I'm A Member of PETA. Now You Know.

Perhaps you remember last year when I blogged about the guilt I experienced after simply preparing and serving turkey at my mini-Thanksgiving celebration in Germany. As humorous as that post was meant to be, most of you know I'm deadly serious when it comes to my personal beliefs about the humane, socially responsible, and hygenic treatment of all animals. I tend to avoid preaching to my blog readers, but in case you are interested in the way turkeys are treated (and that idiotic Sarah Palin footage didn't make it clear enough) just click here.

I've Half Lost My Mind

One way to try and fight the seemingly inevitable holiday weight gain is to sign up for a half-marathon in January. Seeing as the longest competitive races I've done are 5K (3.1 miles) and the longest runs I've take for pleasure are about 8 miles, running 13.1 miles in about 8 weeks seems like an impossible dream. A painful, impossible dream. But dreams do come true, and on January 25th Jenn, Ashley (remember them from the obstacle course) and I will be waking up in Carlsbad, California, to intentionally put ourselves through some real pain for some sort of gain. For instance, a medal of some kind and a free shirt. I'm just that easy.

Even after writing a post about the many adrenaline highs and lactic acid lows that running can give me, I still have never been able to explain to others, or myself for that matter, what would possess me to run 13.1 miles without anyone chasing me. I'll admit that it is at least in part peer pressure. Jen and Ashley competed in their first half-marathon last winter, and still have the drive to do it again. My baby sister herself completed the Detroit half-marathon a couple years ago. I'd rather die than admit that I don't believe I can do it, and I take some solace in the fact that they all came through the experience, port-a-potty pit stops aside, relatively untraumatized.

Another motivating factor is simply as of yet unanswered question of what my body can do. I'm young, healthy and fairly fit. If I'm ever going to be able to complete a 13.1 mile run (within a set time limit), it will be now. I've hiked, biked, and meditated my way to health, and running has become a reliable addition to those activities. Why not test the boundaries of what I'm capable of now, while I still have a relatively good chance of achieving the goals I set without risking imminent death?

Finally, despite the minor marital disturbances that have been caused by lululemon and her amazingly wonderful yoga pants (seriously, put on these pants and watch your butt transform) that are, I admit, criminally priced, I believe a 13.1 mile run deserves the proper attire. As a reward to myself for completing all the training and simply making it to race day, I will be popping in to the lulu store conveniently located in the same city as the race, Carlsbad, California. Maybe I'll find the perfect pair on sale (just for you, honey) or maybe not. But if I've just spent the typically most indulgent month of the year watching my booze intake so that I can complete all my scheduled training runs, I deserve to drop a hundy on some miracle-pants. That's just common sense. (Sidenote: For the record, Dave has, at least once or twice, spent more than $100 on one round of golf. And I spend those dollars on a tangible, reusable, self-esteem boosting health-related item! Now who's crazy?)

And so, on December 14th we will start our six-week Hal Higdon inspired training. Bit by bit, I hope to maintain the integrity of my knees, hips and ankles at least through noon on the 25th of January, where I plan to collapse into a proud, if not pitiful, puddle of lululemon-clad goo. Stay tuned for pictures of that moment.

Happiness Is A Cold Crowbar

When you compare the American versus Euro hockey lifestyle, on of the definite cons one the American side is the extensive travel the team does on a regular basis. In the last two weeks, I've seen Dave for one day. In December, minus a few days around Christmas, I will barely have a chance to cuddle up to him on the couch or have him make my lunch or leave a list of chores for him to do while I'm at work. All this travel means, amongst other things, that I am working single mother of two very need Real Dogs. The responsibilities of working single mothers include all the obvious things like cooking, cleaning, walking Real Dogs, grocery shopping and entertaining of girlfriends who have a voracious appetite for wine. But perhaps the most draining and loaded responsibility is Home Security. When Dave is home, I rather foolishly believe that we will be safe from any intruders. I have no doubt that, if awake, Dave could fend off the dastardly thieves. But the issue is that waking Dave is a very long, dramatic process that leaves him disoriented for something near an hour. Even still, I think I could rouse him enough to stand menacingly holding a golf club, acting as a deterrent if not a sleeping-walking killer.

The odd thing about the insecurity I have when Dave is away is that I have lived alone before. Completely alone, sans dogs or a heavy-sleeping giant. And I rarely, if ever felt unsafe or worried about intruders. But ever since our first experience with co-habitation in Detroit, I now have some sort of irrational fear that I'm more susceptible to attack when Dave is away. Measures have been taken to avoid that. At our first place, in Sterling Heights, we were in a one bedroom on the bottom floor. The Bottom-Floor-Apartment conundrum is an age old contradiction. On this level it is both easier to break in to AND to escape from the breakers. In order to increase my odds of escape, I created a pyramid beer cans surrounded by a perimeter of cups filled with knives and forks. This was meant to serve as an early warning system which would give me time to escape out the bedroom window, either before or after pepper spraying my opponent.

When we got to Bakersfield, we were again faced with the Bottom-Floor-Apartment dilemma, but we added a dog to the mix. A traumatized, petrified dog who I would have to protect should an emergency arrived. For some reason, I didn't feel that my former plan of barricading myself in the bedroom would work in this floor plan, so instead I slept on the couch, with chairs in front of the door and a plan to escape through the slider, after knocking through the can pyramid of course. Unless the intruder came in through the slider, in which case I was going to make a flying leap over the chairs and out the door, screaming "Fire!" (I learned that on Oprah) and spraying pepper spray at random. Looking back, this was not my best thought out emergency plan, but the comforting glow of the TV and the multiple escape routes appealed to me at the time. Iron

In Holland and Germany I never gave much thought to any of this at all. We lived on the 5th floor of a locked building in both instances, and Dave was never gone for more than a night. And because I wasn't working, I drank wine almost every night, leading me to really never give a care to whether I was robbed or abducted. It was a happy time.

Now we are back Stateside, back in Bako, back to long road trips and extensive security measures. Living in a house makes the contingency plan seem even MORE important, considering that the chance of my neighbors hearing my screams of "Fire!" (sidenote: ironcially, all these plans made/make me more likely to die in an actual fire because of the time it would take me to get out of the locked doors) are lessened when we don't share paper-thin walls. I've upped the dog-ante, and we now have two watchful, if not exactly vicious, companions to look over me. The can perimeter has been replaced by multiple layers of dead bolted doors and hypersensitive dog hearing abilities. When Dave is away, they wait longer to fall asleep, lay on top of the covers rather than under, and perk their ears up at the slightest sound. The ice-maker in the freezer drops ice every once in a while, and they both growl. It's annoying, and slightly comforting. I still keep the cell phone and pepper spray on the pillow next to me, and I fall asleep with my fingertips resting lightly on a crowbar. I don't move much in the night, so I can count on waking up with everything as I left it, ready to bludgeon, spray and then call the police. Chances are I'd probably end up calling my mom first out of panic.

With my Head of Security and his Deputy.

The Screaming Goomba

I don't want to get into the causes of the extreme tension in my back, neck, shoulders and brain, but I knew one solution to the problem could be a massage. I don't get massages very often, because too many times I've been disappointed by the experience. However, fortune smiled upon me by bringing us back to Bakersfield where we have a connection to the best massages in the world. Period. So if you ever come to Bakersfield, and I hope you do, I will set you up with Wendy, the woman who makes me want to cry out in pain but yet actually makes me see that as a good thing. She's special, that Wendy.

Some people want a light, gentle, soothing massage. So they should make sure to be very clear with Wendy about that. Because Wendy's service is to work you over in a way that you didn't think possible. She finds knots that have been plaguing your shoulder since you pulled a muscle playing with your Game Boy too vigorously in 1992. And she attacks that knot the way Super Mario attacks Goombs on aforementioned Game Boy. I suddenly feel sorry for the Goombas.

For 90 minutes Wendy worked over the worst of the damage I've done to my body, sometimes with a soothing effect and other times bringing me to the brink of my pain tolerance. (sidenote: during that massage when I was nearly crying out, I realized I may be physically unable to endure natural childbirth) I had involuntary muscle twitching and made lots of sounds like 'grrrummpsssssfffferrrrrrt' and 'plerrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnddddddgggg.' At one point when I was on my stomach with face down in that circular head support thing, I was actually making a face similar to that of the man in Munch's 'The Scream', silently trying to bear through the pain that I knew would lead to pleasure. At another point, Wendy was working over one particular spot for a great length of time with a lot of force, and I swear to you I was thinking 'Um...that's a bone!' So, foolishly underestimating Wendy's knowledge of anatomy, I asked her what, exactly, was giving her so much trouble there. Answer: A fatty deposit. PARDON!? Turns out if you get a small tear in a muscle your body may put a 'fatty despoit' over it as a bandaid. And then your body covers over the bandaid with a knot with the same density of a bone. And then your massage person has to beat the crap out of you in order to dispose of it by ending with the statement 'I hope you don't bruise easily!' I don't, Wendy! Carry on!

I left Wendy's studio lightheaded and radiant. Once I got home I guzzled water and sipped tea and sat quietly to absorb the effects of her work. And the next day, while not bruised, I was sore in the places she had worked the hardest. But a few days out, I realize those knots truly are gone and even if I had bruised it would have been totally worth it. Despite my minor paranoia that massage therapists gather together once a week to discuss their work and this week my 'plerrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnddddddgggg' sounds will be what they are laughing about, I'll be going back very soon.

A Scavenger Hunt

In an uncharacteristically neglectful move, I've put off the photo-scavenger hunt suggested by my friend Abby weeks ago. She chose the following words and asked me to find pictures that represent each of them for me: shoes, memory, graceful, skinny, anticipation and innocent. I believe the intention was to be searching for these throughout my daily activities, but since I've put it off long enough, I'm going to use the photos that are currently in my iPhoto library as the inspiration.

So here goes.

Shoes

Memory

Graceful

Skinny

Anticipation

Innocent

Travel Out The Patio Door

As much as I miss the accessability of travel that we became accustomed to while living in Europe, I have to remind myself in ungrateful moments of the ebb and flow and flow of life. Not only are we fortunate to be happy, healthy and surrounded by peace, but we've given up our compact European life for the spacious life of Americans. We might have to drive a distance to get anywhere else, but what we have in our own backyard is a backyard! Nothing compared to the yard I grew up in, which spoiled my expectations for eternity, but a green, long yard with a fence for our growing dog family. Sometimes you need to get on a plane and fly far far away. But sometimes you just need to pop outside and enjoy the ease of the journey to a more relaxing space.

I Drank The Obama Kool-Aid (and it's delicious)

It's not a secret nor a surprise that during this Presidential election my vote went for Barack Obama. And for the first time, out of three Presidential elections, I actually voted for the winner. Unless, of course, you count my first attempt at electing a president in 2000, when Al Gore actually won. But that's neither here nor there. And I am thrilled, ecstatic, overjoyed that Obama won. I'm glad I've been in the U.S. to witness all the madness. I think it's crucial, whether you supported McCain or Obama or Barr or Joe the Plumber, to recognize the historic importance of an African-American president. I'm anxious to see what changes will occur and how they will affect our lives. But all my pleasure is tempered by the pain of reality. Reality and the tiny red wine hangover I'm feeling from all the jubilation.

Reality that shows that 52% of Californians are willing to pass a proposal that amends their state constitution to ban gay marriage. And in Kern County specifically, 75% of people voted against having equal rights for homosexual couples. And while it's always a foregone conclusion that California will vote decidedly liberal in terms of presidential elections, there isn't, apparently, enough tolerance or open mindedness to live and let live. If you, your church, or your family find homosexuality to be immoral or against the law of your chosen god, I can respect your decision while vehemently disagreeing. If you believe that your god, your church, your family has the right to take away rights of others, you are a bigot. If god were real, she wouldn't have time for such hateful endeavors, she would believe in and nurture love in all it's forms. If your church were any kind of respectful institution, it would preach non-judgement and respect the supposed separation of church and state. If everyone in your family felt safe and unconditionally loved, they would be honest enough to reveal that there is probably at least one person who falls into a category of someone you would not accept in your life. Voting against equality for homosexuals in 2008 is not different than voting against equality for racial minorities in 1968. You're kidding yourself if you believe differently.

Reality revealed that racism, while clearly morphing into a less sizable monster, still exists. Not just in old people or backwater Alabama. One of my good friends came over to celebrate the Obama victory with us, and received a text message from a friend that not only made a terrible attempt at jesting about assassination, but also used a straight up racial slur that made everyone in the room gasp. The fact that someone of our generation would see humor in that makes me realize just how base and stupid some of us are. I love humor in many forms, but hate and racism isn't one of them. The fact that someone of our generation would be pleased with themselves for spreading such a joke to their loved ones tells me that too many people let offensive comments/jokes/remarks pass by them without speaking up. My friend, of course, is not one of those people, and when she expressed her displeasure her friend simply replied that this was typical of her, being so liberal and all. Liberal, conservative, tree-hugger, war-monger. If we can't get over the disgusting racism of our shameful past, we will never truly move forward. If you think racist/sexist/bigoted jokes are harmless and in good fun, you are painfully ignorant about the power that words have on what is deemed acceptable by society. Plus, you're an asshole.

Reality is that cynicism is now en vogue. "Sure, Obama's president, but nothing is ever really going to change." Have things changed since 1999? Sure they have. Even Republicans agree that most of those changes have been for the worse. So why is it so silly and trite to believe that things can change for the better? Why is it that the masses of people believing in Obama and wanting change makes them lemmings? I realize that the status quo is much easier to maintain. I realize that Obama has a long row to hoe and that progress will be slow and incremental. I realize that no candidate has EVER come through on all of their campaign promises. I don't hold Obama to unrealistic standards, but I have a realistic hope that people do not want to continue living in fear, poverty and ill-health. I made my choice, and my choice happened to win, but had McCain been elected I would still have chosen to hope after feigning despair. If we, in the United States, claim to having no reason to hope for improvement then what motivation can we expect people in truly impoverished or oppressed nations to have? Suck it up Americans, cynicism is only cool if you are comfortable and don't really need change to maintain basic life functions. But let your inner humanitarian have a voice and choose to be hopeful for those who don't have luxury of hipster sarcasm. And if you still can't feel goosebumps or see the vague light the end of the tunnel, drink the cyanide. You're dead inside anyway.