Monday, July 30, 2012

Already slipping

Yikes. I'm already falling behind. First of all, I'd like to point out I worked my arms on the elliptical yesterday and I've been wondering all day what's wrong with my forearms because they are sore and stiff and...oh yeah...I worked my arms on the elliptical yesterday. I should get a picture of myself when I work my arms because I look like a total jackass.

fat gal in a little car
Second, no activity today. Groom and I ran a bunch of errands, including test driving a few cars. I'm leaning toward a Fiat because it is both affordable and super stinkin' cute (seriously, watch the commercial I just linked). It drove pretty well, especially when I put it into "sport" mode--why anyone wouldn't put it into sport mode is beyond me, but whatever.

But here's a wrinkle. Groom processes things differently than I do. He takes everything into consideration and picks his best option. I, on the other hand, rule things out quickly and look at what I have remaining. I bring this up because he insisted...well, that's too strong a word...he encouraged me to take a VW Jetta Sportwagon TDI for a spin so I could be certain I would be making the most informed choice. I had already ruled out the Jetta as "beyond our price range," since we have no cash flow, what with the kitchen remodel (oh my god when did I turn into this person?!).

Anyhoo, I am currently pissed at Groom because he has taken an item I had initially ruled out and he has brought it back into the running. I would have been happy with a nice affordable Fiat but nooooo. He shows me the sirloin when I would have taken chuck and now I want that damn sirloin. Well, I really want filet, but let's be reasonable.

I keep thinking about it. I want that VW. It's a comfortable ride. It has room for dog and skis. It has leather seats. And it has a sun roof that runs stem to stern. And the steering wheel? Meow. (I've always had a steering wheel fetish. I know it's weird. When I was in college, a friend observed that I "hate everything." My response was, "I love my steering wheel." I was driving a Mercury Lynx at the time. So...yes... clearly I do love steering wheels if that thing got me hot.)

Then I started thinking, do I really want a Fiat? Do I want to be a fat gal in a little car? And, now we are back to the blog....

I did not get any activity today, unless you count walking around car lots as an activity. As we were crossing Tukey's Bridge, I suggested we walk the Back Cove, but that wasn't going to happen. I was in sandals, after all. Then I suggested we take up a physical activity together as a couple, wouldn't that be fun? Like jogging...but...not...jogging.

Groom suggested salmon fishing. 

We've settled on kayaking for now and possibly bicycling later. But, I mused that we should train for the Tough Mountain Challenge, which, he reminded me, he can't do with his bum leg. So, I don't know. Do you think a goal would help? I have never been goal oriented. Deadline oriented, yes. Goal oriented, no. I just know I am one bump away from falling off the "get in shape" wagon here.

wrong
Let's talk about my food failure. Groom and I were completely lame with food today. Breakfast was toast made from unsliced bread baked at Hungry Hollow in West Paris (local). I ate mine with Skippy peanut butter while he ate his with some sort of raspberry jam. I do want to point out, while I'm all pissed at Groom for making me test drive a car I can barely afford, he always buys chunky peanut butter because he knows l like it even though he hates it. Conversely, I always buy smooth peanut butter (ew) because I know he likes it. It's our own personal Gift of the Magi.

Lame breakfast was followed by lame lunch at Thai Garden in Freeport (meh, but local), and then dinner at home. I made pasta with frozen peas and--oh my god I can't believe I'm admitting it--garlic bread by Pepperidge Farms. We also had lettuce that I bought at Shaw's (ugh), but at least it was accompanied by a farmstand cucumber. Jesus. So wrong. Wait. We added sausage from Mailhot Sausage in Lewiston. Do I get a pass?

Tomorrow morning, I swear I'm getting on the elliptical. I swear it. I would have done it tonight, but we didn't get home until about 7:30 and, come on. That's totally martini hour.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Two steps forward

Last week, while I was limping around on my bad foot, a friend who drove up to see me, pointed to my Ace bandage and said, "Are you on another exercise kick? Don't you know you're supposed to start slow, Devlin?!"

Oh my god, are you kidding me?? I was taking it slow and, now, after taking two weeks off, I've had to start over completely. All right, I have to be honest and this is killing me, but you know what? I really have been taking it slow. Really slow. Ridiculously slow. I've been takin' it easy like Donna M. I was on the elliptical Friday and Saturday for an overall whopping time of 30 minutes. Total. That's 15 minutes a day. I feel like an old Dodge Dart that's been sitting in the backyard collecting bees (thanks Louis CK).

I was chatting with another friend about my ankle (I really am a bore sometimes), basically lamenting the fact that I didn't go to a doctor when I initially injured it about eight years ago. This friend has broken pretty much every bone in her body and has gone through countless hours of physical therapy, so I trust her opinion. She has also spent the past year visiting with a personal trainer to get herself back into shape and she looks great. She talks about how she hasn't lost weight, but that's not how I calculate that stuff. I've mentioned her before in this blog, but I want to say it again because it's inspirational, even though I really hate that word. She is thinner; she is stronger; and she is holding herself more solidly. That's enough for me.

Anyway, she said, "If you had gone to the doctor, you would have gotten an air cast, but that would have nothing to do with how you're feeling now. The doctor would have prescribed hours of physical therapy and that's what makes the difference. Would you have gone to PT or would you have blown it off?"

"...blown it off..."

"That's your answer. Stop bitching about it."

I love her like a sister.

Speaking of Louis CK, my friend Hugh, who is a doctor, reminded me of this bit about being over 40 this past weekend; I hadn't even told him about my painful ankle because I was boring even myself with it. In short, for the rest of my life, I can't get above 15 miles an hour before shit starts cracking and falling off and there's nothing I can do about it. Perfect.

a-howww-ow-ow-ow
I promise I'll just keep going. Just keep swimming. Even when it's demoralizing. In fact, I was working my IT band last night and I heard myself going, "Oh...ow...okay...yup...[groan]...that's the spot...riiiiiight....oof....there....[huff huff huff]..." I wonder how many times I've done that in public. I think I've been doing that for years. I want to crawl under a rock. But, in all fairness, that maneuver where you put the foam roller near your crotch and creep forward is pretty sexual. And, whatever. Now you can go to the gym and stretch on those mats that nobody seems to use and you will know, for a fact, that you are not the grossest thing to hit the room. I am.

If I can keep doing this, anyone can. Get an injury, take some time, then get back on the machine. Get another injury, take more time, get back on the machine.

Two steps forward. Two steps back. Two steps forward. One step back. Two steps forward.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Mow Mow Mow

One of the things I handle in the summer, and this is fairly recent--like, since Groom broke his leg a year ago--is mowing the lawn. In fact, I've used it as my form of activity this summer.

I think Groom and I are having a bit of a struggle over it. I consider it my job; he considers it his job. Whichever way you look at it, the lawn needs to be mowed. Groom works two hours away, and since I'm the one who lives here full time, I consider it to be my job. So...suck it, Groom.

But, here's the kicker: The mower is out of gas. It's just sitting in the middle of the lawn like some weird lawn ornament. Maine's version of the yard globe or tire painted white and filled with flowers. (Now that I think of it, we have a couple of boats that fill that role.)

I actually considered walking to the Center Store with the gas can. I'm at the point where I'm like, you know what? Screw it. I'm walking down there. This needs to happen and nobody else is taking care of it.

And then I remember my mom.

My mom was pretty sick when I was young. I was probably about 8 or 10 years old, which would have made her 36 or 38 years old--certainly younger than I am now--when she was stranded at the house. In fact, she was stranded at the house a lot and she hated it. As a child, I thought she was crazy. As an adult, I recognize it for what it is. She had no control over her comings and goings because she was deemed "unfit to drive." I put that in quotation marks, but I can assure you, she was truly unfit to drive. But, stranded? That pisses me off.

She used to try to cook dinner for us--there were five of us kids--with what she had in the pantry and fridge so at one point it was (and I'm not making this up) old hot dogs and ZaRex, and not much ZaRex at that. She had nothing else. Admittedly, to this day, I love the taste of caramelized meat, but is that really the point?

Groom is fantastic about taking me where I need to go when he is here. I know he would take care of me if I came home diagnosed with a terminal illness. But my mom? I have no idea what she went through. I just know I have her genes and I know I'm restless as a feral cat in this house and I see that the lawn needs to be mowed and I feel like I should walk to the store with the gas can and fill up the mower.

I'm just glad I don't have a 10-year-old kid judging me right now.

From the elliptical to eugenics

Yesterday, I received the following advice in a private message: "JEEZUS! Lighten up." The writer had read my post and contends that people need people around them in order to thrive; he even used solitary confinement, or a night in the box, as the ultimate example of the ultimate punishment. I agree with him, but I want to point out I am married to a man who, until just a few years ago, would hitch an RV to his truck and drive to Montana for four months at a time. Alone. He also happily spends 12-14 hours alone in his boat. My perspective is a little skewed, I'll admit. So, read yesterday's post with a grain of salt. But not too much salt 'cuz it's bad for you.

Things are settling. I hopped on the elliptical last night for 20 minutes--it was painful. I really am starting all over again. I iced my ankle during dinner (which was all local and/or traceable yumminess) and I wrapped my leg before bed. It feels okay today, so I'll get on the elliptical again this afternoon.

Oh! Groom and I invented the strangest yet most delicious thing last night! Stay with me here. I mixed cucumber, corn scraped from grilled cobs, avocado, and feta, with a little olive oil and balsamic. It looks disgusting--I regret not taking a picture--but it is so effing good. Mix in some grilled chicken that has been marinated in olive oil, basil, lemon juice, garlic, a squirt of brown mustard, and a dite of maple syrup with a little salt and pepper and you are in business. Holy crap. Good stuff.

This morning, I stuck with oatmeal flavored with maple syrup from a friend's taps and I totally splurged on a grilled cheese for second breakfast. (What.) The bread...not local...the cheese from Pineland Farms, which is kind of a cheat because Pineland Farms cheese feels very corporate to me, but whatever. And, I don't know. There's something strange about that place.

It could be bad juju from the whole Malaga Island thing. (You can find plenty of material on Malaga Island. Here's a link that will take you to a recent article in Portland Press Herald about the Malaga exhibit in Augusta. Take a look at those and then we can continue.)

Oh, all right. To save you some time: In 1912, the town of Phippsburg evicted all residents of Malaga Island. About a fifth of the residents were transported to the School of the Feebleminded (now Pineland Farms) while the others tried to find refuge and a place to settle. Unfortunately, saying you were from Malaga Island meant you were crazy so nobody wanted anything to do with you. Furthermore, the town then exhumed all bodies from the Malaga cemeteries and moved them to Pineland Farms as well. And then they burned Malaga to the ground. This was a mixed race island fishing community, so it could have been fear or the rise of eugenics or stupidity or racism that compelled the town to do this. In short, it's a very black mark on Maine's timeline.

I walked around Malaga Island with my friend Tanya a few years ago. It's a small island and there isn't much there: evidence of a few wells, some shells that indicate people fished there, but that's about it. There are these weird tar-looking pits, which gave me the heebie-jeebies at first but upon further inspection, I recognized them from other boggy spots along the shore, so it wasn't, like, some cursed land or anything. Still creepy though.

And, for the record, the theory of eugenics scares the shit out of me. I linked a short documentary above, but I'm linking it here again to make sure you see it (try to ignore the graphic that looks like a giant sperm at about 8:34 in the video). And do you know what scares me even more? People like Glenn Beck are saying Planned Parenthood and pre-natal testing will take us down the road to eugenics, and no I won't link that. You can do your own homework on that one, but if you stick around to the end of the documentary I posted above, you get a hint of that argument, albeit via stem cell research, which I can sort of understand even if I don't agree.

All right. Off my soapbox. Onto the elliptical.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Starting over

from this
How do I explain myself? I went from eating fresh fruits and greens and getting exercise every day to sitting on my ass doing nothing. My entire experiment in this blog fell apart completely when I found myself eating two hot dogs, a bunch of fries, and multiple cups of Bud (heavy) at the Sea Dogs game the other night. I've hit rock bottom.

I woke up this morning with a new conviction. Maybe it's the weather--I'm more of a gray day kinda gal--or maybe it's because my ankle feels better or maybe I'm just horrified by my own disgustingness.
from this

I should explain that, while my ankle was healing, I figured I didn't need to update this blog. I'm not keeping a blog to keep a journal of my general comings and goings. But, perhaps I should. I mean, I fell off the wagon hard, mostly because I wasn't holding myself accountable.

Here's what happened during my little intermission. My ankle hurt pretty badly, and I know I said I would go to the doctor, but I don't have $500 for a visit and an x-ray, and physical therapy at a hundred bucks (or more) a pop would kill me. I rested. I iced. I compressed. I elevated. I think we're good now.
to this

The other thing that happened is my car died for good and all our money is wrapped up in the kitchen remodel as I've already mentioned a bunch of times (oh whoa is me...I know). Even if it fit in our summer budget for me to join a gym, I can't get there. I'm rattling around this house, working at my computer by day, watching movies at night. I realize, when the zombie apocalypse occurs, I will not survive the boredom. I'm not like the omega man in I Am Legend (the book, not the movie) who worked out during the day to keep himself in shape--he did also drink copious amounts of whiskey, so I might be a little like him. It seems to me, however, when the zombies take over, only the super smart and the super athletic will survive. The smart guys will create bunkers and serums and antidotes and whatnot while the athletic will...well...be athletic. I am neither super smart nor am I even slightly athletic, as though you haven't noticed already.
to this

RICE
Without getting any exercise whatsoever, I already feel things softening up and I feel shitty. My back hurts; I groan when I get out of bed; I can't stand for long periods of time; and my face is covered in acne. So let's recap, shall we? I am fat, lazy, unhealthy, and my face is covered in zits. The daily activity is working for me. It really is. I need to get back at it.

Here's another thing that happened and why I fell off track: When I spend a little bit of time alone, I feel rejuvenated. When I spend a lot of time alone, I go dark. I don't mean I get all depressed and angry. Well, I suppose I do to a certain extent, but I mean my brain goes dark. I have trouble writing and I have trouble thinking and I have trouble motivating. I need noise and people to have a successful day. I have friends (thank you Liana and Caroline and Tanya and Chicky and Amy) who have driven here to pick me up for adventures or have come to visit, and Groom lets me borrow his truck when he can, but otherwise, here I sit.

When I was in my early 30s, I had a few epiphanies about what kind of person I am. First of all, I realized I was a total bitch and I'm still reeling from the repercussions of my younger-self behavior, but we don't need to get into that.

Second, I was in Amsterdam on business and this sweet Dutch man sat next to me at one of the dinners. He was slightly overweight--in America he'd be considered average...god I sound like such a euroweenie but it's mostly true--and he said to me, "I am...uh...like you? I...struggle wit za weight..." I was like, "Whoa." I had never struggled with my weight. What did I look like?

Third, I was traveling alone in Italy--also for work--and I didn't (still don't) speak Italian. I had no car and I would spend my day working alone in my room before venturing into the evening air for dinner in the village. This was when the Internet was still in its infant stages, so I couldn't just get on my iPhone and click around and it was a hassle to check email. In Amsterdam, I could visit any number of Internet cafes--they were far more prevalent there than in, say, Maine. But in Italy, I was holed up in a hotel in Santa Margherita Ligure along the Italian Riviera. There were no Internet cafes. I would wander the village and listen to people speaking a language I didn't understand. I hopped the ferry over to Portafino and wandered about over there for a day but, again, I had nobody to talk to. I walked for miles and miles by myself.

Each day, I would go into town even though I couldn't talk to anyone, and I would sit at an outdoor cafe and listen to people chatting because I desperately needed that stimulus. But I was so freaking lonely. It got to the point where I didn't want to be around people anymore because it made me anxious and tired and sad. The feeling hit me sooner than it would have hit me if I had been in an English-speaking country, but I recognized the sensation. That's what comes out after a week of being alone. I realized then that I need to interact with people or I start to shut down.

Side story: I was sitting alone at one of the sidewalk cafes enjoying the morning with an espresso and a chocolate pastry when a man sat down at my table. Normally, I would given that person a bargoyle face--you know the face. The "I'm sitting here at the bar reading my book and I don't want any nonsense from you so take your smiling mug away from me before I spew hot fiery lava all over you or worse I shall turn you to stone" face. But, this day, I was happy for the companionship. He invited me to spend the day with him in neighboring Rapallo, which boasted a more lively scene, or so he claimed. I accepted.

It was Italian Job all the way to Rapallo and though I could understand only half of every word my driver spoke, it was nice to have a slight taste of freedom. After a day in what turned out to be another touristy destination with even more people with whom I could not communicate, I was driven back to my hotel where the man asked me to dinner. I politely declined. It's true, I was feeling better than I had in days and I enjoyed some company, but I was exhausted after trying to understand what was happening around me and I didn't think it would be a good idea to join this stranger for dinner (said the girl who had just accepted a ride in a strange car to a strange place in a strange land).

As I ascended the stairs to the Grand Hotel Miramare feeling like a gorgeous American model who had spent the day on a wild international Italian adventure, this man--who had taken pity on me and spent a day showing me his countryside--called out. I turned around and descended the stairs to wave as he pointed to a rather large zit on my cheek and said, "Eeeh...no more chocolate for you, yeah? Iz bad for...ah...complexion."

No car. No company. No stimulus. It all made me go dark. I've crawled out from under the blanket on this rainy day to say hello and to say, yes, I plan to get on the elliptical today.

I plan to start over.



Monday, July 16, 2012

Hero complex

I'm sorry I didn't update yesterday. I wasn't doing anything in particular. I just wanted to spend some time by the window. It was far too hot to move and I fell asleep in the chair like some old lady napping after lunch only to be awakened by a cool breeze. Huzzah. Finally! So, I got up and...continued to do nothing.

Saturday at Funtown Splashtown was nothing as I anticipated because I never made it. On my way to that pee pool park, I got a call. A friend was out in his new boat and the outboard was all aflutter. After pulling over on the side of the highway and making a big frowny face, I turned around, swung into Bamforth Marine, grabbed some supplies, and headed to Popham where they had picked up a mooring. SeaTow was on the scene--when are they not on the scene when someone has boat trouble--and I waited by Fort Popham while they sussed it out.

Friend's outboard fixed, yay! Friend's outboard not fixed, boo! It definitely needed to go back to the shop. For various reasons, I ended up in the boat getting dragged back to Bath where this guy keeps his vessel. That's not really worth talking about--when your new boat runs into trouble, you don't want to talk about it and you don't want other people to talk about it. You just want it fixed, which I suspect is happening right now. And getting towed--even when you're blameless--is worse than any early-morning walk of shame through the dorm.

But, the ride up the river was super interesting. We were moving at a pace only slightly faster than sailing and it made me remember why I love to sail. And it made me remember why I hate to sail. The view is excellent and the sound of water on the hull is soothing, but damn is it slow. Granted, when you're sailing, you're screwing around with lines and perfecting the sail trim (heh-heh I said trim and I can't find the "48 Hours" clip where Eddie Murphy uses that word so perfectly so I'll give you this one instead) and rigging something or tying something or fixing something. When you're getting towed? You just sort of sit there, or if you're the guy who owns the boat, you just sort of sit there and wonder how an outboard with only 35 hours on it could fail. Still, a bad day on a boat is better than a good day at....yadda yadda yadda--click this at your own risk. It goes from awesome to...oh...no... pretty quickly.

Sadly, the only form of exercise this weekend came in the form of swatting greenheads. I did kill about 25 of the little f*ckers, but that doesn't really count for an actual activity. Or does it?

After a couple of days of hot, sweaty, no exercise blah, I've given it some thought, and I should do what normal people do when they want to get some exercise. Ugh. I think I need to join the local gym. I hate going to the gym with the TVs blaring in my face and that guy with the super abs and that woman who seems to know everybody and wants to know who I am and where I live. But I would benefit from a stationary bike while I wait for my ankle to settle down. And, they offer core classes and strengthening classes. Oh my god, I'm having palpitations just thinking about it. I joined the Y when I was living in Portland and liked it; I would visit the gym all the time. But, it was a big Y and I never saw anyone I knew and I didn't have to chat with people. Plus it was easy because I lived within walking distance--yeah, I didn't live in a great part of town.

Not that the Y is generally in a bad part of town. It's just that the Portland Y used to be in what was considered a bad part of town.

So, there we have it. I'm joining the gym if I can work it into our budget. As you may or may not know or may or may not have gleaned from reading this blog, we are remodeling our kitchen, my car has died, and I'm trying to watch my spending. But, I can justify this expense far easier than I can justify spending an evening drinking martinis. It would cost about the same.

If you're not a gym goer, and you're reading this, please wish me luck; I'll keep you posted on all the demoralizing shenanigans. If you are a gym goer, and you're reading this and have been thinking "Why doesn't she just join the gym??" then shut up. Fine. I'm doing it.

faster than a speeding greenhead
It's just that I do prefer sitting quietly in my little Fortress of Solitude and I come out of that experience feeling similar to how I feel after getting some exercise. Sadly, as I sit quietly building my inner strength, my Kryptonite is graphic novels and The Office reruns. I can spend all day in my favorite chair, flipping between Adrian Tomine and Ricky Gervais clips. But, now that I think of it, Kryptonite, as a particle from his home planet, renders Superman human, right? So, if A = B and B = C, then my dorky desire to sit alone with a bunch of weird dorky entertainment just makes me human. That, or it's possible I think I'm Superman. I don't know. Rescuing a friend? Destroying a bunch of enemy greenheads so they cause no harm to others? That sounds sort of hero-ish to me.

I do wish a desire to eat vegetables and run marathons is what made me human, but I guess those desires are what would make me Superman after all. Must rebuild my fortress.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Doing my part

I haven't gotten a lick of activity in these past couple of days. I'm thinking I might have my ankle looked at, but we're getting low in our HSA--that's a Health Savings Account for people who don't have one. I didn't know what an HSA was either until Groom put it together.

But, I might be in this mess because I blew off having a professional look at my ankle when I rolled it in the first place so many years ago, so.... Hunh. If I were listening to me complain about my ankle right now, I'd be annoyed and tell me to just get the stupid thing checked out already.

I've been sticking to my plan to eat locally. I've eaten more lobster in the past few days than I normally eat in an entire summer. As I've mentioned, I'm trying to be frugal because I had that accidental vacation last week, which means no shopping at cute local galleries and no swinging by the farmers market for the most delicious yet most expensive cheese ever.

but the salad was good
lobster was bland
Instead I'm doing my part to get lobster prices back into a reasonable range so the lobstermen can set their traps and make some money--boat prices are ridiculously low. According to my friend Cary from the wonderfully delicious and local Cleonice, soft shell lobsters (aka shedders) are most prevalent right now in her area. Albeit delicious, shedders don't live as long as their hard-shelled brethren so Cary isn't seeing the lower prices yet...I don't know, I think I need an economics lesson to figure it out. In my tiny world, though I prefer the shedders, Groom and I got some the other day for $3.99/lb (much higher than other areas) and they were bland.

Look at me complain about bland lobster. Such a luxury.

red's
Right now, the cost of a lobster roll at Red's Eats, that Gourmet Downeast Yankee Top Ten Food Network tourist destination in Wiscasset that causes all the traffic along Route 1, is $15.95, down from somewhere in the low to mid-$20s last season, so if you're going to get a lobster roll, now's the time. Just make sure you thank all the drivers trying to get across the bridge for stopping. Seriously. Look up and down the road and say "thanks guys!" I dare ya.

Today, I've been roped into going to Funtown Splashtown USA with a friend and her son. I plan to spend most of my time at the objectionably named Funtoberfest Beer Garden because, as we all know, I refuse to get my face wet unless there's soap nearby and I'm getting ready for my day or a night on the town. I don't even own a freaking bathing suit. Please, bitch.

But, I'm psyched to hang out with my friend, so that makes it all much easier to handle. For me, spending time with good friends is as important as getting some exercise. On the plus side, I laugh so hard when I'm around her, the chances of getting a nice core workout are pretty high. And, it's a Saturday in mid-July with temperatures forecast to be the 90s... I'm sure it won't be too crowded. I'll try to keep a brisk, pulse-raising pace as I indulge in some judgmental wandering about the park.

Water parks make me think of a joke I heard recently. A writer and an editor are lost in the dessert. They stumble upon an oasis and crawl eagerly toward the cool, sparkly lake. The writer dunks his head and starts gulping back the refreshing water, reveling in his good fortune, before he notices the editor taking a piss into the water.

"What are you doing?!" the writer shouts.

The editor responds, "Making it better."

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Next

I need to start thinking about my next step. In many ways, I'm pretty happy about thinking about my next step. I'm also worried about it. I'm not very good at sticking with a plan unless I introduce that plan to my life very slowly. As I've mentioned before, Groom and I were married for about a year before I gave up my apartment in Portland, and I still claim to live on the coast when I spend over six months a year in western Maine. So, I need to trick my brain into thinking this is how my life has always been so my inner governor doesn't reject it entirely.

I am definitely stronger than I was six weeks ago, so I do focus on that. The other day, a friend who is completely unaware of this silly narcissistic blog asked me whether I've lost weight--the answer to that, of course, is no, but I appreciate someone noticing a difference regardless.

The truth is, I am holding myself differently and things have changed. Some people might notice, most won't. That's fine. As the youngest of a large family, I'm okay if nobody notices I recently had my haircut or I bought a new sweater or whatever it is I've done to make myself feel better. I've always felt like one instrument in a large orchestra. If a tuba player changes her instrument, the audience member in the balcony isn't going to notice, but overall things sound a little better and the guy playing the piano is noticing. (I'm sorry. For my money, the tuba is the funniest instrument.)

This little life change/life experiment has made a difference for sure. I'm walking taller and when I do walk, I feel my leg muscles engaging. That sounds so stupid, but it's true. I hadn't realized how much I was relying on my poor achy bones and tendons and whatnot to do the work. I feel my thighs and my calves and my ass putting in their fair share now. My ever-suffering skeleton was turning into the hardest working member of the team, picking up all the slack, and my muscles were letting that happen. "No, no, it's fine guys. I can take care of it. What? That popping sound? Oh, it's just the knee. I have another one. It's totally fine. Enjoy the football game. Hey, glutes, can you get you another plate of nachos?"

However, I see old friends participating in road races and I see friends registering for physical competitions like Tough Mountain Challenge and, while I definitely and wholeheartedly applaud them and admire them, I know I can't do that. But then, I never could. So, what's next?

Eating local foods has forced me to think intelligently about what I consume and it forces me to make decisions between what's easy to eat and what's right to eat. Smaller portions overall make sense for someone like me who has a metabolism that has, after a pretty good game, put its feet up and ordered a pizza. I can eat smaller portions for sure and my inner governor won't put up too much of a stink.

Otherwise, I think I need to start thinking about my next step. I'm stronger and I plan to continue on this path, but I think I want more. I have no discipline and I've never been one to work toward a physical goal like "Next year I'm running a marathon!" I just know I won't do that.

So, what's next?

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Big changes and, yes, I'm stalling

I like cilantro. Believe me, I'm just as disappointed as you are. After years of equating the flavor of cilantro to dish detergent mixed with dirt, I suddenly find myself tasting fresh, green yumminess instead. I have no idea how this change came about and, frankly, I'm really unhappy about it. What other things are going to change? What dyed-in-the-wool personality traits are going to shift? Wait. Do you think I might be able to do math in my head now?

Quick: 17+24 =

Nope.

the devil's weed turns out to be delicious
Ah well. Onward. I no longer turn my nose at fresh salsa with bits of that satanic green leaf and I thought the cilantro mayo on my fish sandwich yesterday was a refreshing addition. But, the clincher is: Groom came home with a cilantro chutney from New York-based Hampton Chutney Company and it was so good, I could have eaten it with a spoon.

I knew I'd see physical changes (like the fact that my waist seems to be coming back), but I never thought daily activity would change my very genetic makeup, my DNA. I'm a cilantro lover now. Consider this your warning. Maybe if you take a walk a day, you won't be allergic to shellfish anymore.

Please don't eat shellfish and sue me.

While I'm handing out warnings, I may as well mention something else. Every spring, after I put on my first pair of short pants for the season, I end up with dings and cuts on my legs. I think everyone does, to a certain extent. But this year? My legs, arms, hands, and feet are covered in bruises, scrapes, callouses, and cuts. I'm cut up like a little kid playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery. I know it's probably a result of getting out and doing things, so I sort of like it. However, I had to wear a skirt the other day and my leg has a purple/black bruise the size of a silver dollar with gross peeling skin. I'm proud of that bruise when I'm in my short pants walking the farmers market. Not so proud of that bruise when I'm sipping a cocktail in my Jimmy Choos. (I don't own a pair of Jimmy Choos. I just think the line is funnier and carries more weight if I say that. The truth is, I was standing in my Calvin Kleins, but that connotes jeans, not high peeky-toed heels that make me feel like I am somethin'.)

Be warned: When you get up off the couch, you are far more likely to crack your knee on the coffee table, trip over electrical wiring, stub your toe on the threshold, and bonk your head on the doorjamb.

Let's get back to the food. Last night's dinner was all local. Chicken from Maine-Ly Poultry in Warren, arugula from Goranson Farm in Dresden, a pile of vegetables from Blackie's, and basil from our herb garden. We had local covered in spades.

someone has the right idea
I haven't put in my daily exercise yet; I'm trying to figure out what to do. I see the dog outside rolling around on his back again and I want to do that. My ankle is still giving me a little lip, so I want to stay off of it. I considered getting on the elliptical and standing on one leg while I work my arms, but the temptation to put my foot down will probably overwhelm me.

Come to think of it, I rarely can resist when faced with the temptation to put my foot down.

For dinner tonight, I suppose we'll cook up a bunch of lobsters. I mean, someone has to do their part to drive prices back up. It's so weird the chicken we ate for supper last night was almost four times the current price of lobster. 

I'll let you--all four of you reading this--know tomorrow how I get my exercise in. When you remove walking and running from the equation, it's a bit of a challenge, isn't it? I can't drive to Damariscotta every day to use my sister's kayak. I'll tell you what, the seas were angry yesterday, my friend, and I did get quite a handy arm workout fighting the current and white caps, but it's nearly an hour's drive one way. That's a big chunk of time change right there. I suppose I could rent a kayak here. I rented a standup paddleboard (SUP!) from SeaSpray a couple summers ago. Super nice people.

I'm totally stalling right now. I gotta get out and do something. 

Okay. Here we go. I'm just going to dive right in and do something. This is crazy.

UPDATE: Doh! I stepped outside to scratch D-O-G's belly and remembered something very important. We had piles of old shingles that needed to be loaded, hauled, and dumped. So, that was my activity for the evening. I know it's really obnoxious to consider someone else's paid work to be my exercise. It smacks of patronizing and condescension...with a smack of ham.... But, I can honestly report my respect for people who work with their hands every single day is insurmountable. I have the option to step inside, have some water, complain, have more water, type on my computer, wander back out, complain, make zombie noises, and come back inside when I'm too hot. I'm not on a job deadline; I don't have some crazy homeowner watching my every move and looking at the clock; I'm not reporting to some asshole who criticizes what I'm doing; and I'm not getting paid minimum wage. Moving those shingles is like a hobby, really. (Oh my god that's condescending and obnoxious. I'll put a dollar in the douchebag jar. But, to be fair, I didn't even know how to mow a lawn until I was 35. And I still can't do math in my head.)

I took photos to prove I was out there. I can't walk the wheelbarrow with my flat tire leg, so Groom and I loaded the truck and discarded the shingles that way. While we were at it, I got my heart rate up by working really really fast. 

That's what I'm telling myself anyway. Does this really even count?

These shingles:


And these shingles:


Needed to go in this truck:


Then get unloaded again:



Into this dumpster:


Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Asshole

organic and local, but still iron chefed
Let's talk about the food first, yeah? Last night, groom and I shared some organic wheat and butternut squash ravioli nestled in sage brown butter accompanied by a pile of vegetables roasted in the oven with basil from the garden and topped with a hint of grated parmesan cheese.

Doesn't that sound awesome?

Okay. Now I'm going to write the same thing again without the spin. Last night, I pulled an old container of freezer-burnt solid ravioli left over from this winter, walked down to the weed-infested herb garden to shoo our peeing dog away before cutting some sad basil and weird sage. Groom showed up with a box of vegetables from Blackie's in Auburn, and we played Iron Chef with whatever else we could find, including old and flaky cheese that we both sort of figured had to be parmesan or asiago or romano. It certainly couldn't have been cheddar...could it? Dinner was still good, but that's a far more honest depiction of how the night went.

Just as I suspected, a little bit of TLC with a heck of a lot of martini made my sore ankle right as rain again. By the end of my gin and wine fest, I was walking on my ankle like nobody's business. I asked Groom if he thought it felt better because I was walking it off and stretching it out. He answered me in one word: "Booze."

This morning, he went fishing while I slept off my...um...sore ankle.... By 9:00, however, I was good to go and I walked half a mile for him to pick me up at the old Phippsburg Center where there used to be a bustling shipyard but now it's just a bend in the road with a fantastic view of Squirrel Point Light.

As you can imagine, the old wharf is now a hump of rocks and seaweed. As I scrambled to meet Groom at the water, I pretended I was on a balance board as a way to embrace the "fun" and ignore the "terrifying."

Groom was holding a ladder at the end of the wharf, signaling me to climb down. The ladder was old, rusted, and pulling away from the seaweed-covered balance board rocks. This thing was rickety in 1920. Nope.

Instead of being gracious, I huffed off. What the hell, man?

I had huffed away for about two minutes before I realized, my biggest problem at that moment was that I couldn't comfortably board a boat for a beautiful day on the water.

I'm an asshole.

how can i be grumpy looking at this?
I did get on the boat eventually, but I insisted Groom pick me up at a town landing where the wharf is sound. We took a ride for lunch at Five Islands where I encountered my second inconvenience of the day. I order two grilled haddock sandwiches and they showed up fried. Can you even believe the insanity??

I temporarily forgot my private rule: If you order something one way, but it shows up in a more fattening and therefore more yummy way, you happily enjoy it as a gift of deliciousness. Order a mocha latte with skim milk and it shows up with whipped cream? Hallelujah. Ask for low-fat balsamic dressing and you get blue cheese? Yes please! Request unsweetened iced tea and it arrives like the sweet tea it wants to be? Thanks y'all!

(I have a similar liveable rule about assholes. If you encounter three assholes in a day? That means you're the asshole so change whatever it is you're doing. Sometimes I forget that too.)

So, I tried to put it all into perspective and chalked it up to my own tension that needed to work itself out. I was also grumpy because now my ankle was starting to swell up from my haughty, irrational walk back from the the old wharf and holy hell did it hurt. (And yes I recognize that I was complaining about my mildly swollen ankle to the man who had his leg rebuilt less than a year ago.) In the midst of this, I stressed to Groom that I had a hankering to drive up to my family's summer place in Damariscotta so could we please just go there? I've been itching to go up there for about a week.

Moments later, as we were docking the boat, I remembered that I needed to call my brother because it's his birthday and you know what my brother does on his birthday?

He comes up to Damariscotta with a handful of his fabulous friends. This year, he couldn't come up.

make way for the SS Fatass
I realize my craving for Damariscotta was really a craving to see him. Groom and I drove up to the house and, as he slept off his early morning of fishing, I paddled around the lake in my sister's kayak (thanks May for leaving those about for us to use) for an hour to get my "no ankles required" daily activity in. It was windy as frig out there and I had no rudder. At one point, I was like, "Okay. Use your core, swivel with the hips. Ferry ferry ferry....annnd...where's the nearest lee so I can turn the F around."
p & me dancing like white people at my wedding

I would like to point out, my brother who is celebrating his birthday today is the same brother who likes to remind me, when I complain about being stuck at home because my car broke down, "Are you talking about your four-bedroom home on the water with the big field? Is that where you're stuck because your Mercedes broke down?"

Happy birthday, Paully. I won't mention the poorly placed electrical outlet in your penthouse condo overlooking the CN Tower in Toronto, nor will I mention how you had to wait forever for a BMW so you got an Audi instead.

Oops. I just did.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Roll roll roll

I rolled my ankle about...I don't know...six or seven years ago. I was out for an easy two-mile run while staying with Groom's parents, no hills, beautiful early morning. I was cruising along the side of the road and I was feeling gooooooood. It was the final stretch of my run, I wasn't feeling tired, I had just run along the ocean, the breeze was kicking up, and I was cocky.

I was jumping from pavement to grass, grass to pavement, pavement to grass, grass to POP! Down on the ground, in the road. I hopped back up and leaned on a telephone pole...

Side note: How long before telephone poles and electrical wiring between houses become obsolete? Will photos from the late 20th century and early 21st century be easily dated because of the visible wires? Have you ever really looked up and noticed how many wires we have over our heads all the time?

...leaned on a telephone pole and did what anyone does in that situation. I breathed in. I breathed out. And I made that noise...ssssshhhhhhhhhhssssssshhhhhhh......aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh......

A really nice young couple in a minivan pulled over and offered me a ride back to Groom's parents' house. I have to mention, Groom's parents live in the most beautiful old house in the middle of a golf course. To get to their house, you drive down a short road, cross the golf course on a dirt road, and enter their compound, if you will, through a canopy of trees. When the man driving the minivan slowed down as we approached the dirt road I said, through tears of pain, "Keep going. It's just at the end of this dirt road. Look out for golfers. They tee off to your right."

The couple glanced at each other and, honestly, I actually felt their enthusiasm. They slowly pulled into the driveway and slooooooooowly turned around to leave, the whole time taking in my mother-in-law's garden, the construction over the garage (my in-laws treat their house like the Winchester House, constant construction), the yard around the house, the pool house, the pool, the landscaping.... I was no longer any concern for this couple. I don't mind. I'd want to know what the house behind the trees looked like too.

Anyway, my ankle swelled and my foot turned black and purple. I couldn't walk on it for a long time. And, I didn't have health insurance, so I never had anyone with any training look at it. I just wrapped it in an ace bandage and borrowed a pair of crutches.

Every now and then, because I'm old and out of shape, that ankle gets a little irritated with me, but it's usually fine. Last night, however, after my adventures at Spirit Pond, I discovered I couldn't put any weight on my toes on my right foot and the little bit of foot in front of my ankle was a bit swollen.

shingles are the new brick
This morning, I walked to the store for my coffee, and I thought everything was fine, but I realize now, I need to ice it. My plans to hike Morse Mountain will have to take a back seat. The lawn will not be mowed. And the shingles currently getting thrown on a tarp to be carried via wheelbarrow to the dumpster will have to wait.

Here's the thing: I feel no pain if I walk on my toes, as though I were in heels, but flat footed? Holy aunt jemima! My sneakers mitigate the pain somewhat but I'm still limping. So today I'm in sneakers (pretty!) and my evening will include the comfy chair by the window, ice from my martini, an Ace bandage, and a hassock for my foot.

I am the worst person when it comes to pain while Saint Groom is completely stoic about everything. He still limps after shattering the lower half of his leg last year and I have the balls to go up to him and ask if he can see any swelling on my foot cuz it hurts....waaahh.....

I'm a sun shower in New England to his Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans.

Not that it will stop me.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Never on Sundays

I've established pretty well that I live and work at a ski resort in the winters. And, in the winter, I have one rule--well, it's more of a guideline, really--and that is, never ski on weekends during peak season. It's so busy on the hill and most of the people are weekend warriors trying to get as much as they can out of their two days of freedom. As such, they ski too hard; they push too hard; they drink too hard. And there are waaaaay too many of them. It's akin to going out for a casual drink on St. Patrick's Day or New Year's Eve.

sshhhh...don't tell anyone
My friend T and I tried to "grab a quick bite" in the South End after crashing a Richard Nash talk at the Park Plaza a few months ago. On this particular night, it was Cinco de Mayo; the Kentucky Derby; and it was the Saturday before the full moon. We never even had a chance. Skiing on the weekends is a lot like that.

the secret is out
So, I don't know why it surprised me to see so much traffic on the Sunday of July 4th weekend at one of the most beautiful spots along the midcoast (yea, I'm happy to debate that with you). When I arrived at the "super secret" Bates-Morse Mountain trail that takes you to the most spectacular beach ever, there was traffic leading up to the parking lot and the parking lot was full. Duh.

I'll admit, when I saw the parking attendant talking to the people in the red pickup truck, I said out loud, alone in my car, "Sorry folks. Park's closed. The moose out front shoulda told ya."

Not to be deterred, I forged ahead with a Plan B.

I drove over to the Spirit Pond Preserve for a walk into a nice little quiet area. I made the right call. I didn't see a single soul.

It was so quiet, in fact, I started to worry when I noticed my phone had no reception. Then I started imagining what the voice-over for the dramatic reenactment might be when they aired my disappearance during the Missing Persons segment of America's Most Wanted. They'd interview the parking attendant at the Morse lot. ("I guess I saw her around noon? The lot was full and she said she would just come back later. She seemed pleasant enough. In fact, she really sticks out in my mind because she seemed so interesting to me.")

(Shut up. It's my fantasy.)

They'd show grainy footage of some actress, most likely someone who looks like Kirstie Alley but with worse hair, getting out of a nondescript car at the Spirit Pond Preserve. The camera would shoot her from behind as she walked into the dark woods, never to be seen or heard from again. As old photos of me looking drunk, awkward, and clumsy scroll across the screen, the narrator would speculate: drowning, head injury from a falling limb, or a simple case of getting lost. But the most likely scenario? Kidnapping. Back to the reenactment as the producers show grainy footage of a large boot disturbing the water in a deep muddy puddle. Who is that? What happened to her? If you have any information, please call.... [Wow this paragraph needs an edit.]

left
Then I really did get lost. I came to a fork in the road, so I took it. (Heh. Thanks Yogi Berra.) Nah, I'm kidding. I went left. My sister always used to say, "When in doubt go left." She was talking politics, but it's fine advice anyway. My grandmother, on the other hand, always refused to turn left in her car. She said it was because her steering wheel was broken, but I think it's more likely she didn't want to cross oncoming traffic.

It occurred to me, as I turned left again, that I might have to emulate my grandmother and start veering a bit to the right if I wanted to get to my final destination, a sweet little dam on a little pond. This got me musing about politics and how, sometimes you have to veer slightly in the opposite direction to get to your final destination or you might just end up walking in circles. In my case in politics and now in real life, it meant walking a little to my right while mentally reviewing the "what to do when you get lost in the woods" list. Find shelter, stay where you are, build a fire, turn on MSNBC...wait. Is that right? 

I just found a cool reference for Spirit Pond related to a rune stone, discovered in 1971 and allegedly to be from the 14th century. Hoax or not, I love that there's a slight chance we have evidence in Phippsburg--the site of the first English settlement in 1607, albeit for only one year so the town gets no credit--saw Norse settlements or even campsites before Columbus got here. Even more interesting, it looks like this guy Walter Elliott found what might be a handheld map of stone. Or, for my young readers, like the beta version of a GPS in your iPhone.

All of this weird history would explain why I got the willies while I was hiking around shouting "JOSH!" (That might be too esoteric a reference, so I linked to what happens to be a perfect YouTube clip. I saw this movie with my sister Libby who punched my arm and cursed me the entire time. And, while lost in the Poconos with some friends several years ago, we yelled Josh! Josh! Still makes me laugh to think about it.)

I'm getting away from myself. Clearly, I made it out of Spirit Pond alive.

I was gone a whopping 30 minutes.

I needed more.

I forged ahead with a Plan C.
warning! too many people!

I decided I would drive to Fort Popham, walk the short beach, grab a fried dough at Percy's for me and for Groom who has been sitting under a pile of work all day, and mow the lawn.

But, after the terror of Spirit Pond (I haven't even mentioned the bugs), I had forgotten the entire Popham peninsula is currently overrun with newbies and tourists, like it's amateur hour at the Bijou, as my dad used to say.

this is the view from Percy's
Couldn't find a place to park at the fort, parked in the Percy's store lot instead, which meant I had to forgo my walk. Stood in line while the cashier very professionally practiced his patience with a customer who didn't quite understand the mechanics of ordering a sandwich. Finally got to the front of the line and was informed they were out of fried dough. Hopped back in the car, drove home, and Groom was mowing the lawn.

I plan to try this all again tomorrow. And, for the record, today's adventure never would have happened if I weren't holding myself accountable by writing this blog. Before getting outside today, I was perfectly content to lie on my belly in the upstairs hallway reading R. Crumb's graphic depiction of the Book of Genesis, which is exactly what I was doing. Because. I. Am. A. Big. Dork.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Benedicta tu

oh, he loves it
I was pretty certain I wouldn't be able to work any activity into my day today, but it turns out I was a little bit wrong. Groom and I got up super early this morning to attend a funeral for a friend's mom, so I assumed I would have no time to do anything but sit in a car, get dressed on the side of the road, kneel in a church, and sit in a car again.

Before I start down my snarky and flippant road, I want to mention the funeral was lovely and the woman who was buried today was unequivocally loved and respected within her community and amongst her family. She was 86 years old and there were more people at today's reception than I have seen at some weddings. It was a touching interment. The priest was engaging, warm, funny, and he really made me rethink my whole "I don't go to church" business. And then I remembered I don't actually believe in all that. I used to consider myself an agnostic, but that feels like such a cop-out to me. I mean, come on. Pick a lane. But then, I do believe there's something, I suppose....

Oi. Enough of that.

It was a Catholic mass and I haven't been to a Catholic mass in...I don't know how long...so as a former altar boy and a former Catholic school girl, we spent a good portion of our car ride refreshing our "genuflect, cross, kneel, sit, stand, kneel, kneel, kneel, shake hands, kneel" rituals. I generally get stumped by the "think no evil, speak no evil, feel no evil" gesture, or for you more formal types, the "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed" communion apologetic.

And, by the way, I wasn't raised to clasp hands or hold my arms up during the Lord's Prayer, but I guess we're doing that now?

*Aside: Haha! Click the Catholic school link I posted above. Look how close my high school was to the water. I honestly did not know I grew up so close to the water!*

In the church, it was coming back to me pretty quickly. I have a lot of muscle memory in regard to the rituals of a Catholic mass. (Groom's muscle memory included stashing a few dollars in his pocket for the collection plate. I was impressed.) As we approached the "peace be with you" portion of the hour, I started to get panicky without remembering exactly why. I've gotten panicky about this since I was a kid. But, when I was a kid, I would simply vomit. These days, apparently, I get hot flashes, because oh my word did I start to burn up.

My dad was really good at "peace," but I don't know whether he particularly enjoyed it. I would watch him shake hands up and down the pew before moving his gaze farther afield to take in the parishioners he couldn't physically reach. He'd smile and whisper a "hi, howareya" or "peace" toward the Mrs. Busybodies of the church who barely held their contempt for him--mostly because they were church ladies and church ladies barely hold their contempt for anyone. I always detected his tense jaw and his clenched teeth, but his eyes were all twinkly and crinkly. Years later, Death Cab for Cutie would come up with a lyric that pretty accurately describes what I witnessed: "...holds a smile/ like someone would hold/ a crying child..."

Today, as the words "I leave you peace, my peace I give you" rained down from the altar, I noticed some people were glancing around to assess with whom they might have to shake hands or, worse, embrace. I recognized the signs of anxiety and started glancing askance (asglancing?) myself.

When the priest who made me think for a moment that I might want to start attending church again said, "May the peace of the lord be with you always," everyone got into their hug/kiss stances. I stiffened.

Then every single person around me, including my own husband, turned away and greeted the people on their opposite sides. I stood there in my little private cone of solitude. Awkward.

At the very end, at the time when my dad would have been hissing his peaces at the church ladies, a little elderly woman two pews ahead of us turned around and flashed me a '60s peace sign with the first two fingers on her right hand.

It was, without a doubt, one of the best moments of my year. (It's rude of me to have that sentiment at a funeral. But, I promised I would be honest in this blog.)

Ay-yai-yai, I meant to talk about my activity today. It isn't much, but you know what makes for a great core workout? Repentant kneeling aka humble kneeling aka competitive kneeling. As a kid, I treated kneeling like a game. It was a point of pride for me that I never had to lean back on my pew to hold my weight during the lengthy post-communion rituals. Today? Holy Hannah. Ouchie...ouchie...is this communion song ever going to end and is he ever going to finish wiping out the liturgical vessels and shut that trapdoor to the vestry?

If you were raised Catholic and/or are a practicing Catholic, I know you got that. Otherwise, sorry; you're missing out on some good stuff. In short, Catholic mass = core workout and sore knees. And, if I'm going to be honest, Catholic mass also equals the worst breath of the week from the little wafer that melts on the roof of your mouth. As a kid, my family cured that bad breath with a dozen Dunkin' Donuts. Mmmmm.....

For local and traceable food today, Groom and I packed some grapes for the ride, but ended up at the Get & Go anyway for breakfast sandwiches, which did not--I repeat, did not--sit well in my belly. (Ugh. I hate that I have to be honest.) Then, except for another handful of grapes, two iced coffees, one communion wafer, and two beers at the reception (it really was a great sendoff for a respected woman), I didn't eat again until 2:00, at which point, I would have punched adorable little Mikey in the jaw to get my hands on his Life cereal.

mmmm scallops....
What I wanted: fried scallops with french fries and tartar sauce. What I got: a chef salad with low-fat dressing, easy on the "chef."

And then I walked over to a vending machine to purchase a bag of Cape Cod Barbecue Potato Chips.

I'm weak.

P.S. I've already informed Groom, if I die before he does, I would like him to rent out a hall, book a local band, serve locally brewed beer and locally roasted coffee, hire a local caterer, and offer free liquor on one condition: people will be allowed to drink only bourbon manhattans and gin martinis. If you drink vodka, you're definitely going to have to bring your own flask. Sorry.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Cool cool kohlrabi

easy to peel without a martini
Tonight I experimented with kohlrabi, which I've quickly discovered translates to "sleep in separate rooms." Woo!

First of all, it's really really really good. Second, I couldn't find a resource for ways to peel it. It's such an unfamiliar root, it's hard to figure out how to prepare it. So, I took a before/after picture, in case you're interested. I mean, I might be late to the kohlrabi party, but maybe I'm not the absolute last person to show up.

There's this, like, chewy layer between the peel and the bulb that makes me think of undercooked bamboo--you know, the bamboo that comes in Chinese stir-fries? Only, those bits of bamboo are always coated in the mysterious brown sauce and are never, ever undercooked. So, I guess another comparison would be maybe the fibrous part inside the heart of the artichoke, only less hairy.

Third, it's high in fiber so...um...yeah. Groom is not sleeping in the same room with me.

I'm really excited about this new vegetable...tuber...I don't know what it is. It tastes like a mixture of a mild radish, a tiny bit of turnip, and a hint...just a hint...of pear. I cooked it with some baby kale, based on a recipe I found online, a dish the writer boasted would be a big hit at potlucks, so I knew I was on the correct path.
quinoa, mushrooms, fish, kohlrabi, kale

I went to a potluck back when I was living farther north on the coast in my late 20s, early 30s. A woman walking the buffet in her suffering sweater and long earrings and "Free Tibet" bumper sticker on her butt announced that she had brought the kale ("It's a great source of potassium!") and then just as loudly asked about the macaroni and cheese. "Who brought this?! I'm lactose intolerant."

Without realizing how my voice carried, I said, "Of course you are."
and pistachios

After I got a swat from my friend Amy, I didn't have the heart to then mention that kale interferes with the absorption of calcium. So, that woman is screwed in the osteoporosis battle. Her kale, however? Delicious.

Let's get back to the kohlrabi. I'm so super excited! We had a delicious meal, in less time than it takes to make homemade macaroni and cheese!

That sounded judge-y. Or, maybe, I think it's judge-y because I'm being judge-y. Honestly...smug is a color that looks good on nobody. Except maybe if you're Bono.

honestly it was this good
Anyhooo, today, I did mow the lawn for about an hour for my daily activity and I didn't die. Tonight's meal was mostly local and contained plenty of olive oil but no butter: fish from Plant's Seafood, vegetables from Swango Farm, herbs from our garden, and Ritz Crackers from Brackett's Market.

Heh. I put that last bit in to see if you were paying attention.

Smug

I got checked out last night at the grocery store. I kept making eye contact with this guy who was headed on the same shopping loop I was--you know how that goes. You see each other in produce; you bump into each other in the pasta aisle; you "oops..hehe-heh...sorry" as you try to get around the person at the yogurt cooler. Can we just universally embrace this weird phenomenon so we can just say, "Hey, we're on the same loop," and move about our day without that awkward moment where, yet again, you and that other person are racing for the same bottle of ketchup without actually acknowledging each other?

I bring up this particular guy who looked at me because I intentionally switched up the order of my shopping in order to avoid having an anonymous dance partner as I price-checked jars of tomato juice. I didn't know this guy. But, I saw him a couple of times, and each time. Bam. Full eye contact.

And, I'm sure he wasn't thinking, "Ooooh.... mamacita," unless he was also thinking, "You remind me of my mother... I hated my mother."

I'm at the age where, if I catch a guy looking at me, my immediate instinct is to run back to the car and get the hell out of there before he writes down my license plate number, hunts me down, and assaults me because he's a crazy person and I remind him of his evil mother. Back in my 20s, in the days I could leave the house without makeup and not have children run screaming from the Crypt Keeper, back when I had a thin waist and a flat stomach, I would have noticed the guy and been all, uh huh. You're never gonna get it.

Those days are over and now, instead of pulling all-nighters drinking Maker's and chasing away my hangover with a PBR, I'm pulling an all-nighter because I ate a cheeseburger and it didn't agree with my aging digestive system. (I hope that's the one and only time you ever click a link with the words "my aging digestive system" attached to it.)

I know there's a correlation between what I put in my body and how I'm going to feel (yeah yeah, I saw it as I typed it...that's what she said). But, I continue to ingest things that will make me feel poorly (poor? poorly? I always get tripped up on that). Will that third glass of wine make me feel crappy tomorrow? Probably. Will I have it anyway? Of course.

i feel smug taking this picture
The same goes for fried food. Will a basket of delicious and sweet fried Maine shrimp (that I kinda think are coming from Thailand but I'll ignore that for now) coupled with a giant cone of fries and followed by Anabelle's coffee ice cream make me feel like crap all night long and into the next day. Oh my god, yes. But I'm ordering that anyway because it is so yummy.

I have the same adverse reaction to zuchini. And summer squash. And, sadly, truffle oil. I continue to eat those items, too, because I like them.

i feel a lot less smug taking this picture
But, I can't deny, after eating fresh steamed vegetables with lemon last night, I feel pretty good today. And I'm aware today's lunch of quinoa and cold leftover vegetables with more lemon from last night will make me feel pretty good this afternoon. I'm lucky because I like that stuff.

I also happen to like the yummy red wine sausage from Sausage Kitchen with Morse's Sauerkraut that accompanied those vegetables last night. Tonight, I plan to cook up some kale and kohlrabi from our trip to the little farmstand yesterday with pistachios along with leftover quinoa from lunch today, but we all know I'll grill up a steak or slab of chicken...wait. Maybe I'll broil some fish instead. Hm.
annnnd we're smug again

I don't know whether you've tried kohlrabi; I sure haven't. So, I'll let you know how it goes.

For activity today, more lawn mowing. Let's see if I can last longer than an hour; yesterday really sucked. I should note, today is the last day of my accidental vacation. I did a tiny bit of work this morning, but I slipped back into my new habit of gazing at the water, petting the dog, and doing generally nothing, so that bit of work doesn't really count.