September 06

A story about a time you were very afraid.

I am a scaredy-cat; definitely not someone you would want to be in a haunted house with.  Since I am working hard on not dwelling on my anxious thoughts, I think I'll take a different spin on today's topic and tell you what I am not afraid of.

Although I am a bit scared of a lot of things, I am not superstitious.  In one week it's Friday the Thirteenth.  I love Friday the Thirteenth!

There is a neat article on Mental Floss about the Thirteen Club.  The gist is that in 1882 thirteen guys got together to prove thirteen wasn't unlucky.  Dinners were held where the gents did things like walk under ladders, open umbrellas indoors, break glass, etc.  All the unlucky stuff.

I want to throw a Thirteen Club party one of these days but worry people wouldn't show.  A lot of folks still hang onto these superstitions, don't they?

Are you superstitious?  Would you brave a Thirteen Club dinner or is that just tempting fate?

Bring on the black cats and have a great weekend!

Kiss Me, I'm a Good Skier

 

If I could have one comedy montage from my brain on videotape, this is would what it would look like:

 

I am not a coordinated or graceful person.  I have no agility or speed either.  I am clumsy. 

I am a great walker though.  I have that down pat.

My job involves snow so when I tell people where I work the first question I get asked is whether I ski or snowboard.

Begin the reel.  Here is the first of many attempts at athleticism...

Growing up, my family took yearly ski trips to Michigan with family friends.  I was a fearful five year old and not excited about strapping two skis on and plummeting down a hill.  Pops however, was full of enthusiasm and exuberance that would soon turn to frustration.  God love him for having faith that someday I would grow out of my awkward stage.   We are still waiting.

With some fuss I got my boots and skis on and practiced on the little hill by the chalet.  I’d walk up the little hill and snowplow my little self down.  Pizza.  French fry.  Pizza.  French Fry.  Sounds fun, right?  I remember a lot of yelling and crying involved during practice.  It was unfair, my brothers took to the hill like Snoopy, suavely traversing the snowy terrain with little effort.  Pops was at a loss on why these skills were harder for me; I chalk it up to being a late bloomer.

After we both had enough zigzagging, Pops brought me to the bottom of the hill to prep me for my first chairlift ride.  The chairlift was an old two-seater that went to the top of the bunny hill.  Pops went through the instructions over and over until I committed them to memory.  Scoot up, grab the pole, sit down, bar down, tips up.  He’d be right next to me the whole time.

And I did it!  We were riding high and I felt a rush of adrenaline and accomplishment.  The views of the trees were spectacular the skiers were whooshing below, this was incredible!

About half way up the ride, Pops started prepping on how the unloading was going to go.  He assured me it was a lot easier than getting on.  I am not sure what exactly happened, but sometime between his instructions and the unloading zone I completely psyched myself out. 

My dad left the chairlift and I did not.

I kept going until the lift was stopped.  I took one look at my dad swearing under his breath and started to bawl.  I had been defeated and humiliated by a chairlift.

My saving grace was the liftie, a sweet old man who came out with a ladder and lifted me down gently.  To this day, I remember his kind smile and the safety of his arms.  Once back to the ground he gave me a Kleenex, a Hershey Kiss, and a button that said Kiss me, I’m a good skier.  The world was right again.

Going downhill was a piece of cake.  After the one and only run, Pops brought me back to the chalet and I am guessing went to have a few cocktails to take the edge off of our bonding experience.  It was a long afternoon and at the end of it, all was forgiven.

The next day Pops signed me up for ski school.  Best forty bucks he ever spent.

Painting Posse

I am not a very fancy gal.  I own a lot of hats.  I wear many hats, only in the physical sense though, not in the turn of phrase sense.  Getting gussied up in the morning is my least favorite thing to do.  If I leave the house wearing matching tops and bottoms I consider it a triumph.  Socks don’t count.  I let go of trying to match my socks up a couple of years ago.  It’s been a beneficial experience.  No one really checks for matching socks anyway.  Sock it to me.

I started volunteering at a senior living home in December.  I told the volunteer coordinator I was up to help wherever she needed it, juice cart duties, organizing the library, etc.  She had something else in mind though.  She emailed me with my post after I passed my TB test, I was going to hang out on Saturday mornings once in a while and paint fingernails.

This was slightly unsettling for a few reasons.  One, I have never painted someone else’s nails before.  Two, physical nearness to strangers has never really been my thing.  Three, I am not super great at small talk.  I was nervous as my first Saturday approached.

When I arrived the first Saturday I only had one customer.  She was delightful and didn’t seem to be too bothered with me coloring outside of the lines a little bit.  Conversation came easy and I was eager to come back the next time.  When that day came, I had a half a dozen women waiting for me when I arrived.  It was cute because some of them thought I was practicing for beauty school. 

My posse has grown to about eight regulars who I am excited to see.  I am much more confident in my painting skills and am happy to suggest colors that will match outfits they have planned out for the week.  They make conversation with each other while they’re waiting for paint or drying.   It’s nice for me because I can do nails and listen to the conversations.   The experience has been an absolute pleasure from the get go and I am happy I let myself be open to it so I could meet these women.

Revolving

In movies revolving doors are hilarious, whimsical, and perhaps a little metaphorical. When you are a child, a revolving door is exciting; something to look forward to. As a kid, I ached to spin eternally.

As a grownup, I find them downright terrifying.

I have always been on search to be more in tune with the universe, a way to live a happier and more meaningful life. I am always looking for different ways to “tune in,” like there is something out there that I am not a part of that I need to find. Transcendence, maybe? Recently I have experienced two new things to grow from.

There is a Shambhala Center in Denver that I had always wanted to check out so I recruited Bobaloo and our friend Sam to come with me. We went there for an introduction to meditation. I was excited and nervous and happy to finally have the opportunity to go. The center was very welcoming. Shoes came off before entering and we sat in a circle along with the others who were curious.

We spoke for a while of who we were and why we were there. After a break we entered a small room where we sat on cushions and were taught the beginnings of meditation. At one point the instructor said something along the lines, “let go of your thoughts in the same way as you’d pop a balloon with a feather.” That thought resonated with me and when a thought would enter my head I would visualize a feather popping a balloon. It was a great exercise and I think all three of us learned something from being there.

The second event took place a couple of nights ago. Bobaloo and I were happy hour-ing at one of favorite joints listening to music out on the patio and enjoying the beautiful weather. If you know Bobaloo, you know he chats a lot with people. He went inside to get a pitcher and ran into a gentleman putting on a drum circle that evening. The drum circle dude invited us to join them and take a listen.

We went inside to the separate space where the drum circle was being held and were met with beats from an assortment of drums. The beats were infectious and the drummers were dialed into their sound. There were a handful of dancers inside the circle whirling, thrashing, and stamping. The whole scene was without airs and genuinely a harmonious occasion.

Now I am not someone who professes to have a lot of rhythm so I would choose one drummer to focus in on and listen carefully to. I mimicked the hand motions on my lap and created my own pitter-patter of sound. Someone gave Bobaloo a tambourine to make a cadence with. We enjoyed ourselves hugely. I would like to go back on another Monday with our own noisemakers to join in on this weekly drum-fest and possibly do some dancing.

6 Lessons of Sobriety

If you made a certain resolution to quit certain beverages for a 100 days, you are on day 70. Just to let you know. 30 days left? Piece of cake!

It’s been a strange 70 days since I stopped with the boozing. My ears still ring at 5 o’clock on Friday. Every once in a while I have a hankering for a cold beer or a rum and coke. The cravings have subsided greatly from the first couple of weeks. The first two weeks were the most difficult. It was bizarre to order non-alcoholic beers at happy hour and keep drinking and drinking and never catch a buzz. Lesson 1; Coca-Cola gives you more of a buzz then non-alcoholic beer. There is a bar in town that serves Coors NA and that is my drink of choice these days. Lesson 2, non-alcoholic beer is a sipping drink; all it does is make you need to pee.

The strange part about going to the bar sober is having in the past had buzzed conversations with people you now have no idea who they are or what you were babbling about. Lesson 3; sober conversations are more memorable but not nearly as exciting. I have also noticed people are curious why I am not drinking, when I tell them it’s a new year’s resolution they seem disappointed. It has taken bar patrons a little more time than usual to warm up to me and to start chatting. Lesson 4; making up a more interesting reason for my sobriety might lead to more friends.

Driving home after spending a few sober hours at the bar is quite the experience. Driving without paranoia and how quick the ride goes is amazing. Lesson 5; getting home sober is good. It is odd to have a kiddy cocktail (Shirley Temple) nightcap instead of a couple of beers to top off the night. I don’t wake up tired and go to work hung-over. Lesson 6; moderation would be a good virtue to permanently have.

The strangest thing about my sobriety is that I am always hungry, and hungry for sweets. I am generally not a sweet tooth but these days give me chocolates, give me cake, give me ice cream and I will down it. I thought quitting drinking would lead to me dropping a couple of pounds, but instead I think I’ve gained a couple. Lesson 6; weight gained is well worth it, yum.

Exciting News Part Two

So here it is!

I got a new job! Hooray! Yippee!

I forgot that this might not be too exciting to you because this is the fourth new job I've had since the inception of this blog. Oh well. Don't rain on my parade.

So, the job is perfect. No nights, no weekends, no icky one-hour bus rides.

New Stuff

Some very exciting stuff is on the horizon. I just can't tell you yet!

Greetings from Las Vegas...

Las Vegas, New Mexico that is. Yeah, it's about as exciting as it sounds. I am pretty sure if I was in the other one in Nevada I would not be blogging. I have not been to the one in Nevada yet, but I am pretty sure it's a little more happening. Bobaloo and I packed all of our stuff up yesterday and put all of our necessities in the U-Haul and everything else in storage. We were able to get on the road and make it to Phoenix last night. To get out of the state of California we had to go through some mountains which was terrifying because the brakes in my car are not up to snuff. There was a nasty accident too that freaked me out. It's extremely strange to be driving in California and Arizona. There are border patrol agents everywhere. When I was driving to California a couple of months ago I had to stop four or five times at checkpoints. Last night we only had to stop once. Border Patrol agents assholes. And while I am a fan of dogs, I don't appreciate their scary dogs sniffing my car. We made it to Phoenix and stayed in a hotel. Today we finished driving through Arizona and were making our way through New Mexico when we decided to stop for the night. So, we are enjoying the luxuries of cable television and continental breakfast. I love cable and I love breakfast. A lot. By this time tomorrow, I will be in my own bed at home. I am pretty excited about that. This trip has certainly been interesting. You wouldn't believe all of the things you can buy from the side of the road in Arizona and New Mexico. That's another post entirely. Well, that's all. Good night.

Beware of Foreshadowing

So, a proverbial change of heart has taken place and some decisions have been made. I called my dad today to wish him a happy Easter and to tell him that after a lot of thought, we are moving back to Denver. I was expecting for him to advise me to stick it out and hang in there. But instead, he said something along the lines of at least we have the courage to make mistakes. And more importantly, life is full of ups and downs and the key is to have more ups than downs. Sometime during the three and a half years of living in Denver, it became home without us even realizing it. We have gotten our apartment back, now all we have to do is get our lives back. Hopefully, there will be many ups in our future. Happy Easter!

Swimming Lessons

Living in San Diego, Bobaloo and I live quite close to the ocean now. I’m talking under a mile. When we made the decision to move here I had dreams of hanging by the ocean and taking it in on a hot day that includes picnics, Frisbee, tunes, the whole nine yards.

Bobaloo and I were talking about going to Pacific Beach to hang out this weekend. Only now, has the realization that I cannot swim set in. And while the ocean is beautiful, I am terrified of it. Not to mention shark attacks.

Growing up my family vacationed in Florida twice. Both times we stayed in hotels next to the beach where we swam in shark-free, five-foot pools next to the ocean. My dad would not let us go into the sea over our knees because of the omnipotent undertow, thus, my irrational fear of the dark deep-sea.

I think about this and the birthday resolutions I am going to make in a couple of weeks and am thinking it might be time to sign up for swimming lessons at the local community center.

Whose got the funk?

I haven’t felt like myself the last two weeks. With the move, Bobaloo going back and forth, and the newness of San Diego I feel like I am in panic mode or survival mode. You wouldn’t know it from the outside; I appear to be very cool, calm, and collected. Well, as cool as I can be.

Lately, just getting through the day expends so much disorderly energy that I a have nothing left in my tank when I get home. I just want to sleep and not think about anything. I am not sad, but I am not altogether happy either. I guess, just sort of existing.

Realistically, everything is fine. I have no more or no less worries than I did in Denver. Maybe it is all of the change.

Hopefully, this weekend will snap me out of my funk. My little brother Kyle is in town for spring break and we are headed to the beach!

Swedish Stuff

Tonight after work, I get to go to the wonder that is Ikea. When I lived in Minnesota there was an Ikea right by the Mall of America. It was blue and yellow and glorious. Three years in Colorado were Ikea-free. Now, I am happy to announce there a store in San Diego containing a whole lot of Swedish goodness and I will happily betray my Norwegian ancestry and revel somewhere between bedding and kitchenware.

Oh. All the stuff! I love stuff. Tonight’s adventure is to result in shelving, lots of shelving. Apparently I way underestimated how much stuff we have and our apartment is tiny. I am talking, tiny. I am about halfway finished with the unpacking. Bobaloo is getting his car from Colorado and I hope to have the place lookin’ sweet by the time he comes home to San Diego.

Aside from unpacking, this weekend includes another trip to Little Italy’s farmers market for groceries. The hunt for the perfect slice of blog-worthy pizza will also continue.

Pictures to come soon.

3 Weeks

The wait is almost over. On Saturday my beloved is scheduled to arrive after a long day of driving. I miss him, I miss my bed, I miss my stuff. I moved from Colorado three weeks ago. Some days have gone by quickly, and other days have been excruciatingly difficult and long. Nevertheless, I cannot wait for Bobaloo to get here. I am very excited for him to see our new teensy weensy apartment in the middle of the city.

This week took a turn for the better at work and I am feeling more comfortable there. The drive to and from work is short and I can take walks by the ocean on my lunch break. After work on Monday, I found a neat little bar downtown. I have also gone to the beach and found the boardwalk in the harbor. Over all, I consider this week a success and my best since moving here.

Tomorrow night I am going to watch the sunset at the harbor and Saturday I plan to go to the farmer's market in Little Italy. My goal is to enjoy the free time now, because once those boxes arrive on Saturday there is loads of unpacking and decorating to do.