March 16, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Beer makes everything better.

I left work today with a headache that started shortly after lunch. And then I decided to pick up my new wireless router and set that up tonight. Because, of course, implementing new technology is guaranteed to be a relaxing, stress-free experience. After that, I had taxes to finish. Then I thought maybe I’d juggle knives or something.

On the drive home, dreading what the evening held in store, and trying to come up with an idea for dinner, I passed a Budweiser Select billboard and realized, I have beer in the fridge! Dinner? Solved. Headache? Gone. The wireless router? Took less than an hour to install, put the security settings at some crazy high level, discover those security settings weren’t going to happen, re-install, set the security level at a much more reasonable level, and now I’m writing from the couch. Not bad. Sometimes, I impress even myself. I love technology. When it works. (Also, someone please take the beer away if you ever witness me drinking a Budweiser product. Ugh.)

The taxes? Well, those can wait one more day. Or thirty. But I did get introduced to “the girls” of America’s Next Top Model, cycle 6. And at this point, I don’t want any of them to win. Miss Tyra, your crown is safe…for now. (Christal, I hold you personally responsible for the fact that I even know this vacuous piece of, uh, entertainment? exists. And Kelly, I really didn’t need to know what channel it’s on. On what day. At what time. But thanks to you, I do. So instead of watching an afternoon of ANTM re-runs on VH1, I now have the pleasure of following it. Week. By. Week.)

And now, in my alcohol-induced state of relaxation, I’m headed to bed.

March 15, 2006 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Is She Still Talking?

True fact: March is Caffeine Awareness Month. It’s also Women’s History Month. Coincidence? I think not.

Also, let’s not forget the best March has to offer: the NCAA Tourney.

I received an e-mail inviting me to “Describe [the sender] in one word - just one.” This is your assigmenent for today: describe me in just one word. Please avoid the obvious ones like “genius” or “hilarious” or “bipolar depressive who suffers from narcissistic personality disorder.” I want to see some creativity!

Now I have three words for you: TOO MUCH WORK. And if you don’t believe me, let me call your attention to the fact that I covered the topics of Women’s History Month and March Madness in one sentence apiece. I mean, really, does that sound like me?

March 12, 2006 | Filed under: I'm a Dork, Is She Still Talking?, The Fam

Yep, I’m sick. Which is bad for me, but good for you, as this means my body is forcing me to take a break from my typical run-from-one-end-of-the-day-to-the-other lifestyle and giving me more time to write. For example, yesterday instead of volunteering with the Junior League, spending the afternoon with a friend, going to a fundraiser dinner with another friend, and then going out for a going-away party, I did my volunteer thing with the Junior League, had lunch with two friends, stopped by to see a third, attempted to take a nap, ran errands, and stayed up past midnight writing this. See? Considerably less activity.

The getting sick was inevitable, as last week consisted of twelve hours on an airplane, twelve hours sleeping (total), and twelve hours drinking (nightly). You’d really think that a blood-alcohol content of 1.8 would kill any little germs floating in my bloodstream, but apparently not.

This illness is but a minor inconvenience. I routinely sound like a retired coal miner; the attempted nap was ruined by all the coughing; and the mucus is making a decided move northward from my lungs to my sinuses, about which I am not very excited; but, all in all, this is nothing. (See Meningitis.) Rather, you know it’s bad when I’m curled up in the fetal position, on the verge of tears, and about ready to wail, “I want my mommy!”

The funny thing is, when I’m sick, I really don’t want my mommy. In fact, the mere thought of it makes me even more likely to cry. I spent many, many days home from school as a child. None of them was particularly pleasant, and they certainly weren’t bonding times, à la Cokie Roberts. Mom functioned quite well as a sicknurse, with much more focus on the symptoms and treatment than on the patient’s well-being. She would drop off a cup of water, with instructions to finish it within the hour. I’d fall asleep. Ninety minutes later, and five minutes after I’d woken up, she’d bring me another drink and scold me for not having finished the last one. But I was asleep the whole time; when would I have drunk it?!?!? Didn’t matter. So, I would chug the water, hand the cup over, and dread her return visit.

Also, I was not a good one for taking medicine. Children’s Chewable Tylenol? I probably threw up more tablets than ever made it into my system. I have distinct memories of gagging up Tylenol into a kitchen towel. Repeatedly. And then being reprimanded for it. Right, of course, because I am choosing to puke up the only thing that could possibly make me feel better and yelling at me is going to somehow tame this damn gag reflex.

And of course I couldn’t swallow the adult Tylenol whole. So we alternated between the crushed-adult-Tylenol-poorly-hidden-in-applesauce method and the let’s-see-how-many-tries-it-takes-to-keep-the-Children’s-Tylenol-down method. There were a couple of years there where I couldn’t eat applesauce without it having a phantom bitter taste of ground up Tylenol.

As a seven-year old, I promised myself I would be nicer to my sick children. It’s not Mom’s fault, really. It’s just that our family is not known for its nurturing. That gene doesn’t exist in the Irish Catholic female. Or it’s not expressed. (Perhaps if I marry a Jew, my kids will have a fighting chance.) Mom did far better than her mother, whose response to a request to stay home sick from school would have been something like “Are you dead? Fine, stay home, but you’re taking care of the rest of the kids while you’re here. And cook something for dinner, ok?”

By comparison, the one-cup-of-liquids-per-hour rule was compassionate. (Other Rules for Being Sick included Do Not Wake Me in the Middle of the Night unless You’re Bleeding from a Severed Artery and If You’re Going to Puke, Do Not Attempt to Make It to the Bathroom; Stay in Bed to Hurl. I promise you that last one is a good one, as it is far easier to throw sheets into the washing machine than it is to clean the carpet in the hallway at the entrance to the bathroom door.) Still, being sick did not involve homemade chicken noodle soup, or anyone sitting in bed reading to me, and certainly there were no backrubs/hair-stroking/other gestures of soothing. Which, after all, is what all the TV moms did, and it worked like a charm!

I’m sure my mother never knew I felt vaguely neglected. Asking for comfort (or help) is not something I did often. (Still don’t.) But that doesn’t mean it’s unwelcome. And my experience has prompted me to dote on other people when they’re sick, even if they would never ask for the help or comfort and are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. I don’t know what’s more surprising – that I appreciate the doting of others, or me doing the doting.

Example: a few weeks after we broke up, Nick mentioned that he’d been sick for a couple days, generally feeling crappy, and didn’t know what he was doing for dinner. On my way out for the evening, I took him homemade chicken noodle soup (conveniently prepared earlier that day, not knowing how useful it was to become) and fresh bread from the bakery. And the fact that he was going to experience my doting loveliness and cleavage-showcasing shirt and rue the day he broke up with me? A distant second to my primary motivation of being nice to a sick person.

I’d taken Liz the same homemade chicken noodle soup under similar circumstances. (Only, you know, without the cleavage-showcasing shirt.) And when she had her wisdom teeth removed, I met her for lunch, escorted her to the dentist, filled her pain meds prescription while the doc yanked some teeth out, and then drove her home. Yes, of course she could have done this all by herself, but isn’t it nicer when someone else does it for you? I would pay someone good money if I never had to set foot in a pharmacy again. And DC cabs are annoying enough when you’re drunk and headed home late on Saturday night. I can’t imagine I’d want to deal with one immediately after leaving the dentist. Ick.

But I digress; this is supposed to be about me being sick, isn’t it? Right. So, who’s going to watch Project Runway reruns with me and bring me juice and rub my back while I cough up gobs of phlegm? There could be chicken noodle soup in the offing…

March 10, 2006 | Filed under: I Run Therefore I Am, It's Called "Having a Life." You Should Try It., People I Like Even More Than My Job, The California Adventure

I’ve actually written the Official Ski Trip recap! And it only took three weeks!

So, for starters, let me state the obvious: I did not meet my death on the side of a mountain. And for that we should all be grateful.

We spent two days at Sierra at Tahoe, on the southwest side of Lake Tahoe.

Day 1 started out lovely. The weather was beautiful, the ski hill wasn’t too crowded, we got there right around opening and headed off to our much-needed lesson. (Or my much-needed lesson. I won’t speak for Danielle here; she’s much more accomplished than me.)

It started snowing five minutes after the lesson ended, and kept up the rest of the day. This meant everything on the mountain was quiet and beautiful and scenic. And, best of all, fresh powder every time down the mountain!!! (My god, I sound like an actual skier.)

By the end of the day, we were exhausted. (No, Bode Miller, you aren’t the only one who thinks beer goes well with skiing.)

The drive back was relatively uneventful, after we cleaned six inches of snow off the car and installed the highly sought-after (and now required by the California Highway Patrol) chains.

(Look at me putting chains on the tires! Yes, this is exactly how the guy showed me to put them on, I swear!)

Before leaving the parking lot, I did a quick brake-check, just to make sure the car would respond how I expected it to. The numerous Wisconsin winters I suffered through taught me something useful!

So, we hit the road, and slowly made our way home. It was snowing, chains were required, and our maximum speed was about 35 mph. I was a little wary about this whole chain thing, so Danielle and I were vigilant about noting any change in the feel of the car, any funny noises coming from the tires, etc. We drove through the mountain pass at Echo Summit and got back to the house. Where I promptly discovered there were no chains on my tires. Let me repeat that: there were no chains on my tires. The whole drive there were no changes in the sound or feel of the tires, which means that the chains were probably left behind in the parking lot, right at the spot where I did the brake check. (This would also be one of those Things We Are Not Telling My Mother. And we are especially not telling my father, who would know exactly how dangerous a proposition driving over a mountain in the snow without chains is, and from whom I would get quite a stern lecture and then be grounded.)

But I do have to say, Yay, Adele! What a good car you are! I drove my little four-cylinder Corolla 7382 vertical feet, over a mountain, through the snow, without chains! (Also, Liz, I’m still upset that you named my car. I mean, really, who names someone else’s car??? Yes, theoretically I could have renamed her, but Adele just stuck. Damn you.)

Once home, I started calling around in search of chains for the car. You know, because it was just so much fun the first time. Luckily it only took waiting on hold for ten minutes, having Mario tell me he’d call me back, and then getting that call an hour later and four blocks away from the auto parts store for me to track them down. But, Mario hooked us up with chains, tensioners (designed to help the chains stay on the tires. What a concept.) and even some de-icer. [Confidential to those in Sacramento County: Contraband de-icer. Mint condition. $10 or best offer. Will deliver for a fee.]

At the end of the night, Danielle and I again put chains on the car. This time, though, they worked! And, judging by the sound the chains make between the tire and road…yeah, the chains hadn’t been on at all that afternoon.

We did other fun things with Adele, such as replacing the windshield wipers and discovering a crack in the windshield so ginormous that the whole thing will have to be replaced.

Me: Stupid motherfucker, there’s a crack in my windshield. Gah!
Danielle: Eh, these things happen.
Me: No, but look at it! It’s huge! These things aren’t supposed to happen! It’s a half-inch thick tempered glass windshield, not a $5 wine glass!
Danielle: No, really, it’s fine. When you get home, you’ll call someone and have your windshield replaced.
Me: But I don’t want to replace my windshield! *Sob.* And I’m busy Monday. I don’t have time for this crap.
Danielle: You don’t have to take care of it this week, just, you know, sometime.

(Can you guess which of us is the laid back one?)

Day 2 was less exciting, on the vehicle front. The skiing was about the same: exhausting. We opted for a different run Saturday, so we took the chair lift to the top of Huckleberry Mountain, elevation 8852 feet, and skied down the longest run, 2.5 miles. (I knew it was long, but, my god, two and a half miles?!?! I was surprised to discover this fact on the trail map. Today.)

Here’s me and Danielle at the summit. (Holy crap, I’m on the top of an 8800 foot mountain!)

Clearly Danielle is the better photographer of the two of us. I feel bad, because she set up this beautiful shot and all I had to do was keep my fingers out of the way and push the button. Ahem. I was so careful to keep the camera steady and keep my fingers out of the way of the view window thing, but apparently failed to keep them clear of the lens. Oops.

An action shot, courtesy of Danielle. No really, I’m moving! Yes, it’s at a glacial pace, but still…skiing!

Despite this overwhelming success, there are still a number of things about skiing that scare the crap out of me. Namely:

• getting on the chair lift
• riding the chair lift
• getting off the chair lift
• anyone skiing/snowboarding within twenty feet of me
• anyone skiing/snowboarding at a speed more than twice mine
• anyone skiing/snowboarding under the age of twelve
• travelling downhill faster than I could walk it
• the prospect of going down a run I’ve never attempted before
• places where my very easy trail crosses someone else’s not-so-easy trail
• the thought of accidentally ending up on a run for which I am entirely unqualified. You know, like anything not labeled “E-Z way down.”

So, yeah, pretty much everything.

But now that I know I won’t die in my attempt at skiing, I’ll go more often…maybe even graduating to the more challenging green runs!

March 7, 2006 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

I’m back. DC, fun. Work, crazy. As in, CA-RA-ZY. Hence my brain is thinking in two-word sentences because that’s all I really have time for but I had to post something lest you (1) think I’m dead; (2) hate me for not updating, like, ever, jeez; (3) are tired of being depressed out of your mind reading that last post. Cuz yes, I would be, too, if I read that one on a daily basis. Luckily, I don’t.

Anyway, entertain yourself with the archives while I try to pull myself out of the ever-deepening swamp that is my workload. Sorry, kids, you’re not my top priority. But don’t worry, I feel plenty of guilt about not posting. I’m Catholic, we’re good at that.

Also, if anyone knows a good way to add four hours to my day, will you please share your secret time machine with me? Please?