Groundhog Day

New Year's resolutions are like Groundhog Day.  Not the actual day, February 2, but the movie with Bill Murray where he wakes up in the same small town and goes through the same routine, day after day after day.  In regard to "resolutions", it seems that every year is the same.  The week post-Christmas is spent in shaky sugar detox (or shaky sugar can't-let-it-go-to-waste intake, depending on how many sweets are left over from dinners, parties and Martha Stewart-style overzealous baking), and at some point (usually while stuffing your mouth) a resolve is formed to Get Serious. You say to yourself:  "Self - it's time to get a move on.  We are going to lose this holiday weight!  We are going to Be Healthy in [insert upcoming here year].  We are going to Be Motivated!  This is going to be a great year!  I can't wait to get started."

And then you look at the calendar and realize you've just declared this unshakable resolve less than 48 hours before New Year's Eve.

"What's 2 more days?" you ask yourself.  "I mean really," you rationalize, "how much more weight can I gain in 2 days?  May as well just start the diet on the first."

There!  And with that settled, you order Mexican food and a couple margaritas (really, it's still vacation, and who isn't allowed to indulge during the holidays?!) and start making plans for New Year's Eve.

Then NYE comes in a blur of reveling and merriment and too much wine/champagne/beer and you drunkenly shout "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" with your best friends in the world at midnight and slosh your champagne and get confetti in your hair and hug everyone and stumble home and fall asleep (read:  pass out) in a drunken stupor.

And you wake up in the new year, bleary-eyed and muzzy-headed and go straight for the coffee (with half &; half, because you need something to cut the acidity from your wasted intestines) and eggs with bacon, and maybe even a Bloody Mary with a friend (because there's a period from 10 PM to 12:30 AM that you're not entirely sure about that bears discussion, especially as you've discovered some guy's number in your pocket but no recollection of how it got there - or the guy) and spend the rest of the day off lounging in your pajamas watching Law & Order re-runs and trying not to vomit.

When the hangover's gone (1 to 3 days, depending on your age) you remember that steadfast resolve you declared pre-NYE and bust out those like-new running shoes from the previous year and a mishmash of exercise apparel that mostly fits and hit the gym, only to discover you have to spend 30 minutes sitting down, quietly reading a magazine, as all the cardio machines are taken by like-minded Determined Would-Be Athletes.  And when you finally get on the elliptical you realize you can actually only make it 20 minutes instead of 30 and you're drenched with sweat and you leave heaving but slightly elated because you made it.

This continues for a few days until you have a terrible day at work and when you get home one glass of wine turns into three, and you're feeling too sluggish to make it to the gym.  After that you have a happy hour, and then a late night at the office, and someone's bridal shower, and a bad day, and another happy hour, day after day after day until it's been 3 months since you've been to the gym and your resolve is all but gone as it's not the "new year" anymore.  

Fast forward 8 months and it's those goddamn holidays again - the baked goods, the cocktails, the late nights and waaaaaay too much family time (which, inevitably, leads to more cocktails) and suddenly you're reflecting on the past year and resolving to Make Next Year Different - again.

So maybe it's not all that bad.  I've accomplished some things over the years, but rarely have I stuck to my "resolutions" (which, traditionally, I make on my birthday anyway).  But we should be striving for lifestyle changes, not just yearly resolutions.  So this year I'm breaking tradition and starting a little early, and projecting my intention to decide what I want my life to look like, and just...do it.  Do the things that need to be done to get me there.  It might not be what I want right away, but it'll get there eventually, if I'm committed to it.

At the end of the day, isn't that the best we can do?

Girls Getting Married

I am almost thirty*.  I've spent a good amount of time this past year being horrified by that realization, a greater amount of time trying to convince myself it doesn't matter and the remainder of my time doing normal things like eating and breathing or going out with friends and doing our (read:  my) best to avoid the subject of impending disaster.

(*Note:  By "almost thirty" I mean 1 year and 2 months, or 440 days, or 10,575 hours.  Not that I'm counting.)

And as I am almost thirty, I have officially reached "that stage" of life where everyone around me appears to be coupled up, or worse yet...Getting Married.

Duh duh DUHHHHHHHHH!!!

It's true.  Alarming, but true.  It's sort of like an epidemic, or an alien drug. You know that scene in 'Signs' where the alien's fingertip opens up and a stream of poison comes out and it threatens to kill the little boy?  I imagine the Marry Fairy has something like that up her sleeve, only she specifically targets the boyfriends of marriage-ready females ages 24 - 29 with a can of whoop-ass disguised as beer that when opened emits a tiny Jack Bauer who grows to human size, locks said non-committal male into a half-Nelson and threatens to use his nuts as a practice bag for Chuck Liddell until he buys the ring and pops the question.  It's quite a vision, ain't it?  Not so unrealistic, though.  Jack Bauer is everywhere.  So is the Marry Fairy, evidently.  

The point is (despite the creative '24' storyline, which I may or may not expand upon and submit to Fox) that someway, somehow, these women are getting these guys to not only stick around not just for a couple years but until the end of time.  Or, you know, death.  Depending on what you believe.  And while I of course think all my girlfriends are lovely and amazing (uh, hel-LO, they wouldn't be my friends otherwise) I still think it's quite a feat to knock these formerly bar-hopping, torn-tee shirt-wearing, honey-I-can't-do-the-dishes-it's-game-day!-whining men into marital submission.  Funny thing is that I don't even really want to be married all that badly.  Or not at the moment, anyway, as there are no prospects, not even fixer-upper he'd-be-so-great-if-I-could-just-get-him-to-wax-his-back-and-move-out-of-his-mother's-house prospects.  Yikes.  It's a sad state of affairs, ladies.  No, it's just that I can't figure out how everyone else has done it.

And my friends have no answers.  They "just fell in love".  They "just knew".  They're so happy now, they "can't remember what it was like without each other".  Thankfully, though, my getting-married friends, in all their sage engaged state of mind, have plenty to share about their single life, getting married and all the things they can't wait to leave behind:

"That club was so awful; I can't believe single girls would ever try to pick up guys there.  Good thing I don't have to do that anymore now that I'm getting married!"

Uh, hel-LO?  I still have to pick up guys in places like that since I'm not getting married!  I'm not in a position to be quite so choosy, okay?  And I remember the time you did pick up that guy in a place like that and then we all had to talk about it for 3 months after he broke up with you because at the time you were convinced he was The One.  Yeah, take that, Miss High & Mighty.

"Last year I was pissed at my fiance so I made out with a bunch of boys at this party.  Ooooh, there's Dave, he was here last year!  He's cute!  C'mon, let me introduce you."

I'll pass on your sloppy drunk-revenge leftovers, thanks.  

"I don't know how he puts up with me, but he does!  I'm so lucky!"

Me either.  Does he have brothers?  Because I also have a bunch of emotional baggage and bad behaviors I wouldn't mind someone putting up with.  Oh, did I say that out loud?  I totally wasn't talking about you...

"I totally don't want to be one of those girls who's all 'wedding wedding wedding' and never asks about you, I want to know what's going on with YOU!  Tell me everything!  Oh, by the way, did I tell you I picked chartreuse instead of lime green? I mean I was thinking about it the other night and realized that Sarah doesn't have the right skin color for lime green and Emily's pregnant so she's going to look green anyway, hahahaha and we are going to have foliage around the alter and I don't want the bridesmaid's dresses to clash so chartreuse will be a better color, right, like halfway in between, don't you think? And OH I finally found the cutest little white chocolate favors..."
In my head, to the tune of "Baby Elephant Walk":  Dum, dah dum dah dum dum dum dum dah dah.  Duuuuuum dah dum dah dum dum dum dum dummmmmm...

And the mack-daddy of all Girls Getting Married pearls of wisdom...

"Don't you worry...what I have is out there for you, too.  We'll find you a guy next!"

"Pet project" isn't in my title as bridesmaid.

I'm aware that this kind of conversation is born of blissful happiness, a one-track focus on that long walk to the altar and a woman's desire to make everyone around her equally as excited about her wedding as she is while maintaining all the attention on herself.  Females are crafty like that.  Or perhaps my friends are cognizant of their literal state of union and my state of singularity and don't want me to feel left out.

Or there's the other, hush-hush possibility that seemingly blissful brides never want to voice aloud:  that as disjointed as I feel as a single in this stage of life, perhaps my almost-married friends feel equally disjointed about the stage of life they're leaving behind, and just need someone to go along with them to commiserate and hold their hands as they walk step by step into marriage.

And, that, Girls Getting Married, is something I'll gladly do for you.  Provided you don't pull me over to your single cousin Jimmy with the toupe and pit stains at your wedding for a slow dance. And I guess even then, I'd probably dance with him anyway, because I know it's all about you right now, so if it makes you happy I'll wear your lavender drop-waist dress with bows at the hem and stacked-heel square-toe Barney shoes and smile brilliantly for pictures on your big day.

And one of these days, when you're able to lift your head out of its bridal fog and you remember what it was like to be single like me?  Tell me.  Talk with me.  Not in a condescending, thank-God-I'm-so-far-past-that kind of way, but in the sharing, I've-sooooo-been there, I-hear-ya-sista, Oh-God-remember-that-awful-guy-I-dated-from-that-one-night-at-the-club?! kind of way.  Because at the end of the day, all throughout our friendship, we're gonna need to stick together in whatever stages we're in.

If not, I'll open a can of whoop-ass on you. And remember, when you open a can of whoop-ass, Jack Bauer jumps out.

Me and DC

I have a looooong history of hare-brained ideas.  I traditionally like to think of myself as an individual with a creative personality, but I imagine that oftentimes the words "odd" or "interesting" cross other people's lips when speaking about me (assuming that anyone speaks about me at all - which I'm sure they do, given some of my more unique propositions over the years).  I'm learning to embrace it, as it's evident that many of these personality quirks are genetic.  For example, my mother uses bungee cords to fix things - in the house - with some regularity.  When I attempted to use double-sided tape to adhere my lamp cord to the ceiling the other day, I realized there was no escape from the inevitable and that eventually I will become my mother.    Which isn't a bad thing, except that there are incidents in my family history involving my mother and a variety of unrelated items, such as lighter fluid, rebellious weed-whackers, duct taped electronics and the infamous patio chair on Highway 9 episode.

I digress.

Fortunately, my latest hare-brained idea has nothing to do with home improvement or electronics, but has everything to do with health and wellness.  Given the history of some of my other ideas (paper chains, dressing as a jester as a way to increase sales at a lemonade stand, playing the accordion), this one feels mild in comparison.  I am attempting to give up Diet Coke for one month.

Just writing those words makes me want to run to the local store, bowling over anyone and everyone in my path except the sweet, blessed grocery checker who will take my money and hand over an ice-cold six pack of aspartame-filled carbonated goodness.  I've had a long affair with Diet Coke (affectionately called DC), which I'd like to blame on my brother and his wife but I think began much earlier.  It all started in high school with girls' nights at my house, giggling over boys and band with Starburst, pizza and a graveyard of guzzled DCs surrounding our sleeping bags.  I used to drink Diet Coke on the way to school in the morning in lieu of coffee, which carried over into college and then to my brother's house in the transition year between Loyola Marymount and Arizona State.  I'll never forget what he said when I first moved in:  "We only have three rules here:  No boys overnight; take out the trash; and never, EVER take the last Diet Coke."  That may have been the only time I had any willpower with regard to DC, because I was much more afraid of invoking my brother's wrath than of my caffeine withdrawal.

And now, over 10 years later, I'm still addicted to Diet Coke - only I've added coffee in the mornings, too, so that every day is a veritable tidal wave of caffeine intake, with a high crest during the day and a short, hard crash at night.  I get headaches from the withdrawals and feel bloated when I have too much to drink (that's not specific to Diet Coke, but that is what I'm referring to here) and find that I am less able to manage my food intake when a DC accompanies my meal.  I crave DC the way I'd imagine a smoker craves a cigarette, and at the end of the day the health concerns aren't much different.  So, it's time to let go of my old friend DC.  I think this latest effort - to give up Diet Coke for a month - may end up falling into the category of one of my worst-ever hare-brained ideas, because I'm really not sure I can do it.  I'm already cranky just thinking about it, which is ridiculous, because I just had my "last" Diet Coke this afternoon.  But I want to give my body a chance to get through the day without the addition of this particular vice.  I want to be able to drink my 8 glasses of clear, sweet H2O per day without being so full from my 2 or 4 DCs that I can't possibly get another drop in.  I'm going to try to cut back on coffee, too, in favor of green tea (decaf, even!), which is realllly pushing the envelope on this latest venture, but I think will be a good focus to have on my shuddery, jittery, gotta-have-it-now-OMG-I-can't-believe-I-ever-had-this-stupid-idea days.   

So here I go - wish me luck!  I'm off to bed, feeling excited about a "clean drinking" day tomorrow.  Sweet carbonated dreams...

The Value of the Dollar (And Other Bourgeois Problems)

"Economy" has become a 4-letter word this past year.  Since December 2008, when it was announced by the National Bureau of Economic Research that the United States was in a recession (and, in actuality, had been since 2007), the media coverage of our nation's reaction to the recession has been that American families have scrimped, fretted, used up savings and run up credit in every effort to stay afloat in the standard of American living to which they've become accustomed.  In some cases, families have scrimped, fretted, used up savings and run up credit only to have the big bad wolf huff and puff and deliver a foreclosure notice - sinking their American dream in pile of debt and offering instead a substandard lifestyle they never thought they'd experience.  As we approach December 2009 with cautiously positive retail forecasts for the holiday season and a rough, life-changing year behind us, I think it's fair to say that the trials and anxiety our nation's citizens have experienced in this Great Recession have been legitimate, often uncontrollable products of national circumstance and the ever-influential economy.

Mostly.

However, what I've seen as a hospitality professional over the past year has been the rise of what I've begun to call the "bourgeois problem".  As a result of the travel industry's ungainly nosedive into the red since 2008, hotels, airlines and all other travel providers have reduced their rates and fares to low levels that never would have been considered prior to the recession in an effort to bring their revenues back into the black.  While some Americans haven't even been able to consider travel because they struggle just to provide for their families, others have capitalized on the opportunity to experience luxury hotels at amazing discounted rates, exotic vacation destinations and inexpensive domestic air travel.  Most of these opportunists with a little bit of disposable income are members of the American bourgeoisie, whose interests are determined by the common materialistic "standard" and whose expectations about the value of their limited and hard-earned money determine how they spend their disposable income.  We in the hospitality industry should all be thanking these savvy opportunists for staying in our hotels and renting our cars and continuing to provide us with our jobs, right?

Well, to all the bourgeoisie:  Thanks.

But truth be told, the "bourgeois problem" is that the public - the bourgeois public - has an alarming amount of power over the businesses of this country at the moment.  Individuals whose self-described standard of excellence in travel prior to the recession included discount fares on Southwest airlines and hotel stays in airport Red Roof Inns are now able to afford first class upgrades and weekend getaways to luxury properties - and they know it.  Organizations' "target" demographic has changed dramatically in the past year, and in many cases the exposure to a whole new type of traveler - the one who previously felt a luxury hotel or family cruise was out of his or her vacation budget - has been a wonderful boon for the industry, as hopefully we're creating relationships that will continue long after the nation begins to feel economic recovery.  No, the bourgeois problem lies in the expectation level of the consumer; the attitude that retailers, hospitality professionals and service providers must work harder, offer more excellence, and in many cases, give things away - because if we don't, the potential guest or customer will simply go elsewhere and find someone who will.  Scary.  The bourgeois motto is not only "What have you done for me lately?" but also "What else will you do?"

As a hotel manager, I am asked every day by guests to give them things.  Champagne, because it's their anniversary.  Further reduced rates, because our 3-star hotel neighbor is offering less.  Free breakfast, because of course it's available at the Embassy Suites.  I understand that it's smart - particularly in this economy - to compare one's options to receive the best value.  But in many cases, I would like to retort with, "Why?"  Our rooms certainly do not have less value simply because we have reduced their nightly rates.  We haven't hired unqualified staff to provide less excellent service just because we're in a recession.  And, "free" amenities such as champagne and breakfast have a cost to the hotel.  But the expectation from the bourgeoisie seems to be that the perceived value of their dollar - to them - should dictate what organizations provide.

Let me be clear that I do not exempt myself from the bourgeois group.  I've found myself breaking die-hard allegiances to Alaska Airlines and Bank of America over the last year in favor of lower fares and sexier interest rates elsewhere - without even a backward glance.  While I make an effort not to capitalize on "the recession" as a way of getting freebies (I think our nation is better served if businesses thrive than if I get free stuff that contributes to a company's slow spiral out of business), I have found myself asking for reduced rates, lower payments or extended deadlines to accommodate my own financial concerns.  But I look around and realize that I'm asking for these things from the comfort of my expensive (albeit small) apartment, where I'm wearing warm (and some designer) clothes, talking on a cell phone that I've chosen to pay upwards of $150 a month for to have all the bells and whistles on and affording it all by going to a job every day where I get paid to do (mostly) tasks I really enjoy in the company of excellent professionals.

All of the above is why I call this phenomenon the "bourgeois problem".  Because the people who can't afford to travel don't.  And the people who have next nothing - who are truly lacking in food, shelter, safety and basic living needs - are struggling enough with those daily challenges that they're not asking for more, but just to be taken care of.  And the rest of us?  Well, we're asking the businesses and organizations of this country to provide us with more when we feel that we have less, so we can continue to carry on in our rightful pre-recession standard of living.  We the bourgeoisie choose the problem of perceived financial instability, and propagate it for ourselves - whether we realize it or not.

I've given a larger portion than usual of my disposable income this month to philanthropy, which means I'm choosing not to travel to San Francisco next weekend for a family gathering.  But, who knows?  Maybe fares will go down at the last minute, and Virgin America will offer a complimentary beverage and a first class upgrade.  If so, I'll probably jump on the flight, with a bunch of other savvy travelers - just me and the bourgeoisie.

Their, There, They're

Facebook is a fascinating social phenomenon. Facebook allows us to all be connected in a very public forum, even with those whom we are only connected peripherally in "real life". On Facebook, it's okay to be connected to your brother-in-law's babysitter, or your housekeeper with whom your major "real life" interaction is a transfer of money (usually left on the counter) and very little - if any - personal conversation. Interesting where the boundaries of privacy become blurred when it comes to "real life" versus Facebook: you let your housekeeper into your house to clean your most intimate spaces, yet when your housekeeper's online status updates include the details of his or her family's vomit-filled weekend due to the flu or their depressingly public "poor me and my sad life" personal statements, (see The 12 Most Annoying Types of Facebookers) it all becomes more to handle than you'd like for a relationship with the person who cleans your toilets and invokes an unthinkable action in Facebookland: defriending. Which is okay, because really? Are you friends with your housekeeper? If so...well, then your next cleaning may be slightly more awkward, assuming that your housekeeper is online often enough (and stalking you online often enough) to know that you defriended him or her. In which case you should probably seek out a new housekeeper anyway.

Facebook also connects us - however peripherally - with those we'd really rather not be connected to. For example, an ex's new girlfriend. And while mild curiousity makes a quick sneak peek at said new girlfriend's online profile appealing, it can also be so very detrimental to one's self esteem. Now in "real life," when an ex obtains a new significant other, there is always the possibility that you - as the other half of the disbanded pair - will have to eventually meet the New Girl. And as luck - or lack thereof - will have it, you are likely to run into this happy couple when you have just exited the gym, after a particularly bad day at work, when it's that time of the month and also raining. And being the happy couple that they are, they're likely to be on their way out to dinner, dressed to the nines and looking fresh as though it was a balmy 72 degrees, because he'll be holding an umbrella over her head while gazing at her adoringly. This is likely to happen at some point, but hopefully - unless you are traveling in the same circle of friends - not with any regularity.

Unless you are on Facebook.

Because on Facebook, you have to decide - after the mutual (or one-sided) parting of your "real life" union - whether to remain friends online or end your Facebook relationship in addition to your "real" relationship. And even if you decide to end your online union by mutual defriending, you may still - due to individual privacy setting options available to Facebook users - end up seeing your ex's new girlfriend anyway. Even if you've decided that you want nothing to do with your ex - ever - you may find that between your group of 226 friends and his group of 447 friends online, somewhere down the road your friend paths will cross and in your goddamn mini feed will end up a tagged photo of your ex-boyfriend and the New Girl, looking fabulous of course - because naturally, only people's best photos are posted on the internet.

Lately, Facebook has been making me feel pretty good. I've been consistently validated by my friends and family for my "funny" status updates and dry sense of humor, which are probably the highest compliments I could receive, given that writing gives me a tremendous amount of joy and I've discovered that I'm much funnier online than in person (unless in the company of my dad and brothers, who somehow make me funny verbally by proxy).

However, every now and again I find that Facebook brings me down as unexpectedly as if I'd just seen my ex and his New Girl on the street right in front of my apartment, as their photos and comments and stories show up - through mutual friends - in my minifeed in such a way that I can't escape them and their irritating happiness.

Case in point: I commented on a photo in a friend's photo album. And he just so happens to be a friend that I met through an "ex" and who has continued to be a friend - long after the other shaky union dissolved - because he's just a nice guy, and frankly as peripherally as I know him, I know him a lot better than some of my other "friends" on Facebook so I'm unwilling to defriend him. Did that make sense? Anyway. Because I commented on his photo, other photo comments began to crop up on my notifications via Facebook, several of which were from my ex and his New Girl, who are both friends with my friend. And so I had to see the New Girl. And it was upsetting, because she's beautiful. And trendy. And frankly exactly the kind of girl I've always suspected my ex actually wanted to be with (instead of yours truly). And her profile picture includes my ex (as his includes her) - that kind of smiling, "aren't I soooo lucky?!" profile pic that's a knife to the heart of every jilted girl. And this is precisely the irritating, smug happiness I have been trying so hard to avoid. However, upon closer inspection of her Facebook comment on my friend's photo, I noticed something. Something that made me snicker. And then chuckle. And then feel smugly superior to the point where I now realize why my ex and the New Girl are so perfect for each other:

She wrote the word "there" when what she clearly meant to say was "they're" - which is exactly the kind of literary mistake my ex so often makes. Neither of them can write, and that's just perfect.

So I'm feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw this evening, a la "Attack of the 5' 10" Woman" episode - because I've discovered that despite New Girl's beauty, she's simply not as smart as me. Okay, that's harsh. Perhaps she's very intelligent, and simply lacks a dedication to grammar, punctuation and accurate spelling. But you know what? Those things are important to me. And just as Carrie discovered that Natasha didn't know the difference between "your" and "you're," I'm discovering that New Girl doesn't know the difference between "their," they're" and "their". Which doesn't "matter," per se, certainly not when it comes to love in the long run - but it makes me think about my talents and qualities, and what I bring to the table in a relationship, and that despite New Girl's beauty (and evident charm, at least to my ex), she's not perfect. I may not be 5' 10" - but at the end of the day, I can spell.

So their.

Let Me Pee in Privacy, Please

Yes. I used the word "pee" in the header of a blog post.

But seriously? It's because sometimes I want to have this stamped on my forehead. Okay, not my forehead, because if it was, people would have to get awfully close to me to read it, and I think by the time they were that close it would already be a major invasion of privacy. So perhaps I should say that sometimes I want to yell this through stall doors when I am trying to have a personal moment. Because it seems that more often than not, my personal moments are interrupted by some dumbass woman who is blissfully unaware that not only is the bathroom stall she is trying to enter closed but also locked and attempts to barge through anyway.

And to me? That is a cardinal sin in the 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette.

I'm well aware that I'm more...how shall we say..."Type A" than the average individual. I get upset when people write "there" when they mean "their" or when they walk on the left side of the sidewalk instead of the right (c'mon - would you drive down the left side of the road? When you are not in London? No. So why would you walk on the left side and mess with the man-made order of things?). I am irritated with incorrect pronunciations of simple (and ubiquitous) brand names (really? Ambercrombie and Finch?) and people who wear too-small watches on too-chubby wrists (okay, this has almost nothing to do with a Type A personality, but it is an irrational annoyance that plagues me daily). But even so, with all these personality quirks, I don't think it's too much to ask of other women that I be allowed to pee in relative privacy.

Here follows Kelsey's 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette:
1. Thou shalt never barge into the bathroom without looking around first for other patrons and/or closed stall doors.
2. Thou shalt not choose the stall with the closed door.
3. Should there be no other option, thou shalt always elect to peek under closed doors to ensure no pair of heels, flip flops, Doc Martens (God forbid) or fabulous boots are present before entering.
4. Thou shalt always KNOCK before entering, should it be unclear on any level whether a woman is actually present in the stall.
5. Thou shalt never select the middle stall of a bank of three, thus leaving other potential patrons no other choice but to pee on either side of the middle (and now occupied) stall.
6. When available, thou shalt ALWAYS close the toilet seat lid before exiting the stall.
7. More importantly, thou shalt always FLUSH the toilet before exiting the stall.
8. However, thou shalt never use one's foot to flush the toilet.
9. Thou shalt never speak publicly (particularly to strangers) of anything that happens in the stall to other patrons.
10. As a matter of fact, thou shalt never speak to other patrons in a public restroom. Ever.

As you can imagine, with this list of detailed commandments, I am more sensitive to public restroom situations than probably anyone else. But the thing is, it's because I get walked in on more than anyone else. Even with all my precautions. Even when I choose the stall furthest from the bathroom door (as I'm convinced women - in a hurry - go for the nearest stall to them, which is when embarrassing moments tend to happen for less vigilant patrons than I), walk into the stall, lock the door, make a lot of noise, hang or set my purse on the door (in such a way that even if someone were to just barge in, the purse would create a modicum of resistance first, thus allowing me time to react appropriately), grab a wad of TP (thus reducing the amount of time in the stall with my pants down), do my business with a hand on the door (hopefully to keep anyone from barging in) and race to finish - even with all the time and effort spent attempting to prevent barge-ins...they happen anyway.

Case in point: my luxury hotel has a lovely public restroom that is available to our guests as well as our restaurant patrons. And considering our restaurant is one of the more popular dining spots in town, you can imagine our guest restroom gets a lot of action. As a manager in the hotel, I often elect to use this restroom to ensure that our housekeeping staff is keeping everything up to par. But this proves to be a risky move each and every time I need to use the restroom, as the frosted glass doors of the stalls are evidently very confusing to the general public. 9 times out of 10, rather than going for the open stall door nearest the door, they beeline for the ONLY CLOSED DOOR IN THE WHOLE RESTROOM, which often contains me as its occupant. Not only that, but upon attempting to open the door and finding it locked, they more often than not also continue to jiggle the handle, as though behind door #2 there will be a cash prize instead of an embarrassed - and actually, now furious - hotel manager. Why is this? The logic escapes me on every level.

And this happens to me in many other public places as well. I recently participated in the Race for the Cure, which (as you might imagine) had an overwhelming number of women entrants. Knowing this, the thoughtful staff of Qwest Field took it upon themselves to convert several men's restrooms to women's for this specific event. A good idea in theory, but one that proved illogical in the long run, as unsuspecting women went to get in the "women's" restroom line and found themselves waiting 20+ minutes to gain access to a bank of 7 stalls and 10 urinals (thankfully, unused by any waiting women). Even in this scenario, in which all stalls were visibly occupied and two full lines of women were waiting on either side for their turn, I found myself having a small heart attack when some intrepid woman came to my stall to see if it was available - somehow assuming that alllllll the other women in the line were simply standing around, rather than taking advantage of an open stall. Again, I was then - as I am now - completely bewildered by this logic (or lack thereof).

So I implore you, ladies, the next time you have to pee, take a moment and look around. If you see a closed door and an open one, go ahead and take the road less traveled and beeline for the open door. It's true that you never know what might be behind an open door...but at the very least, you already know there won't be another woman.

Dating Disaster #37 (Or, Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?)

I don't really date a lot. As a matter of fact, I haven't "dated" anyone (seriously or otherwise) in...well, a while. And it's not because I'm jaded about guys, or sad about ex-boyfriends, or super bitchy to new guys I meet. I'm pretty laid-back, down to earth, sometimes funny, kind of cute (I'm aware that's completely subjective), socially competent, professionally successful and willing to take new adventures (I'm also aware this is beginning to read like a personal ad, but bear with me here). The point is: there's no good reason for my lack of dating, other than I'm just really not focused on it right now. But when I meet a guy who interests me (and who's interested in return), I get kind of excited about the whole dating process: the first call, the exclamation of delight over shared interests, the silly embarrassments of a first dinner, the awkwardness of a first kiss and the anticipation of the next time you meet.

However, I'm only surmising all of this "first date" stuff from what I've seen in romantic comedies, because none of that ever happens to me.

It all began a few Fridays ago...

I went out for my fellow hotelier friend's birthday (let's call her..."Joy") to a local karaoke bar in Seattle. Couple of things about the evening should be noted:

1. I went out by myself. Yes, I was fine with this. I wasn't going to invite a friend (as my other friends don't know Joy, and anyway I'm comfortable-ish by myself) and as I'm not dating anyone, it was either go solo or stay home. So I figured I would go out, and the worst case scenario would be that I would've spent an hour getting ready only to come home again if I wasn't having fun...right? (Keep reading.)

2. I don't really "do" karaoke. I have a decent to above average singing voice, but I'm often not quite confident enough to feel good about my performance, particularly when followed by other, better singers/performers.

3. I had no intention of "meeting" anyone.

So. I arrived at the bar and was immediately "introduced" (read: Joy shouted at the group of 15+ at large, "Hey everyone, this is Kelsey, say hi!") whereupon people looked up, smiled (some) and mumbled a couple of names I promptly forgot. I settled myself down in the only available space and made new friends with the people around me, ordered a drink, and began to enjoy the raucous, silly madness of a karaoke- and booze-filled evening. A few Bud Lights in, I decided to put my name in the queue to sing one of my fave old school country songs, "Every Little Thing" by Carlene Carter (June's daughter). I waited with baited breath each time a name was called, and felt a little "oh shit" pang when mine was eventually called - but decided to go for it anyway.

The tiki-themed scene of the crime.

My "performance" started off slow because I was nervous (so my voice was shaking a little) and as I don't usually sing karaoke, I had the mic too far from my mouth so I think the first 16 or so measures were probably only heard by my immediate audience (thank god for Joy pointing that out and correcting me before people starting booing and throwing tomatoes. Or drinks.). I was embarrassed and tried to make the rest of the song fun, entertaining and upbeat...but I just don't think I ever got it back together. Upon the song's final measures, I was able to make my exit (mercifully) and was congratulated by the group for a song well sung (liars!). I accepted their praise semi-gracefully and made my way to the bar to hide my shame in another drink.

The rest of the evening passed quickly but began to deteriorate for me, as I watched guys that I had felt potential interest in turn their attention toward other women, and listened to confident karaokettes rock the house with their surprisingly powerful voices and crowd-pleasing song selections. I decided I'd spent enough time with the group to be socially acceptable for a birthday event and needed to jet before my mood really started to turn. Just as I had paid my tab and was getting ready to make my way home, I heard a voice next to me saying, "Going home already? I was hoping you would sing again." In surprise, I turned to meet "Marlon", a Hula Hula regular with a gravelly voice and infectious smile. I laughed (somewhat more derisively than intended) and as he introduced himself I felt a little connection, and decided perhaps I wasn't quite ready to call it a night. We exchanged pleasant, humorous conversation over a couple of cocktails the rest of the evening and generally had a rather delightful time.

Yadda yadda yadda, we decided to meet for breakfast the next morning at a great hangover-type bar in lower QA. Okay, so it wasn't exactly "first date" material. I mean, I didn't even shower from the night before (nor did he). But this felt okay, as it seemed like the kind of spontaneous situation that's better than primping for a "real" date, because it was so in-the-moment (and also, I was fresh as a daisy with a quick makeup touch-up). We were chatting pleasantly, if not deeply, and all in all it felt...comfortable.

A few mimosas into breakfast, we were both feeling a little tipsy (before you judge, remember: I'm single. And had nothing to do that Saturday.) and decided to hit another bar.

Which is where everything began to go downhill.

Suffice to say that this is the part of real life that rom-com movies skip right over - the part where there are no butterflies, or roses, or cute chance encounters but instead drunkenness, embarrassment, a too-hot day (rendering the lack of shower a bad idea in the long run) and complete disillusionment in the idea that meeting someone in a bar ever works out.

Long story short, Marlon got wasted (well, what did I expect? Even for a guy, a couple of mimosas, a full shot of sipping whiskey and several Jack & Cokes will probably put someone under.) and I ended up taking care of him. Which means...
-I hauled him out of the bar where he was pissing off a bitchy bartender,
-took him to the scene of the crime from the night before to get food (I don't know lower QA well enough to know where else to go) where
-I was ridiculed by that bartender for getting stuck with Marlon to begin with (evidently this is a pattern of behavior he's seen over time), and
-I paid for Marlon's food (as he got mad at me for not wanting to make out with him in the bar and walked out on the tab), whereupon
-I got into a drunken argument (on his part, not mine) with him, after which
-he decided I was being a bitch and was going to go home, where after
-I got really angry and ran into the street after him (as it was evident he was going to drive home) and
-finally, finally cajoled his car key out of his hand (so he wouldn't kill someone or himself) and at last
-stalked home in a furious rage, leaving him to get home by his own means with the texted instruction to call me in the morning to get his goddamned car key.

Does any of this sound like romantic first date butterflies?!

No. There were no butterflies - only a wasp's nest full of angry buzzing in my head that I'd been so stupid to let this whole situation get so out of control to begin with. In hindsight, I'm well aware of the many wildly waving red flags that - had I been willing to see them - would've alerted me to impending disaster. For example, the fact that Marlon knew all the morning bartenders at the restaurant. Or that he'd ordered a full shot of sipping tequila at 10:30 AM. Or that we went to breakfast immediately after meeting, instead of waiting to get to know each other on another level (via phone? Email? Whatever.) and then going on a date (if, indeed, a date was warranted by other conversation). So, okay, it's mostly my fault. But I threw caution to the wind, and...well, you read the story.

On the one hand, I see why things like this happen to me, because I'm a nice girl. If I'd been more of a bitch, I would've left him in the street without going through all drama of assuming responsibility for someone else's actions and let fate take him home, safely or otherwise. But you know what? I can't have that on my conscience. I can't know that I willingly allowed someone so clearly incapacitated to take care of himself to potentially drive away and put other people's lives in danger. So I took the ethical high road, and I feel good about it - but I wish I hadn't traveled down that path to begin with.

More on the end of that story to follow, but the point is this: lesson learned. It's okay for nice girls to have plain old nice dates instead of dating adventures. In the future, when I'm ready to go home and a guy hits on me at the end of the night, I'll give my number and let him call. And if he does? Great. We'll talk, and maybe email, and maybe meet up. But not for karaoke.

Getting Going

Okay, so it makes good sense that I'm "re-starting" blogging on a Sunday, as that's when I began blogging oh-so-long-ago. Tough to say what the major malfunction has been in my lack of inspiration for blog content (and/or simple motivation to sit down and actually do it), but I think probably a combination of simple frustrations and deeper-rooted internal issues. A few possibilities:

1. My goddamn laptop. Yes, this piece of modern technology is a source of irritation worthy of public cursing. You see, it was gifted to me (thanks, Mom!) for the simple reason that it did not have the internal wireless card necessary to make it functional for her business, which is now the exact same reason I find myself unwilling to spend dedicated time on the internet - because it has to be connected to the DSL cable, which is connected to the wall, which is too far from my plush chair to make relaxed, lazy blogging either comfortable or possible. Instead, I have to sit in my too-short chair at my desk that faces away from my 3rd Ave window, which means that not only am I unable to multitask (ie, watch TV and blog) but also that I'm uninspired to write because the view into my tiny kitchen just really doesn't provide a lot of fodder for creative activity. I'm well aware that all of these things are simple fixes, but somehow I can't "find the time" (read: motivation) to make a change.

2. My goddamn blog background. Yes, this is also a source of cuss-worthy frustration. Why? Well, I ask myself that question I every time I look at my own blog. Somehow, I can't figure out how to make a great header (I really, really hate being limited to Verdana, Times New Roman and Courier fonts), and my blog colors never seem to come together, and I don't really like the layout, and this is all depressing enough that I don't even want to look at my own blog, much less imagine how others could or would want to spend time having to read it. (sigh) This is the creative perfectionist in me emerging, and I really, really don't like her very much - she's a pain in the ass that prevents things from getting done at all.

3. Creative drought. Call me Lake Mead, because creative inspiration seems to be drying up at an exponential rate, leaving only a history of better days behind. Interestingly, when I have to be "on" with other people, I seem to be able to paint a picture of hilarity in the things that happen to me in my life, and it's all very funny in the moment and ultimately I'm able to see my situation in that same way, so why the crushing introspection when I'm alone? And why the inability to put that same face to face conversation onto "paper" in a similar vein? Perhaps it's the immediate vocal and physical reaction of my live audience that spurs me to continue amusing them with candid and self-deprecating stories.

In any case, the blog is back, because damned if I'm going to let a wireless card (or lack thereof) and a couple of bad blog entries prevent me from doing what I actually love to do every day, which is talk about me - I mean, write.

Under Construction

I feel like my blog should have a great big flashing sign on its home page:

**WARNING! BLOG UNDER CONSTRUCTION! CREATIVE ROAD BUMPS AHEAD!**

Finding the right style - both aesthetic and literary - has been a bit of a challenge for me. What do I want to say? Is my blog content interesting? Humorous? Relevant and relatable to other people's lives and experiences? These are the questions I'm working on answering.

Trouble is, I'm finding that a good amount of my creative genius comes to me in the middle of the day (i.e., while my mind is wandering at work) and I'm having a hard time getting the really good content down fast enough. For example, yesterday I was standing at the copy machine with several documents in hand that needed to either be faxed, scanned or copied and sent to one of my 75 wedding clients (yes, I actually have 75 groups this year - not bad for a little hotel) and as my mind was circling aimlessly (when I should have been thinking about the other many and varied tasks on my plate) I began thinking about my failed Almond Roca bars from the night before, which got me to thinking that many of my cooking/baking experiments turn out poorly, which lead to - flash of genius! - a blog inspiration (soon to follow). Then, of course, it was difficult to focus the rest of the day, as my twitchy little fingers were just itching to blog away the afternoon in creative bliss. Alas, I finished the day with commendable work ethic (I don't think I can say the same for today) and went home, where I promptly lost all the great ideas I'd spent the afternoon concocting about my newest blog entry.

Sigh.

In any case, I'm feeling a little intimidated about my blogs now that I'm following some of my friends and being followed in return! This is exactly what I wanted, of course, but now that I know people are actually reading my stuff...well, I'm on a mission to produce my best work.

So bear with me as I test the literary waters with a timid toe. I know I ought to just dive right in, but if you know me at all...you know that's just not me.

Is There Anybody Alive Out There?

"I want a thousand guitars
I want pounding drums
I want a million different voices speaking in tongues.

This is radio nowhere
is there anybody alive out there?"

-Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere

I've been thinking a lot lately about The Unanswerable Question: What are we doing here, anyway?

Nothing like starting a weeks-long blogging hiatus on a light-hearted note.

But I can't help myself. What, exactly, is it that I am doing here - on this earth, in this apartment, at my job, in my family, for my friends, for the "greater good" - on any given day? I've become brooding and moody lately because I don't have the answer to this question. There are days when I feel like all I am doing is going through the motions, wasting the earth's resources and depleting other people's time and energy with my very existence. I wonder what it is I produce every day, and then weigh that perceived "production" against its actual value and importance. I see my daily "production" on a bell curve, with human factors on one end and socio-economic factors on the other, meeting in the middle at the apex of the curve to provide the ultimate measure of my worth. For example: bringing in revenue for the hotel falls somewhere in the middle range of the socio-economic side of the curve, as it's both part of my job and provides, indirectly, additional revenue to our hospitality partners in Seattle, bringing positive growth to the city and (in theory) happiness to its inhabitants as it sustains jobs, etc.... Doing the Race for the Cure today is high on the human side of the curve, as it was an activity that provides emotional and financial support for those struggling with breast cancer, and keeps me connected to close friends and family that I love so much.

However, knowing what my bell curve looks like isn't the same thing as knowing what gets me to the apex and brings value to my existence. What's the magic level of commitment to career, hobbies, activities, causes, family and friends that makes us feel needed, important, powerful, successful, positive, truimphant? Nobody knows. Springsteen's lyrics, though, make me think that we're all in the same place, to some extent - searching for more in our lives ("I just want to hear some rhythm") and trying to achieve the life balance that brings us to the apex. I take a small measure of comfort in thinking that maybe some others are wondering the same thing: "Is there anybody alive out there?" Hm.

Am I?

B2B, A Procrastinator's Nightmare

Downtown San Francisco, before the race...and so it begins!

Okay, so I'm back from B2B, and have allowed myself just enough slacking/indulgence/down time/Twilight obsession to feel finally rested after the trip (including a luxurious sleep until 8:45AM today...ahhhh). I needed both a mental and physical break from the run, because the stress of preparing (when I knew full well I wasn't really going to be prepared) was so exhausting that I think I was more tired after the race from the mental release of the task than from the 7.5-mile run itself. This was my second Bay to Breakers, and for the second year in a row I let the perceived enormity of the run build and build and build and build...to the point where I couldn't bear the thought of training for it. Even one measly mile felt like it was going to be too difficult (what a wuss), because what good was one mile going to do me when I had to run seven? This kind of logical fallacy is exactly why I continue to procrastinate on even the smallest of tasks: because the perfectionist in me feels like it's not enough to do something halfway. As a result, I usually get so stressed about having to do something perfectly that I slack and put off training/wrapping/reporting/mailing/buying/calling/whatever it is for so long that I end up doing the task halfway anyway. It's a vicious cycle.

Unpreparedness aside (for the record, I did run before the race - just not as much as I should have), it was a still a GREAT day. My older bro and I got up early on Sunday morning and caught the ferry from Tiburon to the Embarcadero, where the madness and mayhem of the race was already in full swing (a purple-clad girl dressed as a bunch of grapes walked by us on the ferry, and my bro turned to me and said, "Bet the rest of the Fruit of the Loom crowd is wandering around here somewhere!") with costumes, stretching "serious" racers, raging drunkenness (a few people were being escorted out of the chutes before the race even began), nakedness and an amazing crowd filling the streets of downtown San Francisco literally as far as the eye could see. There's no real way to determine when the race actually begins, because the crowd is so thick...even as you cross the "start" line, it's all you can do to push your way through the crowd and actually begin running. Will led the way in a crazy game of duck-and-dodge, zig-zag racing for the first couple of miles - we sprinted around costumes (giving the naked racers a wide berth), strollers, street signs and garbage cans, weaving in and out of the crowd in order to get ahead where the running would be clearer.

"Salmon" swimming upstream - a B2B tradition.

Then, we hit Hayes St. hill.

The masses at Hayes St. hill.

I harbor a measure of resentment against Hayes, which kicked my ass last year. However, my procrastination (read above) left me unprepared to retaliate this year, and it kicked my ass once again. I would make a terrible superhero, if after my nemesis basically destroyed me once I went back for more without even the measliest of weapons to defend myself. In any case, while Will was dancing circles around me I was laboring up the hill, doing everything in my power to keep my legs running but so slowly that I was basically walking at one point. Finally I succumbed and trudged to the top. This was the point at which I realized that: a) I need to do more hill runs, and b) I can't let my 12-years-my-senior brother shame me this way in the future. In any case, Will ditched me at the top (same deal as last year) while I took a short rest...and then made myself keep going. And, as always happens with me, riiiiiiight at about 3.5 - 4 miles in, I really hit my stride, and jogged along easily for the rest of the race until I hit the 7-mile mark, where I picked up the pace and fully sprinted down the chute to the finish line.

After a quick beer at Footstock (easily the best part of the race!) we headed back to meet the fam for some pool time in Tiburon, splashing around with the kiddos and a couple delicious margaritas. Sundays really just don't get no better'n that.

All in all, a great weekend, because it's not about the race as much as the time with family. I had really quality time with all four nieces and nephews, as well as my sister (whom I could spend 2 hours on the phone with and it still wouldn't be enough), my brother- and sister-in-law, and of course my brother.

And now that the race is over, I actually feel more inclined to go to the gym, because there's no immediate pressure to work toward a goal. Funny how that works. But, I am going to keep working on a consistent regimen when it comes to the running, because I'll be back next year...in better shape than ever.

I Heart Yoga

Urban Yoga Spa, on the corner of 4th Ave & Stewart St. Note the faint blue sign in the back left of the photo...Hotel Andra, just 1 block away!

As with so many other activities, epiphanies and experiences in my life, I am a late comer to the yoga scene. I'm mostly okay with this, because while I don't believe in "fate" per se, I do believe that opportunities present themselves when the recipient is most open to receiving them, welcoming them and embracing them. In this case, yoga happens to have come into my life at a time when I am finally ready to take it on as the mind/body experience it is meant to be.

So last night I attempted hot Hatha yoga for the first time ever...an ambitious first step, as it was 90 minutes of varying poses (which proved challenging for a notoriously inflexible individual such as myself) in a studio set at a sweltering 107 degrees. (I do have to mention here that while I was pretty much DYING of the heat, I did have the thought in the middle of my warrior pose that I was grateful to be living in Seattle, where the weather would be a cool 60-something upon emerging from the studio, where as if I was still living in Arizona, the weather outside would probably be exactly the same as in the studio). The classes are held in this fantastic, very metropolitan loft-style building at the new Urban Yoga Spa in the heart of downtown - it's all so clean and white. It feels very New York to me (not that I would know) and lends an air of sophistication to the city's traditionally dark-paneled and woodsy Northwest decor. It's the kind of place I'd normally be a little intimidated by except the fact that the staff is so welcoming and committed to the practice - they seem to just want you to be there.

The uber urban lobby of the studio/spa.

Overall, it was an excellent experience - so excellent, as a matter of fact, that today I am signing up for their 30-day challenge, which is 30 days of yoga every day (and naturally, a chance to win a prize - year-long yoga, anyone?). It may seem a little hard core for a first-timer - and it is - but for me, I think diving in downward dog first may be just the way to go. During the course of the class, I felt more connected to my limbs than I think I've ever felt, and it was a nice awakening to truly appreciate the capabilities of my body rather than punishing it for not being Gisele Bundchen. So I'm ending the day and starting my yojourney with a restorative class...and looking forward to a month of flexing, reflecting, stretching, sweating and connecting with this body that has carried me so faithfully for 28 years.

Namaste.

Weekend on the Water

Relaxing after a "hard day's work," with a beautiful view out to the water.

The long haul back up from the beach. (Note two small heads at the top: Baylor & Bella, peering through the slats and impatiently waiting for me to return and throw their ball).

View toward Dakota Creek at low tide.

View toward California Creek at low tide. Semiahmoo is in the distance...

Ahhhhh...it's so refreshing to get out of the city. A drive - even on a busy, stop-and-go freeway - can do wonders for the soul, because the destination makes the journey soooo worth it. Particularly when there is a glass of wine waiting upon arrival at said destination.

Last weekend I ventured to Blaine, WA (about 10 miles south of the Canadian border) where my dad's once-designated retirement home has now become his full-time home, though he is far from being retired, both in his career and his goals. Case in point: this weekend, my brother and I were invited up to the house under the guise of spending time with my father and stepmother but as it turns out with the ulterior motive of my brother assisting my dad building an erosion barrier on the beach and moving 100-lb. chunks of concrete. Never wanting to be left out, I volunteered to assist on the beach - I mean, how often do I have the opportunity to get all mucky and muddy and actually be physically productive on the weekend?! However, upon grabbing the PHD (post hole digger - for lack of a more technical term) I immediately realized my mistake, as I took my first hard stab at what appeared to be soft ground and hit wet clay that resonated a vibrating thud through my whole body like a tuning fork. Determined not to let the beach get the best of me, I sweated my way through several holes before (fortunately) my younger bro woke up and took over the task (and somehow managed to make it look easy and effortless - damn him).

So my triceps are a little sore (yessssss - now I can justify my lack of time in the gym) and at the end of the day, the time out of the city spent both in physical labor and in the company of family was a nice treat and reprieve from urban life.

Validation

Sometimes I think I'm too cynical, and that I should subscribe to my mother's much more positive "everyone is basically good" theory.

And then I discover that Frenchi, the local Rite Aid Real Change agent, actually DID drink himself into homelessness (see "Here Are a Few of my Least Favorite Things" in older posts) so I feel wickedly vindicated in my cynicism, although sad for him that this is the direction his life has gone. This doesn't mean that I'm any less supportive of his apparent efforts to get back on track now, but...I guess I just feel that a little wariness in my daily life keeps me from being hurt, or duped. I'm sad that Frenchi's story confirms my earlier suspicions - I was so hoping it would give me a reason to see the world through slightly rosier glasses.

Sometimes Life is Just So Daily

Need I say more?

Lactose Tolerance and the Modern Girl

My stomach has been hurting lately. A. LOT. All the time, actually. It's not ulcers, because - despite an ever-present worry about finances and family and career and friendships - I'm honestly not that stressed out. And it's certainly not all the crunches I haven't been doing, and since according to my own lack of physiological knowledge and lack of interest in considering any other possibilities than the aforementioned, I have come to the conclusion - perhaps more intuitively than I'm giving myself credit for - that my body is trying to tell me something. I know, I know - DUH. It's not exactly an earth-shattering diagnosis. But, it's one that feels like it's worth listening to. My body is trying to tell me that something that I'm ingesting (evidently with some regularity, as my stomach hurts pretty much all day every day) ain't exactly its best friend. And since my body can only tell me so much without actual words, it's up to me to read the writing on the wall: it's time for a change.

The reason I feel this particular epiphany about my body's method of communication with me is because it's literally the first time I've ever felt it. It's the first time I've ever had a pain or unsettled feeling that I've attributed to the connection between lifestyle habits and physiological health. Again, I'm aware that I'm a little behind jumping on the bandwagon with this - but I also believe that most people are skeptics about most subjects until something prompts their own personal come-to-Jesus about the thing. And this feels like mine. I've been eating poorly lately (i.e., if it was my last meal and I had to decide between pizza or Mexican food, I would have last-minute decision anxiety up until the moment I died and would spend the rest of eternity wishing I'd chosen the other) but no more poorly than I've been eating for about...3 years. So the fact that just now I am feeling that something is wrong means less that it's "finally catching up with me" and more that I'm finally in a place to recognize my body's needs and provide this vehicle of my existence with much more love and attention than I've ever offered it. My quest now: to discover the source of my discomfort, and find a way to work through it around it to emerge a healthier, more balanced individual with much greater awareness of my physiological needs.

I think the culprit here may be dairy, and here's why: I'm Scottish. And at the end of the day (if you trace back far enough), I'm related to dear old Rob Roy MacGregor, the rebel Scot and failed cattleman of the 18th century. History has it that Rob Roy, trying to make an honest living as a cattleman, ultimately defaulted on a loan to increase his herd because of a conniving Scot who took his money and herd, leaving Rob Roy and family out in the cold. Legend has it that Rob Roy retreated to the rocky highlands of Scotland, where, without cattle, he and a band of marauders waged war against the duke who ousted him for many years until he was finally pardoned.

HOWEVER, the point here (yes, there is one) is that all the many years Rob Roy spent scavenging without the advent of dairy in the highlands (and the many outlawed Scots who followed his footsteps for years after) produced a generation of children who were, in essence, lactose intolerant - which then continued on and on and on, until hundreds of years later when the availability of dairy became daily staple instead of a luxury, and people's digestive systems became used to it again. Lactose intolerance is actually the norm in Scottish history - it's lactose tolerance that's not in our heritage. And as my day consists of cream in my coffee, cereal for breakfast, SlimFasts (when I'm trying to "get serious") for lunch and condiments on my dinner meals that usually include dairy (ranch sauce, sour cream, mayonnaise) and more or less as much cheese as I can possibly consume without throwing up, I think this is the place to start.

I hope this isn't the case. I sincerely hope that it's something else miserable and easily given up, such as...beets. But I have a sneaking suspicion that's not it (since I avoid beets like agoraphobics avoid the open prairie). And think of all the cheese I might miss out on...the thought is practically unbearable. Even so...I'm willing to explore the option of eliminating this potentially offensive substance from my diet, because I've never really stopped to give my body a voice, and you know what? When I really listen, it has some pretty important things to say.

The Return of the Reluctant Runner

Bay to Breakers is almost here again, and I have discovered that - for the second year in a row - I am alarmingly unprepared for this event. Frustrating? Yes. Surprising? Not really. Not to anyone who really knows me, that is. I am a unique combination of major anticipator and classic procrastinator, which causes me to build my expectations about almost everything in my life to an almost-unbearable level of jittery excitement and then sink into overwhelming despair when I realize that I have yet again failed to completely prepare for the thing I was so eagerly anticipating. It's a truly exhausting process, and I can feel it coming on as Bay to Breakers approaches in just 6 weeks.

But let me back up and explain: Bay to Breakers is a 12K run/walk (7.5 miles) in San Francisco that begins at the Embarcadero with the long and mysterious tradition of throwing corn tortillas out of the starting gates and ends in Golden Gate Park with the long and much-celebrated tradition of a beer garden. Everyone dresses in costume (or dresses not at all - nudity is also a less-celebrated but equally entertaining tradition of B2B) and except for a die-hard few (read: obsessed) no one takes it seriously. Which means I shouldn't be stressed, because this is a run in which local residents sell Jell-O shots for $1 along the race lines and a vast majority of participants come to the race with floats containing various quantities and varieties of alcohol. But I'm flying down to San Francisco to run the thing (with my brother, who beat me last year by a good 10 minutes despite the fact that I passed him as he waited in line for the Port-a-Potty about halfway through - dammit) so I feel like I can't go all that way and spend all that money just to walk it. And since I haven't been running consistently (again, not surprising) I feel like I have a long way to go. As a self-proclaimed "reluctant runner" I've found that it's tough to get back in the running game after a long hiatus, but also that once I'm back, running comes so naturally to me...causing me to wonder why I haven't been keeping up the pace all along.

The race begins!

Off to a slow start...I think it was Will's (right) master plan to lull me into a false sense of security as my running buddy and then leave me in the dust and beat me in the end. It worked.

So, as with last year, I am preparing for B2B with just weeks to go until the race - but this year, with several advantages:

a) knowledge of the course (to my nemesis Hayes St. hill: I will destroy you),
b) desire to kick my brother's ass,
c) desire to kick my own ass, and
d) the big picture of the end goal: to enjoy the hell out of the thing, because it's going to be a great day - time with my bro, a crazy/memorable run, a refreshing cold one at the end and lots of much-needed family time over the course of the weekend.

The end - and the beer! - are in sight upon entering Golden Gate Park.

I'm putting this out there, because as an anticipator I need to actually do the work to prepare and not just build it up in my mind. As my friend Rachel says, goals should be APV - Active, Public and Voluntary - which help the goal-setter achieve them. And with a little advance preparation, perhaps this year I can avoid the last-minute stress before my trip and simply enjoy the ride (or run, in this case). So, armed with sage advice (and perhaps a little of that productivity-inducing panic so innate in my personality) the reluctant runner returns to the road...and hopefully, this year, I'll stay there.

Pests...I Mean, Pets

When you are single in the city, pets can be the perfect way to combat the occasional loneliness that accompanies urban living. They are warm, welcoming, forgiving companions who don't care that you missed a client's deadline or that you're heartsick from your latest failed non-relationship. They greet you with tails wagging, ready to be loved and love in return, and make you feel like you are the only thing that matters to them.

I wouldn't know about this elusive "companionship," however, because none of the above describes my pests...er, pets.

A typical Seattle evening: I arrive home after work/gym/happy hour, etc. (usually not in that order) and put the key into my apartment door veeeeery quietly so as not to alert Baylor and Macy that I am there. No such luck: both pets are waiting in the entry and I can only get one foot in the door (NOT a euphemism) because Baylor is yipping to go potty and Macy is in crouch position, ready to burst out any tiny opening in the door the moment the opportunity presents itself. Holding my huge purse in front of me as I walk in ("Get back! Get BACK! Macy, no!") I manage to squeeze through without either pet escaping, dropping and tripping on my keys in the process, which causes me to fall onto the dog, who yelps and jumps onto the cat, who growls and dives under my feet where she ALMOST makes it out just before I ALMOST slam the door on her tiny head. Exhausted, I lean against the doorjam and sigh, only to realize I've just crushed my meticulously pressed drycleaning into a wrinkled mess. Welcome home, my ass.

Then it's a mad dash to feed the yowling kitten and change to take the dog out to the park (see previous posts regarding the dubious atmosphere at the Denny Regrade) where I fend off several propositions from particularly unpleasant urban individuals and attempt to work off Baylor's pent-up energy and grant myself a relaxing evening at home. Alas, such is not the case.

Upon returning home I discover that Macy, unhappy about being left behind, has shredded AND ingested portions of several bills I was going to pay, upset my desktop junk box and tried to work through a 6-pack of bagels, the dog food and my Bluetooth. Baylor (not tired at all) immediately races over to her and proceeds to torment her until she gets so upset that she races over to me and jumps on my back to escape. I scream a string of profanities upon feeling her sharp kitten claws opening yesterday's wounds (from a similar incident) and put each pet in a different corner of my apartment for a time out, where they both ignore me and immediately start spatting again. Resigned, I let them have it out while I begin the routine of dinner, internet time, Anderson Cooper (when he can be heard over my shouting - "Baylor, get OFF her!") and finally a shower (blissfully free of pets), from which I emerge to discover both sleepily waiting for me to put them in their respective places in bed and snuggle in to sleep.

Macy's vet bill.

My desktop junk box, unceremoniously dumped by the kitten all over the floor.

After much tossing, turning and reorganizing the animals to give myself a little bit of space in which to rest, we all finally come to comfortable agreement (as long as Macy is nowhere NEAR Baylor) on our sleeping arrangement and I am able to read a chapter of my book with one pet warming my feet and the other purring happily in my ear. Okay, so maybe I've been a little harsh, because this unique companionship between humans and does exist between me and mine - it just takes a while to get there. Even after all the trials and tribulations of the day-to-day with them - the fights, the frustration, the training that is going so poorly, the stress of rushing home to take care of them, the shredded bills and litter everywhere - they both look at me with their warm eyes and sigh contentedly in the nearness of my presence, and I know I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Recessionista

I love the word "recessionista". What is a recessionista, you ask? In my book, it reads something like this:

Recessionista (re-ces-sion-I-sta) - n.: one whose sense of style and consistent desire for chic appearance is undeterred by a failing national economy, limited funds and/or an inability to maintain pace with the latest fashionable trends; a resourceful wardrobe artist.

That would be me.

To be frank, few would call me chic. And those sage, stylish experts in the fashion industry would probably be appalled at my daily wardrobe. It seems I'm always a couple years behind the latest trends (or in many cases, miss the trends entirely). But while I may not be a poster child for the latest side-swept 'do or cleverly arranged neon plastic bangles, I seem to have found a niche of my own personal style in this economy: simple, clean lines, just enough jewelry for interest and a little bit of sass as an accessory. Being a recessionista means it's okay to pull out that sweater from a couple years ago (perhaps a delightful surprise when you discovered you still had it in the first place?) or wear the same jewelry for a whole season. It means you don't scoff at Target shopping or discount stores (especially good ones - hello, Horchow Finale) and you throw your closet doors wide open each day and find a new way to make your forgotten pieces work. And it means you're comfortable enough with your own unique style that you're not always trying to keep up with what's hot right now, because you know that at the end of the day your beauty is IN you AND on you (even if it's a season late).

I think I've been a recessionista my whole life and didn't know it until now. I buy pieces that I LOVE and then love them up in as many ways as possible until they just can't take it anymore. And you know what? I get more compliments on my favorite pieces than anyone I know. I don't want everything I own to be cheap, and I don't need everything I own to be designer or expensive - I just want it to make me feel good. You'll see me walking down the street and you'll know me - not because I'm so trendy, but because when you feel this good? Damn, it shows.