet chili sauce to go with them, which turned out not too bad.

I don't know how to answer this question from my mother.  I remember her shepherd's pie, with mashed potatoes piped on top.  I remember bags of hush puppy mix we had to keep in the freezer, in order to make the delicacy in our Michigan home.  I'm drooling right now thinking of her decadent Texas Sheet cake, with crunchy peanut butter and fudge frosting.  She taught me to make cinnamon rolls on the kitchen table which I always imagined my grandfather made, but probably didn't.  I remember her teaching me to make sloppy joes; how I left the ice cream bucket filled with flour sitting on the adjacent burner, her face in slow motion, silently begging me not to pick it up, even as I lifted it off the element and watched the bottom stay on the coils as pounds of flour escaped onto the floor and into the air.  Hours and hours of peeling potatoes for one reason or another, and how only philistines use peelers.  How could I possibly answer this question?

I know it's crazy that all these memories came from one text, but these and dozens other flashed through my brain in less than a second, one leading to the next, on and on, standing at the cash register as I checked out.  So, in answer to this question, I'm going to go completely tangent and say I think...enchiladas.  Is that weird?  I started out talking about taco salad.  Anyway, if the question is a favorite dish, I can't even.  :)  Hope that helps!

A Bit of Christmassy Goo, But it Gets Better Toward the End :)

As you may know, I have a very dear friend who lives far away (like most of the close people in my life...don't cry for me...Argentina?  Are there countries with 4 syllables to which I have actually been? Stop wasting time, back to the post).  Anywho, I've written about her before, but the gist of what you need to know right now is that we are old lady souls.  We prefer hand written letters when corresponding, the only email I got from her in the last 6 months was a virus (this is to show you she didn't actually email me), and I'll never see her on Facebook.  I'd be surprised if she sees this blog, but miracles do happen.  If we have urgent news, we text, but neither of us will allow abbreviations or text speak to darken our phones (which still flips open Zoolander style for ONE of us :P).  Otherwise when there is something to tell her, I rush home, new pen in hand (I love college bookstores for pens!), and sit down to write my tale.  I'm pretty sure it looks like a snail in a hurry; nose out, hands pumping fast, moving about .2 miles an hour with twitching antennae...is that why they call it snail mail?  Huh.  A gummi word makes sense, for once.  We did try to Skype once, but we were both too awkward.  We didn't speak for months after.  She actually commented it nearly destroyed our friendship, but I didn't know that :)

She married a lovely man from India and goes there from time to time to see his rather large family.  When she does this, she writes a journal to me which she keeps for about 2 years after, continually meaning to scan it and re-read it in preparation for her next journey to the land of whiplash (there is often so much happening, one could crane their neck watching the activity).  The last time she went to India (which was in October, if you're curious), she texted me asking if I could read her last letter and tell her the medicines she reminded herself to bring this time.  I obliged and she was on her way.  Once she got to the airport, she texted that she had a new notebook and pens for the journey, and rather than say something trite like, "I'll miss you," or "have a good flight," we took on a sort of blessing war.  It went something like this:

Me: Travel well my dearest friends, enjoy the trip!
D: May all the mosquitoes in Northern India die before my arrival.
Me: May you find the right number of ripe mangoes so as not to cause stomach illnesses.
D: Amen.
Me: May you be as content as a mongrel dog with hemorrhoids. (this makes sense if you read her letter and saw the drawings)
D: ...Always with a big bright smile on my face!

This went on. And it could go on because we both enjoy older versions of dictionaries and the formality of writing to each other not seen for 100 years (I couldn't really tell you the time frame, but "Old Timey" just doesn't cut it in this instance.  I know I think of the first World War era, so I think you should too).

So I started blessing people in my life (hey, what's one more quirk?).  It definitely makes me feel better when I am annoyed, and they get over the fact that I speak like I just moved to America from Downton Abbey (let's not talk about season 3 until I get a chance to see it, shall we?).  But sometimes I am at a loss for words.  So (stay with me here), I have been finding random blessings showing up on my Pinterest page, and some of them are quite lovely.  I am really taken with the blessings written in the letters of the New Testament.  They take so much hope and propel it out to others, and I just want to make these little good energy balls and blast them at other people.  I came across one this morning that made me want to write this post before work (oh, hey, I might be late today).  So I'm going to share it with you, get over it :) (ZAP!)  This person (I assume it is actually my 2nd cousin, Braelyn, who pinned it originally in this shape and drawing), put it in a Christmas theme, but it is so full of hope and good vibes, I had to share it.  I am now interested in pinpointing blessings and making a collection. I mean, it is Bright Side Blogs, no?

But seriously, that's enough for now.  I am really going to be late for work. Yup.  There it is.

Here's the song of the day, a Christmas song made amazing by the addition of hope and climbing octaves. :)  I  LOVE this song.  "The hope of every heart comes alive in Emmanuel!"  What a great thought.

Oh Wednesday...Here We Go Again

For those of you who are avid readers of my blog and have been without an entry since 2011, I give to you the most vile of all days, another Wednesday installment. If you also follow the Song of the Day, you will see that this post is a direct lead in from the last Wednesday post ("here we go again" is a line in the chorus of that song), which was a typical Wednesday.  But sometimes, SOMETIMES, a doozy comes along and you have to remind yourself that it is only a day, it can only last so long.  So let me present to you this week's experience, with some background (those of you who watch movies with me know I do not relish back story; however it is often a necessary evil, as in the case today).

It has been cold in the land of the frigid north.  Not the normal, Midwest cold, but the kind of cold that makes your fingers hurt inside gloves and freezes your boogers in 12 seconds while you bury your face as deep in your coat as humanly possible.  Like medallion hunting cold; the kind where you go out in it anyway, because there's $10,000 in the snow somewhere in St. Paul, and you hope no one else has the fortitude to be out in it. It has not been above 0 for 6 days, and the wind chills feel like really bad acupuncture; a slight numbing effect, but mostly needle pricks (turns out this windchill is about 16 below.  Surprised you didn't know that).  This is the kind of weather that makes me realize Prarie life is very low on the enjoyment totem pole, and I miss the effect of the Great Lakes.  No wind, just lots and lots of snow to play with.  But with the stinkin' prarie, all you get is wind that blows the snow you do get somewhere else.  It's a lose lose situation.  But I digress.

I also have the added benefit of living on the bottom of a long, steep hill, so when it's so cold that salt doesn't melt the snow and ice, a two wheeled Camry that is 16 years old, if not reliable, struggles somewhat to summit the trek.  She has made it, but the hill was the catalyst for the courageous decision I made last weekend to trade in my lovely, wonderful Camry named Paikea (Pai) for a newer, decked out, fully loaded Jeep named Sofie.  I had such a hard time trading in my reliable Camry with 220,000 miles on it, that I teared up a little, and they threw another few hundred dollars onto my trade in.  In an act of chivalrous gift giving, Captain Awesome had the Jeep paid off and insured within minutes, and I have been enjoying heated leather seats ever since, about 4 days.  I have been keeping Sofie a secret because I wanted to drive her to Michigan and surprise my parents knowing they wouldn't recognize my car.  But between their travel plans, my work schedule, 2nd annual cookie parties and a Norwegian Klub and Rømmegrøt party, I wasn't sure when it could happen (though I want to stress to my mother that I was aiming for sooner rather than later).  So far nothing screams Wednesday, right?  OK, I think we are caught up.
  

So, this particular Wednesday morning I got up early to finish up some work, went to work at my scheduled time (wasn't even late!) and parked up front because no one knows my car yet, I've had her 4 days.  And it was cold.  As I walked into the store I had this sense of foreboding like someone might hit her, or an animal would curl up on her hood because she was warm; I don't know, something.  But I told myself I was just worried because it was Wednesday, and things would be fine. I went about my day dealing with crabby customers, doing my work and writing company Christmas cards to our loyal shoppers.  I stayed late to finish and was looking forward to my 4 wheel drive, heated ride home.  I pulled out of my spot (spotted by a forklift driver, darnit) and started down the lot.  Suddenly she felt like a lumbering beast, storming through the lot with no power steering and blowing cold heat. What's cold heat?  Exactly. I pulled off into an abandoned gas station and called Capitan Awesome.  Wouldn't you know that it is at this time that wandering lemming-like people poured into the gas station, presumably thinking it's open because I am there, when it has been closed since February and gas is still $2.21 a gallon?  Really, people?  Really?  I thought I could drive her to Vroom, where the guys always take really good care of me, so I started over that way.

 It quickly became apparent that I was going to build up some ripped upper arms trying to steer her, and my phone rang 3 times while I was unable to take both hands off the wheel.  It was C.A. telling me that if she hasn't died yet, she will, it's a belt of some kind that no one could see coming, and doesn't light up any scary lights.  So I turned her back into the store lot and let him call the tow truck. I also learned a valuable lesson that I should have learned when I was 4; not keeping gloves and winter items in a car and depending on it for heat is stupid.  Thanks, Wednesday.

At this point the only thing warm was my butt (thank you, Sofie), because the heat also stopped for some reason, so I kept shoving my hands under my thighs to keep them warm on the heated leather seats.  I hid the keys in the vehicle and made the quarter mile trek back into the store to call a cab.  While I was on hold for 7 minutes (no one ever picked up, actually) and waiting for the feeling to come back into my fingers and toes, a coworker with a generous heart said she'd take me home.  How relieved was I?  As I hung up, I made a comment about Wednesdays, and the Harry Potter looking kid next to me said, "I like Wednesdays," with a ridiculous grin on his smug little face (I take it back).  This is where I learned that people expect me to always be sweetness and nice because all I said was, "Shut up," and they were all, "whoa, I've never seen you like this," and "let's not let that happen again," and "I hope you have a better day." Seriously? :P  

So the coworker who drove me home was having some issues with her car, and at this point I felt like a cooler (in the negative cold, so a supercooler) and that her car was next to fail, but thankfully we made it home, where all I could think about was a hot shower before my next activity.  As I stood in the lobby waiting for the elevator, the wonderful Betty in the office called out, "No water! Pipes are broke!"  So there's that.  I ended up drinking a bit of straight rum to warm up, but it didn't really do the trick.  Maybe I should have had more, but last night was a very important lab the week before finals, and since there's less than a week left of the semester and it's THURSDAY, I don't care who knows it. I was able to borrow C.A's truck (now that I know how to drive a 4WD vehicle), and she did well for me.  How exhausting.

So, as all vile days must, Wednesday ended.  Thursday brings a new day of joy and bright sidedness, and hopefully news on Sofie's belt (preferably that it costs very little).  The water is back on and it's hot, my coworker has arrived safely to her destination, exam prep has started, and I have to figure out what to cook for the 2nd annual cookie party.  I did not cry, which shows my Wednesday resilience.  Before you say anything, I will talk to the dealership also, but it sounds like you can't really see this coming, and the belt may have just slipped.  I may have been a little too excited to park on a snow bank also.  Who knows, it's a new day, maybe things will go my way.  I'm doing a lot of rhyming today (anybody want a peanut?).

Today's song of the day is a Christmas song.  'Tis the season, no?  I am rejoicing in the day, because it is not Wednesday.  :)  Plus it's got a fun beat, you can move to it.  Have a wonderful Thursday, everyone (and God bless us, everyone :P)

PS:  If you are wondering how everything turned out with the Jeep, the belts were all fine.  The power steering fluid was almost empty, and the coolant was a GALLON low, so I have no faith in Walser Jeep's ability to perform an inspection that they listed on CarFax.  There were NO leaks. Not one (well, there was a loose clamp on the coolant hose....should have caught that, Walser).  So at the end of the day, as Tony put it, "I won't charge you an arm and a leg today....just a tow."  Oh Tony!  Other than that they love her.  They drove her all day trying to get her to act up and she didn't.  So now my "Ghost car" will have her fluids checked more often.  And to all a good night.

Born Is The King (It's Christmas) - Hillsong 

To the GYM! The Saga Continues

As many of you know, I have a gym membership that I have had since 2004.  It's gotten to the point where it was so cheap, I kept it, even during my unemployment of 2009.  Last year I wrote about how if I went 12 times a month, my insurance would pay me $20, making my health insurance cost $100 rather than $120, and the gym membership free.  You may also recall from previous posts, that my boss was quick to point out, "that's like every other day."  Well, a lot has changed in the gym arena, and I thought you might like to hear the tale.

Firstly, my boss is no longer my boss.  You'd know that if I wrote more often.  I was promoted in May, and we were no longer limited to the company policy about fraternization.  We immediately quipped, "we can hang out together now!"  She has been asking which gym I go to, and trying to get me to switch to LA Fitness for the last year or so.  I go to Bally's, and due to above explanation, was not willing to switch.  One of my guests (we'll call him Fred) often came in to the store and would immediately talk about how he works out 2 hours every afternoon, and how much he loves his gym.  He would always end up insulting me without realizing it, and I chalked it up to his being from Jordan, or a neighboring country where the customs were different, especially between men and women.  Conversations would go like this:
"Hi, Fred."
"Hi, have you been to the gym lately?  I am about to go for 2 hours."
"Yes, I've been 2 times since Monday."
"Oh.  You should change gyms.  The clientele at LA Fitness is much better.  Do you like your gym?"
"It's affordable, it works for me."
"Ah.  How much would you like to lose?"
"Um. Some?"
"Well you have to stop drinking pop, and absolutely no sugar.  Absolutely none.  Sugar just makes things look like they do here and here and here (he says, pointing to my body)." Does he know I don't drink pop?  Yep.
"What can I help you with today, Fred?"
After I finish helping him, he invariably hands me a card, either a gym referral card or a handyman card (this man only knows the home improvement that I have taught him over the last year (Lord help him), but the card is cool, because it has little magnets in it.  It kills me when the ones who don't know what they're doing have the coolest cards.  I've begun looking for the bad advertising to find a good service :) Anyway, this kind of conversation went on pretty regularly, and I always somehow managed to feel bad after!

I got used to my gym, and went to yoga every week for a while (and still hit it sometimes).  It took 8 months, countless phone calls, letters, emails, threats of reporting to the BBB, more letters in bright envelopes and me actually using the phrase "I'll hold" twice, but Bally's FINALLY got my reimbursements correct through my insurance.  It was one of the more frustrating situations of my life, asking Bally's to fix a typo, but we don't need to go in to that.  This is a happy post :)

On December 6th, I received a letter in the mail that stated that Bally's had been sold to LA Fitness, and all the Minnesota locations were closing, save for 2, which were to become LA Fitness locations.  This change would take place on December 1st.  I was annoyed, but not surprised.  I mean, 8 months to fix a typo?  Telling me they sold 5 days after the fact?  Classic Bally's.  My location was one that was staying open, and I was told I had the choice to pay $30 a month and be stuck in my own club location, or pay $30 a month and go to any location I wanted.  Since my former boss (we'll call her Gwen for the rest of the blog) and Fred (boo, Fred) both went there, I upgraded to other locations.  This is all just a really ridiculously long explanation for what happened this week.

This week, I told Gwen that I updated my account, and can go to any LA Fitness, because Bally's is dumb.  She got really excited, and we both agreed we should workout.  You may recall she is tall and athletic, so this is a bit of an unnerving idea for me.  She said she hadn't worked out all year basically, and suggested we go walk on the treadmill for 15 minutes.  OK.  So we got to the gym, and things got embarrassing for her pretty quickly.  It went like this (all me). and I will let you guess which comment was found the most inappropriate:
"Holy big."
"The pool is twice as big!  And the tiling for the lanes is straight!!!"
"My whole gym, including the pool, is the size of the lobby!"
"Wait, none of these machines are out of order?"
"There's no rust on any of these machines!"
"Is that sauna only for women!?!?!?!?!?!"
"Oh my gosh! Look at this locker room!"
"Those lockers are twice as big.  They have wooden doors.  There's no rust in here!"
"Zumba at 4:30?  Can we go? Can we go?" (jumping up and down)

You get the picture.  There are some definite differences between the two locations.

So we started our 15 (20) minute treadmill walk, and Gwen immediately started looking around.  She was most impressed by the guys in the courtyard below doing pull ups.  I think that's a goal of hers.  The guy next to me ran the whole time we were on the machines, and so she ran for bursts of 3-4 minutes.  I may or may not have accidentally hit the emergency stop and had to start over.  There's no way to know for sure.  After that, she let her competitive side out (she played 3 sports in high school.  3 sports.  Who does that?), and thought we should do 20 minutes on something else.  So we did the bikes for 20 minutes.  I may or may not have tried to adjust my seat while pedaling and made a horrendous noise, as well as become suddenly, drastically uncomfortable. There's no way to know for sure.  Then, we should of course do some strength training, so we did the hip something-or-other, where you lay down and allow weight to be put on your elevated feet, and you push.  I kept thinking I was going to hit myself in the eye with my knee, and that this must be what childbirth is like for some women, knees up, pushing, all the midsection having to be misplaced somewhere.  Terrifying. :()

Last night we went to Zumba.  Half the class was new.  That was nice.  It was fun, you dance for 3-5 minutes per song, then take a break while she finds the next song.  The music is fun, but clearly out of Miami.  The dances are fun; there is Cha-Cha, Salsa, Meringue, Ballet, Hip Hop and a lot of hoochie mama moves.  Those felt the most unnatural for me.  The instructor was this cute little clubbie (a girl who likes the clubs) looking like NSYNC up there, and I felt bad for watching her butt to try and figure out what she was doing with it, exactly.  I could not get the pumps and the thrusts quite right.  The lady in her 50's next to me was doing pretty good, but I felt like John Cusack before he was cool.  I got a lot of other stuff down well, but those hoochie mama moves just don't come easy for me.  I guess that's a good thing, but it doesn't do much for the old self esteem :)  It was fun.  Next week I'll try spinning.  And I think I'll do Zumba again.  There was one lady there who got certified in Zumba on Saturday, and she was very excited, but she left after 2 songs.  Not sure what to do with that.

So, the quest for fitness continues; won't Fred be pleased.  I haven't seen him since August, when he told me he had a brain tumor and I wouldn't see him for a couple of months.  I hope he's well.  Perhaps I will run in to him one of these days...at the gym. :)

Hopefully we'll get the insurance figured out, now that I am spoiled by a large gym.  One lady said this location was small!  I will need to do some more investigating.  It is a very open layout, and every body can watch everybody else.  But they have racquetball courts, and I think I may invest in some of that equipment.  Good times.  Must wear better shoes. :)

The song of the day is in honor of my recent moving it experience.  Actually there are two today, because I can't decide which one to use.  One fast one, one not. :)  You all know I am full of paradoxes.  I blame it on being born in Northern Lower Michigan.  That's when it all started...