Mother's Day: The Parable of the Wooden Frog

I don't mean to brag, but I totally have a great mom. And the amazing thing is, I've never NOT known that. Even when I was a bratty, obnoxious teenager and no one could ever possibly understand my angst GAH, I STILL knew she was great. (Perhaps SHE didn't know I thought that at the time, but believe me, she's fully aware of my love and gratitude now. Perspective, ya'll. It's a beautiful gift of adulthood.)

I could give you many an example of the selfless, unending love of my mother, including but not limited to:

• The time I wore a Smurf beach pail on my head. In public. And she only politely asked once if I'd like to take it off, and when I didn't, she shrugged, ignored strangers' giggles, and let me be myself.
• Choking down homemade egg nog that my sister and I made from a children's cookbook, that probably contained raw eggs, milk, and perhaps a dose or two of salmonella.
• The time I "temporarily" dyed my hair a hideous shade of red and instead of it washing out in 10 days, it lingered for more than a month. And she still claimed me as her own.
• Fixing and re-fixing my ponytail in the mornings before 6th grade because omigod there were teeny, practically invisible bumps that weren't perfectly smooth.
• Attending more than 11 years of band concerts, the beginning years of which were probably akin to a cacophony of screeching cats, and always genuinely telling me the piece she loved the most

And these don't even begin to scratch the surface of her awesomeness. So, you know how lots of women out there say with disdain and horror "oh, god, I'm becoming my mother"??? I only have to feign disdain and horror, because in addition to being a great mom, she's also a really fantastic human being. And I realized to my amusement this last week that in some of the best ways I'm slowly, but steadily, uncovering parts of my personality that are undeniably hers. 

On one of the first beautiful weekends of spring, I was out pulling weeds in the front garden. As I sweated, tilled, pulled and committed a murderous rampage on colonies of ants that have decided to call the roots of my lilies home, I saw one of our neighbors rolling down the street. This neighbor gets around in a motorized wheelchair,  permanently wears his Vietnam veteran cap, and has an enormous docile bear of a dog that he takes with him on his strolls. I'd seen him around before, but nearly always from the windows of our home, so I'd never had the chance to chat. That day, though, seemed like the perfect opportunity to strike up a conversation, which I figured would be cordial hellos shouted from our respective spots, but nothing more. That's how folks tend to be around these parts. Kind, but not warm. So when I said hello, I was surprised that he slowed to a stop and seemed genuinely excited to chat. I learned his name was Lloyd and his beloved dog is Teddy Bear. He can only walk short distances, but loves to be outdoors, so he and Teddy Bear get out for a daily stroll around the neighborhood when weather permits. As we wrapped up our conversation, he asked if he'd ever given me a friendship heart before. He pulled out a small folio, unzipped it, and inside were a dozen small, hand carved wooden hearts with magnets affixed to the back. He told me he does wood working in his spare time asked me to choose one as a gesture of our new friendship. I chose one, bid our goodbyes and he rolled along on his way. 

I saw Lloyd again on Wednesday evening as I was leaving my house for an appointment. I pulled up next to him, rolled down my window and said hello. Through the course of our brief conversation, he said, "Say. How do you feel about lawn ornaments?" And truthfully, y'all? I kind of think lawn ornaments are hokey. But not wanting to offend him I replied that I didn't have strong feelings about them one way or the other. He told me he made little wooden frogs for "the ladies to put in their gardens" and that he'd bring one by on his next stroll. It was such a sweet, old fashioned, heart-felt offer that I couldn't turn him down. And true to his word, he brought one by and placed it on the porch yesterday while I was out. Surprising to no one but me, I kind of love it. It's now strategically placed in a spot in the garden where he'll see it when he rolls by, and I'll see it when I pull out of the driveway.  

As I staked my little wooden frog in the garden, I thought to myself, "Oh, god. I'm turning into my mother." And I smiled. Because my new friendship with Lloyd reminded me of how she interacts with the whole world. No one is a stranger. Everyone is deserving of our time. Our kind words. Our efforts. Our friendship. The world is a better place when we assume people are our friends. My life is richer because of this perspective, this inheritance my mother gave me. And for that? I'm a thankful daughter, indeed.

A Thousand Words: Vacation Edition

It's been mysteriously silent up in this here blog, huh? I wish I could say it's because the Count and I have been up to so many fun things that there's been no time to even bother with writing. Alas, that's pretty much not the case. Instead, there's been precious little worth retelling in the last couple of months. Such is the glamorous life of the working stiffs.

One glaring exception to our unexciting days was a lovely vacation to our nation's 50th state, Hawaii. The Count and I relaxed, ate great food, and tooled about on the island of Kauai, and came back rested and a tad less pasty than when we left. (Non-translucent skin, for the win!)

I'm in the process of teaching myself Photoshop, so the photo edits are moving at the pace of a herd of turtles in a peanut butter sea. However, I took a day off work today and I managed to get through about a dozen (I'm the Mario Andretti of photo editing, amiright??), so I figured I would perform my obligatory role as Crazy Auntie of the Interwebs and make you look a vacation photos wherein there is nothing but scenery to behold. Just a few, I swear.

How NOT to Win Friends and Influence People

The awkwardness of my life, captured in a single frame.

Y'all. Everyone's aware of my propensity for finding myself in awkward situations, right? (For a refresher course, go here. And here. Aaaaand here.) I'm beginning to believe my life could be used as a cautionary tale for the borderline socially inept.

So as my gift to you, I thought I'd provide a little primer on how to avoid social awkwardness.

How NOT to Win Friends and Influence People: A 4-Part Case Study

1. When meeting a well-respected leader (and published author) in your sector, it's probably  a good call not to call yourself and your colleague "groupies" just because you've attended his book signing and a his keynote presentation all in one week. This is especially true when said leader has a notoriously dry sense of humor and said colleague is congenially trying to engage the man in a conversation about the good work our organization is doing. Also? Laughing really loud to cover the awkwardness might scare him off.

2. Setting: Delicious little lunch spot with a female friend.
Wait staff: "What can I get you for lunch?"
Female friend: "I'll have the tuna melt on wheat, with no onions, please."
Wait staff: "Sounds good." *Looks at me* "And you?
Me: "Actually, I'll have the exact same thing. Wouldn't want to ruin that fierce makeout session we're going to have after lunch with the onions, amiright?"
Female friend: "I'm sure the two priests sitting directly behind you and staring totally agree..."
<fin.>

3. When you feel something fall onto your back from the ceiling, it's probably the most prudent course of action to NOT assume it's a giant, disgusting bug falling on you, and more accurately assume it's only a rubber band shot at you by a well-meaning coworker... thus preventing squealing, awkward flailing, and the shedding of cardigans in the middle of your office.

4. If your colleague is standing with her back to you in the doorway of a cubical, it's advisable NOT to wind up and slap her on the ass, because inevitably  she will squeal, turn around and say, "Have you met our newest intern? I was just going over some HR policies with her..."


You're welcome.

Running

I was a girl who dreaded that day of reckoning in elementary school. The day that neither the promise of pride, nor the threat of inevitable shame could get my otherwise highly competitive drive going. The day? MILE DAY. That's right, friends. Even as an otherwise active and energetic child, I couldn't get my little bird legs to round that dirt path enough times to finish a mile. Oh, the shame I must have brought on my athlete of a father. He was a collegiate swimmer for a major university (and a hell of a good one, I've come to understand), he was a coach for young swimmers, he was an annual runner of the Tulsa Run (a 15K), a finisher of half marathons, a regular on softball leagues, and he worked at a university recreation facility, y'all. The SHAME of my incapable little bird legs...

But like the wonderful father he was, he only encouraged me. And as I grew up, I found great satisfaction in being good at many other non-sporty things. He was there, cheering me on at concerts, contests, recitals, major exams, student council elections, all of it. Never once did he make me feel bad for not pursuing athletics.

Somewhere in my early twenties, though, I got the itch to run. So I did. Sort of. I ran around my neighborhood for a few blocks, then walked a few blocks, then ran a few more. Then the stretches of running got longer... and longer... and longer. Until one day I realized that I? I RAN A MILE. WITHOUT STOPPING. It was an epiphany moment for me. In almost every part of my life where I excelled, I started out as at least marginally decent for a beginner. But this? I was terrible when I began.  Perhaps only marginally better than Phoebe from "Friends"... but slower.

But I kept working at it until I got better. And stronger. And more confident.

Guess who was cheering me on the whole way... That's right. My dad. For that reason, I decided to run the Tulsa Run as an homage to him in 2006. It was the first time I ever trained for anything of that athletic magnitude. He was there throughout the training, offering advice, tricks, tips, and encouragement. And obviously, his number was the first one I dialed after I finished those 9.3 miles and crossed the finish line.

Never, ever will I forget the sound of his voice. He sounded so proud as we talked through the course, my pace, the hards parts, and the fun parts.

From then on, I was hooked. I've run a handful of 5Ks, two 10 miles and two half marathons since then. It's allowed me to find a power in my body I never knew existed. It makes me feel strong. Strong! That's an adjective I never thought I'd use to describe myself in a physical sense. It's completely changed how I think of my little bird legs, too. Because, hey. If they can carry me through all these hundreds of training miles, then they deserve my admiration, not my derision.

It's been a fanciful wish of mine since the Tulsa Run six years ago that my dad and I could run a race together. It never seemed realistic, though, because we live in different states, and more importantly, because he's had some issues with his back and knees for several years. However, with some training and PT and determination, he's come a long way in regaining some strength... so I went out on a limb and asked him to join me in a 10-week training that will lead up to a 10 mile run in the Twin Cities on April 14.

And he said yes.

This time we get to cheer on each other.

A Thousand Words: #2

It's been a weekend filled with chores, errands, a belated Valentine's Day dinner and a much-needed night in with friends wherein I laughed so hard I thought I might tinkle. Life is good, my friends.

I did a bit more practicing with my beloved camera today - curtains drawn, natural light streaming from all sides of the house. Here are a few quiet moments I snapped today. Peace.

A Thousand Words

Once upon a time, I was a musician. A clarinetist, if one needs to put that fine of a point on it. It was, among many wonderful things, a creative outlet for me. After college graduation, though, I found myself in need of a new way to be creative; a way to be moved, a way to share a view not otherwise articulated in daily life.

And so it began with an old Pentax Spot-o-matic  film camera The Count's father gave me. I knew nothing, NOTHING about taking photos, so I just started doing it. If it looked good through the viewfinder, then that's what I shot. And in those first few years, I actually managed to take a few pictures I'm still proud of today (newsflash: I don't mind taking credit for dumb luck). Fast forward a few more years, and I acquired a DSLR camera (a Nikon D300, if you're wondering), a few lenses, and a little bit more knowledge about photography.

While I still know Not A Whole Heck Of A Lot about it (I'm only up one community education class and lots more trial and error), I love and enjoy taking pictures. So I figured I might start a semi-regular addition to my little corner of the interwebs and show you a few photos I took that week. Sound good? Good. If not, avert your eyes now.

And next time? I promise not to navel-gaze so much in the preceding post - just pictures... and short captions, if the spirit moves me (sue me, I'm a writer by trade).

Morning frost in our backyard

I hope the neighbors didn't think I was a stalker when I was standing in their front yard. But look! Berries and frost! It was too pretty to pass up.

Downtown Minneapolis, practicing with my new (to me) fisheye lens.

Red door on a vacant building, fisheye style.

The entire side of this building in downtown Mpls is painted to look like sheet music. Also? I think graffiti is kind of lovely.

Misadventure at the Gym

So, you remember that time I talked about my propensity for sweating when I work out? And how unfair it is that these little princesses trot along on the treadmill next to me looking all dewy and fresh, while I'm all OMG COULD YOU PLEASE TURN DOWN THE HEAT I THINK I'M GOING TO DEHYDRATE OVER HERE!?!?! Yeah. That. Turns out I've found (yet) another way this gene lottery dud isn't serving me well in public spaces.

See, I'm making good on a promise I made to my pants to make them work a little less hard around the waist this winter. (You see how I DIDN'T call that a New Year's Resolution? Makes it much less difficult to disappoint myself. Semantics, for the win!) As a result of said promise, I've been lugging my tired rear to the gym to log miles on the treadmill and in spin class. Last night was no different as I situated myself of a treadmill for a little half hour run. About 15 minutes into it, a gal claimed the machine next to me, wearing a thick hoodie sweatshirt, yoga pants and a baseball cap. I note her attire for two reasons. First, how can people wear pants and long sleeves when they work out? I realize it's about -20 degrees outside, but my gym sufficiently makes up for the freezing outdoor temps by cranking the heat, putting the cardio room on the second floor and never EVER taking into consideration the copious amount of body heat that is produced when 50 people are engaging in aerobic activity simultaneously. Second, though Girlfriend didn't look all that sweaty, I could only actually see her face and hands, so it was a little difficult to tell.

I, on the other hand, was quite visibly drowning in the puddle of sweat in my moisture-wicking (*snort*) shorts and shirt as she pranced along next to me. And then I noticed it. There was a smell coming from her that was a mixture of sour feet and mold. And it wasn't the kind of odor that lightly taps you on the shoulder then drifts away. No, sir. This was punch-you-in-face-and-laugh-while-you-squirm kind of stink. How does this have to do with my sweat, you wonder? Because Hard Core Runner Dude on my other side (only vaguely perspiring through his sprints. WTH, Mother Nature?) kept giving ME dirty looks through the rest of my run, as though I was the source of the offense. To be fair, I can't blame him. I'm a hot mess by mile 1.5, while Stanky McToejam over there was a veritable Summer's Eve commercial, looking all "tra-la-la I'm as fresh as the morning breeze" while I'm actually gagging through my final mile.

I can only assume the playground rules of "(s)he who smelt it, dealt it" apply at the gym, so I think I deserve the calorie burn for an extra mile for not ratting her out to Hard Core Runner Dude. Consider it a deposit in the karma bank, Ms. McToejam.