Puppy Cam.

I think it is a good barometer of a person if they do not like puppies or kittens.  Or, really, any baby, fuzzy animal.  I can understand that some people are scared of their grown version due to bad experiences or whatnot but the baby version is nothing but wriggly, fuzzy, goofy happiness. (However, in my estimation, it is totally rational and normal not to like snakes, baby or otherwise.)

Whenever I need a pick-me-up, I usually request that KWW send me a puppy picture, as he seems to have a stock pile of them.  Currently, I have something even better: the puppy cam is back!  For a couple years probably, somewhere on the west coast, the breeder of a shiba inu has streamed a webcam of puppies whenever they have a litter.  I believe this is their fourth.  I just love it.  Even now when the puppies are still so young their eyes aren't open yet and spend most of their time sleeping, they are super adorable.  I like to keep it on in the background, checking in for a dose of puppy goodness throughout the day.

Even better than the puppy cam, I learned that my parents are getting a puppy in two weeks.  They were trying to decide between adopting a grown dog or doing the work of raising a puppy.  I thought they had decided on grown dog but they zigged and will soon be the proud owners of a yellow lab puppy they have decided to name Belle.  For the past twenty years or so, every dog they have owned has been a B name: Buffy, Beau, Bart, and now Belle.  (I ruined their streak by giving them a Shelby, although I try to shoehorn her in by spelling her name Shel-B.)  Before they knew if they would end up with a male or female, they actually went online to look at baby names, picking Belle and Baron for potential names.  Now, they are puppy-planning and proofing their house, even though they know that labs are chewers and at least a couple things are going to get destroyed.  A totally worthwhile trade for the little ball of happiness Belle will be.  I told my parents that I was coming back to visit the dogs.  Not us?  No, the dogs.  I need some puppy time!

Flowered.

Today was M and my annual trip to Gethesmane Gardens.  In prior years, we have gone in the afternoon, when it was both hot and packed with people.  Of course, to make up for that, we always rewarded ourselves with a McDonald's ice cream cone.  This year, we decided to sacrifice the cone in favor of getting the worm instead.

Gethesmane does not officially open until 9:00 am.  Being early birds, we arrived at about 8:45 and there were already people in line checking out.  As our third trip, this time we had a better idea of what works for our little balconies.  For me, that meant one 40 quart bag of soil, and about three trays worth of both single and double impatiens and two other types of flowers that I've already forgotten their name.  (I always like to jokingly blame my mother for my flower ignorance -- since she knows flowers and I don't, I tell her she failed me as a mother.  In response, she sent me a flower guide last year.  Sadly, now I just have me to blame.  Although to be fair to me, she accidentally sent a tropical flower guide and say what you will about Chicago weather, it is not tropical.)

I love going to Gethesmane but I always get overwhelmed.  There are just so many pretty flowers.  We have learned that the best way to go is to pick a color theme and roll with it.  M went with white and coral.  I have a purple/pink/red/white thing going (which I recognize in writing it seems more like indecision than a theme).  Our cart was beautiful:

I like to think we gave other carts a complex.

I like everything about flower planting day except for carrying it all upstairs.  And, cleaning up my mess later as I always make a huge mess with the soil.  But, I think it is totally worth it:

Looky, there is a lake two blocks away.

It may be almost summer but it is also that fifth season: construction.

Plus, because I'm on the lowest floor, I feel an obligation of sorts to make my balcony pretty for the people walking by on the street.  Building pride and all for our red-headed stepchild of a building on an otherwise beautiful street.

"My" Dog.

I got Shelby when I was a third year in law school.  When I moved to Chicago and started working long hours, she made it clear that she was not a fan.  Despite going to doggy daycare every day, she ate my couch, she ate my clothes, she ate my rug.  After a lot of guilt and tears, I sent her to go live with in Colorado with my parents who were home more often and had another dog and two cats to keep her entertained.  It was a happy situation for everyone (at least once I got over missing my dog).

Hanging out on her "dog bed" with one of her cat friends.

While I call her my dog, she has lived with my parents for eight years now and is much more their dog than mine.  And, they love her and take great care of her.  They got her a kiddie pool so she go swimming and blow bubbles during the summer.  They take her to agility classes so she can play on the various pieces of equipment.    They let her turn their nice couch into a gigantic dog bed.

But, today I heard proof that she is definitely my dog.  There were factors before -- we both love the water, we both like hanging around upside down -- but today, I learned that much like me, she has arthritis and needs to shoot up regularly with an anti-inflammatory.  My mom had been worried about her but after she got the diagnosis, she laughed all the way home and how much that dog takes after me.

Arthritic dog needs the hot pad.

Goofy upside downward dog.

Aspen.

Gosh, I'm glad I didn't do a triathlon here.  That is STEEP.

After a long lull, I had some work travel this week: to Aspen.  In retrospect, almost all of my work travel has been to good places.  I've been to Singapore, NYC, San Fran and the Silicone Valley, and the OC among other places.  I think the "worst" place I have been is to Mankato, MN and even that was not awful.

Even though I lived in Colorado for four years and my immediate family is still there, I had never been to Aspen before. Not really a surprise you consider that I'm not a skier (or snowboarder) and Aspen is pretty much smack dab in the middle of the mountains, so a solid five or so hour drive from Boulder.  And another no-surprise statement: Aspen is a really lovely little town.  It looks like Hollywood's version of a quaint town, which in a lot of ways it is.

Since May is the mud season, Aspen was also pretty much a ghost town.  They did not get a lot of snow this year so the mountain shut down in early April.  Tourists will not start coming back until June for the Food & Wine Festival.  We were only there for one full day and spent most of that day in a conference room but I enjoyed it.  (I am pretty sure that the five lawyers involved in this deposition were the only people wearing suits, or even business casual, in the entire town.  We got A LOT of looks.) The town is cute and very walkable, the food was really good, the hotel was lovely (and so cheap thanks to being the off-season), and the surroundings were spectacular.  I even went running one morning.  It was a real insult to my ego that seems to think that because I did live in Colorado, I should still be acclimated.  Tell that to my lungs which strenuously objected to the 8,000 feet in elevation.

Bear-crow?  A lot of yards had these bear sculptures.  

The only negative to my trip was that it was weird to be in Colorado, especially at DIA, and not be going to see my family.  Unfortunately,

Napa.

After we left Lake Berryessa, it was time for the fun portion of our trip.  Enough with nature, bring on the wine!

Baby grapes.  One day, I might drink them!

First, we met my parents at our hotel in Napa, the Avia.  It was a really great property with beautiful rooms, fantastic location, and very helpful staff.  The concierge had set us up with therapeutic massages at a nearby spa.  After that, it was nap time until dinner.  We went to a place called the Rutherford Grill, which you could smell from down the road, and had a great dinner.  Because M and I never really adjusted to being on Pacific Time, we were in bed by 8:30.

On Monday, it was time for some wine touring.  My parents had arranged for a driver to take us to four vineyards.  It is a little tough to start tasting at 10:00 am but you gotta do what you gotta do.  Our first stop was Castello di Amorosa.

Castello di Amorosa -- moat and all, if you count pond scum as a moat.

It was completed only about five years ago by a man named Darryl.  We learned from our driver that once the castle was built, Darryl changed his name to Dario.  Unfortunately for him, he sounds like a Darryl and almost no one seems to want to call him Dario.  Everyone we talked to about it just laughed, shook their head, and concluded that he is an odd man.  You can conclude that on your own by realizing what an obsessive personality it must take to build your own replica castle with Italian-esque frescos.  We skipped the guided tour -- no need to hear about faux history -- and went straight to the tasting.  The wines there were overall delicious.

South tower of the castle, overlooking the vineyards

Family picture on the South Tower of the Castle

From there, we went to V. Sattui, which is another Darryl/Dario vineyard.  The tasting was much more crowded and less enjoyable but the grounds were fantastic with a deli on site.  Several people recommended that we have a picnic lunch there and that is just what we did.  Just beautiful . . . and delicious.

Because we were so efficient in our tastings, we had time to kill before the only scheduled tour we booked.  We ended up going to a place called Frank Family Vineyard where we did a tasting and then just enjoyed sitting out on their porch.

From there, it was on to Schramsberg.  This vineyard was the one that all of us were most anticipating -- it is a bubbly maker!  They store their wine in caves built into the mountain.  Wandering the caves was part of the tour as was a tasting in the caves.  Our tour guide was really great.  Interesting information and a very subtle saleswoman.  We bought everything she was selling -- including things she wasn't specifically trying to sell like her husband's restaurant (great little local chain of burger roadside diners called Gott's -- we liked it so much we went there for dinner and came back for breakfast) and therapeutic yoga -- including wine and a membership in their wine club.  For the next year at least, M and I will each being receiving four shipments of bubbles from the caves outside of Calistoga.

Bad picture of the tasting in the caves

On Tuesday, we considered driving over to the coast to a small national park called Point Reyes but I really just could not get in the car again.  This trip was the most I have driven in a very long time.  I don't put in this kind of mileage if you combine six months together normally.  Instead, we just strolled around downtown Napa, shopping, had lunch, did a wine and chocolate pairing at the place next door, got pedicures and read.  Just a very chill relaxing day.

On Wednesday, it was back to SFO and back to reality.

Triathlete.

Despite having no desire to go back to Lake Berryessa, we found ourselves there by 6:15 am on Sunday morning.  We were not trying to be there that early but as our third trip out there, we were much more efficient (read: I did not miss the turn for the first time) in our driving and packing.  After killing over an hour and a half, it was finally race time.

One of only three without a wetsuit and only girl in a bathing suit.

As you can see, I opted not to put on a wetsuit.  I've never swam in one and did not see why this morning should be my first time.  I figured even if the water was only 65, it should take me fifteen minutes to do my swim and that is manageable.  If anything, I thought it would motivate me to swim faster.  And, it was pretty true.  Per M, I was the fourth woman out of the water (of course, it helped that I self-seeded myself in the first wave.  I was the 25th person in the water).  I tried to sprint the last leg of the triangular course but my legs were pretty cold by then so it wasn't so much a sprint as just a bit faster.  Oh well.

From there, it was on to the bike.  

Just happy to have managed to clip in, 25 feet down, 15 miles to go.

My course was not nearly as long or as hilly as M's from the prior day but long enough and hilly enough to make me wonder how the hell she managed to do it.  Our rented bike had a speedometer on it.  I got up to 28 mph at one point -- easily the fastest and scariest I've ever gone on a bike.  All was good until the end when I had a bit of trouble unclipping and totally fell.  As it turns out, learning to ride a road bike on race weekend is not an ideal plan.  Live and learn. 

Ouch.  Road rash, two days later.

The run leg was never going to be my best leg and that was particularly true with my road rash but I did finish the course.  My first official full triathlon.

Can we please get the hell out of here now?

 And, I don't think it will be my last.  If at first you don't succeed (and I don't think I can call it a total success given the scab on my leg), tri tri again, right?

70.3

M is a half-Ironwoman! 

And, dear God, did she earn that.  There were no small amount of prayers and swears involved because Napa is HILL-Y.  I mean, damn.  It reminds me of my Colorado-driving days.  We drove the bike course on our way home and man, 56 miles is LONG.  And, that is in a car.  I don't know how she did it.  And, I don't know how once she did it, she got herself off that bike and ran a half-marathon.  As we kept saying, thanks to the layout of the course, it was more like running four 5K's than 13.1 miles straight.  Regardless of that mental trick, she swam 1.2 miles, biked 56 miles, and ran 13.1 miles for a grand total of 70.3.  Impressive, no?

We got there early so we spent probably 9 hours at that lake.  I have absolutely no desire to ever go back there.  Which is unfortunate since my little sprint is tomorrow.  Oh well.

T minus One.

Tomorrow morning at this time, we will be on a plane to Napa. San Francisco technically but whatever. It is already shaping up to be quite a trip.

M got a call from the place we are staying for the race yesterday. Neither of us were thrilled about it as it was -- Troop Beverly Hills-style camping in cabins -- but we were told it was the closest place to stay near the race site with running water so we went with it. It is so important to be close since you have to get up so early anyway. But, yesterday we learned that they do not have linens, towels, or pillows for us. $159/night and we need to stop at Target to buy sleeping bags and stuff? That's just great.

So, this morning, we have divided and hope to conquer. M is trying to fight their 72 hour cancellation policy on the grounds of new and important information. I have found us an alternative place to stay that is also not ideal but has linens. Either way, we will make it work.

And, of course, this trip is about as poorly timed work-wise as possible. Not quite as poorly as possible as neither of us have to cancel but man. We couldn't know six months ago that both of us would both be probably at our busiest in the last year right now. I know I'm coming back to probably straight 12 hours days for the rest of the month. Which means that I am going to try to enjoy these few days off as much as possible.

I am really, really, really looking forward to Sunday at about 10:00 am, when I should hopefully be a triathlete, having run the whole four miles and everything, and getting to see my parents who are coming out to witness and join in the fun. And, even more so looking forward to Sunday at 2:00 pm when we have massages scheduled. And, even MORE looking forward to Monday when we go wine touring.

Bosue.

I probably jinxed myself with my prior post but when I was at the gym today, I was stepping off a bosu and totally sprained my ankle. My friend, KWW, suggested that I bosue them. Just my weak ankles and a poor step. I'm the only one to blame.

It turned blue and swollen almost immediately:

So, I found myself sitting on the floor in the locker room, with my leg up and ice on my ankle. M was nice enough to bring my laptop over so I could go home to continue my R.I.C.E.-ing. I decided to have a bowl of rice chex to be thematic in my eating:

As KWW said, the icing is BRRRutal but helpful. I hope that I am a fast heel-er.

Just Doing It.

As of today, it is 2.5 weeks until the triathlon. I really am not concerned about being able to finish it -- that is not a question, assuming no flat tires. I just really want to be able to do the run leg as a run (jog, trot, anything but an all-walk). I have been trying to run on the treadmill and got to about three miles, which felt pretty good.

But, I had not run outside yet. I told that to a girl I see probably four mornings a week. She offered to run with me. Prior to her, other people have offered but I have always turned them down because I am S-L-O-W and don't want to frustrate them or me by going together. But, this girl is only about 5'1". She is a much better runner than me but her short little legs means that my slow pace is palatable to her. Normally, she doesn't really push herself at the gym. But, when we go outside, she is the one telling me to kick it up for interval, telling me to run hills, etc. It surprised me but M diagnosed her as a chameleon, fitting the workout style of the person around her. And, she is normally around a pretty big personality who only comes to the gym for the coffee and stays to go through the motions in a class.

Thanks to her, every Tuesday and Thursday, for the past couple weeks, I've run outside somewhere between 3 and 4 miles. I am so not a runner. I dread it and kind of hope she has a schedule conflict every time. I hate seeing all these people pass us, looking like they aren't even breaking a sweat. I spend probably half the run thinking that my knee hurts or that I want to quit but my pride won't let me. (Mind you, I have no pride on the treadmill. I will quit that so easily. But not when there is someone else out there with me.) Dumb pride. But, man, do I feel happy when I get back to the gym knowing that I did it. (That and my heart rate is so high when I run that I burn a zillion calories which means I always feel like a deserve a real breakfast afterwards which also makes me happy.)

Who knows, maybe I will even continue running after May 6 is over. Stranger things have happened.

20K.

I bought my car on December 27, 2003. To the endless irritation of my brother, I do not drive very often so my car is pretty much the same as a car owned by a little old lady who only drives to church on Sundays.

But, today, my car went from:

to:

Only eight and a quarter years. They say that once a car hits 100,000 miles you need to start being wary and consider replacing it. At this rate, that will be in
2045.

Update.

When I was talking to my mom about how it just has not been my week, she agreed and suggested that I stay home today. I have a deadline today and needed to come in to work so I ignored her (sage) advice. The week has not improved: I got to work only for my computer to be so totally dead that it would not turn on. That does not help me meet my deadline. Add to that the weather (rainy and cool aka perfect staying in bed weather), and I really should have taken my mom's advice.

Moral: as always, Mama knows best.

P.S. Universe? The MegaMills tonight would be nice.

Hey, Universe?

It hasn't really been my week so far. On Monday, I got a flat tire on my bike and had to walk it over a mile home. On Tuesday, I woke up at 3 am for no reason with no sleep in sight. On Wednesday, work took a turn for you've-got-to-be-kidding-me. And, today, I got stuck in a bathroom stall at the gym. Nothing awful, mind you, but just not my week.

However, I have thought of a spectacular way to redeem the week: winning the $290 million jackpot of MegaMillions. Just putting it out there, Universe, in case you're listening.

Don't Let The Terrorists Win.

Jerkfaces. Assholes.

Just a couple of the names I like to call my knees when they are misbehaving. A couple days ago, they were acting out for no obvious reason. KWW suggested that I place the blame on someone I hated. At a loss, I went for a category: terrorists.

Admittedly, it is a stretch of a metaphor but my rheumy knees do sometimes try lay siege and hold me hostage to their popping and pain. But, I like to remind myself that if I don't do anything, the terrorists win. When I was first diagnosed with RA years ago, I would check out the websites about the disease. I did not find them particularly helpful. Scary, yes. Depressing, for sure. A lot of the comments to various stories were just people complaining about their ailments. I do not intend to diminish their pain. Living with on-going pain can be exhausting and depressing. The constant ache that doesn't go away even when you're entirely still sucks. The sharp stabbing pains? Not fun. No doubt about it.

BUT.

And, this is an important but, the fact that you know you're going to be in pain means you can adjust your normal. A lot of life is mental. Once you adjust your perspective, accommodating the fact that you are going to have pain, it is up to you to accept it or wallow in it. I understand the impulse to wallow but it cannot be something you indulge in for long. The authors of the comments seem to think that they cannot do anything because doing something will hurt. Yes, but doing nothing will also hurt. Pain is a baseline. Yes, maybe your hands are gnarled and barely functional -- but there is nothing wrong with your legs, right? Go for a walk. Your knees hurt? Hop in the pool with a pull buoy and do some pull. You will feel better in that you did something and it will take your mind of your pain. In fact, by doing something, you will be doing more than the average healthy person does daily.

In short: We do not negotiate with terrorists -- take no prisoners and do not let them win.

Decisive.

It is rare for me to know with certainty about the correctness of my decision. Usually, it takes sometime and perspective with a view of the totality of the circumstances.

Not today.

I knew within 10 minutes that I had made the absolutely wrong decision. When I woke up this morning, I had some not insignificant leg pains going on so I had an internal debate as to whether I should ride my bike or drive this morning. On the one hand, riding usually makes my legs work better and the weather is still so nice. On the other hand, ouch. Since I had given myself a Day of Rest yesterday (aka been a bum and skipped almost any kind of physical activity in favor of laying around), I decided to ignore the other hand and ride my bike.

I was about half way to the gym when I heard "POP. . . hssssss." Well, shit. My first ever flat tire. And, I, of course, (1) still haven't learned to change a flat and (2) do not carry a spare tube or the tools to do so.

So, I turned around and walked (limped, as my legs still aren't working quite right) my bike back home, got my keys, dumped my bike in my car and raced to the gym to try to make my spin class (because, again, riding usually helps my legs). Of course, I got there in time to learn that the instructor stood us up. This particular part of the story has a silver lining though -- even though I didn't get to try to fix my legs with a class, I did get a $50 "we're sorry" gift certificate that I plan on putting toward a massage.

Also, I like to think that the week can only go up from here. I will hate to be decisively wrong about that too. Fingers crossed, I'm not.

Spring Forward.

Today (March 11) is the beginning of Daylight Saving Time. It will last until we fall back on November 4th. As much as I dislike losing an hour of sleep, Mother Nature totally seems on board with the Spring part of the spring forward phrase that goes with this day. Today's high is 67. The whole week ahead is supposed to be in the 60s or low 70s. Today was the first day that I rode my bike down to the gym.

I don't want to jinx it and I know it is WAY too early for winter to be over in Chicago BUT I would really love it if today also marked the beginning of my regular bike commute to work. If my bike commuting was defined by Daylight Saving Time that would not be in a bad thing in my book.

CAbi Show.

Last night was the return of the CAbi party. Even though I have been to two of these parties previously, I never am quite prepared for the reality of stripping, and trying on clothes in front of your colleagues. On the plus side, at least I was more prepared that evening than I had been that morning. Note to new CAbi girls: (1) Wear a bra and underwear you don't mind strangers seeing a lot of; and, (2) The longer the shirt, the better. As M demonstrated, the CAbi tank is actually the perfect CAbi party base item since it can be pulled down long enough to be almost a dress. Almost. It has a Julia Roberts "I've got a run in my pantyhose . . . I'm not wearing any pantyhose" type vibe to it when you wear it for something other than its intended purpose.

My favorite part of the CAbi party is watching our rep, Meggan, put on the show. The woman manages to talk through probably 50 items of clothes (trying on about a quarter of them in the process) in less than an hour. I'm pretty sure that she never ends a show in any of the same clothes she started in other than her own cami. Every time, there is an item that I see on the rack and think it is ridiculous until she tries it on. Last year, it was the skirt-dress (long tube that could be worn as a maxi skirt or short dress). This year, it was a vaguely 40's-inspired multi-colored top whose straps could be removed, worn as a halter or crossed or worn as a basic tank.

I find the CAbi party reassuring in one strange way: it is always a good reminder to know that women you would assume have no body issues whatsoever are just as self-conscious and weird about certain things as you are. And, as a result, it was one of those special environments where strange women are totally complimentary and encouraging to each other. Good thing we have Meggan -- while she is the biggest CAbi cheerleader, she is not going to get so caught up in the fun and good feelings to let you buy a shirt in the wrong color or pants that makes your butt look bad.

M and I have been to enough CAbi parties now that we know the general script and like to participate in the show (for me, that means making jokes, for M that means serving as a model and stylist), although I'm sure that what we jokingly refer to as the two-drink minimum doesn't hurt. And, once again, we have been sucked in enough that we are going to host one in the fall. At least then we will be stripping in front of friends in the privacy of our own homes.

Filler.

Earlier this week, I attended a dinner that was honoring one of our clients. Normally, I pass on these types of events but I am working on one of this client's cases so when I was invited a few weeks ago, I was delighted to fill a seat at our firm's table. However, as it got closer, more facts became known about the dinner.

First, the institution's website described the dinner as a gala. To me, that is code for black tie. But, on a Tuesday? Surely not. As it turns out, it was business attire. Suits are not my favorite thing to wear but they are infinitely better than bringing a gown to work.

Next, the day before the dinner, we received an email informing us that in addition to our firm employees, we will have four Holocaust survivors sitting with us (the institution was the Illinois Holocaust Museum). Well, that sounds . . . sad. I talked to some people who said it would not be sad, so much as like having dinner with your grandparents and to be prepared to speak loudly.

Finally, the only non-Holocaust survivor and non-partner other than me would be a guy named Ravi Shankar. Not THE Ravi Shankar, which would have been cool, but just some kid that I had not met.

On the afternoon of the dinner, I was talking to my mom about the dinner ahead. I told her my current plan was to open with "can we see the tattoo" and follow that with "hey, did you bring your sitar" and close with, "I'm out!" successfully offending everyone and avoiding eating what was surely going to be rubbery chicken.

As it turned out, the dinner was not bad. The beauty of low expectations, I suppose. Even though I had googled it, I did not realize what a big deal the dinner was. The Mayor was there along with other local politicians. Funny enough, while our client is a billionaire, it turned out that he was not even the richest man in the room. (I haven't been able to decide if that must have been super-annoying to him or if it happens more often than I'd think given that rich people tend to stick together . . . and there are over 600 people per Forbes who are richer than him.) There were only two Holocaust survivors. The lady who sat nearest to me had written 12 books on genocide but was so old now that she did not speak much and when she did it was to complain to her grandson about the food (who helpfully reminded her, "I told you it wasn't going to be good. You can't make food for 1600 people and it be good"). The keynote speaker was former Secretary of Defense Robert Gates. I think probably 1600 people were surprised to learn that he is really quite funny (until he turned really quite scary when discussing the options with Iran).

The only thing I was not entirely wrong about was the food: it was not rubbery chicken. It was rubbery fillet.

Mishaps.

I get ready for the day at the gym. Which means that I pack my clothing for the next day, the night before. Occasionally, this leads to wardrobe mishaps. I have been known to forget minor parts of my outfit: a belt, tights, bra, or underwear. Usually, this can be worked around (go bare-legged, wear a sports bra instead, etc).

Of all the days to forget to pack underwear, today was perhaps one of the worst. Why? Because tonight I am attending a CAbi party, or in other words, I will be trying on clothes in front of colleagues. All the opaque tights in the world are not sufficient. Thankfully, Nordstrom is mere blocks away and came to my rescue so that I will be properly underclothed to try on clothes.

Riddler.

M is in Cancun this weekend. At the request of one of her friends, she got an international phone plan for this month so that she could send as many "Mexts" as necessary. This morning, she sent me this:

Kind mean considering my view this morning, a very grey day with a winter storm watch ahead of us today:

But, her trip and picture reminded me of my favorite Spanish riddle: What English word spells a Spanish phrase? Socks. S-O-C-K-S, or in Spanish, "eso si que es," which happens to translate to one of my more favorite ways to end a disagreeable discussion, "it is what it is."

Fun fact about me: I have a degree in Spanish but prior to going to Spain last summer, had never been to a Spanish-speaking country, including Mexico even though I lived in Texas for three years. Sad but true.

Leap Day Math.

February 29th. Every four years, except for years that end in zero, unless they are divisible by four.

On the minus:
1) It is an extra day of work for which salaried people are not paid.
2) The longer you look at the word leap, the less like an actual word it looks.

On the plus:
1) Mother Nature has decided to gift us a day with a temperatures near 60, taking away many people in this hemisphere's objection to adding an extra day to February rather than a warm-weather month.
2) Lots of fun discounts out there as a single day sales giving 29% off or free meals for the 29th patron, etc.
3) According to 30 Rock, anything that happens today, didn't.
4) Pictures of leaps or things that leap tend to be either amazing or cute.





By my math, that means the day is an overall win.*

*Setting aside the birthday issue because I do not feel equipped to place having a birthday every four years firmly in either the plus or minus column.

Pick 'Em.

I was in Colorado over the weekend, visiting my family. For the most part, it was All Quiet on the Western Front.

But, Sunday was family dinner day. My parents host a family dinner every two weeks. Usually, it is my parents, brother and his partner, and cousin. Sometimes her boyfriend attends. But this Sunday, it was nine people: four couples (parents, brother and his partner, cousin and her boyfriend, and my faux brother -- my brother's best friend from high school who lived with us for a year or so -- and his wife) and me. Gotta love that. Nine people and four dogs (could have been six) and two cats. Delicious spaghetti and amazing cheesy bread, salad, wine, and cheesecake. Yum.

Coincidentally, Sunday was also the day that the Daytona 500 was supposed to run (delayed due to rain) and the Oscars aired. While none of us are NASCAR fans, some of us like the Oscars, or at least the red carpet. Because I like to add an element of fun to family events, e.g., holiday poppers at Christmas and making people wear the paper crown, I decided to print the Oscar ballot and come up with a fabulous prize for the person who guessed the most winners. I thought that it would make it more fun for everyone. It is kind of like bowl games or March Madness -- always more fun when you have a horse in the race, even if you care for totally artificial reasons. My friend, KWW, has taken the bowl game fun to a whole new level with his family: for the past ten years, he has run a bowl game picks contest with his family, with three different, engraved trophies in place: best year, best overall record, and, introduced this year, best of the decade. Compared to that, my fabulous prize is less impressive but who doesn't like candy and free movies?

Fabulous-ish?

I was pretty happy about the idea but by the time people arrived and the red carpet was on, it was clear that most people didn't care. My mom took over and forced people to play and wouldn't you know, people suddenly started to care when the awards began being announced. As it turned out, I easily won with 13 winners picked correctly but I decided to disqualify myself. After that, it was a three-way tie between my brother, my faux-brother's wife and my cousin's boyfriend. It had to go to a tie-break (who guessed the most of the big three awards) which ultimately meant that my brother won. I was happy about that since he was the person who was most excited about the contest, if only because he wanted the candy.

Mile-stones.

This morning I met two milestones in my just f-ing do it plan of running:

1) I ran three miles. That's a lifetime personal best. Yes, that's kind of sad but what can I say? I'm not a runner.

2) I ran for more than 30 minutes straight. As if there was ever any doubt, I'm slow. I'm more of a slow-and-steady finishes the race kind of girl than wins the race.

Just yesterday, one of my favorite trainers at my gym sent me this:

That's David Goggins. He is ridiculous. Absolutely an incredible athlete. He is a SEAL who has completed Ranger school (maybe just for fun, I'm not entirely clear). He does ultramarathons (and ultra races generally) to raise money for families of fallen soldiers. He claims that he hates to run (bike and swim, too). He says he does it because of that. He went from being a 290 pound power lifter to a 190 pound runner in less than three months. He ran his first ultramarathon without ever running a marathon, breaking bones in his feet and suffering kidney damage in the process. He sleeps less than fours per night.

Anyway, I sent a story about him to M yesterday in case she ever needed inspiration to finish a workout. It ended up guilting her into doing a swim workout she didn't want to do. This morning, even though it was a mere three miles, I invoked Goggins to keep on keepin'-on. It is definitely mind over matter. I hate running. It is awful. But I can do it.

Hurrumph Day.

As I was getting ready at the gym this morning, this older Pakistani woman who I see often, said to me, "Good morning, big butt." True as that is, it is not my favorite way to say hi. I told her that wasn't very nice and she tried to explain how she meant it as a compliment. But(t), as I told her, I'm white. I will never ever consider that a compliment.

When I told this story to KWW, his response was a simple "nice hump day greeting." More like rump day, if you ask me.

It's a (Birthday) Wrap.

Best flower card ever.


Flowers with which the card came.


I LOVE getting flowers. Thank you, KWW, M, Broseph & J.


The rare time a religious card was totally made appropriate -- Jesus year and all.


B-day card from Sunda, site of my actual B-day dinner with M. Super tasty.


Parents mailed a card a week in advance. They were so excited for me to get it. When it arrived, five days late, this is why. Totally inexplicable since it was a normal-size card.


Some people juice. Some people drink vodka. I almost never drink liquor anymore but when I did, vodka was my drink of choice. Still funny. Thanks, Mom and Dad!


Birthday dinner at Prosecco. Some people called it Valentine's day weekend, including the restaurant but whatever. Note the birthday cheesecake -- obviously, they were confused.

Jesus Year.

Today I start my Jesus Year. Before you ask, it is a totally made-up thing. My friend K deemed her 33rd year, the Jesus Year. A way to put a positive spin on what is an otherwise kind of blah birthday. So long as you avoid crucifixion, it is a year to reinvent yourself, start a new chapter, mutatis mutandis.

My birthday fell on a Wednesday this year. My Wednesday mornings always start with a swim and today was no different. Appropriately enough for my Jesus year, I turned water into wine today -- because I went to swim, I was able to receive a gift from a friend at the gym of a bottle of Veuve.

Gospel Brunch.

The House of Blues hosts a Gospel Brunch every Sunday. When I lived in Austin, going to gospel brunch at Stubb's was always a good time. What's not to like about all-you-can-eat barbeque with some live music in the background? My friend, K, invited me to join her, her grandparents, cousin and a friend to join them at the House of Blues version last Sunday. With Stubb's in mind, I accepted without hesitation.

The HOB version is an entirely different type of gospel brunch. First, they start by warming up the crowd with some Hallelujahs and Amen's scattered among HOB trivia questions. Honestly, I'm not sure that this is the best plan. The crowd was hungry and we could smell the food awaiting us. After giving us detailed instructions, we were allowed to enter.

I had been at the gym prior to meeting K at HOB. I was STARVING. Priorities: mimosa first, then omelet. I got in the omelet line and almost snapped from the hunger. The people in front of me were tourists who kept bringing more people into line once they got to the front and ordered three omelets per person. The people behind me were new teachers and kept talking about topics that I have heard from years from my mom and her teacher friends. At this point, I had to stop myself from correcting them on theories and just telling them to shut up. I had to put my hands over ears at one point. But, once I got my omelet everything was better. The food was good -- standard brunch offerings with a slightly southern flare (the lunch offerings were of the fried chicken, potato salad, and mac and cheese ilk).

Unlike the Stubb's version, there was no live music as we ate. Instead, it was delineated into eating, then music. The music was fun. As it started, K's grandfather leaned over to me to ask if I had ever been to black people's church (I have) and said that "this is how we do it." Sister Eileen started the show in fine form, giant sparkly hat, pink satin suit with huge lapel pin and glittery shoes. A drag queen could take a note from this woman. The choir put on a good show, although occasionally got showed up by the audience participants that they called to the stage. I enjoyed it, but as I told K, if it wasn't in Sister Act, I did not know the song. Or, in other words, the only song I knew was "Oh Happy Day."

Elevator Edition.

I was talking to my parents this morning about a change to my 401K investment mix. They explained to me that Portugal is currently suffering larger debt problems than Greece. News to me. I immediately blamed the WSJ-Elevator Edition for failing to keep me up to date.

I like to think of myself as fairly well-informed. I tend to know a little about a lot of topics. Almost all of my news sources are non-traditional. For example, Twitter gives me a lot of my news and keeps me the most current.

But, I can't remember the last time I bought a paper version of a newspaper. There are some people in my office who like to walk around with the WSJ tucked under their arm. I assume it is solely to let everyone know they read they subscribe to the WSJ. I have nothing against the WSJ. I actually really enjoy their Friday style section and have a standing request with a friend that he send it to me whenever he remembers. But, beyond the WSJ-Elevator Edition, I don't read it.

When I mentioned the Elevator Edition, my mom burst out laughing, assuming I was making a joke that I got my news from the elevator. My dad assumed that I was using the elevator as a stand-in for a water cooler. But, for the record, I am not making it up. In most newer buildings (or at least rehabbed buildings) in cities, the elevators tend to have screens that display the weather, time, and news. In my office, we get the WSJ-Elevator Edition. Which is, by far, their most inferior edition since it tends to be 15 words or less. Hence, why I didn't know about Portugal. It takes a few more than 15 words to explain that situation in full. Although I think I can nutshell it in three letters, if my parents are right about its current fiscal standing: S.O.L.

2012: Mutatis Mutandis.

I have retroactively decided that my New Year's resolution is: Mutatis Mutandis. What's that you say? It is Latin for "changing those things that need to be changed."

Obviously, the first thing that needs to be changed is for me not to be the kind of asshole who unnecessarily sprinkles Latin phrases about to prove that they speak Latin and you don't. Actually, the phrase was in a proposed order that M received and the judge, prudently, red-lined it right out. Since neither of us actually speak Latin, we both had to look it up when she told the story.

But, I think that Mutatis Mutandis is a good theme for your Jesus year. Termed by K, the year of your 33rd birthday is your Jesus year. A year to make some changes, re-invent yourself, turn a new chapter, hopefully all without that whole crucifixion thing. I think it is always helpful to have a theme, for attire, parties and now, birthdays.

Sisyphus Day.

For the record, this day -- not specifically January 3rd, but whatever day happens to be the first official work day of the new year -- is always my least favorite day of the year. I always feel like Sisyphus staring at that damn rock, once again at the bottom of the hill.

As Mary Poppins said, in every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. Of course, the trick is finding it, so that "poof! the job is a game." I'm not sure what Mary Poppins would have told old Sisyphus though.

Here's to hoping and finding the fun for 2012 at work.