Notes to Self

Six-Word Sunday: January 29, 2012

2012-01-30T21:58:00.000-08:00

Dust, debris, and a master suite.

I know it's Monday, going on Tuesday, but I didn't want to miss my six-word Sunday. I'm almost three weeks into a new home renovation (only this time, I'm paying to have someone do most of the work). It's time to blow the dust off of the other blog. I'll post pictures and comments there later this week.

Now I'm off to obsess over subway tile, and it's not the first time I've done that...

Busted

2012-01-23T23:11:00.000-08:00

Ah, the early stages of a relationship. Whether you're 34 or 14 some things never change.

To say I've been giddy about Mr. W is a huge understatement. I've reverted back to giggly little schoolgirl and it's fantastic. It's been a month (what a month it's been). A few weeks ago, my co-workers were teasing me about how smitten I am and how I've likely been distracted by practicing my signature with his last name all over my notebooks, just like many of us started doing with crushes back in our school days.

And until last week, I hadn't done that.

But then I was snowed in at a work event with plenty of time for daydreaming and plenty of paper for doodling. Before I knew it, I found myself scribbling his last name a few times on a random sheet of paper. "Ha ha," I thought. "My little secret. Nobody will know about this." Famous last words; if Michael Bolton taught me anything, it's that none of my little secrets ever stay secret.

Over the weekend, Mr. W was getting into my car and I noticed that my notebook from last week's event was strewn about the passenger seat. I told him to just throw it in the back and he just paused and looked at something on the page. I sat there thinking, "what the heck? Just throw it into the back seat already and let's go get hamburgers!" And he just looked at me and pointed to something written on the random sheet of paper that had fallen out of the notebook.

There it was--in beautiful cursive penmanship, I might add--his last name. I gasped, squirmed, and blushed crimson red. No denying it. I've got a crush and it's making me act like a 14-year-old. I fumbled for words to explain why his good family name was written on that sheet. He was gracious and I was adorably mortified, what would he think and would it freak him out?

And because he's great and is not too unlike the 14-year-old me who has a massive crush, he didn't freak out. In fact I think it might have even made him like me more. Which of course made me like him more. And that's where we jumped into the infinite loop of the virtuous giggly-little-schoolgirl cycle.

Six-Word Sunday: January 22, 2012

2012-01-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

Survived snowmageddon at luxury mountain resort.

If you live out here in the Pacific Northwest, or if you happened to watch the news at all this week, you'll know that we were hit with a significant blast of winter weather. Significant in Seattle is any amount of snow that sticks to the streets. This sums it up nicely:

Fortunately for LMNT, while most of the northwest got cabin fever hunkered down in their homes, I was coaching a leadership event at one of the most scenic local hotels situated in the hills East of Seattle atop a giant waterfall. If ever there was a place where you wanted to be snowed in, this is that place. Every room has a wood-burning fireplace and a view of the hills and the river valley filled with snow-covered pine trees. It was fantastic, until we lost power on the last day and suddenly the plot of The Shining didn't seem as far-fetched as it once had.

Six-Word Sunday: January 15, 2012

2012-01-15T23:00:00.000-08:00

Manifesting something MUCH better than chocolate.

So I've been at this blog for a little over four years now, and in that time I know I've written countless posts (countless because I've never been very diligent about adding tags) about my seemingly endless search for Mr. Right. In fact, my very first post indirectly revolved around my search for him, or perhaps how that search had been cursed. Since then there have been a lot of Mr. So-Sos, Mr. Mediocres, and Mr. LMNT-What-Are-You-Thinkings: Marinara Jar, J_____ (known in my circle of friends as Cuff Links or Clinks for short), and New Friend to name a few.

Then of course there was Mr. McMichael. A Mr. Oh-so-very-close-but-not-exactly-right. Mr. McMichael helped me to realize the possibility of amazing, loving, respectful, and authentic relationships. He became the gold bar standard with which I began measuring all relationships. I know that who I am in relationship with a partner now is because of what I had with Mr. McMichael and I will forever love and respect him for that.

And as much as I do love the fact that I have a gold bar standard for relationships, it can also be a bit of a dating burden. As it turns out not a lot of people meet that standard and it can be really frustrating--deflating even--to keep putting yourself out there just to be disappointed again and again. But because it's what I do, I persisted (I also whined, cried, agonized, pulled-out-my-hair, and pretended to quit, multiple times with my close friends, but in the end I continued to persist).

Back in November, I reactivated one of my online dating profiles with the intent of just getting myself out there again and holding on to the very faint (and rapidly diminishing) hope that I might actually meet someone interesting. The bitter single woman that lives inside my brain kept trying to convince me that I was really fighting a losing battle, but the optimistic, hopeful romantic that also lives inside my brain kept repeating that if I'm clear about my deepest desires and wants and I put them out into the Universe, then they will come to fruition. Ultimately, the bitter single woman remembered how good I am at manifesting things (remember all of that chocolate?!), so she cautiously conceded to optimism. And really, we all wanted to see her win.

Online dating is a bit of a yo-yo. There are a lot of ups and downs, and while I was making some connections with guys, I'd meet up with them and would feel nothing. On paper they were great, but in person they weren't right. After a month of corresponding with and meeting really nice guys, but not really right guys (exactly like the guys I dated four years ago) I was ready to call it quits and give it a break. In fact, I had already declared several "rules" for myself (as I'm wont to do) and my online dating protocol. For instance, I refused to look at any one's profile simply because they had looked at mine. If they checked me out and wanted anything to progress, then they were going to have to contact me because they needed to demonstrate they were interested. Closely tied to this was the rule that I was not going to make the first move and e-mail anyone. Being the direct girl I am, I would do that often and only had about a 10% response rate, so forget it. Mr. Right needed to put in the effort, because I was tired.

Ah, but the Universe (not unlike the honey badger) didn't really care about my rules, because apparently it also wanted to see optimism win.

A couple of days before I was taking off for Christmas in Denver, I was online e-mailing one of those really-nice-not-really-right-guys (yes, I was following my rule because he had contacted me first), and when I hit send, the service populated a list of three guys that they suggested I might like. I read the teaser headline for the first guy, was hooked and had to read more. I opened up his profile and was astonished that I was reading the profile of what seemed to be the person I've pined so long for on this blog (and even longer for in my life). It was sarcastic, hilarious, articulate, and familiar. Bitter single woman thought, "Too good to be true." But optimistic romantic overpowered her with her Arseneo Hall-style whooping and a big, "I told you he was out there!"

But what was I to do? There are rules, LMNT; rules that you yourself decreed. I decided that I would e-mail him, but not in a way that really let him know I was interested, because the odds were he wouldn't respond (nice work, bitter single woman). So I kept the note very short and to the point (but witty as hell), and basically said: "your profile is unique and interesting. Congratulations. I respect that. Have a good night." I hit send and never expected to hear anything back.

He responded within two hours.

Fast forward a month and something amazing is happening here. I'm happier, more confident, more vibrant, and more glowy (yes, glowy), than I ever have been before. And because of all of the previous learning experiences I've had with relationships, and because I'm more clear than ever on what I want and desire in my life, I feel more prepared to throw myself into the amazingness and see what continues to happen. As I admitted to him in a recent e-mail: "Over the past couple of years, I've definitely had walls up and have been cautious about getting to the point where I throw myself into the fire, and this time is different. You make me feel safe enough to do that, in fact, you make me want to do that because it's the only way I want to experience this--feeling it 100% and also feeling confident about me, you, and us."

So things are good and you'll likely hear more as the amazingness continues. And ever since I've met him, I've been dying to find the right time to blurt all of this out and have also been desperate to come up with a solid code name, because that's really important. After toying with a few (the Prophet, Snowhawk), I've landed on a somewhat clever one that also plays on the fact that he's a high school teacher (Internets, join me in a collective swoon). Please allow me to introduce Mr. Wright, but we'll call him Mr. W for short.

And that's the story of how I persist and manifest. Mr. W, thank you for (unknowingly) answering this call. And also, you are infinitely better than Donnettes!

Ninja Garage Sale

2012-01-13T16:45:00.000-08:00

Now I know that my neighborhood isn't every one's dream neighborhood, but over the past few years I have really grown to love it's quirkiness. From tech-geek gangsters to grand pappy rooster (okay, I never loved that damn rooster), the neighborhood is never boring.

There's this apartment building across the street from my house, and on unseasonably sunny and warm weekends this past fall and early winter, one of the residents has taken to pulling extremely random items out of his apartment and the trunk of his Cadillac and sets up his own little "sidewalk sale" of sorts in the middle of everything. Items I'd consider random: velvet paintings, a zero gravity lawn chair, and a spring horse not too unlike this one:

Viewed alone those items aren't so strange (well, except for the velvet paintings), but collectively they really make up a strange lot. And I could probably end my story there, but Internets, that's not where the weirdness ends. No. You see, what makes it even more strange is the fact that the proprietor of all this stuff will pace back-and-forth on the sidewalk waiting for customers all the while swinging nunchucks. Yes. Nunchucks.

Now, I have never had a garage sale of my own, but I can't imagine that practice really drives up business. And come to think of it, I've never seen him sell anything (except one encounter which I think wasn't a velvet painting, but possibly narcotics, oh, the neighborhood), but who can say if the slumping sales are due to his not-so-in-demand inventory or his martial arts skills?

Love IS a Wonderful Thing

2012-01-07T18:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, Internets. Remember when AP and I went shopping under the influencelast spring? And remember how I bought a whole bunch of cassette tapes for $0.25?Yeah, okay, it’s going to come into play in a couple ofparagraphs.

Earlier this week, I had a random series of eventsthat all culminated in the most humiliating, or maybe awesome, event thus farinto 2012. It all started when I was driving home from work last night and Irealized I had a few of my tapes stored in the passenger-side door of my car.Upon closer inspection, one tape in particular stood out: Michael Bolton's "Time, Love, and Tenderness." Now, the reason I think I noticed this particular tape is because a few hours prior to my drive, a new fellow in my life admitted to me the cheesiest concert he'd ever been to. And because, I hadn't yet responded to him with a concert of my own I think the tape was the Universe calling out to me as a reminder. Because, oh yeah, I've been to not one, but two Michael Bolton concerts. But seriously, Michael Bolton was a big part of my tweener years, mostly because of my parents' fandom. In fact, I think I'll save more Michael Bolton stories for a whole post of their own. An ode to the long-haired crooner.

So, I admit to the new fellow that I have him beat on the cheesy concert front and all is well--he still likes me!

The next morning, I get in my car to drive to work, and there's that tape calling out to me it's siren's call. "Fine," I think, and put it into the Jetta's tape player. Holy Junior High flashback, Batman! Instantly, I'm taken back in time and amazingly I remember ALL of the words, and that's not embarrassing in the slightest (at least not in the privacy of my own car). There I am, in all my commuting glory, 100% jamming to Michael Bolton. I very distinctly have the thought, "I'm so glad that NOBODY will EVER know about this episode. Especially the new fellow, he's never going to know that I am singing this song as loudly as I can," as I hit rewind to replay "Steel Bars."

Now, it should also be known that I'm taking a new route to work because the state has started a ridiculous toll on my old way to work. I'm still getting used to things and am starting to take back roads, and I turn onto one of those back roads and note the speed limit is 25 MPH, and think, okay, that's how fast I'll go.

But I'm jamming and singing, and before I know it, there's a cop on a motorcycle in my rear view mirror with his lights on, pulling me over.

Faster than Michael Bolton can make a cougar throw her panties on stage, I turn my stereo off. No way is that cop going to know what I'm listening to. I've only been pulled over a couple of times in my life because I hate getting in trouble. But in this moment, I'm more embarrassed that it is 2012 and I was rocking out to MICHAEL BOLTON, than that I got busted for breaking the law.

Officer Rivera comes to my window and says, "Ma'am, I'm pulling you over for speeding today."

"Okay, Officer," I meekly reply, both hands on the steering wheel.

"The speed limit is 25 MPH here and I clocked you at 36."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah, did you even see me there?"

Me, sheepishly, "No. I was completely jamming to music."

"Oh really? What was it?"

No, Officer Rivera! Why did you have to ask me that? I'm a good girl. I hate getting in trouble and I'm embarrassed that you pulled me over in the first place, but even more than that? I'm embarrassed that the reason I was breaking the law was because I couldn't keep myself in control whilst listening to the 90s crooner. In all of my earnestness and inability to lie to an authority figure, I held on to the steering wheel and collapsed my forehead onto it, cocked my head to the side and with a grimace I admitted, "Michael Bolton."

"Michael Bolton?!" He laughed, "I was NOT expecting you to say that. Lady Gaga, maybe. But Michael Bolton?"

"I know. And I didn't think that ANYBODY was ever going to know about it." Uncontrollable blushing.

I handed Officer Rivera my license, he looks at it, and returns it to me. "Okay, Ms. Holmes, I'm just going to give you a warning this time. Michael Bolton?" Shaking his head he chuckled and asked, "Was it 'How Can We Be Lovers If We Can't Be Friends?" Ah-ha! Officer Rivera shows his soft underbelly. Only a closeted Michael Bolton fan could pull out a reference like that.

"Actually, it was 'Love Is A Wonderful Thing,'" I admit, regaining a little of my confidence and my sass.

"Well, take it easy on the Bolton and slow it down, ma'am."

"Oh, I will. Thanks."

Note to self: Be your authentic, adorable self. A wise man once said, "Birds fly and don't think twice/They simply spread their wings." That's what I did here. I could have played this so many ways, but I just did what came naturally to me (yes, burying my head in the steering wheel was that reflex). I did not expect anyone to know my secret guilty pleasure, nor did I expect to get out of that ticket, probably just as much as Officer Rivera did not expect to start his morning in a conversation about Michael Bolton. Isn't life awesome? To see just how awesome it is, you should check out the video below (because you know you're a closeted fan, too. I mean with soulful background singers, how can you NOT be?):

2011 in Posts (and thoughts that never materialized as such)

2012-01-02T19:37:00.001-08:00

Internets, I am the Scrooge McDuck of New Year's Eve. I don't understand or buy into the hype and have always found that the best New Year's Eves are the ones without expectations (no over-the-top plans, no $50 cover charges to bars that on any other night of the year you can go to for free). Low expectations are almost always exceeded--a great way to start the new year.

This year, I spent New Year's Eve alone in my house and it was FABULOUS. I did some organizing, watched a movie, drank a glass of champagne and ate fancy salted caramels, and was in bed by 10:30. Ahhhhh. I also spent some time reflecting on the past year and thought I'd pull out the highlights of each month in terms of my most favorite (and sometimes only) posts for the month.

January--No post, however I started the year off coaching a couple of marathons and breaking up with the Olympian (who I think I may have never even blogged about to begin with, so, here you go: I was in a relationship, and then in January, I wasn't. The end.).

February--I fixed my $600 drying rack.
"The Commish and Monster have... talked about John C. Reilly's doppelganger the plumber. When I opened the door today, there he was... I half expected Will Ferrell to pop out from behind the shrubs."

March--I blogged every day for the whole month.
"And it being the start of the month and all why not use my freakishly methodical mentality to push myself into a blogging challenge? And, lo, a habit is born. Or at least force fit into my life."

April--I accomplished something REALLY BIG by running the Boston Marathon.
"Remember to keep breathing. When you turn on to Boylston and are within blocks of the finish line and you start to hyperventilate (again) because you're so overcome with emotion, and you're about to cross off a REALLY big accomplishment on your "life's list of things to accomplish," and the big crowd is cheering and calling out the name you have written in big bold letters on your shirt, and photographers are taking your picture (even in spite of the fact that you look like you just crawled out of the grave), and you almost start to cry, and then you realize you stopped breathing, inhale. And then exhale. And then inhale again, and keep moving."

May--My life was forever changed for the better because I went to PARIS! FRANCE!
"I'm feeling particularly verbose about my time in PARIS! FRANCE! The good news, there's going to be a lot more than just Part II. Today's theme: 'When LMNT went for a run and then wept openly about art'."

June--I was still only talking about PARIS! FRANCE!
"Just had an absolutely lovely conversation with an adorably lovely, older, French, non-English speaking woman sharing a table with me in a crowded cafe. I have no idea what we talked about."

July--There was so much that I didn't blog about. Instead of writing, I bought myself cowgirl boots.

August--I celebrated a lot of milestones, the biggest being a decade in the Pacific Northwest and the smallest being my little tattoo.
"That's right, on this very date TEN years ago I... sat in a tattoo parlor with one of my best friends, Jo Jo, and commemorated the 'passing of an era' by getting my one and only tattoo. We got matching tattoos, a small ladybug atop our right feet. Small, yet it symbolizes such big monumental things: my life up to that point."

September--I didn't post, but I got a year older.

October--I didn't have a free minute for the first 16 days of the month because I was coaching two marathon events and had tech week for... wait for it...

November--...Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Also, I demonstrated how you can move through the grieving process at a rapid rate (and I got back on Match.com, which could be important as we move into 2012, but more about that later...)
"Not that I'm going to make excuses, but if I were going to one of the reasons why you haven't heard much from me over the past three months is because I was busy getting my thespian on. And for those of you that thought it might just be a "phase" or something I was experimenting with, as it turns out I'm really into it."
December--The Cupcake Twins wooed the masses (and broke many a married man's heart) with BACON CUPCAKES!
"Sorry married guys who might really love cupcakes, but guess what? You've already got yourself a 'cupcake'--and she's at home--and your puppy-dog eyes will get you nowhere with us. We do not feel sorry for you. And no, you cannot buy one of our cupcakes for a dollar."
All told (and for what remains untold), 2011 was a good year, but I do bid it goodbye, because it's time to make way for 2012 and I've already got a feeling that it's going to be a great year.

Eat your heart out Dick Clark (or LMNT's top ten holiday tunes)

2011-12-23T23:19:00.000-08:00

I tend to be one who gets bit by the Christmas bug a little later in the season than most, although I will admit this is the first year ever that I almost considered getting a tree. I'm not 100% Scrooge! Yay!

Actually, I do love Christmas, it's just that decorating for one (especially when you're not around your house on Christmas itself) doesn't really get me in the spirit. But what does get me there is music. Feeling inspired by TIG and the greatest hits collection she created for her family got me thinking about the songs that get me merry and bright. So I've cobbled together this list (and even found you corresponding videos/videos of still-frame photographs for each) of the songs that are undeniably Christmas for LMNT. Not completely conventional, some more random than others, but all are full of memories. Enjoy!

10. "Christmas Wrapping," The Waitresses
The instant I hear this song, I have an uncontrollable urge to fold oatmeal colored fair isle sweaters. I spent two holiday shopping seasons working at Eddie Bauer in college and I think the number of times I heard this song is nearing on infinity (interestingly, I think that's the same number of sweaters I folded there, too). And while I could have given you a video from the 80s, what's better than a house that lights up to music?

Really, any of these 80s gems could make my countdown for the same reason as The Waitresses--I went through that list of top ten 80s Christmas hits and I'm pretty sure every single one of them made Eddie Bauer's 1995 in-store holiday compilation (with a few Bing Crosby classics for good measure).

9. We Are Santa's Elves, Videocraft Chorus
Not only is "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" my all-time favorite Christmas special, but I sang this with the rest of my first grade class at Sts. Peter and Paul's 1983 Holiday Spectacular. And a one-a, and a two-a...

8. "Deck the Halls," Manheim Steamroller
There was a stretch of at least three Christmases when my mom bought this Manheim Steamroller album each year, because she had forgotten she bought it the year before (and the year before that).

7. "The Christians and the Pagans," Dar Williams
This is definitely an obscure Christmas pick, but it makes me think of my first few years living out in the Northwest, and the cozy house I had with my two dear friends, and I just like the message about us all getting along regardless our beliefs. My "peace on earth, good will toward all" offering, if you will.

6. "Sister Winter," Sufjan Stevens
This is my hipster showing. Stevens is an incredibly talented indie musician and artist (and is also devoutly Christian). He and some of his crazy artistic friends used to write and record holiday EPs that they'd send out with homemade covers. Oh to be so creative! A few years ago, he mass produced the EPs and sold them as a box set. This song is my favorite from all five discs. I love how it starts out so beautifully and peacefully--like you're outside in the expanse of the winter chill--and then erupts into a joyful celebration of a Happy Christmas.

When I think about starting my own family traditions, and I think about some of the reasons I have songs on this list it's because they were so much a part of my childhood. I like to think that these EPs will be similarly ingrained into the holiday memories of my own kids someday. And I like that.

5. "The Twelve Days of Christmas," John Denver and the Muppets
Considering I LOVED the Muppets as a kid (and wait a minute, LOVED John Denver even more than I LOVED the Muppets), I'm pretty sure I had heard this song hundreds of times, however, the first time I truly heard this song I was in college in a Hallmark store with my brother. He had just charmed the pants off of a lovely older female employee for a hot cup of wassail (which neither of us had any idea what that was), when we heard Beakers distinctive voice loud and clear proclaiming the ninth day. We literally fell down laughing so hard and had tears streaming down our faces (and that was all because of Beaker and had nothing to do with the wassail, and I still don't really know what that is).

4. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings," Bare Naked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan
Thank you, Canada, for this, the best Christmas (and Boxing Day) present ever!

3. "(There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays," The Carpenters
True story, I love this entire album. Trying to pick one song from it was, in a word, impossible. Yet, I managed to make the impossible possible. For as long as I can remember, we listened to this album in its entirety throughout the holiday season (and I literally mean album. In fact, I believe we had this on LP, then cassette tape, and then CD. That's right, the soothing sounds of the Carpenter family will not be bested by the advancements in audio technology). I'd recommend the entire album; whenever I hear it, I'm immediately transported "home" either decorating the tree, wrapping Christmas caramels, or just being with my family. To that end, "Home for the Holidays" seemed appropriate. Because, for the holidays you really can't beat home sweet home.

(And holy cow! If that video wasn't pure wholesome Lawrence-Welk-inspired fun, then I don't know what is.)

2. "Carol of the Bells," Johnny Mathis
Johnny Mathis was right up there with The Carpenters in our house. His Christmas album was on constant repeat in our living room. Plus "Carol of the Bells" is my favorite traditional carol.

1. "Colorado Christmas," The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
If you live anywhere other than Colorado, you likely have never heard this song. This is my 11th holiday season in Seattle and I know I've never heard it out there, because they'd be all, "Huh?! 'A quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow?' What's that all about? Try rain, buckets and buckets of rain." And I can tell you right now, if anyone ever wrote a song proclaiming that all that rain is "the closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere," well they'd be laughed right out of town (oh, and we'd all be doomed). But this is hands down my all-time favorite Christmas tune. And I can attest that there's nothing I look forward to more than getting on that plane and heading home to Colorado for Christmas. Even when we don't have snow, it's still a Colorado Christmas and I love it. And there's no dreaming this year, for my Christmas is most definitely white.

A social experiment with the Cupcake Twins--Part II

2011-12-19T23:18:00.000-08:00

You can read Part I of this story here...
--
Have you ever walked into a bar on a Friday night with a tray full of BACON CUPCAKES!? Well, here's what happens when you do.

First of all, you need to think about how you want to carry them around. My Cupcake Twin and I considered several options: glass cake platter, silver tray, wooden tray. We finally settled on the most simple solution possible: the cheap tray in which they were baked (because you need to remember that as soon as they are all given away, you're going to be stuck carrying whatever item you chose around with you the rest of the night).

Second you need to think about your story, because why exactly are you walking around with cupcakes? It's not to say that you need to stick to your story at all times, but you do just need to be confident in why you have cupcakes, so when some random dude (who you don't want to give a cupcake to) says something about them being fantastic, you can fire back with a, "yes, WE (meaning you and your Cupcake Twin) are fantastic!" And then when he responds with a, "well that's a bold statement." You can then fire back with a, "No, that's the truth. The bold statement is walking in here with a tray of BACON CUPCAKES!" And then just walk away.

In thinking about your story, you'll also want to be thinking about your criteria for what makes for a cupcake-worthy gent. Because the executive decisions you've previously made about the size and quantity of cupcakes you'll bake and how you'll be transporting them around town will inevitably dictate the number of cupcakes you have at your disposal, you're really going to need to determine how you'll dole the treats out. Be prepared that many factors may play into you changing your mind throughout the night, but be sure you know your must haves and your deal-breakers (say for instance, as I mentioned in Part I, a wedding ring? DEAL-BREAKER! Sorry married guys who might really love cupcakes, but guess what? You've already got yourself a "cupcake"--and she's at home--and your puppy-dog eyes will get you nowhere with us. We do not feel sorry for you. And no, you cannot buy one of our cupcakes for a dollar. They are not for sale.).

Third, you need to be really careful for what you wish. Remember how I'm really good at manifesting things? Well, when you take cupcakes to a bar it's probably a good idea to be focused on what you really and truly want. Me? I wanted to see if I could get a guy's number. Did that. Social experiment victory! However, next time, I think I'm going to be a little more specific about that so I can manifest something a little bit closer to the Mr. Right I really and truly want.

Fourth, you need to be strategic about the establishments you visit. You want a place that is frequented by men (heed the advice above about manifesting, and make sure you're heading to places where the odds of meeting Mr. Right, not just any-old-Mister, are high). We went to a couple of places and had varying degrees of luck. We got our feet wet at an Irish pub--safe environment full of bacon-lovers and men--and then headed to a little fancier spot we tend to frequent. As we were heading out for the night, we did wonder if we'd be allowed to bring food in, or if they would shun our tasty treats. As it turns out, if you reserve a couple for your servers and bartenders it can go a long way.

About that last point, when our server at the Irish pub asked us about the cupcakes it was impossible to not tell her what we were doing. She thought the idea was brilliant, so of course we gave her a cupcake, and then we gave one to the bartender, and then when we got to the second bar, we gave five away to the owners/bartenders and serving staff, because we know them pretty well, and because they've had to put up with our craziness on more than one occasion. In the event you're keeping count, that's seven courtesy cupcakes gifted. And okay, we split one, so that's eight out and only four left for prospective charming guys. Whoops!

With our cupcakes rationed, we ended up handing two out to a couple of guys who were sitting near us at the Irish pub, our approach was just to ask them if they wanted cupcakes they said yes, ate them, enjoyed them, and then left (granted we asked them if they wanted cupcakes as they were preparing to leave). Neither of us wanted anything to come from giving these two away, it was actually more about proving to ourselves that we could actually give cupcakes away to people other than the employees of the establishments we were visiting. Social experiment victory!

When we were down to our final two cupcakes it was later in the evening and we were sitting at the bar in our final destination on a very uncharacteristically quiet night. Prospects were looking grim (only the group of guys which contained both the married man who would pay good money for a BACON CUPCAKE! and the guy who most definitely could not handle our fantastic boldness), until two nicely dressed and unmarried guys enter the bar. They sit at a high-top table behind us and we tried out a new pick-up move. We grab two coasters and place one cupcake on each. We give them to our server--who is in cahoots with us, especially after we give her a cupcake of her own, even in spite of the fact that she's a vegetarian--who takes them over to the table and says, "The lovely ladies at the bar have sent these cupcakes over to you." And it works like a charm (kind of like when someone sends over a drink, only it's a BACON CUPCAKE!). Social experiment victory! We ended up chatting with the guys for quite some time and yes, I got a phone number out of it (the phone number of a guy who is not quite what I'm looking for and who is also moving to Manhattan next week, but a phone number nonetheless. Say it with me, Internets, social experiment victory!).

Don't be surprised if the Cupcake Twins are out again in the New Year. We've learned some important lessons that we need to put back into practice. Note to self: use bacon, don't give all your cupcakes to the waitstaff, focus on what you really want, sit at the bar, send cupcakes over--it's simultaneously mysterious, intriguing, domestic, and hilarious. And most importantly, regardless the executive decisions you make, always opt for bold and fantastic!

A social experiment with the Cupcake Twins--Part I

2011-12-17T17:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes an idea is hatched under the influence that might be potentially crazy and ridiculous, but because you are under the influence you know that it is undoubtedly the best idea you've had in your life. Ever.

This is how the Cupcake Twins were born.

A few weeks ago, a fellow single friend and I were out on the town, looking and feeling good, yet attracting nothing but married men. Perplexed, we put our big brains together figure out how we could change our luck and actually get single fellows to come our way. I won't take you through our entire thought process (as there was a lot of wandering around until we finally landed on the final product), but suffice it to say we boiled it down to the simple mind of a single man. Unsure on why we weren't attracting Mr. [Unmarried] Right to us, we decided we should reach into our bag of tricks and use an irresistible secret weapon: cupcakes.

That's right. Cupcakes. Our plan was a simple one, bake a batch of cupcakes and visit a couple of target-rich environments on a Friday night and use them to draw attention and open the door for opportunity. Brilliant! We agreed that we would only give the cupcakes out to those who were truly cupcake-worthy (first criterion: must not be married). Even more brilliant! We set dates for cupcake making and D (delivery) Day, and our plan was in motion.

Earlier in the week, I was sharing the plan with a group of friends (guys, gals, singles, couples) and right away one of the guys turned to me and said, "I'm not sure that will work. Girls like cupcakes. Guys like bacon. If you walked into a bar with a plate of bacon, you cannot lose."

I looked at him incredulously, as if I'm going to walk into a bar with a plate of bacon?! You know, because walking in with a platter of cupcakes is just so much more logical. But I did give his comment some thought because people do love bacon and you usually can't lose (unless those people happen to be vegetarians or vegans, and if they are, well then they probably aren't people that I would spend forever with because mmm-mmm, I love meat). My friend and I considered this new viewpoint and made executive decision number one: Bacon Cupcakes!

With a modified plan I hit the store to get supplies for cupcake making day and made executive decisions two, three, and four: instead of making mini-cupcakes we'd make normal-size ones becasue the store didn't have mini-cupcake tins, we would not be making cupcakes from scratch but would be making the box variety, and likewise, we would not be making a chocolate ganache when we could just use a ready-to-spread tub of frosting. Silly us had thought that we would wow people with our baking abilities and make homemade treats, then we realized nobody is really going to notice the difference and why put that much energy into strangers and a social experiment that could backfire. Plus I didn't want to do all those dishes. And we opened the box and combined the ingredients at home, therefore the cupcakes would be undeniably home-made.

So we busted out some "rich butter flavor" yellow cupcakes and added an unspecified amount of artificial maple flavoring (why splurge on pure maple extract, right?), frosted them with "rich chocolate" frosting and sprinkled them with bits of bacon. Admittedly the bacon was a splurge. In case you didn't know this, happy free-range pigs make for ridiculously yummy bacon, and if you have ridiculously yummy bacon on a cupake, you're probably more willing to overlook the fact that the cake has both artificial butter and maple flavoring and is so overloaded with sugar and preservatives because mmm-mmm, you love meat!

You're probably curious about how this social experiment turned out... and that will be Part II of this story. But just in case you were curious about how my house smells, it's smelled like pancakes, Log Cabin syrup, and bacon for two solid days now.

Little voices

2011-12-14T17:34:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered how an LMNT post comes to be? Well,Internets, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much—hold it! That’ssomething completely different.

I’m not sure how other bloggers think about their posts, asI’m sure we all employ very different techniques. Some might outline theirthoughts, making sure they have a clear introduction with a clearthesis, supporting points, and conclusion. Some probablyeven proofread and revise what they’ve written. Well, not this blogger.Thesis? Hmmm, rarely. Proofread? Ha! Well, sometimes I do go back and reread what I’ve spewed all over the page, butthat’s mostly me validating that I am indeed as hilarious as I thought I was when Iwrote those words the first time.

I’m probably not the best person to dole out any sort ofadvice, but I don't think there's any harm in letting you go into my brain a little bit here, because Ithink the post development--from thought to publication--is interesting. And by interesting, I mean potentially weird.

I seem to remember a conversation with TIG in high schoolabout how when she was thinking, she would picture the words being typed out in her mind (is that true, or am I making that up?). For me, Iactually hear myself saying everything I think, as in I’m completely narrating my ownlife--every single thought--and when the occasion calls for it (read: particularly dramatic situations) I add a musical soundtrack underneath my narration.

Take right now for instance, as I’m thinking about what I'm typing, I’m reading it out loud in myhead. This word, and that one, and yes, even this one. Even the words that I love to say out loud are fun to say in my head. The French ones too. Faire de l’alpinisme. Okay, this is getting to be too much; the echo in here makes my headache.

So, for me, a post doesn’t start with an outline, but essentially startswith a conversation with myself. If something funny or random happens tome, I immediately talk about it in my head to myself and it becomes the backbone of my post. So all those half-finished posts I have laying around are really justunfinished conversations with myself that are swimming around in my brain. The finished project is really just me coming around after leaving myself hanging for hours, days, or even months.

Is this unique? Maybe everyone talks to themselves incessantly in their head? Do you? Or how about when you read something, do you hear yourself reading it aloud then too? I'm not that weird, or am I? Inquiring minds (and head voices) want to know.

Funk my life

2011-12-12T17:21:00.000-08:00

Lo, a month has passed since last I've posted, and the Internets hath had nary a peep from LMNT. Sad face emoticon.

I actually have a handful of half-started, half-conceptualized posts that I just never had the real oomph to finish. You see, Internets, I'm in one of my funks; one of those funks that inevitably follows a period of uber-activity overload. Where I go from being extremely regimented and scheduled, having some place to be, something to do, or someone depending upon me almost every hour of the day to nada. Nothing. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, nobody depending upon squat. These funks are so predictable, you can set your watch to them.

When I'm in that crazy state of hustle and bustle and frenetic energy, that's when I actually feel like I function the best. From my perspective, I know what I'm doing, I have purpose, and things seem to have more vitality. What I don't really know is how people experience me during those periods. I mean, I think I'm giving them my best, I'm in the zone, and they certainly couldn't ask for more. I hesitate to open myself up for feedback on that, because I'm not sure I can imagine that happy little self-perception shattering. But I wonder what it's like on the outside.

What's becoming ever clear to me in this particular funk is that I'm not sure I know how to operate at a pace that is less than frenetic. I thrive off of that pace and I think it's something that was ingrained into me back in high school. When I'm in this fallow period, I feel absolutely demoralized. From my perspective I feel lethargic, listless, lacking in purpose, and everything is shrouded in a very dull haze. In the same light, I wonder how people experience me in this stage. My self-criticalness is at heightened levels in times like these, so it's absolutely unfathomable for me to think anyone really thinks they are getting the best LMNT they could.

I know there has to be a balance, what I don't know is how to strike that. I'm very skilled at swinging the pendulum from one side to the other, it's just that finding the place in between that's really hard. My knee absolutely jerks when I'm in a fallow funk and then I suddenly find myself involved in activities I don't really care about, going places I don't really want to go, or dating people I really don't want to date.

I can tell you that I'm trying my darnedest to be intentional about this funk, and not collect things/activities/hobbies/boyfriends in a shallow way; I'm trying to find that balance. And it's hard. And it's so much easier to swing to either side--the pull that pendulum is strong I tell you. Note to self: resistance is not futile! And when I find that balance--because I have faith I will--I'll be even more curious to know how others are experiencing me and most importantly how I'm experiencing myself.

Six-word Sunday: November 13, 2011

2011-11-13T18:29:00.001-08:00

Attended the tale of Sweeney Todd.

Not that I'm going to make excuses, but if I were going to one of the reasons why you haven't heard much from me over the past three months is because I was busy getting my thespian on. And for those of you that thought it might just be a "phase" or something I was experimenting with, as it turns out I'm really into it.

Back in August, a friend of mine who was directing "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street," admonished me for not signing up for an audition. And if I were making excuses (which I already established, I'm not), it was because I was in the midst of coaching another running season for Team in Training and I knew how much work that was going to take, especially given the fact that we had three events in October which was also when the production was set to open.

As I'm wont to do, I figured out a way to have the best of both worlds--even though the cost was having a six-week stretch where literally every minute of every day was scheduled and if I had the luxury to be at my house it was only to sleep. But it was definitely worth it.

Being a part of this production was a tremendous experience. If you're not familiar with the show, it is considered by many to be one of the most musically challenging productions. There is nowhere to hide in the ensemble, you have to know your music (and it's Sondheim, so knowing your music is at times so much easier said than done). I'm so glad that I was given the opportunity. I learned and grew as an actor and singer, and as a gender-bending-Irish-conman-turned-flamboyant-Italian-barber. More about that to come...

Next stop: Square one

2011-11-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

First things first, there are many things I need to recount for you, dear Internets, but let's start with what is often a popular topic, if not a source of great blog material: my love life.

To make a story that shouldn't be as long as I make it short, earlier this summer I met a guy. By all accounts a very great guy. A guy who was vetted by AP and was introduced to me as my future husband. So we met, had a good connection and a fun weekend, and then he returned home to Philadelphia. I made a valiant effort to be open to the possibility of something more and he sort of made a modest effort, I guess. And ultimately that was that and it was over--it just took a couple months for that spade to finally be identified.

When it comes down to it, we had a weekend and some text conversations. Not really much, which is why it was surprising--and actually downright comical--to me to note my emotional response to the situation. I mean in reality he and I didn't have much, yet I found myself moving through the stages of grief, literally by the hour. And it got me wondering if the amount of time one takes to move from denial to acceptance is directly related the amount of time one spends in a relationship? If so, then you can base your proportion on the following ratio: a one weekend relationship will equate to eight hours of grief.

And, because I saw a ton of humor in the situation and knew it was excellent blog material, I tracked my emotional highs and lows on a post-it note that afternoon (maybe there is also a corollary between the amount of raw materials needed to document one's grief and the length of one's relationship, in which case a one weekend relationship will equate to one post-it note, whereas I'm guessing a multi-decade relationship might require several bound journals, and Kim Kardashian's marriage lies somewhere in between).

So, Internets, please be seated and keep your arms and legs inside of the vehicle at all times, as you are about to embark on LMNT's abbreviated emotional roller coaster:

11:24 AM--I receive an e-mail from Philly basically saying, "you are awesome, I don't want a long-distance relationship, don't let me hold you back, and good luck." I adopt a "whatever dude" type of attitude and instead of responding, I head out for a long lunch. DENIAL.

1:30 PM--I respond coolly to Philly, because, whatever, NEXT! Which then elicits a text response: "You are truly an a-typical girl (in a good way)!" Which then causes me to explode because if one more person says to me, "You are so awesome, I don't know why you're single." I'm going to punch them in the mouth... especially if that person is the boy who just sent me a "break-up" e-mail. ANGER!

1:31 PM--I text back, "Yeah, I know. Your loss, buddy." BARGAINING (sorta, kinda... but mostly it's me calling it like it is and rubbing it in his face).

5:30 PM--I'm driving home belting out Adele at the top of my lungs, "Never mind, I'll find someone like you/I wish nothing but the best for yoooooooou, too/Don't forget me, I begged, I remember you said/Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead." And I cried a little. And they were not tears for Philly, but tears for me, because FOR THE LOVE OF PETE! How much longer do I have to wait?! DEPRESSION.

7:24 PM--I was paid a visit by Shawny to help me snap out of my "I may as well go start hoarding cats now" spiral. Oh, and I renewed my online dating subscription. ACCEPTANCE.

Really, I'm doing okay. More than okay, actually. And I'm staying hopeful that this time will be different (or at least will provide me with some really great blog fodder).

Ain't no joke

2011-11-01T20:58:00.000-07:00

Me: Knock, knock.
You: Who's there?
Me: LMNT.
You: LMNT who?
Me: LMNT!
You: No really, LMNT who?

That's right, Internets, here I am. Yes, I know you'll believe it when you see it, and I'm going to go out on a limb now and say you can hold your breath. Seriously. I've got stuff to say, and notes afloat, so I'm gonna do that and do it here. Promise.

See you soon!

Six-word Sunday: August 21, 2011

2011-08-21T23:25:00.000-07:00

Ran. Volleyballed. Started killing a parasite.

Yeah, that pretty much sums up my last seven days. Yesterday I ran 19 miles (like you do), and today I played in the one outdoor volleyball tournament I play in each summer. And my partner and I won! Oh, yeah, and I'm killing off a parasite (also, like you do). More about Eunice Penelope to come...

Six-word Sunday (on Monday): August 8, 2011

2011-08-08T22:17:00.000-07:00

Finally celebrating the arrival of Summer!

The Pacific Northwest and Summer have a very tenuous relationship, sometimes it's hot and heavy and other times it's on the fritz. Those of us that live here end up in the wake of that manic relationship and can tell you that when it's good it's really good. And when it's bad, well it's downright cold, rainy and miserable. Fortunately Summer, that saucy minx, decided to roll into town last week, giving all of us pasty-skinned vitamin D-deficient Seattleites cause to finally start wearing seasonally appropriate clothing.

Because it hasn't felt like Summer, I haven't felt like doing any of my Summertime chores, namely making my yard (and outdoor living space) summer ready. Well, this weekend I finally made it happen. I weeded relentlessly and scoured the past year of rain and gloom (read: mold) off of my deck and yard furniture. And it's about freaking time! There are six weeks of summer left and you better believe I'm going to enjoy the heck out of those six weeks (on my mold free yard furniture)!

Milestones

2011-08-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

In the past few months it seems like I've had a few of them (like finally publishing a post? Oh! Hello, Internets!). And not just piddly little meaningless milestones, but significant things that make you think, "Holy crap where did that last decade go?!"

For instance, in May I hit my five-year anniversary at work. FIVE YEARS! That might not seem that weighty, but considering I never thought I'd ever leave education to be in the business world, it blows my mind. It's the longest I've ever been with an organization (and if you count the year I spent there as a contractor before I was hired on full-time, I've been there over SIX YEARS!). This means I've spent more time at this place than I did at my combo Junior/Senior high school, and my university where I did my undergrad and graduate work.

Similarly, last week marked the five-year anniversary of when I bought my house. Oh, my sweet little Oasis in the Jhetto. The Oasis that I bought as an investment because at the time the marinara jar and I thought we'd be getting married (at least he'd mentioned it and I took him seriously) and the bubble was yet to burst in Seattle and it made sense then, but now it sometimes feels like the chain around my neck. Good thing I like the Oasis (minus the rooster). It's not that bad, and is by far the place I've lived in the longest in my life other than my parents' house. That is just crazy to me. I went from moving every year or two throughout my twenties, contently hopping around, and then, BOOM! Roots.

But those two milestones, while important, are small potatoes. I feel like I've spent the past two months constantly reflecting, "On this very date, TEN years ago I did..." And TEN years just sounds like such a substantial chunk of time. Here's a short list:

May 1--I returned to Colorado after visiting Seattle for the first time and put all my energy into finding a job in the Pacific Northwest because I loved it so much.
June 5--I graduated with my Master's of Arts degree from the University of Denver.
June 10--interviewed at the University of Puget Sound and had one of those experiences where everything clicks and you are on the precipice of something huge--and you know that it is exactly where you are supposed to be.
June 30--I (with a lot of help from DenPants) bought my first car. My little Jetta that I still drive around today (only when I bought him he had all of his hubcaps...).
July 26--I drove out of Colorado, the only place I had ever called home.
July 27--I drove into Washington, a place I never imagined I would call home but now do.
August 1--I started my first real grown-up job at the University of Puget Sound. A real grown-up job that paid me an actual salary (and it wasn't much at the time... especially now that I know better after leaving education for the business-world, but it was enough for me to not feel buyer's remorse every time I went to the grocery store).
August 4--That's right, on this very date TEN years ago I... sat in a tattoo parlor with one of my best friends, Jo Jo, and commemorated the "passing of an era" by getting my one and only tattoo. We got matching tattoos, a small ladybug atop our right feet. Small, yet it symbolizes such big monumental things: my life up to that point.

Who knew what the next TEN years would have in store? Oh, the highs, the lows, the joy, the pain, the multitude of times I raised my hands and wondered "what the heck am I doing? why am I here? and am I doing this whole thing right?" It's funny, because I'm at a point now where I'm wondering some of the same things.

I will tell you this, I celebrated my ten-year anniversary of making that huge monumental life-change by applying for a job in Europe. Yep, that's right. So now I'm sitting here wondering who knows what the next TEN years will have in store. (But seriously, who does? If you find out, could you send them my way? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Thanks.)

Six-word Sunday: June 12, 2011

2011-06-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

Relived PARIS! FRANCE! in Seattle, Washington.

Just when I thought I wouldn't post about PARIS! FRANCE! again, I went and had an oh-so-French day today.

After I returned from France I was waxing nostalgic about the macaroons to Monster and she came across a French bakery and found them. I had to go try them today and then I treated myself to Woody Allen's new film, Midnight in Paris. Internets, if you see this movie you need to know that everything Owen Wilson's character says and thinks about Paris is exactly what I've been saying, thinking, and feeling--and what I've been rambling about ad nauseum. Oh, and in the movie they go to L'Orangerie (see tip #4) and the sight of the room induced an emotional artburst, again. Surprising but sweet.

And as I close out my surprisingly French day, I'll close out my incessant rambling about how much I love PARIS! FRANCE! For now, anyway...

PARIS! FRANCE! Part IV

2011-06-12T22:42:00.000-07:00

Check out Part I, Part II, and Part III of PARIS! FRANCE! wherein I play the part of a power tourist, an emotional and righteous observer of high art, and someone who pretends they know what they are talking about.

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Internets, I think we've come to the final post about my trip to PARIS! FRANCE! This final installment will be a veritable potpurri of random tips and left over pictures to keep you visually interested.

Tip #1: Go to Paris. Simple enough. Just go. Seriously.

Tip #2: Go to Paris in the springtime. To be fair, I've never been to Paris any other time of year, but I can attest to its general fabulousness in the spring. There's a reason people love Pairis in the springtime.

Tip #3: Buy a scarf from a street market and wear it everywhere. Trust me, everyone else is doing it so you should too! Mais, oui!

Tip #4: Go to L'Orangerie. I know I already implored you to do this here, and if that wasn't reason enough here's a handy dandy little trick. If you go to L'Orangerie and buy the combo pass with Musee D'Orsay, you can get in to both AND skip the long line to get into Musee D'Orsay. Awesome.

Tip #5: Make the effort to speak French. Everyone I encountered was very gracious. Of course I was going out of my way to not come across as an ugly American (I wasn't wearing jeans, sneakers, and concealed any other such articles that send out the tourist beacon), but I never came across anyone that was rude or unwilling to help me.

Tip #6: You must must must get yourself a selection of les macarons (small little cookies that aren't anything like American macaroons, they are times infinity better mostly because they don't have coconut in them) and head to Le jardin de Luxembourg. Plop yourself down alongisde La fontaine de Medici and just revel in the moment. It is one I'll never forget. I really can't do it justice, but sitting there enjoying my rose petal macaroon is the most poignantly beautiful moment I've ever experienced.

Tip #7-infinity: There's so much more I could share with you, but I'll stop with this final tip: when you go to Paris (or heck, when you go on any adventure), open yourself up to being profoundly impacted by the expereince. Everything I experienced, from the larger-than-life to the small and simple, they all left an indellible imprint on my heart, mind, and soul. That general appreciation for just being and living in the moment is quite possibly the most significant thing I learned from PARIS! FRANCE!

And because pictures are worth a thousand words, here's a few more thousand for you.

The view of the Eiffel Tower from a Sunday street market.

Right before I had the most amazing Steak Frites with "secret green sauce" for which people line up into the street.

The Medici Fountain. Romantic. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

Where I sat and had my "macaroonasm."

One of the many beautful sculptures in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

PARIS! FRANCE! Part III!

2011-06-06T22:03:00.000-07:00

Check out Part I and Part II of PARIS! FRANCE! wherein I play the part of a power tourist, and an emotional and righteous observer of high art.
-----
Now we come to Part III, the part I like to call: dusting off your haven't-been-used-in-fifteen-years French skills and making them sing for their supper, or French 101.

I'd say it was about an hour before I landed when it really settled into my mind that "OH CRAP! I AM GOING TO A COUNTRY WHERE ENGLISH ISN'T THE PRIMARY LANGUAGE." Maybe I should have done something to prepare for that. But I had years of French in high school, that would be enough, right? As it turns out I remember and forgot just enough French to be dangerous.

From that moment on the plane until I landed in Seattle a week later, my brain was on overdrive: constantly on trying to remember as many random words, phrases, and pronunciations as I could. Sadly, I never once found the opportunity to talk about hippopotamuses or how I just love "to do the mountain climbing."

I practiced my recall in the shower, in my head during the work conference, even in my sleep. And it helped, sort of. All the French people I was with at the work event said I had a very good accent (plus one for LMNT), but a good accent and small vocabulary can leave you stranded in bilingual limbo--and trust me, it's on par with how Dante described it.

As my confidence built, I used French everywhere I could. And you know me, persistence is my middle name. So, even when the French would recognize me as an American and extend a courtesy to me by responding in English to my garbled attempt at communicating to them in their native tongue, I would continue the conversation in broken French. Because THAT'S WHAT I DO. And there we'd be, speaking each other's languages and somehow making it work. Or not.

The epitome of my foreign language adventure happened when I stopped into a small market for a bite for lunch. When I got there, the place was empty and I took my seat at a table. Within minutes, it had filled up with other lunch and pastry-goers and I knew that I was going to need to share my table with someone. Enter the cutest older French lady, who spoke absolutely no English. We sat together for about a half an hour talking the whole time. My Facebook status update post this encounter summed it up best:

Just had an absolutely lovely conversation with an adorably lovely, older, French, non-English speaking woman sharing a table with me in a crowded cafe. I have no idea what we talked about.

Except I do know that while I was talking about living in Seattle, Washington, she was talking about how the rhododendrons in Washington, D.C. are beautiful. What? Yes. Just go with it. I did, and so did she... I think.

Six-Word Sunday: May 29, 2011

2011-05-30T00:24:00.000-07:00

The best weekends have three days.

I'm taking a break from my stories about PARIS! FRANCE! to say almost nothing (except maybe PARIS! FRANCE!) delights me as much as the three-day weekend. Well, there's the four-day Thanksgiving weekend which is nothing if not pee-your-pants exciting.

And a little daytrip out to the islands with friends at their beach house is pretty much perfect. Especially when you get home Sunday night and realize it's not really a school night. Yeehaw and giddyup!

PARIS! FRANCE! Part II!

2011-05-24T18:00:00.000-07:00

Whenever I travel, my favorite thing to do is to go for a run and explore the area. In fact, it's something that I crave. In 2011 alone I've run in some pretty darn cool places: through the Magic Kingdom at Disney World, around Central Park in Manhattan, up Heartbreak Hill in Boston, and now I can add Paris to that list.

There's something about seeing a place in the early morning light, before it shakes the sleep off and starts to stir, and when that place is Paris it's an order of magnitude more amazing. Let's just say when you start your day with a run up the Champs de Mars and around the Eiffel Tower, it's bound to be a pretty good day.

And it only gets better when you follow that run with a trip to the Musee de l'Orangerie. It came recommended to me by FCA and it was amazing. L'Orangerie was Claude Monet's gift to Paris. Simple. Peaceful. Breathtaking. There are some amazing pieces in the permanent collection downstairs--I minored in Art in college, so I can totally geek out over art, especially the Impressionists. But as amazing as some of those pieces were (Renoir, Matisse, Cezanne), nothing prepared me for the power of The Water Lilies. It wasn't just the paintings themselves, but the entire experience. Two naturally lit beautiful white rooms with four larger than life paintings. I was overwhelmed. Monet, himself, actually painted these pieces. Every single stroke. I sat down on one of the benches in the center of the room to soak it all in and that's when the music started playing. It, like the paintings, was very simple. It started softly and then began to swell. It was impossible for me to not get caught up in it. Even thinking about it now, I'm overcome with emotion. It was a sensory beauty that I've never known. It was so powerful--I was so overwhelmed by the beauty I was moved to tears. I sat there for a very long time, just *being* there.

As I left, I paused in the vestibule, exhaled a deep breath and thought if I lived here, this is definitely where I'd come to find peace and solace and reconnect with myself. When I got home to Seattle, I actually read the museum guide and was so delighted to read that was Monet's intent:

When he donated The Water Lilies to France right after the First World War, Monet wanted to give Parisians a peaceful haven by inviting them to contemplate the infinite before painted nature: "Nerves overwrought by work would relax there just like the relaxing example of those stagnant waters, and for whomever inhabited it, this room would offer asylum for peaceful meditation amidst a flowery aquarium..."

Amazing.

To coin my own little phrase, I'm going to call what happened to me in l'Orangerie my "emotional artburst," and little did I know that was only a precursor for what was waiting for me the next day at Musee d'Orsay (suddenly the retelling of my grand adventure has lost its chronological edge and has taken a turn toward the thematic. What does this mean? I'm feeling particularly verbose about my time in PARIS! FRANCE! The good news, there's going to be a lot more than just Part II. Today's theme: "When LMNT went for a run and then wept openly about art").

Where was I, oh yes, Musee d'O-Oh-my-goodness-rsay. Okay, to say I was excited to go here is a slight understatement. When minoring in Art one takes their fair share of Art History courses. If any of you ever had Art History, you know what I'm talking about when I remember the always darkened classroom, with dual slide projectors advancing you through the different movements: Baroque, Renaissance, Realism, Impressionism, Pointillism, Cubism, Futurism, Pop, etc. And slide tests, ugh, slide tests. Painstakingly memorizing the hundreds of works flashed before you in class, the name of the work, the artist, the date, the style, and how you can distinguish that work from others. At the time it was so very tedious and sometimes I had problems telling Gauguin apart from Cezanne (except when Gauguin moved to the islands and assumed a more cubist approach, or was that Cezanne, or Matisse? See?). Well, when I set foot in d'Orsay all those images, the whirring sounds of the projectors, all those facts memorized came flooding back to me. And let me tell you, the slide you memorize is absolutely no match for seeing the real thing. So many of the paintings I had studied, had memorized for the lines, the colors, the subjects, were lining these walls, just inches away. The colors are so much more vibrant, the brushstrokes so much more passionate, the pieces so much more powerful.

D'Orsay is home to a number of Degas' ballerinas (so lovely), more of Monet's notable non-water lily works (you know, the ones you leaned for your slide tests on the Impressionists), and my favorite artist (and my second favorite painting of all-time) Pierre-Auguste Renoir's Bal du moulin de la Galette. To see this piece in real life was absolutely amazing. I could have stared at it for hours. It was so beautiful it brought me to tears, again. Internets, I'm not sure if you know what I'm talking about, or if I'm just some sappy art nerd (possibly both), but being surrounded by all of these works from the masters deeply touched my soul. I can recreate the feeling in my mind, but it starts to take on the feeling of slides being projected in my mind, a really good rendition but nothing like experiencing it in real life.

When I go to an art exhibit I like to take my time and absorb the energy from each piece; I want to attempt to see and feel what the artist saw and felt. And as I made my way through the museum, it became very clear to me that everyone has their own way of appreciating the art. This really played itself out as I was losing myself in a Toulouse-Lautrec--I've never even liked his work all that much (think Can-Can dancers at the Moulin Rouge), but I was transfixed by one of his grand pieces. It was a canvas that was roughly 12 feet by 12 feet. There I am, just amazed, mouth agape, and working on redefining myself as someone who might actually be okay with Toulouse-Lautrec, when a couple I had seen earlier do a light-speed walk through of the Monet room, blaze in front of me. The young woman stopped for a nanosecond, looked the piece up and down and said, "That's kind of cool." The guy she was with, who had already moved into the other room, asked,"What is?" And she responded, "Oh, just some big painting." I clutched my heart and made an audible gasp for air and then talked myself down out of hysterics. Even though I'm quite convinced that I was winning the award for "most impacted by the 'big paintings,'" I had to remind myself that there is no right or wrong way to experience art (even though deep down I'm pretty sure I was doing it the right way). Plus, the faster they moved out of there, the faster I could go back to being completely absorbed in the art and my emotional artbursts.

PARIS! FRANCE! Part I!

2011-05-23T17:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, Internets! France is so French; French and fabulous--the art, the history, the architecture, the macaroons. Le sigh.

Being there was a dream come true and so much of what I had dreamed was really true: there are cafes everywhere (on every corner like Starbucks here in Seattle, only in France it’s charming), Sundays are all about going to mass and then heading to one of the many public gardens or parks with your family, people honestly wear scarves and blue and white striped shirts, you can’t walk down the street without seeing someone with a baguette in hand (or in a lot of cases in the basket of their bicycle), mopeds and scooters are the preferred mode of transportation, and the wine, chocolate and pastries are even better than they say. Oh, and I think everyone smokes, and I never thought I'd say this, but they smoke in such an elegantly French way, even the teenagers. And you want to say, "Kids, stop sucking on the cancer stick," but they're just being French, they can't help it. Kind of like the North American tourists who don't know any French can't help the fact that they think the best way to translate English into French is by saying their English phrases louder and slower, "DO. YOU. HAVE. ANY. BREAD?"... "BREAD?"... "BREAD?" Maybe the French are smoking just to calm their nerves after being yelled at by tourists all day long.

How about we jump in to LMNT’s adventure in PARIS! FRANCE!?

The objective of the adventure: to just *be* in Paris--no pressure. To do whatever I want, whenever I want, looking cute, and not waste any of my precious time waiting in line for a tourist trap (more on this later), unless it was whatever I wanted to do at that point in time.

Work wrapped up on Friday afternoon and I arrived with a handful of colleagues in PARIS! FRANCE! The rest of the weekend was going to be about me achieving my objective alone, but Friday I was completely down with kicking off my adventure by playing power tourist with coworkers. As good little power tourists do we hopped on the Metro and went straight to the Arc d'Triomphe. And can I just say that when you climb the stairs from that station. BAM! There it is!

We walked our way down the Champs-Elysees, through Place de la Concorde and le Jardin des Tuileries, outside of the Louvre, along the Seine to Notre Dame where we happened upon the FESTIVAL OF BREAD! and finally stumbled our way down a quaint little alley into a nice little spot for dinner.

After dinner we took the Metro back to our area of town, which was quite near the Eiffel Tower. The French do a lot of things really well: architecture, art, pastries, but perhaps the most lovely is the lighting of their monuments; the Eiffel Tower is no exception.

We made our way back to the hotel and I crashed. The next two days were going to be full of solo adventure, I needed to rest up in preparation for PARIS! FRANCE! Part II! The part where I run, eat, drink, cry a little, and fall in love with the city.

Six-word Sunday: May 22, 2011

2011-05-22T15:46:00.000-07:00

Returned from PARIS! a changed LMNT.

Internets, believe me I know that I've left you hanging for over a week now. I've been organizing my thoughts, recovering from jet lag, and thinking so much about my future. It's time to get it all out of my head and onto the page here. Take your seat and buckle up, I've got lots in store for you.

Doing right by Monsieur Beauchamp and Madame Hughes

2011-05-10T04:23:00.000-07:00

Hey, Internets! I’m in France! Actually, I’m on the plane to France, but by the time this posts, I’ll be in France! If you’ve been around me for the past week you already knew this because seemingly every other sentence I’ve uttered has pretty much been, “When I’m in Paris next week, because I’m going to Paris and going to be Paris,” or something akin to that. To say I’m excited about this would be a slight understatement. I’m freaking ecstatic because, uh, PARIS! FRANCE!

A little over a week ago I got an e-mail from a colleague asking for my help at a leadership conference in FRANCE! It was short notice, but it’s PARIS! FRANCE! So of course I cleared my calendar, and voila! On y va (away we go… which was also the title of the series of textbooks in junior high and high school French).

For the next week, I’ll just be hanging out, in FRANCE! The first part of the week I’ll be outside of the city with the work conference and then LMNT has the weekend to herself in PARIS! FRANCE! I’m armed with multiple suggestions of cafés, patisseries, fromageries, et plus. A weekend in PARIS! in the springtime. Exhilarating and terrifying. Seven years of French, but it’s been 15 years since I’ve used it. I know more than “Bob,” but not much. I know it’s all going to be fine, more than fine, it’s going to be fabulous. But I do kind of wish I would have bought a book or a map or something before I left. Ah, adventure. And can I just tell you that packing for PARIS! FRANCE! is really challenging. It’s like packing for New York times thirty-eight. Because it’s PARIS! You want to impress the city and look cute and not like a back-packing American tourist. Phew. That’s tough, but I’m pretty darn sure I accomplished it and I’ll be looking cute, sitting at the cafes, sipping wine, eating chocolate, and loving every second of the fact that I’m in PARIS! FRANCE!

Okay, mes petits choux, more for you later. From PARIS! FRANCE! Wish you were here.

Six-word Sunday: May 8, 2011

2011-05-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

Mom, thank you for everything. Always.
As much as I love, living in Seattle, it sure would be nice to be able to see mom (and dad) more often. I can't believe it, but this is my 10th long-distance Mother's Day shout out to you.

Love you. Miss you.

Cock-a-doodle-don't

2011-05-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

So, last year was the "Year of Urban Agriculture" in Seattle. When the Mayor made that declaration urban farmers around the town rejoiced because he and the city council also passed new code which allowed everyone five more chickens per residence within city limits. For those of you counting at home that's a total of eight chickens per residence. Hey, urban farmers, how excited are you?

Apparently the urban farmers that live on my block are REALLY excited.

Internets, let me remind you that where I live is not really a neighborhood that would strike you as a hotbed of agriculture. Which is probably the premise of the whole urban farming revolution: Old MacDonald can have his farm anywhere. E-I-E-I-O.

I can understand how some Seattlites would be all into the urban agriculture thing because they are Seattlites after all, and that's what they do. Drink Starbucks, listen to grunge music, and build chicken coops in their tiny backyards. But my neighborhood isn't really typical Seattle, it's a neighborhood in transition. And even though I sometimes (lovingly) refer to it as the hood, it's not that bad. But the hood better watch out, because the hipsters are a-comin' and they've got EIGHT! CHICKENS! EACH! And they also might be packin' something else, too.

Late last summer I was getting ready for work one morning, when I heard it. The crow of a rooster. I froze because did I just hear what I thought I heard? And then he crowed again. Yes. I'm living next to Farmville. Joy. At the time I didn't think much of it, except I did pause and smile about some cheesy thought that where I live is truly a melting pot where MacBook toting gangsters and chicken-raising crazies and everything in between could all get along. And what a happy lovely thought that was. But that was all before what I will now declare in retrospect the "Year of the Faulty Rooster."

As it turns out, there is quite a debate over roosters within city limits. And I now know why. Uh, urban farmer neighbors? Your rooster is broken. It crows at first light, second light, third, fourth, and 379th light. It crows all day long. I often wondered this since I've only noticed it in the morning when I'm getting ready, but the other day I worked from home and heard it in my living room all afternoon. And then the other night at 10:22 PM. Seriously. Broken rooster.

But there's not much that I can do. If I lived in the master-planned-covenant-controlled-suburban community of my youth, I could call the Covenant Police (seriously, they would patrol our neighborhood looking for scofflaws who had broken the covenant by painting their house non-approved colors, keeping garbage cans in a place where they are visible on the street, building non-approved gazebos, having a satellite dish and then disguising it as an umbrella for your picnic table--all true stories). But there are no Covenant Police in the hood, and it looks like roosters are okay because they have been grandfathered in so they "can live out their lives with dignity and in peace." Dammit. This means I have to respect broken grandpappy rooster. What gives? Where is my dignity and my peace? I think someone left the barn door open.

It also cannot go with out saying... Note to self: if you happen to be flipping through the TV channels and the University of South Carolina is playing a televised baseball game on ESPN, do not assume the rooster call you hear is from your friendly neighborhood barnyard animal. It's actually on the TV, because they are the Gamecocks (but it truly is a spot on impersonation of your grandpappy).

Conflicted

2011-05-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

I feel like I need to preface this post with a couple of very important facts: I consider myself a proud American and I support our troops. I love my country and the freedom I have been afforded as a citizen. And I respect the men and women who serve in the name of our country to protect that freedom. I may not agree with all of the political decisions that have led us into or kept us at war, but I do fervently believe that America is a great country, democracy is a wonderful thing, and those that put their lives on the line to defend that should be honored and respected (so long as they are acting with integrity, upholding our standards and acting in accordance to the values upon which our country was founded).

As the news spread on Sunday that we had killed public enemy number one, celebrations erupted. Crowds in Washington D.C. and New York grew exponentially on the TV screen, Facebook exploded with celebratory status updates, and I even heard several rounds of fireworks in my neighborhood. Myself, I found it really hard to be in the mood to celebrate. Do I think that he was a terrible murderous person? Absolutely. Please don't mistake that, I believe he was horrible and evil and killed thousands of innocent men, women, and children--and no doubt had plans to kill thousands upon thousands more. Tracking him down and killing him might have been the only way to stop him, unfortunately. But the fact that we did that doesn't make me happy. Relieved, possibly. Ready to run out into the streets chanting "USA, USA, USA?" No.

Like I said, I think the only way we could stop him was through this course of action. But stopping him doesn't necessarily keep us safe. There is still evil out in the world, and in my mind evil begets evil. Violence begets violence. We just added to it. He murdered, so we murdered, and then who murders next? The vicious cycle continues. What's our responsibility in halting it? Has it already spun too far out of control for us to be able to halt it? Are we doomed to keep the cycle spinning? I hope not, but I fear yes.

In the midst of all this I found myself wondering how all of my friends who are parents handle these situations. When the media is overtaken by stories like these how do you explain it to your kids? If I had kids, how would I explain it to them? Murder is bad, but it's okay that we murdered this guy because he is really really bad and we are in the right? Yes, I think he was really bad and that we are in the right to protect ourselves, but I just can't get excited about killing people, no matter how bad they are. I was mired deep in these thoughts when I came across this link. It doesn't necessarily make my spirit feel like rejoicing, but it does normalize things for me and make me feel better about not feeling like we just won the Olympics.

How to feel really old

2011-05-02T18:49:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was driving a couple of friends back to their apartment and I was more than delighted to play for them one of my twenty-five cent cassette tapes. I was trying to get my friend, who is around six years younger than me, to guess the artist. The song "I Saw Him Standing There" was playing:

Younger Friend (YF): Ooh. I know this song.

LMNT: Yeah...

A group of women standing on the corner hear the song playing and start dancing and singing along, because it's that good.

YF: Wait isn't this a Beatles' song?

LMNT: Yeah...

Her boyfriend, who is around my age, chimes in from the back seat.

BF: Madonna? Sheena E?

LMNT: No! You guys! It's TIFFANY!

YF: [stares blankly at me]

YF: Tiffany who?

LMNT: Tiffany!

YF: What's her last name?

I died a little right then and there.

Six-word Sunday: May 1, 2011

2011-05-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

Sinuses attacked. Breathing impossible. Commence coughing.

Pretty much sums up my week... at least the last four days of it anyway. Here's to a new week and the new found ability to breathe, smell, and taste my food.

A second helping of cheese

2011-05-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

Note to self: Be ye not tempted to shop for music under the influence.

Apparently this is a lesson bound to be repeated. Back when I was a senior in college my parents and I were at some pre-graduation wine and cheese reception (emphasis on the wine) and somehow, post-event, we ended up at Bed Bath and Beyond. Tipsy.

Left to our own devices, we waddled our way to a CD kiosk of "The Sounds of Nature." You know, the one where you push on the small thumbnail of the CD cover art and it plays samples off of that CD. Ooooh. We were transfixed and listened to every sample. Twice. Maybe three times. Before my dad could find us and save us from ourselves, we had bought at least 4 CDs (one of which was Loon Song, and it was just as it sounds, loons set to song. In a word: AWESOME). And we knew while it was happening that it was a bad idea, and by bad I mean AWESOME.

So there I was this week, post-happy hour with AP when we waddled across the street to the Half-Price Books where they also sell way-less-than-half-price cassette tapes. And guess who has two thumbs and a cassette tape player in her car? That's right, this girl. And because I was two margaritas in, every tape I saw was a MUST HAVE (even though I had already bought most of them at full-price back in the 1980s when cassette tape technology was king). Honestly. Most of these tapes are already at my parents house, but a lot of good that does me when I want to listen to them in my car now. So, at $0.25 a pop (you read that correctly, one quarter each) I bought the following masterpieces:

Duran Duran, Arena (recorded around the world in 1984!)
Kenny Rogers, The Gambler (I don't know any songs on here but the title track, but it's gotta earn me some street cred to own a Kenny Rogers tape, right?)
Neil Diamond, 12 Greatest Hits Vol II (mostly because "America" is one of those 12 great hits)
Prince and the Revolution, Music From The Motion Picture Purple Rain (yes, somewhere doves are crying)
John Denver, Take Me Home, Country Roads & Other Hits (a collection of some of the first songs I ever fell in love with on cassette tape)
Amy Grant, Heart in Motion (Baby, baby, I LOVED this one when I bought it the first time in 1991)
Huey Lewis & the News, Fore! and Sports (yes, it is hip to be square, don't hate the playa...)
Bette Midler, Beaches (Thank you. Thank you. Thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings)
Whitney Houston, Whitney Houston (the one where she's amazing before Bobby Brown ruined her)
Michael Bolton, Time, Love & Tenderness (I know. There are no words, except maybe... AWESOME!)
Ace of Base, The Sign (which I never actually owned on cassette, but overplayed the CD my junior year in high school)

And the piece de resistance...

Tiffany, Tiffany (Oh, yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!).

Four dollars later (much cheaper than Loon Song), I was out of there and jamming in the Jetta. Turns out it was a good idea, nay, a great idea. Maybe purchasing music whilst intoxicated is actually an AWESOME idea. And in case you didn't know this already, I believe that children really are our future.

The Great Grout Debate of 2011

2011-04-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

Even though I haven't been using it lately, I really do love my kitchen.

On--or around--this date in 2008, I had just completed kitchen demolition and was finding out some of the secrets my 100+ year-old house was hiding.

And even though sometimes I do long for a new house project, I'm really glad my kitchen is done. A few weeks ago I helped AP and her husband tile their kitchen. It wasn't so much that they asked me to help them, but more that I begged them to let me take control of their project (thanks, AP). And it was a good day, a good project, but it's really darn good to have a kitchen that is all done all right (right, AP?).

Check that one off the list

2011-04-25T23:24:00.000-07:00

It's been one week since I ran the Boston Marathon and I've spent the past week eating and sleeping. Seriously. Every time I run a race, I somehow always seem to forget the physical toll it takes on the body, namely that I become absolutely ravenous and cannot eat enough for at least a week and a half and I need to sleep more hours in a day than a newborn. Suffice it to say, I'm still hungry and am also ready for bed. But I'm going to stay awake long enough to write this post. A post all about the once-in-my-lifetime race.

It was an amazing experience. Incredible. If you ever have the chance to participate in it (stop laughing hysterically, someday you might, you never know), here are some of the things you should do:

First, look around at everyone and realize holy crap! They are all really fast runners.
Then look at yourself and realize holy crap! You are one of those really fast runners.
When they tell you to pack layers for the 3+ hours you'll be spending in the athletes' village waiting for the race to start, believe them. It is cold, even if it's sunny. Pack a sleeping bag, bring a coat, pray for good weather, no wind, and trust in your ability to make friends with strangers (or that you meet up with people you actually know).
Slow down. It will be really hard to do that, but you've got to do it. You're going down hill with a few thousand of the world's fastest runners and just as many people cheering you on the sidelines. It's really easy to get caught up in the adrenaline rush, but don't.
Run on the edge of the street and slap as many hands as you can. Nearly the entire 26.2 mile route is lined with crowds of people cheering you on, extending their hands as a never ending line of high fives. I'm pretty sure I touched every kid (and a fair number of their parents) in Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, and Natick.
Put your name on your shirt. Yes, on the outside of your shirt, in big bold letters. I'm not going to lie, it looks a little ridiculous, but people will say your name and not wear it out. Trust me, you're going to need it. It helps give you that little boost to keep those legs moving. The overall benefit outweighs the dorkiness.
When you run by Wellesley College and the scream wall enjoy it. You can hear it coming for a good quarter mile. It's loud and you might have some permanent hearing loss because you ran too close to the entire student body screaming and waving signs begging you and all of the other runners to kiss them because they are Irish, or from Montana, or are an English Major, or are not your husband/boyfriend/wife/girlfriend, or are a geek, or a jock, or whatever. It's fun and man those girls can scream.
Heartbreak Hill is a challenge, but if you trained in Seattle, you've run much tougher hills (and if you slowed down in the beginning like I told you too, your quads won't be screaming at you as you climb it).
Have your parents wait for you at Chestnut Hill Drive, just past the mile 22 marker, right where the road curves and you start to head downhill into Boston (and if you don't take that advice, then run with your cell phone and try to figure out where they are while you're running. Don't panic if you think you've missed them, you haven't. There are two roads named Chestnut Hill. They are at the second one. See, there they are holding the giant fluorescent orange poster with your name on it). To them, you look like you're running really well because a) you're going down hill, b) you're at mile 22 and you're excited to see them so you speed up, and c) everyone around you looks like running zombies (don't worry at mile 26, some official photographer will take your picture during an inopportune blink and you'll like the running un-dead too, but you're not there yet. You still look good. Well, as good as you can look after torturing yourself for 22 miles).
Give your parents your fuel belt and anything else that you are royally annoyed with, but take a water bottle and another gel just because you might need the extra energy those last four miles (but realize soon thereafter that EVERYTHING IS COMPLETELY ANNOYING TO YOU RIGHT NOW. TAKE A SIP FROM YOUR WATER BOTTLE AND THEN THROW IT AS HARD AS YOU CAN TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, BECAUSE REALLY?! COULD IT BE ANY MORE ANNOYING?! The answer to that question is no.)
Don't believe "them" when they say it's all downhill after mile 21. They lie.
Do believe them when they say it's downhill after the Citgo sign (trust me, you won't miss the Citgo sign) at mile 24. And when you pass said Citgo sign and wonder why the crowd is 8-10 people deep and everyone is wearing Red Sox gear, it's because you're outside of Fenway Park. Look to the right, apparently it's over there. Or, you could just continue to look at the Citgo sign to the left and mutter a few curse words about that "downhill" you just ran up (those liars)! And then keep wondering for the next two miles when you're going to see Fenway Park.
Remember to keep breathing. When you turn on to Boylston and are within blocks of the finish line and you start to hyperventilate (again) because you're so overcome with emotion, and you're about to cross off a REALLY big accomplishment on your "life's list of things to accomplish," and the big crowd is cheering and calling out the name you have written in big bold letters on your shirt, and photographers are taking your picture (even in spite of the fact that you look like you just crawled out of the grave), and you almost start to cry, and then you realize you stopped breathing, inhale. And then exhale. And then inhale again, and keep moving.
Cross the finish line. Revel in the accomplishment. Try to regain your mental faculties and spend an hour trying to find your parents. And then eat. And eat and eat and eat and don't stop for at least a week and a half.

Countless miles in the making

2011-04-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

A note from the editor/author/general boss of this blog: I actually wrote this post in advance (on my flight to NYC). WHAT?! I did something in advance? Didn’t save it for the last minute hoping to get the sweet sweet adrenaline rush of a just-in-time delivery? Who am I, right? I’m telling you this because I’ve scheduled this post to publish at the moment they fire the starter’s gun for the 115^th running of the Boston Marathon. And technically speaking I’m in the seventh corral in the second wave of runners, so it’s likely that I won’t actually cross the start line for minutes from now… but you get the intent.

As I reflect back on the past seven years I’ve spent running toward today, I can’t help but think about all the things I love, hate, and tolerate about running in Seattle. And in honor of her, I offer you this, my love letter of sorts to running in the Emerald City.

Dear Seattle,

You have a lot of hills. Just when I think I’ve found a route that is flat—BAM! You throw me one steep mutha’ of a block or two. Oh, and as it turns out, all of that supposed flatness was really just a long gradual climb, thank you very much. It’s like you are the crazy smart dog owner and me the lovable but stupidly eager puppy. You hide the medicine in the food bowl, because you know it’s good for me and if I don’t know what’s coming I’ll just mindlessly devour that whole bowl, medicine and all. I fall for it every time, you saucy minx, you. I will give you this, the hills offer me the kind of challenge that I love. That’s right, I do love them. They are torture, but I always end up grabbing those hills by their reproductive parts and showing it just who is boss. Me. Duh.

In addition to the hills, I also love running around you for a few more obscure reasons. First, the views. Sure, you’re a beautiful and scenic place. Who wouldn’t be in awe of the landscape, mossy rain forests, two different mountain ranges, waterfront trails, Mount Rainier, the Space Needle? Those are all lovely, and I do love them, but what I’ve really valued the most in our time together over the years are some of the hidden gems, if you will. Were it not for the runs I went on with the intent of checking out different house colors in the many neighborhoods, I may not have ever settled on the colors I picked for my house, and my place would be looking faded and down-trodden. Phew! Crisis averted, thanks to you, Seattle. Also, I’ve made some pretty serious landscaping decisions based upon what I’ve seen that works and doesn’t work so well in our climate. Palm trees? Really, people? Really? On a recent run, I also saw a purple PT Cruiser with flames custom painted on it. Oh, that made my day. In my imagination ZZ Top was cruising around town, on their way to Whole Foods. You know, just a typical ZZ Top kind of Saturday. And a couple of months ago, I was running through one of the most swank neighborhoods and I came across a man with really bushy white hair, hat pulled down low as if he were incognito, large Starbucks cup in hand and little dog in-tow. And he was incognito. Guess who he was? That’s right, THE Tom Skerritt. As I was approaching him, I had a fleeting thought that it might be him, but the shock of bushy white hair threw me for a loop--and made me think that maybe it was Hal Holbrook rocking his Mark Twain look. But the Skerritt made more sense, given that he actually lives in that neighborhood and Hal Holbrook does not. And it was further confirmed by Monster--who, by the way, has a thing for the Skerritt—that he likes Starbucks. There you go. Celebrity star sighting. Thanks, Seattle!

Finally, I would be doing you an injustice, Seattle, if I didn’t mention the pheromones. That’s right, I love you (and sometimes despise you, but mostly love) for how you smell. My old neighborhood was blocks away from the Sound. The salty smell of low-tide will always make me nostalgic for the early days of our courtship. In my new hood, where gangstas rock out to the laptops they carry, the signature smell is the nearby Franz Bread Factory. I can always tell the days when they are making mass quantities of Wonder Break versus any other assorted pastry making day. The most welcome smell of all has to be springtime—it pulls me out of the dour mood that is a product of months and months of the damp and dark winter. The past few weeks the laurel and cherry blossoms have just made everything look, smell and feel better.

Seattle, you’ve been with me my entire running life (my victory in the mile run at my elementary school’s 6^th-grade Hexathlon notwithstanding). I haven’t loved every run (or every hill, sight, or smell), but through it all I’ve grown more and more attached to you. Thanks to the running, I love you more. You've seen me through it all and have played a big part in getting me to the start line in Hopkinton today. I will do you proud. And I cross my heart and hope to die that when I get to the famed Heartbreak Hill at mile 21, I will close my eyes and only be thinking of you. It will mean nothing to me. I'll only be doing it because everyone else is doing it, but it's you that I really love. Honestly. I swear.

Love,

Little Ms. Notetaker

Six-word Sunday: April 17, 2011

2011-04-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

Holy jeez! I'm running Boston tomorrow.
After years of attempting to get myself to this place and months of training (some weeks more diligently than others), tomorrow I'll be running the 115th Boston Marathon.

I'm anxious and excited, both for the race and in hopes that I'm able to poop (come on, it wouldn't be a race without me commenting on my intestinal worries). What I'm really excited about is the fact that my parents have made the trip out from Denver. They've never been to one of my races, so I'm really glad to have them here for the biggest race of my life. And no matter how fast or slow I run this puppy, that's exactly what this is: the biggest race of my life.

Mom, Dad, be prepared for me to probably start crying when I see you, partly because of the overwhelming nature of the whole event, and partly because at that point I'll have begun to lose my mental faculties (not to mention fine motor skills), and mostly because you've always supported me in all the crazy adventures and challenges I've undertaken in my life; I've always known that you've been cheering me on even when you weren't physically there on the sidelines. It's so reassuring knowing that you're there tomorrow. Thank you so much and I love you!

Obedient little me

2011-04-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

As we’ve established, I like doing the right thing. So it will come as no surprise to anyone that I am a big follower of rules. While some people might say rules were meant to be broken, I would say rules are meant to be followed and then I would eagerly raise my hand, and when I was called upon, ask for another helping of rules, please.

My adoration of, and adherence to, rules became apparent to me when I was boarding the plane to New York earlier this week. I could not believe how many people boarded the plane with more than one carry-on item and one personal item such as a purse, briefcase, or backpack. I mean, they state the rules very clearly and more than once. You are allowed one carry-on item and one personal item such as a purse, briefcase or backpack. Guess what I had, Internets? If you answered one carry-on item and one personal item such as a purse, briefcase, or backpack, YOU WIN. The biggest baggage offender I saw today had one carry-on item, two personal items (a very full man purse and a briefcase), and a garment bag. And they let him on the plane. Well the gate agent kept telling him that he needed to combine his bags and he’d just look at her with scorn. After three or four warnings, he simply moved his man purse to the same side of his body as the briefcase and went along his merry way. Meanwhile, other passengers were forced to check their carry-ons because his full man purse (and several other over-packers) had hogged all the space in the overhead bins.

Now, I’m as cheap as the next guy and I’ll try to save myself the $25 of checking a bag by either wearing everything I’m bringing with me or jamming everything I can into my carry-on item and one personal item such as a purse, briefcase, or backpack. But a rule is a rule; at least I thought it was. And I suppose I get to sleep easy at night knowing that my righteousness didn’t cause anyone personal strife or require unwanted back checkage, but something tells me that the biggest baggage offender isn’t losing any sleep over what he did—although he should lose some over his poor taste in man purses.

Just like when my dad reads an entire karaoke notebook cover to cover to find the song he wants

2011-04-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

Are you sitting down? You might want to in preparation for what I’m about to tell you. Internets, I actually miss the nablopomo challenge. Yep. I said it. Even after posts like this, this, or this, there’s something about the regular posting that was comforting to me.

I made this admission to AP earlier this week—let it be known that I also would grumble to her on multiple occasions during the challenge because sometimes I just didn’t know what to write about. She gave me the same advice this week as she did when I would whine: I don’t need to put so much pressure on myself to come up with the wittiest topic. Just write. And it’s true, sometimes the forced wittiness backfires and the real witty finds its way out organically when I least expect it.

When I reflect back on that advice, I think it’s something that could be more broadly applied to my life than just in rambling on my blog. Take for instance EVERYTHING I DO. This may come as a surprise to you, but I can tend to be a little on the intense and serious side of things when it comes to EVERYTHING I DO. I know, right? I hope you all were still sitting down for that shocker. But seriously, a few weeks ago I ran a program at work and had a group of volunteers help out with the delivery. To show them my gratitude, I put together little gifts of gourmet salted chocolates and fancy hand soaps accompanied with a little note: You’re sweet to get your hands dirty with us! Totally adorable, right? And picking out the perfectly right soaps was the absolute most critically important thing I could ever do in my life, well in that moment anyway. Perfectly right meant that each soap was different, and in order to pick out the perfectly right ones it required me to smell every single offering the small store had to offer. This might actually be a bad example, because I deeply enjoyed the meticulous rigor to which I took to those soaps. But it is a good example in that some people who aren’t me might have walked into that same store and picked out the first bottle of soap they saw and grabbed six of them without—horror of all horrors—smelling it at all. True, they would have not spent the 45 minutes in the store that I did, but I made sure that each of those soaps were darn good smelling soaps. And they were perfectly right. And it made me perfectly happy.

I’ve always been that way, about almost everything. Control freak? Maybe, but I think it’s more about wanting to ensure I do, or choose, or say, or make, or whatever the perfectly right thing. And hey, Commish, I think this totally explains why I’m dragging my feet on jumping on the self-serve frozen yogurt train (well, this and the fact that I don’t really like frozen yogurt): too many options. Multiple flavors of fro-yo, that I dispense myself meaning I get to choose just how much I want and then an entire wall of toppings—candy, fruit, baked goods, syrups, even cereal. It’s just too much. The stress of finding perfectly right is overwhelming. First you have to pick out the perfectly right flavor—or flavors—of fro-yo, then the perfectly right toppings—really the combination of toppings—and don’t even get me started on the ratio of yogurt to toppings. And some people, who are not me, probably LOVE the freedom to make whatever they want. As for me, I’d prefer to have a minimal number of options—options that are already defined and appropriately rationed by a trained professional (or in their absence a high-school student making minimum wage)—so that I just have to make one decision.

This also explains why I tend to order the same things at restaurants. If the menu is a tome, and if I’ve been there before and I’ve had something I liked, something that’s perfectly okay, then I’ll just stick with it. When there are too many options, my brain gets dangerously close to exploding. Note to self: when facing the struggle between perfectly okay and brain explosion, perfectly okay is perfectly right.

Oh.

Could this also explain why I might still be single? Maybe that’s some food for thought, but don’t forget that I like, nay love, smelling all the soap. And when we’re talking about “as long as we both shall live,” being perfectly right is the only way I'd like to be.

History Repeating

2011-04-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

You might find it interesting that On--or Around--this Date in 2008 I was sitting in Logan International Airport in Boston, MA. Granted I’m not actually there today, however I did start my morning at an airport for the first leg of my mini-vacation that will eventually lead me to Boston, MA.

And if you didn’t find that interesting, then also around this date in 2008, I was grappling with the notion of not settling for a spark-less relationship.

And if you didn’t find either of those interesting, then I think it’s time we revisit Indian Thriller!

Wanted: flint

2011-04-11T17:24:00.000-07:00

Internets, it appears it was coincidence.

I have given it a really good effort (and more than that I've given it a lot of thought, so much so that I think I hurt myself in the form of a migraine, seriously), and just don't feel a spark with the Hurler.

Freaking spark.

When the marinara jar and I broke up--after a year-and-a-half--that's what he said. He didn't feel that spark. I was devastated and was also incredulous. How could he say that? And even more, how could he not feel a spark? As it turns out, I really didn't feel the spark either, only I didn't want to admit it. Because that's what I do; I jump into relationships and make them work--I'll be damned if I don't work the heck out of those relationships.

Since he and I broke up four years ago, the concept of spark has gotten more and more important to me. Which is a bit of a challenge when you're a relationship jumper like I've been. It's easy to want to believe there are sparks. And believe me, I've wanted to believe it. But the more I fool myself, the harder it is down the road. And I'm at the point with the Hurler where I just need to put down the two sticks I've been furiously rubbing together, because even lighter fluid wouldn't help my cause.

I'm really particular. I know this. In fact, the Olympian (the most recent boyfriend that I never even wrote about), gave me a very empty good luck wish and basically told me that he doesn't think I'll ever find what I'm looking for because my standards are just way too high. Of course, I don't believe him, and I forgive him that comment as I had just told him I didn't feel a spark (after taking him home to Denver to meet my family). I knew what he was feeling, I have been in those shoes. But it's true, I didn't feel a spark and as hard as it was to say that to him, I am much happier being alone than I am being with him. My belief is that if I feel that way, then I'm not in the relationship I should be in. Nobody deserves that, even if the cruelty of that reality is completely unintentional. But it is what it is, I can't deny it and I couldn't let it go on that way. Even if it seemed easier to settle.

And I find myself in a similar position with the Hurler. Granted, I've not brought him home to meet the family, so maybe I'm learning to recognize and admit the absence of spark sooner. But I do know this, I'm not going to settle. When my head and heart do battle, my heart always wins. Which brings me back to the awful migraine I had yesterday. I've only had maybe five migraines in my life (not counting the couple of ocular migraines) and up until recently, they've been spaced out over the course of a few years. However, the last two have happened in the past three months and it's got me thinking about their root cause. After I talked myself down from metastasized brain tumor, I began to wonder if it was the physical effects of my head battling my heart and the heart winning? I could tie yesterday's to the things I was thinking and feeling (or not feeling) with the Hurler, and the other most recent one came when I was struggling with (more like avoiding) the break up with the Olympian. You see, both the Olympian and the Hurler logically are good fits for me--on paper they sizzle brighter than a sparkler on the 4th of July. My head really likes them. But realistically, neither of them are the right fit for me--in person my heart feels more fizzle than sizzle. And it's nothing against them as people, they are both great guys, they just aren't the great guy that I know is out there for me. The one I know I want to wait to find. The one who will be an amazing partner and father to my children. And I'm not giving up hope, I do believe he's out there and I really do hope I find him sooner rather than later, but I'm going to give myself a break for the time being.

Besides, I was afraid to strike matches until I was in my senior year of high school and my head is totally already waving the white flag and yielding to my heart, probably indefinitely.

Movin' on up

2011-04-08T22:06:00.000-07:00

Today I moved into a new office. A new office with a window.

Hallelujah!

All day I couldn't stop telling my coworkers how much I LOVE HAVING AN OFFICE WITH A WINDOW! And they have window offices too, so I wasn't saying it like I was bragging, but like I was so glad that I had finally joined their sorority. And I can't wait until we have formal chapter meeting, just so long as it's in an office with a window.

It's been six years since I've had a window office. Six long years of vitamin D deprivation. Well, the deprivation is probably more a function of me choosing to live in the Pacific Northwest, where everyone is completely vitamin D deficient, than it is of having bat cave offices. Whenever the sun comes out here we have no idea what to do with ourselves: do you run outside and soak up as much of it as possible or do you crawl under a rock to protect your translucent skin because you are frightened by that bright light?

On a recent trip to visit my lil brother in Las Vegas, I forgot my sunglasses and I was driving just after sunrise and thought I was going to go blind. What with all that happy sunshine I couldn't see and thought my brain might explode. Thankfully it didn't.

Coinkydink or Synchronicity

2011-04-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

Time for a new game (today might be the only day we play this game, so I hope you enjoy the heck out of it): Around this time in 2009.

Guess what I just realized today, Internets? My first date with the Hurler was on April 3 which also happens to be the date in 2009 that Mr. McMichael and I first became an item. Hmmm. How do you like them apples?

Keeping my eye on the prize

2011-04-04T21:19:00.000-07:00

It started out as brunch, and then a meander through a farmer's market, a wine tasting, a fancy chocolate tasting, a stop for beer and Belgian frites, a trip back to the chocolatier to sneak another tasting, a walk to a Seattle park, and ended with a trendy hipster dinner and dessert. Eight hours. My first date with the Hurler (it's been awhile since I've assigned a nickname and have been offered a couple of others, but so far I think the Hurler is my favorite) was the equivalent of one full work day.

As I told AP about the date this morning, she asked me something I was staying very cognizant of throughout the date: was I prolonging it because I was having fun, or because I didn't have any other plans? The last time I had a marathon date, it was definitely the latter and apparently it was so obvious that I wasn't into him that it had people questioning what team I played for. I'm still not a lesbian. You know how I know? Because I like the Hurler. The marathon date was warranted.

Now that I think about it, another marathon blind date I went on seven years ago--the date I would classify as my worst date, but perhaps the my best story (wait for it, wait for it)--went awry because I was passive and didn't have anything else going on.

Even though the Hurler and I essentially already had our second, third and maybe even fourth dates all wrapped up in that first one, I want to adopt a wait and see attitude. I know me, and I know that not only do I have a history of extending dates because I don't have anything else going on, but that I can sometimes create relationships out of that same premise (you all might remember New Friend, and then there was my most recent relationship with the Olympian--a relationship that was never featured on the blog, but just know that it fit into that old pattern). My relationship with Mr. McMichael took a different route down a completely new and different path, and I'd like to follow similar coordinates with the Hurler.

Note to self: As you enter into future relationships continue to ask yourself: are you having fun or do you not have anything else going on? And keep having fun!

Six-word Sunday: April 3, 2011

2011-04-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

LMNT's back in the saddle, again...

...in so many ways.

Even though some of you might have stopped by the past couple days and didn't see a post (after 32 posts in 31 days, I gave myself a post-free vacation), the month's worth of posts really reminded me how much I love writing--how much I need writing. While I am not going to go so far to promise you a specific number or frequency of posts, I am going to promise you that I will post... more... than I have in the past.

And in other news, I had a date--a first date--a first blind date--today. It has been a long time since I've had one of those. It's kind of like riding a bike, only I've gotten much better at bike riding even in spite of the fact that my bike doesn't have a back tire, but that's another story, for another post. You know, one of those future promised posts.

Number 32

2011-03-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

Earlier this month, my VBFF inspired my inner fashionista in more ways than one. First, she had a weekly WIWW (What I Wore Wednesday) post that documented her weekly outfits. Angie's a mother of four young ones, and the fact that she could be responsible for that much and still look adorable is truly inspiring--but if you knew her, you wouldn't be surprised.

I commented on how her cute outfits had me longing for a new wardrobe, and she shared a great little blog with me, wherein the author frequently takes on a wardrobe challenge where she "shops her own closet." It was just the prompting I needed to get a little more creative about my current wardrobe.

Truthfully, I've always been a little creative with my wardrobe, meaning sometimes I name my outfits. Anyone? Anyone? No? Okay. On a day that's not today, I'll post some pictures of some of my classics, there's "Breakfast at Tiffany's," "Ballerina Girl 1," "Ballerina Girl 2," and one I like to call "Oxford Chic."

I created that last outfit on a day we had a big cross-company HR meeting and I was rocking it. When I got to the meeting, I ran into my General Manager who was talking to her manager our Vice President. Let's just say that the VP is kind of a big deal, however considering she wears khaki shorts, polo shirts (collar popped) and running shoes every day (because we work for a company in a region of the country where anything goes as far as fashion is concerned), something tells me she doesn't really geek out about naming her outfits. When I saw my General Manager, she gushed about how much she loved my outfit (because, it is pretty darn cute) and I got all girlie, squealed, clapped for myself and announced, "Oooooh. Thank you! I know... and I named it." It was at that point I realized my adorable geekiness could potentially be career limiting--our VP just stared at me, blankly.

Note to self: When not amongst friendly fashionistas, keep the excitement about your named outfits under wraps.

I don't really think I put my career in jeopardy, but I do think that my little ensemble wasn't the only thing that made a name for itself that morning.

Wants and needs

2011-03-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

In this week's edition of On this Date in 2008, I was thinking about what the future held and making big bold statements.

I do still dream about moving to Ireland from time to time; and who knows? It may happen. But even if I haven't put all my energy toward my dream of being a grown-up exchange student, I have spent the past year getting clear on the things I want in life. More chocolate and drop-top upgrades are definitely on the list. I've also been giving a lot of thought to what the next step looks like at work. Things are really good, but I'm going on my fourth year in the role and I'm ready for some new challenges. Interestingly enough, I have an interview tomorrow morning for a new role at work. It might not necessarily lead me to Ireland, but it will likely lead me to new experiences, challenges, and adventures.

On one of my recent runs, I was doing some thinking, as I'm wont to do, and for some reason I was thinking about how I often get what I want. But then the more I thought about it (because it was a really long run, so I had plenty of time to have more thoughts about it), it's not that I get what I want--because sometimes I don't--but I always always get what I need. Even if I don't ask for it, or even if at the time I don't want it, there's reason for it. I think I both want this new opportunity, and as I head into the interview I'm going to stay curious about finding out if it is what I need. And whether I want or need Ireland still remains to be seen.

One and done

2011-03-29T23:04:00.000-07:00

Just like the Boston Marathon being a once in my lifetime experience, I'm pretty sure LMNT's nablopomo challenge is a once in your lifetime experience. The month is almost over and so am I.

While it has helped get me back in the habit of writing, and I do love writing, I don't necessarily love writing when I don't have a note to self to share. I can't say that I'll take on an extreme posting challenge in the future, but I can say that I hope to be better about posting more regularly--and I also hope that those regular posts will be better because they aren't about me posting more regularly.

T-minus two days...

Merry Belated Christmas

2011-03-28T22:31:00.000-07:00

You can thank the Commish for this post tonight. Well, really the thanks go to my lil brother and his family. Okay, no really, the thanks go to some magic-working seamstresses in South Korea.

Earlier this evening I found myself trapped doing work. However, it was my own doing. My procrastination skills at their finest, again. Only it's not fine and I don't like it. But that's the content of another post. So, there I was doing work (and also thinking that I need to blog tonight, but what if I didn't, what if I just walked away from the nablopomo challenge? But I didn't. I'm here now with a legitimate post), and the Commish texts me to let me know that a retrospective of the 1997 Denver Broncos is on the NFL Network. Work stops immediately and I run to the TV room and become completely engrossed. GO BRONCOS!

Following the '97 retrospective is the '98 retrospective (which I've seen before and am presently recording it on my DVR so I can continue to see it again and again and again, especially if there is no football next year). Thoughts of me blogging start to creep back into my head and I come back to the computer with a topic in mind. Thanks, Commish.

And now on to thanking lil brother. Really, when I tell you what I'm about to tell you , you are likely to exclaim, HOW COULD YOU WAIT OVER THREE MONTHS TO TELL US THIS?! Well, I don't know, but I did (although, I think every one of my half-dozen readers already knows about this so it's not really news, but I'm putting it down here for posterity's sake--my imaginary kids need to know about this! And also, I think it important that anybody scanning the Internets looking for information on "biting your taste buds off" should know of this amazing wonder).

Internets, guess what exists? Wait, no. Guess what exists and I possess? Wait, no. Guess what exists and I possess because my lil brother and his wifey and P Denny harnessed the magic of Korea's knock-off textile manufacturing industry? Yes. Yes! YES! A vintage Karl Mecklenburg jersey (which I also talk about here, here, and here--and in all honesty, I can't believe I didn't talk about it here). Holy mother of all Christmas gifts. When I opened the present--completely not expecting the jersey that up until that instant only existed in my head--I half-screamed half-squealed, ran around my parents' basement, ran upstairs, breathlessly told my mom what I had just opened, headed for the computer to write a blog post about it (seriously, I did. It's in my drafts folder with the title "Yes, Virginia, it really DOES exist," and nothing else), lost my steam, and then went back downstairs and had a Bloody Mary.

But the key to the story is, lil brother got me the BEST. PRESENT. EVER. And remember how I'm competitive and I like to think that my ability to outdo your gift list is way better than your ability to outdo my list? And I thought that giving him an Xbox Kinect was totally the cat's pyjamas? Yeah. He wins.

Oh, and this. Note to self: Mecklenberg is spelled Mecklenburg.

Six-word Sunday: March 27, 2011

2011-03-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

Inspired and impacted lives (mine included).

I know I've referenced a couple of times how mad this month is and how tired I've been this week, but the madness and the exhaustion (mental and physical) has been worth it. It was also exactly what I needed this week. I needed to be reminded that the work I do for a living is valuable and that it matters, and it was a good challenge for me to tackle--and next time I tackle it, I'd do it mostly the same, except next time with more sleep.

L'eggo my ego

2011-03-26T17:32:00.000-07:00

Internets, I'm exhausted. I know that was my excuse last night, but it's the same tonight. I tried to post earlier but was just as tired then as I am now. Well, actually I'm more tired now. You know how I know? Because I'm at the stage where little kids who are too tired (oh, and who are also two years old), get, where they whine and throw temper tantrums over what appears to be no good reason, except we all know the reason is because they are too tired. Fortunately there haven't been too many casualties or witnesses to my tantrum, but suffice it to say (in a whiny little voice), I'm REALLY tired. It's the week that's still catching up with me, and the fact that I ran 20 miles this morning. It was my longest training run until Boston, and of course me being me, I made it a challenging one. It's great to start out with roughly half a mile of steep down hill, until you realize that it means that miles 19.5-20 is practically straight up. It wasn't really that bad; it may have been hilly but I did lay out a gorgeous route for myself. I had views of the mountains, water, and mossy forest. I will say that every week I get closer to Boston, I'm more and more humbled. I have not been training enough. I'm getting my long runs in each weekend, but to maintain or increase speed, mid-week workouts are needed and I just haven't been able to put the time in lately. And it's starting to show. For the past two weeks, both of my long runs have started out extremely sluggish--it's been taking me five or six miles at least to get warmed up and to start running at my desired pace (and even then, my desired pace is actually about 30 seconds slower than my real desired pace). My ego is trying to come to terms with the fact that I ran my fastest race to get into Boston, and it is very likely that I'll run my slowest race at Boston. And I'm also trying to remind the ego my only goal was to run Boston and regardless if I ran my fastest or my slowest, I'll still get the same medal--and that's all that matters. I'm really hoping my ego will start believing me.

This'll have to do

2011-03-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

When I decided to post every day for a month, I maybe should have taken a few things into consideration. For instance, maybe I could have picked a month that didn't have 31 days? It just so happened that the month before this one has only 28. Or maybe I could have warmed up a little bit before diving in head first? Essentially I feel like I'm the Porsche of blogging: zero to 60 in an instant. Or maybe I could have picked a time that doesn't coincide with my busiest four weeks at work.

Ugh.

I'm exhausted this week. I've been running off of pure adrenaline for 72 hours and while the past two days have been inspiring and amazing--can I just brag that I did great work--it's time for me to sleep. Good night, Internets. I promise you a good story tomorrow.

And the Universe sayeth

2011-03-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

Apparently I've forgotten everything I learned in seventh grade. I mean, how could I forget the penultimate literary theme of Johnny Tremain? You know, Johnny Tremain, the 1944 Newbury Medal winning novel by Esther Forbes? Oh, you forgot it, too?

Note to self: Pride cometh before the fall.

Just like I called it. All four of the teams I picked tonight in the tournament have lost. Dropping me from 73rd to 2,241st just like that. Sorry, teams; maybe if I hadn't gone and bragged to the guys in the hall about just how good I was at guessing, or maybe if you would have actually played some defense with intensity tonight you would have won and I wouldn't be dining on crow.

Step right up!

2011-03-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

Who's ready to play your favorite game again? That's right, Internets, it's time to play On--or around--this date in 2008!

I can hardly believe that it's been three years since I remodeled my kitchen. It actually feels like it's been at least twice that long. But as archived history tells us, on this date in 2008, I was cleaning out my old refrigerator to make way for my brand new, shiny, "professional" one.

Well, Internets, after rereading that post, I thought it would be interesting to take a look in my fridge today and see what I found as far as marinara jars go. Would you believe that I only have one marinara jar in the fridge. Progress! Now I hesitate to bring up the large container of wilted spinach in the crisper and the half-dozen blackened bananas in the freezer, but I swear I'm going to make banana bread out of those bananas, and well, the spinach? It's beyond hope. But I take these all as good signs, perhaps I've learned to let go of the past and can take what nature gives me, hold onto it for awhile and make something fabulous out of it (my banana bread rocks! Thank you, Lettie, Sherian and the 4-H quick break competitions at the Douglas County Fair). And the spinach? Status unchanged: it's still beyond hope.

Mekka Lekka Hi-Mekka Hiney Ho

2011-03-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

When I was a little Little Ms. Notetaker, I lived for Pee-wee's Playhouse on Saturday mornings. Ah, Pee-wee, the luckiest boy in the world.

Do you remember how there was a word of the day, and any time someone would unwittingly say it, the whole playhouse would erupt in mayhem? Yeah. That's how I feel about my life right now. Only, there's no word of the day, I just feel like I need to run around, arms flailing, screaming "Aaaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhhhh!" And collapse into Chairy.

This mad mad month is reaching is reaching the boiling point and if I can just make it to Friday, I know I'll feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Come on, Jambi, please grant me that wish!

WINNING!

2011-03-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

Internets, if you'll allow me to, I'd like to add another phrase to my list of favorites. I really love to say "terrifically pleased" especially when speaking about myself. In fact, I even said it in that post about my favorite words. I love that phrase because I think it is the most apt description of how I feel--and how I know others are perceiving me. I'm not sure I can succinctly describe it, so how about I give you a prime and immediate example of what me being terrifically pleased with myself looks like?

Over the weekend I was consumed with NCAA basketball fever; I've got the madness, well, in reality I think the madness actually has me. Anyway, the New York Times is hosting brackets and I entered into a group that the Commish put together. If you know nothing about NCAA Men's basketball championship bracket, no worries, just know that apparently this year, my gut instinct is really good at picking winning teams. So good that I'm currently ranked 78th out of over 35,000 participants. That's top 0.2 percent! And at one point I was ranked 43rd! That was until Notre Dame choked. Way to NOT fight, Irish.

I am certainly pleased with myself and my ability to make arbitrary picks, however it wasn't until this morning that my self-pleasedness moved into terrific territory.

I'm sitting in my office with my door cracked open, and I can hear a gaggle of guys from the finance team white boarding their bracket results in one of the offices across the hall. Hearing them talk about how abysmal their brackets are gives my ego a little boost. They keep talking and talking and talking, and I send an instant message to AP that says something to the effect that my bracket would grab all of their brackets around the neck and give them all gigantic noogies. And they keep talking.

I've finally had enough of their chatter about their sub-par picking skills (and I needed a little restroom break), so I get up from my desk and step into the hallway, and this is where the terrific happens. Just as I'm stepping out of my office and into the hall so is AP, and Coach A is coming down the hall and is right outside both of our offices when we both emerge. Internets, that is SYNERGY! It was like the holy trinity of grrrrrrl power. I felt a surge of good feminine ju ju, spontaneously blurt out to the two of them, "Watch this!" I walk into the man cave, interrupt their conversation and say, "Um, fellas? My bracket will take all of your brackets down." They all turn my way, puzzled that the HR girl has stepped into their sacred ground, and then I tell them that my bracket will kick all of their brackets' butts, because seven of my Elite Eight picks are still alive (again, if you don't know anything about what I just said, don't worry about it, just know that LMNT was representin' on those fools).

They were impressed (maybe not as much as I was of myself, but at least a little impressed). One of them even said, "Wow, that's the best I've heard." At that point I flashed them a little grin, batted my eyes, flipped my hair and trounced back down the hall (AP and Coach A still standing in the hallway laughing). And that right there is the epitome of me being terrifically pleased with myself. Of course now that I did that, the Universe is going to hand me a nice little dose of humble pie and course corrections will be made when all of my current picks lose. Ah, but it was worth it. Terrifically so.

Six-word Sunday: March 20, 2011

2011-03-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

Reunited and it feels so good.

I mean, technically, those aren't my six words, but they ring ever true for me today (do you think I could get busted for plagiarism? Nah, Peaches & Herb aren't reading this... but for those of you that are, I'm willing to bet 92% of you either just sang or hummed the tune). Long live the Haiku Club!

Words, words, words

2011-03-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

If you're a nerd like me (and you and I both know who you are), you love words. Gosh, I love them. But all words are not created equal (nerds, nod with me now). The theme for the month of nablopomo is "in a word," and that has had me thinking about my favorite words, because yes, I have them. And yes, I have them in multiple languages.

In English, I've never been able to pick my favorite. It's a tie between bohemian and formaldehyde. They're both so fun to say. Go on, say them: bohemian... formaldehyde. Fun, right? I know.

In French, I also have a tie--apparently, I'm commitment phobic when it comes to loving my words. Hippopotome and alpinisme (hippopotamus and mountain climbing, respectively). If I can break the rules to my own game and add phrases into the mix (which I can because it's my own game), my favorite French phrase is "faire de l'alpinisme" which literally means "to do the mountain climbing." And while I love to say that phrase, I think what I love more is that it means "to do the mountain climbing."

Diversion alert: when I was four or five (around the time we were hit by a school bus causing me to miss the end of Super Friends and/or the time when I encountered the very elusive but very real Colorado field turtle), a couple of my mom's sisters were visiting us from Wisconsin. I had been downstairs watching educational children's programming on PBS wherein three adults dressed in dog outfits were just doing what adults in dog costumes do, conversing. One of the dogs was French (a French poodle named Bob to be precise) and when the show was over I bolted upstairs to find my aunts. Terrifically pleased with myself, I informed them that I had just learned to speak French, I cleared my throat and enunciated, "Bob." What isn't coming across in the written form is that I said it in a French accent. Speaking French, you see? Yeah, I probably won't ever live that one down.

An interesting side note, my favorite word in American Sign Language is .

It's a mad mad month

2011-03-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

This month is killing me. Well really, my ability to procrastinate is what is killing me. And when I think about it, it always has. There's something maddening, yet addicting, about my extreme need for a deadline to get anything done. This goes for work, school, clipping my nails...

Seriously.

I've been suffering from a severe lack of motivation lately. So much so, that earlier this week I asked AP if it was a really sad sign that there have been weekends where all I needed to do was just clip my nails--and if I could just do that, I could consider the weekend a success--but I'd get through the whole weekend not having picked up the clippers (and not because I was too busy, definitely not because of that). I finally did it. Accomplishment. It only takes two, three minutes tops, yes, but for whatever reason, sometimes that's an impossibly big order to fill. The deadline this time, too much clicking on the keyboard and a hole in my running sock from my too-long-big-toenail. Shame.

AP totally affirmed me, as she recently measured the success of her weekend by her fingernail clipping accomplishment, too. It's so good to know I'm not alone in my madness.

If you're a blogger, you totally know what I'm talking about

2011-03-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

Commish: I wrote this really long and funny e-mail today to a group of people, and I understand that people might be busy, but I only got back two responses and they basically said, "Good to hear from you."

LMNT: And now you know what it feels like to blog.

Commish: I do?

LMNT: Yes. I mean not getting any response to your writing--

Commish: I comment on your blog.

LMNT: Yes, sometimes. But sometimes I write and write and write. And I think, "DAMN! That's good. In fact, that's the best thing I've ever written in my life and I go back to my blog and there are zero comments. ZERO! And then I look at the counter and I see only two people have even read the post. TWO PEOPLE! The funniest thing I've ever written IN MY LIFE! And Oh. My. Gosh. One of those people only freaking visited my blog because they did a search on "biting taste buds," so they didn't even read anything!

Commish: (doubled over in laughter, face in cushion) I just peed a little.

LMNT: See?! Thank you.

Commish: Yes. We're all just looking for a little validation.

Indulge me, people

2011-03-16T22:06:00.000-07:00

Something I've realized in posting every day is that I have to force the creativity more than I like. And rather than push through that tonight and give you a forced story, I'm going to gracefully walk away, and hope my creative muse strikes with a little more efficiency tomorrow.

I have to admit I feel tremendously guilty leaving you with this as my post for the day. To help assuage those feelings, I just invented a fun new game for you called, On--or Around--This Date in 2008. Why? Because it rhymes and it's filler, and it's good reflection for me to see just how far (or not so far) I've come. And on, actually around, this date in 2008, I paid some bills. If that's not enticing you to keep reading, then I don't know what will--I mean what more riveting content could you possibly want?! An account of my worst date ever (wherein I'm pretty sure I also may have blown my chances with a potential new suitor with an off-hand comment about the adult entertainment industry)? Well, you're just going to have to come back for that.

The Ides have come...

2011-03-15T21:38:00.000-07:00

... but they have not gone, yet. We've reached the middle of the month and I've yet to skip a post. Internets, can I tell you that the nablopomo challenge I so impetuously declared for myself is REALLY FREAKING CHALLENGING!

First of all, there's the obligation of having to post every night when I get home from work--and these weeks, I'm actually taking a tiny break from working late into the night so I don't miss my self-imposed deadline. And then there's the tiny little thing of actually having something about which to write every single day. It's not that I'm lacking material (well, not yet anyway, when one blogs everyday for thirty-one days straight one gets a little nervous that one will run out of all the good, heck even mediocre, stories from one's life. But fret not ye Internets, one has at least four or five more good ones tucked up one's sleeve. One would like to let you know that this one is not one of them), it's just that the posts in the hopper are going to take a little more brain power to actually compose--and these weeks work has turned my brain into absolute mush. In fact, my brain is so mushy, I had an ocular migraine at work today. Have you ever had one? All I can say is WHOA. It sounds a lot worse than it is, well, assuming you get over the initial panic that you are going blind, because well, you do go blind. A little. Temporarily. Also, really trippy things happen, you see blinking neon shapes and lights where there are none--even when you close your eyes, and then come the wavy fun-house mirror effects, then it's time for the blind spots which sort of meld into the temporary blindness. The good news is it doesn't hurt and it eventually goes away. However, I do think they might be stress induced because the last time I remember having one was at the onset of the shingles.

And that's my cue to pull the emergency brake. I am going to step away from my computer for the night. I certainly DO NOT need to repeat the shingles, and you DO NOT need any additional drivel from me--you still have 16 more days of that to go, you lucky ducks, you.

Hope and Relief

2011-03-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

For the most part, I try to keep things light-hearted here, but that's hard for me to do today. Rather than spend the energy on coming up with the perfect post, I think it's important to send all those thoughts and all that energy to the people in Japan.

With every story I read, every account I hear, and every shocking image I see, I'm struck by the magnitude of it all. It's so very heart-wrenching and I hope for peace and comfort for everyone in need. It's a huge reminder to me to make sure I'm living the life I love and am loving those in my life. I know that there are some things in this lifetime against which we will be powerless, so take power over what you can, and live this life. I keep faith for the hopeful little miracles of rescue and solace; I know the human spirit will prevail, it's just so painful to see the reality of the devastation. Note to self: Give what you can, when you can, if you can... and if nothing else, love, love, love.

Six-word Sunday: March 13, 2011

2011-03-13T15:23:00.000-07:00

Ready. Waiting. Running in the interim.

Wringing out

2011-03-12T13:46:00.000-08:00

In a word: insane. Also: dedicated, ridiculous, soggy, and inspired.

You see, Internets, when you qualify for the Boston Marathon and then get yourself registered for the Boston Marathon, it's a really good idea to train for the Boston Marathon.

This is the first time I've ever trained for an event on my own, every other race I've done with the team, and in the past year, I've also started coaching for the team. Leave it to me to turn an individual sport into a team activity. I've always found it impossible to find intrinsic motivation to get myself out running on my own. But the Boston Marathon is different. It is definitely a once-in-my-lifetime race, so I've taken my training a little bit more seriously. And today was proof of that: 18 miles in the pouring rain.

Running and I have a love/hate relationship, really it's more of a barely tolerate/hate relationship. This in and of itself is insane, I know, because if I don't love running, how could I spend so much of my time doing it? That's an excellent question and one that I thought about for a good portion of my 18 miles this morning. It's not a matter of me loving running, or even liking running, or event wanting to go for a run; it's a matter of me needing running. When life is crazy and I'm all in my head, nothing clears it out like a run. And once I get myself through the first three or four miles (yes, I know how absurd that statement may sound to all the non-runners out there because three or four miles would be considered by many a really far way to run), then I can just go and go and go (yes, I know how the runners out there totally get what I'm saying).

What I don't need, however, are the buckets and buckets of rain. Standing on my front porch, looking out at the downpour before the run, I almost started to cry. Really. It was raining. Hard. And I know that I live in Seattle, and that it's March--the height of the rainy season--but if I didn't have the once-in-my-lifetime race only five weeks away, there would have been absolutely no way I would have left my house. Often, the rain in Seattle is what AP has aptly described as "dry rain," you can see that it's raining, you can hear that it's raining, but you can't really feel that it's raining. In case you were wondering, the rain today sure wasn't dry. I'm still working on getting my hands and feet back to their natural un-pruned state. In fact when I got home, I blasted Red Tide by Neko Case (take a listen and you'll see why at the 2:03 minute mark).

So, I don't love running and I don't love the rain (well, I do love the rain, just not while I'm running), but I do love the team and even more I love the coaching. I love the people, I love concept, and I love the cause. To be a part of something so much bigger than me and to work toward finding a cure for blood-related cancers, that has definitely carried me across countless miles. And today, blocks from ending my run, I came across a woman walking down the puddle-lined street; she smiled at me and said, "Run a mile for me. Breast cancer." I smiled, held back some tears and said, "Consider it done. All of my miles are for finding a cure for cancer." We shared little victory fist pumps and went our separate ways. Yeah, I needed that as much as I needed that run.

Revival

2011-03-12T02:02:00.000-08:00

It's actually Saturday morning (2:03 AM to be precise), which means I didn't post on Friday. However, I haven't gone to sleep yet, so my Friday hasn't ended, and therefore I consider this post my Friday offering.

And yes, you'll still get a Saturday post (yay for you).

Earlier this week, Monster, the Commish, and I went to the theatre (Monster and I are season ticket holders to the Seattle theatre that hosts the Broadway musical tours--one of the best gifts I've ever given myself). And then tonight, AP and I went to see the spring show put on by the troupe of which I'm a member. All I have to say is, boy howdy do I miss acting.

I miss everything associated with being in a show--the thrill of auditioning for a part, the memorizing of the lines, the rehearsing, the rehearsing, the rehearsing, the oh, did I mention the rehearsing? The creating something together, the camaraderie of the cast, the long hours, the director's notes, the tech night, the backstage antics, the wigs, the laughter from the audience, the cast parties, the closing night, the getting your life back, the not having to go to rehearsals anymore, the withdrawal from rehearsals, the desire to get back up and do it all again.

I don't know when and how I'll be able to squeeze something in; I think I'm going to have to force fit it in there, because I miss it oh-so-much and there is absolutely nothing else like it.

And with that, I call curtains on Friday. Good night, Internets.

Shell shocked

2011-03-10T21:07:00.000-08:00

When I was having childhood flashbacks while I should have been driving the other morning, I found myself trying to see if I could pinpoint my earliest memory. I'm not sure this is it, but I will go out on a limb and say it's the most random one (yes, more random than hoping to invent a tiny seat belt for produce).

I was on my way in from playing out in the front yard and as I skipped my way through the garage, tra-la-la, something forced me to stop dead in my tracks. I screamed for my mom, unable to take another step, because there, on the step leading into the house was a turtle. A turtle. And in case you were wondering, our family did not have a pet turtle. And, we lived in the suburbs of Denver. A turtle. Oh, and we didn't live by water. A turtle. In my garage. On a step.

I was four or five, and as has been proven in the past, I believed what adults told me. If an adult told me that my hair came from the milkman, I believed them, or at least made up a story that would help me make sense of this information (the information that MUST be true because an adult told it to me). So I'm screaming, because, uh, hello? TURTLE! And my mom comes out and saves me. I'm not sure what happened to the turtle, but more importantly, I'm not sure how the turtle happened.

I do remember the explanation my mom gave for why a turtle would be in our garage: it was a field turtle. True our backyard was adjacent to a field, and some developers had just begun to turn the field into a street lined with cookie-cutter houses, which obviously was disrupting this poor little turtle's natural habitat. And I guess that could maybe make sense, but that means the turtle marched his little turtle self all the way around to the front of the house, into the garage, and then well, there is tiny issue of climbing the step. But, I guess to a four-year-old, it makes sense. I mean, I also thought it made sense that the kids on Sesame Street lived inside my TV. And yes, I could tell you how to get, how to get to Sesame Street (all you had to do was have your mom throw you through the screen, and ta-da!, you're there).

Admittedly, it's been almost 30 years since I had my run in with the field turtle and I've never questioned the logic of that argument until now. But when you think about it, really? Field turtle? And, as I'm wont to do, I searched the Internets for evidence. They really do exist, and apparently there is one terrestrial turtle native to Colorado, the ornate box turtle. If that were a Wikipedia site I would probably add some content to let the readers know that they might spot the turtle in garages on West 71st Place. Oh, and also, they can climb stairs.

Annie are you okay? You okay? You okay, Annie?

2011-03-09T22:26:00.000-08:00

This morning as I was getting ready for work, I couldn't manage to get a song out of my head. What really drove my crazy, wasn't so much the song that had embedded itself, but that I couldn't figure out why it was that song. I know that it wasn't something I had recently heard, and I just couldn't shake it. Then, as I reached for my hair product it became crystal clear.

The song: Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal." The product: Aveda Smooth Infusion. This isn't the first time I've gotten an ear worm from my eco-friendly botanical beauty supplies, remember Bon Jovi's "Chakra the Heart?" Yeah, well it turns out, my hair's been touched by smooth infusion. Ow! Cue the guitars, sparkly glove, and hair-singeing pyrotechnics.

Patent pending

2011-03-08T21:02:00.000-08:00

The other day I was driving in to work, when traffic came to a halt. I stopped in time, but was definitely caught daydreaming right before I hit the brakes, and as I looked into the rear view mirror, I wasn't 100% confident that the car behind me was going to stop in time, ultimately causing my daydream to quickly shift to visions of life flashing before my eyes.

And after that life flash, I went back to daydreaming, only my daydreaming was really a flashback to the only real car accident I've ever been in (excuse me while I go find some wood on which to knock). It was 1982 and I was about five years old. I remember distinctly that I was at home, watching my all-time favorite show, well, favorite show next to The Dukes of Hazard and/or Dallas, although I didn't really ever watch full episodes of Dallas, but man I sure loved the opening credits of that show and I had a crush on Bobby and boy was that "J Arthur" a bad man. So there I was, watching my favorite daytime syndication cartoon, Super Friends--Wonder Woman, Superman, and Aquaman, oh my--when my mom comes downstairs and says we have run to the bank.

UH! BUT MOOOOOOOOM! SUPER FRIENDS IS ON! HELLO?!

She can confirm this, but I'm pretty sure I threw a fit because how could life as I know it go on without seeing the ending of this riveting cartoon? I mean will they save the world or not? How can you expect me to leave when all of our lives hang in this very delicate balance?! I'll tell you how, because she was the boss of me, and she gave me a couple of apple slices, which shut me up and she also assured me it would be quick and we'd be back in time to see the end (at which point she should have found some wood on which to knock). Famous. Last. Words.

A few minutes later and a few blocks from home, we were hit by a school bus. Fortunately we were driving a tank in the form of an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. I'm not sure how much damage was done to the car but all of us inside were fine, except for my apple slice that flew out of my hand and landed on the floor. I was so sad that it was laying there, with dirt on it, totally inedible and completely out of reach. I also remember that we sat there for what felt like an eternity, with the kids on the school bus staring down at us in our blue boat, and I was devastated that the trip was not quick like the boss of me had promised and I MISSED THE END OF SUPER FRIENDS! Had I seen it I'm sure I would have led a much more successful and fulfilling life, but alas, here I am today.

And there I was then, stuck in my booster seat, restrained by the safety locked seat belt, unable to eat my apple, missing my favorite animated amazon Wonder Woman, a tiny tear trickling down my cheek (I was always had a little bit of drama in me), daydreaming about how one day I would invent a tiny seat belt for my apple (true story). And as cool as that tiny seat belt would have been--not to mention totally practical and necessary--I think the real game-changing-license-to-print-money invention that would have saved the day Super Friends-style here was the DVR. Had I daydreamed that, we'd be talking a unbelievably successful and fulfilled life. Damn, missed opportunities.

Note to self: Daydream big (tiny seat belts for apples might be too limiting).

The elephant's mantra

2011-03-07T22:09:00.001-08:00

Earlier tonight I had a little exchange with Mr. McMichael wherein I realized we broke up one year ago today (I pulled a total me move, and proved to him that today was indeed our the date, not because I'm a freaky counter, but because I'm a freaky rememberer). And that's true, I haven't been sitting around counting, even if Mr. McMichael likes to pretend I've been sitting around in a dark bleak room, mournfully scratching a hash mark into the wall, noting every sad sad day from the past year (did I get that right, Mr. M?); I'm just really good at remembering things (you haven't forgotten that have you, Mr. M?).

So, happy anniversary to Mr. M and me. On the surface, probably an unusual event to celebrate, but the relationship we had was definitely not usual. The relationship was healthy and good, the break-up was even healthier and gooder (?), and the friendship we have now, is the healthiest and goodest (??). What I'm trying to say is there is actually a lot to celebrate. Celebrating what we had when we were together, what we have as friends now, and what we'll be able to have with others in the future. And because of all that, I know I'm in a very good place. I recently coined a new saying for myself, a saying that I repeat at frequencies akin to bicep curls (three sets of ten repetitions), because maybe it's like a muscle and if I get really good at flexing it, I'll be strong enough to bend steel against its will, muwahahaha. Where was I? Right, mantra: Ready to find, ready to be found.

Now, Internets, I know I say this a lot around here, but I really am ready to find the relationship of my life. And, dude, if you're out there, I'm sooooo ready to be found. Olly olly oxen free! And just in case you were curious about the history of that phrase, here's a quick Wikipedia read--that's right, until dude hears my call and comes running to home base, I'm gonna get my nerd on.

Six word Sunday: March 6, 2011

2011-03-06T18:12:00.000-08:00

My friend from work, Coach A, turned me on to Six Word Memoirs. Taking a cue from Hemingway, the editors at Smith Magazine, an online magazine that serves as a platform for storytellers and storytelling, ask readers to encapsulate their life story in six words.

I love the concept, and at least through my nablopomo challenge (maybe beyond), Sundays will be my six word reflection on the week. Without further ado, I give you the glory that was this past week:

Pondering my future (without the grey).

@what she said

2011-03-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

Week one of the nablopomo challenge done. In a word: ohmygracious. There's still a heckuva lot of the month to go, too. That being said, I would like to take this opportunity to ~~stall until I think of a legitimate topic~~ reflect and respond to a comment from a recent post.

Is this heaven?
Angie wondered: "Please tell me your washing machine works. I'm trying to picture you with a washboard ala Laura Ingalls Wilder, but it's not working."

Fear not, Angie, I haven't had to head down to the creek to wash my finest muslin. In fact, there was one day when I had three washing machines in my house. One was the one that came with the house; I thought it was broken, and went out and bought a new energy efficient set, but of course it was working again when the new set was delivered. For those of you keeping count at home, that's two washing machines. However, for the better part of 18 months, there was another practically brand new set that was just chillin' in my basement. That third one came into the picture when one of my colleagues moved here from San Francisco and realized the practically brand new washer and dryer he and his partner shipped here weren't going to work in their new place. At this point, I only had the old washer and dryer, and they offered me the practically new set for a song. It was an offer I couldn't resist and I thought they would work in my place, but it would have required me to divert my gas line and sadly that would cost me multiple songs. So, instead I bought a brand new and electric version of the practically new set, because that's how I roll.

The good news is, I am down to only one washing machine in the house, as I was able to find a friend who could use the gas dryer and offered her the practically new set for the same song. Now, if I could only do that for microwaves and old TVs, as I just remembered I have two of each of those in my ~~transitional housing for retired appliances~~ basement.

This time with feeling...

2011-03-04T22:44:00.000-08:00

Okay, so the last post was not much of one I know. But I panicked that I might not make it home in time to publish something substantial, or at least worthy of the six of you that read this. And how bummed would I have been to lose my challenge on day four? I mean I'd at least set the over/under on March 15--and, yes, I might even take the under, knowing me and all.

For a few years now, I've been obsessing over the fact that I'm going grey. Look, I even brought it up two years ago (almost exactly). Well, this past fall, I did something about it: I gave in and started coloring it. I know I have several friends that were singing hallelujah because they don't have to hear me moan about it any longer. And while I'm ecstatic that I don't have the straggly grey hairs sprouting up all over, I'm actually quite devastated. You see, I've always really defined myself by my hair. Not totally and completely defined myself by my hair--yes, I am so much more than just my hair, I know, it's just hair--but being a redhead was unique, and people were always so envious of the color, and it was all mine and I didn't have to get it out of a bottle. It was something that made me standout ever since I can remember.

Yes, I know there's a lesson about vanity in here, but dammit, that wasn't a pill I wanted to swallow, yet. Again, I know it's just hair, but I loved it and loved the fact that it was a beautiful and untouched gift. That's not to say it's not still beautiful, it is (Lynda, if you're reading this, I LOVE MY HAIR), it's just that it's not the same now and I do have to get it out of a bottle. I do feel very silly and vain to say all of this, because I know that there is so much more about me that makes me stand out and makes me who I am, and that I should be beyond thankful that I have my health and an amazing life (and I am, believe me)... but every once in awhile the vanity sneaks in and reminds me time is ticking.

I've read and reread this post a couple of times now, hesitating to post it. It was supposed to be a light-hearted quirky post about how for years I've been complaining about my grey hair and how much grief I have for lost youth. But this is an age-old story (I can't stop thinking about Narcissus), and that maybe I have a harsh awakening in store. Just like this one time in college I had a random thought about how much I loved my ears, weren't they just so cute and perfect? Yes, I actually thought those thoughts, and later that very same night, I swear it was the same night, I was playing a game of Ghost in the Graveyard with my sorority sisters and as I was running through the darkness, a treebranch came out of nowhere (well, it came out of a tree) and sliced my ear. There is much more of a story there, but the moral was: hey, Van Gogh, don't love your ears so much, because it's just an ear. And if you don't stop being so vain, you might end up in an emergency room getting your ear stitched up, and by the way you won't be numb so you'll feel every stitch. How do you like them cute and perfect apples?

On second thought, I take it all back. It is just hair. Don't be ridiculous, I don't love it (unless you're Lynda, in which case I do love it, let's just not tell anyone, we'll keep that our little secret...), and I'd be... GULP... fine without it. Yeah, totally. Who needs hair? Nope, not me. Note to self: You better keep your fingers crossed that reverse psychology works on the Universe.

Staying true to my word

2011-03-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

And totally counting this as today's post. I do have more to say, however. Stay tuned...

Chugga chugga choo choo

2011-03-03T21:39:00.000-08:00

Internets, I owe you a few stories. At some point I may get to them, or maybe not, but I probably will, just not tonight. I tell you this just so you know that I'm skipping over some of the details of life that happened during my three month (or five month, depending upon how you count it) blogging hiatus. Those stories are relationship stories and for the sake of today we'll just say I had one and then it ended and now I'm back online (both in the blogging and dating sense).

I find myself turning online dating into a science and I now have several tricks up my sleeve that I can employ to increase traffic to my profile. The real art would be increasing the traffic of the guys I actually want to date to my profile--I'm finding that part slow-going. I'm also finding some very interesting patterns. Actually, they've been happening in pairs so they probably can't be considered patterns, just coincidences, but they are interesting enough to make me take notice. In all the years I've been involved in online dating I've probably screened well over 1,000 profiles of potential mates and never have I come across a locomotive engineer... until last week, when I was matched with not one, but two. That's right, two train conductors ON THE SAME DAY. And then the next day, I was matched with two postal carriers for the first time ever. It's like I'm being matched with secondary characters on Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

Another thing I'm finding are the number of men with kids out on the market. I'm getting to be of an age where the possibility of dating a divorced father is more the norm than the exception. I'm keeping an open mind about it (just like I'm keeping an open mind about dating people in careers that are on the brink of extinction), but what frustrates me is that on the dating site, people don't have to declare their parental status, but they do have to answer the question: "Kids at home?" Over the past couple of weeks, I've been communicating with two guys who have kids, and have them at their homes 50% of the time and guess what? They both answer "No" to question "kids at home?"

Am I crazy in thinking that if you have kids (who are considered your dependents) and they stay in your home at any regular frequency (be it 10, 50 or 100% of the time), the answer to that question is "Yes?" I understand that answering yes to that question is probably a huge liability for you and would make several prospective women not give you a chance (just like maybe some of them wouldn't give Mr. McFeely a chance), but it feels like false advertising. If you have to postpone your dating life for a week every other week because you have to "be a dad that week," or you can't talk because you are putting the kids to bed... uh, buddy? YOU HAVE KIDS AT HOME. Plain and simple. And this isn't about me not wanting to date dads (not my preference, but they aren't all bad, and I'm trying to keep my mind open) it's about me wanting to know who I'm dating and not being misled to think it's someone else.

Shoulding

2011-03-02T18:29:00.000-08:00

If there's one word I'm trying to eradicate from my vocabulary today, it's should. I should have gone for a run, or hit the gym--I'm six weeks away from the Boston Marathon. I should have gone to the store this weekend and picked up things to make dinner for the week--cereal for dinner does not a well-balanced diet make. I should be working tonight--the next two months are going to be hectic with work, I'm just not sure I'm going to be able to stay afloat. I should, I should, I should.

Whenever my brain heads to shouldville, I tend to shut down. It turns everything I could do into horrid chores and then I choose to rebel against myself and not do them (ahem, should call the plumber to fix the dishwasher, anyone?). So when I walked into my house after work, I went upstairs, lay on my bed and immediately started beating myself up for all of the "shoulds" I should have been accomplishing at that very moment. There was so much noise in my head, that after about 15 minutes of me verbally accosting myself I jumped up; declared "Enough!"; grabbed my laptop, wallet and car keys; and headed out the door. I'm not at the gym, and I'm not at the store. Obviously, I'm not working. I'm also not eating cereal, and in reality, I'm not worried about the fact that I'm running the Boston Marathon in six weeks.

In the midst of my mental Civil War, I realized that the only thing I should do tonight is what I want to do. So, I drove myself to my all-time favorite Seattle spot (which happens to have Wi-Fi), ordered myself my favorite grown-up cocktail and fabulous "not cereal" dinner, and decided to blog about it. My crankiness has faded and I'm happy (and well-fed), and this is how it should be.

Commitment

2011-03-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

It's the start of a new month. And while I'm on that topic, holy crap?! How is it already March?

I'm the kind of person who is methodical about things. Freakishly methodical. There was a time when I wouldn't get out of bed unless the time was a multiple of five (I've relaxed on that little trait, and now I just don't get out of bed). Likewise, if I go on a health spree and decide to change my eating or workout habits I will never start mid-week; I'll always wait until Monday to make the change. There's something about the nice, clean, fresh start that delights me.

So, as I sat here astonished at just how fast time is actually flying, my thoughts wandered to ye olde blog and the Internets and I thought about how I really do want to write more. And what better way than to create a challenge for myself? And it being the start of the month and all why not use my freakishly methodical mentality to push myself into a blogging challenge? And, lo, a habit is born. Or at least force fit into my life. Whatever, I'm gonna write and you're gonna like it, because I'm making it my goal to post every day in March. Yes, Internets, you read that correctly. EVERY DAY. Including weekends.

I even went so far to declare my crazy intentions publicly by adding myself to the blogroll at NaBloPoMo, a haven for other bloggers who have committed themselves to ~~be chained to their blog~~ give the Internets a month's worth of gold in the form of blog posts. And the fine folks at NaBloPoMo offer support, too. In the event you need an idea for a post, they offer monthly themes and daily prompts around that theme. March's theme is "In a Word." I'm not going to lie, some days you might get a one word post and, yes, I will totally count that as a post. You know why? Because I'm the boss of me. But knowing me and my freakishly methodical brain (and my verbose tendencies), you might be the winner of a month full of LMNT. You, in a word: lucky.

You could throw your challenge flag, but the ruling on the field will still stand.

2011-02-22T18:27:00.000-08:00

Guess what? ANOTHER BRAND NEW POST! We'll technically, this post isn't new. I actually wrote it on November 19, but because I already posted once on that day, I just drafted and saved it with the intent to publish a day or two or 96 later.

A couple of notes, 1) this post references my other post from November 19, so you might want to reread that (unless you read it every day for the 95 days between postings anxiously awaiting my return), and 2) I do have at least one more Bronco related post coming your way... and I hope you're on the edge of your seat because that one is the mother of all posts.

With that, enjoy.
--
While I'm all fired up and raring to take on Seattle and the apparent cadre of apathetic Bronco fans that live here, I should also mention that the Commish and I went to a Blankity Blankhawks game (yes, during my two month blogging hiatus--hi, present day LMNT here. Yeah, before my most recent three month sabbatical, I guess didn't write for the two months before that. Can you believe it? I mean, THE NERVE! Internets, I'm deeply sorry to have deprived you. Really? How DID you muster the strength to carry on each day? You are very strong and resilient. I like that in an Internet. Okay, as you were). And just because it was a Blankhawks game, doesn't mean that it wasn't still Bronco Sunday, so like a true and faithful fan I donned my orange and blue.

We had seats on the aisle and at some point I told the Commish that if I were to see anyone dressed in Bronco gear I would have an uncontrollable knee-jerk reaction to yell "GO BRONCOS!" at them. In a city of enemies, it's heartening to find a comrade with whom to share a special moment, you know? A few minutes later, I spot a man coming up the stairs in a Bronco's sweatshirt and I nearly peed my pants. I start cheering and clapping the minute I see him, and as soon as he gets within high-five range I shout out "GO BRONCOS!" He looks me up and down, and essentially blows me off by asking, "Where are your colors?" I sat there dumbfounded. As I already mentioned, I was wearing orange and blue. Orange and blue. What are the Broncos' colors? ORANGE AND BLUE. There's my colors j-hole.

Oh, poor Commish. I became so incredulous and then fixated on what was wrong with this dude for the remainder of the game (3 1/2 quarters). By talking it out--mostly to myself--I came to the conclusion that he must have been color blind, but one would think that if one was color blind, one would know better than to make any comments about the colors one CANNOT see.

Needless to say, every time that idiot travelled up and down the aisle, I fought my reflex to cheer for the Broncos and completely turned my head away. Oh yeah. I showed him.

Note to self: Outward appearances are not what they seem. The Seattle-based Bronco fan must earn your trust.

Is this heaven?

2011-02-21T21:50:00.000-08:00

Yes. This is a NEW POST. Yes, a BRAND NEW POST. A BRAND NEW POST from LMNT. And, no, it's not going to be a post about not posting (for three months, yes, I know, I think the half-dozen of you who are still willing to read my ramblings have not let me forget that. So, ta-dah! This one's for you).

Remember when I remodeled my kitchen? Remember how I bought new appliances? Remember how one of those appliances was a dishwasher? A nice, new, shiny, stainless steel $600+ dishwasher. Yes? Well, the first time I ran the dishwasher, I noticed a puddle of standing water under my sink. Now I ask you, what would any normal homeowner do upon finding a puddle of water under their sink? Call a plumber and have it fixed immediately? Is that your final answer? Ha. Hello, I'm LMNT. I know I haven't posted in three months, but you do know me, right?

Oh, I did call a plumber to have it replaced, it just took me two-and-a-half years to make that happen. But don't think that the dishwasher just sat around not being used for those two-and-a-half years. I put it to great use as the world's nicest, newest, shiniest, stainless steeliest (and spendiest) drying rack. That's right, for the past two-and-a-half-years I've been washing my dishes--and by washing my dishes I mean using my dishes and then leaving them in my sink because I HATE DOING DISHES and then finally washing them when the pile becomes unbearable--by hand and drying them in the dishwasher. That's part laziness, part tolerance, and part aversion to technology. I mean, it's been seven years since I've had a dishwasher.

We could go down the road analyzing why I didn't call the plumber, but we're not going to, because today I called a plumber, and he came to my house to fix the leak, TODAY! Note to self: if you call them, they will come. In fairness to me, I've actually called a couple of plumbers, none of whom worked out. But today, John C. Reilly the plumber showed up (short diversion: the Commish and Monster have used the plumbing company I called for work they've had done before and they've talked about John C. Reilly's doppelganger the plumber. When I opened the door today, there he was... I half expected Will Ferrell to pop out from behind the shrubs).

So, John C. Reilly the plumber diagnosed my dishwasher dilemma and a little bathroom faucet drip and it turns out he's going to come back tomorrow to do all of the work. Which means tonight I'm using every single dishwasher safe dish I own because tomorrow I'll have the complete deal: nice, new, shiny, stainless steel, $600+ washer and drying rack all-in-one.

So not worthy

2010-11-19T17:09:00.000-08:00

Watch me slide this post in without skipping a beat and not giving any mention (other than this) to the fact that I've been missing in action for the past two months.

One day during that two month period (okay, there's another mention) when I was neglecting you dear Internets, I received a text from the Commish. He was standing at a bus stop in Seattle when a couple of teenagers passed him. And guess what? One of them was wearing a VINTAGE KARL MECKLENBERG JERSEY! Granted it was not the jersey I wanted, if I did want one, which I do but not the one that the kid was wearing, the one that exists only in my head, but still it's not everyday you see a vintage Karl Mecklenberg jersey walking down the street in Seattle. In fact I'm going on living here 10 years and I can quite honestly say that I've seen a vintage Karl Mecklenberg jersey a grand total of NEVER!

So the Commish, being an engaging fellow called out to the youth and asked him if he was a Broncos fan. He gives the Commish a puzzled look, glances down at his shirt, looks back at the Commish, shrugs his shoulders, let's out a non-committal "eh," and keeps walking. Walking down the street and all over my dreams. That's all I can say about it, I'm still too upset about the less than deserving kid sporting #77's orange and blue. Maybe that's why I've been radio silent for the past two months (third and final mention).

Smells like team spirit

2010-09-19T22:05:00.000-07:00

I'm originally from Colorado, which means Sundays in the fall are Bronco Sundays; I bleed orange and blue and I will always and forever swear allegiance to John Elway. None of that makes me a super fan, it's just baseline behavior.

What might propel me to super fan status, however, is going to the Fair with friends yesterday and on a whim getting an orange and blue bronco tattooed on my face. Granted, it was an airbrushed temporary tattoo. We originally had visions of glitter and pixies and a special kind of awesomeness, alas, there was no glitter, and the pixies were not-so-awesome, but she found a unicorn, and I found myself a bronco.

Now I know that one temporary face tattoo does not a super fan make, but after I took one look at my face I was reminded of a scene from some 20 years ago. Growing up, we had Bronco season tickets and I distinctly remember one game when I made it my personal mission to get on the jumbo tron. What's the best way to do that? Paint my face and spray my hair with blue glitter spray, of course. Armed with my orange face paint, I attempted to replicate the "D" from the Denver helmet on my cheek. Only problem with this do-it-yourself face decorating is that I did it in the mirror, so what looked like a "D" to me in the bathroom, looked like this "(I" to everyone everywhere else in the world. I didn't, by the way, make it onto the jumbo tron.

I'm sure a true super fan would have factored in the mirror reflection, but how about an "A" for effort? The commitment is there--incidentally, so is a temporary scar from the temporary tattoo. We were given the directions to either scrub it off or use rubbing alcohol to remove it. Unfortunately, I don't have any rubbing alcohol so I scrubbed it off along with several layers of my face. So many layers, that it looks like I now have rosacea on my face in the shape of a bucking bronco. That right there might be the making of a super fan.

A card laid is a card played

2010-09-18T21:31:00.000-07:00

I'm learning so much about myself this round of online dating--and I haven't even gone on a date with anyone, yet.

What I've found out is that I'm really not as inclusive as I like to think I am. I know the odds of me finding potential guys are better the wider I cast my net, and I also know that if I impose too many limits I might miss out on something good. But there are some things to which I have aversions and I just can't help myself. Things like:

Height. I'm ruling out anyone shorter than 5'8". Why 5'8"? I'm not really sure. Marinara Jar was somewhere between 5'6"-5'7", but when we were getting set up I was told that he was 5'8" (and I also told the person setting us up that height didn't matter to me, apparently it does now). So maybe I've been conditioned to think that way from him and from thinking people always add an inch or two so 5'8" is the new 5'6". And I'm practically 5'10". It's not so much about the height discrepancy between us, but in our gene pool. The kids we have in my brain are tall and athletic. What kind of mother would I be, putting them at a disadvantage from before we even get started? Sorry, but shorties are out.
Appearance. As lovely as it would be to say that I could become attracted to someone without knowing what they look like, I can't. Nope. I need to see you. If you don't have a picture on your profile, or I don't have a positive reaction to you based upon the pictures you do have posted, you're out, too.
Spelling and grammar. This is your dating resume. You don't have to be the world's best grammarian (that position is already held by Monster), but you do have to at least proof read and use spell check. You wouldn't have typos on your work resume would you? Or use alpha-numeric text? Oh, you would? C U l8r.
The wild card. There is something in almost every profile that I think of as the wild card. To be fair, the wild card can be either good or bad and the wild card can trump almost everything else in the profile. In fact, I may consider a shorty for the right wild card. What would the right wild card be? Well, someone who loves to golf, makes intelligent references to things I think are funny, interjects well played sarcasm, or has intense love for the Denver Broncos. Now the same goes for bad wild cards, they could certainly take an attractive man right out of the equation. Some bad wild cards include serious gamers, being too into cars or motorcycles, or showing zero personality.

I'm in the early communication stages with a couple of fellows, and I came across an interesting wild card on one of them tonight. We'll call this one Longhorn. He and I have sent some predetermined stock questions each other's way and so far so good. He's tall (6'3"), attractive and articulate and he's got several other positive traits. However--because you knew that was coming--tonight I was taking a closer look at his pictures, and in one of them I noticed he's wearing a Utilikilt. A UTILIKILT. Oh, Internets. Could I possibly ever be with a wearer of Utilikilts? Unless you are Scottish and at a formal event, you're not going to win me over by wearing a skirt. I'm sorry, but it's true. Apparently I am that superficial. I mean cool if you want to wear a skirt, I'll still respect you as a person, but if you think that you'll get to step into my dreams and father my tall athletic children, well, you might need to think again.

That being said, I'm going to give Longhorn the benefit of the doubt here. Maybe all of his reasonably-legged clothing was dirty that day, or maybe he lost a bet with a friend, or maybe there's some other perfectly good reason why one would need to wear a Utilikilt whilst on a winery tour with friends in Napa. Yes. Maybe so. All I know is that if he's of the mindset that Utilikilts are essential for him to express his personal sense of style, methinks I've found a wild card of the bad variety (no matter how tall those imaginary kids might be).

Note to self: If you start dating Longhorn and you tell him about the blog either come clean about your disdain for Utilikilts, or destroy this post. Or maybe both.

Upgrading life

2010-09-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

Marco...?

Internets. You there? Bet you've been wondering the same thing about LMNT. Well, I'm here. Phew, am I ever! It's been quite a summer; yeah, yeah, the Shingles, but also I've been working hard. Hard. And I'm not talking about at my job, but about working hard on me and my life.

It all started back when I went on my fabulous retreat with fabulous women in the Spring. The retreat after which I attended I started manifesting chocolate left and right? Well, it turns out the chocolate just happened to be a faulty--nay, AWESOME--vending machine. But since chocopalooza, I've been manifesting other goodness.

And while I've been doing the work, I haven't been doing it on my own. I've been working with an amazing woman, and she's been challenging me to think differently and not letting me get away with my stuff. We are clearing out some of the clutter and transforming LMNT. New haircut, new clothes, including aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots. Thank you Mama M!

Labor Day weekend, I flew down to San Francisco for my cousin's wedding and it was LMNT at her finest. I made a conscious decision to do this trip differently. For starters, I only packed things that make me feel like a million bucks, including aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots. And wouldn't you know it? Even when I packed all my favorite things I was still captain of the "light packers" club.

There I am, traveling in all my fabulousness. By the way, Internets, do you know how many friends you make when you're fabulous? A lot. So, fabulous little me takes myself to the rental car counter, and would you believe it? They offered me an upgrade from a Ford Focus to a convertible Mustang for $10 per day. I'm not sure if old LMNT would have gone for that. In fact, I think old LMNT would have stayed practical. But not new LMNT, she went for it. Yeah, it was only $40, but still this is a huge shift for me. And do you know how much fun it is to drop that top and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge in the hot California sun? So much fun that this is what my mom did when we drove through wine country. It is so much fun that I am highly considering trading in my poor little Jetta for a convertible. Yes, I know I live in Seattle, where it's only sunny for 20 minutes every year, and I'm here to tell you that I would buy one and drive it around for those 20 minutes and it would be the best 20 minutes of the whole year (and I'd also be wearing my aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots). It's THAT MUCH FUN.

Note to self: when offered an upgrade, the answer is always YES!

And also, wind blown hair? It simply adds to the fabulousness.

LMNT's approach to wooing would be suitors

2010-08-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

Internets, have I gone off the deep end? I need some affirmation from you (or confirmation, I suppose, if I have indeed gone off said deep end).

As I told you yesterday, I've stepped back into the realm of Internet Dating (I really like imagining you just read that in your mind with a big booming announcer voice... I can still hear it echoing). Every time I enter this territory, I feel like I do so with such gusto, well, let's face it that's kind of how I do life. I believe that it's important to be me and get that out there, like a giant billboard that screams, "HEY, WORLD! IT'S LMNT. LOVE ME. NOW!" Sometimes I wonder if the billboard approach is a little much, like maybe what's needed is the tiny little warning on your coffee cup that subtly reminds you, "The beverage you are about to enjoy might be hot."

Yeah, maybe subtlety works, but come on. You know me, subtle is not really my thing. If it were up to me, disposable coffee cups would be imprinted with the following statement, "Hey, idiot. This overpriced mochaccinodeleche you just purchased is burn-your-tongue hot. Don't be fooled by the foam. Consider yourself warned. Oh and you can't sue us now. Neener neener." Because even if I were trying to be subtle with the first statement, "the beverage you're about to enjoy, la di da," what I'm really thinking is that second statement, "neener neener." So why waste any one's time, right? Right. So, billboard it is.

Only when you go all billboardy on your dating profile, you are taking HUGE risks. Risk number one: you scare people away. Some may argue that the right person won't be scared off, but first impressions are everything here and it's a game of numbers. In order to play the odds I need more than one person to not be turned off by the crazy I'm broadcasting. Risk number two: crazy attracts crazy. I don't really want a billboardy person myself--let's face it, too many billboards might clutter this freeway of love; I don't need competition. I just want someone who is intrigued by my billboard and wants to learn more--kind of like how I feel when I drive by the Abercrombie & Fitch boys on the side of the building on 4th Ave in the south end of downtown Seattle. You Seattlites know the one. First you're like, "Ho hum, billboard." And then you're like, "Whoa! Hello, billboard! Can you even put pictures like that on billboards? And I don't see any Abercrombie & Fitch clothing on there. Come to think of it, I don't see any clothing on there." And then you're like, "Psst, billboard, I need to see more than what you're showing me. Agh! Eyes on the road."

Wait. No. I'm not talking about naked Abercrombie & Fitch models. It's not really like that billboard at all. I mean it is, but it isn't. I'm not talking about putting scantily clad pictures of me on the Internets and exposing my flesh in order to make people want to get to know me--it has NOT come to down to that, yet. What I'm talking about is exposing my dorkiness as my hook. Enough with the similes and metaphors. Here's the deal: I put a slew of pictures on the site to try visually create the story of me, and then when I went in to caption them I had a stroke of genius (or madness) to write each caption as if it were a fascinating part of the story. So gather round little Internets and I'll read you the tale I like to call, "The Day LMNT Used Children's Literature to Snag Herself a Fellow."

Once upon a time there was a girl named LMNT.

Sometimes she has long hair...

... and sometimes she wears hats.

Sometimes she does crazy things like guest grounds keeping at Safeco Field (read: smile and hold the shovel)...

... or running Marathons like this one in Vancouver, BC in 2006. She sure makes it look fun, doesn't she?

LMNT likes wigs, stage makeup, and rocking on (or hooking 'em horns?).

She thinks margaritas in paradise are grand. Zihuatenejo works for her (as do infinity pools).

She looks forward to the day when she meets her match and they live happily ever after. The End.

There you have it, Internets, my billboard. I was particularly proud of the last picture and caption and how it really ties the whole fairy tale together with a nice little bow--sigh, some day my prince will come. And in the meanwhile, hopefully someone or sometwo or somemany good ones want to get in on that kind of crazy/pure creative genius--as I continually and consistently demonstrate, the line between the two is very very blurry.

Bring on the small talk and courtesy chuckles

2010-08-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

Dearest Internets, this weekend I bit the bullet and I'm dating you again. I'm throwing my hat back in the ring and resubscribing to a dating website. Lucky you, because we all know there will be plenty-o-stories coming out of this adventure.

However, this time it's going to be different. I've spent the past few months doing some really good work on me--getting crystal clear on what my heart truly desires way deep down there. In the past when I've dated the Internet, I've been an equal opportunity dater, maybe even a bleeding heart dater. But this time, none of my time will be spent on those who aren't simpatico with what's going on deep down in my heart, or on those who can't complement my already full and rich life and add to that, or those who I just keep around because they are like the sad little puppy that I hesitate to turn away.

Who knows what will happen. I'm keeping my mind open--to a point. I'm just ready to have some fun, put some good energy out there and see what comes back. One, two, three. Here we go, again.

Uncomfortably Numb

2010-08-16T20:59:00.000-07:00

Twice. Twice today I've been injected with Novocaine. And neither one of those times have I actually had real dental work done. And, that might not be the fault of the official dentist of the blankity blankhawks. As it turns out, Internets, it might be me.

On my first trip to the dentist today, first I was told that the factory that makes the porcelain for the crown I had has reported that the cement used to attach it to the tooth doesn't always adhere well and there have been reports of them falling off, then I was told that she couldn't affix my crown because my gums were too puffy and bleeding. Actually, there was something really weird going on with my gums, they were covered in white bumps. She even showed me in a mirror--definitely weird, definitely white bumps.

Here's how that visit went down. She asked me sternly, "When did this crown fall off."

I responded, "Friday."

"Are you sure it fell off on Friday?"

"Yes," I said, even though it actually fell off on Thursday night.

"And how did it fall off?"

"I was chewing gum," I said, even though it actually came out when I was devouring a hot tamale.

INTERNETS?! Why did I feel the need to tell not just one, but two lies to the dentist? I don't know, but that was my initial story and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to stick to it.

One more time she asked, "Are you sure?" Persistent dentist, that one.

"Yes, I'm sure," ridiculously stubborn patient for really no good reason, this one.

Okay, so I told a little fib--or two--to the dentist, but as it turns out, that didn't matter at all, but the Commish would have skewered me for not coming clean to you, so there you have it. I lied. And je ne regrette rien.

As I reclined there, silently saying my Hail Mary and Our Father as penance for the pair of sins I had just committed, she informed me of my fate: she was going to shoot me up with Novocaine to try and stop the bleeding and affix my crown. Only the bleeding didn't stop, because, hello?
Weird gums covered in white bumps. So there I am, laden with guilt for lying, freaking out that something bad was happening in my mouth, and starting to lose feeling in my face. I kept taking deep breaths to try and keep myself as calm as I could when I g0t hit with another whammy. She's going to need me to come back later in the afternoon, fill me up with even more Novocaine, cut the gum away, cauterize it, and then affix the crown. I'm sorry, did you just say CUT THE GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT? Oh, you did? Oh, okay.

I head back to work trying to play down the fact that she and her team of hygienists are basically going to have a civil-war era reenactment in my mouth, wherein I'm given a shot of whiskey and a stick to bite on as they burn the open wound to stop the bleeding. You can imagine my excitement to head back for that second appointment. Trying to occupy my mind during the three hours between appointments was difficult. Work was not distracting enough to keep me from going worst-case scenario, so of course I went there. It must be cancer.

Thankfully, both AP and Coach A reassured me that I didn't have cancer--I didn't even have to tell AP that I thought I had cancer, I must have had the "I hate to tell you this, friend, but I'm pretty sure I have cancer" look on my face, because before I said anything she said, "you don't have cancer!"

And sure enough, I don't (at least I don't think so). It's not cancer, it's the shingles! The shingles is definitely better than the cancer. I'll take the shingles. But, awh man, I thought I had beaten the shingles. I feel great, but apparently, the shingles have overtaken my mouth. And by overtaken my mouth I mean the gums in the very back of the mouth have become so inflamed and have grown so much, they have grown over half of my crownless tooth. Gah.

How do I know it's the shingles. Well, I get to my second appointment (on the verge of tears because are they really going to CUT MY GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT?), and the hygienist injects me with a high dose of Novocaine and then goes to town on cleaning out the gum. She's really hesitant to cut it away, and I am thanking every known deity because, we don't want to cut that gum, right? So I begin yammering on about all the things I can think about, like, my jaw hurt a couple weeks ago when I was on vacation, but then it went away and I didn't think anything more of it, maybe that's related? And that I swear the crown fell off on Friday (liar!) even though it looks like the gum has been growing out of control for a few months now. And how this has been such a crazy month--especially for the right side of my body. I mean it's like the right side of my body hates me. First the shingles and now this--

"Wait a minute. I know you're whole face is numb, and you have a couple of cotton wads jammed in there, too, but did you just say shingles?"

"Uh, yeah, I had shingles three weeks ago."

Before I knew it, "doctor" was at my station, chastising me, "Why didn't you say that earlier? I was prying to get any information out of you and you didn't say anything about shingles."

Well, yeah, because I'm awesome and I got over the shingles in record time, so how could that have anything to do with the crown that fell out of my mouth last Friday when I was chewing gum? Only, apparently I didn't (no, I didn't chew gum on Friday and I didn't get over the shingles). Because the weird gums covered in white bumps? Yeah, shingle blisters. In. My. Mouth. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

So today there was no operating. No cauterizing. No crown replacement (but there were several rounds of "Me and My Llama" playing in my brain). Instead I have to try and treat this new and oh-so-awesome "rash" (the one IN THE BACK OF MY MOUTH), and then come back in a few weeks and see if we can do this whole thing over again (minus the operating and the cauterizing).

Note to self: Shingles in the mouth definitely NOT making the the list of "Top 10 Hottest Things About The Shingles."

Now I can truly empathize with Vanessa Williams

2010-08-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

I have no choice. The time has come and nothing can make me change my mind. I am breaking up with my dentist. Yes, the official dentist of the blankity blankhawks, who is the diva of all things molar, and who told me I have a low root-to-gum ratio which requires me to visit the office every four months. Yes, the very same dentist who left a wooden shim in my mouth.

The other day I was standing in an eternal line at the grocery store when I noticed a whole display of hot tamales (my favorite candy) on sale for a dollar a box. How could anyone say no to that? Don't ask me, because clearly I am not that person. I fell victim to the candy's excellent product placement and even better price point and bought myself a box. When I got back to my car, I had a fleeting thought of not tearing open the box immediately and waiting until I got home to enjoy my treat, but then I thought better of it and tore open the box immediately. Exercising some self-control, I poured a couple into my hand, even though my temptation was to just pour the whole box into my mouth. As I bit down on the first one, something strange happened: it pulled out a tooth. At least it seemed like a tooth. Suddenly there was a gaping hole in my grin, and something hard in my tamale.

Fortunately, it wasn't really a tooth, but it was a crown. The crown "doctor" had put in just a few short months ago. Some people might say, "LMNT, you're supposed to stay away from things like gum and sticky candies when you have dental work," but to those people I say, "pffffffffft." Fifteen years ago I had a crown installed from a dentist who is not the official dentist of the blankity blankhawsk. That's fifteen years of hot tamale eating and intermittent gum chewing, and never once has that puppy budged. But this new crown? Not so much. I've been stripped of my crown and I'm not blaming the tamale, or my affinity for chewy sugary treats; I'm blaming the dentist. But before I break up with her, I'm going to make sure she fixes this for free. And then I'm breaking up with her. Will I storm out of the office slamming the door in a righteous huff? Probably not, but I will be happy to tell her, "it's not me, it's you."

A tribute to The Shingles

2010-07-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

The shingles is potentially a really huge-ass blessing. Now hear me out on this, Internets. The past three days of sitting home all day (and staying up most of the night) has left me a little bit introspective, if not delirious, and there are actually some good things, nay, some great things I'm learning about myself through the shingles. I'm still in the midst of some of those lessons, but what I have for you today is "Little Ms. Notetaker's Top 10 Hottest Things About Shingles."

Number 10: It's not lymphoma. There was a period of 12 hours when my paranoid little mind was convinced that I was showing the symptoms of lymphoma. I knew I was being paranoid, but I still went there, because the mind loves it some worst-case scenario drama. Thankfully, it's just the shingles. Thank you, shingles... and WebMD, not so much.

Number 9: Nakedness. Almost everything annoys my sensitive skin right now. It's all prickly and tickly. Really the only cure is nakedness. Unfortunately, the properties right next to mine were built within sneezing distance of all of my main floor windows which doesn't allow for much nakedness, but that's okay because it leads me to number eight.

Number 8: Wearing your shirt like you did in the summers of your childhood. You know, like this:

When you can't be naked, wouldn't you like to be like this? Of course you would.

Number 7: Scratch marks. There are certain places I can scratch and certain places are off limits. So when one of those off limits places starts itching, I vigorously scratch some other part of my body, hoping to play some Vulcan mind trick on myself. It doesn't really work, but that hasn't stopped me from continuing to do it.

Number 6: Constant bed head. Bed head like that slightly tousled slightly greasy look; you know the one, like I just stepped out of the pages of Vogue, only I didn't. I just got up off the couch to be upright so I could take another mega dose of Vitamin C.

Number 5: Memoirs of a Geisha. In case you have a thing for ladies of the orient, in particular their kimonos and obis, a girl with the shingles is the girl for you. I've found that when all else fails, nothing soothes the itching more than swaddling myself with a blanket. If I wrap it as tight as I can around my abdomen, I'm offered a few minutes of temporary relief. And if you happen to have a thing for Geishas dressed in fleece Strawberry Shortcake blankets, well, then have I got the girl for you.

Number 4: Tweety bird. After my first visit to the doctor, I got a healthy dose of vitamin B12 injected into my rear. When I went to take a shower the next day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had a minor panic attack that the shingles had spread to my derriere and had taken the form of a very dark circle. Oh, wait. It's just a tweety bird band-aid from the doctor. As you were, LMNT.

Number 3: A year's worth of date movies all in three days. Movies viewed: 13 and counting.

Number 2: Not having to cook. Oh. My. Gracious. This is pretty close to being number one. I have been blessed with some phenomenal people in my life and they have coordinated meal deliveries. Being able to nurse myself back to health with yummy and nutritious food (yummy and nutritious food that I didn't have to make for myself) is beyond amazing. Unbelievable amounts of gratitude for my good Italian friend, for whom making sure people are well fed is top priority. Coach A mobilized the lovely ladies and their meals-on-wheels initiative. My itchy, but satiated belly thanks you.

Number 1: Knowing that I will probably (hopefully) never have the shingles again. Enough said.

Professional Back Scratcher needed. Apply within.

2010-07-26T22:02:00.001-07:00

Internets, I have the shingles. The shingles! Shingles are NOT fun. No way, no how. What is fun, however, is self-medicating your shingles with frozen custard. What is also fun? Calling shingles "the shingles."

So, yeah. The shingles. Apparently LMNT is not immune to the diseases most commonly associated with those in their advanced years like shingles and pneumonia. What's next? Becoming a bad tipper? Slow driving? Beating down the door to the Golden Corral at 4:45 for the sunsetter's special?

Note to self: Relax.

If you're not in advanced age, shingles is usually caused by an extremely weakened immune system or from stress. When I went to see my doctor today, she asked me if I was really stressed out. I don't think so. I mean I'm always in a heightened state of high-strungedness, but I'm not any more stressed out than usual. I don't think it's work; if anything is stressing me out, it's all of life's extra-curricular activities, like: will I make it to the soccer game on time, do we have enough women to play in our flag football game, and can I assemble a team for a mini-golf charity event? Internets, apparently the adult co-rec activities in which I participate have caused a viral herpes outbreak on my back (a big fat you're welcome to all the 12-year-olds trapped inside of you that chuckled their way through that sentence).

So, sports are bad and the shingles are worse.

It started out as a rash on my back, not necessarily itchy but noticably present. Then there were the random bruise like pains in my groin and running down my rib cage. Something did not seem right, so last night I took to the web to feed my hypochondria through trusty website diagnosis. Shingles seemed an obvious choice. And actually there were several other somewhat obscure and fatal choices that to my brain seemed quite possible, nay probable, so I spent the better part of the night stressing out about the fact that I'd be lucky to be awake in the morning because I'd probably be consumed whole by the flesh-eating disease currently devouring my back. Remember the part about stress causing the shingles? Yeah, I don't think I was helping my own cause. Oh and looking at pictures of shingles on skin on the Internets (skinternets)? That didn't help my cause either.

So, I'm gonna try to get all zen, but it's a really hard state to achieve when I'm simultaneously prickling with the sensation that all the scratching in the world won't relieve this itch, and writhing from the pain of someone having kicked my ribcage into oblivion, and the back pain, and the swollen lymph nodes, and the rash, and the uncontrollable urge to strap anything colder than room temperature onto my lower back. Oh, and not to mention the doctor's recommendation to take 6 grams of vitamin C each day. You might think that's not a lot, but 6 grams is actually 12 normal doses of vitamin C. Count them (like you would if you were going to the ladybug picnic): 12 pills! And, by the way, that much vitamin C wreaks havoc on your intestines. But I'm going to be all zen about this as my body is trying to tell me something, and if I don't listen I think the vitamin C will smack me in the face, pull my hair, and threaten a swirly until I start listening.

See you later, alligator

2010-06-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

They say, if you love something set it free and if it comes back to you it was meant to be. But I know for sure this one's not coming back. It was too good to be true, I knew it from the start.

I was driving home from work today in heavy stop-and-go traffic, all proud of myself for finding my "new to me" hubcap yesterday, when I came to a quick stop just to see that very hubcap roll across the freeway lane in front of my car. No no no no no no no! Awh, man. Blarg.

As I watched it roll, in super slo-mo and then come to rest in the lane next to me, I strongly considered pulling the emergency brake, hopping out and grabbing the wayward cap. Wasn't it destiny that this hubcap and I were reunited yesterday? I guess not. And I also guessed it was better that I didn't jump out of my car in the middle of the freeway during rush hour. And just like that, I've got to go reinvent my wheel.

Oh yes, I did.

2010-06-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

Note to self: keepeth thine faith in the hubcap humanitarian.

Internets, guess what I found driving home from work today? Yep, a hubcap. But wait, not just any hubcap, a hubcap for a Volkswagen, a hubcap for a Volkswagen that matches the other three hubcaps on my Volkswagen. There it was in all of its glory propped up against a bus stop shelter, undoubtedly placed there by a selfless saint.

Was it my hubcap (the one I lost months ago)? Eh, probably not. Did I immediately pull over, walk down the street, pick it up, carry it back, and attach it to my wheel? You bet I most certainly did.

As I parked my car down the road, I hemmed and hawed about if it was the right thing to do. Was it wrong for me to go and grab that hubcap off the side of the road? And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it had to be the right thing. How many of those abandoned little hubcaps do I see every day? Too many to count. How many blog posts do I have to write about hubcap humanitarians? Okay, probably too many of those to count, too. But, even if that hubcap wasn't really mine, the simple act of pulling over and claiming it is exactly why hubcap humanitarians do what they do. So, it's not so much that I was stealing something that wasn't mine, but I was creating a virtuous cycle within the hubcap humanitarian community. And although it is highly likely that hubcap is not mine, I will love it as if it were my very own--it may be a little scratched up and has been living out on the street for quite some time now--I'm thinking a gently used, free hubcap is better than no hubcap at all.

They really do happen in threes

2010-06-21T19:01:00.000-07:00

Remember how I am a manifester of all things chocolate? Like donettes and candy bars? What do they say, if it happens once it's random, twice it's a pattern? Well, what if it happens thrice? I think it's a true sign of my ESP: Extra Snack Power!

I made a special trip to the vending machine at work today, again. And, you guessed it I scored free candy, again. Peanut M&Ms this time. You'd have to be there to believe it; thankfully, AP was.

I keep thinking my candy karma might be coming to an end, and even thought I had run out today, for when I entered my selection the first package of peanut M&Ms got stuck and didn't drop. Both AP and I had the same reaction with matching sad trombone sound effect. But then, just when it seemed all hope for chocolate was lost, the machine revved up and spun me out not one, but two bags of M&Ms. AP squealed and did a happy little dance--which quite surprised the man getting coffee at the other end of the kitchenette.

And don't get me wrong (especially you, St. Macarius of Alexandria, patron saint of candy makers), I like the free candy and all, but I really need to figure out how to channel my ESP into other arenas. Until then, Internets, if you need stuff, chocolate stuff, you know who to call.

One for the Pants

2010-06-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

Those of you that use Blogger may have noticed when you draft and publish your posts the program provides you with some example labels you could attach to your post, "scooters, vacation, fall." For as long as I've been blogging, I've always wanted to tackle the challenge of writing a post that incorporates all of those items. Guess what? I have one, and even better, it's a fitting tribute to dad on Father's Day.

Ah, Dad. Dad, Denny, Lenny, Leonard, DenPants. Lots of loving names for the ol' man I love so much.

When I think about him, it's hard not to think of the things that are so uniquely him, his Dennyisms, if you will. The Dennyism that is most memorable to me (other than his impersonation of the Incredible Hulk, but that's another story) is his stock response to injury. Regardless the severity of your malady, if you went running to dad you'd get the standard answer, "rub it." Stub your toe? Rub it. Trip down the stairs at the neighbor's house wearing high heels from the dress-up box and scrape your knee? Rub it. Slam your thumb in the car door, rip it out of said car door, see blood drip from under the nail bed, nearly faint? Go to the hospital and get an x-ray because it's clearly broken? No. Have you not learned anything? RUB IT! The man was nothing if not consistent.

Growing up, we'd frequently take mini-vacations up to the cabin our grandparent's had in the foothills of the Rockies. We use the term cabin loosely, as it wasn't a rustic log cabin, but it was a nice little getaway on a reservoir with a boat, some dirt bikes, and a couple of Vespa-type scooters. I remember my brother and I entertaining ourselves for hours out in the garage. We'd climb up into the boat and pretend to drive it, and when that got old, we'd sit on the scooters and make believe we were driving around getting groceries and whatnot, you know, doing the things you do on scooters. And then when that got old, we'd go in beg any of the adults to take us out for real rides on the scooters to get groceries or just do the things you do on scooters, which was mostly just ride them.

At the tender age of 12 (which at the time I'm sure made perfect sense), I had it in my mind that it was high time I learned how to drive the scooter. I wasn't really of a stature that could control the scooter, I was lanky, awkward, and klutzy, but by golly I was determined to drive that scooter all on my own! I had been plotting that time for at least a year and I know that I was completely fixated on learning how that entire weekend vacation.

Finally, my dad caved and agreed to teach me. We strapped on helmets and headed up the hill to some property that my grandpa owned where I could practice on wide, level space that was off the street. My brother came along too, on one of the little dirt bikes. It's important to note that this property is dirt and gravel--ideal for the little dirt bikes, maybe not-so-ideal for scooters operated by tentative scrawny first-time drivers.

After some brief instruction--dad, I got this, I ride this thing in my imagination ALL THE TIME in the garage, trust me, I'm a pro--away I go with the task of practicing big loopy figure eights. I'm great on the first straightaway, I feel the wind on my skin and it's all that I dreamed it could be. And then I get to my first turn. Now what was it he was saying about turning? Slow down a little? Lean into it? Hmm, I don't think I like driving scooters anymore. I think I'd like to stop--OH NO! Look out for that rock! Turn. Rock. Turn. Lean? Screw it. And just as I was taking the scooter over the rock, without a hint of lean in my body, I yank the handle bars as hard as I can to the right and fall off. Yep. I laid that scooter down, only that makes it sound much more graceful than it was. As I remember it, I got up, shattered ego and scraped elbow, the throbbing kind where you can feel the blood dripping down your limb. Crying from the embarrassment, frustration, and pain, I was done. I turned to my dad, hoping for some sympathy and what I got-- in what I am sure was the most sympathetic way he knew how? Yes. Rub it.

I lost it. In what I am sure was the most dramatic way I knew how, I exclaimed I would NOT be rubbing my arm because my elbow was gushing blood, it hurt, and THERE ARE ROCKS LODGED IN THERE and rubbing it would only grind them in more! I then informed him I would not be riding on that scooter back to the cabin and proceeded to walk my stubborn sobbing self (with my helmet still strapped firmly to my head) back down the hill.

My dad and brother seemed somewhat surprised at my response; I think that may have been one of the first times my dad realized he was raising a teenage girl. Oh the fun of teenage emotions he had in store, lucky lucky him. I didn't have the same mentality that he or my brother had, where a scrape and a little blood didn't stop you, in fact a scrape and blood made you keep on going. I had the mentality that a scrape and blood took the fun out of it and made me want to abandon the scooter and go home.

You'll be glad to know my elbow and ego both healed. Dad even helped me make it through the teenage years and into adulthood (with plenty of Dennyisms all along the way). And while I've not driven a scooter since that vacation, I have had several falls, and the first voice that pops into my head is always that of dad. And even if I don't take his advice every time, it's reassuring to know that he's always there ready to offer it, or to drive my scooter back home for me when all I can do is walk.

Thanks, DenPants, for everything. I love you, always.

Summer Repeats

2010-06-17T22:18:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, I was driving home and was listening to a local call-in radio program. The topic was the impact of the video game industry and as I pulled up to my house I heard a very passionate father lamenting that gaming has turned his once bright and studious son into a slacker. It wasn't so much what the father was talking about, but the emotion behind it that struck me. I knew what he was feeling; well, sort of, kind of, in a way. I mean, I knew the energy he had coursing through his veins. The energy that calls you to action and compels you to call a local radio show, to ask advice... about your teenage child.

Let me explain.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my VBFF, TIG, had a boyfriend who was a senior. He was old enough to go to rated R movies, vote, buy lottery tickets and tobacco products. And TIG and I, we were not that old--and let me tell you, we were i-n-n-o-c-e-n-t little goodie-two-shoes (I know, you're all completely shocked). We were co-presidents, and now that I think about it, really the only two members of the club STAND (Students Taking a New Direction). Funny thing, it wasn't so much that we were taking a "new" direction so to speak, we were taking the only direction we had ever known: the straight and narrow. No drugs, no alcohol, no sex, no rule breaking of any kind. I've said it here before and I'll say it again, we were so flippin' cool. But we didn't really care, we had so much fun in our own dorky innocent ways, that doing anything differently never even crossed our minds.

Back to the melodarama. One day, TIG finds a can of mint chew in her boyfriend's car and is completely beside herself. Where did that come from? Why would he have that? Doesn't he know who she is and what she STANDs for? Distraught, we determine the best solution is to call into the local radio psychologist.

WAIT, Internets. I was typing this post and realized, I'VE TOLD YOU THIS STORY ALREADY! Aren't I adorable? Yep, back in 2008. And you? You were you going to let me keep going, pretending you hadn't already heard it weren't you? All the while just nodding at me, smiling and thinking, "yeah yeah yeah and then your husband bought your step-daughter a mink and yadda yadda yadda. WE KNOW!" Okay, I'll spare you all that. But if you haven't read this post, you really should. It's hilarious. Long Time Listener, First Time Caller.

Note to self: Reduce, reuse, recycle: great for the environment and maybe reviving the readership.

A post that does right by Edith Ann

2010-06-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

Hey, Internets? Raise your hand if you remember this one:

My guess is that if you're of a certain age (like say, mine) after watching this you'll be overwhelmed by memories of Sesame Street. To this day, anytime anyone utters the word "llama," it immediately sets off this catchy little tune in my brain. And sometimes I sing it to myself in my car when I'm driving myself to the dentist. Okay, final Sesame Street confession, if I ever have to count to twelve, I either do it as if I'm going to play games at the ladybug picnic or I'm in a jazzy pinball machine. Can I get a witness?

So back to this whole llama dentist adventure, what the what? Re-watching this video raises the same questions for me as when I was a kid:

Who has a pet llama?
Wait, no, the real question is who has a pet llama in Manhattan?
Are there any animal laws about walking your pet llama down a New York City street?
How many llama dentists are there in New York City?
If I couldn't find a llama dentist, would my dentist clean my pet llamas teeth?

I've decided to do some hard-hitting investigative research for you (read: I Binged it) and here's what I learned:
1. Who has a pet llama? Well, a lot of people do. And Chrissa. Chrissa has a pet llama.

2. Wait, no, the real question is who has a pet llama in Manhattan? As it turns out, a lot of people do. People like the owners of Lazy T Ranch, in Manhattan. Manhattan, Kansas.

3. Are there any animal laws about walking your pet llama down a New York City street? There are certainly laws about walking your dog down the street. However, llooking for llama llaws is lleaving me llost. Llame. If you want LlMNT's advice, check with the New York City department of Veterinary Public Health Services.

4. How many llama dentists are there in New York City? In New York City proper there are 14. Well, there are 14 "animal dentists," you should call them first before leashing up your llama and walking her there as they may only cater to small animals and it would likely be a little humiliating for both you and your llama to show up at the small animal dentist only to be turned away because they don't have a chair, protective eye wear, or scrapers big enough for your giant llama.

5. If I couldn't find a llama dentist, would my dentist clean my llama's teeth? HELL NO. Are you kidding me? The official dentist for the blankity blankhawks? With her rhinestones, skinny designer jeans and stilettos? That's just plain preposterous. It's not because she caters only to small animals--I mean, come on, the blankity blankhawks are anything but small--it's because you're a llama. Sorry, llama.

And that's the truth.

Dizziness

2010-06-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

You know when you go to Dairy Queen, and near the cash register there's that donation box for some charity? And that donation box is really not a box, but is a funnel type thing (technical words are failing me here)? And the fact that it's not a box, but is a funnel type thing makes you want to donate all the change you have on you because change in funnels is way more fun than change in boxes? And the quarter you drop in falls just so that it rolls around and around and around the funnel--starting at the top in a very big and very slow orbit and then it follows a slight downward spiral where it rolls faster and faster and faster, until it falls into the great unknown?

Yeah, that's how my life has felt for awhile: circling at a ridiculously slow and monotonous pace, on the brink of a downward spiral into the great unknown. I've felt like I've been on the brink for a really long time, in a holding pattern of sorts. Stuck. I've felt stuck. Even though my life is rolling on (or around and around and around and around), I've felt like I've been going nowhere. And I've been trying with all of my might to make sure that no matter where I circled, that I would go anywhere but that downward spiral. Please, anywhere but there!

When I think about that funnel, it gets me thinking about how throwing your quarter in the funnel is more fun than throwing your quarter in a plain old box, it's times infinity more fun. Why? Because of the journey it takes, because you know where it's going to go but you don't know exactly how long it will take to get there, because when it starts to roll faster and faster and faster you get so excited that you hold your breath in anticipation until it drops. And when it drops, you think, that was fun! Again! Again! Again! And you put in another coin and repeat.

When I think about my life, it gets me thinking about how unlike the quarter I've been avoiding that journey. I've been circling the top of the funnel where it's slow and safe and where I'm bored. And I think I've been subconsciously trying to maintain that path because it's slow and safe and boring, and the downward spiral is terrifying and unknown. But when I really truly think about it, the spiral part is actually thrilling and exciting and will take me to the great unknown. And in my mind I was thinking like the downward spiral and the great unknown were bad things. However, they're not. In the case of the coins, the great unknown is actually a good place, where it joins other coins and becomes part of a something bigger, a donation to a good cause. So maybe the thrilling spiral down to the great unknown isn't bad afterall. What if, like my quarter, it's a good place where I can be a part of something bigger. Who would consciously try to resist that?

This week, I've taken some big steps. I'm surrendering to the revolutions of my life, I'm tired of circling up top when better things are waiting for me in the great unknown. Things that are so good that I know that as I roll faster and faster toward them, I'll be holding my breath in anticipation waiting to land. And after I do, I'll know that is was fun! And I'll want to do it again! Again! Again!

The midas touch

2010-05-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I've got it.

LMNT is in a funk, my friends. And I was completely funkedefied yesterday. Granted I was PMSing, which caused me t0 host the most wonderful pity party in my head. It was while I was at said party that I realized I needed some chocolate. I mean what's a pity party without chocolate? Oh, no. I may have just turned this post into a Cathy comic strip. Aaaaaack!

Anyway, there I was partying away in my brain, making small talk with myself (read: letting my inner-critic, who is coincidentally named "Cathy," pile drive me directly into a puddle of misery, despair, and general badness), when I decided the best way to shut Cathy up would be to shove some chocolate in her face. Food is not love, food is not love, food is not love, oh well, whatever.

In a frenzied scene, not too unlike the one from earlier this month, I scraped together my change--I actually had to borrow a dime from Coach A--and marched Cathy and myself right down the hallway to the vending machine. This time I was very clear on what I wanted: Hershey's with almonds, please. It looked like it was the last one, but it had my name all over it; suddenly my day was looking up. I put in my money, hit the magic numbers, and presto: my own personal panacea.

But wait there's more, literally. As I reached in to grab it, wouldn't you know it, but ANOTHER HERSHEY'S BAR MAGICALLY FELL DOWN AND LANDED ON MY HAND. Seriously. I manifested more chocolate. Again. Doom and gloom be gone and make way for chocolate and more chocolate. Just enough to keep Cathy quiet and LMNT happy.

Long live the queens

2010-05-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

I've always been a bit of a word nerd. One of my favorite movies of all-time is Spellbound, a heart-touching documentary of a cross-section of awkward tweeners preparing for the National Spelling Bee. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and if you're a word nerd like me, you'll totally--sometimes painfully--relate to these kids.

As far as word nerds go, I hold my ground steadily in the middle of the pack. I'm a decent speller, however my VBFF growing up, TIG, was the queen of spelling. And that is one of the highest honors a second-grade word nerd could hold. In fact, when I moved to my new school our introductions to each other included her spelling a-c-k-n-o-w-l-e-d-g-e-m-e-n-t. Wow. And when we really solidified our friendship I was all giddy at the prospect of having the girl who could spell antidisestablishmentarianism at my birthday party. Could it get any better than that? You don't have to tell me twice, we were so cool (as an aside, Blogger's spellcheck response to antidisestablishmentariansim? No suggestions. Note to self: Do not entrust Blogger with life's most important spellchecking needs. My vote is for TIG).

My vocabulary is also of decent size; it's like the baby bear of nerdiness: not too big to be off-putting, not too small to be pedestrian, but just right. Middle of the pack. However, my friend, Monster? She's the penultimate vocabularist (and if her title is worth anything, she'll point out that vocabularist is not a word. Yes, she's also a master grammarian). I'll admit it, I have vocabulary envy. Which is most certainly one of the word nerd's deadliest sins. Probably the most deadly word nerd sin is sloth: not putting your words to use. I'm in the process of thinking about applying for graduate school sometime in the future, again. And one of the first steps in the process of thinking about possibly going back to grad school someday is preparing for standardized tests, and one of the components of said tests is vocabulary. Yay! I purchased some flashcards and every night I quiz myself. I'm tackling 25 words a day--and these are big words. Words that the upper echelon of word nerds know and use frequently, but words that baby bear doesn't yet feel comfortable pulling out of her pocket and throwing down over a bowl of porridge, you know? But not wanting sloth to get the best of me, I know I have to start incorporating some of these words in my daily conversations. And here's the sign of my true word nerdiness, even if I wasn't thinking about the prospect of possibly going back to grad school someday, I'd still find great delight in this little exercise of studying flashcards. I know, I know, you don't have to say it again, I AM SO COOL!

Last night, the Commish, Monster and I got to talking about vocabulary and using big words and the process you go through as a kid when you're testing out the proper use of words. I told them about how one time TIG and I were driving around with her family after a tornado had hit Denver and I felt called to use a new word I had read in a Nancy Drew book. "Ooooh, look at all the DERBIS!" I interjected. I mean, there were downed trees and branches and leaves everywhere. DERBIS abounds. Oh, I was supremely proud of myself for just having used an impressively big word and I know that I emphasized the heck out of it. DERBIS, DERBIS, DERBIS. Through stifled chuckles, her parents asked me to repeat what I said. Slightly less confident, I responded, "uh, derbis?" They very gently corrected me. Oh. Yes. Of course. Silly me, DEBRIS. That's what I said. DEBRIS. Lesson learned. And to this day I still get a good laugh out of it.

And speaking of laughter, my recount of this experience inspired Monster to share a similar story (and with her permission, I think, er, I hope, I'm repeating it here). First you need to have a picture of Monster. As I've already mentioned, she's the vocabulary queen, and it's not like she stumbled upon that greatness one day, she was a vocabulary queen (or maybe princess) as a kid, too. So, picture the cutest, smartest, most innocent little elementary school kid. Got that image in your head? Good. Okay, so now picture that cute little brainiac as a third-grader having the honor bestowed upon her to read the school announcements over the PA system for a week. She reports to the office for her first day of announcement reading and the Assistant Principal a huffy old spinster shoves the announcement sheet in her hands, and asks her if she knows all the words on the page. It's Monster, OF COURSE SHE KNOWS ALL THE WORDS ON THE PAGE, duh? At this point nearly 30 years after the fact, I'm even incredulous. I mean, really, who would dare question word nerd royalty? Monster, confident in her abilities says yes, and the announcements begin. At this school, each day announcements begin with a quote--an aphorism, adage, or platitude, if you will. Monster clears her throat, presses the button on the system mic and begins, "LAWTER is the best medicine." Before she knows it the mic is stripped from her little hands, "LAUGHTER, that's LAUGHTER is the best medicine." What the what? "Laffter"? But hello DAUGHTER (DAWTER)? So therefore LAUGHTER (LAWTER), right? It makes sense, and I'm certainly not one to question the queen. That would be... what would it be? I think there's probably a really big and appropriate word in my box of flashcards for what it would be, but we'll just make do with: stupid. That would be stupid. Lesson learned. And to this day she--and now I and the whole of the Internets--still gets a good laugh out of it.

Manifest Hostesstiny

2010-05-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

I am the great and powerful LMNT. Read and be amazed.

This afternoon I was sitting at work, proud of myself for intentionally eating well today, and also really jonesing for some chocolate. If lesson number one from the retreat was having clear intentions, lesson number two was building those intentions around my wants and desires--and at that moment I desired chocolate.

I desired chocolate so badly that I had to turn my whole office inside out to find enough change to get the vending machine to submit to my wants and desires. I was scraping the barrel. I had $0.57 in pennies, but the vending machine doesn't take pennies. Nickels and dimes? Yes. It was looking pretty rough, but was able to scrounge the $0.90 I needed--but that's it, not a penny more, only I had plenty of pennies more, so not a silver-colored coin more. Giddy about the prospect of chocolate, I set out down the hall thinking about what candy bar I'd get. Twix is my go-to candy bar, but as of late I've been tending toward the Extra Crispy Big Kit Kat or the ol' reliable Hershey's with Almonds. As I stood there debating the pros and cons of each option in my brain, I spotted a package of Hostess Donettes, and thought, ooooh, I want those. Which is funny because I don't really even like those all that much, and sad because they cost $1.00 and I was literally down to my very last nickel. Oh well, I thought, just go with your original instinct, and Extra Crispy Big Kit Kat it was.

I put my one dime and 16 nickels into the machine, punched in the magic numbers and watched my chocolate dream drop. Chocolate time. I reached into the machine to claim my prize and wouldn't you know it, my candy bar was sitting atop a package of Donettes! Flabbergasted by my crazy luck, or supreme magical power, however you want to look at it, I grabbed my chocolaty treats and hustled down the hall back to my office, looking over my shoulder every few steps just to make sure nobody busted me for stealing the Universe's Donettes--okay really so that nobody would see me hoarding junk food.

And it's true, I don't even like Donettes all that much, even if I did devour three of them at once, but I just couldn't believe the fortuitousness of this whole situation. It makes me think that if I can manifest Donettes, I truly can do anything. Dallas Cowgirls here I come!

Paving the road

2010-05-12T18:14:00.001-07:00

Note to self: Every thing's a little bit better when there's intent behind it.

When I was out on my retreat a few weeks ago, I realized that I had somehow stopped living my life with intention. There were certainly big picture things driving me like: getting rich, retiring early, playing more golf, having kids so I can teach them to say funny things before they know any better, but on a day-to-day basis I was really just going through the motions. It was not uncommon for me to wake up in the morning, laying in bed for as long as I could with the only thought rolling around my head, "what are you going to wear today?" Then when fashion inspiration struck or when it was the absolute last minute I could get out of bed and get ready for work just in time to sprint out the door and make the bus (let's face it, 99% of the time it was the latter... as my uninspired wardrobe choices could attest to), I'd do just that: spring out of bed in a frantic rush to shower, get ready, and run out the door. Twenty minutes. I can do it in 20 minutes. And while this is kind of a point of pride because low-maintenance girl can get ready in 20 minutes, the fact that I looked like I got ready in 20 minutes was really not something of which to be proud. And I think starting my day with a pressure-filled 20-minute dash really doesn't do wonders for me mentally or emotionally.

Ultimately, my average day would look like this: race to get ready, go to work do typical work-type things, come home, not feel like making any dinner which luckily for me I couldn't make anything because it had been weeks since I had gone to a store and bought food for myself, fix cereal instead, watch food network and get jealous of the better-than-my-cereal-dinner food that they were making, start to doze off in front of the TV, drag myself to bed, fall asleep immediately. Wake up and repeat.

I thought this was just how I was when I didn't have project, but when I'm in the midst of a project, say like a play or a house remodel, my behavior is the same, it's just that I eventually have more to show for myself than sitting like a vegetable in front of the TV. I've realized it's not about the project or how I'm spending my time, it's about the intentions I set for what I'm doing, how I'm living each day, not just continually going through the motions.

So my new project if you will is clearly setting my intentions each morning and then giving gratitude for my day each evening. I've found that keeping it simple--I want a certain meeting to go well, or I want to go for a run, or I want to remember to breathe--makes it easier and at the end of the day, there's something to reflect upon. It makes me feel a little more connected to myself.

One of my intentions over the weekend was to get myself back into healthy eating habits; to actually go to the store and buy real food for myself that I will use to make real meals for myself, as opposed to going to the story and buying food for myself that I end up throwing away because I'm too lazy to make real meals for myself. I was reading an article in an old magazine I had lying around that had a month's worth of easy dinner recipes with exactly what I'd need to buy for the week. Perfect. Just in case you're keeping count, that's going to the store, one intention, having a specific list for the week's meals, two intentions. And if we want to go really crazy, five recipes for the week for my intentional dinners, that's seven, seven intentions. Muwahahaha, I love to count.

And can I just say, I've never enjoyed going to the grocery store or even cooking for one so much. I know that planning a menu and making a shopping list are not ground-breaking things. Trust me, I'm a list girl, so it's not like I've never shopped according to a list; it's the making of the list or the week's menu that makes me want to poke my eyeballs out so rather than do that I'll just opt for cereal or PBJs and skip the store altogether. Turns out that when it comes to this my intention is to do what I need to do so long as someone else tells me what to do--even if that someone else is an inanimate object like say a magazine. So when the magazine says this is what you'll buy and this is what you'll make with what you buy, I say, yes, sir, magazine sir. And I go to the store and I buy what I need to and then I make the dinners, all with a smile on my face.

And with that, I have a magazine breathing down my neck reminding me that I have stir-fry beef and baby bok choy waiting for me. And I do not intend to disappoint.

For CrissPiss

2010-05-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom,

Thank you for always believing in me. Even when I've struggled to know exactly what I'm doing, or where I'm going, or who I should or should not be dating, you always support me one hundred percent gently guiding me with the wisdom only a mother can.

Thank you for buying me the poster from the Scholastic Book sale in elementary school. The one that hung framed in my bedroom my entire childhood. The one that said "strive to be the best you can be." It's my mantra and every day I try to be the best person I can be and make this world a little better.

Thank you for always kicking lil brother and I out of the house to go play outside. From that I've gained a sense of adventure, athletic talents, the ability to make-up silly little games that can entertain for hours, and the repulsion to just sitting idle not doing anything.

Thank you for making me play volleyball in the seventh grade when I said I wanted to do gymnastics. I am sure I made some sort of protest that my other friends were doing gymnastics, but you knew that wasn't where I was supposed to be. Whether it was because I couldn't touch my toes (and still can't) or because I was well on my way to growing into my 5'10" body, I think you knew something was in store for me on the volleyball court. That decision, helped me gain confidence, strength, and leadership skills in a way that gymnastics never would have. Lord knows I would have never landed a full-ride scholarship to a fantastic university with my prowess on a balance beam.

Thank you for calling Matt Dalzell in 1994 and then throwing the phone at me when he answered thereby forcing me to ask him to Prom. I didn't appreciate your gesture at the time (I mean, come on, it couldn't have been more awkward), and he didn't say yes, but you taught me not to sit around and wait for things to happen. Eventually I did get a date to Prom, and have since had many dates and several meaningful (and some, not-so-much) relationships--I've even loved and been loved. And I can say that your influence has--for the most part--kept me strong and on the path to finding a lasting and loving relationship where I'm able to ask for and get what I want and need.

Thanks for loving dad. The example you've set for me is the picture of that lasting and loving relationship I want. I promise you I won't settle for less.

Thanks for always answering the phone and for being there when I need you. Whether it's the flu, a broken heart, leaving a career, buying a house, or the day of the month when I have the blahs and don't think I'm ever going to shake them, I know you're always there, even when there is a thousand miles away.

Thanks for not being one of those moms who ingratiates herself to her teenage daughter. You always held me accountable and you always were mom first. I respected your authority and never wanted to do wrong by you. You didn't give us any inches, and in turn we didn't try to take any. I see so many mothers trying to be their daughter's friends when what the daughter really needs is a strong role model. Because you were always mom first, it helped me establish my morals and values in a responsible way. And now, our adult relationship is better because of it. You are both mom and friend.

Thanks for teaching me to read and allowing the nerd in me to flourish.

Thanks for everything you've done, everything you're doing, and everything you've yet to do. You have had such an impact on my life. I continue to live everyday striving to make you proud and hoping that one day I'll have the chance to be the mother you were for me.

Love,
Katie-Kathleen