I Heart FLOTUS

Michelle Obama = Coolest Woman in America

Twice the Legal Limit

I am forty-two years old; therefore, my status as being old enough to drink is now, well, old enough to drink.

Funny thing is - I never have.

In high school when everyone else was experimenting, I wasn't interested.

By college, I'd seen enough friends puking in the shrubs outside some too-warm, too-noisy party to be at all tempted.

But now.
Now I'm interested.

I have decided that my summer project, as it were, will be to learn how to drink.
It's time.

I figure the first step is to figure out what kind of drinker I'll be.

I have enough life experience to know what I don't want: to have my husband come home some afternoon and find me sitting in a room all alone with the curtains drawn, listening to Morrissey and clutching half a bottle of something. No. That'd be bad.

I picture myself as more of a social drinker  - a "cool beverage at the cook-out, surrounded by my friends" kind of a gal. That seems acceptable, yes?

Then, of course, I have to pick my poison.

Hmm, what'll I have?

Again, I start with the no-no's:
- nothing with a ridiculous name (fuzzy navel, sex on the beach, etc.)
- nothing so lamely sweet that seventeen year old girls and soccer moms think it's "yummy" (strawberry daiquiri, wine coolers, etc.)
- nothing that comes from a box
- nothing that comes from a slushie machine
- nothing you'd drink from a plastic cup at a frat party
- nothing they drink on Mad Men

Well, that narrows my list considerably.

I seem to be drifting toward beer, but my wise grandmother had me take a sip of hers when I was about four, and my disbelief that anyone would voluntarily drink that stuff lingers. Of course, she drank Walter's. And I was four.

I'm thinking that something from a microbrewery -  something with an exceedingly specific flavor profile (perhaps involving honey or wildflowers) - might just be my bag. It needs to have just enough snob appeal to make sense in the hand of a lady of my age and discerning taste, but it can't be so yuppy pretentious as to be, yanno, unflattering.

Suggestions from the audience?

The Carpet and the Drapes

I get my weekly horoscope emailed to me on Sundays. I don't actually take the words as truth, but it's kinda fun to see if life's events in any way follow the predictions from my friends at Astrocenter. 

Okay, life never falls in line with the predictions, and I don't know how to unsubscribe. 

The writing staff at the email horoscope service (which is probably comprised of different folks than the actual star-reading department, yes?) is getting a little sloppy lately - in a manner of which their English teachers would certainly disapprove. See if you can find the problem with this week's horoscope:

Live it Up! Your horoscope - Week of April 5, 2010
You approach life intensely, Scorpio. On Monday Mercury in your sector of open enemies squares aggressive Mars and you'll come up against someone who isn't on your side, to say the least. Before you aim your stinger, consider if your energy would be better spent creating a new lifestyle for yourself. You may become a mentor to a young person on Saturday. Remember that you have a lot to give to others, and they can benefit from your experience.

Now I ask you, which part of the actual horoscope has anything to do with the concept of living it up, as stated in the title? Hmm? 

Shouldn't the title give a hint as to the main idea of the horoscope that is to follow?

 Sure, mentoring a young person and giving to others are nice and all, but "live it up" is chock full of connotations - jetting off to Rio, dancing 'til dawn, splurging for the deluxe car wash, etc. Where's that stuff in the text of my horoscope?! 

It ain't there, friends.
It just ain't there.

And I didn't even know I had a sector of open enemies.
Now I've got that to worry about.

Now, Wouldn't That Be Sweet?

One of my favorite things about traveling is seeing the diversity not just of people but of lives that exists. 

There are just SO MANY possibilities.


Most places I've been have elicited some sort of what-would-my-life-be-like-if-I-lived-here? fantasy. Sometimes it's pretty vague and mild, but once in a while I go so far as to look at real estate listings on the interweb. 


It's totally free escapist fantasy fiction, and I let myself indulge in it a bit every now and then. 


I weigh the benefits of living in different Tokyo neighborhoods or ponder whether my Seattle home will be a slick downtown condo or a rustic home with a great view of Mt. Rainier. Then I go do the laundry or make dinner and generally get back to the business of living my real life. 


Still, it's good to dream.


My most recent foray into the fantasy world of my imaginary other possible life is the clearest and most tempting of all. I can see it in my mind in such happy detail, I've informed my husband that, if I should one day simply disappear, this is where I will be.


I will live on Amelia Island in northeastern Florida.  I will no longer be a teacher; instead, I will be waiting tables at the Happy Tomato Cafe. My days will be spent hanging out with the cool and congenial guys who run the place, serving up awesome BBQ sandwiches, and listening to classic indie rock on the radio. I'll put all my book-learnin' and pop culture knowledge to use in witty conversations with patrons - and will be utterly fulfilled by my days there. I will smile often, rarely fluster, and (possibly) get heavily into yoga. 


So, if your imaginary other possible life self is ever in town, stop in for a lemonade.
My treat.

I'll Have What She's Having

I'll never be a runner.
This is a fact I know about myself.

I've always blamed my lack of compatibility with running on my bad ankles.
And my distaste for being too warm.
Oh, and the pain;
I don't much care for the pain.
All of which are pretty good reasons for not running, but, as I recently discovered, these are not the real reasons why I cannot run.

Running, it turns out, makes me talk dirty.
Loudly.
And that's just not the sort of thing I can be doing around the neighborhood - in front of impressionable children and small animals.

I discovered my dirty, dirty runner's mouth thanks to my winter workouts with the Wii. Feeling all amped up and immortal after my forays into expert mode virtual boxing and rhythm parade (What?! It's a sport! Kinda.), I decided to give running a virtual whirl.

And it didn't kill me.
And I liked that it didn't kill me.
So I did it again.
Eventually, I got so full of my virtual runner self that I clicked on the RUN (LONG) icon on the screen.

I maintained a good pace and kept up with my Mii guide through the trail.
About halfway through, I started to realize that this long run was - spoiler alert! - longer and more difficult than the short runs had been.

To keep myself motivated (because I'm far too stubborn to just quit), I started yelling.
To myself.
Cheering myself on, I guess.

As I neared the virtual finish line, I realized what I'd been saying and how, um, wrong it sounded -

Yes!
That's it!
Keep going!
Do it! Do it!
You're almost there!
Uh-huh!
Keep it up!
That's right!
Yesssss!

Oh, and the big sigh of relief at the end did not help matters much either.

I cannot take this show on the open road.
Whatever would the neighbors think?!
One minute I'd be running along the lakeshore, then the going would get tough, and I'd turn into Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

I like my neighborhood, and I don't want to have to move.

And that's why I'll never be a runner.
Really.

In My Corner

In my latest endeavor to lose the ten pounds that I've been trying to lose for the last nine years, I went out and got myself a Wii - and all the Wii Fit Plus accoutrements that go along with it.

I'm three weeks in, and 3.6 pounds have been lost.

On the right track, but I know I'll have to pick up the pace (and put down the bon bons) if I really want to see the remaining 7.4 pounds disappear.

Along with learning fascinating facts about my BMI and center of balance (I tend to favor my right side by about 2%.), the Wii Fit has taught me about what it takes to motivate me.

Apparently, it takes Burgess Meredith.

My most satisfying moments on the Wii are spent doing what is called "rhythm boxing". Not exactly an Olympic sport, but, somehow, swinging my Wiimote and nunchuk while stepping on and off the balance board in time is oddly gratifying.

Deep within my pacifist soul, I harbor a desire to throw the occasional punch. And rhythm boxing lets me do it in a socially-acceptable way. It even gives me gold stars when I've done it well, which is, I must say, all the damn time.

Seriously, I'm up to expert mode.

But enough about me.
Back to Burgess Meredith...

You see, I'm put through my daily rhythm boxing paces by the computer-generated approximation of the voice of a grizzled old trainer.

I'm his Rocky Balboa.
And he's my Mickey.

He pushes me to hit harder, calls me Fighter, and always ends the workout by telling me that I'd better hit the gym again tomorrow. Saying, "Nice block!" is as close as this guy gets to gushing.

And I'm totally working my ass off to win his approval.

Yes, I desperately want my virtual rhythm boxing trainer to be proud of me.

Is that odd?

Here's the thing, though. I don't really give a shit what the computerized lady with the perky breasts who leads me through yoga and strength training thinks of me.

When she tells me that how great my balance is, I get all, "Oh, don't patronize me," with her.

And when she gets so nurturing and concerned about me when I "... seem a little shaky" doing the tree pose, I just roll my eyes.

She's fake and soulless, and a bit like too many people I've actually met.

I read an article recently about how researchers figured out that you can't truly fake a smile. Not even to a baby. A smile is too complex, involving a perfectly timed coordination of movements at the corners of the mouth and the edges of the eyes.

Maybe praise is the same way. You can't just program a machine to say, "Good job!" and expect to affect me the way genuine praise from a genuine person can - even if you have programmed the machine to say it fifteen different ways.

So, I turn down the sound when the virtual lady with the hollow words comes on.

And I smile as I throw punches for my own Burgess Meredith, who respects me far too much to ever tell me how impressed with me he is.

Taste

Today, through a random series of events that involved streptococcus, extremely helpful grandparents, and a business dinner with the sales staff, I got a seven-hour long taste of what my life would be like if I had no child, no dog, and no husband.

I'd finally get the house clean.

I'd play awesome music real loud and sing along.

I'd talk smack while virtual kickboxing with the Wii.

I'd eat my dinner in the living room while watching Sex and the City.

I'd ponder major home remodeling projects.

I'd keep looking over my shoulder for someone to need me.

I'd be disappointed when I didn't find someone to need me.

Check It Out

Since I'll be going back to work next week and will have TONS of leisure time on my hands, I decided now was the best possible moment to start a new project/blog. Am I right or am I right?

It's focused on a topic I've touched upon here several times: food.

I'll still be keeping this blog rolling for all my non-food related observations and rants, but check the other one out too.

http://visiblevegetables.blogspot.com/

This Time It's Personal

Obscured by the sounds of running water and my toothbrush, I could have sworn I heard my husband say, "According to the scale, I lost thirty pounds since last week."

"Fwee pawnds?" I replied, mouth filled with toothpaste.

"No, not three. Thirty."

Since he didn't have a bout of dysentery or cut off one of his arms last week, a dead battery in the scale seemed the most logical explanation. "Oh, don't change the battery until I have a chance to try it too. I want to know what it's like to get on the scale and feel all tiny!"

Now, I know that men lose weight more easily than women (our bodies need to cling to fat to protect unborn babies, survive the Donner Party, etc.), so I've taken my husband's fifteen to my four pound loss this summer with a grain of salt. (Just a grain, though. Water retention, yanno.)

When I stepped on the scale I saw that, to my dismay, it only registered a twenty pound loss.

Not thirty.

Twenty.

Apparently, it is easier for men to lose imaginary weight as well.

Hmph!

Three Guys

Guy #1:

As I was making my what seems like daily pilgrimage to Target, I spotted him.

I was on a busy street, and someone had put an old elliptical machine on the boulevard with a "FREE" sign on it. Guy #1 was a big man wearing a dress shirt and khakis; he was trying out the elliptical machine with an incredibly somber expression on his face.

Guy #2:

He was sighted while I was driving to retrieve a take-out order at the dumpy little Chinese place my mom likes.

He was bald, mustached, and wearing a black leather jacket. His motorcycle was annoyingly loud, but, poking out of his backpack was a bouquet - a dozen red roses packed in cellophane. Baby's breath and everything.

Guy #3:

I recently bought a new car - for all my driving around and seeing odd random things needs.

He was the guy from Volkswagen who called to give me the customer satisfaction survey. The first thing I noticed about him was that he appeared to be calling from the Indian Subcontinent (thick accent, two second delay after each of my answers). He introduced himself as "Danny Ocean".

What do these three guys have in common?

I don't actually know any of them, but they all made me smile.

Such Great Heights

Now that my flu symptoms have diminished, I've gotten back up on the metaphorical horse and started exercising again as part of my never-ending quest to lose ten pounds.

Running has always eluded me; I have the ankles of a frail, elderly woman. But I've always been fascinated by the notion of the runner's high. I have passed (in my car, of course) many a runner in my day; most of them look miserable. Now and then I pass one who is in the throes, jamming along in a full-on runner's high. And it looks sooooo awesome.

Question: Is the runner's high only legit when achieved through, yanno, running?

I have, in my step-aerobicized past, caught a glimpse of the euphoria.

And I've gotten into the Zone of Awesomeness many a time while hiking.

Tonight I did it on a Nordic Track.

Fueled by the perfect rhythm that is the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin'" and the sudden realization that I'm on frickin' summer vacation (as opposed to thinking that I've just been home sick for the past week), I went there.

Though the music and the mood are crucial, that thing that always pushes me into the Land of the High is the fantasy - the story I make up in my head about how awesome I am and all the magnificent and impressive things I am capable of.

Um, do other people do this?

I always seem to have this hokey Olympic-caliber athlete/Charlie's Angels chasing down a perp movie playing in my mind when I hit the high. And I'm totally starring in it.

Is the fantasy fueling the euphoria?

Is it all just one big dopamine-changed hallucination?

I acknowledge that it's a bit silly, but when the swing of the "poles" on the Nordic Track take on a much-too-funky vibe, I am no longer a fortysomething suburban mom, listening to disco anthems while striding along on a piece of outdated exercise equipment.

I am so strong.

I am so lithe.

I am so high.

Nine is a Lot of Inches

I started dabbling in this self-improvement thing a few months ago.

The Campaign for Visible Vegetables has integrated itself quite nicely into our lives, the amount of miles the hubby and I have been hiking continues to grow, and fast food darkens our doorstep with far less frequency. 

Here's the problem, though: I see no change in my body.

Okay, there are SOME changes, like I can hike farther now than I could a few months back - and even jogged a few steps the other day. But I mean the measurable changes just aren't happening. My weight has fluctuated up and down in the same three-pound range since late-March. My clothes still fit about the same. My dreams of putting in the effort and seeing dramatic and rewarding results have been dashed. 

Fed up with the scale, I recently saw a couple mentions of waist size as an indication of fatitude vs. slimliness and realized that I had NO idea what my waist measurement is. Eager for a new means of telling myself that I'm totally not fat, I grabbed the tape measure. 

Bad choice. 

According to Real Age, my waist is about three and a half inches bigger than the big end of "ideal". 

That's not THAT much, right?

But is that the waist measurement statistic I grab on to? 

Of course not.

I decide instead to fixate on the fact that my waist is NINE INCHES bigger than the girl's on Make Me a Supermodel. Now, I appreciate that I am twenty years older than this girl and that I am never going to be a supermodel, but, still, the horror of NINE INCHES burrows into my brain and stays there. 

Nine inches is a lot of inches, yes? 

Now I'm like a dog with a bone with this whole waist measurement thing ...

On Real Age they have a waist loss tracker, so I get in there and enter my data. 

It asks for my goal. 

Um, my goal's not to feel like I tub-o-lard. 

How does that translate into numbers? 

I thought about it for a couple seconds and decided to shoot for the big end of "ideal" since I do have what is politely called a large frame (meaning I have shoulders like a linebacker).

Then it asks for the date by which I will reach this ideal (though still on the big side) state.

Great. 

Again, I'm in unfamiliar territory. 

The site tells me that half an inch every two weeks is reasonable. (Can't they just say an inch per month? Or 1.3 cm per fortnight?) I decide that three inches by summer's end should be do-able, so that's what I type in. 

So, now I have a new number to strive for. 

Another benchmark to reach. 

Great.

My real goal for myself, though, is to self-improve in the way that makes me no longer feel compelled to compare myself to supermodel wannabes. 

To reach that elusive goal of not caring about what the scale and the tape measure say.

To just appreciate the strength of my legs. 

My lungs. 

My heart. 

Now THAT would be some improvement. 

But, until then ...

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

One of my favorite games to play is 

What I'll Do With My PowerBall Fortune.

Lately, I've been focusing on the various cars I will acquire.

Here are my top three:

For my practical I'm-a-mom moments ...

The Porsche Cayenne

For those two days when MN weather and the desire to have the wind blow through my hair coincide ...

The Audi TT Convertible 

For when I'm feelin' old-school ...

1960 Chevy El Camino

('cept mine will be powder-blue)