Shall I use my powers for good instead of evil?

Croix De Candlestick

2010-11-04T22:27:00.001-07:00

It was March 1991, and Kristi and I were on the hunt for after school jobs. Our hometown was small and the competition for the finest of minimum wage jobs was fierce. I'm not sure which one of us received the tip the San Francisco Giants were hiring, but upon hearing the news, we drove out to Candlestick Park and got jobs as ushers.

It wasn’t glamorous work – one look at our uniforms of gray polyester slacks and scratchy orange wool sweaters could tell you that. Yet to this day, it's the one job I still pinch myself for landing. I mean, how often do you have a job where you're required to watch your favorite baseball team play?

I distinctly remember the Monday night home opener against the Dodgers, my first night game. I got the unfortunate assignment of Upper Reserve, sections 18-20. Those sections back up to where the fog would pour over the hill next to the stadium. Cold air blows off the bay and through the upper deck tunnels, whipping you with bone chilling misery. Ironically, the wind never stopped me from holding the record of tallest hair out at the 'Stick. Wind be damned…meet my friend, Aqua Net.

1991 employee ID badge and big hair victim:

1991 was an interesting year for the Giants. Will “The Thrill” Clark was first baseman and Dusty Baker was still the coach. Back then the stadium would chant URIBE (OOH – RRRRRIBBE!) as they do at AT & T Park today, but it was for Jose Uribe, second cousin to current Giant Juan Uribe.

The Giants placed in the middle of the pack that year. As a new usher, I was middle of the pack too. I was routinely stationed in different sections of the stadium as management determined what sort of usher I was. I also got the dreaded giveaway detail, where we’d have to hand out free promotional items to the guests of the game. It was here I learned that people will do and say pretty much anything for free crap. The uncertainty of what section I worked in always kept me on my toes as the clientele would inevitably vary accordingly to the price of the ticket.

Speaking of free crap, I wonder if this Giants Buck currency is still valid for use at the employee cafe?

When I returned for the 1992 season, I ended up in the usherette starting line-up, and given Lower Box, 1-2. This was particularly fun as my section was directly behind home plate and the wives and girlfriends of all the players sat here. Some of the baseball wives were incredibly nice, others managed to look through me as if I were invisible and hit me with their giant Gucci purses as they walked by.

I continued to work at the ‘Stick for four baseball seasons. Over those years I earned a significant amount of Croix De Candlestick* pins, took a pay cut when Barry Bonds joined the team in 1993, and even ran a successful scientific experiment proving our uniform of polyester pants were incapable of wrinkling. Unfortunately, I couldn’t survive the baseball strike in 1994. By the time the strike ended in April 1995, I was a month away from graduating from college and starting my new career as a journalist. My time as a San Francisco Giants employee was officially over.

While I’m no longer an usher, I still jump at the chance to find seats in a stadium, proclaiming myself as “Professional Usher, RET.” My love for the team and the time spent as an employee of the Giants has never wavered and it has been an utter blast watching this 2010 season. Can’t wait to see what the 2011 season brings us.

*The Croix De Candlestick pin was given to diehard Giants fans who endured extra inning games at Candlestick Park and stayed till the end.

Electrical Storm

2010-07-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

Only a complete jackass from California sits in her bathing suit typing on a laptop while experiencing the storm of a lifetime.

And yet here I am, typing this blog, wearing a bikini, and sitting on the front deck of my room at the Standard Hotel in Miami as a torrential downpour falls. Lightning is literally raising my hair on end, and ear-shattering thunder is roaring in my ears.

I LOVE IT!

I love it so much I just ran out to greet my friends walking to the lobby without fear of getting completely soaked (although I did fear the reaper enough to wait for the lightning to flash before running out in the storm to say hello).

We are so spoiled in California. Weather, meh. Yes, in San Francisco we have fog. We get some rain. On a super rare occasion, even snow. Compared to what is currently falling, our worst rain is a gentle mist. Florida gets rain. Monsoon-force, insane electrical rain that is unparalled in the Golden State.

So bring it on Mother Nature. I am loving you for all you are dumping upon the greater Miami metropolitan area right now. For all that you will soak me with later this evening, and for all the undeniable frizz you will bring to my mop tonight.

Straight out of Epcot

2010-06-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

The St. Paul Hotel in Montreal is one of those establishments that probably rocked the boutique hotel world when it opened a decade ago. With its white rooms and minimalistic design, it’s the kind of place that attracts young, professional, worldly and sharply dressed guests.

As our company preferred hotel and close to the office in Montreal, I am no stranger to staying here. It’s a place I don’t loathe but don’t love either. The rooms are sparse but clean, and I typically feel a bit intimidated staying there, mainly due to the type of clientele the place attracts.

All this changed last Monday when I walked into the breakfast room at the St. Paul. Normally, this room is full of multi-lingual, Prada-clad Europeans sipping on espresso, but today there were senior citizens and baby boomers. The crowd consisted of overweight men and women, going back for seconds, even thirds on the breakfast buffet. Women were clad in pastel Capri pants and Easy Spirit walking shoes. Men were wearing sea foam green polo shirts and pleated khaki shorts. I suddenly realized I was the sharpest dressed woman in the room. What had happened to the St. Paul I knew?

The mystery was solved immediately thanks to the parties sitting to either side of me. Unable to control the tone of their voices, their comments rose above the din of the room. I quickly learned over 18,000 Rotarians from 154 countries were in town to attend the 2010 Rotary International Convention in Montreal.

While the conference and the efforts of Rotarians worldwide are commendable, as usual, I found myself surrounded by the best of the worst, stupid Americans. Unable to drown out their comments as they kept talking loudly over the others, I heard the following gems:

“While Old Montreal is charming, it sure could do with some modernization,” said an American woman, referring to the cobblestone streets in Vieux Montreal that almost made her trip. Apparently she was unaware that the term Old or Vieux was not accidental in referring to an area of town founded in the 17th century.

“I don’t normally do this when I go to a strange city, but I took the subway yesterday after the conference,” said another American. “It was very clean, and no one tried to mug me.”

The mean cobblestone streets of Old Montreal:

I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. Yes, haven’t we all heard about the dangerous subways of Montreal? Move over New York, you’ve got nothing on these French Canadian hoodlums.

My favorite couple hailed from Texas. The husband kept talking about his visit to the “Notre DAM!” Cathedral the previous day. As I cringed over his pronunciation of Notre Dame, his wife took it to the next level with her comments.

“The church was beautiful and there was even a mass going on,” the woman said, pausing to look at her audience. “It was so frustrating though. The priest was speaking in French and I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”

That’s right. You damn French Canadians, speaking your native language in your French-language province of Canada. What is wrong with you? Don’t you speak American?

I wanted to yell at these Rotarians. Educate them. At the very least, notify them that they were using their outside voices and that I could hear them. I looked around at the sea of pastel clothing and realized it was hopeless, so I slunk out of the room embarrassed of my fellow citizens.

The next evening I took a walk on the mean streets of Old Montreal, careful not to trip on the ever unmodern cobblestone streets. The Rotarians are out in full force. All the sidewalk cafes and bars were jammed full with them, so I decide to walk a few blocks in an attempt to escape the herd.

Rotarians of a certain age take on Old Montreal:

As predicted, the crowds begin to thin out as I move away from Rue St. Paul. I am rewarded with a Rotarian-free outdoor table smack in the middle of the Place d’Youville at La Gargote. As I am admiring the view and consuming one of the best gazpachos ever made, a party of six American Rotarians is seated across from me. At first they are quiet, and they even greet the waiter with proper and polite pleasantries in French. I give them the benefit of the doubt and continue eating my savory soup.

Just as my faith was starting to be restored with my fellow citizens, the trust is suddenly shattered. One Rotarian apparently overwhelmed with the experience of sitting in Place d’Youville exclaims loudly:

“Montreal is so beautiful. It looks like something straight out of Epcot Center!”

Sigh...Yes, of course, Epcot Center. Where you can see the beauty of foreign countries in just one day, without ever tripping on a cobblestone and where everyone speaks American.

Walkabout

2010-02-21T02:12:00.000-08:00

I received a pink slip three weeks ago. My former employer calls it redeployment which confuses me. Did I lose my job or am I being shipped off to Afghanistan? Depending on whom you ask, my redeployment is either a great liberation or a Greek tragedy. My opinion lies somewhere in between.

Since then, I have endured a whirlwind of emotions. I literally lost my sense of humor for weeks. Lost and found my appetite. Faced some vicious nights with my old friend insomnia. Cried. Felt scared, bitter, and unappreciated. Even as new job offers roll in, I have been numb and unresponsive. My personal life and professional life were so tied together - do I even know who I am without this job? These factors have made it difficult to write a sincere cover letter, or even grasp what I want to do next careerwise.

In light of this personal and professional uncertainty, I did something highly unusual for me - I ran away. I’m currently on a ten day trip to Montreal and New York. If a layoff is a redeployment, this escape from reality and responsibility is now a walkabout.

It’s hard to paraphrase what the past eight days of my walkabout have done for me. I’ve spent a lot of time with former colleagues and friends who reminded me I am important, essential, and most of all, missed. They have filled me with hope and confidence that I will end up in a better place.

I spent time in two cities that were vital to my previous job and allowed myself to start the closure process. I know it is okay to experience all the emotions I’ve been going through. They’ll probably continue to surface for some time to come, and it's only natural. I have to mourn this and accept it wasn’t personal, it was just business.

Most importantly, I took time to work on rediscovering who I am and determining what my long term career goals are. I spent several days alone walking, taking photos, going to museums, writing, and most importantly laughing again. I’m relishing the free time I haven’t had in quite some time to reengage with what I love to do most. I feel ready to return home this week and begin the search for a new job. I suspect where I end up working next will be a direct result of clearing my head on this walkabout.

I truly loved the last three years of my professional life and while I won’t miss the PPT or the concalls much, I will miss the people dearly. I am so grateful for the opportunities and relationships my last job gave me. I don’t know what the future has in store for me, but I do know I don’t have to run away from it anymore. I’m ready.

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

2010-01-26T13:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Mother Nature,

Cut it out.

For the past eight days you’ve brought us a lot of rain here in Northern California. Yes, it was sorely needed after three years of drought and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you’ve helped fill the local reservoirs a bit. The hills are definitely greener and I’m feeling less guilty for taking an extra minute or so in the shower on cold winter mornings now.

Still, the old adage “too much of a good thing” is really starting to apply here.

I have seen the sun for a total of five hours in the past 192 hours. My backyard is a swamp. I’ve sacrificed two umbrellas to rogue gusts of wind. Don’t even get me started on what all this moisture has done to my hair. It looks bad on the best of days…this humidity is like being a real-life version of a Chia Head.

So please, for the love of god, let up a bit. Come back in a few days with more (preferably not my weekend). Let us dry out a bit.

Thank you for your consideration,

-Kristen

STORM!!!

2010-01-12T00:04:00.000-08:00

This could very well be the last communication you ever see from me. You see, California is at it again. In the past few weeks I’ve survived earthquakes, watched as large Pacific waves threaten to reclaim Pacific coastline as its own, and now the holy trinity of El Nino storms is upon us. As one of my coworkers casually suggested to me this morning, what’s next…locusts?

It seems like Mother Nature is trying to one-up herself with these storms. Three inches of rain in 24 hours, thunder and lightning, gale force winds, and hail. And this is only January. Our rainiest months are yet to come here in Northern CA.

Oddly, what I'm finding most impressive is not the spectacle of the actual weather patterns but the local media storm coverage. Each night, the lead story has been STORM!!! Man is that Doppler Radar milking its 15 minutes of fame. I tune into the evening news half interested, half amused as the coverage raises fear levels to places Homeland Security could only dream of. Floods! Downed power lines! Falling trees! Rising creeks! Car accidents! Mudslides! There is no end to possibilities of how this storm is going to get us. Apparently the worst of this storm trifecta is set to arrive tomorrow morning just in time for the morning commute. One station is even calling it "the big one." (Add ominous music for a more dramatic effect...)

While I don't doubt we'll get a serious lashing tomorrow, the unintentional comedy the media brings to an annual event (rain) is hard not to laugh at. After all, compared to other parts of the world, we just have it easy here, occasional nasty storms and all.

Try to stay dry and look out for "the big one."

Doubling Down on Twenty Ten

2010-01-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

Dealer is showing a ten, I have 12 in my hand. Hit me.

It is only fitting that in the last remaining hours of 2009, I find myself sitting in a casino gambling. After all, I'd done nothing but gamble throughout the entire year that my finances and career could sustain the most challenging year ever.

A nine is dealt, giving me 21. Dealer has 16, then flips over a five. We push.

A man standing behind the table lights a cigarette, choking the air with thick smoke and giving me an instant headache. My mind begins to wander as I reflect on the year and situations that occurred where it felt hard to breathe and my head was ready to explode. The house flooding, along with the crushing financial burden it put on us to get it repaired, job insecurity, pay cuts, and constant changes. Every time I started to come out of one challenge, another would present itself. 2009 was a year of pushing and no matter what hand was dealt, I just couldn't seem to get ahead.

Dealer is showing a two. I hate the two. It forces me to gamble based on either odds or guts. I decide to go with odds, and they fail me. Dealer wins.

2009 started rocky and never quite recovered. I know I am not alone in this experience. So many friends went through something similar. It was a broken record. No matter how hard a worker you were, no matter how diligent you were at paying your bills on time, you were affected at least once at some point this year. Odds failed so many of us this year that most of us are only operating on our gut feelings now.

Dealer is showing a six and I have BLACKJACK! Dealer pays out.

Within three weeks of 2009 starting, I found a lump in my throat. At first I thought it was a swollen gland associated with a cold. It wasn't, and within weeks I was undergoing a double-biopsy for thyroid cancer. The diagnosis came back benign - the best possible outcome. This year may have been a steaming pile of crap in most ways, but at least I still have my health. Priorities are reset and life goes on.

Dealer is showing a six, and I have 11 in my hand. I raise my bet and double down.

There are no guarantees that 2010 is going to be any better than 2009, but I have no choice other than to gamble on it being better. I know I'm not alone in that sentiment and it is reassuring to me.

The risk of doubling down pays off. Dealer busts and I win with a 15.

I collect my winnings and cash in my chips. I'm only $25 richer as a result but after the year I had, the idea of saying goodbye to 2009 as a winner is something I absolutely have to do. Even if it was the result of a weak hand and a big gamble.

Happy 2010 to all and here's to a bright new outlook for all of us.

Earthquake Weather

2009-07-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

Another hot summer night, unusual for the Bay Area. Still, hot, exciting. Earthquake weather. I feel alive for the first time in awhile.

Is this a metaphor for life? I feel like something major is about to happen. Can't put my finger on it yet, but change is in the air. What does it all mean?

The possibilities are delicious...and I can't wait to see what unfolds.

An Evening With Night Ranger

2009-06-25T23:26:00.000-07:00

The muscle shirt. Once a staple of the 1980's then mocked, but tonight, resurrected like a phoenix rising from the ashes at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Petaluma.

Only one occasion could bring back this fashion statement. It had to be something monumental. And it was. Night Ranger.

Continuing our annual tradition of catching one-hit wonders at county fairs, Joana and I set off tonight to attend what might honestly be the prize-winning event in almost a decade of summer concerts. I entered with zero expectations and instead was rewarded with so much.

Let's recap the evening:

1) The county fair: I wasn't even 30 seconds into the fairgrounds when I saw a booth selling wine coolers. I mean in the Bartels & James era, that was one thing, but in 2009? This was truly going to be an evening to remember.

Nachos and a wine cooler please!

2) The food: A vegetarian's nightmare. Spits of shiny over-roasted beef, corn dogs, turkey legs...food you would never actually eat unless you are either a caveman or at a county fair. Tonight's favorite find, Big Jim's Monster Dogs - a supersized corn dog. You know, because a normal sized one is never really enough. Deep fried Twinkie sold seperately.

Beef...it's what's for dinner:

Eat lots of these and you'll end up with a name like "Big Jim"

Mmm...mmm...turkey leg!

3) The fashion: Where to begin? From tie-dye to Texas tuxedos (denim on denim), this fair really had it all. Men preferred jorts (jean shorts), ladies seemed to favor the elastic waist capri pant. Camouflage prints and American flag apparel were also all the rage. Last but hardly least, the muscle shirt. Oh how we missed you. Good to see you back!

Camo hats and GQ sweatshirts over shoulders...

Who said fringe jackets are out of style?

A vision in tie dye...

4) The hair: Big, bleached, mulleted, pony-tailed, frizzy and spiky. I fit in perfectly.

Equally bad hair. Mine is just less mullet-y...

So sexy!

My hair wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time...

5) The music: It's NIGHT RANGER! Do I even need to say anything more? A few things to note about this experience...

a) Trust me on this. You actually know more Night Ranger songs than you'll ever care to admit

b) It is absolutely impossible not to start singing "Sister Christian" along with the band.
"Motoring..."

c) I'm going to get railed for this, but, they kind of don't suck

Sonoma-Marin Fair. You had me at wine coolers. I only wish I was around this weekend to see the spectacle of Bret Michaels performing on stage.

The Day Rickey Henderson Said "You're #1"

2009-01-13T23:58:00.000-08:00

I haven't felt like writing in awhile, but I just saw something on Letterman that made me giggle and want to post.

On tonight's Top Ten list, newest members of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Rickey Henderson and Jim Rice presented the list for "top ten highlights of my hall of fame baseball career."

The presentation was hilarious and it brought me back to the last time I saw Rickey Henderson play baseball. I want to say it was 1999 and Rickey Henderson was back playing for the Met's. We were sitting with friends at Candlestick Park way out in the bleachers and had seats fairly close to the field. I had worked for the Giants in my youth and was a diehard fan. My husband was a huge Oakland A's fan. Our friends were from Los Angeles and didn't care for either team playing, at least until one of them got a little buzzed from excessive beer consumption in the sun. Then his attention turned directly to Rickey Henderson.

"HEYYYYYYY RICKEY! You sack of shit. Gonna catch that thing?"

Know when you're out somewhere public and you see someone acting like an idiot? This was our friend. He was THAT guy. And he wouldn't stop. Every chance Rickey was in the outfield, our friend would stand and scream something mortifying.

"COME ON OLD MAN! Hey Rickey...FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCK YOU!"

With each comment I sunk deeper into my chair. I was an usher for the Giants in high school and knew it was only a matter of time before security was called and we'd be escorted out of the park.

The taunting continued for what felt like an eternity, and although I tried, our friend wouldn't stop. Rickey took the abuse for several innings, but finally something was said that crossed the line. At that moment, Rickey turned to face us and proceeded to flip us off, causing the crowd around us to roar in laughter.

My husband pointed out that this would one day be a historical moment. He said something to the effect that we were just flipped off by a future hall of famer. That prediction is now true nearly a decade later and I'll never forget the day Rickey Henderson told us to fuck off.

Your Daily Dose of Randomness

2008-10-11T14:30:00.000-07:00

Do not adjust your browser. That is really me sitting in perhaps the weirdest sandwich ever between country star Clint Black and cross-dressing basketball star Dennis Rodman.

I was sitting at the Markt Bar in Chelsea catching up with my friend Marc on Friday when we saw a three-ring circus erupting outside. A camera crew and crowd of spectators were watching as Rodman and Black went table to table looking for participants for the episode of a new television show they were taping. Marc and I watched, started making fun of the scene unfolding in front of us, and went back to our own conversation.

A few minutes later I look up and realize Rodman is sitting a bar stool away from me at the bar, ordering a drink. What are the odds? Rodman smiles, extends his hand, and asks (somewhat creepily) "What's your name?"

"Kristen," I respond calmly (having learned from the Ian Ziering Incident mishap). "How you doin' Dennis?"

Calm and cool, as if we'd been friends forever. No way was I scaring another celebrity away in terror.

"Great. We're doing this show and having a lot of fun." He pauses to sip his vodka cranberry and pushes the drink towards me. "This taste okay to you?"

I sip what appears to be a glass of vodka with a spash of cran for color more than use as a mixer. "Whoa nellie. Strong stuff you're drinking there Dennis!"

Again so smooth. That's how I roll...

I turn down Rodman's offer to buy me a drink as I have a car coming to take me to the airport within ten minutes. He looks hurt so I continue talking to him, asking about the show concept. As Rodman is explaining the concept, Clint Black walks over. Of course I couldn't name a Clint Black song if my life depended on it, but I happily exclaim to be a huge fan. I figured if pushed for favorite song specifics, I could pull a Sarah Palin and say I like all of them. (For the record I do know him for those legendary dimples...and I bit my tongue from making a smart comment about his height. In his boots and hat he's at least a solid 5'4. Shrimp!)

The guys were nice enough to let me pose with them. As soon as the photo was taken a member of the crew had me sign a release. I didn't realize it but most of my exchange was captured on camera. Not sure if I'll end up on the show...but I'll be keeping my eyes open for it to air.

It is not every day you find yourself sitting at a bar next to Dennis Rodman. This is me we're talking about however, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before my inner freak magnet would finally attract one of the biggest freaks in the world into my realm. Not quite sure how I will top this one, but knowing me, it will be glorious.

(Special thanks to Marc for capturing the moment on my camera!)

The Near-Crash Landing

2008-09-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

It was a 50 minute flight from Athens to Mykonos, but we made it in 29 minutes.

I have flown some really sketchy flights over the years. When ATA (American Trans Air, or as I referred to it, Absolutely Terrible Airlines) was in business I had some memorable flights where the plane remained in one piece only by means of chewing gum and duct tape. And I’ve flown Delta more than once, so obviously I have reckless disregard for my life. I’ve heard landing gear make sickening sounds when it came down, crashes and booms that shouldn’t ever be heard at 30,000+ feet, not to mention witnessing emergency lighting come on with alarms blazing when I was over the Pacific – exactly halfway between SFO and Honolulu with no place for an emergency landing other than the shark infested waters below.

Yet in all my travels nothing (to date) will ever surpass the Olympic Airlines flight to Mykonos the other evening. Not only did we manage to scrape 21 minutes off the scheduled flight time, but we came down so hard that I’m positive the frame of the plane bent. As I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief for being on the ground, I realized the plane was struggling violently to stop. The grand finale came as we almost ran off the short runway (best optimistic guess is we had about 50 meters before we were an official crash landing).

Fun!

Tim slept from the moment he sat down on the plane but was jostled to life when we bounced upon impact. I had unfortunately woken up as we made a crazy 180 U-turn in the sky. I saw the small airport below and thought we seemed very high up to be attempting an approach in a Boeing 737. Yet the ground started to get closer and the landing gear came down (with a disturbing screech I might add).

Things operate a little differently here in Greece – aviation being at the top of the list. Little did I know that our near-crash landing would serve as a fitting metaphor for surviving Europe. I will write a blog later simply called "Danger" that will document the many near-death experiences encountered (particularly in Amsterdam). In a nutshell I've learned, what doesn’t kill you just didn’t try hard enough.

The Great London Indian Food Debacle

2008-09-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

There are some major conflicts going on in the world right now, or at least from what I’ve been getting from CNN Europe.

The U.S. economy is going to hell, bombs are blowing up, war is waging.

Yet when I was in London a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a conflict that I’m not sure how resolve. A controversy so heated it brought grown men to exchange insults and sharp words on the very topic.

This could be none other than the battle of the old school London Indian food vs. the nouveau London Indian fusion food.

Laugh as you may, but the debate began when Dave took me to his favorite Indian restaurant in Soho called The Red Fort. I will admit it was expensive and not completely traditional but it was delicious. We had delectable tandoori tempura prawns, savory curried monkfish, and creamy saag aloo. It was a cold and rainy night and the warm food was the perfect cure for the gloomy weather outside.

The next day, when my London friends and coworkers heard I ate at The Red Fort, I was immediately mocked.

“HA! You paid too much,” said one.

“Next time you go out, let me join you so you can taste REAL Indian food,” scorned another.

I felt ashamed. Everyone knows you go to London for incredible Indian food. I thought I had, but was I out of my league? I have always considered myself a bit of a foodie being from San Francisco. At home I know good Indian food from the mediocre. Was it jetlag or simply a poor palate?

That evening I had a chance to taste “real” Indian food at the urging of my friend Martin. I’ve known Martin for almost a decade from when I started in visual effects software world. He moved back to the UK from the Bay Area several years ago and we’ve stayed in touch. He was one of my most severe Red Fort mockers so I was ready to belly up to the table and taste what Londoners consider the best.

Martin led us to a restaurant down a narrow Soho alley called The Palms of Goa. Immediately, my stomach growled in delight. At home, one of my dear friends, Joana, is from the Goa region of India and her mom is one of the most incredible cooks I know. Nothing bad could come from this experience.

And in truth, nothing bad did come from it. The food was warm, spicy, and rich, definitely more traditional and closer to what I’ve had at home in the States.

Now that I’ve tasted both it is time to come clean. If I had to give only one recommendation to someone going to London…

(I’m about to break many hearts and take a severe verbal lashing from friends and coworkers...)

I’d go back to The Red Fort.

I've died and gone to shopping heaven...

2008-09-11T19:27:00.000-07:00

Um...Harrods.

I said HARRODS!!!

Oh my god. This place.

So expensive. So exquisite. So...Harrods.

I absolutely need to make more money. To buy more than what is contained in the bags below would mean having to start selling off a kidney to the highest bidder. But damn was it fun while it lasted!

London: Day 1

2008-09-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

It has been 11 years since I last stepped foot in London and I'm not quite sure what took me so long to get back. I freakin' love this place.

My job takes me to exotic locales like Minneapolis and Dallas, so finding out I was going to travel to London and Amsterdam for work was a surprise and an honor. I would get to meet with colleagues in the UK and work at the IBC show in Amsterdam.

I left at 4:30 PM on Saturday and landed at Heathrow at 10:30 AM the next day. I had been wedged into an unfortunate prison, or what Virgin Atlantic considers coach accomodations. Upon landing I was cranky and sore, but within 30 minutes of clearing customs, I was off the Heathrow Express train and standing in Paddington Station. It is a pretty train station with its high metal framing, the crowds chaotic and frenzied. I smile at stalls stuffed full of Paddington Bear dolls, not unlike the one my Nana bought me when she vacationed in London when I was a child. I still have that doll somewhere. Wonder if Nana knew what a traveling gypsy she'd inspire in my later years when she bought me that little bear souvenir all those years ago?

My hotel, called the Courthouse, is in Soho and was...well, a courthouse in its former life (surprise!) Jail bars and cells line the hotel's bar. My room, while not large, is still one of the better rooms I've stayed in throughout my travels to Europe. And it is quiet. So quiet that I rest my head and nap for a few hours. I will later learn this is mistake.

Four, well, five hours later I awake part-woman, part-zombie. I meet my colleague Dave and we head to what will become a controversial dining choice - Indian fusion food at The Red Fort. I'll come back to this subject later, let's just refer to this topic as the great Londoner Indian food divide.

Back at the hotel, I get ready for bed only to find my nap from earlier in the day has killed any chance of me sleeping before 4 AM. Days later I will find the same to be true and my dependency on caffeine growing. And it will suck. But for now, I'm in London, red phone booths, double-decker buses, and cars on the wrong side of the road. Somehow lost sleep seems like a small price to pay for an opportunity to be here again.

Cleared For Take-Off

2008-08-16T14:51:00.000-07:00

“Weren’t you just here?” asks the woman checking my bag at the Southwest counter. “It feels like I just saw you here last week.”

She’s close. It has been two weeks since I last flew out of Oakland, but wow. When someone who sees countless droves of people come through her line daily recognizes me out of thousands, you know you simply travel too much.

I’ve definitely been cleared for take-off.

Travel isn’t limited to work these days – I’ve had a summer of weekend warrior trips as well. I arrived home late yesterday afternoon and immediately began what is now accepted routine: unpack, do a load of laundry, and repack. I'm not going to lie to you, it is starting to take a toll.

To survive, you simply go on auto-pilot. My toiletry bag is never emptied, just restocked. I’ve found my favorite products in handy travel sizes. Clothes get stuffed in space bags to maximize my clothing options. My car practically drives itself to the Executive Lot in Oakland or Park SFO.

At security I’m considered an expert traveler. Liquids in my purse are always less than three ounces and remain in a plastic quart size bag even when I’m on land. I can tell you where the Peet’s Coffee stands are located at both SFO and OAK, as well as Wells Fargo ATM machines.
I own travel iPod speakers and don’t leave home without them so I can surround myself with one thing that reminds me of home, music. There isn’t any way to replicate my husband while traveling, and that is the hardest part of all.

It is a lonely life at times, a frustrating one at others. But mostly, it is exciting and I’m lucky to have a job that allows me the chance to travel to amazing places. Some days you just have to remind yourself this more than others.

A Whole New Meaning to Doing Business

2008-07-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but considering the conversation was happening in the stall next to me, it was impossible to tune it out.

“I’m having a hard time with my father’s passing,” says the stranger, choking up on her words. “I mean, luckily I got to his house hours before he died, but I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye.”

She pauses to take a breath and hold back a sob, just as a chorus of toilets flushing shatters the moment. No one responds and she keeps talking.

The lull in conversation struck me as odd but was quickly answered when I saw the woman emerge from her bathroom stall, with pants still unbuttoned and a cell phone wedged rather uncomfortably between her ear and shoulder. All I could do was drop my jaw in disbelief. Why would you have a deeply emotional conversation about the passing of your father in a bathroom at the airport on a cell phone? And the kicker - doing this without a headset? Gross!

This morning I was at Oakland Airport when I heard a power meeting occurring a few stalls away from me. Once again, no headset, and an echo chamber of flushing and tooting. Do the folks on the other end not notice the sound? I mean, how can they not?

My esthetician tells me a great story about a client who gets bikini waxes while actively participating on conference calls. I'm not sure how you can conduct business in pain like that, but this woman does it fairly frequently. (Ouch!)

I’m baffled by this phenomenon of women doing their business and conducting business all at the same time. I know we live in a fast-paced world, but honestly ladies, the bathroom? Is there a topic ever so important it can’t wait a few minutes? My career puts me on the road quite frequently, and multi-tasking is a function of survival. Still, there is no topic matter, no work emergency, no problem so critical that it has to be conducted in a latrine.

Tangerine Skies Over The Hazy State

2008-07-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

Hack! Cough! Wheeze…

Wildfires, 323 or so, are clogging my usually pristine Northern California air. Even though the closest fire is at least 100 miles away, blue skies that I once took for granted have been replaced with a thick yellow-gray mucousy haze. The days are nothing compared to the evenings when the sun begins to set and the heavens turns orange. Everything looks surreal in this electric tangerine glow. These conditions make for amazing sunsets and poor peak flow readings. (Asthma humor for those of you not in the know…)

My state (and lungs) are on fire, gas is $5 a gallon, temperatures are topping over 100 degrees today, and my house is devaluing faster than an aging French hooker. All we need now is an earthquake to top things off around these parts.

So slap on the SPF 80 and hang on folks! These days, I’m living the California dream…at least Lucifer’s version of it.

******************************

Besides the world being on fire, I guess I have some explaining to do about where I’ve been for the last couple of months. Earlier this year, my job responsibilities changed and my workload grew exponentially. In a nutshell, I’ve been buried and the blog fell to the bottom of the priority list – again.

There has been travel – lots of travel. March and April sent me to Vegas for tradeshows and conferences. On May Day I was in Venice (the Los Angeles version, not the groovy one with gondoliers in Italy), a week later, I was in the concrete jungle of Manhattan. The next week I visited our nation’s capitol for the first time ever, soaking in as much history as I could between work responsibilities.

On Memorial Day weekend I rewarded myself by staying home for a few days. We had our traditional hiking and oyster eat-a-thon out in Point Reyes with friends. June rolled in and Tim and I celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary with a getaway to the Sonoma wine country and the fabulous Kenwood Inn and Spa.

The next week it was back to the grind with work travel. A week in Santa Monica was made all the better with a convertible upgrade. There were five amazing days in Vancouver, British Columbia that consisted of well-attended events, nightly walks and runs around the Seawall to Stanley Park, and amazing Asian food. Most importantly, it was the last time I breathed in glorious fresh air.

All that travel brings me to last week when my company graciously shut down for a week. At first I found the forced vacation annoying, until I realized how completely exhausted I was. Six days in Tahoe has left me rested and content. I hiked, swam pain-free for the first time in three years, and even participated in retro roller skating night at Northstar Resort without breaking any body parts.

Life is good and as always, I have stories to tell.

The Ian Ziering Incident

2008-02-29T17:45:00.000-08:00

“Hey Kristen, isn’t that the guy from Beverly Hills 90210?”

I turn to face Andrew who is shouting over Kelly Clarkson and her band as they perform live at the Motorola “Moto 9” party. I scan the crowd and see none other than Ian Ziering, also known as the Dancing With the Stars Z lister, moving his way towards the front of the stage.

I was a huge fan of Beverly Hills 90210 in my teens. In the early 1990’s it was the only must-see TV in my life, even though I grew up in a blue collar town and had little in common with the glamorous students of West Beverly High. I spent my summers with the gang at the beach and my evenings hanging out at the Peach Pit After Dark. I even followed them through the college years at the mythical California University.

Just like your high school experience...only different! The gang from West Beverly:

I never really cared for Ian Ziering’s character Steve Sanders on 90210. I thought he was a complete tool – one who drove a Corvette and sported a blonde afro/mullet to boot. I think the writers thought those attributes made him cool, but instead he looked like a guy having a midlife crisis with the sports car and wearing jackets with shoulder pads.

Exhibit A: The White Man Mullet'Fro...

Even with all that working against him, seeing Ian Zierling in the flesh changed everything for me. I just had to get my photo taken with him.

I plead with Andrew to help me in my mission. I start envisioning the possibilities this photo could create for me. A holiday card. Can’t you see it? Happy holidays from the Zierings. Oh, this is going to be really funny.

I spend the next 15 minutes strategizing on how to approach Ian to have our photo taken together. Could I be bold and approach him? Wait for him to walk by? Make Andrew do it for me? I begin wondering if a proper protocol exists for asking a Z lister to take a photo with you.

As I contemplate my next move, an opportunity for introduction presents itself. Ian begins making his way out of the crowd away from the stage, and as luck would have it, heads straight in my direction. I decide to just go for it and approach him. I step towards him and almost instantly our eyes connect. My heart starts racing and he smiles at me. This is going to happen! I continue stepping towards him, making sure not to trip and trying not to lose the eye contact. Everything is going to plan, at least until the moment I opened my mouth.

If this situation happened to anyone but me, the following things might have been said:

“Ian! I’m a huge fan of your work. Could I please take a photo with you?”

“You were AMAZING on Dancing with the Stars!”

“I’m a dying woman and my last wish is to take a photo with you.”

But alas, this is me we’re talking about, so think about what a jackass would say instead.

“AAAAAACCCCKKHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I'm not sure of the proper spelling of the shriek that came out of mouth. The shrill tone startles me as much as it does Ian. To make it worse, I realize I am POINTING at him while I'm doing this. The pitch of my voice stops Ian in his tracks and pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius of the two of us. He continues to stare at me but his smile is gone, replaced with a concerned glance. Then his expression turns to one of fear, right before he turns and high tails it the opposite direction.

Mortified, I stand there frozen. Not only did I blow my chance for a photo opp, but I managed to scare the crap out of the guy, just by being me. What can I say? It's a gift...

I hear Andrew laughing his ass off behind me. “Kristen! What the hell just happened?” he taunts as he doubles over. I come back to my senses and join Andrew in the laughter.

What can I say Andrew? I guess you can say Steve Sanders and I shared a moment we’ll never forget.

How To Lose Three Months

2008-01-18T21:39:00.000-08:00

Has it really been three months since I last wrote?

Wow. What the hell happened there?

I guess a recap is in order. Last time I wrote I was in Toronto kicking off a five week roadshow of the latest releases of the visual effects software I market. Within 36 hours of that event, I was in New York City for yet another roadshow stop. Tim flew out that Friday and we spent the weekend playing tourist and exploring the greatest city in the world.

Tourists at the Top of the Rock:

The following Monday, Tim flew West and I headed north to Montreal for a four-day marketing summit. On Friday, I boarded the ol' Air Canada Flight 761 back to SFO. For the first time in 12 days, I found myself back at home where I immediately collapsed on the couch, and spent the next four days unpacking, doing laundry, and packing up again.

On Halloween I flew to Dallas for another stop on the roadshow tour. My coworkers threw me one hell of a birthday party, taking me out for sushi and too many cocktails at the Ghostbar Dallas. I met costumed freaks and danced to my own beat as midnight ran in my 34th birthday. The night of my birthday we held our product demos, and the crew toasted me with champagne.

Note the size of the sake bottle...I'm amazed I remember my birthday!

Once again, I flew home on a Friday, collapsed on the couch, unpacked, did laundry, and repacked, as three days later I would be traveling to Los Angeles for the roadshow.

The roadshow ended in San Francisco on November 13th but although I was home, I didn’t get too comfortable. The following weekend I packed up another suitcase and headed to Las Vegas for my brothers’ surprise 30th birthday party. My brother was quite surprised when 17 freaks (including my parents) wearing Mexican wrestling masks screamed SURPRISE at him when he thought he was going to just have a quiet dinner with friends at the Pink Taco. Why were we wearing Lucha Libre masks? Why not? We spent three days playing in Vegas, going out for delicious meals at Nobu and Mesa Grill, catching a performance of Cirque du Soleil’s Love, and hitting the spa facilities at Canyon Ranch.

A family portrait to remember:

After returning from Vegas, I found myself adapting to a new reality - settling back into normalcy. I know it sounds crazy, but after spending six weeks with the same people, eating bad food and staying in strange hotels, you actually adapt to it. I’d even go as far to say I like it, sick as it sounds. I had to get back on a schedule and a healthier routine. I gained six pounds over six weeks. Eating out and not exercising took its toll, along with the friendly beer or two I found myself having with my coworkers. I rarely drink during the week and now I know why.

Thanksgiving was upon me before I knew it, a terrible time to try to get back into shape. Sigh! Still, life goes on. We took our nephew Andrew in for three days, his first sleepover at his aunt and uncles house. Tim and I had a blast taking him to the San Francisco Zoo (back before we knew going to the zoo was dangerous!)

RIP Tatiana the tiger...

Suddenly December was here. Changes at work meant for long hours in a time where work typically winds down. Christmas shopping became an afterthought as planning meetings and budgeting took center stage. A last-minute shopping frenzy took over the latter half of December, and before I knew it, it was Christmas Eve. Tim and I managed not to kill the family when we took on the cooking detail this year.

My company was closed between Christmas and New Years, so I took a few well-deserved days off. During this time I completely decompressed. Didn’t look at my Blackberry or email and just relaxed. Caught up on projects around the house, dinners with friends, as well as some much needed sleep.

When the clock struck midnight on New Years, we ran to the roof of a friend’s house in the Marina, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fireworks. We couldn’t see them from our vantage point, but settled on a show-stopping view of the Golden Gate Bridge instead.

January 2nd brought tough news this way. My left shoulder was still aching, even a year after surgery. MRI results pointed to fluid on my labrum, indicating a tear and a botched surgery. If my shoulder doesn’t heal naturally, I’ll be back in the operating room sometime late this spring or early summer to repair it. I have so many emotions here – anger, frustration, sadness. I don’t want to go through it again. It’s as simple as that.

After a week back in the office, I was off to four days of leadership training up in the wine country. Battling bronchitis, I managed to make it through the training exercises, push myself out of my comfort zone in terms of public speaking, and even made some new friends in the process.

Drinking the Kool-Aid and dressing snazzy at leadership training:

And that brings me to this week, where I just realized how easy it is to lose three months of your life in a blink of an eye. (And this recap barely scratches the surface!)

I don’t see my schedule freeing up anytime soon, but I’ll try to be more diligent about posting here more than every three months.

Oh Canada...

2007-10-15T23:54:00.000-07:00

For the fifth time this year, I find myself in a hotel room, unable to sleep at an ungodly hour. Blame Canada...or at least Eastern Standard Time for my insomnia.

Today's destination, Toronto. As my flight was delayed three hours in getting here (with one of those pesky indicator light issues), I missed dinner with my coworkers and a chance to explore downtown. From the window of my cab, it seems cool, and if Toronto is anything like my more frequent visits to Vancouver or Montreal, it should be a hell of a time.

The more time I spend in Canada, the more I like it here. I've been to Montreal three times this year, and will return for a fourth time next week. I have friends there now who entertain me when I'm in their town. The city is old, beautiful, vibrant...well at least when it isn't wintertime.

Canada is similar to the US, but different. You can find almost anything you'd get in the States, but it might look a little different, or be more challenging to find (don't run out of tampons in Old Montreal for example).

Toronto residents pronounce words with a slight accent. I never knew this until I began working with folks from the greater Toronto metropolitan area. Today when United Airlines decided my preference and original aisle seat assignment was too much to give and reassigned me to a middle seat between two six-foot-giants, it took me two seconds to identify my seat mate as an Toronto-based Canadian. It was his killer sense of humor and pronunciation of the word "about" (or as he said, aboote), that made me exclaim, "you must be flying home today!"

Some things I've learned not to do in Canada:

1) Don't make fun of Celine Dion unless you are absolutely sure the person you are talking to hates her as much as you do. This holds especially true in Montreal, where Celine is held second to God in her native land. Outside of Quebec, she's either adored or vilified, but the wrong comment can polarize you. Trust me. French Canadians have NO sense of humor on this topic. None. Choose safer targets like Nickelback.

2) Don't make comments like "all Canadian beer tastes like piss!" Most Canadian (males) know their beer, and they know their beer better than you. They will win this battle. Once again. Trust me on this.

3) Don't tease any guy about hockey being a sub-par sport. See statement #2.

All kidding aside, I really dig Canada for many reasons. The beauty of Vancouver with the modern skyline and green mountains rising out of the sea makes me think I could easily relocate. The history and European flair of Montreal is appealing on many levels. And I'm sure I'm going to discover what makes Toronto tick in the days to come.

Beyond the beauty, the comfort of Canada being similar to home (even with the differences in cultures as you travel from coast to coast), it's the people that have won me over. Perhaps a good sense of humor and personality is necessary when you live in a place that can drop to -15 degrees out in winter. Whatever it may be, I always look forward to my visits here.

I Want My MTV...Back

2007-09-10T00:57:00.000-07:00

Like most folks who read celebrity blogs and rags, I was eagerly waiting for tonight's comeback performance by Britney Spears at the MTV Video Music Awards. I predicted a spectacular trainwreck and Brit did not let me down. She even paved the way for us less-than-perfect body types to prance around without fear in our sparkly underwear.

(Or perhaps not...)

While most of America will be talking about that performance for weeks to come, what had me most perplexed is what has become of MTV. I grew up as a child of MTV, back when video was still killing radio stars. Nowadays, seeing a video on MTV is miraculous enough, but after watching the VMA's, it is clear that MTV doesn't even know what music is anymore.

The VMA's were held in Vegas this year and appeared to be edited by a schizophrenic. When did the viewers of MTV all develop ADD? The show jumped from a main stage at the Palms, and went to private parties at suites at the Palms with different artists headlining those separate parties - Fall Out Boy, Foo Fighters, Kayne West, and Justin Timberlake with Timbaland. No one seemed to know where to direct their attention, especially the at-home viewers.

Most annoying, the entire ceremony seemed like one promotional opportunity for The Palms, not to mention Rhapsody, who kept hawking live performances by artists and urging you to download their music. MTV even created an award called "The Quadruple Threat" award - a category that honors musicians not only for their singing and acting abilities, but for things like their clothing lines and social activism.

After about an hour, I just turned it off. My head hurt. It made watching The Blair Witch Project seem like childs play.

These VMA's made me long for the days where musicians of different genres would come to one stage and perform. Back in my day, there was no separation of music - from sugary pop from Madonna, to rock anthems by Bon Jovi, the VMA's brought artists of all different walks together. Those VMA's were about the music and not promotional opportunities.

MTV used the VMA's to hawk shows that have nothing to do with music all night - The Real World, The Hills, and their soon-to-broadcast bisexual dating show, "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," starring the aforementioned MySpace celebrity-for-no-reason.

Maybe I'm getting too old, but is it wrong to just want to hear music?

I want my old MTV back.

Damn You Jimmy Choo

2007-09-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

I prop myself up and watch as a thick trail of deep blue-red blood narrowly winds its way down my calf towards my foot. Gravel, once quietly contained at home on the ground, is firmly implanted into my left wrist. My right elbow, burning from scraping against jagged rocks, is throbbing in pain. The rest of my body has come to rest on T, who is also a bloody mess. I assess the damage and force back a sob.

I came between two gay men, and now I’m paying the ultimate price.

Damn you Jimmy Choo!

The events that unfolded last Saturday night should not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me. If someone was going to end up shedding blood over a pair of shoes, the smart money would fall on me to take the hit.

It all started innocently when I found myself trying on a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos a few weeks ago. I had long wanted a pair, but couldn’t bring myself part with the funds. Yet, in a weak moment, with Tim there to approve the hot shoes, I found myself making other budget cuts so I could afford my new footwear.

My first opportunity to wear them came last Saturday while up in Calistoga to attend a wedding. My friends and I arrived into town a day early, and decided to go out to dinner. One bottle of wine turned into many, and by the time dinner was over, none of us were feeling any worse for wear.

Somewhere around this point is where the trouble began.

C, the boyfriend of T, is a flirt and one with a fabulous sense of style. He picked up on the footwear long before anyone else did, and did not hesitate to compliment me on my purchase.

There are few people you can discuss something like Jimmy Choo’s with. They’re not your average purchase, and with the exception of some label whore girlfriends, my gay friends are the only one to truly appreciate the goodness that is Jimmy Choo.

The combination of the wine and the shoes were almost too much for C to bear. He kept talking about them and I ate up the attention. When we joined the bridal party at the rehearsal dinner, C and I decided we should be immortalized in a photograph together with the shoes. Of course I couldn’t just take the damn shoes off…no, that’d be too easy. It had to be something different, say like kicking my leg up as high as possible with C holding my leg and shoe in hand.

Doing this sober would have been notable enough, but attempting this pose with several glasses of wine in us, was another. It took three shots to make it happen. We thought it was funny, however, C’s boyfriend T, not so much. From a distance, we took on the look of a drunk couple…and a straight one at that to one who did not know any better.

My husband pulled me aside to point out how my antics with C were being watched and were pissing off T. Never wanting to be the wedge in another couples relationship, I walked over to T to try to smooth things over.

“T…you know I don’t want your man, right?” I tell T in a compassionate tone. “Honey, it’s all about the shoes.”

T smiled and told me we were fine. We joked around about it and he hugs me. We decide it’s best to head back to our hotels and call it a night when the next thing I know, I’m on the ground.

As I never saw the hit coming, I’m almost positive T tripped, tried to hold on to me for support, and took me down like a load of bricks. Other observers are convinced T took me down as payback. The evening is blurry for T so he's no help on the subject. All I know is one second – standing; the next second – bleeding.

The one thing I do know for sure is that this would have never occurred in a pair of Nine West shoes.

Spare Me

2007-08-30T10:42:00.000-07:00

Today is the second “Spare the Air” day here in the San Francisco Bay Area, a sort of snow day from paying for public transportation due to high temperatures and poor air quality.

While getting a free ride to and from work is always a good thing, the entire concept of Spare the Air is so ass backwards it makes my head hurt, especially here in Marin County.

At least two-three days a week I take the Golden Gate Ferry from Larkspur into my office in San Francisco. The other days I either carpool, and very rarely, I drive alone. I enjoy taking the boat into work although it costs almost as much as it does for me to drive, cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and park in downtown San Francisco.

In order for me to get to my ferry from my house, I have to sit through about eight miles of stop-and-go traffic. The trip takes me at least 25 minutes due to a variety of factors including school being back in session, losing a lane of freeway for a two mile stretch of road in Central San Rafael, and the most recent bane of my existence – a freeway construction project where US 101 and Eastbound 580 merge together.

There are a couple of buses that run out of my neighborhood to San Francisco, but they are express buses and they don’t run frequently or when I need to be at work. From what I’ve researched, there are no options for me to get from my house to the ferry terminal in Larkspur.
What does all this mean? It means I still have to get in my car on Spare the Air days to get to the free ride to work, thus defeating the purpose of the campaign. Part of the push of Spare the Air is to work from home, but as we can never predict when these days are going to come, it is hard to plan for working from home.

The bigger picture, at least for Marin County, is the need for better infrastructure. I looked around this morning and saw an empty carpool lane, and three lanes of single drivers. While some people just don’t care and do like to drive, I have to suspect many are people like me, who want to do the right thing and use public transportation, but have no other choice than to get into their cars.

(And for you hippies out there, yes, I could ride a bike to the ferry terminal if I A) owned one B) had a shower to clean up in at work afterwards and C) had somewhere to store it in downtown SF).

Marin County voters have shot down the last several initiatives for a light rail system in the county. Meanwhile, the roads are clogged and the quality of life in my county struggles. Not to mention the 300-lb. gorilla in the room, global warming.

So yes, I can say I rode public transportation and “spared the air” today. While it sounds noble, I know the truth. I’m a total fraud, much like this entire program is.

Mercury Retrograde

2007-08-27T20:43:00.000-07:00

My friend Joana and I have a running joke that when things break or start going haywire, we blame it on Mercury Retrograde.

Until a few years ago, Mercury Retrograde had never crossed my path, at least not consciously. One day, while bored at work, I was sent a link to an astrology website. While I'm not someone who actively follows astrology, it is a great way to waste time reading horoscopes and how they relate to work, love, and life in general.

It is said in astrology that Mercury rules over the mind - including all communication, business, and travel processes. When Mercury reverses its direction, everything that Mercury is associated with is affected. Mercury Retrograde, astrologists warn, is an unfortunate time to make business decisions, purchase things like cars, or get married.

Suddenly it all became clear. It was no longer me making those user error mistakes at work. Obviously, it was Mercury Retrograde. If something breaks, blame Mercury! Flight delays? Oh, that pesky Mercury!

Today felt like a Mercury Retrograde period as everything electronic I touched stopped working. First, on the WebEx call where my presentation was temporarily muted by WebEx (only in front of the entire Americas sales organization for the company I work for and only during my presentation). Later today, the Mystic Tan machine that I desperately need to help me grow a tan by Saturday to compliment the rockin' pale blue dress I bought in New York last week, decided to stop working. Never mind that it had just worked for the customer ahead of me. Picture me standing butt naked in a machine pushing a button to spray a tan that just isn't coming.

The final straw came when all the cash registers at my local supermarket froze up as I was in line buying groceries for dinner. The market had to close early as they had no way to ring up our food manually.

That was the third strike. I almost didn't get in my car to drive home. At this point, it seemed dangerous to tempt fate further.

Surprisingly, Mercury is not in a retrograde period today, although it certainly feels like it is. Then again, there is a full moon tonight. I think I'll blame that for this crazy and frustrating day.

If I Can Make it There, I'll Make it Anywhere...

2007-08-23T22:50:00.000-07:00

Frank Sinatra sings in his classic song New York, New York “if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” Those lyrics really hit home while on a recent business trip to New York, where after only 15 minutes into my trip, I found myself homeless as well as going through a sort of identity crisis. Perhaps I should mention these events also unraveled as my right ass cheek was being firmly held in the death grip of a kinky lesbian grandma.

Awesome.

I flew the short distance from Montreal to New York Saturday morning on a claustrophobic express jet made for little people. You know you’re on a tiny plane when you have to do the limbo to get to your seat as to not hit your head on the ceiling. Better yet, when the pilot made the standard announcement for flight attendants to take their seats for take-off, he just called into the intercom, “Pam, prepare for take-off.”

While visiting New York, I was to stay at the Hudson, an uber-trendy boutique hotel, with what my coworker Brian likes to call the world’s biggest lobby, and the world’s smallest hotel rooms. I stayed there a few months ago, and swore I would never do that again (something to do with the feeling that the walls were closing in on me in my 150 sq. ft. room). As this trip came up somewhat last minute, I decided to go back to the prison I already knew, rather than play hotel room roulette with a different corporate hotel option.

As I attempt to check in at the Hudson, the man at the registration desk begins looking baffled. He can’t find my reservation anywhere. We try 10 different spellings of my name but it becomes clear I’m not in their system. I dig out my travel itinerary in mock outrage (hoping their obvious error will result in an upgrade for me), only to discover my corporate travel agency never received a confirmation for my stay. And just like that, I am homeless.

I pull out my Blackberry and call corporate travel to sort out this mess while the guy at the front desk attempts to hunt down a room for me that costs something remotely close to our corporate rate. While we’re doing this, I feel an arm wrap itself around my waist, and the warmth of a body standing too close to me. At that exact moment, the travel agent picks up the line so I'm momentarily distracted and don’t turn to face my molester.

That is, until the molester grabs my ass.

Horrified, I turn to face a woman, easily in her sixties, who leans over towards my ear and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t wait to see you again.”

Both the man behind the desk and I stand there stunned as the color in my almost-lovers face turns crimson. She looks at me sheepishly and exclaims, “Oh sorry. Wrong girl!”

It is all I can do to not burst out laughing in her face. Somehow ten long seconds pass as she walks away before the guy at registration and I break out in a roar of laughter. The perplexed travel agent questions what just happened, so I tell her, and we bust up again. It is not every day you get mistaken as a participant in a lesbian tryst and get assaulted.

In the end, corporate travel was able to sort out a room and the guy behind the counter upgraded me to a deluxe room (meaning my 150 sq. ft. room will be 175 sq. ft., with a hallway). I never crossed paths with my molester again, but kept looking for my evil tart of a twin, who apparently was the right girl.

The best line came from the man checking me in, who has no idea how I attract freaks like a moth to the light. As he handed me my room keys, he smiles and says, “I think this is going to be an interesting trip to New York for you.”

With a start like that, how could it be anything but?

Guess who's back?

2007-08-20T21:40:00.001-07:00

I haven’t had any words lately.

Not sure what to make of it. This has been quite a dry spell for me. I’ve attempted to write several times but as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard, the words escape me and my mind goes blank.

It has been a busy summer. Almost every weekend has brought a new adventure. Camping, taking my nephew Jonathan to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, even a mini-vacation to Tahoe. I saw The Police in concert. Flew to Vegas for one bachelorette parties and traveled to Sonoma for another one. Went to Minneapolis, New York City and Los Angeles within a three-week span for work, and have spent the past six days in Montreal and New York City.

I’ve had highs like watching Irika graduate from nursing school and getting reacquainted with old friends who I hadn’t seen in almost 15 years. I’ve had terrific lows, having attended the funeral of a close family friend.

There is a lot of material there, and I hope the words come back soon.

********

And on another note:

Believe it or not, people actually read the crap I post here.

(I know. I’m amazed too).

More shocking is that I am about to surpass the 1,000 hit mark for traffic to my site. Not bad for an inconsistent hack who wants to be a writer when she grows up.

Come celebrate with me as I get to this milestone. On the day of my 1000th hit, every reader gets a free ice cream cone.**

**Must be present to win.

A Life Taken Away Too Soon

2007-07-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

I don't know where to start. What do you say when a friend you've known since you were four-years-old dies of cancer at the age of 32?

Are there words to describe the loss? Is there anything you can say that makes up for the years we were robbed of his presence on this earth?

I feel numb - I should have done more for him these last couple of months. Angry at God for taking him away prematurely. Sad - not only for his loss, but for his family and all those lucky enough to call him a friend. We are all better people for just knowing him.

I think back to all the times we shared. Playing HORSE in his backyard for hours. Looking for golf balls in the bushes at Sharp Park Golf Course. Class trips to Blackberry Farm where he dunked me in the pool. Running in the Freedom From Hunger race (I couldn't keep up with him, so he'd stop and wait for me). Even that chance day where I ran into him a few years ago in Pacifica and stood for an hour chatting about our lives. He had tremendous spirit and a kind soul.

I will miss you, my dear friend but I am glad your pain is gone now. I will never forget you.

The Random People That You Meet

2007-06-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

Business travel is forcing me to face one of my biggest fears, dining alone.

I know it sounds irrational, but I hate to eat alone. When I work in San Francisco and don’t have someone to eat with, I’ll grab take-out and bring it back to my desk. If Tim is gone, I typically pick up something at our local market for dinner. Ever so rare is the moment you’ll see me sitting alone at a restaurant.

That all changed recently while I was on a business trip to Manhattan. Normally, I’d hole up and order room service, but I wasn’t prepared for my hotel room being less than 175 square feet and the sudden claustrophobia that came along with that. I HAD to get out. Stinking up my tiny space with food was completely out of the question.

Luckily Sunday night was a gorgeous one in the city. At 6:30 PM it was still warm outside and the energy woke me right out of my jet-lagged stupor. I began walking up 8th Avenue and exploring the Upper West Side. There was so much to see in my neighborhood – Central Park, the Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall. Every corner brought a new landmark or something to see. I walked over 20 blocks taking it all in. I would have kept going but I started getting hungry.

As it was Sunday evening, families were out together dining. I kept hoping to walk by the perfect little diner where I could just sit at the counter alone. I couldn’t find any place that fit my comfort level criteria, and I was determined not to eat fast food. Running out of daylight and energy, I made a choice and headed back to the hotel.

With great resolve, I marched straight to the hostess at the very swanky Hudson Cafeteria restaurant. Mustering all the confidence I could, I declared, “One for dinner please…outside.”

I felt like all eyes were on me as I walked onto the brick patio. I stood tall and pretended I was the confident type of woman who thinks nothing of dining alone.

I was never happier than when my cell phone rang ten minutes into dinner. Typically, I’d never answer the phone while seated at a restaurant but I had an insatiable urge to prove I wasn’t always a loner to the diners around me. Immediately I start whining to my friend on the line about what a loser I am for dining alone.

Unbeknownst to me, two men sitting at the table next to me, Patrick and Richard, overheard my cries. As soon as I hung up my phone, I realized they were looking at me. Sheepishly, I begin to apologize for taking a call at a restaurant, but as I do this, they push their table towards mine.

“You don’t need to eat alone,” Patrick says with a smile.

The next three hours flew by. They were already on their entrees, but they ordered dessert and wine, and we talked. I took them up to the exclusive Hudson Skybar (only hotel guests have access in) and we sat out on the patio in plush seats talking about the random things you discuss with strangers. They were both on business travel from Southern California. We shared stories about favorite places in Manhattan, air travel horror stories, work, Giants vs. Dodgers.

And then as suddenly as I met these two guys, we were saying goodnight. We didn’t exchange business cards or phone numbers. I had a great night with them both, and I’ll never see them again.

Before we said goodbye...Me, Richard and Patrick hanging out at the Skybar.

The next night I sat at the counter at the same restaurant. I felt much more encouraged after the previous night’s experience, but on this night I found myself sitting between an antisocial Middle Eastern man, and a couple who made out pretty much any moment they weren’t eating their meal. Luckily, Mr. Antisocial exited quickly and was replaced by a bohemian British woman named Rebecca. She looked as uncomfortable as me sitting at the counter, so I passed her a sympathetic grin. The next thing you know, we’re two chatterboxes who look not unlike two longtime friends who are out for a meal together. We learn we’re both in New York to attend the same tradeshow, that we work in the same industry, and share a love of shoe shopping. Two glasses of wine later and we’re sharing a dessert and acting like long lost friends.

I’ll never see her again either.

My final night in New York started with me going out for beers with two of my coworkers Marc and Rob. They both had to get home, which left me once again, alone for dinner. This time, I didn’t have the energy to find a restaurant or go back to the same place again, and had resigned to ordering room service in my pin box of a room. Defeated, I walked into the elevator to head to my room. Being polite, I smile at an older gentleman as we head up to our rooms. We begin to make small talk, and the next thing I know, we are making plans to meet down in the lobby to go grab dinner together.

Ten minutes later I meet Bob in the lobby. We decided to walk down the street to eat at a restaurant down near Columbus Circle. Bob is a 64-year-old widower from Dallas, with three kids that are close to age to me. (Yes, he has children that are in their 20’s…) Bob tells me how he lost his wife to cervical cancer seven years ago, and how much he misses her. I talk to him about wanting a family one day, but I’m settling for two cats and a crazy career right now. He’s a nice guy and the time flies by quickly with small talk and pleasantries. We say goodnight, and although we exchanged business cards, he hasn’t contacted me or vice versa.

Three days, three random strangers. They came into my life for some reason and left just as quickly. I may never see them again but I won’t soon forget them either. I hope they don’t forget me either.

The Bozo Makeover

2007-06-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

I was 12 the last time I went to Manhattan, a trip most memorable not for going to the Statue of Liberty or to the top of the Empire State Building, but for getting my first makeover at Bloomingdales.

It was fall of 1986. My aunt was getting married in Cape Cod and we flew out as a family to attend the wedding. This was a big milestone in family vacations, marking the first time we had ever left the state (outside of trips to Reno to play carnival games at Circus Circus…rock on!) We spent time in Boston, Cape Cod, Nantucket, and to round out the trip, spent our last couple days in New York City. To say we were out of our league in the big city would be an understatement, (hell, we stayed in Times Square before it was cleaned up for Pete’s sake) but it was still a good time, even when dad got robbed in broad daylight in front of us.

The day of the makeover, I was wearing a new sweatshirt we’d bought from a street vendor. It was in line with the fashion trends of the mid-80’s - black with pink, blue, yellow, and lavender pastel lettering that said “New York, New York.” Visiting Bloomingdales was a big deal as this was when they only had their stores on the East Coast. I remember being so excited (not unlike the feeling I had when Bloomingdales opened last year in San Francisco…stop wincing Tim!) We strolled through the floors window shopping. I was so excited when we got to their Esprit shop “within-a-shop” concept. I had seen photos of these mini-stores in my Teen Magazines and was dying to get something Esprit from Bloomingdales. “MOM!” I whined. “Can I pleeeeeease buy something?”

My parents by this point of the vacation had dropped an unimaginable amount of money on airfare, hotels, and taking/dragging their bratty and ungrateful children to tourist spots. Getting me the latest Esprit duds that we could of course, get at home, was not going to happen anytime soon. My mom compromised by and bought me a pair of Bloomie’s bloomers (underwear) explaining it would be easier to pack in our suitcase than anything else. I chose to sulk.

We were getting ready to leave the juniors section when an effeminate man shrieked as I walked by. “Your face! I MUST do your face. May I?” he asked my mother.

I was an eighth grader at the time and one of the only girls in the class who wasn’t allowed to wear make-up. My mom had very strict rules about this (something to the effect of not wanting a daughter who looked like a street walker) and my stomach sank upon hearing his request. I was positive she would never say yes, plus I had already been trying her patience with a temper tantrum after being shot down on the Esprit clothing.

Yet, to my utter amazement, mom replied to the man kindly. “Well, we’re on vacation. Why not?”

The next couple of minutes were a whirlwind. The guy was a chatterbox. “Oh, we MUST do this color on your eyes…now look up while I work the liner…” A little blush, and some lip gloss later, and the new and improved me was ready to be revealed.

When I look back at pictures from that day, the girl who is positively beaming into the camera looks nothing short of a reject from the Barnum & Bailey circus clown car. As I recall, he matched the pastel colors of my sweatshirt writing to my face. I kid you not. My lids had yellow sparkly eye shadow, my mascara was teal, and the liner was purple. My cheeks and lips were pastel pink. Pretty much every one of my worst colors all in Technicolor on my face. Awesome. And I was ready to buy everything he put on me.

Mom put her foot down when it came to buying any of the make-up. I was still too young in her book to be wearing the stuff. This was to be a special vacation moment only and not a rule reversal on the make-up bylaws.

That day has been burned into my brain as one of the greatest moments of my childhood. Probably as it was one of the last days of my childhood. Within a year, I was in puberty and dealing with dreaded teenager issues. Maybe that’s what makes it so sweet…to be so innocent that a ridiculous makeover made such a lasting impression. Or that my parents bent the rules just once, something they rarely did.

I’m about to land in Newark and return to Manhattan for the first time in 21 years for work. Since I booked my ticket here, I’ve had many memories come up from that vacation, but with this one standing out the most. I hope this trip will bring many more happy memories as well.

Incredible Saddness

2007-06-08T14:57:00.000-07:00

Some good friends of mine suffered a tremendous loss today. I don't want to go into the details to protect their privacy, but since learning the news, I've been overwhelmed with grief for them. Death is never easy, but this news has rendered me completely numb.

To these friends, I want to express my condolences. You are in my every thought and prayer. I wish there was something I could say or do to ease your pain and I am so sorry for your loss.

Good While it Lasted...

2007-06-06T21:36:00.000-07:00

FU*K!

First class, I hardly knew you. I’m on the flight back home from Minneapolis to SFO now and as you can see, I’ve resumed my usual position over the wing. Dammit!

At least there's no screaming baby.

Sigh...

A View From the Top...

2007-06-06T21:18:00.000-07:00

How’s this for a new outlook on things?

That’s right! A photo looking back at the wing for once. Guess who isn’t sitting over the wing with the rest of the herd in coach? I was upgraded to first class upon checking in this morning...cause that’s how I roll.

Wow…even the pretzels taste better up here, as does the Diet Pepsi I’m sipping out of a real glass. In case you’re thinking I’m getting a big head about this upgrade don’t worry. The universe is still having its way with me as a screaming baby, otherwise known as my required business travel companion, is sitting right behind me. After surviving that flight with 80 French Canadian teenagers a few weeks ago, I guess I should be thankful it isn’t worse.

I’m on a flight to Minneapolis right now, marking a new region of the United States that I’ve never ventured to before. (There could be a reason for that as it is Minneapolis, yikes). Then again, this is the city that brought us Prince so it can’t be all that bad. I had to promise my friend Rick that I’d find a hat and throw it, Mary Tyler Moore style while I’m there as well.

Like me, only different:

Today’s journey began with a little hiccup, or as the flight deck called it, a “little indicator light issue.” Why in God’s good name do pilots feel the need to be 100% honest with us about these things? I swear ignorance in these situations truly is bliss. I don’t want to know what is really happening. Go ahead and lie to me. Tell me there are weather issues in Minneapolis. Tell me a runway just shut down at SFO and we’re going to have some small delays. Tell me anything…other than the truth.

With big saucer eyes and heart palpitations we took off in complete silence. In the end, the indicator light issue had something to do with the air conditioning unit and nothing major. Or perhaps it was a big deal and the pilot is lying to us. Who knows? Just get me there already little birdie.

Today Minneapolis, next Sunday, New York City. The following week I’m in Los Angeles. So many business trips right now! They always come in clusters like this. I’m sure the next three days will provide plenty of stories. Until then, I am going to stretch out and enjoy my time living the high life, because I’m sure it will be awhile before I am afforded this first class luxury again.

Now I Have Truly Seen it All...

2007-06-01T14:12:00.000-07:00

Herb Caen used to write “only in San Francisco” columns for the San Francisco Chronicle that captured the people, events, and general lunacy that makes this place so special. As a native San Franciscan, I've basically become immune to behaviors and lifestyle choices that most of America considers weird. That is until a few weeks ago when I participated in the 96th annual Bay to Breakers race.

The Bay to Breakers is the benchmark for San Francisco insanity. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but it was my first time participating even after being born and raised here. Now that the race has come and gone, I have no idea how I’ve missed out on this over the years. What a blast - a giant 100,000 person freak parade. A traveling half-naked, costume-garbed Mardi Gras, with some really fast Kenyans at the front of the pack.

Rather than writing about what I saw, I thought my pictures could tell a better story. Hopefully this will capture some of the fun and spirit that makes the Bay to Breakers so fabulous.

First off, here is my friend Shea and I early in the race. We had just been "beaded" by some naked guys who took our picture as if we were the freaks. As you can see, we have trained hard for this day and in order to keep our athletic prowess, have selected light beers to drink instead of more caloric options...

Uh, yeah...for the record, that is NOT a snake.

Getting cheeky at the Bay to Breakers:

If I had to see this, so do you. Proving once again that the naked people are rarely the people who should actually be naked. Great ad for Starbucks as well...

Me and Mr. Dick-in-a-Box. He had a cucumber inside the box as well...hilarious!

The dreaded Hayes Street hill. Just a few people out participating that day...

Elvis is alive and well at the Bay to Breakers!

Can you spot Shea and I here?

This seems like it might be a Cal/OSHA violation...

Lookin' sharp!

Only at the Bay to Breakers can a man in a rabbit suit and a woman in a mullet wig find true love...

Lastly, a photo that truly captures the fun. A woman up and a man in a giant banana suit breaking it down for us above a sidewalk dance party. I can't wait for next year!

The Great Mystery of the NAB Melon Platter

2007-05-14T02:10:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure whether it was the second or the third consecutive Celine Dion song that finally broke my spirit. Working on a Saturday is a painful concept to grasp, one made harder to accept when it is a Saturday morning in Las Vegas. Add a little Celine Dion audio torture to the mix and all I could think was screw you Snow White. There would definitely be no whistling while I worked.

Welcome to the latest chapter in my annual NAB pilgrimage – where I set some new records of achievement. Most notably, this was my longest duration in Sin City, a baffling seven days of meetings, schmoozing, and melon platters. Why the melon platter? I’m still trying to figure that out myself. It is akin to all things Vegas and tradeshows. Don’t cantaloupe and honeydew melons EVER go out of season? It is always the same bland, tasteless crap too. If you’re lucky, some sour pineapple and unripe red grapes are tossed into the mix. You can count on two things with every NAB, sore feet and melon platters.

More cantaloupe please!

I grossly underestimate how long it would take me to get from my suite to the conference room where we were executing “Operation Bag Stuff.” By the time I arrive at 9:15 AM, a dozen skinny and gorgeous mostly French Canadian coworkers are sitting around a table eating breakfast, defying all logic by eating sugary breakfast pastries. I silently curse them as I help myself to the above-referenced mandatory melon platter, bypassing an almond croissant that is eagerly calling out to join the rest of my ass fat.

“Bonjour Kristen,” says Sophie, greeting me with the customary Montreal kiss on each cheek. “We are so happy to see you!”

I am happy to see them too, although not happy about the task ahead of me. I have been at my job for over five months now, and I really like my coworkers to the North even if they’re all unfairly smart, skinny, beautiful, and have a disturbing fondness of sappy Celine Dion tunes.

Our mission that morning is to stuff goodie bags with jackets and literature for our user group meeting the next evening. We also have VIP gifts, PR bags, and bags for our channel partners that all need to be assembled as well. I sigh and get to work.

My only motivator is that on this particular Saturday, I have my one and only significant block of free time for the entire week. After the bags are stuffed, we have lunch and a mandatory staff meeting, and then we are free to do whatever we want. I’ve already arranged for sunbathing out by the pool, catching a performance of Spamalot at the Wynn, followed by dinner at the Mesa Grill. Every activity will occur with several girlfriends from work. As NAB is a male dominated show, the idea of a ladies night in Vegas is unheard of and it sounds like a great time. But first, I have to get through those damn bags.

It takes almost three hours of hard physical labor and enduring an entire Celine Dion CD, but we get the 900 bags stuffed. Our euphoria turns to rage during lunch when a marketing manager discovers a formatting error on one of the flyers we stuffed, and makes us remove all 900 of them from our completed bags. I spend the next hour multitasking – as I help remove the flyers, my coworkers teach me how to swear in French. Fourche! Pétasse! C'est des conneries! Somehow the afternoon isn’t a complete loss with my language lessons keeping me entertained.

By 2 PM, “Operation Bag Stuff” is complete. I head poolside with my friend Shea, where we order beers, dodge date offers from two hairy rednecks sitting across from us, and breathe in the fresh air. While the next six days will bring additional cheesy pick-up lines, opportunities to show off my new French vocabulary, a dry throat from breathing in stale air conditioning and cigarette smoke, and sadly, more melon platters, I know all too well there will not be another moment of to relax like this. If there was more free time, this would be any ol' trip to Vegas, and not NAB. I smile and take it all in. For all my grumbling, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Window on the World

2007-05-10T08:22:00.000-07:00

It seems my window on the world is looking a lot like this lately:

I'm sandwiched on an Air Canada Airbus 319 en route to Montreal on the first of four business trips I am taking over the next six to eight weeks. I am one of approximately 100 coach class passengers trying to stake out precious cubic inches of personal space as my own. The woman in seat 18A has already exercised her right to lean her chair back into me and evoke claustrophobia I didn’t know I possessed. The man behind me in 20A can’t sit still and has ensured any attempt at a nap will be thwarted by him kicking my chair or fidgeting. And while the ladies sitting next to me in seats 19 B and C seem lovely, they’re both asleep right now and currently blocking my access to the restrooms. This will be an issue in approximately 20 minutes when my bladder declares nap time is officially over. Maybe Mr. 20A can kick their chairs for me as a wake-up call.

Ah, coach. Gotta love it. At least the baby stopped screaming (for now).

I suppose I should count my blessings. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t get over this feeling of doom about my departure last night. I called the airline and learned my flight was indeed experiencing mechanical issues, and at that time had been delayed by 3.5 hours. The delay wasn’t as much an issue as me missing my connecting flight in Minneapolis.

One call to our corporate travel agent got me on the previously unavailable and ONLY nonstop flight from SFO to Montreal. Getting a seat on this flight means not having to change flights and do the dance I’ve entitled the “connecting flight Extreme Cha-Cha.” This dance is the one where your arriving flight lands at the gate furthest from the gate of your connecting flight. The journey is a well-choreographed dance through terminals, dodging slow walkers, moms with strollers, old people, and the general oblivious population while towing a 10-pound laptop, paperwork, and all the other superfluous crap I couldn’t get into my checked luggage all within a tight timeframe. In the last six months I’ve perfected my cha-cha to the point that I’m ready for a spin on Dancing With the Stars.

Such is the life of the business traveler. I was randomly selected to go through the extra invasive TSA search this morning, which included getting a blow job by the explosive detecting machine. For those who haven’t experienced this yet, you walk into a booth and are blasted with a couple air blasts (you dirty birds who thought I was talking about something else need to get your head out of the gutter). While this is done in the name of Homeland Security, I can’t help but suspect it is the universe continuing its campaign against me ever having a good hair day. As an added bonus, I also received the cheesiest pick-up line ever from the security officer tasked with examining my bags for explosive residue (funny since the only thing about to explode at this time was my patience). He asked if I knew why I was being randomly searched, and when I answered no he told me the TSA was conducting a special screening for adults ages 22-27 only. Then he winked and smiled.

Smooth buddy. And sure, I can be 22 to 27 years old today. No problem. Why stop lying about my age today?

Economy passengers get no respect. No leg room. Bad movies (Norbit? C’mon! Are you kidding me?) Bad food (I just purchased cashews and carrot sticks – two of the only semi-healthy food options outside of Pringles and Cup of Noodles. My considerate neighbor in 19C opted for tuna fish and crackers, because everyone enjoys a smelly fish stench in tight quarters. And it truly compliments the fumes from the guy who bathed in his cologne this morning sitting in an undetermined seat around me).

Ironically, for a woman who loves to travel and thinks travel is one of the best parts of her job, I hate flying. The fear is truly irrational – I know flying is safer than driving, but the idea of dropping 30,000 feet out of the sky and dying in a huge fireball makes me grip my seat handles with every take-off and bout of turbulence. The fear hasn’t stopped me from boarding a plane yet, but I have rituals I must go through before take-off that are sanity self-preservation tools. This includes being really nice to the flight crew and studying them for any signs of fear, locating the nearest exit (easy since I appear to be destined to always sit over the wing), and saying a little prayer that typically includes the words, “I’m not ready to die today.”

Beyond the fear, crammed quarters, and funny smells, I love the idea of getting on a plane in San Francisco and a few hours later, arriving in a foreign country. I am told by many that this will get old and tiring in time. Until then I’m still enamored by the unintentional comedy that is business travel and enjoying my window on the world, even if it looks a lot like an airplane wing these days.

NAB - What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

2007-04-21T00:28:00.000-07:00

Hello...it's been a long time. I just returned home from seven days in Las Vegas for the annual sleep deprivation derby known as NAB.

Oh the stories I have to tell. Just not now. I'm hoping to get the same approximate hours of sleep this evening that I've had cumulatively since last Friday. (Somewhere between eight and nine hours). Not to mention I left for Vegas healthy, and I'm now on a steady diet of antibiotics and decongestants.

God I love that town. Just like I love a three-year-old barfing in the airplane behind me, 30 minutes out from landing in Las Vegas on my flight down. Nothing like trying not to gag and breathe through your mouth at the same time.

Awesome.

Till then, some teasers of what is to come in future blog entries: Why flying to Vegas on Friday the 13th is not a good idea (especially if you happen to be me); attention all hairy redneck types at the swimming pool - no still means no and in your case, NEVER; how I missed shadow dancing on career day; excuse me, but you lost your cell phone, where? We'll discover together just how many people can fit in a TrailBlazer, limo, and/or minivan taxi; taxi cab driver fights; and oops...did I just walk into the men's locker room at the Qua Spa at Caesars? Plus I'll discuss the mysteries of the ever popular melon plate in Vegas tradeshow functions, NAB fashion choices, and why you need to survey your surroundings before insulting those with combovers.

Until then, my bed is calling me.

Losing (and Finding) my Religion

2007-04-08T23:42:00.000-07:00

Today started not unlike any other Sunday.

After sleeping in late, I got up and drank two cups of coffee while perusing through the Sunday Datebook in the San Francisco Chronicle. I chatted with Tim, gave the kitties some scratches as they lounged in a sunbeam, and then poached eggs for breakfast. A typical relaxing Sunday.

And then it hit me.

Today was Easter Sunday, and it felt empty to me.

As a child, Easter was the culmination of 40 days of sacrifice (we were often encouraged in CCD to give something up through the duration of Lent). I wore an ashen cross on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, shunned meat on Fridays, got a palm leaf on Palm Sunday, and attended mass on Easter itself.

Easter is considered the most important holiday in Christianity, and here I was almost indifferent towards it. I didn't go to mass, didn't give up anything, and practically forgot the date altogether. This from a woman who was baptized, confirmed, and married in the Catholic Church. The same person who ran the youth group at her parish, and was a counselor at youth retreats serving the San Francisco Archdiocese. My, how times have changed.

Outside of weddings, baptisms, and funerals, I haven't gone to mass in any sort of regular fashion in years. Lack of time, lack of interest, and strong disagreement with the Catholic Church on the issues of pregnancy, homosexuality, and how they handled molestation cases in the past have driven a wedge in the very foundation I was raised in.

Am I having a crisis of faith? Maybe so. I still believe in God, and I like the values I was given through the church as well. Yet, it isn't compelling enough to make me any more Catholic lately.

I wondered this afternoon, as my family and I hid 180 (yes, you read that right, 180) plastic Easter eggs in my grandma's backyard for my younger cousins to hunt, if I lost Easter in a sea of candy and commercialism. And then another realization struck me.

Easter is a celebration of life - Jesus rising from the dead. And here I was, surrounded by family from age two to 80, celebrating the tight bonds we have as family. If not for the sacrifices of Christ, it would have been any other Sunday, but instead, it was a special day that brought us all together. A day for playing hide-go-seek with my little cousins CeCe, Kat, and William. A time to chat with my 80-year-young grandmother. A time to giggle about my husband and my father showing up to dinner wearing similar Hawaiian shirts and khaki pants. A time to break bread together, eating a variety of delicious foods from my ethnically diverse family.

So while it wasn't a deeply religious day for me, recognizing the meaning of Easter and feeling more towards the day than I did this morning was a religious experience of sorts.

I hope you and your family had a lovely Easter as well.

Why Beer and Roadtrips Don't Mix

2007-03-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, a group of friends and I got snowed in during the one and only storm of significance to hit the Lake Tahoe region this year. After sitting on Highway 50 for two hours and barely moving an mile during this time, we decided to turn our car around and spend the night in South Lake Tahoe. A few of my more patient friends braved an eight hour drive home, sitting in wall-to-wall traffic during the storm. The following is an exchange between my friend Jimmy and I on instant messenger from a few weeks back, with Jimmy recounting his ride home with another friend, Geoff. I have been meaning to post it for sometime because it is a funny story. As we were on IM there are about a million typos and its too much of a pain to fix them all. Enjoy!

Jimmy says: did you hear about me and Geoff's trek home?

Kristen says: All you said is it took 8 hours. What else happened?

Jimmy says: So before we left the casinos, I had 3 beers and I hadn't pee'd

Jimmy says: I thought we were going to stop somewhere for food since we both hadn't eaten

Kristen says: Uh-oh...this is sounding bad...full bladders and no food. Please continue!

Jimmy says: we got on Pioneer trail and moved about a foot an hour it seemed

Kristen says: You guys didn't go Donner party on me did you?

Jimmy says: There was too much snow on the sides of the road so I couldn't just hop up behind a tree without going through 4 feet of snow

Jimmy says: So we were inching forward and there was a sidestreet

Kristen says: And?

Jimmy says: So i hopped out of the car and ran up it

Kristen says: You totally pissed on someone's lawn didn't you? Gross...yellow snow!

Jimmy says: Just as i start, the cars start rolling

Jimmy says: and fast

Jimmy says: I was like holy shit

Kristen says: Peep show! Get your tickets to the pee-p show!

Jimmy says: So i cut off mid pee and started sprinting down the hill and up pioneer trail

Jimmy says: geoffs doing about 15 miles/hr now and I can't even see him

Kristen says: You pulled your pants up right?

Jimmy says: yeah

Kristen says: I can't believe you could stop midstream...

Jimmy says: i had to run full sprint for about 1/2 a mile. finally i caught up to him

Kristen says: With a half-full bladder...

Jimmy says: Geoff was laughing so hard

Kristen says: I would be too...you have to admit this is very funny. Better you than me though...

Jimmy says: So now we have to wait some more but i'm ok for now

Jimmy says: sure enough it takes another 2.5 hours just to get to pollock pines

Kristen says: And with no place to stop. Inside a car, where no one can hear your bladder scream...

Jimmy says: after being so safe on the road, we pull into the safeway parking lot and turn a corner and there is a shopping cart in the middle

Jimmy says: and we slid right into it

Jimmy says: just tapped it if anything but it was so funny

Kristen says: Oh my god...this might be the funniest story ever. Can I post this on my blog?

Jimmy says: so we go to the Taco Bell and only the drive through is open

Kristen says: And you still haven't peed by this point?

Jimmy says: i still have to pee

Kristen says: SUPER BLADDER! I'd be in kidney failure by this point

Jimmy says: So I duck behind this car but in plane site of the drive through camera

Kristen says: Did I mention you can still buy tickets to the pee-p show?

Jimmy says: So i finish my business and this 17 year old kid comes out of the door and yells at me

Jimmy says: You shouldn't pee in the parking lot - that's what the gas station for

Kristen says: Did he wink at you and say thank you?

Jimmy says: no he was mad

Kristen says: I think he was mad because he liked watching it.

Jimmy says: so i bent down to tie my shoe and was so ready to make a snow ball and throw it at him

Jimmy says: but I held back an just yelled, well you shouldn't be closing at 8:30 you jack ass

Kristen says: You never can do that to a TB employee. Think of what they'll put in your nachos!

Kristen says: Hint: That's not cheese...

Jimmy says: well, we didn't go through that drive through

Jimmy says: i wasn't about to eat shit for beans

Kristen says: Exactly!

Jimmy says: we drove down to El Dorado and ate there

Jimmy says: where once again, i pee'd

Jimmy says: fucking beer

Kristen says: Beer and roadtrips don't mix so well...

Jimmy says: So anyway, that was the story

Jimmy says: I should have fired a snowball at him but lannert wasn't ready with the General lee ready for me to hop in

Jimmy says: if he was i would have taken on the whole Pollock pines high school

Kristen says: With your pants down on camera I think you're already the talk of the Pollock Pines High School

Jimmy says: possibly

Why Tradeshows Are Bad For Your Health and Other Odds and Ends

2007-03-31T01:57:00.000-07:00

It's like clockwork...every year I put on some sort of tradeshow, and every year I get deathly ill. Not one to break with tradition, I decided to one-up my previous personal best, tradeshow-induced walking pneumonia, with a tradeshow-induced meningitis scare this week.

Luckily, I think I'm out of the woods with the meningitis, and settling for some awful sort of virus that has rendered me useless for the past three days. I've had 36-hours of a pounding headache, a stiff neck, swollen glands, sore throat, achy joints, and the pièce de résistance, vomiting.

Awesome.

Then again, compared to having meningitis, this virus seems like a walk in the park.

So although I vowed to write more this week, I've literally been dead to the world, sleeping my free hours away. So here's a mini-update of sorts now that I'm coming out of my zombie state.

****

I met John Edwards on Monday, which rendered me a little starstruck. I can't say I've ever met a presidential candidate before, and getting to hear him speak and shaking hands with him was pretty darn cool. Edwards seems to be a truly genuine guy. I've been following his political career for quite some time, and when Tim's firm became a sponsor of a fundraiser for Edwards current run for the 2008 election, I knew I wanted to attend.

This event was all the more timely as last week, the news came out about Elizabeth Edwards being diagnosed with terminal cancer. The media has created a shitstorm around this and I for one cannot understand why people are up in arms about him continuing to run for president. I would encourage anyone who questions their choice to read John Edwards book Four Trials in which he writes about his blue-collar upbringing, meeting his wife, making a name for himself in the legal community, and overcoming the death of their teenage son. I think you'd find this couple is truly dedicated to everything they do. This is hardly a publicity stunt - this couple supports each other through and through. And while yes, Elizabeth will die one day from the cancer, she is still alive now. What does the media want her to do? Start digging her own grave? This run for president is something to keep her focused on living, not dying. Almost everyone I've known who has been diagnosed with cancer and given a small window of time to live has outlasted their original diagnosis. I'd like to think it was their will to continue living as normal a life as possible, and the determination to fight the disease off as much as possible. If this run for president gives Elizabeth a sense of purpose and encourages her will to live, who are we to judge. Only two people are entitled to make a decision on this, and that is John and Elizabeth Edwards. I will support both of them wholeheartedly in whatever may come their way in the months to come.

****

Sunny days in San Francisco are the best times to be in the city. Wednesday was absolutely gorgeous, 70 degrees, and it felt like the entire city decided to go out and take advantage of it. My office is right across the street from the Ferry Building, and on days like these, the Embarcadero just explodes with life and energy. My coworkers and I walked over to Taylor's Refresher at the Ferry Building Plaza to splurge on overpriced chicken club sandwiches and tasty sweet potato fries, drowned in ketchup and a dusting of chili powder. My question to you is, if you deep fry a sweet potato, which is normally good for you, does that make these healthy fries?

****

My home is beginning to feel a bit like Wild Kingdom. There is still plenty of grass growing in the open space around my house, so we have daily visitors in the form of deer, birds, and my new favorite, a jackrabbit. The backyard is overrun with lizards, who use the warm pavers as a place to soak up the heat. All this activity is almost too much for my two furballs, Max and Angel, who we refer to as "The Mighty Hunters." They stalk the lizards from behind the sliding glass door, licking their lips and wagging their tails. I can sit for hours with the cats, soaking in the sun, and watching the spectacle of nature. We are truly just visitors on their land around these parts.

Well, exhaustion is setting in for now and I must rest. More to come soon, I promise.

Excess Baggage

2007-03-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

We waited at the baggage claim area for nearly 30 minutes before accepting the painful truth. Our bags were not coming off the carousel anytime soon, and their presise whereabouts were as much as a mystery to us as they would be to Southwest Airlines for hours to come.

Ironic how a trip designed to let go of excess baggage did precisely that, just in the form of literally taking away my luggage, instead of reducing my stress levels. Sigh. Not the way I wanted to end my weekend.

On a whim, Tim and I flew out to Phoenix for Spring Training last Friday evening. The agenda was simple - baseball, sun, beers, pool time, and spa time. And for the most part, that was how it went, but Saturday threw me a slight curveball that I wasn't prepared for.

While attending the Oakland Athletics vs. Milwalkee Brewers game that day, I noticed my former coworker Mychael Urban was working in the media booth.

Mychael and I worked together from 1995 -1997 at the Pacifica Tribune newspaper. Mike, as I knew him then, was a struggling sports writer who took great pride in terrorizing the new cub reporter, otherwise known as me. Mike is a tall, slightly intimidating guy and from the minute I started at the Trib, he did nothing outside of taunting me and calling me names like Rook (short for Rookie). One of his favorite things to do was to volunteer "the Rook" for all the worst assignments, such as play reviews and library readings in our weekly meetings with the editorial team.

Mike was such a jerk to me from the start, I was convinced we'd never be friends. No matter how hard I tried to befriend him, he basically ignored me. And that is how it went for a year. I eventually grew a spine, put up with the jabs, and started fighting back. Ironically, it was then that we started becoming friends. He became the voice of reason, a person who pushed me to write stronger and to always improve on the previous weeks effort. He was also a great guy to go and grab a beer with to blow off steam after a long week.

We both worked for peanuts at this small little paper but that never influenced our dedication to the job. I remember Mike always aspiring to be something more in the sports writing world, but understanding his job in community journalism at the time was to help build scrapbooks and foster the local sports scene in the town he reported on.

Now ten years later, Mike is a local celebrity of sorts, an author of a book, and a damn good sports writer. For the past couple of years, he's been working for MLB.com as the Oakland A's beat reporter. He makes frequent appearances on local sports radio shows, and published the book, Aces : The Last Season on the Mound with the Oakland A's Big Three: Tim Hudson, Mark Mulder, and Barry Zito last year.

In the meantime, I've all but abandoned my writing for the more lucrative world of marketing. With the exception of some freelance work and this blog, most of my writing today consists of marketing plans and email composition. Seeing Mike doing so well at what he set out to do made me both really happy for him, as well as insanely jealous. What Mike does is hard work. It is difficult to be a compelling writer all the time, especially when you're up against tight deadlines and heavy competition. He makes it look effortless.

Mike is one of two people I know who entered the world of journalism, had the tenancity to work in smaller markets and claw their way to better jobs, higher pay, and bigger marketplaces. I managed to hold out for three years in the field, but I never possessed Mike's self-confidence. His attitude coupled with his competency as a writer make him a compelling force of nature. I understand why he's gone far.

While I've fared well in the field of marketing I fell into, I continue fantasizing about returning to the writing world. I was never regarded as anything special as a reporter, but I did my best and always produced stories. I feel I am a competent writer, and I am more complete and creative when I am writing.

A friend recently admitted to me she doesn't read my blog very often and that she didn't understand blogs in general or why I do this. In her opinion, I open up too much of my life to the public and at times my words have done more harm than good in terms of my friendships and relationships with others.

I didn't get mad at my friend. Of course criticism hurts, but she's entitled to her opinion and I love her for having the balls to say that to me. My answer to why I do this was simple - this is who I am. I can be vunerable at times, grumpy and whiny at others. Every now and then, I'm actually a bit funny. This blog is me and right now, it is my only outlet of expression. I'm not a journalist anymore and I'm not a big shot in the writing world like my friend Mike. This is the only place where I get to be me, and even that is compromised because of who reads this blog. I can't be entirely honest anymore for fear it will alienate those I love. Still, it is an outlet, my outlet to get rid of the baggage Southwest can't seem to lose for me.

My luggage just arrived at the front doorstep and life continues on as it was before the weekend. I won't be envious of Mike anymore. Instead, I look to embrace his success and try to channel some of his confidence so I am proud of whatever I'm writing on, whether it's here in this blog that few read, or on the front page of the New York Times. At the very least it's me, and that counts for something.

Thin Mints...a Diet Cookie, Right?

2007-03-13T00:03:00.000-07:00

It seems fitting that only three weeks after posting my resolution to live healthier and get my fit body back that the Girl Scouts would start selling cookies. If this isn't proof that the universe is constantly f*cking with me, I'm not sure what is.

Months ago when an enterprising neighborhood Girl Scout dropped an order form off in my mailbox, I'm sure pre-ordering FIVE boxes of cookies made sense. You know, because four boxes of cookies is hardly enough and six is obviously too much.

FIVE BOXES. What the hell am I going to do with five boxes of delicious, mouth-watering fattening cookies when I'm supposed to be eating healthy?

It isn't just the temptation waiting for me at home. Is it just me or are the Girl Scouts suddenly everywhere this year? Whoever is running their marketing program should be congratulated. I run to the store to buy milk, and there they are with a table in front of the store. Parents are selling them at work. Some troop moms were even selling cookies out on Market Street in downtown San Francisco this afternoon. There is no escape.

These cookies are tradition and only come once a year. I've tried convincing myself I'm only buying cookies out of charity and goodwill to Girl Scouts, but let's get real. We all know my purchases have less to do with philanthropy and everything to do with my weakness for all things Thin Mint.

I have been forcing myself to eat healthy treats in an effort to avoid the sugary goodness in my cupboard. Try as I may, lowfat yogurt just isn't a Tagalong, no matter how hard I attempt to spin it. Bananas, protein bars, carrot sticks - all lousy substitutions. When faced with the option of snacking on a Thin Mint (straight from the freezer...because they're better cold) or an apple, what would you pick?

For now, I'm opting for the moderation route. Only two cookies a day, until they're gone. That sounds somewhat reasonable and adult until you factor in my possession of FIVE boxes of cookies.

Whoops.

Can I maintain that much willpower? Your guess is as good as mine. It is a fine line between self-control and morphing into a manic cookie-inhaling furry blue monster.

Good thing Girl Scout cookies only come once a year.

I'm still here...

2007-03-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I've got your messages, and yes, it has been a LONG time since I last wrote. This hasn't been by choice, believe me. Work, a five-day trip to Vegas for work, more work, and some weekends of work have basically consumed me. All work and no play makes Kristen a dull girl...

I'm trying to pull it together to be a bit more consistent with my writing.

Thanks for your patience.

Strange Condition

2007-02-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

Strange Condition is one of my favorite Pete Yorn songs. Ironically, it was in the middle of him performing that song at the Fillmore recently that I realized I was suffering from a strange condition myself – otherwise known as poor self-esteem.

Heather had an extra ticket to the Pete Yorn concert and invited me to join her. It had been months since I last saw my friend and as we have similar musical tastes, I knew we'd be in for a fun evening. Plus, I love the Fillmore. It is by far one of San Francisco's greatest musical venues, not only for its intimacy, but for the history. From the framed concert photos lining the walls, to the crystal chandeliers in the main room, the place just channels the ghosts of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jerry Garcia. I have seen many shows at the Fillmore, and I've never been disappointed.

Still, no one told me I was going to have to hold my gut in all night.

The reasoning behind my self-induced tummy tucking was the presence of a video crew recording the concert that evening. At one point in Pete Yorn's set, I heard Heather mumble something in my general direction. I leaned in closer as I couldn’t understand what she was trying to communicate, only to hear her mumble again. On the third attempt, I realize she’s attempting to speak without moving her lips, not unlike a ventriloquist, warning me we were both on camera.

Upon realizing they are being photographed, most people will ham it up for the camera, smile, or even try to look extra cool. I took the route of looking directly at the camera, wide-eyed, and exclaiming in horror, "OH SHIT!"

It wasn't being on camera that bugged me, it was my appearance. It had been a stressful day at work. I was so late meeting Heather that evening, I didn’t have time to put make-up on, my hair was a wreck, and the outfit I had on wasn’t my most flattering to my waistline. I didn't exactly want to be immortalized on a concert video looking like a sausage.

I have been suffering from a weight image problem my entire life. I refer to most of my childhood as the Butterball years. It wasn't until junior high where I grew about four inches in a summer that I lost much of the baby fat. Still I've always had a gut, even when I was super sick in college, and dropped to a scary 110 lbs. That isn't much weight for a woman who is almost 5'9 feet tall. I found it ironic to be able to count my ribs but still have a pooch.

Last year I became obsessed with losing my belly. I hired a personal trainer, did pilates 3-5 days a week, and started kicking up my cardio with hikes in the hills behind my house. I never got rock hard abs and it was frustrating, although I felt healthy and people went out of their way to say I looked great.

Since I tore my labrum in August, the weight issue has only gotten worse for me. Six months of serious inactivity has made me lose the muscle I had built up. Cellulite has returned. Lately, my self-image assessment has ranged from feeling repulsive to pathetic. I've actually lost over ten pounds since the injury, mostly muscle, but the biggest loss has come at the price of my confidence and self-esteem.

As the video crew moved away from us, an overwhelming wave of sadness struck me. I realized right then just how bad I had let my self-esteem issue become. I hate the person I’ve become - pitiful has never been my strong trait. I’ve got to figure out a way to like me, faults and all.

Most women will tell you they hate their bodies. We are constantly bombarded by images of what the media and society dictate as female physical perfection. For most women, these looks are unobtainable. Still how many women do we know who torture ourselves for not having Jessica Biel’s body, Halle Berry’s stunning looks, or Eva Longoria’s sexiness?

It is unfair to hold myself to those standards anymore. I don’t have the means or the time to work out four hours a day with a personal trainer to get rock solid abs. I don’t have a stylist choosing the right clothes to fit my curves, or a hair stylist making every lock fall perfectly in place. Truly, all I can do is start believing in myself again – once the confidence returns, the rest will eventually follow.

My self-image insecurities won’t be fixed overnight. There will be good days and bad days ahead. I know as I start resuming exercise, I’ll start feeling better physically. The emotional aspects are much harder to mend. I look forward to rebuilding my inner confidence so the next time I’m caught off-guard by a camera, instead of feeling ashamed and wanting to hide, I’ll be proud of the person staring into the lens.

Three Months Later...

2007-02-13T00:36:00.000-08:00

Today is the three month anniversary of my shoulder surgery.

Zipadeedodah. I know you're all tired of hearing about it. But humor me for just a few more minutes...I promise, I'm running out of things to say on the topic.

I received a nice posting from a guy named Jason who is recovering from the very same surgery. He wanted to know how my recovery is going and if it is normal to feel pain seven weeks out of having a Bankart repair.

Well Jason, do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Let's get the bad out of the way. The answer to pain at seven weeks out is sadly, yes. I was still in a world of hurt at that point. I had only been out of wearing my immobilizer at work for about a week, but had to keep it on at bedtime as my arm was too weak to sleep without the extra support. I was reliant on pain medication and ice more than I expected. I wish I had better news for where you are at in your recovery. I too was alarmed at the pain and convinced my doctor had made a terrible mistake during my procedure for me to experience pain at that level.

And now for the good news...

At 13 weeks, my outlook and pain level are so much better. In fact, for me, nine weeks was the true turning point. As I proceed deeper into physical therapy, the movement and strengthening exercises seem to help both physically and emotionally. Sure, it doesn't feel great all the time...rain, cold, dampness, and overdoing it at PT can really hurt at times. Remember, your shoulder has gone through a major trauma and it has been immobile for weeks. What you are going through, from what I've learned from others who've had the same surgery, is a normal part of the process.

I'm happy to report I've regained about 70-75 % of my mobility back at this time. I will continue at PT for the next couple months, and my doctor and therapists are all pleased with my progress. Pain will still be a part of your future, but it does get better. I know it is frustrating...truly, only someone who has gone through what appears to be such a minor procedure will understand what you are saying about the pain. There is nothing minor about living in constant pain. Try not to get too frustrated - better days are on their way. Until then, I will keep wishing you a speedy end to your painful days.

The Velvet Bulldozer

2007-02-04T23:15:00.000-08:00

I've always had the gift of gab. I can't do anything in short-form, from phone calls to email to blogging. My wordiness has always been a reflection of how I communicate with others.

That is unless I have to stand in front of a room of strangers and a video camera.

Last week my boss decided it would be beneficial for us to enroll in a "Speaking with impact" class offered through our employer. Since I took two speech classes in college, have spoken in front of crowds of hundreds of people, even sang karaoke in front of 400 strangers on a cruise ship, I didn't flinch when told to enroll in this course. Somehow I overcame my stage fright in all those other situations, why should this be any different?

The class was made up of eight professionals, each from different divisions of our company. It felt a little like a scene out of the movie The Breakfast Club but instead of a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal spending a Saturday in detention together, we were the corporate khaki-wearing grown-up version of the movie. In the place of those titles, we had a sales guy, a consultant, a marketing manager, a product manager, and a spaz (me).

Don't mess with the bull, young man. You'll get the horns.

Our instructors seemed nice at the first but it became quickly obvious that they were only there to break my spirit. Almost immediately, we were put on the spot, having to get up in front of the class (including my boss) and come up with a 90 second speech about who we are, how long we've been with the company, hobbies, etc. Oh, and if that didn't make you the slightest bit nervous, we were also to be videotaped doing this.

When my turn rolled around, I knew I was a little jittery. We were told to stand with our arms by our sides, feet planted steadily hip width apart. We were to make eye contact with the audience, and walk around a bit. When I got up there, I thought I had followed every rule to the ultimate detail. I even started fantasizing that after one viewing, the instructors would marvel at my stature and composure to the point I would be excused from the class.

What appeared on the video playback didn't resemble a confident person at all. In fact, the person speaking looked just like me, but she was fidgeting with her hair, looking everywhere but at the audience, shifting her weight from hip to hip, speaking without pausing to breathe, and most unfairly, the "camera" was obviously adding ten pounds to her figure. Damn camera...

Going back to Breakfast Club references, my fantasy of being excused from class seemed to suddenly resemble John Bender getting two months of Saturday detention from Vernon. And was Kristen, like Claire, a fat girls name? There would be no dismissal - it was obvious I needed this class...along with a membership to Weight Watchers.

For two days I was forced to speak several times in front of the class which put me completely outside my comfort zone. During breaks and lunch, I was a totally different person. The lunch time Kristen was relaxed, joked with classmates, even told a few stories. That Kristen had no problems with eye contact or completing sentences. My confidence was intact. Yet, as soon as the class would start again, I reverted to sounding something like Bob "Bobcat" Goldthwait and twitching like I had Parkinson's Disease.

My public speaking alter-ego:

If Hollywood were to make a movie of my two-day speaking with impact class, they would start with my awkward beginnings, and slowly, with each speech show gradual improvement. Something like the theme from Rocky would play in the background and there would be a montage of my highs and lows. On the day of the final presentation, I would start off with a stumble, overcome my mistake, and in the end deliver the most amazing speech ever. My classmates would give me a standing ovation, and my instructors would weep proudly and call me their best student ever.

Unfortunately, I live in the real world, so as I did make some baby steps in my public speaking abilities, it wasn't anything I'd actually call true improvement.

As the second day of class wound to a close, each of us were called on to comment about what we saw as strengths in one another. Coming up with accolades for my classmates was easy. Some had a gentle way about them and knew exactly when to pause so you were instantly captivated. Others were incredible in locking eyes with the audience, pulling you into their every word. Some mastered walking in a arch, others overcame saying um and like every other word. And then came my turn. I took a deep breath and waited in dread that I'd hear crickets chirping instead of accolades.

In the end, I was my worst critic. While I may be a nervous wreck in front of a crowd, my content remained strong and my sense of humor was well-received. The best moment was when I was christened with a new nickname...The Velvet Bulldozer. The nickname is not a reference to the pounds the "camera" was adding to my physique, but rather, as my classmate put it, if I could pull it together in the confidence arena to be more like the sassy, story-telling, funny Kristen at lunchtime, look out.

I don't know if the day will come where I'll ever feel that confident in front of a crowd, but I love the nickname nonetheless. I do know with every speaking opportunity, I will try a little harder, and I'll always think fondly of my own personal Breakfast Club.

Frozen Snot and Frostbite - My Week in Montreal

2007-01-26T10:38:00.000-08:00

One never forgets the first time they experience frostbite.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t really frostbite. My fingers didn’t turn black like those guys on the Discovery Channel show, Everest, but they certainly weren’t functioning right either

I blame this whole thing on my coworker Marcus. He works with me in our Montreal office and apparently has thick blood and skin that native Californians will never possess. Last night, it was about 8 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I was lamenting about my eight block walk back to my hotel. Marcus gave me a look that said “you silly, lazy American,” and then proceeded to tell me how he was planning to jog FIVE miles home in those conditions.

In other words, he totally one-upped me and to add insult to injury, he raised the stakes by jogging.

After thinking it over, I decided I’d show Marcus how tough I was. I wrapped my scarf around my neck tightly, donned a hat, buttoned up my coat, put on my gloves, and bravely walked out the door.

This, of course, was a mistake.

The first block was lovely. The streets of Old Montreal are dark, empty, and icy at this hour. It is oddly quiet for a big city and the silence just adds to the beauty. I realize Marcus might actually be on to something by commuting on foot. Yet, by the second block, my inner peace dissipates as I discover the evil powers of wind chill. And by block three it is all I can do not to cry out, “TAXI!”

No such luck. Walking meant I was committed to my choice – there isn’t a cab in sight. Block four brought on an entirely new inner dialogue. The air is so cold that my nose, which had been previously running, stopped dripping. Did that mean my snot just froze? Can snot freeze in your nose? Oh my god…could I have frozen boogers…IN MY NOSE!?!

Luckily, eight blocks go by quickly, especially when you’re focusing on not slipping on icy sidewalks and constantly worrying about snot ice cubes falling out of your nose.

The staff at my hotel is wonderful. After three days of Montreal mishaps, they now know this goofy California girl by name. Nick races to open the door for me and greets me with, “Ah, Ms. Pearce, come warm up by the fire.” I happily follow him and tell him stories about how our winter days tend to be about 50 degrees warmer. After stories of sunshine and a cocktail, I retreat to my room and don’t come out until the morning.

I wake up to a sunny and clear day that looks deceivingly warmer than the previous evening. I am wrong. It is now 6 degrees Fahrenheit and the clear skies, as I will learn later, only mean it is colder as there is nothing in the atmosphere but ice cold air. And the wind chill factor is something that defies explanation. The only comparison I can come up with is standing naked in a walk-in freezer while an airplane engine blasts you with cold air.

I consider a cab, but I’m only going to an office that is about six blocks away. Once again, I remember the expression Marcus gave me the night before and decide that I will walk, convinced it will make him proud of me when I see him later. The doorman questions my decision, but I tell him I’m tough and I’ll be walking. “Bye-bye! Good luck Madame,” he says with a smirk as I whimper when I'm immediately blasted by an icy burst of wind.

Dammit. Why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, foolish pride. I push onwards until I’m happily confined in the warm office walls.

At lunch time, I meet our PR team for a lunch meeting. This requires more walking. Somehow the walk to the restaurant doesn’t seem so bad, but it is the walk back, after leaving the warmth of the café where I was sitting right on a heater vent, that really gets me. I am joining my coworkers on the walk to the office that is farthest away. The wind is ripping right through my clothes. My left hand is gloved and tucked away safely in my jacket pocket; the other gloved hand is pulling my roller bag. I’m chatting with my coworker Shannon the entire way. She confirms that snot can indeed freeze in your nose. I pick up my speed, once again convinced snot ice cubes will begin shooting out at any moment. I’m so consumed with my thoughts that I’m not thinking about switching off hands to pull my bag. Although I’m wearing gloves, it is such an unfamiliar level of cold, I don’t realize I’m experiencing the first levels of frostbite until I make inside the office doors and have to sign in.

Suddenly, I can’t hold a pen. The last digits in my fingers are not working right and can’t grasp the pen. I scribble something that looks like my signature and push on. My fingers feel like ice cubes. Hmm…should I be concerned?

Ten minutes later, my fingers on my right hand are still numb. I use the ladies room and stupidly run my hands under hot water. The heat shoots pain up my hand as I silently scream and tears well up in my eyes.

Finally, the feeling returns in my digits and I rejoice in surviving my first harrowing experience with frostbite. I walk up to my workstation, which is situated across from Marcus. I tell him about my walk home the night before, how I walked to work and lunch, and melodramatically whine about the wind chill and the close call with frostbite.

“You don’t have frostbite Kristen,” he tells me, laughing at the absurdity of my comments and shaking his head at me. He didn’t even seem that impressed with my choice of walking.

What did I expect, sympathy? These are French Canadians and the winter cold doesn’t stop them from living. They've adapted to their environment in ways a California sissy like me could never imagine.

When I landed at SFO last night it was a positively balmy 46 degrees out - so warm that I walked outside to wait for a shuttle bus without my jacket on. I will never complain about a cold California day again.

The Mr. Sport Hotel

2007-01-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

My family has a long history of infamous family vacation stories. There was the "Vegas Girls" incident where my brother Bryan, who couldn't have been older than eight at the time, found a magazine full of pictures of scantily-clad hookers wedged between the seat cushions in a VW camper bus my parents rented for our vacation. Bryan, already a man wrapped in the body of a young boy, responded to Vegas Girls with wide-eyes and a loud WOO-WOO! As the bratty older sibling, I did what most big sisters would do in the same situation...I immediately ratted on him to my parents. Mom quickly confiscated the magazine, much to the dismay of my brother. For the rest of that vacation, any time my mom and I would go off to do an activity on our own, my dad would joke he and Bryan would be around checking out Vegas Girls. I think Bryan is still mad at me for telling on him.

Then there was the "Peabody" incident at a Friendly's diner in Peabody, MA. My mom was writing out a traveler's check to a cashier for our meal and happened to ask what city we were in. The "helpful" cashier responded in a language that resembled something short of Martian, saying "Peabidee." My mom, baffled, asked her to repeat what she said, and once again received a curt "Peabidee!" Mom asked the cashier if she could spell out the town, which came out P-E-A-B-O-D-Y. My mom, relieved she wasn't losing her mind or her grasp of the English language, replied saying, "Oh, you mean PEA-BODY?" The cashier, obviously irked with my mother now, looked at her like she was some sort of idiot, and replied with a snort saying, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID! PEABIDEE!"

Clearly.

What brings up these incidents of the past is my current business trip to Vancouver, B.C. I arrived here yesterday for a work event and my company put us up at a fabulous hotel in the Yaletown District, called the Opus Hotel. By some accident, I was put up in an executive suite. The room is very modern, and has a living room area with the most comfortable couch, two plasma televisions, surround sound, a huge bathroom, iPod docking station, down comforter, heated bathroom floors, and a big, cozy terry-cloth robe. The room is loft-like with large windows that look out towards the water on one side, and out towards brick and glass buildings on the other side. Add a kitchen to this place, and I could call it home.

This is my third trip to Vancouver. I was here for a day last May when I left for Alaska on a cruise, but it is my first trip here, at the tender age of 16 that truly stands out to me. It is also the trip that introduced the Mr. Sport Hotel into my life and Khorge family vacation infamy. As I look at the luxury of this room, and compare it to the room we stayed in at the Mr. Sport, I knew I had to write about it.

The summer of 1990 was a big one in my life. This was the summer before my senior year in high school. It was also time to begin considering what college I would attend the following year. I didn't have a tragic high school experience, but I did know I wanted to get out of my hometown. When a brochure from University of Puget Sound arrived at my house, I was confident I had found my school of choice. It was small, brick and ivy, and it had a physical therapy program, which at the time, was what I thought I wanted to go into.

My parents decided we would travel to Tacoma, WA to check out the college. They mapped out a route that would take us to Eureka, CA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and then continue up the coast of Oregon, into Washington to check out the campus, visit family who lived in Seattle, and eventually, our final destination would be Vancouver, B.C.

My uncle in Seattle had given my parents some ill-advice by telling them they need not worry about hotel reservations on this trip. My parents liked the idea - it allowed for some flexibility and freedom on the trip. Unfortunately, we were not the only family on this journey that summer, and every night became a terrible struggle of driving from town-to-town looking for a place to spend the night. I remember passing by what looked like happy families at Shiloh Inns, Red Lion Inns, Holiday Inns...swimming in heated pools and enjoying free HBO. In comparison, we were playing Bates Motel roulette nightly, staying a string of dumps. Only in Seattle, did we move on up to a deluxe accommodation, when we stayed at the downtown Westin and enjoyed panoramic views of the city to Mt. Rainer.

By the time we rolled into Vancouver, the northwest was experiencing an unusual heat wave. It was sweltering and after hearing nothing but whining from my brother and me, my parents were just trying to find a hotel with a swimming pool. We must have passed 100 NO VACANCY signs until we arrived at the Mr. Sport Hotel, which advertised air conditioning and a heated pool. Good enough! We pulled into the parking lot.

Note to self: if the hotel you are staying at markets itself to truckers with a "stay nine times and get the tenth visit free," immediately exit the premises. (We didn't of course). Mr. Sport spared no expense on decorating the lobby - it was just worn and tired with its olive hues and dark wood trim. A restaurant off the lobby offered stale pastry and sour orange juice served in red plastic cups as our daily free continental breakfast. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and Pine Sol. And the heated pool was a mere hole in the ground, surrounded by tall walls of the building that blocked the sun.

The rooms lacked character too. It looked like an episode of Miami Vice had thrown up with pale pastel walls, pastel comforters, and white lacquer furniture. I can't remember what was wrong with the air conditioning unit, but seem to recall it either not working or about to fall out the window.

Perhaps the finest feature of the Mr. Sport Hotel was proudly advertised in the elevator. On the weekends, the bar/lounge up front became a topless lounge. Imagine standing in an elevator as an overdeveloped in the chest 16-year-old girl, with a bunch of truckers, looking at XXX-lounge advertisements together.

Awkward.

The Mr. Sport has provided years of entertainment to my family. We still talk about it and laugh. I stole stationary from there and even send my brother a letter on it from time-to-time.

I looked online to see if the Mr. Sport still exists today, but I couldn't find a trace of it. Perhaps it has come and gone, but it will always live vividly in my mind.

Will Strip for Survival...

2006-12-29T22:46:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the Discovery Channel, I'm falling for a married man.

The man making my heart go all aflutter is the star of Man vs. Wild, Bear Grylls. Over the past six weeks, I have spent many hours watching Man vs. Wild, and I actually attribute some of my post-surgical healing to Bear. Was it his amazing courage of surviving in various and dangerous landscapes that aided me? No. Was it the fact he once broke his back in three places in a skydiving acciednt, only to recover and become the youngest climber to summit Mt. Everest? No...

Bear helped me heal by providing a weekly glimmer of hope. He gave me something to look forward to during a time of intense pain and self-loathing. Specifically, it was the possibility of him removing his shirt (or more) that kept me going.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. Dirty bird (Tweet! Tweet!) In my defense, the show is on the Discovery Channel...so it's more than just eye candy, right? One never knows when they could end up in a situation where survival skills become necessary. It's good to be prepared.

And sometimes, as Man vs. Wild has taught me, you have to strip to live.

For those of you who haven't caught an episode of Man vs. Wild yet, it is much like another Discovery Channel show, called Survivorman. Both shows target couch potatoes (like me) who get their kicks watching these men find their way out of remote and unforgiving landscapes to safety. I've learned how to survive should I ever find myself lost in the European Alps or the wilds of Alaska. I'll be able to manage the barren volcanic landscape of Kilauea, and the scorching heat of Utah's Moab desert. The Kenya Savanna episode even taught me how to avoid being trampled by elephants should I ever find myself on the wrong side of an angry herd of pachyderms.

The biggest difference between the two shows are the stylings of the hosts. While Bear is young, gutsy to a fault, and hot, Survivorman's host, Les Stroud, comes across as older, less of a risk-taker, and his physical appearance suggests he's been in one too many survival situations over the years. (Although, I think I trust the survivor skills of Les more than Bear. Not sure why, maybe him being less handsome makes him more credible?)

Bear's good looks sneak up on you. He has some goofy facial features and expressions that become endearing the more you watch him. Package that with a cute British accent and one nicely-toned body, and suddenly my interest in Man vs. Wild has little to do with Bear making his way out of the Rocky Mountains alive, and much more to do with his charming and often shirtless self.

My favorite moment thus far has to be the Alps episode where Bear shows his viewers how to survive if they ever find themselves off their sofas and submerged in a frozen mountain lake. After clawing his way out of thin ice and freezing water, Bear strips off all his wet clothes in order to avoid hypothermia. A fire he set before jumping in the lake burns out, so to keep the blood flowing to his fingers and toes and to relight his fire, he starts doing push-ups...naked.

This is on basic cable my friends. God bless America!

Suddenly, I don't mind staying in on Friday nights anymore. I have a hot standing date at 9 PM each week, and if I miss it, the DVR is always there for me to capture the show. I try to ignore the gross shit he does like eating maggots or sucking on fresh elephant dung to get hydrated (yes, you read that right...gross). I know it has to be love because when Bear kills a jack rabbit with a stick in the Sierra Nevada episode, I forgave him. Those who know me and my history of raising rabbits as pets know how hard that was for me. In stark comparison, I'm still mad at Tim for considering ordering a rabbit entree at the Washington Street Bar and Grill 12 years ago while we were out on a date.

I hope you don't think any less of me for going public on my feelings. We can't choose who we fall in love with, and between him and Curtis Stone, star of TLC's Take Home Chef, it appears I'm just a sucker for guys with a funny accent. Now if only we could get Curtis to take his shirt off more often...

Venturing Back Into Normalcy

2006-12-24T03:53:00.000-08:00

Hello...

It has been a few weeks since I last posted here. It was just getting too hard to type, and as I wasn't leaving my house other than for work, I had nothing new to write about. Not to mention I was generally frustrated and depressed. I know its been a drag for you, my two faithful readers, to keep coming here to read me having a pity party. For putting up with me, I thank you. I alienated many readers with my earlier entries and I hope those I hurt will in time come back here again. I learned some valuable lessons, and in the future, this space will no longer serve as a mechanism to put friends on the spot.

I'm happy to say on Dec. 19th, I was liberated from the Ultrasling II prison. My arm is weak and it hurts, but I'm free. I start the long road of rehab on Tuesday with Jason, my awesome physical therapist, who has made it clear that no whining will be tolerated throughout the rehab process. The doctor says I should regain 75% of my mobility in January alone.

Slowly, my strength and energy are coming back. I went out for the first time last night in San Francisco, catching the Mother Hips (CHIIIIIIICCCCCCOO) at the Great American Music Hall. It felt so good to do something normal and fun again.

I figured out how to put on necklace, the first time in weeks. I can just raise my left arm high enough to connect a clasp in the front. Perhaps my biggest (literally) accomplishment this week was figuring out how to get my bra on without assistance. I even tried on some clothes while I was supposed to be out Christmas shopping for other people. Truly an exciting week all around.

Somehow, the house is decorated and although I claimed I didn't want a tree this year, there is a beauty of a Noble Fir in my living room. The tree is full and stands almost seven feet tall. Its strong branches are just supportive enough to hold the weight of our poorly behaved cat, Angel, who's testing the limits of her nine lives by continuing to jump into the tree. When she's not doing that, you'll find her knocking off ornaments, hiding under the branches to pounce on our other cat Max when he walks by, and attacking the bows on my nicely wrapped presents.

I have the week between Christmas and New Years off, which rocks. I plan on catching up with friends, doing a little shopping, and taking it easy to prepare for a crazy January. It appears I will be traveling over half the month, going to Los Angeles, Vancouver, Detroit, Montreal, and New York. Whew!

Life moves on, but just a bit slower and painful than before. It's good to be back.

Frustrating Times...

2006-12-10T19:52:00.000-08:00

AAAAAAAAAAAGGGH!

I'm about to crack.

Two days short of the one-month anniversary of my surgery and I'm running out of patience, pain meds, and my sense of humor.

It is baffling to me to be in this much pain at this point. Shouldn't every day be one step closer to feeling better? One step towards less pain medication?

I still fall asleep nightly propped up on three pillows, typically medicated, and with the ice machine running at its coldest temperature. My bicep continues to swell and ice is the only thing that keeps the swelling somewhat at bay.

My usual processes are doubled or tripled, and in many cases, inconceivable. Ridiculously clumsy. Tired. Cranky. (More than normal I suppose). Work is so hard. I should be managing my projects better, but I can only work so fast with one hand.

Rain is making my shoulder and neck achy. Talk about adding insult to injury.

I look forward to getting my life back, but it just seems so far away. I miss my life...terribly.

The Still of the Night

2006-11-30T23:11:00.000-08:00

Many of you have asked how I continue to email or keep up my blog while stuck in an immobilizer. Well, I'm not going to lie - my shoulder and arm are KILLING me. Four days back at work, typing at odd angles are taking a toll. I'm really wanting to keep my blog up but at what cost?

Believe it or not, the crap you read here is just some of the garbage I write on a weekly basis. I have many partially written blog pieces that I started and either hit a wall on, ran out of time to finish them, or forgot that I wrote them all together. So unless I feel up to writing something fresh, I'm going to post some of the lost works and B-sides. The following entry is from this past July...a little piece I wrote and forgot about until recently stumbling upon it. I hope you enjoy it.

************

Eight empty bottles of wine and countless empty beer bottles fill the recycling bin. Am I at a bar? Hanging with rejects from a local AA meeting?

Nope, I’m just on a family vacation in Twain Harte with Tim’s family. (And it’s only day three…yikes!)

For the past several years, Tim’s parents have rented a cabin in the idyllic 1950’s throwback town of Twain Harte. After many missteps with cabin rentals, we seem to have finally stumbled on a winner. Twain Harte consists of two types of cabins – those built before 1960 and never updated, and newer, nicer homes that are typically resided in by locals. Few cabins seem to have amenities like air conditioning...or garbage disposals. It is supposed to be part of the rustic charm of the place, charm that lasts for approximately 15 minutes, before you realize just how frickin’ hot it is up here, especially after two restless nights of trying to sleep in a stuffy bedroom.

World Famous Twain Harte Lake...

Cabins of past years have spurned many an issue, at least for me and my sister-in-law, Jennifer. The first cabin almost sent me to the emergency room as it triggered every allergen in my body and sent my asthma peak flows plummeting to frightening lows. That same cabin was also situated perfectly so it took most of the 100 degree sun all day, and never cooled below say 90 degrees, especially for us unfortunate folks who had the top floor of the 1930’s rustic suffocation machine.

Year two brought us a cabin that hadn’t been updated since 1963, and a deck that was literally cordoned off with yellow caution tape in a corner. There’s nothing quite like a structurally unstable deck and a toddler to set a mother (Jennifer) into a frenzied state of worry. And the neighborhood was so white T, with our neighbors’ yards to either side looking more like the junkyard on Sanford and Son, than an actual habitable residence. Last year, we came close to a great place. It was newer construction (1980’s), but it had issues like sleeping for eight, but indoor seating for four people. It also had a loft, which served as an echo chamber bringing noise upstairs. This is fine for adults, but bad when you have a five-year-old nephew trying to sleep at night.

This year, we’re in one of those 1960’s wonders, but the layout of the house, plus big shady pine and cedar trees outside keep the bedrooms fairly quiet and cool. A big deck out front has become our gathering place of choice. We eat our meals there, play games of Scrabble, read, and I’ve even spread my Sudoku addiction to Tim and his mom.

In the morning, my nephews play out on the deck. Jonathan, the six-year-old, is scary smart for his age. He likes asking questions about everything from what kind of bird just landed on the table to general issues about deck construction, riding his Razor scooter, and playing hide-go-seek with his sucker of an aunt who can’t say no to any request out of that adorable face of his. Andrew, the three-year-old, is in a monkey-see, monkey-do phase. He idolizes Jonathan (or Ja-Ja as he calls him), mimicking his words and actions.

We spend our afternoons as a family at Twain Harte Lake, sitting under umbrellas, reading. We float on inflatable rafts on the lake, and eat sno-cones and vanilla soft serve at the snack shack.

I’ve played two rounds of miniature golf at the local course run by a sweet born-again Christian couple. They exercise their freedom of religion rights to amazing levels by posting biblical verses all around the golf course. Each year, the statements seem to get a bit more extreme, to the point that you expect to be putting a ball into the mouth of Lucifer himself, instead of through a windmill. This is something you’ll never find at Scandia…

God wants you to play mini-golf...here:

There is a sameness to Twain Harte that is strangely satisfying and incredibly boring all at once. Generations of families come here yearly and do the same thing over and over again. I look forward to the relaxation, the lazy days spent outdoors on the deck or on the shores of Twain Harte Lake, but loathe the lonely nights where everyone is sleeping and I am wide awake with nowhere to go.

Tonight is one of those lonely nights. All my family is asleep and I'm alone out on the deck. There is a small chill in the air and it feels refreshing. Festive lights are overhead providing a golden glow of light over my laptop. It is quiet, with the occasional dog bark in the distance and the hum of crickets.

In time I will grow tired, collapse in bed, and rise in the morning to do something familiar again. It is just the way of life here. Nothing changes, but its okay. I'll have another day to be restless. Tonight its okay to just be still.

Keep Yer Panties On Woman!

2006-11-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

Usually I like to rant and ramble on my blog. Today, I would like to take a moment to put out this PSA:

In a week that has brought us more hoo-hoo shots than we could have ever hoped for from Britney Spears, I'd like to take this moment to remind my female readers to double-check you put your panties on before getting into or out of your automobiles...

I'd write more but Paris and Lindsay are waiting for me in the car. Bye for now!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-23T11:55:00.000-08:00

Although the last couple of weeks have been challenging, there are at least a million other reasons to be thankful for the blessings that have come my way in 2006. A loving family, the unwavering support of old friends, the ability to chat with strangers who've become new friends, the excitement of a new job, being able to travel around the US, Canada, and Mexico...the list goes on. I've been a lucky girl and for that, I am thankful.

I wish you and your loved ones a very Happy Thanksgiving!

Let the eat-off begin!

Week Two as a Gimp

2006-11-22T15:49:00.000-08:00

I'll start with the good news - my shoulder incisions are healing nicely. I had all the tubing and wires removed yesterday and the ice machine that was keeping me a prisoner in my own home, is no longer permanently attached.

Here's an awesome photo from last week. Note the awesome sling, ice machine, and hair flair (courtesy of Bethany). I told you I was bringing sexy back...

The bad news is that I am stuck in the immobilizer for at least four more weeks, possibly longer. I did not tear my bicep tendon, but actually tore all the surgical work that was done in my previous shoulder surgery. I had a massive tear of the labrum and capsule from the glenoid known as a Bankart Lesion. My labrum actually folded in on itself...the doctor said it was like something exploded in my shoulder capsule. I'm lucky the shoulder didn't dislocate as it was so unstable.

Every day brings a new challenge or frustration. I spill something about 2-3 times a day on myself. Dressing myself is a nightmare. Pain keeps me awake at night (even with pain meds). I've been given the green light to shower, but I can't figure out how to get the sling off and on with one hand which means I still need daily assistance. I can drive...well sorta. I kind of scare myself driving in this state, so don't worry, I'll keep that to a minimum.

I return to work next week which will bring with it a new chapter of aggravation. I need to get out of the house before I go mad. Although I've been enjoying just about every show on the Discovery Channel lately. (Seriously, who came up with Survival Friday? AWESOME! Man vs. Wild, Stunt Junkies, Everest, and I Shouldn't be Alive on the same night?) I may be laid up with injuries right now, but I'm learning how to keep mosquitoes off me in the Costa Rican rainforest, how to find food by ravaging bird nests and then frying those eggs in the deadly heat of Moab, learning that I'll never make it as a mountaineer, and finding all sorts of new stunts to injure my shoulder next time around... (Just kidding mom!)

That's all the excitement from here.

Thanks for all your patience and support with me over the past week. I appreciate all the cards, meals, calls, meals, visits, ice runs, and did I mention meals?

A Clarification on "Shame on You..."

2006-11-18T13:42:00.000-08:00

I am not a shrinking violet, and this is not an apology for what I wrote on Thursday. I stand by those words wholeheartedly, but I do need to clarify a few things as I feel my words stung some innocent friends quite deeply.

The responses have been very emotional and supportive (with the exception of a troll who I'll address at the end of this). The problem is the majority of those who reacted to my entry were not the people I was trying to reach, and for that, I do feel bad. Blame the cloud of Percocet that fogged my thought process when I wrote this or blame my lousy writing, the "Shame" entry was dedicated to the friends who promised to help me prior to the surgery. When four days passed after surgery, and only my mom's, Katie, and Rick had come by, I was hurt. I watched Tim grow more tired with each passing day from working and caring for me. I started thinking about the friends who'd offered to visit, cook, help me get cleaned up, and help with whatever was needed, and began calling on those friends to see if I could cash in on those offers. Most were just too busy, and some of you, well, you never even bothered to call me back.

Wow. Talk about sending a message loud and clear.

I was talking to a friend I unintentionally upset with my blog this morning. I apologized as I know she is super busy with her family and career, plus she lives an hour away so it's not exactly easy for her to just pop over for a visit. She was really cool about everything once I explained where I was coming from, but she also made an excellent point. She said (and I'm paraphrasing), we never know what life is going to hand us, and it could be any one of us laid up tomorrow. She was taking the message of my blog and using it as motivation to try to improve her communication with her loved ones.

It's the golden rule people - do unto others as you would have them do unto you. What more can I say? We as a society (myself included) get so wrapped up in what is happening around us that we're losing track of what counts...our relationships with our loved ones. If I take anything from this experience, it will be the resolve to be a better friend. One who picks up the phone more and emails less. It will be hard and I expect moments of complete failure, but I know I don't want any friend or loved one to ever feel as alone as I did when I wrote the "Shame" blog.

I hope this helps clear up any confusion on the matter, and if you are unsure, please call or write and I'll be happy to talk about this some more.

And lastly, a not-so-anonymous message to the "brave" troll who emailed me last night...

It takes a really courageous person to send an anonymous email to a stranger and make false judgments about them. It takes an even braver soul to neglect posting a return email address on that same email. A few words of advice before you spew your illiterate hatred on other blogs - reading first makes you a better troll.

You wrote:

are you kidding me! Think of your husband and not just yourself
you are a great person but think of the person you are married tand the wonderful person he is

--
Posted by Anonymous to Shall I use my powers for good instead of evil? at 11/17/2006 11:51:37 PM

First off, you are an idiot. Beyond the obvious spelling and grammatical errors in your pointless drivel above, if you read my shame blog at all, you'd know an entire paragraph is dedicated to my wonderful husband Tim, talking about his long thankless days serving as my caretaker, you fucktard!

Go back to the kiddie pool, troll.

shame on you...

2006-11-16T12:23:00.000-08:00

you sure find out who your true friends are when you undergo surgery.

a small group of wonderful friends have come to visit and help me in my current helpless state. those who could not be here physically have called almost daily.

what is strange to me is that friends in florida, oregon, and kansas have called to check on my well-being, while friends who share the same area code (and frankly zip code) haven't bothered to even say hello. you know who you are.

i wasn't expecting bouquets of flowers from you, just your friendship. those who volunteered to visit or help me around the house, even do my hair...where are you? i have no place to go. i'm ready.

or am i asking too much of you? am i that much of a burden to you?

the extent of my surgery caught us all off-guard. we knew i'd be limited following the procedure, but with a bankart and a bicep tendon tear, i'm essentially a prisoner in my own home. while tim is working, i'm connected to a cumbersome ice machine that cools my throbbing shoulder. the problem is while i can disconnect from it, i can't reconnect one-handed. this means if i have to go to the bathroom and i am alone, i have to carry a 15 lb. cooler and tubing with me. it is heavy and dangerous for me to do this. i hurt myself today doing this, but i had no choice. my shoulder is encased in a heavily padded immobilizer sling that limits all my physical activities. not that i have the energy to do much. just typing this one-handed will wipe me out for the rest of the afternoon.

my two moms have been coming over as much as they can to care for me. instead of catching up on errands, my mom will spend her second day off this week driving an hour north to care for me. i hate asking this of her, but i need her right now, both physically and emotionally. my mom-in-law andrea was here yesterday, this morning, and she's even coming back late this afternoon. she has been awesome as well, and doesn't complain when i need her to run to the store for ice or food. i've just enjoyed her company more than anything.

meanwhile, katie is also coming over this afternoon. the second day in a row. she lives in oakland, i am not convenient to her, but she's coming to make sure i have lunch today. bethany is driving up tonight. nevermind she has to work all day in the city and hire a dogwalker to take her darling zoe-dog out tonight. she's doing it because she cares about me and to give my exhausted husband an evening off. irika is driving an hour north to see me tomorrow even though she really needs to study for her nursing classes.

don't even get me started on tim, who is working 16-hour days between work and nursing me. i can't do anything right now. it is tim at 7am getting me dressed, and tim running to the store after work to pick up sprite and yet another bag of ice for my shoulder. he's the one enduring my cries of frustration, temper tantrums, and cleaning up after the percocet and my dinner fail to digest properly. tim has the most thankless job in the world and once again, with the exception of a few, where are our friends?

i have been to your wedding and baby showers, to the hospital to greet your new arrivals. i have helped nurse some of you back to health, made meals for you and your family duing times of illness or loss. i have stayed up till the wee hours of the morning talking to you through your divorce proceedings, break-ups, lay-offs, etc. i am not claiming to be perfect, but i have tried to be there during your most pressing times. i am stunned at the way i have been ignored by most and moved to tears by the kindness of so few of you. thank you to all those who have taken the time to help or to just check-in and say hello. you don't know how much that means to me. to the rest, shame on you.

My Final Two-Handed Entry For Quite Some Time...

2006-11-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't completely terrified right now.

This time tomorrow I will be sitting in a drugged-out haze, most likely in a world of pain, and cursing the day I went whitewater rafting in July 2005. Around 10 AM tomorrow, I will undergo exploratory surgery to fix the tear in my bicep tendon and determine if I have a Bankart lesion as well. Depending on the scope of my injuries, I'll be in surgery for 90 minutes to a couple hours.

If I could do anything to stop time right now, I would.

I am so scared to wake up from my surgery and feel the way I did the last time I was under general anesthesia. That was five years ago. I woke up with a sore throat that lasted six months. My immune system, which is already taxed from various health issues, was absolutely drained. How will I bounce back from this surgery? All I can do is hope for the best, but I'm also preparing for the mental and physical anguish of the worst case scenario.

Three times today, I started crying just thinking about the giant hassle this surgery is. (This is very unlike me!) Tears fell at lunch when I suddenly became scared of the procedure. Later, I started sobbing in a dressing stall at Old Navy, where I was trying on XXL shirts to wear over my sling. I looked ridiculous, and the dread of commuting to the city, struggling to carry my laptop with one arm, and looking like an absolute fool took over me. I had the third meltdown on the ride home. I suspect another bout with tears isn't far away this evening.

The hardest part for me is losing my independence. I am not someone who likes to be coddled, and for the next several weeks, I will be forced to rely on the help of friends and family to get dressed, cut my food up, help style my hair, drive me to work, pretty much everything short of wiping my ass. It is humiliating. Demoralizing. Frustrating. And there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

I guess sitting here coming up with "what if" scenarios isn't going to do me any good so I'll stop with my pity party for now. The fact of the matter is that my arm really hurts, and my poor neck and back are now compensating for the injury, so they hurt as well. I was in Tahoe over the weekend, and the cold aggravated my joints terribly. It was a good indicator (and painful reminder) that this surgery is the right thing to do. Hopefully within a few months, I'll be pain free.

Please know that I'll be in a sling for 4-6 weeks so my blog entries may be few and far between over the coming weeks. They will also be littered with typos (more than usual).

I'm going to go eat my last supper now (delicious Thai food from Thai Smile and my favorite mint confetti ice cream from Three Twins). Until next time, adios amigos...

I'm Bringing Sexy Back...

2006-11-10T00:27:00.000-08:00

You know those days when everything is going right? Your hair styles perfectly. The skinny jeans fit. There isn't a blemish on your face...

Today, rather, this entire week is not one of those times for me.

It all started on Saturday afternoon when I started feeling a burning twinge on the corner of my lips. I knew immediately I was getting a cold sore and while I frantically applied medication to it, I was already too late. I get these stupid things (mouth herpes - GROSS!) about 1-2 times a year, mainly from stress.

Tradeshow is to stress, as stress is to cold sore, therefore, tradeshows = cold sores.

Cold sores are ugly and embarrassing on your best day. Try starting your new fancy marketing job for a big software giant with a mark like this on your face.

Hot!

Day 1 - new employee orientation. My face is on fire and the blisters are red and inflamed. I'm already nervous, tired, and not prepared when ten minutes into orientation, I learn we'll be taking our employee badge photos.

The security guard sits me down and I immediately look left so he gets my profile.

"Ma'am, I need you to look at the camera. Sorry."

Defeated, I turn towards him, then tilt my head just enough so my right side is the emphasis of the photo, not the cold sore. "I'm just a diva like Mariah Carey," I tell the guard. "I only allow photos taken from this angle."

By my second day at work, an enormous brown scab began to rise on my upper lip. Up until this point, I was concealing the ugliness with make-up, but with Mt. Kilimanjaro actively growing on my lip, I had nowhere to hide.

Today, day four, marked a milestone - the day the scab fell off my lip, leaving hot pink irritated skin for all to see. I spent most of today looking down at my feet in horror. It looked like someone burned my lip with a cigarette.

I'm happy to report that I'm beginning the healing process. It is still one of the most disgusting things I've seen grow off of me, and I won't miss it when its gone.

Of course, it hardly matters. Monday is my surgery, and I'm looking at three to six weeks in a sling following the operation. I will forever be known in my new office as the girl with one arm and mouth herpes. Not exactly how I worked it out in my mind.

Move over Justin Timberlake...I'm bringin' sexy back!

Insomnia, S'mores, Red Hats, Mint Green Suits, and the Great Moylan's Pint Incident

2006-11-05T23:36:00.000-08:00

I CAN'T SLEEP.

Of course I can't sleep. I start a new job tomorrow where I need to be alert, but my nerves are getting the best of me and sleep seems like it may never come. To top it off, a gorgeous full moon is shining and illuminating my bedroom. Nice to look at, terrible if you're trying to sleep.

Instead of just lying in bed stressing out, I thought I'd recap some random moments from the weekend. Something good should come out of my insomnia.

*****

Why beach bonfires rule - Growing up in Pacifica just blocks from the beach, bonfires were a rite of passage, especially in my teen years. Weekends tended to revolve around some sort of beach gathering...followed by harassment by the Pacifica PD, who naturally assumed any public gathering of teens meant alcohol was involved.

I hadn't been around a beach bonfire in at least 15 years until Saturday night. This weekend, my favorite Everyday Diva Katie turned 40 and decided to celebrate in style. Friday night was spent tossing back swanky cocktails at Woody Zips in North Beach, followed by a party at the Seascape Resort in Aptos the next evening. When Katie booked her suite, she was given the added option of arranging for a bonfire at the resort's beach, complete with golf cart transportation down the steep cliff to the beach, and s'mores fixings.

Here's the Birthday Girl (complete with fancy tiara) and I at Woody Zip's on Friday night:

We brought a cooler of beer and headed down a winding path with eight of us crammed into a golf cart intended for six. (Yes, s'mores and beer, quite the combo, and don't knock it till you try it!) It was a perfect coastal night, slightly breezy, but a balmy 58 degrees for November. An attendant led us to our "private" bonfire...I laugh because there were about six other bonfires in action within a 50 yard radius. Two boxes of marshmallows, Hershey bars, graham crackers, and handi-wipes (this is adult s'more making for sure) awaited us. We even got sticks. It was such a blast, even when the hotel attendant poured ten tons of lighter fluid on our bonfire to make the wood catch fire faster. Let's just say I'm lucky to still possess eyebrows today.

There are few words to describe how content I was to sit by a warm fire with my feet in the sand, listening to the Pacific Ocean crashing nearby, and eating tasty gooey marshmallow goodness. Another reason that living in Northern California does not suck.

Kato and the Birthday Girl kickin' it by the bonfire:

*****

FYI - Looking for killer Thai food in San Francisco? Visit Citizen Thai and the Monkey in North Beach. (Yes, I know a Thai restaurant in the heart of the Italian district is wrong on many levels, but one bite of their spicy pumpkin curry with chicken will change all opinions on that matter. YUM!)

*****

Red Hats and Mint Green Leisure Suits - On Saturday morning, I took the ferry with a bunch of obnoxious Marin County pre-teens into SF to meet my mom, aunt Suzanne, and step-grandma Nikki at the Gift Center and Jewelry Mart. There was a big sample sale going on, mostly for crap you don't need, but if you look carefully the occasional bargain can be found. The place was a madhouse, with truckloads of Red Hat Society ladies walking around like they owned the place. I guess this is what sorority women become later in life? I don't know...but they scare me. Anyhow, at lunchtime, we were looking for a table, when I noticed two older women wearing mint green leisure suits. They were done up to the nines, and my immediate reaction was to tease my mom that I had seen a vision of her and Suzanne 20 years from now. Of course since I was being awful, the two women predictably ended up being lovely. When my aunt pointed out how fancy they were dressed just to be out shopping, they told her they dress up like this all the time so they don't lose their men to other women. I still have to chuckle. I think if I wore a mint green leisure suit, most men would think I should move to a sanitarium.

*****

The Great Pint Adventure - Jaii, you didn't think you'd get off without a mention about the beer incident did you? On Friday afternoon, I met my brother's girlfriend Jaii for lunch up in Novato. Since neither of us were working that day, we decided to live it up and have a pint of beer with our lunches (we were at a brewery...so when in Rome!) Things were going great until Jaii accidentally knocked her full pint glass over and I didn't react fast enough. My t-shirt and jeans took the brunt of the spill, my purse got the latter part of it. Since I was wearing a white t-shirt and I'm not exactly flat-chested, I made the executive decision to quickly purchase a Moylan's t-shirt and quickly change out of what would have most likely propelled me into a winning position at any wet t-shirt contest. And this is where the hilarity began.

First, while I was in the bathroom, some woman started asking me questions about the restaurant. As I was trying to process why she was asking me these things, she says to me, "You don't work here do you?" A-ha! Now its making sense. The Moylan's shirt. She thinks I work here. Funny...

I was in a bit of a quandary. While in Novato I had planned to hit Target and Old Navy. I am having surgery in a week, and I need oversized button-up shirts that will go over the aforementioned large chest and a sling, as I'll be wearing one for ten days - 3 weeks following the surgery. I didn't want to spend a ton of money on these temporary clothing items so Target and Old Navy seemed like good places to start.

Once lunch was over, even though I had a dry shirt, my jeans reeked of beer. I thought about going home, changing and coming back, but that was a pain and I still had to get ready to go out in SF that evening. I decided to suck it up and at least hit Target.

Almost immediately, I could feel the burning stares of housewives as I walked by them. Here I am wearing a brewery t-shirt and drenched in a fragrant cloud of India Pale Ale. One mother grabbed her child as I passed her as if I would corrupt her child upon the first look or smell of me. The more I thought about these perceptions of me being drunk, the more I laughed out loud. This probably didn't help my image at all.

I also managed to break something during my shopping excursion. Target was selling these vases with fragrant sticks in them. My friend Julie has these in her bathroom and they help neutralize odors. I wanted some for my house too, but being that these were Target brand I was concerned the scent wouldn't be to my liking. I picked up a box to get a whiff of the scent, and the bottom opened up, causing the vase to shatter on the floor (in front of the mom who grabbed her child earlier. She gasped and walked away shaking her head). Now I'm an beer-drenched klutz with tears of laughter running down my face. I just needed to get out of the store.

As I'm in the check-out line, the guy ringing me up starts flirting with me. And asking questions about my day. I absent-mindedly respond, too busy sliding my ATM card through to pay much attention, until he asks me how busy lunch was today.

"Excuse me?"
"Lunch...was there a rush today?" he asks.

Oh god. He thinks I work at Moylan's too. So I decide to roll with it and start lying away.

"It was busy," I tell him. "But not any busier than normal. I'm used it it now. The dinner rush is MUCH worse."

He smiles and continues chatting with me. I don't know what possessed me, but I ask him how come he never comes to visit me.

"You know, I'm working tomorrow. I get off at 2 PM. Come and have a beer with me..."

He lights up at the suggestion, and I smile and push my cart out of the store. Sometimes you just have to have a little fun, even if its at someone else's expense. I couldn't help myself. You're not reading the "Shall I my powers for good instead of evil" blog for any other reason right?

*****

Alright, now its 1 AM and I've got to try to get some sleep. Goodnight!

Happy Birthday...To Me!

2006-11-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

Even though my blog profile says 33 I'm not (at least at the time of this posting). In fact, I have exactly 92 minutes before I officially turn 33 and I'm holding on to every second.

I don't know why 33 has me down. Maybe it was the coworker who guessed my age on target yesterday. I jokingly asked if I could pull off saying I'm 25 and she said matter-of-factly, no.

Ouch.

Then she proceeded to tell me she's 25 which got me thinking. Do you realize at the age of 33 I'm closer to 40 than 25?

I think I'm going to cry.

I have to go run and meet some friends for lunch and drown my sorrows in birthday cake.

For your laughing pleasure, I present to you a photo from my Sweet Sixteen birthday (this would be different from the MTV version where I would have received a BMW after my straight pimpin' party featuring a live performance by MC Hammer). Check out the awesome height of my hair and the side braid with matching scrunchie. You just know my socks were layered and matched my sweater too. H-O-T-T! Oh, and mom's spoon rack totally rules in the background. No wonder I never had any boyfriends in high school...

Bad news...US Customs let me back in

2006-10-30T01:57:00.000-08:00

I'm too tired to even attempt something witty here...just wanted to say hola and that I'm home safely. Overall, it was a fantastic trip and a beautiful wedding. My only complaint is not having more time to spend in Puerto Vallarta. It is amazing how quickly five days fly by even when you're doing nothing. I mean, the hardest choices I faced daily were whether to go swimming in the Pacific Ocean or the pool at the resort. Corona or Dos Equis? Nachos or quesadilla?

I have some good stories to share of course. Not that anyone ever reads this blog or comments or cares. I thrive off rejection anyway.

Till the next posting, adios amigos...

Going back to PV...

2006-10-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

The timing is terrible for a trip to Mexico. It feels like my professional world is becoming a supernova, sucking the life around me away. There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. And here I am, wasting precious time I don't have to write a blog entry. (Actually, contrary to most opinions of my writing, I don't consider my blog a waste...it helps clear my head when I'm overwhelmed).

Yet, this trip isn't about me...its about Jodi and Doug, two good friends who will be saying "I do" this weekend. Destination weddings are always a blast and I'm sure once I get through customs and onto a beach, my work worries will grow all the more distant.

It has been three years since I last visited Puerto Vallarta. The last trip was bittersweet as my grandpa had died four days before we left. I hardly remember boarding the plane - I spent the first couple days coming out of that numbness one experiences when they go through a terrible loss. Ultimately, it was a wonderful trip, seven friends renting an outrageous villa complete with a chef/maid/houseman, a killer view of Los Arcos, and an infinity pool that overlooked the teal blue water of the Pacific. The people of Puerto Vallarta are lovely, and the downtown area, once you escape the touristy trappings of the Malecon, has an old soul. I look forward to exploring those cobblestone streets once again, smelling the salt air, and thriving off the unexplainable energy that follows a tropical afternoon thunderstorm and rain shower.

Not sure how much time I'll have near a computer while I'm there but I promise to return with many stories of international incidents.

Till then, I leave you with this...a photo from my last trip. This hammock is where I spent many a lazy hour reading looking out at Los Arcos (the rock formations in the distance). Ahhhh...

Weirdar

2006-10-23T09:51:00.000-07:00

I used to refer to it as my freak magnet. If there is a freak (male or female) within a 50-mile radius of me, they seek me out. Why me? I couldn't tell you. Maybe because I generally try to be nice to people, even when they're annoying me. Perhaps I look approachable. I suppose if I knew what attracted them in the first place, I'd turn it off, but it seems with each passing year, the strength of the freak magnet is intensifying.

Normally when I tell people this, they look at me like I'm full of shit. Or full of myself for that matter. I've learned to say nothing more in these situations and just let the freaks present themselves. You can only imagine how long that took in my recent trip to Vegas. It got so bad, that by the second evening, Lisa declared a new term for my freak magnet, called Weirdar (weird-AR).

Our first night in Vegas started off relatively calm. I was the last to arrive into town and met the ladies at the MGM Grand to catch a performance of Ka. Since Saturday night was a get-to-know-you-night for us ladies (we were all friends of the weekend organizer Kelly), once the show ended, there was that somewhat awkward period of time where we didn't know what to do. I go to Vegas enough that I have my favorite spots, but I didn't want to run the weekend or come across as a bossy know-it-all.

We decided the Hard Rock was the place to start. Young, fun, and always full of excellent people watching, it seemed like an obvious choice. There weren't any tables at the bar, so we began walking around the casino floor, trying to figure out what to do. Soon we were making catty comments about some of the outfits (or lack of) we were viewing at the Hard Rock that evening. This is how you know you're a woman in your 30's - when you resort to making sassy comments about other women dressed like ho's...mainly because you can't get away with that behavior anymore.

Suddenly a slick young man in a suit walks up to us. "Laddddies! What are you doing this evening, other than standing around making fun of other people?"

Busted.

Turns out Mr. Slick is a club promoter for Body English, the nightclub at the Hard Rock. He offers to get us in the club. This never happens to me, but I realize I'm always in Vegas with guys. And now I'm in a group of five women, two of which sport DD racks. From this point forward, we will not pay for another club in Vegas, but at what price?

Oh, I'll tell you. The price of weirdar.

A quick glance around Body English shows a 10-to-1 ratio of men outnumbering women. This is not a good sign. Immediately, a drunk Russian guy comes up to us, mutters some unintelligible words and poses for a picture with us. We are literally holding him up here:

Then there was the Pakistani guy who we were giggling about because of all the guys in Vegas, this was the only one with balls enough to wear a white polyester jacket...in public. Before we posed with him, he was whispering sweet nothings into my ear about how pretty I was. But he really wanted to know one thing...why, of all the men in the club was I taking a photo with him? So I told him the truth...that he was the only guy who raided John Travolta's closet before stepping out and that alone was picture-worthy.

As we were collectively the oldest people in the club, once a 1980's medley of music started, we began gravitating to the dance floor (c'mon...who can resist a little Kenny Loggins and some Footloose?) The dance floor was packed and we tried to make a little circle to dance together. Unfortunately, I was on the outer fringes and the most accessible to the under-25 males on the dance floor. It took about nine seconds for bachelor number one to come up and start dancing with me.

If you're wondering why I'm making that face in the photo, its because my dance partner got a bit excited and had a hard-on that he kept grinding into my leg. Oh yes, I am a lucky girl. Of course, my "friends" kept egging him on as I mouthed out HELP ME repeatedly. Finally I shook him, but it came at the expense of Anne, who was his next victim. As you'll see in this next photo, I'm relieved, Anne (on the right) is horrified, and the arm in the center, is of our three-legged friend...who has his head somewhere near Anne's crotch.

The stories go on and on. By the time this guy (named white-crust boy for the mysterious white crud on the sides of his mouth) started following me around Ghostbar Sunday evening, Lisa declared I had to turn off my weirdar...NOW!

If only it were that simple.

If a picture is truly worth a thousand words...

2006-10-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

This is priceless!

Falling in love with Las Vegas

2006-10-18T00:44:00.000-07:00

...Such a muddy line between
The things you want
And the things you have to do

I'm Leaving Las Vegas
Lights so bright
Palm sweat, blackjack
On a Saturday night
Leaving Las Vegas
Leaving for good...

-Sheryl Crow, lyrics from Leaving Las Vegas

Pain comes in many forms. I've endured physical pain from shoulder dislocations, tendon tears, root canals, and bad shellfish. Yet the worst pain I've experienced in quite some time came by intentionally booking a 8:25 AM flight out of Las Vegas after a three-day ladies trip...so I could get into work at a decent hour.

As my alarm rang out at 5:55 AM, the only way I felt I could possibly leave Las Vegas that morning was in a body bag. Three nights in Sin City had yielded only nine total hours of sleep and bags so big under my eyes that I worried Southwest might make me check them in along with my suitcase.

Oh sure, we had really good intentions to go to bed early the night before. Kelly and Lisa had an early flight the next day as well, so we set a simple plan: dinner, a drink or two, then back to the room to bed by midnight.

The reality involved a bottle of wine, giggling our way through the Celine Dion store, a strange cab ride to the Palms by Debbie Downer II (another clinically depressed cabbie...they seem to seek me out in Vegas), walking in stilletto's from the MGM Grand to Mandalay Bay, indecision at Red Square, indigestion at the House of Blues, flirting with a PGA caddy, getting on the guest list at the Foundation Room where we explored all the rooms with our self-proclaimed stalkers and turning down bad pick-up lines from two married dorks from Chicago. And that is only what happend before midnight!

To think only seven years ago, I couldn't stand Vegas. It was hard to see past the neon, debauchery, and filth. As I've gotten older, I find Vegas to be this amazing adventure, full of crazy possibility. Where else will you find yourself talking to complete strangers about North Korea, marriage, and strip clubs all within the course of 20 minutes? Where else will you bond with people from all over the world, becoming best friends in the span of a few hours, when in all likelihood, you'll probably never see them again?

You can be the biggest geek at home, but in Vegas, you can be anything. I had never felt more comfortable in Vegas than I did a few weeks ago, and it was intoxicating. Who needs sleep when you're laughing till 5 AM with complete strangers? I thrive off the energy and excitement of not knowing who I'll meet and what will happen next. I know I could never live there permanently, but I seem to adore Vegas just a little more with every visit.

I can't wait to share my stories with you.

Odds and Ends...

2006-10-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

Bryan and Jaii are officially in Maui! Their journey was a crazy one. They got home at 8 PM last night, only to have to be back at the airport by 6 AM. Their flight was quite bumpy and they had a scary landing where the pilot pulled the plane up about 100 feet or so before they were to touch down. Scary! Mom says there is a crazy storm, more like a monsoon, hitting Maui today and they had to go through lakes that were formerly roads to get Bryan and Jaii at the airport. Who would have thought that my parents earlier shark snorkeling adventure would be the safest part of their vacation?

*****

Oh, for those of you who are in need of an update, there are only 15 more shopping days till my birthday...

*****

Here's my horoscope for today. These were words I really needed to hear for some reason. Any other Scorpio's reading this can benefit from these words as well...

The added responsibilities you have been given lately are a sure sign that you are making a strong, positive impression on some powerful people. You are ready to take on the next challenge of life, especially if it involves travel or new cultural experiences. All you need to do right now is stick with your routine and channel any nervousness into positive energy. You simply must start believing in yourself more -- after all, if you don't, who will?

I am trying to believe in myself more and I'm working on a happy future. I have so much to tell...will explain in the coming weeks. Changes are coming and it is a good thing. Stay tuned!

Maui Earthquake Update

2006-10-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

Good news...in the past hour I was able to locate my missing sibling and his girlfriend. Their flight was turned around halfway to Hawaii and they landed a little while ago at Oakland Airport. I don't know if Bryan and Jaii will make it out to the islands tonight. They are currently waiting for news at the airport to figure out the next steps. With sporadic bits of power coming in at my parents condo, constant aftershocks, and a plea to stay off the roads while damage is assessed, maybe its a good thing they came home. I'm just happy all my loved ones are accounted for and safe.

What's Shakin' in Maui...

2006-10-15T14:36:00.000-07:00

Quick update on the folks...Mom and Dad are okay, after getting a nice wake-up call this morning in Maui. As lifelong San Francisco residents, they took the 6.6 quake like true professionals. They don't have power, but the condo held up fine. Dad even moved his car to higher ground in case some big waves decided to roll on through. The only problem now is locating my brother and his girlfriend, who departed for Maui this morning about ten minutes before the first quake hit. ATA says the flight was cancelled, Oakland Airport says they took off, and from what I can find out, Maui's main airport is closed and suffered damage. So stay tuned...I'm sure Bryan and Jaii will have some stories to tell. I just spoke with Mark Everson who's staying in Wailea with his lovely wife Julie, their twins, and Julie's parents. They made it through just fine as well.

Will keep you posted of any changes as they develop!

I'm Fergie Ferg and Me Love You Long Time...

2006-10-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

Why do annoying songs always end up being the ones that get stuck in your head all day?

I should know better than to listen to pop anthems manufacturered by evil music execs with the sole intent to have a lasting effect in my brain. I should have gotten up and changed the channel. It would have been quick and easy to fix, but nooooo...I was too lazy to locate the remote. And that three minute mistake has haunted me all day.

Following in the footsteps of songs that ring like a jackhammer on my brain, (i.e., "oh Mickey you're so fine...you're so fine you blow my mind...hey Mickey!, or "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard," and "I ain't no hollaback girl,") comes Fergie's new song, "London Bridge." When I first saw the video, I thought it was a joke - a video and song combo that's so bad its good (i.e., see the Brooke Hogan video for "About Us" for further clarification...) Of course, London Bridge is being completely overplayed and the piece de resistance is that it has been stuck in my head for over nine hours now.

Not only is the song is stuck in my head, but one particular part of the song is on constant replay. Which brilliant lyric is resonating in my head, you may ask? Oh, that would be this one here:

"I'm Fergie Ferg, and me love you long time!" (oh snap...)

I even found myself humming the damn song throughout the day. I simply cannot turn it off. I have tried listening to my favorite songs in an attempt to perform a sort of musical exorcism, but nothing is helping. Fergie Ferg has taken the reins and I'm merely along for the long and painful ride. So I decided that misery loves company and to share my pain with you, my two faithful readers, in the hopes that you two will suffer along with me (oh snap!)

Here are ten more annoying songs (beyond the ones noted before) that get stuck in your head:

1) Buttons - The Pussycat Dolls. I always get the part where Snoop Dogg raps something about getting on the lead pussycat. Yeah, I know...classy!

2) Reunited - Peaches and Herb. This is a shoutout to you little brother...remember when mom would make us listen to this song and how we'd purposely sing it to get it in the other ones head? Enjoy!

3) Smooth - Santana featuring Rob Thomas. I realize it is practically sacrilegious to rip on Santana, but that song was so overplayed it actually hurts me to hear it to this day!

4) Love Shack - The B-52's. Kind of in the same realm of Santana. Love the B-52's, but if I never heard this song again, I'd be just fine with that.

5) With Arms Wide Open - Creed. Scott Stapp...Do I have to say anything more?

6) What a Fool Believes - The Doobie Brothers. Michael McDonald...do I need to say anything more?

7) Rocket - Def Leppard - C'mon...any song with the lyrics, "Rocket...yeah!" deserves to be on this list.

8) Sussudio - Phil Collins. You just hate me right now don't you?

9) Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go - Wham. Just in time for the reunion tour. Have fun with the jitterbug part stuck in your head for the rest of the evening!

10) Superman - Five for Fighting. Its not easy...to listen...to this song.

Give me your picks for annoying songs. This could be fun!

Weirdar and other Vegas Ramblings

2006-10-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

Just a quick post...I'm in Vegas with my girlfriends and it has been a total blast. As usual, my freak magnet has been working overtime, causing my new friend Lisa to exclaim last night that I need to "turn that weirdar off!"

In a nutshell...

Cleveage always gets you into nightclubs, international incidents with Russians, Pakistani's (sp), Brits, and Aussies keep things entertaining, popcorn and vodka for the record do not make a dinner of champions, and when you really want to set an impression in Vegas, don't be afraid to take the stretch limo on your Target shopping trip.

Will go into more detail later...running out of time on my computer. Stay tuned!

Sigh...

2006-10-06T15:27:00.000-07:00

No matter what sort of silver lining you try to put on it, rejection, in any form hurts.

The who, the what, and the why don't matter here, as much as the disappointment of learning you were never going to amount to very much in someone else's eyes, no matter how hard you tried. Especially when you thought you did matter more to them and saw the potential for something more significant to evolve out of the relationship.

Its a bitter pill to swallow. It is what it is. So be it. Life goes on. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger...

This sucks.

I'm getting surgery but I've got good news - I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance!

2006-09-30T02:16:00.000-07:00

Maybe its asking for too much, but instead of the norm, these are the kind of announcements I'd like to hear for a change...

1) Kristen...you just won the Publisher's Clearing House $5,000 a week for life contest!
2) Since you are a loyal shopper at Anthropologie, we'd like to reward you with a shopping spree!
3) You just won the Visa year-of-travel for free, just for using your Visa card!

Instead, I get this:

1) Kristen, your shoulder is just not healing in the manner we had hoped after two months of rest and rehab. We should start moving forward to scheduling your surgery.

Yep - the decision has been made. I tried physical therapy and did my homework exercises. The past two months have flown by with daily routine of ice, ibuprofen, and stinky Icy/Hot patches. All to no avail. This girl has torn her bicep tendon and there is nothing natural I can do to fix it.

You're probably thinking big deal...its just an outpatient surgery, but I've already had a surgery on this same shoulder and the post-surgical world is just going to suck. I'll be spending anywhere from 10 days to three weeks in a sling and will face a challenging new world of living with only one functional arm. Believe me, it is tough to do the simplest of tasks. Just brushing your hair, putting toothpaste on a toothbrush, driving, grocery shopping are all going to be frustrating processes. Not to mention months of PT to get my mobility back.

Onward and upward...the choice is clear. I either live in constant pain or get it fixed and deal with the temporary annoyance of being one-arm Willy and a long rehab. Now I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Or as my friend Eric likes to tell me, "quit yer whinning!"

At the very least, I'll have that arm nice and strong by the time the Publisher's Clearing House folks show up on my doorstep with that giant check for me to hold!

Back with the living...

2006-09-25T13:08:00.000-07:00

After ten days of suffering, it appears my cold from hell is FINALLY going away! I got my voice back this morning and actually have some energy that hasn't come from legal-crack uppers like Sudafed cold medicine. I can't even begin to explain the happiness I am experiencing from having a clear head and lungs again.

I apologize to those who had to deal with me in one form or another last week. I was a grumpy sick biatch for sure.

In an unrelated note, I've made it four days without a speeding ticket! Greg and Rick have opened a betting pool on when I will manage to obtain one. I'll let them post the odds in case you, my two faithful readers (thanks again mom and dad for the support), want to get your bets placed.

The Fast and the Furious...

2006-09-22T15:45:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you cross a leadfoot with a shiny brand new red sports car?

Big trouble!

I got my new ride yesterday, a 2007 Lexus IS 250 in Matador Red. I've already renamed it "Speeding Ticket Red." I'm so doomed. This car is so fast and so smooth. I might as well hand over my license to the DMV right now.

So if you see a little red car pulled over on the side of the road, be sure to wave hello as I'm trying to sweet talk my way out of a ticket!

Sick...

2006-09-19T17:40:00.000-07:00

Everytime I get sick, I think of this poem from my childhood...

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay,
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash, and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is---Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

~Shel Silverstein

Unfortunately, today is not Saturday and I really am sick. No measles or mumps, just a sore throat, bad cough, moments of asthma-induced suffocation, and a crackling voice that interchanges between sounding like Selma Simpson and Peter Brady (during adolescence). Hot.

You know you are in bad shape when your morning greeting to your cats ("Good morning little furballs") ends up with said kitties recoiling in fear and running from what appears to be a posterchild for why you shouldn't smoke.

Not much more to report than that. I'm too tired to say much more. We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow. Bad spinach? West Nile? Workmyselftodeathitis?

Lungs don't fail me now!

Five Years

2006-09-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

September 10, 2001 was a triumphant day for my brother Bryan and I. We had spent months planning the annual Snader and Associates golf tournament at the Marin Country Club, and this was event day. Everything went to plan, in fact we were so prepared that we ran out of work to do, a joyous rarity in the world of event planning. We wasted a good portion of the afternoon driving a golf cart around the course, chatting with the players, including our sponsoring manufacturers who had flown in from all over the United States to play a little golf.

By the end of the evening, I was exhausted but wired from the event going so well. I went for a celebratory beer with my coworkers Lisa and Rick, where we toasted to a great event. I remember going to bed that night thinking what a success I was becoming in my field, and wondering what the next steps might be for me.

Unfortunately, the world I fell asleep in and the one I woke up in were two dramatically different places. At 6:59 AM on September 11th, the television in our bedroom came on (it was set on a timer). I remember hearing Tori Campbell from KTVU's Mornings on 2 show say in a solemn voice that the South Tower of the World Trade Center had just collapsed. I was still in a foggy dream state so I thought maybe I was imagining what she just said. But then she said it again, and as if we choreographed it, both Tim and I, the most anti-morning people you've ever met, sat straight up in bed and stared at the TV, wide awake.

I started shaking and crying as the mornings events materialized in front of me. First I called my mom who was watching the news and was equally upset. My brother and his girlfriend Jaii, who lived in San Francisco at the time, were scared to be in the city, and drove down to my parents house in Pacifica. Tim had to go into work, a fact so terrifying at the time, as he worked in San Francisco, and had to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, a known terrorist target. I was already taking the day off to recuperate from the golf tournament, and I spent most of that time sitting in like a zombie in front of the TV watching the towers collapse over and over again. I was paralyzed by fear I didn't know I possessed.

Within 24 hours, my entire world had changed. Suddenly I knew about Osama Bin Laden, the Taliban, Muslim extremists, and the definition of jihad. The golf tournament seemed so far away, and my future, that had only one day before seemed so bright, was incredibly uncertain.

Five years after the attacks on September 11th, my world is a lot brighter. Learning to live in our tumultuous world has taught me to cherish life more. I don't feel totally safe, but I don't let the fear that once paralyzed me to the core stop me from doing anything either. I've continued to travel to other parts of the world in airplanes, take public transportation, and be proud of my Arabic heritage (at times, one of the scariest things to do, although I'm not a terrorist, nor am I Muslim. I have encountered many people with strong feelings about Arabs however, and for some, there is simply no gray area on this topic).

The past five years have gone by quickly to me. I look back at the person I was on Sept. 10, 2001 and my life seemed so much more simple then. I grew up a lot in five years, I suppose we all did. September 11th taught me about the resilience of Americans. The importance of family. The value of living life to its fullest. Living with and overcoming fear. I think back to the first flight I took, just a mere three weeks after Sept. 11th, and how quiet that plane was. And the courage it took just to step foot on it. But I did it. And for that I am so proud. I'm just sorry it took the lives of 3000 people that day, and nearly as many fighting the current "war on terror" for me to come to this place of understanding.

I will never forget.

Ever have one of THOSE days?

2006-09-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!

Thank you. I feel much better now.

Farewell Steve Irwin...

2006-09-04T21:45:00.000-07:00

I learned the Crocodile Hunter died this morning and I've been completely bummed out about it all day. Its hard to dislike the guy who brought the terms "Crikey!" and "Saltie" into my life. I always thought he was a crazy bastard, but still tuned into his show more often than not. I had a gut feeling his end would be inevitable considering the line of work he was in, but I never thought it'd be a stingray, of all creatures, that would take his life.

Steve Irwin, 1962-2006

Back in 2001, I rang in the new year with Steve Irwin. Tim and I came down with some near-deadly strain of the flu and found ourselves permanently affixed to the sofa, moaning in pain and agony. As we were too feverish to even go out and rent a movie, we found ourselves glued to the only television programming worth watching that day - a Crocodile Hunter marathon on Animal Planet. I believe we watched eight straight hours in a Nyquil induced daze. It wasn't exactly how we had planned to ring the new year in, but it was oddly entertaining. The experience gave us a whole new vocabulary, where Irwin sayings like "Ah...she's a beaut!" were butchered with bad Australian accents for weeks afterwards.

The death of the Crocodile Hunter brings me to a point about celebrities in dangerous lines of work. The point being, DON'T DO IT! Look at Siegfried and Roy. Grizzly Man. Steve Irwin. All interesting and compelling individuals (okay, maybe not Siegfried and Roy so much), working with animals who can kill humans, and now they're all dead or walking with a permanent limp. Its like when my favorite celebrity gossip blogger Perez Hilton makes his desperate pleads to Angelina Jolie to stop taking flying lessons. DON'T DO IT! Just hire a pilot. Does JFK Jr. ring any bells to you?

Losing Steve Irwin is an unfortunate tragedy on so many levels, and I feel so sad for his widow and two children. His death is also a loss for the world, losing both a great entertainer/personality, and animal conservationist.

Perhaps the saddest aspect of Irwin's death (outside of CNN's nonstop coverage of it today, including live reports from the Cincinnati Aquarium where we learned more than we ever wanted to know about the poisonous barb on the mostly gentle stingray) is the fact it was captured on video. I am just bracing for the video footage of his final moments to be leaked on the internet. Tim and I predict it will take approximately three more days before some jerk posts it on You Tube. Remember when there was that rash of beheadings in Iraq two years ago? Someone got hold of the photos and was posting them on Craigslist under misleading headers. I saw photos of beheadings in action on accident and they haunt me to this day. I can hope the same doesn't occur with Irwin's death. It would be a gross insult to his legacy and surviving family members to do anything less.

The Star Spangled Speedo

2006-09-02T14:11:00.000-07:00

My friend Monique was over last night and she was shocked that I left out perhaps the best of the Speedo stories from over the years in my last blog. I promised to add an addendum to my last entry. Mo...this one's for you!

Mo, like myself, was a swimmer in high school. Years ago, when I was living back in Pacifica, the two of us would keep up our forms by hitting the indoor pool weekly at Oceana High School. Wednesday nights were the best nights to go, as it was adult only swim. We started to get to know the people who'd swim there, from the little old ladies in the slow lane, to the hardcore 500 IM guys in the fast lanes. But our favorite person of all was the man in the Star Spangled Speedo.

Once again proving my theory that the hairier of a man you are, the more likely you are to wear a Speedo, Mr. Star Spangled Speedo (or Mr. SSS) would come out of the men's locker room, sporting a seriously hairy torso. He had several Speedo's in his repertoire, but his favorite was a patriotic red, white, and blue number, complete with stars and stripes. Because really, what says "proud to be an American" more than a Speedo? For reasons known only to himself, Mr. SSS would always walk one lap around the entire pool before jumping in, strutting his stuff for all of us to see. Without fail, Mo and I would always manage to catch him doing this, and being lousy at keeping a straight face, would erupt in thunderous roar of laughter once he passed us by.

This is so awful to post, but you have to understand what we were viewing weekly. Having the balls (mind the pun) to wear one of these gives a whole new meaning to "the home of the brave!"

One problem with the Speedo is that it leaves very little to the imagination, and from time to time, Mr. SSS would be a little happier than usual to see all of us. My poor mother joined Mo and I one time for adult swim, and got to witness Mr. SSS with her own eyes. On this particular evening, Mr. SSS was in one of his more aroused states. Being the smartass that I am, I turned to Mo and my mother, and in my most serious voice said, "May I have your attention please. All rise for the Star Spangled Speedo!" Even my mom, a classy lady if there ever was one, had to take a moment to compose herself after that one.

Mr. SSS has become a bit of a legend to Mo and I. Although I have not seen Mr. SSS in years, he will live in on famously as one of the many freaks who makes my life that much more comical to live in, and the pool a much more entertaining place to visit.

A question for the men...

2006-08-30T22:33:00.000-07:00

Since my teen years, one question has continued to present itself to me repeatedly in a variety of situations. I've decided I need answers, and I'm counting on my male readership (all two of you) to help me understand the reasoning behind what I am about to ask.

Why the Speedo? Why?!?

As a member of the Terra Nova High School swim team, I came to an understanding of why some men wear a Speedo. These Speedo wearers are hardcore, kick-ass swimmers. And it makes sense to wear less as you just can't get killer lap times when you're wearing a pair of swim trunks. I get that.

One of the funniest Speedo moments in high school came when I started dating Eric, a hottie surfer guy, who happened to be friends with my hottie next door surfer neighbor, Mike. (Thank you again, great god(s) above for putting cute boys within feet of my home!) Eric was a member of the swim team, and also played on a water polo league. I broke new relationship ground with Eric, becoming the first girlfriend to ever be invited and attend one of his water polo matches. Why you ask? I was a swimmer myself...and thereby subjected to also wearing flimsy, body bearing lycra in public settings. I already knew the humiliation that came with wearing the official team uniform (and perhaps even more as I was the only swimmer sporting a 36C chest at the time). As a member of the swim team society, I had seen my fair share of Speedos, so seeing Eric in one wasn't going to freak either one of us out.

In college, I worked at Big 5 with a rowdy group of Chico State coeds. I remember putting the winter clothing onto clearance racks to make room for the spring clothing lines. I would unload box after box of Speedos. Being mature 20-something's, my coworkers and I would shoot the Speedo's as if they were rubber bands at one another. We roared in laughter when size 42 Speedo's came in a shipment. Seemed to me that if you're sporting a size 42 waist, maybe the whole "less is more" theory would be thrown out the window. And yet, they would always end up selling.

And then there is the infamous Banana Hammock incident in Vegas. A former coworker of mine sported a bright banana yellow Speedo at the Monte Carlo swimming pool, much to the horror of the rest of the company who was there with him. I was not there to witness this spectacle, but the story of the Banana Hammock has become something of legend around the office. Most who saw it attest to having PST flashbacks from seeing what some have referred to as the "one eyed banana snake." By far, this is the story that brings laughter and sunshine to the office on the most stressful and busiest of days.

Here I am in Vegas earlier this spring attempting to eat my brunch poolside. This is the view I am subjected to...kind of makes you lose your appetite.

South Beach, Miami. If you're like me, you've seen one too many episodes of Nip/Tuck. Amazingly (or perhaps reassuringly), I saw less supermodel types, and more soggy bottom types, like this guy here.

Then just last Friday, I'm trying to drive home from San Francisco after a long day of work. My office is located South of Market and traffic is hardly moving because of it being rush hour and there's a Giants game two blocks away. I'm headed down Townsend Street, when out of nowhere, my car is surrounded by people on bikes. At first I thought it was Critical Mass, but that is usually reserved for the last Friday of the month. It turned out to be a protest...something like bikers for peace. You can only imagine a sea of hundreds of hippy bike riders surrounding me in my little Lexus sports sedan. It is quite a combination, and I'm making friends left and right as I wait for the protest to pass me. Just as the crowd is starting to thin out, I look over and see a guy with flowing blond hair on his bike, wearing nothing but a hot pink Speedo. I must have had a good expression on my face, because he looked at me, smiled and winked.

Nice.

So Speedo-clad men of the universe - why, oh why, do you wear one? Do you enjoy showing off all your anatomy for the world to see? Why is it that there is almost always a higher occurrence of body hair when a Speedo is worn? And why on earth, if you don't look or swim like Greg Louganis, would you wear one?

Grateful for the second chance

2006-08-28T05:05:00.000-07:00

Hug the right...hug the right...hug the right!

We aimed the raft right, but were cut off at the top of the rapid by another boat where there was no room for error. You see, in late August, on the very last white water rafting run of the season, there are strict rules and they have to be followed. One second I was paddling and desperately trying to hug the right shore, a split second later I was toppled over, head first into the icy water of Cache Creek. You know the saying, up shit creek without a paddle? I quickly understood the origins of that statement.

Don't panic! Don't panic! You are strong Kristen! You grew up next to the Pacific Ocean for Pete's sake and you were on swim team. You know people who panic...die. You'll take deep breaths when you can. You will remain calm. You have to.

My internal dialogue raced as I continued down the waterfall. This is a long rapid and there were many rocks my poor pinball of a body would have to bounce off of before I was going to find calm water again.

Prior to any white water rafting adventure, you're given important instructions for safety. If you're like me, you listen to them, yet you somewhat mock them. Those rules are simply for other people. These rules state should you fall out you will a) calmly get into a position where you lay on your back with your feet out and ride out the rapid, b) avoid going underneath or holding onto the boat you were once topside on and, c) and avoid putting your feet down. It sounds simple, but let me tell you, when you go overboard at the top of a technical class three rapid, your body will fight you tooth and nail to survive. Even though you've heard the rules, your brain still says put down the brakes. You'll find yourself doing this until the force of the water slams you against the first of many jagged river rocks, where the pain is such that you don't know if you've just managed to break one or both of your kneecaps.

I've been on two white water rafting trips, and I find it strange how no one tells you what the force of the swirling water is truly like if you go overboard. You might as well be on permanent press in your washing machine. You're wearing a life jacket, but its not doing much for you. In my case, I remained a solid inch or two under water for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only 30 seconds at the most. Still, 30 seconds is a long time when you're trying not to panic or drown.

Exactly one year ago today I almost drowned in Cache Creek. Ironically, my close call with the grim reaper didn't come from what I described above, it came from another boat who didn't see me (probably because I was mostly submerged under water) and hit me in the head with their oar. The force of the hit ended up knocking me out cold in what was already a bit of a dire situation. I saw the oar coming but couldn't get out of the way in time. And for reasons beyond my grasp of understanding, the injury was unavoidable because none of the rafting companies on Cache Creek provide helmets for this one and only rapid of significance. There wasn't time to get a deep breath of fresh air before the blow came. Just a pow, a dizzy flash of green light, and then darkness.

When I came to I was face first in the water and it was black. I had a splitting headache, didn't know where I was, and I began to panic. Oh my god...where's Tim? I knew he had fallen out of our boat too, but in the confusion of navigating through the rapid, I had lost him. I didn't even know which was up.

I start gasping as my lungs revolt against me. I am completely out of air, and suddenly I realize how people drown in just a couple feet of water. The strangest thoughts flash through my head. Oh my god...we don't have life insurance. Will Tim be able to keep the house? My parents...they're going to outlive their child. Can this actually be happening? I don't want to die! Not today...I'm not ready.

Just as I'm resigning to what appears to be my fate, out of nowhere, I feel arms grab me. They push me upwards where I gasp for air, only to take a huge gulp of water instead. This makes me flinch violently, and I slip out of those arms. Undeterred, the rescuer tries again, this time grabbing hold of my right arm so tight that he bruises me. He gets me upright and swims strong against the current until we reach the shore. My rescuer, a shy teenager with blond curly locks, gives me space as I cough and vomit up the water I've just consumed. He's shaking almost as much as I am. I find myself crawling to a rock, where I sit down, and start crying, even though I can't shed a tear. I'm in shock. In my daze, I look across the creek and see Tim, who is precariously trapped on the right side of the shore. He's holding onto a lone branch of a dangling tree and when he lets go, the force smacks him straight onto a big rock in the water. I know he's taken a significant hit on his tailbone and the expression on his face is one of pain and agony. I want to see if he's okay, but I'm frozen and trying not to vomit again. I need to conduct a systems test to see if anything is broken. My legs are already swelling and turning purple, black, and green from my rendezvous with the river rock.

Eventually, with the help of the strangers around me who half-carry, half-drag me, I'm reunited with my husband and friends who are about 50 yards downshore from me. As soon as I see Tim, I hobble to him and collapse in his arms crying. I don't care if people are watching. This is my moment and I need this cry. There is no shortage of tears this time around.

A year later, I still suffer from post-traumatic stress. I often dream of water - waterfalls, oceans, lakes. Sometimes the water is calm, sometimes I am rafting in it. Often when the pressure is on in my life, I dream I'm drowning. I even wake up short of breath. Some days I break down crying when I talk about what happened. Other times, the mere mention of rafting will send me into nervous shaking and fidgeting. I don't even realize I'm doing it until other people point it out to me. This blog is the first time I've sat down and wrote the whole experience out. I think I will be processing this for the rest of my life, but I'm only now starting to accept what happened.

A few friends have told me to stop dwelling on it and to move on. I know they're only trying to help me, but its not something where I can just flip a switch and be over with it. They just don't understand what that darkness was like, or how my chest burned with that last little bit of air. They can't relate to the feeling of helplessness and regret that overcame me out there. They don't know the fear I had to face last year on August 28th, and frankly, I hope they never have to.

I am so grateful to be alive today - I don't even know if there are enough words in the dictionary to express that. I suppose if there can be any sort of silver lining from almost drowning, it would be having a renewed sense of purpose. In the past year, I've traveled as much as I could, spent more time with friends and family, even took up my love of writing again both in print and with this blog. I'm certainly more goal-oriented than I was a year ago.

In a weird way, I also feel I'm a bit more spiritual a year later. I haven't become a bible thumper nor do I go to church weekly, but I find myself questioning the outcome of that day and whether a higher power interfered. So many things went wrong that day, but in the end I was spared. What if my rescuer hadn't been there to save me? What if I hit my head on a rock upon falling out of the boat at the top of the rapid? It makes you overanalyze everything. And for that I am thankful as well.

I have processed so many emotions already and there still is so much to work through. I don't know if I'll ever have the answers I'm searching for, or if I was more deserving than someone else to continue living. Regardless, I am grateful for the second chance.

Is something wrong, she said
Well of course there is
You're still alive, she said
Oh, and do I deserve to be?
Is that the question
And if so...if so...who answers...who answers...

-Pearl Jam, lyrics from Alive

The Summer of George

2006-08-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

Did you ever watch the episode of Seinfeld where George Costanza declares its going to be the "Summer of George?" This is the episode where George gets let go from his job working for the New York Yankees and is handed a three-month severance package. There's an exchange between George and Jerry that goes like this:

George: I'm really going to do something with these three months.
Jerry: Like what?
George: I'm gonna read a book. From beginning to end. In that order.
Jerry: I've always wanted to do that...
George: I'm gonna play frolf.
Jerry: You mean golf?
George: Frolf, frisbee golf Jerry. Golf with a frisbee. This is gonna be my time. Time to taste the fruits and let the juices drip down my chin. I proclaim this: The Summer of George!

Of course, with George being George, the best laid plans fall short and George ends up slipping and ending up in the hospital. The episode ends with George whimpering, "This was supposed to be the summer of George!"

Sadly, for the second year in a row, I too am experiencing a summer of George, where my best intentions seem to end up with me either injured or in a life threatening situation.

Sigh. Let me begin with last summer and bring you to today.

Last summer, I went white water rafting for the first time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified of doing this. I went with a group of friends to tackle the Middle Fork of the American River, a challenging stretch of Class 3 and 4 rapids in the Sierra Nevada foothills. On the very first rapid, our boat hit a rock and the force was enough to drive our guide and my friend Julie to fall into our raft and land on my left arm, oars out. To make matters worse, my left arm is my bad arm. An arm that required major surgery at the tender age of 15 because my shoulder liked to liberate itself often from the ball and socket joint where it was supposed to reside.

I wasn't even in the river for two minutes when this happened. Unbelievable! And that rapid was only a class three!

This is a class SIX rapid called Ruck-a-Chucky Falls. I highly recommend avoiding rapids like this...

Luckily, no one fell out and no further injuries occurred, but my arm did bruise something fierce. I spent six weeks with a bruise that stretched from my bicep to my wrist. The injury warranted a visit to the orthopedic doctor who diagnosed a rotator cuff injury. That meant a month in a sling, six weeks of physical therapy, and a summer full of fun activities cut short.

If you look closely, you'll see the bruise that would make even Ike Turner wince in pain. The woman to the left of me is the guide who did most of the damage.

Approximately seven weeks later, my arm was healing and I had another rafting trip on the calendar. This time I took a tumble head first out of the raft (without a helmet) down a class three rapid. As if that isn't frightening and painful enough, another rafter didn't see me bobbing down the river, and he clocked me in the head with his oar. When I came to, I was face first in the water (yeah, not sure how since I was wearing a lifejacket), and some guy was trying to pull me out of the river. Yep, I almost drowned and had to be rescued. After coughing and throwing up on the shore of Cache Creek, I realized my "Summer of George" was officially ruined. This time not only physically, as I was bruised from hip to toe, but this one would carry emotional scars that still haunt me, almost a year later.

With the summer of 2005 ending on such a traumatic note, imagine my resolve to make the summer of 2006 the best summer of George ever. This year was going to be different. For starters, no river rafting was on the agenda. Secondly, I have been working out with a trainer since December and actively taking pilates classes, so my body is in good shape and strong. In July I took my first wakeboarding run in two years (I couldn't last summer as I was injured the entire time). I did great, in fact, it was probably my best run ever. It seemed like for the past couple of weeks, every weekend has been filled with an activity whether it be camping or a mini-getaway. I was really looking forward to an annual camping trip to Bullards Bar in mid-August for another run on the wakeboard. This was going to be the summer where I jumped the wake successfully!

The first weekend of August six girlfriends and I were up in my old college town, Chico. One day we decided to go tubing down the Sacramento River. I am quite a veteran of tubing from my days as a student, so when I realized we were veering down the right side of the river towards a leg full of butt sharks (things like branches and rocks that will snag your drooping bottom), and some small rapids (of which I'm terrified of), I started rallying the troops to start helping pull us to the left side of the river. While this seems like it should be an easy task, organizing seven women to do anything in some sort of organized fashion is not. To make matters worse, we were all attached to one another and pulling a cooler of beer. Some of the ladies simply were positioned so that they couldn't do much to move us across the river.

Here we are, the ladies of the river:

In the end, most of the effort fell on myself and my friend Lindsay, who were on the far end of our island. Lindsay and I are pretty avid about going to the gym and really didn't think much of our paddling efforts. Looking back, I realize I was in an awkward angle...laying on my back and padding my arms to pull us across the river. At the end of day when everyone else was complaining about sore arms, mine felt fine. In fact the workout felt great, that is until two days later, when I was working out at the gym and I felt a snap in my left shoulder, much like someone snapping a rubber band in my arm.

The sensation felt odd, but it didn't hurt. I stopped working on the weight machine and shook out my arm. I lifted my arm. No pain, no numbness, it felt fine. I brushed off what had just happened and continued with my workout. Maybe I just strained something. Hmmm...

Six hours later and out of nowhere, my arm started burning as if someone poured battery acid on the muscles. Immediately, I took Advil and iced it. The next day it felt even worse, so I called my trainer, and on her urging, I ceased all workouts and pilates for the week and just babied my shoulder. After a week of doing nothing, I thought the worst was over with, and was going to resume my Tuesday afternoon pilates class. That was until I helped my friend Lisa grab a box that was over my head. Instantly, my shoulder started hurting again, even worse than the previous week.

I finally called my orthopedic doctor and after an examination, he gave me news that once again would declare my Summer of George was over. His suspicion, a torn or detached bicep tendon, probably stemming back to last summer's rotator cuff injury, is the likely culprit of my pain.

I had an MRI on Monday and I see the doctor next week for a follow-up. If he's right, I'm going to surgery. At the very least, since I can't lift my arm very far or turn it without sharp pain and burning, it will be a long road of physical therapy and rehab. Not to mention bad hair. Man is it hard to do anything to your hair with only one functional arm.

No more wakeboarding, no swimming, and certainly pilates is out. Overall, compared to almost dying last year, I shouldn't even be complaining. But honestly, this really sucks. This was supposed to be my summer, my summer of George!

A Perfect Santa Cruz Day

2006-08-02T00:21:00.000-07:00

I fell asleep listening to waves crashing last night. Peaceful yet powerful, the smell of salt in the air. I was home again.

I grew up in Pacifica, just blocks from the Pacific Ocean. I never appreciated the ocean until I moved away at the age of 17. Of course, I thought it was pretty, but never understood how living on the coast infiltrates your soul. Coming home on breaks from Chico State, I'd eagerly anticipate reaching the northern tip of Pacifica, where Highway 1 rises and subsequently dips, offering a dramatic view of the Pacific. I'd immediately roll down all my windows and breathe the sea in as I drove to my parents house. Even if it was a cold night, my bedroom window would remain open to let the fresh, salty air in.

I live within 20 miles of the Pacific Ocean now, and very close to San Francisco Bay, but its just not the same. There is something about living on the ocean, especially the stretch that runs from Ocean Beach south to Santa Cruz County. This was my playground growing up.

My friend Katie and her daughter Claudia arrived last week from Washington State and invited me down to stay at her family beach house down in Santa Cruz. "It's nothing fancy," she warned me. "It suits me fine though."

The house Katie was referring to is an old carriage house that was converted into a residence. The place is just funky enough to be perhaps the perfect Santa Cruz home. Located three houses away from a bluff and gorgeous beach, the house is designed for maximum family usage and is able to take on the sandiest of children. It consists of one big room full of beds, a rustic kitchen, and a bathroom accessible from both outside and inside. Above the kitchen is a small master bedroom with a private deck. A large deck out front of the house just screams barbecue and board games.

It was in a word, perfect.

I arrived in Santa Cruz after attending my Aunt Dot's funeral mass. I needed some time to reflect of her passing and was in a bit of a sad mood as I started the drive south. As if Aunt Dot herself wanted to cheer me up, I was greeted with blue skies shining over Monterey Bay as I descended Hwy. 17 into Santa Cruz.

Katie and Kelly greeted me warmly when I walked up to the front door, still in my black funeral garb. K and K were my neighbors in college and we rarely get to see each other all at once anymore. Before we can hug, Claudia screams "MY KRISTEN!" and hugs my leg. I am so happy to be here, away from funerals and rosary masses.

We spent the afternoon at the beach. Katie's sister and her two daughters join us. Kelly brings her three-month-old son Jack with us and he sleeps peacefully in a little portable tent on the sand. I race incoming waves with Claudia and her cousin Riley until they start playing a new game where they jump repeatedly into a big hole in the sand. We return home hours later, sandy, sundrenched, and content.

After dinner, everyone but Katie, Claudia, and I leave to go home. While Katie readies Claudia for bed, I walk down to a bench at the edge of the bluff and watch the sunset. When Katie comes back out front, we drink red wine and talk about what is going on in our lives. For the first time in my thirties, I feel content with being in my thirties. This is very adult and it feels right. No wild parties, no craziness. Just a mellow day with good friends, good conversation, and followed by a blissful night of sleep...listening to waves crashing.

I'm Sorry I didn't Say This Before You Left Today...

2006-07-26T00:28:00.000-07:00

A terrible sense of dread overtook me when I heard my dad's voice on the other side of the phone this evening. Although my dad and I get along great, he's never been much of a phone conversationalist. I can narrow down phone conversations with my father into four general categories:

1. It's Christmas and he needs to know what my mom wants.
2. It's mom's birthday and he needs to know what she wants.
3. We're buying a home and he's our realtor.
4. Somebody died.

Since mom's birthday is in February, Christmas is still over four months away, and we're currently not in the market to buy a home, I knew option four was the only explanation.

"Tenny...it's dad. I'm calling with some bad news. Aunt Dot died tonight."

Aunt Dot, (few called her Dorothy), was my great aunt. (Man, its weird to already be referring to her in the past tense). Those who had the fortune to meet her would tell you she was a real character. She could work a room at a party like no other. She was a proud San Francisco native who always dressed to the nines when she was about town. She was very Irish, and very Catholic. She would be the first to tell you how the quality of the veal scaloppini at Westlake Joe's had slipped over the years as well.

She loved coffee and Anna's butter cookies. She also adored my husband to death and still fondly talked about our wedding, seven years later. I received a card from her around Christmas last year and she was still writing about what a good time she had that day. In her eyes, I had hit the jackpot with my husband...Irish, Catholic, white, and nice to cats. She used to pinch his cheeks and tell him, "I just love that face!"

Here is Aunt Dot at my wedding with my mom (left) and aunt Suzanne (right):

An avid cat lover, Aunt Dot rescued feral cats in order to get them fixed and to help stop the kitty overpopulation problem. She had many as pets at her house as well. Once Tim asked her how many cats she had and she quickly responded that a gentleman NEVER asks a woman how many cats she has. We were perplexed at how it was insulting, but it has become one of our favorite stories over the years.

Aunt Dot lived in Diamond Heights in San Francisco way up on a hill. She had great views of the city she loved. I only went to her house a few times, but I remember it being neat and tidy. She was always delicate, and her eyes twinkled when she told a story.

I lost my grandpa to cancer three years ago. Aunt Dot was devastated about the loss of her brother, or little Johnny, as she called him. I remember when he passed, we had all gathered together as a family at his house. I had never seen her so distraught. I don't think she was quite the same after he died. Perhaps none of us were.

They just don't make them like this anymore. My late aunt and grandfather, AKA, "Little Johnny."

I knew Aunt Dot was having kidney problems and was on dialysis, but I didn't know how severe her symptoms were. When dad called tonight, I felt the most overwhelming sense of guilt and loss. I should have gone and visited her lately. She would have liked that. She loved hearing stories about my cats, and she enjoyed the postcards I sent her from my travels over the years. And I just loved being around her. She was truly like no other and the world is a little less special without her.

I'm glad my aunt is no longer suffering, but I'm really going to miss her.

Aunt Dot and my brother Bryan dancing at the wedding she loved so much...

Click here for the obituary

Where's Kristen?

2006-07-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

Hello! It has been too long since I last posted. I have been traveling quite a bit again which is why it has been silent on this end. Tahoe, Santa Cruz, and Twain Harte have given me some long weekends, and catching up on work sucks up the rest of my time. I'm also on my third concert in a week - Foo Fighters, The Fray, and Pearl Jam (tonight!)

I miss my blog and I'll be back soon.

The Happiest Place on Earth...HA!

2006-07-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

There are certain truths one must accept when visiting the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World in June:

1. It will be hot
2. It will be humid
3. It will be crowded

Armed with these truths, I felt I was ready to take on the "happiest place on Earth," on a sticky Friday last month while out in Orlando with my best friend Irika and her mom, Marylyn. In my mind, the plan was simple. We'd get up early to try to get a jump on both the heat and the crowds. We would drink lots of water, take the indoor and water rides when the heat got too intense, and basically have a blast. I've always had a soft spot for Disneyland, and this, my first visit to Disney World was even more special because of the people I was traveling with.

Back in the summer of 1987, Marylyn went where few moms would dare to tread. Marylyn volunteered to drive Irika, myself, and my dear friend Sarah down to Southern California for a week. Irika, Sarah, and I had recently graduated from eighth grade and were a few months away from attending three separate high schools. Irika and I had been friends since meeting in kindergarten, and Sarah came on board in second grade. We were all terrified about going in different directions, so this trip was really important to all of us...a last bonding hurrah.

Marylyn has always been my second mom, and in 1987, she was the cool hippy mom you could talk to about deep stuff like boys and awkward topics such as our ungraceful blossoming into womanhood. I can honestly say I'm not sure how Marylyn endured the road trip to LA, visits to theme parks and other attractions, while toting three 13-year-olds in a tiny Toyota Corolla, all without turning to the bottle or serious narcotics at any given time.

Here we all are in 1987, along with our good friend Eileen, who was visiting from Arizona with her family at the same time. This was before I knew of Clearasil and eyebrow waxing. Please be kind...

Fast forward to the summer of 2006, and the major players from that famous Disneyland trip 19 years ago. All we were missing were Sarah, Eileen, and my unibrow.

Unfortunately, the best-laid plans tend to fall apart, and my original idea where I would wake up early was the first obstacle. I had scored a ticket to the exclusive Crestron party at InfoComm the night before, where Earth, Wind & Fire was headlining. Another party at the Ritz was after that, followed by drinks with friends. I rolled back into our hotel room much later (or earlier depending on how you want to read the clock at that hour). Even though I set my alarm for 7:30 AM, and had instructed Irika to make sure she woke me up early, Irika had heard me sneak in, and took pity on me. I thought I hit snooze, but in reality, turned the alarm off. Before I knew it, the clock was ticking 10 AM. Even at that hour it was already a scorcher in Orlando, and the park had been open for an hour. I hadn't even made it to the shower.

In a panic, I jumped out of bed, and all three of us got ready to go within the hour (pretty impressive for three women!) Marylyn decided it would be better to get a good lunch before going to the park, so we ended up eating at CPK. By the time we arrived at the parking lot for the Magic Kingdom, it was well after noon, and the heat was in a word, oppressive.

Within minutes of entering the park, Marylyn began to complain. She is truly a goddess of the fog and cold. How my other mother could end up living in Florida is still baffling to me. Even after 12 years of living there, she has not adapted to the heat. And here we were, in 95 degree humidity. Marylyn was wilting and she wasn't happy about it.

The crowds were thick (not just in numbers but in width. Oh America...I'm putting you on a diet!), the humidity...suffocating, and not a water mister in sight, which was baffling to me. We found ourselves following little kids with spray bottle fans, praying for some excess spray to hit us. Finally, we arrive at what should be our salvation, Splash Mountain. We notice people standing at the bottom of the big finale of the ride...the part where you get wet. The three of us run over to join them, only no matter where we stand, it appears all the other spectators are getting wet, but we're not. We sit in the blazing sun for three rotations of people going down, waiting for one precious drop of water. Three times in the blazing heat, without a single drop hitting us.

Undeterred, we walk over and get our Fast Pass for Splash Mountain. The good news, we could use the Fast Pass system on this ride (not all Disney rides feature this system). The bad news, our allotted time slot wasn't until after 6 PM. It would be five more hours before we'd see any benefits from the water ride.

After taking a ride on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad and the Jungle Cruise, we decide to start heading out to other parts of the park. We immediately get trapped by the Share a Dream Come True Parade.

After enduring what appeared to be the longest parade known to man, with Disney characters going by in giant snow globes, creepily waving and lip-syncing to we, the trapped below, we finally escape to Tomorrowland. Thanks to the parade deterring the crowds, we're able to hop onto Space Mountain in less than 30 minutes. Standing in the cool air conditioning surroundings of Space Mountain is the best thing we could do. Marylyn stops complaining as we all cool off. The roller coaster is even better than I remember, and by the time we disembark, we're all smiling. Of course, the mood lasts approximately three seconds once we walk back outside into the sauna that is Orlando in June. Immediately, the complaining begins again. All I can think to do is ignore and distract.

Luckily, the Mad Tea Party is not far away, with a covered roof, and a short line. I practically take out a few small children in order to get a coveted lavender tea cup. Irika decides to rename the ride the Vomit Tea Party, spinning us so hard that I can no longer look up, and the remains of our CPK lunch are creeping up my esophagus. Here we are before I turned green:

After the ride, some deep breaths, and a little walk, we collect ourselves and decide ice cream is the call. I'm already consuming a root beer float when Marylyn goes to pay for ice cream for Irika and herself. It is at this time we discover Marylyn's wallet is AWOL.

For those of you who've ever lost your purse or wallet, you know this is one of the most helpless and terrible moments in your life. You suddenly can't remember where you saw it last. Was it stolen? Did I leave it somewhere? Panic ensues. Marylyn puts on a brave face as we head up to security to report the missing wallet. Marylyn thinks back to where she last remembers seeing it. The car! Where she paid for parking. We need to go back to check. The good news is that there is a strong possibility it is there and not stolen. The bad news is the damn car is parked in Timbuktu. We're talking a 25 minute journey, either by land via monorail, or by sea via ferry out of the park. Then you have to catch a tram to take you to your designated parking area. It is so hot and the thought of this odyssey is discouraging at best.

Luckily, the wallet was in the car once we got there. I expect Marylyn, who has remained stoic through all this, to instantly relax as we head back into the park but I am wrong. This is her breaking point. The complaining resumes, with even more fury. I find myself taking deep breaths and pondering, was it like this in '87?

First stop, ice cream for all. Even though I'd just taken down a root beer float, I can't help but have more. The stress of the day is overwhelming me now and I've earned round two of dessert. After a delicious scoop of mint chip, we realize it's already 6 PM and we're just about ready to cash in that Fast Pass on Splash Mountain. I am practically skipping as we head back to Frontierland. The cool water after an ice cream will SURELY perk up everyone's spirits. Yes, its just what we need...perfect...

I suddenly realize how empty the immediate area around Splash Mountain is. And how it is eerily quiet. I look up at the ride and realize IT'S NOT RUNNING! IT'S NOT RUNNING! How can this be? Irika and I go to inquire about the ride where we're informed by a perky park employee that its having "technical difficulties" and it may be down for the night.

We turn around to face Marylyn, who is practically at stroke levels now with her complaints. I can't take it anymore. Irika asks me where I'd like to go next and I completely snap at her in a meltdown.

"OH, I DON'T FUCKING CARE ANYMORE. LET'S GET OUT OF HERE. I'M DONE. STICK A FORK IN ME. I CAN'T TAKE THE INCESSANT COMPLAINING ANYMORE. $60 FOR FIVE RIDES. THAT'S JUST WONDERFUL...AAAAAAAGGH!"

Poor Irika, the lone sane soul, stuck to play mediator between the two of us. She immediately slaps us into action with something attune to, "CUT IT OUT. WE'RE GOING ON IT'S A SMALL WORLD...NOW! YOU'RE GOING TO SHUT UP AND LIKE IT (to me) AND YOU'RE GOING TO STOP COMPLAINING (to her mom).

Okay, in reality, she handled it much better than that and without yelling or inflicting pain on us, even though Marylyn and I fully deserved a bitch slap or two by that point.

Ultimately, we did ride It's a Small World and by the end we were all singing the theme song together. After that, we serendipitously headed towards the exit. There was no more energy left to expend on the Magic Kingdom, and with the way the day was going, there was no better note we could possibly leave on.

Happiest place on earth...my ass!

Hootie and the Drumstick

2006-06-26T23:53:00.000-07:00

I am a total sucker for catching "has-been" bands and performers live in concert. If you are an aging rocker...one-hit wonder...80's band, chances are, I'll find my way to your show come hell or Konocti.

Over the past five years, the Marin County Fair has provided me with annual entertainment ranging from Peter Frampton (actually a great performer, but the crowd consisted of folks my parents age holding up their Frampton Comes Alive albums), KC and the Sunshine Band (which was basically KC, one other original band member, and a bunch of 20-something's that resembled old C+C Music Factory video extras), The Village People (do I have to say anything more?), and the homecoming of Marin's native sons, Huey Lewis and the News.

My favorite performance was four years ago when Eddie Money headlined the fair. My friend Joana pulled me up to the front row where we immersed ourselves in a sea of white trash (for the record, Joana and I were the only two front row people who were not wearing either acid wash or sporting a mullet). Let me say, the drugs have not been kind to Eddie. He looks about 25 years older in person than he really is, and he's swollen and leathery. I joked that he must have come out on stage from an iron lung, as he was sweating profusely and panting between singing, smoking cigarettes, and playing the saxophone.

Eddie started playing new material, but the response from the audience was lukewarm. About midway through his set, Eddie started pulling out the classics. By the time he'd belted out Baby Hold On, Think I'm in Love, and Take Me Home Tonight, the crowd was on fire. He started spinning around with this groovy little dance of his, and when he sang Two Tickets to Paradise, he started reaching out in the crowd giving his fans a high five. Joana, being just over five feet tall kept jumping up trying to shake his hand. I merely reached over and EDDIE MONEY SHOOK MY HAND!

In a word...it was fabulous. (You are all welcome to touch the hand that touched greatness at any time).

Then there was the Rick Springfield concert up at the former Caesars Tahoe a few years back. Once again, Joana and I were there in a crowd we didn't quite fit in with. Instead of white T, it was a bunch of women who were still trapped in the early 80's. I don't think this many mini-skirts, pump heels, and big bangs have been seen this side of 1984. Joana could barely see Rick Springfield as the woman in front of her had bangs that were literally pumped up three inches high.

As if the crowd wasn't entertaining enough, Rick Springfield was celebrating his 50th birthday on this particular evening and had apparently begun his celebrations prior to showtime. After his first song, Rick addressed us with this:

"It's GREAT to be back in the MILE-HIGH CITY! WOOOOOOOOO!"

Uh, buddy. You're in Tahoe, not Denver.

Rick proceeded to pull women on stage to sing for him, kept freaking out that his guitar was out of tune, and would take bouquets of roses women threw at him on stage and smash them against his guitar, creating an amazing rose petal confetti effect. (I can only hope he's this spectacular when I catch him this Friday evening live at the Marin County Fair! Speaking of the MCC, the line-up of performers is absolutely spectacular. Along with Rick Springfield, Eddie Money is coming back, and there will also be performances by Joan Jett and The Nelsons. If you have no other plans this weekend, you should take the trek to San Rafael).

With these stories (and countless other untold gems) about has-been bands, you can only imagine my reaction when I received an invitation to the 2006 Extron Bash at Infocomm.

"Headlining the 2006 Extron Bash...Hootie and the Blowfish!"

Every year at InfoComm, Extron puts on a killer party with great bands, games, food, and drinks. Last year they rented out the Thomas & Mack Center in Vegas. This year, the party was at Sea World in Orlando.

I have to say, I wasn't sure whether Extron shelling out for a band of Hootie's caliber made me happy or sad. Part of me was thrilled that Hootie was getting some work. The other part of me felt bad for them. Here was one of the biggest bands of the 1990's and now they were being relegated to playing private parties for AV geeks. I mean, I know they were the Huey Lewis & the News of the 1990's...a band who probably shouldn't have made it as big as they did...but man, this was a tough break.

Still, here it was, a chance to see Hootie live and for free. I wasn't about to miss my opportunity. I was able to get my girlfriend Irika into the party and we headed straight to the main stage to stake out a good spot to catch the show.

Hootie came out strong. Lead singer Darius Rucker has a great voice and the band, for all my smart comments, really are a decent live act. Surrounding us, a sea of mostly white middle-aged men/AV geeks stand tall, barely tapping a toe to the music. I once again feel sad for Hootie. Irika and I step up our dancing and begin chanting "HOOTIE! HOOTIE!" Behind us, a guy with an amazing mullet is cutting a rug as if he can feel the energy we're trying to bring to the crowd.

Towards the end of the set, I start working my way up to the front. I am spotted immediately by an industry friend, and he pulls me to the front of the stage. I am just a few feet away from Hootie as they play Only Wanna Be With You and Hold My Hand. At the end of the show, the guitarist starts throwing guitar picks out into the audience. Suddenly the crowd awakens and the scene is like one of those videos on America's Funniest Home Videos, where a bride throws a bouquet and there is a scramble (short of blows) to get the bouquet. I can honestly say few things are sadder than watching middle-aged men fight over guitar picks...from Hootie and the Blowfish nonetheless.

After the crowd clears, Irika spots a coveted Hootie guitar pick out of the corner of her eye. Somehow it was missed in the earlier chaos. I reach over the velvet ropes and grab it for Irika. As we are marveling over her souvenir, I spot a roadie clearing up the stage. I ask if I could possibly get one of those nifty guitar picks as well. He winks at me, says "I can do even better," and walks to the drum set to hand me a Hootie drumstick. This is nirvana - what a great memento of a truly Hootie-tastic evening. Thanks again, Roadie!

Bambi Jihad

2006-06-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

Let this serve as a warning, Bambi, your days are numbered around these parts.

For years I have defended you. People would say things like, "deer are nuisances," "tasty to eat," and even some weirdo's have called you "dangerous." (I'll protect the innocent, but someone very close to me tells a story about deer chasing them when they were a kid on their paper route. Hell, if people can press charges against attack cats, anything is possible...)

Through all this, I stood by your side, Bambi. Denounced anyone who dared to eat venison in my presence. Called you cute even. And for my loyalty, how do you thank me?

You ate my adorable little potted Meyer lemon tree.

Sometime today, Bambi got in my backyard and ate the one plant I have nurtured for the past year. Kudos once again to Rick Puleo for the fabulous job in fixing the latch on my gate. If you need fence repairs (Rick is an expert at breaking gates too!) call Rick Puleo for immediate (two months later) repairs and expert craftsmanship (crap!)

But I digress...

Some would say this is just a little tree and to stop being as bitter as a...well, a lemon, but there's more to this. You have to understand I am like the Grim Reaper to plant life. I kill more innocent plants in a year than I care to admit. I know I should be banned from nurseries and garden stores. I can't help it. I really want things to grow and look pretty in my backyard, but I seem to be incapable of successfully growing 99.9% of all plantlife.

In fact, this little lemon tree almost didn't make it. The first thing I did after planting the tree was proceed to overwater it to the point that the leaves turned yellow and the branches were rotting. It persevered even as I was unintentionally drowning the poor thing. I finally figured out how little water the tree needed to survive, and even after practically killing it, the tree produced sweet, delicious lemons for me. After a year, the tree was truly thriving with leaves and blossoms, and the promise of lots of fruit.

Well, until today at least. That #$%!@ deer ate every leaf and most of the branches. The only part left standing is the trunk and one branch with two full size lemons on it. I almost cried when I saw what was left of my poor tree this afternoon.

This means war Bambi! I am declaring my jihad against you tonight. No more Mrs. Nice Gal. I fully support the deer haters of the world. Eat all the venison you want. Bambi is dead to me now.

South Beach Skinny Dip

2006-06-14T17:56:00.000-07:00

There are all sorts of dares out there in the world. There's truth or dare, dare you to look, and the triple dog dare. I have never been one to shrink away from a dare, so when the suggestion of going skinny dipping at South Beach came about, what was I to say...no?

Let me set the scene. Irika, my best friend since kindergarten, and I had left on the red-eye Friday night out of SFO to West Palm Beach, via a stop in Atlanta, GA. We were staying with Irika's mom Marylyn and stepfather Randy for a few days before heading up to Orlando so I could attend a tradeshow. Although we slept on the plane rides to Florida, Irika and I arrived exhausted Saturday morning. We napped through the afternoon, ate dinner, got cleaned up, and headed out for the hour drive south to Miami.

South Beach is an amazing place at night. Take the beautiful people, the art deco buildings, the neon lights, and classic cars...there is nothing else quite like this place. It feels exotic and the energy is fun and contagious. Our first stop was Mango's...a giant club where the staff gets up in little to no clothing, and dances on the bar to pulsating Latin beats. I quickly dubbed it the Latin "Coyote Ugly."

Two mojitos and a surfer on acid shot later, Irika and I were feeling a bit drunk. It was hot, I was tired, and I needed air. I suggested we go walk on the beach. And as usual, this is where the trouble began.

With Randy and Marylyn trailing behind us, Irika and I run straight into the water. It is a calm night and the Atlantic looks more like a giant lake than an ocean. The glow from the neon on Ocean Drive and the almost full moon cast an electric glow over the flat water. I dip a toe in and am delighted to find warm water, not unlike bathwater. It feels delicious and the overwhelming urge to go swimming takes over me, but I'm all dressed up and have no bathing suit on me. Darn.

And then the wave hits.

Out of nowhere, a sucker wave comes in and splashes Irika and I. We are both fairly drenched now, she in her capri pants, me in my skirt. We look at each other and laugh, and I jokingly suggest since we're wet we should go skinny dipping.

"I will if you will," Irika taunts.
"Let's do it!" I reply.

Before Randy and Marylyn can see what we're up to, we're stripping down and racing into the water. Other than a couple of drunk guys on the beach who we've swam away from, there is no one around us. It is an awesome feeling...liberating and terrifying all at the same time. Marylyn and Randy start laughing when they catch up and see what we're up to. Randy takes it a step further, stealing our clothes and running off with them.

Irika and I swim around for about a half hour remarking often that we can't believe we're doing this. Slowly, but steadily, we start noticing the group of drunk guys getting closer to the water, until they too are jumping in the ocean. In fact, the beach is beginning to get a bit more crowded with each passing minute. People are coming out from the bars and the clubs. And Randy has our clothes. We're trapped in the water unless we want to give everyone on the beach a view of our hoo-hoo's...

Finally, our clothes are returned to us, but we still have company. Getting in was one thing, but getting out with an audience, is a whole different beast. We finally bite the bullet and run out of the water towards Marylyn, who is just shaking her head at us.

Luckily, having worn a skirt that evening, I just slip it on and cover up my chest with my arms. (No small feat if you know what I mean!) Poor Irika has to deal with putting on pants while being wet. And the fact that we're laughing uncontrollably isn't helping matters much.

We somehow pull ourselves together and ignore the stares of the beachgoers. We make ourselves feel better by saying we'll never see these people again, and keep moving on.

First night in Florida, a dare, and full exposure. With this as a start, I could only imagine how the rest of the week would play out.

Update

2006-06-12T22:57:00.000-07:00

Greetings...

I just got back from Florida and I am exhausted both mentally and physically. I need a few days to recoup and then I'll be back with lots of good stories to tell. Think skinny dipping at South Beach, being nearly eaten alive by ferocious fire ants in the Everglades, surviving another InfoComm, getting a drumstick from Hootie and the Blowfish, and nearly tossing my cookies on the teacups at DisneyWorld. And this all before Hurricane Alberto had to show up and one up me.

Thanks for your patience. I promise to be bloggier than ever sometime later this week.

Road to Nowhere

2006-06-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

Were on a road to nowhere
Come on inside
Takin that ride to nowhere
Well take that ride

Im feelin okay this mornin
And you know,
Were on the road to paradise
Here we go, here we go

-Talking Heads, Road to Nowhere

Part of the fun of cruising is pulling into a port for a day and doing some exploring. Cruise lines offer a variety of activities for a hefty sum at each port. On an Alaskan cruise there are obvious offerings like salmon fishing and glacier tours, and crazy options such as snorkeling in Victoria, where participants don a 6.5 mm wetsuit before jumping into the icy waters off the island. I can honestly say there is no kelp forest or fish I need to see that badly in life...ever.

I came home one night from work to be greeted by a giddy husband. He had been researching our options and found one that met his fancy.

"We're going 4-wheelin' when we get to Skagway!" Tim says excitedly. "Travel the route of the Trail of '98 from behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive Jeep Wrangler on the Yukon Jeep Safari....Driving a four-person off-road vehicle provides the freedom of exploring Klondike Gold Rush from roads less taken. View Pitchfork Falls, Moore Bridge, Dead Horse Gulch, Brackett Wagon Trail and Tormented Valley enroute to the historic village of Carcross."

I try hard to force a smile and feign enthusiasm back at him. Since nearly drowning last summer in a white water rafting accident, any time I am presented with any kind of extreme sport or activity, I immediately clam up. Call it post-traumatic stress, call it being a sissy, I just didn't want to do it.

Yet Tim was so excited that it was hard to be negative about the Jeep tour. I figured if they were offering it to cruise ships it couldn't be THAT dangerous and the first step of healing from my accident would be to start being more accepting about trying things that scream DANGER! DEATH! SERIOUS INJURY!

Why I even worried is beyond me. In some "mix-up in communication" between the tour operator and our ship, somehow the message that the off-roading would be cancelled due to a heavier than normal snowdrift never made it to us. Instead we would be taking a five-hour drive from Skagway, through British Columbia, and into the Yukon Territory in our Jeep's. On the highway. Had we been informed in advance, I would have scrapped this for sea kayaking (my first choice in Skagway). Unfortunately, this news came to us 45 minutes into the drive when we were somewhere in BFN, British Columbia.

Of course we had overslept that morning and you can't take any food off the ship. We barely had time to scarf down anything for breakfast. And there was no time to wait for my coffee to cool down to drink it. That's right - no coffee. For five hours. In the middle of nowhere, with no radio signal. Into the wild where no one can hear you scream...in boredom.

Buck, our tour guide/adventure mojo squasher, tried to put a happy spin on things. "Tons of wildlife out here! One group saw a mama bear and her cubs the other day. We'll see mountain goats, bald eagles, all sorts of wildlife. I promise!"

My fair readers (all two of you), let me tell you the hidden truth about Alaska and Canada. You hear a lot about the amazing array of wildlife there. Lies! All lies! I was promised whales, orcas, bears, moose, and I saw nothing on my entire vacation. I'm convinced, there is no wildlife in that region at all.

It was pretty but the scenery for the first hour or two is much of the same. Snow, mountains, lakes, trees. The sun was shining on me in the passenger seat and I felt much like my cat Max who seeks out a sunbeam to nap in. I doze off repeatedly in between Buck's CB radio updates on the history of the area. He wants us to create names for each of our Jeep teams. Since Tim and I don't answer, Buck names us "Big Red" after our red Jeep. Redemption is suddenly mine for the taking. Tim has never forgiven me for our bus trip from Rome to Pompeii two years ago. We could have rented a car or taken the train (which I thought we were going to do) but we took a bus tour instead and I have been unfairly blamed for this since. It was so cheesy - 14 hours of our tour guide operator repeating the same thing in English, Italian, French, and Spanish. And singing. And tours of jewelry stores. A terrible detour through the slums of Naples. And ultimately, only about two hours spent in Pompeii (which was cool but not nearly enough time). We were on the Carrini bus line and the tour guide called us her "Carrini familia." With one simple "Big Red" name christening, I shoot Tim a glance and tell him, I never, ever want to hear about Pompeii or Family Carrini again.

But I digress...

As we come into the Yukon Territory, we pull over by a beautiful iced over lake. Buck tells us to take out our binoculars and look up. About 1000 feet above us, white mountain goats are out on the mountain. Even in binoculars, the goat look like tiny little specs. Fascinating.

Finally we arrive in the town of Carcross. Looking more like a ghost town than an inhabited town, Carcross is at the same time, desolate, run-down, and strangely beautiful. We get out of the Jeep to stretch our legs, have a snack, and check out the town. It is sunny, but freezing outside, and the wind chills you straight to the bone. The photo options are endless so I run around this metropolis snapping photos of the sights. As I'm walking over to an simple, white clapboard church, I have my first close brush with Yukon wildlife. A prairie dog pops out of a hole, takes one look at me, and darts back down.

The best part about Carcross is the availability of coffee. Amazingly, Starbucks hasn't made it to this Yukon outpost yet. I grab a cup at the General Store (gotta love a store where you can buy hunting clothes and Christmas ornaments all in one spot) and instantly feel better. (Note to self: seek help for obvious coffee addiction).

Three hours later, Big Red returns to Skagway from the road to nowhere. We are exhausted, famished, and ready to get out of the Jeep as soon as humanly possible. Much more a snooze than a safari, I will be giving Tim a hard time about this for years to come.

Restless...

2006-05-29T01:20:00.000-07:00

I would be lying if I said I've been myself since I returned from Alaska. I feel antsy, sad, and disconnected from my friends. Getting back into work has been difficult at best. I just don't care. My head and heart are elsewhere.

I want to be out seeing the world. I feel like I am locked up in a suburban prison. I don't fit in here. I am meant to be out exploring.

It wasn't just Alaska...take the past two years worth of adventures in France, Italy, and Amsterdam, add a Vegas adventure or ten, and an upcoming trip to Florida. Lately, I don't know why I even bother unpacking.

The majority of my friends are settling down and having kids now, and while that is wonderful, I'm not in that place right now. What is wrong with me? This is what 30-something's are supposed to do right? I saw two friends last night, one with a four-week old, the other friend expecting within the next two months. While it was great to see them, I felt like I couldn't connect to anything they were talking about. They were so happy in their lives - I wanted more than anything last night to be like them, share in their experiences, but instead, I withdrew and walked away.

Even my friends without kids have settled into a routine...everybody's working for the weekend. Except for we all go home at 10:30 now. No one ever wants to go out. We choose the mundane over adventure because we're tired, watching our funds, we're homebodies. I came home defeated from a barbecue last night. I love my friends, but suddenly I feel like I have little in common with them. To me it is simple - why stay home when there is this big amazing world around us?

I thought about that statement all day today, and I realize now there is nothing wrong with any of my friends. The problem is me and this restless travel bug that has taken over me. My friends are entitled to be tired and want to stay home on the weekend to pursue their interests whether it be a project or simply relaxation. In fact, that is normal. Why can't I be more like that? Why the wanderlust?

I have been on Royal Caribbean's career page more times than I can count in the past ten days. It is so bizarre - would I truly enjoy that kind of life? I feel like I left part of my spirit on that cruise ship. I absolutely loved being out on the water, even the day where we hit gale force winds and the waves were whipping us around like we were in a dingy instead of a massive luxury liner. I was at peace there. It is hard to explain the simple happiness I found in looking out my window at the scenery passing by, listening to my favorite songs on my iPod. Or sitting in the Windjammer Cafe, drinking coffee for hours, just hanging out and talking to my family. I felt alive for the first time in a long time. I didn't realize how numb I was before the trip.

You're probably thinking I'm just in a post-vacation funk, and that is certainly part of the emotional roller coaster. But there's more. I've always felt there was more out there in my life to experience. Money issues always prevented me from seeing and doing more when I was younger. Am I just making up for lost opportunity now? Will this thirst to see more ever be quenched enough for me to settle down?

I don't know what lays next for me, but sitting still is not an option.

Karaoke Idol

2006-05-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

Some people are born to sing. Whitney, Mariah, Ashlee Simpson...you know who the masters are.

Unfortunately, I am not one of them.

This small fact didn't stop me last Wednesday evening when my cousin Fred decided it would be a good idea for us to get up and sing a duet on our Alaskan cruise. His logic was that it was late in the evening so few would see us perform, and with only one more full day of cruising ahead of us, we'd never see these people again.

The reality of the situation was that I was a wee bit tipsy at the time. My confidence was soaring courtesy of the consumption of several Gray Goose/tonics and I was game for the challenge.

We chose a classic, "Summer Nights," from the Grease Soundtrack. For added kicks we named ourselves "Sandy" and "Danny."

Okay, so maybe we were more than a bit tipsy at this point...

I really didn't think we'd sing since they were wrapping the show up, but to my dismay/horror, we were literally the next ones called up to the stage. We were not good, but we weren't awful either. Here is Fred and I performing our amazing rendition of "Summer Nights."

Oddly enough, we were entertaining and the audience seemed to like us. Plus, it gave my family the laugh of a lifetime. After our performance, Glenn the karaoke MC, asked me what my real name was and I told him and the audience it was Loren, which is my mother's name. You could hear her yell out "HEY!" over the crowd at that one.

We thought our work was done for the cruise, but two performances later, Glenn began announcing the judges picks for who sang the best that evening and who were moving on to the finals the following evening.

"Congratulations to Bob! Congratulations to Jennifer. And lastly, our two favorite people, Danny and Sandy!"

Excuse me? Did you just say Danny and Sandy?

Oh crap.

The next 24 hours were like getting punched in the stomach for me. When I woke up sober and realized what I had done, I wanted to throw myself overboard. Fred and I decided to change our song to a different Grease number. The song "You're the one that I want" is a markedly more difficult number than our previous bit. Tim could probably write his own blog called "the endless torture" for having to hear me practice all the Olivia Newton-John parts of the song, singing (screeching) along with my iPod.

All day, overhead announcements kept screaming "COME TO THE KARAOKE IDOL FINALS TONIGHT!" I kept screaming "Nooooooooooo!" and cringing with every reminder. We're they taunting me or something? I barely touched dinner the night of my performance (a remarkable feat considering how much food I was consuming by this point of the cruise). I kept trying to drink something to take the edge off, but it all tasted like vinegar. I was a wreck.

Our perky cruise activity director lent me her leather jacket so I could play the part of Sandy. Fred hammed it up with a t-shirt and slicked back hair. After a rushed run-through we realized we really sucked, and that we'd really have to work the image and personality side of things since we had little talent to rely on.

The "Some Enchanted Evening Lounge" was packed to capacity (of course) for Karaoke Idol. There were easily 350-400 in the room. My family kept telling me to imagine the audience naked, but with the average age of the cruise attendees being about 94, that was one image that wasn't going to help me one bit.

Finally it was our turn to perform. I'd like to tell you we were amazing, but we were far from it. Fred started off completely off-key. My first line was on note, but then I crashed and burned, forgot the lines and started laughing. Fred jumped in but sang the wrong part. To make it worse, the chorus is really hard to sing. You are supposed to sing at a higher pitch, but neither of us could do it.

In a nutshell it was the longest 2:47 minutes of my life.

At the very least we looked good. We kept dancing and smiling. What else can you do when you're making a total ass of yourself in front of 350 strangers and a bunch of evil family members with video cameras?

All 12 of the finalists were called back onto the stage while we waited for the judges to make their decisions. In the end, we all took home the gold for having the balls to get up there and make fools of ourselves. I'm sure this didn't make two of the finalists who could really sing feel real good to be on the same level of us.

The next day as we were waiting at the Port of Seattle for our luggage, at least five people came up and shook my hand, or rather, Sandy's hand for a job well done.

The video is out there, and I know it will fall into the wrong hands eventually. It is just a matter of time. Until then, I will take my gold medal and remember the day I came in first at Karaoke Idol.

Sleepless in Seattle

2006-05-21T03:24:00.000-07:00

3:23 AM in Seattle and I can't sleep. Much like the movie Sleepless in Seattle, I find myself here writing into cyberspace at an ungodly hour. Hell of a way to spend the last night of vacation.

I have become a terribly light sleeper over the years as Tim's snoring has reached new decibel levels. It is a serious problem. I haven't slept more than a couple hours a night since Tuesday evening because of it, and between the tiny cruise ship quarters and now our hotel room, there is no place to hide from the noise.

I have tried alcohol, Benedryl, yelling/punching him, evening drowning out the noise with my iPod, but it is to no avail. I feel awful but I don't want to go on vacation with my husband anymore. At least at home I can go to another room, but here I am trapped. I am frustrated...angry...sad...defeated. I'm too tired to think of any other solutions right now, so until I drop from exhaustion sometime later this morning, I'm hosed.

Pray for sleep for this zombie girl.

Baked Alaska

2006-05-15T16:41:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Alaska! I'm on day four of the cruise and so far none of my family members have been pushed overboard! (Although Tim is walking on thin ice at the moment. Thank god for internet cafes and "me" time...)

What a great way to travel! I wasn't sure what to expect from the cruise life, but it appears I was meant to travel by sea. It is so peaceful and it doesn't hurt that people are falling over themselves to make sure you're having a good time. As my ten-year-old cousin Kat told Tim while lounging in the Solarium hot tub, "I could get used to having room service 24 hours a day."

We departed from SFO on Friday morning at the crack-o-dawn. Tim and I had a flight that took off about 40 minutes before my parents, grandma, aunt, and my cousin and her family. We pretended we were on an episode of the Amazing Race. Team #1 landed 20 minutes early, courtesy of our hot pilot who resembled Ice Man from Top Gun. (Ladies...take a moment to recover here). Unfortunately, Team #1 was pummeled by the rest of the family in Vancouver, thanks to a comedy of errors including my duffel bag getting stuck in the baggage carousel, and the fact that they all had "Fast Passes" through customs, and we had to go with the rest of the herd. Moo...

Vancouver is absolutely gorgeous - I haven't been here since I was 16 and it is still as awesome as I remember it being. It was a clear beautiful day, with snow in the mountains above and the modern skyline sparking in the sunshine. We were driving in a bus across this bridge into downtown and I had the song "The world spins madly on" by The Weepies playing on my iPod. It was awesome.

There are so many stories to tell, but for now I'm going to give a couple of quick comedy moments, as I'm running out of time on the internet access:

1) My dad made this comment yesterday at breakfast while looking out the window on one of the ships restaurants as we pulled into Juneau. I had to literally take a moment to not spit up my scrambled eggs on him.

Dad to me: "Is that a waterfall on that mountain over there?"
Me: "It looks like it."
Dad: "It appears that the snow is melting from the top of that mountain and that's causing the waterfall."
Me (internally and trying not to choke on my breakfast): "DUH!"

In case you're thinking just my father is nuts, my mom comes in with another gem. She looks up the river and proclaims that she can see the Mendenhall Glacier.

Mom: "I think I see the glacier!"
Me/Dad: "Where?"
Mom: "Over there."
Dad: "That doesn't look like a glacier."
Mom: "It's just dirty ice that you're seeing."

In reality, the glacier was at least five miles away and could not be seen from any vantage point on the ship. Nor was any of the ice dirty.

2) Yesterday as we rode mountain bikes to the Mendenhall Glacier, I tried to take a photo over my head of Tim and my cousin Fred who were directly behind me. I managed to get a smashing shot of the top of my helmet instead.

3) Following the ten-mile bike ride to the glacier, we got to go to the Alaskan Brewing Company for a tasting. (You must try their smoked ale...yummy!) Our tour guide Tony was awesome - what a character and who wouldn't like a guy who keeps pouring refills when you take photos with him? "I don't get to take pictures with the pretty ladies very often!" One annoyed bus of people waiting to hit the gift shops and nine half-pints later, we're on our way back into town. Now picture me running into my parents in the middle of Juneau with a serious buzz on and trying to play off some sort of imaginary sobriety. The icing on the cake was sitting at the Red Dog Saloon in Juneau with mom and dad, when the 80-year-old guy sitting at the table behind me starts looking down my low-rise jeans for a peep show. Mom totally caught him doing this.

4) Formal night on the ship means we get to meet the captain. Tim and I took the obligatory photo and moved on, but later, my little cousin Kat wanted to meet the captain as well. We got back in line and he was really sweet to Kat. During this time, all the co-pilots and crew were down at this reception and one burning question was bothering me. So I had to ask:

Me to Captain - "May I ask you a question?"
Captain: "Sure!"
Me: "If you're here, and your crew is here with you...who's driving the boat?"
Captain: "That's a good question. I don't know."
Me: "That is the WRONG answer!"

We both started cracking up. And he didn't call security or anything on me.

Well, much more to share, but no more time to do so. Plus my "patient" husband is driving me nuts right now pacing behind me. Goodbye for now!

Sugar we're going down swinging...

2006-05-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

So tell me, is it a bad omen to be leaving on a cruise the same day a remake of the Poseidon Adventure is being released?

Probably not. Then again, the idea of going on a cruise with 17 family members, is probably not a good thing either (at least for my sanity).

I just finished a story I'm freelancing to Film/Tape World and I haven't started packing. Oh, and my bonehead husband packed his stuff in our biggest suitcase, leaving me with somehow having to cram my gear for seven days in Alaska in the small suitcase. You all know what a light packer I am. This is going to be a challenge for sure. Right now, Tim's first in line for being pushed overboard...so don't be expecting much of this in my post-cruise scrapbook:

I must cut this short. I have to leave my house in just over four hours to catch my flight and three-hour tour. Oh yeah...gotta love the all-nighter.

I'm sure I'll be needing some breaks and venting sessions on this vacation so the blog will be in action over the next week. Bon Voyage...

Oh - one last thing. I have received numerous emails regarding the Knight Rider movie and the Hoff being cut out of the project. I am well versed on the subject so you can stop sending me the story now. Please...

ICEBERG RIGHT AHEAD!!!

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...but this is too funny not to share

2006-05-09T16:21:00.000-07:00

"Come join us at "blankety-blank's" NAB reseller party," Lisa says enthusiastically. "It's at The Beach. Rick's going too. C'mon! It'll be fun."

While most adventures with Rick and Lisa are fun, I groaned at the thought of going to The Beach. With countless restaurant/nightclub options in the greater Vegas area, why that venue is often selected, other than its proximity to the convention center, is beyond me.

The Beach smells exactly how I remember it the last time I was there. A bouquet of stale beer, urine, and a faint hint of vomit. Ahh...to be 21 again! I force myself to keep walking.

The scene is perhaps the saddest thing I've ever witnessed. No one is talking to one another and its quiet. Lloyd and I find Lisa, Rick, and Katie in another room. They look miserable. We immediately start plotting our escape.

"If we finish a beer and say hello to the reps, are we free to go?"

"I'll call Bruce. Harris is having a party at the House of Blues. Maybe we can get in there..."

As if on cue, we all chug our drinks at the same time, say hello and goodbye to our hosts, and get the hell out of The Beach. We cram into Lloyd's car and do not stop until we arrive at Mandalay Bay.

We're met outside the House of Blues by a giant Polynesian man and coconut-bra clad hula dancers. We all get our obligatory lei's, some killer flamingo sunglasses, drink tickets, and enter a real reseller party.

Harris has rented out the entire space and has decked out the HOB with a tropical theme. On the small stage, a band plays traditional Hawaiian music. Downstairs, a Dick Dale-like band cranks out the oldies. The energy is contagious and the crowd is standing room only. We are so happy to be here. We quickly find Bruce, Jill, and Mike who have a table right in the middle of the room. Everything seems great until Jill and Mike leave the party, leaving an empty seat in front of me. I've been on my feet for about 14 hours by this point and I can't resist putting my feet up on the empty stool in front of me to give them a break. This is where the trouble begins.

Within minutes of doing this, a former coworker of mine, "M" walks into the room. She sees me and my poor feet and can't resist walking over. She grabs my left foot and begins massaging it.

"Poor baby! You deserve to be pampered," M says to me.

I have to admit it feels good to get a foot rub and my feet are technically killing me, but I am immediately conscious of the fact I am smack in the middle of the House of Blues and that people are starting to stare. I thank M and attempt to pull my foot away.

M won't let go. In fact, she clamps on for dear life.

Mortified, I try asking her sweetly to stop.

"Uh, M, this is a little weird. Maybe we can do this later? Please?!?"

As I say this I look at M and realize that she is not going to stop. Not only is this going to continue, M is actually getting off on this. AAAAH! She has a FOOT FETISH. Oh dear god...why does this kind of weirdness always find me?

People are stopping in their tracks and staring. I try looking away as if this is happening to someone else. As I look to my left, I see a familiar woman out of the corner of my eye. Mortification suddenly becomes sheer terror.

The woman in the distance is none other than "S" - a sales rep who on the occasion of being at industry parties and having a few cocktails in her, feels no fear in telling me about her feelings for me.

S has spotted me. I'm in the death clutches of a woman with a foot fetish and cannot escape. I make one last desperate attempt to free my feet before S throws her arms around me, nearly knocking me off the stool (which luckily didn't happen since M has such a good grip on me). She slurs my name "KRRWWWWISSSSTEEN!" and begins kissing my cheeks. The sweet smell of the rum S has consumed this evening surrounds me. The spectacle is too much for my friends to take. They are hysterically laughing as I mouth out "SEND HELP!!!" all as I'm trying to keep S from getting to third base on me.

Somehow I get S and M (ironic, isn't it?) off of me and I run to the bathroom. I look into the mirror and splash some water on my face. This didn't really just happen, right? Of course it did. I am a freak magnet in a town of freaks.

After accepting my fate, I gather what is left of my dignity, exit the ladies room and walk boldly to the nearest bar.

"Rum and Coke please...and make it a double!"

Vegas...3D

2006-05-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

Monday mornings in Vegas come too early, especially after closing your night at Red Square. I swore to myself last year that I wouldn't make the same mistakes, but here it was, another Monday in Vegas and an old familiar feeling was taking over me.

I was hungover.

Whether it was the Gray Goose tonics or the compacted days of severe sleep deprivation, I was in bad shape on this particular morning. To make it worse, I had a paying gig that day. I was working the PSNI Hospitality Suite at the National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) Expo...and I had merely 90 minutes to snap out of it.

Thank god for hot showers, rehydration, and Advil. Other than a particularly painful shuttle bus ride to the Las Vegas Convention Center (Damn Europeans and their love of excessive cologne! The guy in front of me made me feel so woozy from the fumes. Greg...you had no idea how close I was to puking in your lap that morning!), I was well on my way to recovery. A quick overpriced breakfast with some hardcore video geeks and a cup of coffee later, I was at the PSNI Suite, ready to work.

PSNI (Professional Systems Network International) is a group of professional video and audio/visual resellers and integrators from the US and Canada who group together to receive better discounts on products and promote business for one another. My client Snader and Associates has been a member since I started with the company eight years ago. It seems that only in the past couple years has PSNI membership meant anything, and that has a lot to do with the current leadership. Chris and Tom (my two Southern charmers) are leading the group and helping to make positive change. One of their movements has been this suite at NAB, along with other industry tradeshows. The idea is to get a room right off the show floor at NAB, provide a place for sales people and their clients to sit down, relax, have some refreshments, meet with sales reps, check email, etc. I was hired to work the registration desk.

At first I thought the assignment would suck, but it turned out to be fun. Chris and Tom are cool guys to start, plus it was hilarious to interact with the various PSNI affiliates. The room is mostly men for starters, and it was fun to break up the personalities via the geographic regions of the country they were from. The Southern guys were mostly charmers, the New York guys were unabashedly abrupt, rude, and yet cool at the same time (go figure!) I liked the guys from Arizona and Colorado - definitely laid back and nice. And our SF Bay Area customers from Snader? Hilarious! Most of them either know me already or know of me from inviting them to events over the years. It was a blast chatting it up with them. Of course, being one of the only fairly young and female representatives of the room (and the conference for that matter) doesn't hurt. I'm an unapologetic flirt and it works for me. This is my element and I loved my job on Monday. The hangover seemed miles away by the end of my day there.

At 4 PM, Lloyd came and met me and we set off to explore the show floor(s). I convinced him to walk out to the far reaches of the Central Hall to meet a client of mine. After walking what seemed like miles, I found my clients sad little booth, and the company president was nowhere to be found. Lloyd was tired and didn't want to wait around. After seeing their booth, I wasn't too enthusiastic myself, so we ventured on, stopping to visit our friends at Panasonic and JVC, then move on back to the South Hall of the Convention Center.

The South Hall is a total zoo. Entering in on the first floor means walking into what I refer to as the Avid/Apple clusterfuck. Some brainiac decided putting these two competitors next to each other was a good idea. Every year they have this unofficial competition to see who has the smaller dick. It is loud, both are touting messages about something that seems to have very little to do with video editing equipment, and it is where people seem to congregate in large masses. My ears feel like they are bleeding from the pulsating techno beats and amped up product demonstrations.

It doesn't take long for Lloyd and I to decide to evacuate the premises. Both of us are done with NAB for the day. Lloyd has a car and after getting lost in the convention center trying to find an exit, we escape into a beautiful sunny day in Vegas. We detour at Gordon Biersch for a well earned Hefeweizen out in the beer garden. The fresh air and sun feel wonderful - I want to pass out right there on Lloyd's shoulder, but alas I cannot. There are still social engagements to attend and many hours to charge on before sleep will become my reality that evening. If I had known then what was ahead, I would have called it a night, but that wouldn't be very Vegas of me, would it?

Viva Las Vegas, Vol. 2

2006-05-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

What a week this has been! I have been trying so hard to get back to blogging but it has been impossible with my work schedule. Thank you, my two faithful readers, for being patient with me.

When I last left you, Katie and I were shopping till we dropped at the Forum Shops. I had so much fun that later that evening when Tim wanted to go gambling, all I could do was look down at my feet in shame. I had no money left to gamble with. I think I'm on Tim's last nerve with my shopping addiction. I can't help it. After all those lean shopping years where I was a journalist, and with him in law school, its like I've tried to make up for it in the last year or so. I remember when $50 at Old Navy was a major setback for me. In stark comparison, I came home this evening to have a message on the answering machine from a sales clerk at Nordstrom's who wanted to personally invite me to the 10x the points private shopping event this Friday night at the Corte Madera store. (As if it wasn't already circled in red on my calendar...please!) When I read the Shopaholic series by Sophie Kinsella (great mindless reading), I felt eerie coincidences with the main character (minus her personal relationship with the creditors at the bank).

But once again, I digress...

Sunday was a blast. Marlena had been out all night and was worthless to us while she recovered from her indulging, so Tim, Katie, and I set out for a lovely brunch at the Wynn. Our ride there was made quite memorable by our cab driver, who we affectionately named Debbie Downer, after the Saturday Night Live character.

This guy was amazing at stopping a conversation. At one point, we couldn't even make eye contact with one another for fear of busting out laughing. Here is a sample conversation...

Cab Driver: "You're going to the Wynn? Nice hotel, but the Bellagio is nicer."
Cab Driver: "My brother is the CEO of Caesars. He offered me a job, but I don't want to be a suit in an office...I work three jobs. In my off time, I don't drive. I hate driving. My wife likes it though because she gets the car all the time..."

The Wynn is truly a beautiful hotel! We had brunch at a cafe that overlooked the swimming pool. Katie and I indulged on pecan french toast, while Tim took down lobster eggs benedict. (Cuz' this is how WE roll...baby!) After our feast, we forced Tim to walk through the high end boutiques at the Wynn, while Katie and I tested our willpower at Manolo Blahnik store. On the way out to catch a cab, I saw this sign. You just got to love Vegas. Something for everyone, right?

After a quick run at the craps table back at the Monte Carlo, Tim packed up and headed to catch his bird home to the Bay Area. Marlena was still out of commission, so I met Greg for a few beers at the Monte Carlo brewpub until it was time to attend the Fujinon party at the Four Seasons. In retrospect, starting off the evening with beer, moving onto free wine at the Fujinon party, and finishing the night with strong vodka tonics at Red Square was perhaps the biggest rookie move of the century. (I can hear the old "beer before liquor - never sicker" mantra going through my head now, but on this particular evening, it seemed like a hell of an idea.) Ugh. Needless to say, most of the events of that evening will go into a foggy database of coulda, woulda, shouldnota. Oh well...

Unfortunately, I must cut this short tonight. The saga will continue soon.