tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345737945471222392024-03-05T09:25:01.166-08:00Because it's theremtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-66867423740430074982010-08-31T09:31:00.000-07:002010-08-31T10:19:01.373-07:00Why healthcare sucks<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">This is not a political blog entry. This is an entry of a personal story, which illustrates the craziness and absolute lunacy of our healthcare system in an event that happened to me this week.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a state employee of Wyoming, I get up to $500 for “Wellness Visits,” which are supposed to be preventative care. No deductible, no fee. Free. Up to $500. Not only that, but a wellness exam is mandatory for you to get a discount of $480 of your health insurance premiums throughout the year – a good deal, to say the least. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On July 12, I went in for my annual physical exam – my wellness visit. It encountered all the regular annual physical stuff – blood pressure, pulse oxygen screening, weight, height, the female stuff – you get the gist. And, I should point out – this is usually my only visit to the doctor during the year.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Three weeks later, I got a bill from my doctor for $50 that my insurance didn’t cover. Well, it’s supposed to be covered, up to $500, like I said, and the original bill was $196. So I called the insurance company.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: “Why did I get billed for a wellness visit when it’s supposed to be covered up to $500?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Helpful and perky insurance agent: “Because of the way the doctor coded your visit, it was billed as a visit with other services. You need to get your doctor to change the way they billed it. If they bill it as a wellness visit, we’ll cover it.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cool.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So then I call my doctor’s office.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: “Yes, hello – I got a bill for my wellness visit, and I was told that you need to re-bill the insurance company so they’ll cover the entire exam.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Also nice lady: “Let me see here – let me look up your visit.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Waiting …</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lady: “Oh, well it says here that you talked to the doctor about migraines, so that’s not a wellness visit.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: “First of all, I’ve had a history of migraines for the past four years. She simply asked me how the medication I’m on is going, and refilled my prescription. Isn’t that part of a routine annual exam?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lady: “Well, if you discuss any symptoms, that’s not technically a wellness exam.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So let me get this straight. In a program that is supposed to have a preventative focus, if you talk about anything that might require further care, it’s not covered. So if you happen to be having regular stomach pains lately, they’d rather you say nothing and then later have to treat your cancer rather than getting it early and taking out a tumor. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The doctor’s office lady told me that she knows it’s stupid, but now she has to get a provider to review my file and make the determination of whether it can be re-billed as a wellness visit or not.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Regardless of the outcome, I already have my game plan for my next mandatory wellness visit, about a year from now. When the doctor asks how I am and if I’m having any problems, I’ll just look at her and respond:</p><p class="MsoNormal"> “I’m well.” </p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-34274201279075196462010-08-13T06:57:00.000-07:002010-08-13T07:01:54.445-07:00I came, I saw, I ... conquered?<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, perhaps "conquered" is a bit strong. Regarding the two races I’ve been training for, worrying about and obsessing over for the entire year, I finished both, thus meeting my goals.</p><p class="MsoNormal">It may not sound like much of a goal: to finish something. But anyone who has ever taken on a marathon or another endurance event can sympathize. The Laramie Enduro was a 70.5-mile mountain bike ride (that’s with the small detour my race partner and I took after missing one of the turnoff signs) that took me 10 hours and six minutes to complete. It was challenging, fun, and one of the most gorgeous rides I’ve ever done. It was definitely the most well supported ride I’ve ever done. Volunteers, food, course – it was a fantastically well planned and supported from start to finish. Kudos to the Enduro folks.</p><p class="MsoNormal">A quick rundown: at the starting line at 6:45 a.m., riders riddled with goose bumps in the cold morning air, an announcement comes over the sound: “Make sure you walk the bridges, always follow the course … and, oh yeah, at around mile 7 you WILL be attacked. I repeat … you WILL be attacked.” A Goshawk (whatever the hell that is – a mean bird, apparently) had recently taken up residence near one of the trails and was protecting her nest with her life — and her huge talons. Luckily, the expert riders started before us. They must have tired the poor bird out before we got there, for all we heard were angry squawks as we rode by. Incidentally, this is also the time a man passed me who was pedaling a bike without a seat. I don’t know if it fell off or if he was planning on doing the whole race standing. Weird.</p><p class="MsoNormal">After we got past the hawk, we traveled through some scenic gravel roads and into the familiar singletrack trails of Happy Jack. With 30 miles beneath our tires, we followed the course across the Happy Jack highway for the next section – only to find that after a few miles down a gravel road, we were conspicuously alone. Coming to an unmarked fork, we determined we had gone the wrong way, and backtracked to find the trail, which promptly when down a hill, into a marshy area filled with cow shit. I guess you’re not racing until you’re covered head to toe in cow manure.</p><p class="MsoNormal">At the next checkpoint, around mile 40, my beloved Cheetos were waiting for me in our drop bag, along with a 5-hour energy I took with me just in case. But I was feeling surprisingly spry and ready to go. Unfortunately, Jim, my partner, was feeling fatigued. We rested a few minutes so he could pop his cramp-preventing pills and I could eat my Cheetos, my personal antidote to cramps, hunger and a foul mood.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Coming out of the third aid station, we went through some sagebrush-covered singletrack as we spun through fields littered with cattle, who couldn’t have cared less about us. Then we popped out onto some more forest service gravel roads that appeared to have one purpose: to take us to heaven. They were all uphill, and they all climbed so steeply that when you looked up, all you saw was the looming hill above you and blue, blue sky.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Not to toot my own horn, but on this section, I was a champ. I felt good, my Cheetos and energy bars were treating me right, and I was climbing like a friggin machine, hammering hill after hill in my granny gear. Unfortunately, the climbs were not as good to Jim. Feeling the first twinges of cramps, he continued to bravely soldier on up hill after hill. During one portion, I summited a long, sustained climb ahead of him, only to see at the top that another long, sustained climb awaited. “Jim, don’t look up,” I shouted back. “Just keep pedaling – you don’t want to see what’s ahead.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Luckily, after being passed by a few support guys on motorcycles who wanted to make sure we wouldn’t end up as buzzard meat, we crossed the highway and reached aid station 4. Of all the aid stations, this was the most festive. They had music, people cheering loudly, and it was fun. Jim sat down to pop more pills, I went after some watermelon and Gatorade. When I got back to him though, he had a soft taco in his hand, which was apparently the last one. He offered it to me, I refused – but I’ll bet that was the best damn taco on Earth.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Once we left, we faced more climbs up to singletrack that circles a mountain. Up down, up down. At mile 55, I was pausing at the top of every climb for Jim to pedal up, in agony against his seizing legs, which were beginning to cramp badly. He urged me to leave him, I told him I didn’t want to. He said he didn’t think he could make the cutoff. In that moment, my entire seven months of training flashed before my eyes. If you don’t make a cutoff, they give you a Did Not Finish, put you in a truck, and drive you back to the start. I got mad just at the idea. This would not happen to me. So I left.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The next few miles were more brutal up down, up down. But near the end of the singletrack, there was a field filled with wildflowers as tall as my waist. It was like a freakin’ Allegra commercial – so beautiful words don’t do it justice. But it was the last beautiful moment of the race for me. I got back on the gravel roads that would take me back to the last section of singletrack before the finish, and then got onto Headquarters Trail, a brutal 1-mile section of climbing switch-backed singletrack with technical rock gardens scattered throughout. I rode what I could, I walked the rest. At the summit, a group of teenagers cheered me on, bored that they had probably been out there for hundreds of racers before me, seeing that I looked more pathetic than any of the others that had passed through. Didn’t matter, I just kept spinning.</p><p class="MsoNormal">By this time, my neck had flared up and I had numbness and tingling all the way down my left arm and a sharp stinging every time I tucked my neck to my chest. This is the real limiting factor for me in riding, and it was making me acutely aware of my mortality at that point. Yet I kept spinning, slowly and deliriously until a pudgy guy (and I say that affectionately, as one with pudge of her own), whom I had dusted earlier, passed me. “What am I doing?” I asked myself. “Get your ass in gear and finish the fucking race, Kat!” So I did.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The next weekend’s ride, the Copper Triangle, was not nearly as grueling. It was about 80 miles of road, which had three serious climbs in it, the last of which is Vail Pass – not something to take lightly. But other than starting out at 38 degrees and not being able to feel my fingers until an hour into riding, the ride delivered as promised: great, friendly people (it was, after all, a fundraising ride, not a race), wonderful support stations, and breathtaking vistas of Colorado’s mountains. It took us about seven hours, and I wouldn’t want a minute more on my road bike, which makes my neck feel like I want to pull my head off and just set it on my handlebars.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Oddly enough, Vail Pass was one of my strongest climbs throughout the day, but that’s not unusual for me – it seems my legs don’t seem to warm up until around mile 50. But the thing to know about Vail Pass in the Copper Triangle is there is motivation in the form of big, chewy, chocolaty brownies that are waiting for you at the top. I can’t think of a better reason to climb a 10,000-foot mountain.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I owe a lot of thanks to people for their support as I undertook my two challenges this summer. First and foremost, thanks to my husband. I had to sacrifice my weekends to be out on my bike, which means he had to sacrificed his weekends because we couldn’t go anywhere. He also gave me words of encouragement during my ups and downs of training, mostly by saying “You’ll be fine … you always are.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Also, to my race partner, Jim, who came out from Missouri to do these crazy events in elevation with me and put up with my general crankiness and know-it-allness during our three-day trip to Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons in between races, thanks. Without your arm warmers on the Copper Triangle, I would have frozen, and without my gas stove in Yelllowstone, we would have starved. <span style="font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;">J</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Also, to all the people who were forced to look at my bruised and battered body all summer, I thank you for asking how it’s going and taking a sincere interest in my undertaking. A special thank you to my friends, all the football ladies and my coworkers, you were incredibly supportive about all this. As some of the people I spend the most time around, it meant a lot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So my predictions from my last blog entry were mostly correct, although I’m happy to report there was no blood, I got over my cold in time, and although I did swear never to do another one, I’m already looking at what’s on the horizon for next summer. With any challenge I’ve done, I always seem to find that no matter what, you can always endure more suffering, more pain, and more miles than you think you can. But you never know until you try.</p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-77173401942058521572010-07-28T15:04:00.000-07:002010-07-28T15:18:37.926-07:00Race Predictions - Two days to the Enduro<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">It started with that heavy-head feeling. Then a few errant coughs and sneezes. Soon after, the throat was sore, and my body was tired. It’s official … I’m sick.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course. Two days before the 72.5-mile ride I have trained five months for, I get sick. I suppose I could blame the recent bout of cooler weather, or my husband who brought the vile virus into the house to begin with, but I won’t. People get sick. That’s life. Correction – that’s my life two days before a race.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Nevertheless, I thought it would be fun to make some race predictions, at the risk of what superstitious people might see as jinxing myself. So here it goes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I predict I will finish both the Laramie Enduro Mountain Bike Race and the Copper Triangle road race, which takes place next weekend, Aug. 7. I predict it will take everything I have and more to finish the Enduro. I predict I will feel like crying, quitting and dying, but I will do only the former of the three. There may be tears – there will probably be blood.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>After doing a solid 50 miles of singletrack last Friday, I took two epic crashes, both of which dotted my body with a nice painting of black and blue marks and red scrapes. I predict I will probably add to those on Saturday, although I predict I will not actually hurt myself badly enough to stop. I predict I will wish I had given myself an excuse to stop, but, finding none – I will continue until I die or finish. I predict despite my massage yesterday and daily treatments and stretches, that my neck will hurt so bad I’ll want to yank my head off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I predict it will be fairly cool with some decent cloud cover. I’m an optimist, so I predict it will not rain. I predict I will have to walk the last climbing section of the headquarters trail (fellow Enduroans know what this means).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I predict (and pray to any God who will listen) that I will finish in less than 10 hours, and at the finish line I will want to drink lots of beer, but I will be too exhausted to do so. I predict my race partner, Jim, will lift my spirits and I will lift his. I predict we’ll have several good stories to tell by the end of the day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I predict I will tell myself I am never doing this race or any other of its kind again. I predict this will be a lie.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So there it is. The day after the race the plan is to go up to Yellowstone and Jackson to detox from the saddle for the few days, then come back to town and repeat on a road bike the following Saturday. I predict I will worry less and take that race easier than the Enduro.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Hopefully I will come back a winner for having finished both races. I can’t even consider having one of them being the first race I don’t finish in my cycling life. Positive thoughts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>One final prediction: I predict these next two weekends will be fun in only the sick way races that take all day to complete can be. Wish me luck … I might need it<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Wingdings;">!</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-20901320109538788472010-07-22T07:55:00.000-07:002010-07-22T08:26:31.780-07:00Too bad, so sad<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Have you ever found yourself reading a really good book that happens to be really sad? More importantly, did you ever notice that a huge proportion of books ARE really sad?</p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAdLmUcQIRuAQIcgN3HDIGU9b9yqYakhx2rGzJfdutbDXLWk4kqojg_Vpr8nakXvK2rLGrySlA_iNJvA6rpFgDT7Nt_qzCaT7FMwVDTOlP2mRs-SNV6HpEC3QcQyjSFygOAvNLWExKG4/s320/bigshelf.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496751610254271330" /><p class="MsoNormal">This is the realization I came to a few weeks ago when a friend came over to La Casa de Hughes (actually, more like La Duplex de Hughes) for dinner. She works as an LPN at a nursing home, and had a depressed patient she was worried about. She thought it would help cheer her if she could spend of her ample free time reading some good books.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No problem,” I told her, knowing that my husband has fought to keep every single book he’s ever owned, including his textbook on Medieval Russian Literature from his junior year of college. Let me tell you how thrilled I have been to lug heavy boxes across the country in countless moves for books he will never so much as open again. Yet I digress.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What this means is we have one of those huge, industrial shelves that normally hold pots in a restaurant holding books in our office. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, taking my friend up the stairs, I was sure I’d find something for her patient to read. After all, I had read almost everything on those packed shelves, and there are many wonderful books in there I really love. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“We just need to make sure that they’re not sad,” my friend said. “I tried looking through my books at home, but I couldn't find any that weren't sad!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I started diving through the spines on the shelf, reading out some of my favorites. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“A Farewell to Arms – sad. The Color of Purple – kind of depressing. Book of Lost Things – gloomy. Marley and Me – God no!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Textbooks notwithstanding, it seemed almost all of my books were either weird (I love John Irving, the freak) or super sad. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure why I didn’t realize this before. I even made the mistake of taking Cormac McCarthy’s <i>The Road</i> to read during our Costa Rican honeymoon last year, only to end up buried for hours in the hammock on our private patio overlooking a magical rainforest, hiccupping sobs of tears with each page I turned. And this is my idea of a good time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I settled on <i>Seabiscuit</i> and <i>Memoirs of a Geisha</i> – not entirely uplifting, but at least not bawl-your-eyes-out reads.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The experience got me thinking about good books, and why they’re sad – why they almost have to have some sort of sadness to make them interesting. Perhaps it’s the genre I’m into – I don’t dig the scifi or mystery or romance stuff, so I guess the kinds of books I enjoy must rely on drama to build climax because they can’t rely on other tools of storytelling, such as mystery or a lot of suspense. I love following awesome characters in their stories, and to identify with awesome characters' trials and tribulations, there might be some tears involved. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Below I’ve created a list of books I love and think are great reads, but I’d love to hear about your favorites. Give me your suggestions – and what do you love about the books you love? I can’t wait to hear. I’m always looking to add more to my list, and don’t worry — I’ve got plenty of Kleenex.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Kat’s list of five favorite summer reads (nothing too heavy):</p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><i><b>1.)</b></i><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><i><b> </b></i></span></span><i><b>Three Cups of Tea</b></i></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I’m in the middle of this book right now, but I’m in love. This is such an uplifting and inspiring story of a man’s journey to build schools in war-torn Pakistan. It puts our lives as spoiled Americans in perspective.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><i><b>2.)</b></i><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><i><b> </b></i></span></span><i><b>Travels with Charley</b></i></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>What a great summer read. The story of John Steinbeck, touring America in his camper with his poodle, Charley. My favorite part? His observation that the interstate system has homogenized the American experience. And this was in 1960.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><span><b>3.) </b></span><i><b>A Prayer for Owen Meany</b></i></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Cambria;"> </span></span>This is my favorite book of all time. I love it for the way John Irving pulls you into his weird tales of perfectly ordinary people.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><span><b>4.)</b><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><b> </b></span></span></span><i><b>The Secret Life of Bees</b></i></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"> A tale of triumph and the female sprit, as well as a lesson in entomology, all wrapped into one heartwarming and empowering story.</p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><span><b>5.)</b><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><b> </b></span></span></span><i><b>Water for Elephants</b></i></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:37.0pt;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-19.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"> An enchanting tale of the circus life and the depression, which leads to a lot of action and a fantastic finish.</p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-20138853950500061582010-07-13T07:30:00.000-07:002010-07-14T07:14:22.625-07:00Bike to Work Challenge: DAY 50!Riding to work today felt just a little different. <div>The wind blowing in from the west was the same, as was the flow of traffic and my path to work. </div><div>But there seemed to be something a little different - maybe it was the smugness I was feeling at achieving the first quarter of my goal.</div><div>In March, I issued a challenge to myself to Bike to Work 200 days this year. I think this is quite a feat considering I live in a place with some of the shitiest weather you'll ever see - but that was kind of the point. If I could do it here, people in other places really have no excuse. </div><div>In the past three and a half months since I began, I have slipped and fallen three times on ice, ridden in 50 mph winds more than three times, and witnessed some of the most amazing vistas right down the hill from my house. One morning, when I was pedaling with my head down, I almost ran into an antelope buck who was crossing the street, trying to get out of my way. I think it freaked me out as much as him.</div><div>50 days of riding means I have biked to work an equivalent of 300 miles so far. It's not an earth-shattering number, considering I ride 100 in a weekend with my training, but it has saved nearly a full tank of gasoline for my car.</div><div>Of course, my feeling of smugness eroded somewhat when I realized that 50 days in 3.5 months puts me exactly a half month behind my goal, and if this is when it's warm, how many days am I going to get when it starts getting cold?</div><div>I didn't know if 200 days was a realistic goal when I set it, but once I started looking at the calendar and realized that vacations, retreats and travel for work would eat up my possible slack, I decided I would allow myself to make it up with bonus trips. These are trips I would normally take with my car (like visits the store, to run short errands, etc.), but I count them as a day if I do them on my bike and they are a comparable distance. </div><div>In short, I have lots more work to do - work that will get much more interesting once the snow starts again in September. But until then, I'm enjoying the sun on my face and the beautiful ride that is Laramie in the summer.</div>mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-65029048685845018112010-07-12T12:35:00.000-07:002010-07-12T12:39:09.803-07:00The Delinquent Blogger — Me<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">There are some people in this world who are on top of things. They go to the dentist every six months. They get their movies back to Blockbuster on time. They get their oil changed every 3,000 miles like clockwork. In short, they are in tune with the demands of life and they excel at meeting them. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am not one of these people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am from the other kind of people. I lose my keys frequently. My cell phone goes dead on a regular basis from me forgetting to charge it. My house goes through cycles of clean and unclean, tidiness and disarray. My family members always get to celebrate their birthday with the arrival of my card about two months after their birthday. Sometimes I feel guilty about it, but mostly I think others should lower their expectations for me. It’s worked for my brother for years. If I had to characterize “untogetherness,” I would defend it by saying I’m not wholly neglectful; I’m merely a person who operates on cycles. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So it is not surprising to me to pull up my blog, only to see that my last post was March 24, when I began my personal bike-to-work challenge. You may be disappointed in my ability to keep everyone updated, but I want to tell you that you can at least feel satisfied knowing I will update eventually — I just like to build the suspense. For about four months. Once again, low expectations.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>However, now that my summer classes and vacations are done until my mountain bike race July 31, I have my blog on my to-do list. So, although I’d like to pretend that I’m jealous of the first kind of people — the together, oil-changing, birthday-cards-on-time folks — I realize I’m somewhat flighty, preoccupied and unreliable in this sense. And you know what? I’m OK with that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So stay tuned … I’m in a cycle of busting out some blog entries this summer. Finally!</p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-85963186118819731062010-03-24T07:54:00.000-07:002010-03-26T08:03:06.102-07:00The Bike-to-Work Challenge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9X4zQTisXMt9wEANI8slltONA_GQKR9D79qYDYWgvv6jbcqI-JHA7cd0CKIoIx8meg6O_1O0AoXC7o9q1utPHpK9piXSDMeb3zhz_sJd9hRVNUjlTxHZM7FPbR1OXBW0NiR7sAVOT2o/s1600/IMG_8599.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9X4zQTisXMt9wEANI8slltONA_GQKR9D79qYDYWgvv6jbcqI-JHA7cd0CKIoIx8meg6O_1O0AoXC7o9q1utPHpK9piXSDMeb3zhz_sJd9hRVNUjlTxHZM7FPbR1OXBW0NiR7sAVOT2o/s320/IMG_8599.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452957391523956226" /></a><br /><div>The thing about living in Wyoming is there's always an excuse NOT to do something. It's too far ... it's too cold ... it's too windy ... blah blah blah. </div><div>In the past, I rode my bike to work in Florida (13 miles each way) and Missouri (1.5 miles each way - with a monstrous hill and a creek in the middle), but I have found LOTS of excuses not to ride the 3 miles from my house to work in my year's worth of living in Wyoming, where it starts snowing in September and doesn't stop until June.</div><div>Thinking about what a whining little sissie I've become in a place where people are supposed to be "cowboy tough," I decided it was time to make some goals.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Goal 1:</b> Get off thy (increasingly) big butt and register for some bicycling races this summer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Accomplished. With the help of my riding buddy in Missouri, we have signed up to do the Laramie Enduro, a 70+ mountain bike race on the trails of my mountainous backyard on July 31, and the very next week the Copper Triangle, a 78-mile road ride that crosses Fremont, Tennessee and Vail passes in Colorado. I was planning on jumping without looking when a friend said, "Vail pass - whoa. When's the last time you drove over that?" Shut up. I don't want to think about it.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Goal 2:</b> Put together a plan to train for said races and stick to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Amazon.com, I got some great books to help out with Goal 2, and I think I've been about 70 percent compliant with the plan I've set up, so I feel confident that I'll be ready for these races in a little more than four month's time.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Goal 3:</b> Bike to work at least 200 days this year, beginning March 15.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me start by saying that this a completely arbitrary number. I thought it would be challenging. I have no idea of how attainable this goal is, and I didn't really think about it that hard. Now looking at it, I'm kind of scared, but 200 is a nice, round, ambitious figure that will sound super cool if I can say "last year I biked to work 200 days." Not that I would :-)</div><div><br /></div><div>From a geeky perspective, if I accomplish Goal 3, that means I will save 6 miles a day from my car's odometer, which is 1,200 miles a year. Given that my car averages about 35 miles per gallon in town in cold weather, that means I will save 35 gallons of gasoline. At a price of about $2.50 per gallon, this will save me about $88 in a year. So as you can see, I'm not doing it for the money. I'm sure there will be times when I will be willing to pay $88 for a ride. But it will save me nearly four trips to the gas station, and considering I only fill up once a month now, that will cut my annual gas bill by about one-third, which I think is impressive.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point, I'm happy to report that I have six days of commuting under my belt, and already I have biked through two blizzards and crashed on the ice once. So even if I fail miserably, and drive to work more than 55 days this year, at the very least I will have earned some interesting stories to share. Stay tuned ...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-31902953961223151612010-03-15T22:29:00.000-07:002010-03-15T22:34:02.565-07:00Taking it to the Mattress<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Recently, after fits of tossing and turning, and noticing more squeaking and creaking, my husband and I decided to make one of our most adult-feeling purchases to date: We decided it was time for a new mattress.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I have to admit, the impetus for this decision came in two forms: 1.) We finally saw a bedroom set that appealed to our extremely picky style; and 2.) Annoyed with each of us feeling like the other is intruding upon his/her side, and with a 60-pound dog adding herself into the mix about halfway through the night, we realized it was time to upgrade to a king-size bed.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">So, with the shipping confirmation of our bedroom set from Crate & Barrel safely in our inbox, we were prepared to conquer the next step: the mattress.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">If you haven’t shopped for a mattress in an actual mattress store, I recommend it for experience’s sake alone. There’s something surreal about lying on a bare mattress with your shoes on and your partner next to you, both of you trying to surmise how you’ll feel about lying on this surface for the next decade or so. I mean, how better to contemplate this decision than lying on your back, staring at ceiling-tile stains in a fluorescent-lighted showroom while listening to a taped infomercial explaining the benefits of the coils and padding under you.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">If you have had the pleasure of this experience, then you know that the salespeople rank second in voracity only to those found on used-car lots. They insist that you take your time and “get comfortable” to assess the full impact of their products while they stare at you and follow you around from bed to bed, grinning like idiots. Luckily, our salesman was gracious enough to leave us alone as we tested about a half-dozen mattresses. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We started by lying on our backs, then flipping to our sides, facing each other and trying not to laugh — we tried instead to focus intently on how our backs felt, how our hips felt, how our entire body was cradled in layers of some fiber said to be invented by NASA. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Then we’d move to the next and repeat the ritual, which only confused me more. After all, I remember really liking our current bed when we bought it six years ago, only to frown upon it now, with its “compressed” coils and its unsupportive pillowtop. I blame it on my advancing age. I stand by my purchase.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Of course, adding to my confusion was the fact that these mattresses come with a 20-year warranty. Yet at a recent dinner party, former mattress-selling friends of mine told me the longest I’d ever want to keep a mattress was 10 years — tops. With dust mites and sweat and skin particles and all. Gross. They actually informed me that in that time your mattress will double in weight from these things. Super gross.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">With all this in my head, who the hell knows what to think? You would think I could just lie down and say “yes” or “no.” After all – who knows what the future holds? Doesn’t every big decision go like this? And don’t all those big decisions turn out to be smaller and smaller with the passage of time?</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“You know, with the purchase of this mattress you get two free pillows,” the helpful salesman added as he casually strolled back to check on us. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Turns out, that’s all I needed - Sold. After all, neither of the houses I bought came with free pillows.</p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-22778539556137504642009-07-15T13:48:00.000-07:002009-07-15T13:53:00.017-07:00Warning: FOOD PHOBIA<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">AFRAID OF FOOD</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know, you wouldn’t know it by looking at me. As a healthy, active, yet curvaceous young woman of 28, I have never been known to miss a meal. But lately, I’ve been more and more bothered by a looming question: Will my food kill me?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In a bizarre habit I think I have in common only with my dog, I have a history of eating the same exact thing, in the same exact amount, every day:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I start with a ½ cup of Quaker oatmeal sprinkled with a tablespoon of brown sugar, which I heat up in a Tupperware in the microwave at work. I follow that with a light Yoplait flavored yogurt at 10:30 a.m. as a snack. Then for lunch, a can of tuna in water with Light Miracle Whip, French’s mustard and dill relish with six multi-grain Saltines. I complement this nastiness with a piece of seasonal fruit and wash it all down with some Crystal Light. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At around 3:30 p.m., I eat a 100-calorie bag of microwave popcorn, and hold on for dear life until dinner rolls around. And the whole day, I’m sipping from my battered Nalgene bottle, drinking about 60 ounces of water during the day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sounds pretty healthy, right? I thought so too, until all these bastards in the media had to tell me the facts about what I was eating. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the past two years, I have learned that nearly every single thing in that daily diet, if consumed enough, will kill me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The first hubbub was about tuna. OK, aside from the fact that what comes out of those 50-cent cans looks and smells a lot like catfood, I always figured I hated it, so it has to be good for you. Plus, it’s a low-fat, cheap source of fantastic lean protein. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then I learn that the water those fishies are swimming in is polluted, so they’ve been steadily accumulating mercury in their bodies, which they store and pass along to us.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Before this, the only thing I knew about Mercury was that it is perhaps the most awesome substance on earth. I remember breaking a thermometer once in the sink and I pushed around the stuff for about a half hour. I was enthralled. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But, apparently, it’s particularly bad for women and kids, and your body stockpiles it instead of flushing it, which is bad. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, I thought, it gives me another excuse to add to my anti-baby rhetoric: </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Kids? Umm, no, sorry – I have about a half pound of mercury stored in my body from 10 years of eating canned tuna every day for lunch – not exactly a baby-friendly zone anymore.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I never liked tuna anyway. But yogurt to me, is the perfect food. A good balance of carbs, protein, calcium, with a dollop of fruit mixed in. Perfect. Until I got the news that the milk used to make my delicious Yoplait is full of hormones they pump the cows with to make them produce more milk. Then of course there’s the fact that “light” yogurts are sweetened with aspartame, which is about as good for you as arsenic. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So by not wanting to consume as much sugar as what’s in a half-can of regular soda, I get cancer instead. Nice. By the way, this one kills two birds with one stone, since the Crystal Light that I consume by the pitcher is also sweetened with that artificial shit. But it is yummy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Moving on, with the worst blow to my day: Microwave popcorn has a cocktail of carcinogens in every delicious bag. Apparently the materials these dipshits put on the bags to prevent the cancer-causing artificial butter from soaking through the bag rubs off onto the popcorn and can also cause cancer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, as I’m reading this one, (because I didn’t believe the fat jerk at my office who snidely told me my favorite 100-calorie snack would kill me as he munched on his second helping of Doritos that day) I find out that they don’t know how much rubs off on the popcorn, but it probably take a lot to make you sick, so don’t worry about it. Little do they know I eat it every day, and when I’m done with the popcorn, I take my finger and rub off all that artificial butter crap so I can be as disgusting as possible while getting the full cancer-causing effects.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The least of my worries is probably the piece of fruit. Yes, I know that it’s bathed in pesticide perfection, waxed down so it doesn’t wither and then shipped sometimes half the world away to reach me, but if a damn piece of fruit is going to be the thing that does me in, so be it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The last thing I learned led to my new belief that everything we classify as a modern convenience is the devil. Including the plastic containers in which we store our food and drink. When they get warm or old, they like to release harmful chemicals into the food and drink, just to teach us a lesson about innovation.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So all that water I’ve drank out of my decade-old bottle? Cancer. And it’s supposed to be particularly bad if you leave it in a hot car. Which was ALWAYS for the three-and-a-half years I lived in Florida. In fact, I would even drink the hot water that had been roasting in the bottle for hours in the car. Nothing like hot, leeched chemicals to quench your thirst in 98-degree heat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ever hear that ignorance is bliss? I couldn’t agree more when it comes to this subject. I mean really, how are you supposed to eat anything? Everything is processed or mass-produced in a way that is most likely unhealthy. I don’t exactly have a banana tree out back with chickens and turkeys wandering around, waiting to be slaughtered. So what are we to do?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This last weekend, the health-food-that’s-bad-for-you topic came up as I chatted with my aunt, my cousin and my 92-year-old grandmother (who believes farmers and food manufacturers would never do anything that might compromise your health), and I finally reached a conclusion. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My grandmother still runs her entire farm in Nebraska by herself at 92. She has lived a long, healthy, disease-free life eating the organic vegetables she grows in her garden, raising hormone-free, antibiotic-free beef and chicken, and working every day with her hands outside in fresh air on her farm. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I, on the other hand, sit on my butt at a desk all day with a sore back, staring at a screen that will no doubt damage my eyesight over time, breathing ventilated air like an animal in captivity.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have tried the past few months to deviate from my normal menu, but it’s not easy. I admit: my semi-obsessive food routine brings me comfort during my day. It alleviates stress – it reduces any further decisions I have to make. And it just makes me feel better.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I decided: If the 100-calorie bag of microwave popcorn that brings me 15 minutes of pure bliss every afternoon also brings me the risk of cancer somewhere down the line — I’ll take my chances. And I will not longer be afraid to enjoy every minute of it.</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-15411532588492622462009-07-09T10:11:00.000-07:002009-07-09T10:38:50.710-07:00Keep the complaints coming<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When I was the city reporter at the Columbia Daily Tribune in Columbia, Mo., I used to feel my heart sag every time I came to my desk and found my message light blinking. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I should have been excited: The message might be from someone I had been trying to reach all day for an interview, and that blinking light might represent the key to finally wrapping up my story. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But instead, it usually triggered this reaction: “What now?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was conditioned by many experiences when that blinking light was a message from an upset reader, calling to complain because:</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They didn’t like my story.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They felt I didn’t address something important. </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They felt one side was underrepresented.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They were upset with something the city was doing in a story I wrote.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They felt something was inaccurate. </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or they just felt I should be spending my time doing something else.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My first reaction was always defensiveness. I would wonder why people would actually go to the lengths of calling me to leave nasty messages about these things: Didn’t they have better things to do?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once I took a step back, I would further examine what they were saying: Did they have a point? Was I balanced? Did I leave out something important? Was something inaccurate? Should I go back to my college job of delivering pizzas?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After answering the latter question in the negative, I would work on a response. Sometimes they were confused and didn’t know what they were talking about. Sometimes they were right, and I had dropped the ball. And sometimes it was a matter of opinion.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It didn’t matter though, I never saw the true and wonderful value of complaints. I thought they were negative thoughts people should keep to themselves</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">— until now.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Our paper in Laramie, Wyo., is horrendous. Horrible. Like, a we-print-press-releases-verbatim type of horrible. A one-source-only type of rag. To put it mildly, I’m disgusted at what this paper calls journalism, and I’m ashamed that people here accept this paper’s low standards as OK. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If this were the paper of record in Columbia, that message light would always be blinking. People there simply would not stand for it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Here, it ‘s representative of a larger attitude of the small town: It’s the way it’s always been. What are you going to do? Case closed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To me, this kind of attitude inertia is what has kept Laramie without much progress other than at the university in the past decade.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And what I’ve noticed is you don’t hear complaints, like you would from people who have higher expectations. Instead, you get excuses of why things are the way they are and why they aren’t changing anytime soon. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One of my friends said it’s partially acceptance, and partially that he thinks people deep down like the fact that they’re different from other places – even if it’s not necessarily in a favorable way.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But for me, it’s hard coming from someplace where complaints are valued so much that the local paper has an answering machine for nothing but complaints, which it then prints in the paper as a column of comments. Frequent topics in this column include threads about dogs peeing on other people’s yards, bicyclists not obeying rules of the road and democrats spending too much money in Congress.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As much as I sometimes hated hearing them, it is the sort of discourse that lets people share their expectations. In my newfound appreciation for complaints, I think that’s really what a solid complaint is: a statement of disappointment about the way things are, and hopefully, an intent to change things by pointing it out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know there are some who, like the former me, believe that complaints are worthless whining that serve no purpose. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Of course excessive complaints can generate negativity and unhappiness — without a doubt. But the absence of complaints also represents acceptance and compliance. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Some things we must accept – especially those we cannot change. And all the complaining in the world won’t change that. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But the other kind – the kind that represents an idea of betterment, a possibility for improvement, are needed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So keep the complaints coming. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And I’ve got one to start, or maybe it’s really more of a request: Can we please have a Target in Laramie? </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-64415523170824658302009-06-23T12:26:00.001-07:002009-06-23T12:29:44.977-07:00We blog because we can't not blog<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;font-size:17px;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Ever have that itch? Call it compulsion, obsession … whatever. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Whether it’s checking your e-mail every two seconds or making a habit out of rounding up the latest gossip on your favorite celeb, we all have something we feel we just simply must do. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">I started thinking about the subject after I started blogging again and I read a good friend’s writings (in her blog) on the subject. With all the junk out there, it’s true – do we need more? Does anyone care what anyone else has to say when it comes to the minutia of our lives? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">I think not.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And furthermore, I think – if we did care, would we even have the time to keep up? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Definitely not. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">But here I am, with the itch that must be scratched. I must write. And I must share what I write, despite the fact that no one (not even my mother, Heidi) will read it. It is entirely possible this is my way of making up for not having newspaper deadlines anymore as a writer, with my feelings of loss coming out in gobs of far-too-wordy exposés on nothing. On topics possibly not even Seinfeld could make a show out of. And if that was the show about nothing, this is the blog about nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">I think, furthermore, that this is the common denominator of blogs. Although some (like this one), start off with a theme, a purpose, the actual driveling of entries are so purposeless that it’s impossible for them to truly be about something. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Blogs about sports end up feeding the monster (content-needy readers) with things like the Navy football team visiting the White House, just as does like, every year since it had a team.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Blogs about celebrities devolve into who likes what kind of frappacino, and what ridiculously expensive shoes she wears to get it at Starbucks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Or blogs expounding people’s training habits for their sports end up turning into either mindless recording of their miles or anecdotes about their shoes, watches and heart rates with personal triumphs and epiphanies sprinkled throughout their massively long pages of daily entries. Their discipline, it seems, follows through not only in their commitment to jog daily, but to keep everyone informed about those jogs by their commitment to blog daily, as well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">So why do we do it? Because we have to. Just as the title of this no-follower, no-friends blog suggests, Because It’s There. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">I realize that mine comes from a writing obsession, as my friend admitted in her blog as well. I think she’s like me in that I find pleasure in noticing the oddities of life, and they are best told in writing, not speaking.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And I don’t think it’s out of self-indulgent self-interest, because then we would care if people were hanging on our last word. I couldn’t care less.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And, as itches go, I made myself feel better earlier today by finding ones far worse to scratch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For example, on the bathroom wall inside Ernest Hemingway’s house in Cuba, you’ll find his weight and blood pressure etched in pencil for every day he lived in the house. I’m not sure I have ever known what my blood pressure is, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what my weight is on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Two-time Nobel Prize-winning chemist Linus Pauling obsessively took large doses of vitamin C, which he was sure would ward off not only the common cold, but cancer as well. As far as I know, he didn’t die of either, though – so maybe he’s right.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And that brings me to the master of obsession, Mr. Howard Hughes, who spent his free time creating orders for his assistants to use no fewer than six tissues when touching a door knob to open a door, and no fewer than 12 when opening a cabinet. And that’s just the tip of the crazy iceberg.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">So if we must write, and we must post these obsession-laden writings to blogs, then it simply must be done. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And does a tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it make a sound? But I do know that a blog without a single reader still makes its impact: Because the satisfaction is in the writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">By Siddharth Anand<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For they are unworthy possessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Trojan horses<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">They bind you<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Without you realizing<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">They hinder your natural design<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And make you completely blind<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For they are unworthy possessions;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">They are the weeds,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">You; yourself choose to grow.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Some seeds are rotten..<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Still you keep them, them, you don’t throw.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">And after the tsunami<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">You wonder why you were destroyed<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">By; your own army…<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For they are unworthy possessions;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">They determine; the extent of your regression… <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Although we must All have some,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Eggs turn into chickens<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For they are impressions <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Which can determine your future<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">& Tomorrow’s positions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">The journey; and the final decision.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">Choose your obsessions<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;font-size:13.0pt;">For they are unworthy possessions</span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-72034003145563659532009-06-20T10:27:00.000-07:002009-06-20T10:57:20.481-07:00What do you get the man who has everything?Every year, exactly three times per year, I face the most dreaded of tasks: buying my father a gift. <div>Whether it's for his birthday, which I complete forgot to even call last year (good daughter, huh?), Christmas, which at least brings with it some seasonal gift options, or the worst one, Father's Day, it's always something I begin as an epic adventure and end by realizing disappointment for myself and my poor father. <div>I generally don't have any idea what to get a guy who is not a good consumer to begin with (my dad has been known to wear dress socks until so many toes are sticking out a bum wouldn't even wear them) and has enough money to get basically anything he wants. Or, at least he can buy anything that I could ge</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWoxdb7eSVyggoaXlqKyye3KQMV8dyNXcMhRwmxesKumdRlNRpu0MHL5ElS3v-vxmDDG9qRuTeeZnOSdaHEt2p_XQkXWHH5gIhIQ8lKNci-nb3wkf6RDqKeiAh9DF9NQYgz4O3LaUUNs/s320/DSC_0179+copy.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349469883218646642" /><div>t him, which isn't saying much.</div><div>The problem is, I've picked the low-hanging fruit. I've already given ties with cartoon characters on them, books, and the easy standby bailout gift: Anything with his favorite sports teams' logos on it, from embroidered checkbook covers to flasks with a set matching shot glasses (He doesn't even really drink, by the way). Alas, most of these items were either thankfully disposed of years ago or are collecting dusts as relics from a different age down in his home office, which has shelves upon shelves packed with sports memorabilia shit.</div><div>I've also done all the sentimental gifts, which are always good for getting better mileage with less cash. I've given framed photos of daddy and his little girl, picture collages, poems, and even spent a month carefully crafting a scrapbook for him chronicling me and my brother's lives in pictures from birth. It was the first and last I'll ever do. Spending hours hunched over a book covered in glue trying to get little handprints to stick to a page is not my idea of fun. A year ago for Christmas, it was the picture above in a frame. A picture he dislikes, by the way.</div><div>So this year, I planned a get-together with us kids, and we're taking him to a Rockies game. I thought I had it in the bag. I bought tickets for everyone, worked with my brother to arrange a post-game bbq at his house - I was on top of it. Until my brother asked, "So, any ideas on what to get dad?"</div><div>Uhhh ... "This is what I'm getting dad?"Apparently, I overestimated that my presence was present enough. </div><div>So, I'm back to square one ... he's going to Paris, a beret as a joke? A book on French? (So many people have had so much success learning languages this way) A ... money belt? (I want to up the dork level a little for his vacation - why not just get a fanny pack?)</div><div>Another wine opener for his burgeoning wine-drinking hobby? (Because those are rare and hard to find) A gift certificate for a restaurant? (A nice, impersonal gift for the man who raised you and answered your crying phone calls twice a week during your freshman year in college).</div><div>Movies? A CD? (Actually, that was last year's present, as I recall. I thought he was getting more than just a CD by me introducing him to Jack Johnson. Your welcome, dad.)</div><div>OK, I'm stumped. So plan B is to go to the mall and see what I find that reeks of "dadness" and I determine he absolutely cannot live without.</div><div>Because football season is almost beginning — and who can't use another Broncos car flag with matching license plate frame?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1234573794547122239.post-5900369662141063712009-02-08T08:38:00.000-08:002009-02-08T09:52:16.407-08:00Get out!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSPcUqPjkf3X_no5r5-tYz2_LJrPvdUSpxZLLtIxOiyevZWSALFphVDD38faiasUDHdxvUML3-SVyH50GEM5W8caoPTD7Piu24qgvQmST0LcrGNCww5jUwNOdEMpZVOdOYGgrA0EomS0/s1600-h/IMG_7637blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSPcUqPjkf3X_no5r5-tYz2_LJrPvdUSpxZLLtIxOiyevZWSALFphVDD38faiasUDHdxvUML3-SVyH50GEM5W8caoPTD7Piu24qgvQmST0LcrGNCww5jUwNOdEMpZVOdOYGgrA0EomS0/s320/IMG_7637blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300485058381417074" /></a><br />Get out! That's the point of this blog - that, and my hope to finally fulfill my New Year's resolution to write on a regimented and regular basis. As you can see, with this being Feb. 8, I haven't been real strict with myself this year. <div>It's also my attempt to ensure I will get out of my house and explore the world around me no matter how cold it is, how unpleasant it might be or how lazy I feel and to share what I hope will be increasingly cool pictures. It's not a grandiose goal, and I'm sure it will go down as the least read blog on the Internet today. That's OK.</div><div>So we begin ... </div><div>Misty May (my trusty golden retriever and sidekick) and I went out to explore our what's beyond the pink survey flags that mark the edge of our backyard a little more thoroughly on Superbowl Sunday. It was one of those thawing days where you'll still need a coat but, given enough sunshine, ice in some places is being coaxed into melting into the soil, creating a nice clay mud mix here in Mid-Missouri. </div><div>Behind our house is a large slope that leads up to a road that's currently seeing some of its first development. But that steep slope is the reason my husband and I bought this house - the topography essentially limits it from having neighbors behind us other than the deer, fox, squirrels, raccoons and other wild things that live there now.</div><div>So, with a leash clipped to Misty for safety and to slow her down, we began our venture into the great wild (seeing as trespassing is more of an idea than an actual offense, in my mind). Our house was built in a valley of hills and is actually located in a modified floodplain of the Hinkson Creek. Go down the small slope of what is no doubt fill dirt toward the small intermittent creek that runs behind our property and you'll see instantly that this land is nature's way of dealing with excess water. </div><div>Tough, spindly trees jut out of ground that, in places, can be muddy clay soil that can swallow your shoes whole to sandy spots that you simply sink into. I try to avoid both.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRA923zPlHBAmxxuKXimdRm4TjCnuCqHBRQxAIxAfgXASR_wLfcYNMwTh1xUTWGucy7erjLhFAWQsVbfWpLN47MoE2v19dVWq2oSxMRqsVZazC75KE6iZ0RcqEhD2m6GwfSi80qvJLEvk/s1600-h/IMG_7492blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRA923zPlHBAmxxuKXimdRm4TjCnuCqHBRQxAIxAfgXASR_wLfcYNMwTh1xUTWGucy7erjLhFAWQsVbfWpLN47MoE2v19dVWq2oSxMRqsVZazC75KE6iZ0RcqEhD2m6GwfSi80qvJLEvk/s320/IMG_7492blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300471189492497122" /></a><div>There is a great spot I'm fond of where water pools along limestone cliffs that form that slope I spoke of earlier. Misty, bounding on the sandy shore, was a bit perplexed to see the water covered with ice — this is a place she'd usually bound right into and take a swim. I was surprised myself to see something moving in the water: a small school of fish glinting as they swam along under the ice. This pool is no more than 3 feet deep (see pic above) and is secluded from any other streams or outlets for this water. If it dries up, they're done for. But on this sunny morning, each 2-inch fish is swimming along, trying to escape our presence.</div><div>I snapped a few pictures, trying to capture the fish (unsuccessfully) and the beautiful pattern a leaf frozen into the water made (mission accomplished). </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZrmPV2M87vS8d0D9TtvYWztf0E6Bh19KmYosslo5OTzhTf28UsgCME8Yr_Mn6Xtb6xS5hbrInW1sBBXljZfQyy2-mJhjl-EwYIVJ8D_T_mLaW_rMgzZMyZfYdvcXP1xz2DdDeCuI7LU/s1600-h/IMG_7497blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZrmPV2M87vS8d0D9TtvYWztf0E6Bh19KmYosslo5OTzhTf28UsgCME8Yr_Mn6Xtb6xS5hbrInW1sBBXljZfQyy2-mJhjl-EwYIVJ8D_T_mLaW_rMgzZMyZfYdvcXP1xz2DdDeCuI7LU/s320/IMG_7497blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300473480903041890" /></a><div>Not seeing Misty around me, I then turned around to find her staring and sniffing at something. Knowing my dog's propensity for rolling in dead things, I quickly scampered up the bank to find her staring at the carcass of a deer — a doe.</div><div>Eyeing it warily, it explained the smell I had noticed when we walked up to the pool. It was fairly decayed at that point, which means it must have been dead for awhile given the sub-zero temperatures we had had for weeks. I took a picture, not sure why, and moved on.</div><div>Misty and I worked our way up now, tracing the path the water took to end up in the pool. Following the limestone formations, we started climbing up a mini-ravine that we quickly found was filled with feet of fluffy dried leaves. Scampering up the hill, I heard the characteristic snapping of branches that comes with a herd of deer running away. I looked up in time to see a half dozen white tails flash as they moved over the ridge. Then my eyes traced the hill before me for a white tail of my own - luckily, Misty had not seen the deer. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to stow the images of her chasing them onto the road where a car driving by would no doubt hit her. </div><div>With that image subsiding, I nonetheless grabbed her leash, just to be sure. We started traversing the top of the hill when I saw something that made me stop in my tracks: a small village of what looked like makeshift bunkers for some no doubt homeless residents. </div><div>It's not uncommon in our area to have homeless people turn from shelters to their own methods of subsistence and survival. There's a large camp of them on a hill by a very busy thoroughfare into town that my friends and I have affectionately dubbed "the tarp people" because of the white and blue tarps that mark the shelter they've made for themselves. At night, you can see their little lights coming from below those tarps. Often I have thoughts of admiration for the toughness it takes to survive in such an existence, although I realize that's probably a glorification of their lifestyle. </div><div>Eyeing the one structure, which was quite well made with a stacking of sticks into a uniform triangle and the other, which was mostly reinforced with our city's extremely sturdy and durable blue bags it distributes for recycling, I edged away from them immediately, not wanting to disturb any possible tenants. I'm kicking myself for not taking a picture, but I didn't think it a wise move at that point, especially with my camera's obnoxiously loud shutter.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKuDmDk9-0DamN4khyyZylrN8WTY37n-8uDGYlAYQwXynBsOjkgixGBdtBIvKQJ_KgsOkuzujyKl4x5_aZw1XhY6oldXPq9z5TWZen1COw5ihVQJh36WoKkpMVFD-Cv1-YIsoCafkU1c/s1600-h/IMG_7536blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKuDmDk9-0DamN4khyyZylrN8WTY37n-8uDGYlAYQwXynBsOjkgixGBdtBIvKQJ_KgsOkuzujyKl4x5_aZw1XhY6oldXPq9z5TWZen1COw5ihVQJh36WoKkpMVFD-Cv1-YIsoCafkU1c/s320/IMG_7536blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300478993166116546" /></a><div>Instead, we worked our way part way down the hill, over an old barbed wire fence that had long rotted into a sagging pile of rusty wires. I found what looked like nature's version of a diamond necklace in the quartz deposits of a rock, and ahead was impressed with a limestone cliff covered in soft, green moss. </div><div>Misty scampered down the hill, sliding down on leaves and then running full speed down the hill. I took things more slowly, actually thankful for the mud stuck to my shoes that gave me some grip on the piles of leaves moving under me. </div><div>We got down to the valley floor, back into the marshy land that will be mushy and filled with water when spring comes. After stopping Misty from getting too personal with a dead turkey, we traveled to the edge of a small cliff overlooking the Hinkson Creek, which was a mere thread of what can be a raging river in high water. We hopped over downed logs that were covered in some sort of cool fungi growing out of them. On the edge of the creek, what we were standing on was a bank of earth that had been eroded away by the creek in high water, which means the 10 feet or so from us to the water is how much the creek rises when we get a lot of rainfall. The large peak flows are due to the storm runoff that comes from the massive amounts of pavement upstream, a problem that has caused the waterway to be added to the federal list of impaired waterways. It is nice to see the creek in its milder forms — it's a muddy, scary sight when it's at peak flow, but the kayakers love it.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRd_MdF-Bdn5uGdDbmrPQk70qsdJD8kv0YGJQ5wUG7P4_zvv_TvZTQbYuOm-5iXpTb-DsfD2l1U25KNwdKMDPxbNg99xFCvkJz26l8MHaIp1oB6ltKHdj7VX-opxCgLCXZBou6zI2YQ1I/s1600-h/IMG_7595blog.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRd_MdF-Bdn5uGdDbmrPQk70qsdJD8kv0YGJQ5wUG7P4_zvv_TvZTQbYuOm-5iXpTb-DsfD2l1U25KNwdKMDPxbNg99xFCvkJz26l8MHaIp1oB6ltKHdj7VX-opxCgLCXZBou6zI2YQ1I/s320/IMG_7595blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300480420120358306" /></a><div>With the sun becoming more obscured by clouds and the wind kicking up, the temperature began to convince me it was time to go inside and give Misty a bath.</div><div>On our way back, I was fiddling with my camera and Misty was zigzagging in and out of a dry creek bed when I saw what I thought was the largest squirrel ever. Taking a closer look at the large red tail that bobbed up and down as it ran away from me, I realized it was a red fox. Throwing on my large lens, I took off, running as fast as I could to keep up with the fox and maybe get to a point where I could steady myself enough to snap a few photos. All it took was the fox leaping over a few logs and I was outdone, clearly no match for a nimble creature of the woods. Looking around, I did find some other, more static things of beauty, however. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaEmruZl-kmiVb_9chTsuNZ9LTIqSNoNfMBCimqE0cVv6kDa-lpOr8wM6NB3Gg0wry62xMH3sKlQRNfovSemkjEd0NSNVuO9D_fl10S2UMsPapjgOmV20SahNb5m7pKG2XLrGt9jM3PI/s1600-h/IMG_7620blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaEmruZl-kmiVb_9chTsuNZ9LTIqSNoNfMBCimqE0cVv6kDa-lpOr8wM6NB3Gg0wry62xMH3sKlQRNfovSemkjEd0NSNVuO9D_fl10S2UMsPapjgOmV20SahNb5m7pKG2XLrGt9jM3PI/s320/IMG_7620blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300482828600535234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7FwQAfObESXW7CnCR2bHLQcxwqrCkFP8S216C7AbhaI8CnOFiEgd7oj4X20Gw3CKrEAUJTXvTapnLRMvU9reVKbKZSpwCeruX0soXXDcwvvNYfF_PswShXWkWO9-SSWOGNvcW0zMU9M/s1600-h/IMG_7569blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7FwQAfObESXW7CnCR2bHLQcxwqrCkFP8S216C7AbhaI8CnOFiEgd7oj4X20Gw3CKrEAUJTXvTapnLRMvU9reVKbKZSpwCeruX0soXXDcwvvNYfF_PswShXWkWO9-SSWOGNvcW0zMU9M/s320/IMG_7569blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300482828289020242" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdT_X0WSYb0JT9iAEbZ1qF_qGfruUEFFYhSaoqLKjSjup5YoPQ1PHQ1Ah5sh0pe_Jh9HWKqk2ZxbMHZhHA7Eo3zd2C4HTqpTFQwUc2u3rRIEe2mK3EM0IOLRGNrRTTsLbDiecBseLoNUU/s1600-h/IMG_7538blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdT_X0WSYb0JT9iAEbZ1qF_qGfruUEFFYhSaoqLKjSjup5YoPQ1PHQ1Ah5sh0pe_Jh9HWKqk2ZxbMHZhHA7Eo3zd2C4HTqpTFQwUc2u3rRIEe2mK3EM0IOLRGNrRTTsLbDiecBseLoNUU/s320/IMG_7538blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300482824512247730" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm1-jzDEUfC3ET0FoEaY1fvQAhRxGaesa63QPv7p372zfPutpwKJEL8qCVFyy82CVeO59jCC_rf9ii4RvC7RyLHiuJuSS_I6PJWPwNFwJlVbyplo4hZVwKNxGxhXOfRAtMWQI4-b6n-s/s1600-h/IMG_7646blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm1-jzDEUfC3ET0FoEaY1fvQAhRxGaesa63QPv7p372zfPutpwKJEL8qCVFyy82CVeO59jCC_rf9ii4RvC7RyLHiuJuSS_I6PJWPwNFwJlVbyplo4hZVwKNxGxhXOfRAtMWQI4-b6n-s/s320/IMG_7646blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300484387863730002" /></a>Cool green and red moss on a log, raccoon prints that I always think look eerily like children's hands and a feather of a wild turkey placed so nicely, you'd think it was posing. </div><div>Alas, Misty and I's adventure was over, but the clay we dragged home with us on our feet is still lingering on our shoes and the patio.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>mtbgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14992642810145717050noreply@blogger.com1