Strange Condition

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...

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

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

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

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...

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

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.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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

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..."

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...

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...

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 Fergie Ferg and Me Love You Long Time...

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!

Five Years

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.

The Star Spangled Speedo

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...

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?

A Perfect Santa Cruz Day

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...

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

Hootie and the Drumstick

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!

Road to Nowhere

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.