Hershey Kisses and the City of Ships

I have an Achilles Heel. Well, two actually. Hershey Kisses and Hahn's End cheese.

If I were to get stranded on a deserted island, the three items of food I would want most are Standard Baking baguette, arugula, and Hahn's End cheese or maybe Appleton Creamery goat cheese in olive oil--that stuff is amazing.

I might have to amend that list while I try to stick to this diet. The cheese? I expected to crave that. But Hershey Kisses? I spent a couple of hours raking leaves with Groom yesterday and then hopped on the elliptical for about 20 minutes. That's enough to work off, like, one hunk of cheese or maybe one kiss. The chocolate kind, not the bow-chicka kind.

And mushrooms!!

Groom and I went to the Bath Farmers Market yesterday and I immediately tried to avoid the cheese purveyors. But, my god. Hahn's End City of Ships is unbelievable. It's what you want all sharp cheese to taste like. So, Groom bought a wedge to bring with him to a party he went to last night and I bought a hwee wedge for myself. I then watched Groom purchase a container of Appleton Creamery goat cheese in olive oil, but I abstained. I feel like I should be sainted for that act of abstinence.

What else yummy? I picked up some chicken from...I can't remember the name of the farm. Maybe from Maine-ly Poultry in Warren. And, we tried to get some salad greens from Squire Tarbox because I like those guys. I don't know. They just seem so nice. If they have arugula with holes in the leaves, I'll still buy it from them. They just seem like nice folks. But, my lazy fatass got to the market late today and I missed out on the Squire Tarbox greens. We bought them from Goranson Farm instead. We had already purchased some scallions and potatoes from them because Ima gonna grill me up a nice chicken dinnah today with some mushrooms from Oyster Creek Mushroom Company. (I'm sorry. I don't know where that voice came from.)

I like to support Goranson because, this winter, the Bethel Chamber screened Goranson Farm: An Uncertain Harvest, which I did not go see but have heard great things about.

I just reread that. I am a jackass.

Epilogue: In case you're curious, the person I want to be stranded with on a deserted island, if I have to choose, is Groom. Isn't that the most annoying answer ever?

lunch yesterday: broccoli, boiled egg, white bean salad,
and a bit of leftover sirloin from Wednesday night

Reminds me of the time I was hanging out with some friends and we were talking about those lists--the list of five people you're allowed to sleep with if you ever meet them (James Hetfield, Jason Varitek, Ryan Gosling, Jason Bateman, and Junichiro Koizumi); the person you would want to be stranded on a deserted island with (mentioned above); the three types of food you would bring with you (mentioned above); the three books you would bring with you (The Scarlet Letter, Old New York, God of Small Things); and finally "If you were stranded on a deserted island and you could have a picture of any part of the body of the opposite sex--or, if you prefer, same sex--what body part would you want?" (Wrists, for me. The back of a man's wrist kills me.)

(I'll admit, in light of what I've just written, that linked video is a little disturbing.)

Back to the picture. My friend Hugh sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on the question, before saying, "I would want a 5x7 index card with a short paragraph outlining the qualities of a strong, interesting, and powerful woman."

We all stared at him. Stunned and...well...slightly annoyed. Really?

"If I can't have that," he said. "I'll take boobs."

He also has "Jane, the woman who works on the third floor" on his List of Five, so.....

First Friday, Music, Sushi, Whatnot

music at Ruski's

I love First Friday. Here's the thing, I never end up going into the galleries--and truth be told, I can't afford any art right now anyway. But, I love heading into town and seeing all the people wander around. Springtime and Christmas are, hands down, the best times to go to First Friday too.

Last month, for First Friday, I drank a couple of Manhattans at Katahdin before heading to see my buddy Chicky Stoltz play at Ruskis. (And then I had to return to the ski resort to work a festival that made my ears bleed.)

this is what the world looked like

brutal with a hangover

The First Friday before that--which would have been this last fall because, as you know and I feel stupid repeating it, my winters are ridiculously busy--I believe I drank a bunch of Manhattans at Katahdin before heading to a show at Empire.

The First Friday before that....drinks at Nosh and then to a friend's house.

Before that....drinks at Katahdin and then to SPACE, where I saw an acquaintance who I tried to hug. I don't know what came over me. I realized my mistake as I stepped into the hug lunge and it was way too late to pull out. Hugging a non-hugger is like hugging a barn door. That reminds me of this winter when I saw Groom's boss at a social something. As he was leaving, I went to shake his hand, but he was stepping into a hug/cheek kiss lunge, so I pulled my hand back, but then he realized I was going for the shake. What ended up happening can only be described as limp fingertips in a full hand with a non-committal shoulder pat. I saw him flinch. And, now I'm the wife with the limp handshake.

Back to First Friday. I'm starting to see a trend. First Friday for me means plenty of bourbon, some wandering in the streets, and then live music. If I make it past the first bar at all.

No, wait. Last summer, I actually attended an opening with my friend Noah (owner/operator of the Stephen Taber and who is pictured above with Chicky) at the Portland Museum of Art for Tanja Hollander. But, that was the only establishment I frequented before heading over to a now-out-of-business Korean BBQ place on Congress St., where I had a few beers of course.

Hollander is the best person to walk First Friday with because she actually insists we enter some of the galleries. And, I have seen some great work with her. I like June Fitzpatrick Gallery, and the student/faculty shows at Maine College of Art are excellent. Whitney Art Works used to be one of my favorites, but now it's Rose Contemporary? I am 100% out of the loop. I'm not sure I was ever actually in the loop. I don't know what the hip small galleries are anymore. Just walk around Portland and look for lights.

Last night, Groom and I met at Casco Bay Frames for their employee show--the owner is a friend of ours so it was both necessary and easy. I want to point out, if you're thinking of walking First Friday next month, you should walk into all the little places, even if it looks like they might not have anything. I mean, a frame shop? But, there was some interesting stuff in there. His website doesn't do him justice, but James Barner has excellent images of the Portland cityscape that he's somehow treated...and then overlaid...and then...yeah. I'm a jackass. I don't know what he does. It's just cool looking.

delicious cocktail

The other artist who always strikes is Holly Karolkowski. I think she won a national gift-wrapping competition a few years ago. Her images and artwork are so quirky and fun. At the risk of sounding like a douche, they're really whimsical. I hate that word, and frankly I would never visit an art show described as whimsical. Last year, she showcased little shadowboxes, which weren't on display this year. Looking at her site, I can tell you, the materials in person are more interesting.

And there were some images from Laurel Lopez--she doesn't seem to have a website--that were, in a word, hilariously disturbing. A mouse caught under a mousetrap. A dead mouse in a catcher's mitt. A sardine on the beach. I'm not doing them justice. Go to Casco Bay Frames and check them out.

Fishing for falsies.
For me, this is just H-O-T hot.

After all the standing around, chatting with people, and whispering quietly so nobody could hear me say "Oh my god...what is that?," I needed a cocktail. After a weird debate over whether we should go to Eventide in the East End or Pai Men Miyake in Longfellow Square, we opted for the sushi--even though Eventide used Casco Bay Frames for its artwork and has the most delicious tequila cocktail with blood orange oh my god it's good.

But, the ceviche at Miyake was totally calling our name. It's white fish with cilantro (or, the devil's weed), citrus, soy paper wrap, some items that I don't know, and the piece de resistance: truffle oil. I could live on this. It's the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth.

the ceviche 

black sea bass

There are so many delicious things on that menu, it's hard to choose. We opted for the ceviche (warning, it takes a really really long time for them to prepare it but I assure you it is really really worth it), pork belly buns (they look like...um...dirty lady parts, but are decidedly more delicious, or so I assume...ahem), brussel sprouts (in awesome sauce), and black sea bass sashimi (Groom and I spent a week on the Cape where he fished for false albacore but ended up catching mostly scup and black sea bass--both of which are delicious to eat).

busy miyake

The other thing? It was slammin' at Miyake. 9:00 at night and there was a wait for a table or even seats at the bar. When we left at...I don't know...10:30?...there were tons of people milling around. I love seeing that in our little city.

First Friday makes me miss Portland. We ran into a work colleague last night who had just moved into an apartment on Bracket St., and I was full of envy. He's young and he's all starting out and whatnot, whereas we're old, thinking about our nest egg, and remodeling our kitchen.

Hunh. I just realized why I'm wearing an ironic Rogues Gallery t-shirt today.

What has two thumbs and didn't talk at all about diet and exercise because she misses being a hipster?

flibbertigibbet: the flake post

no cheese, no butter, no fruity cocktail

I've lost six pounds this week. I know my ultimate goal here is strength, not weight loss, but I'm a little bit psyched. It's amazing what you can achieve if you cut butter, cheese, and Coco Lopez from your diet.

For exercise, I'm sticking mostly to the elliptical machine. My incentive, if you don't count strength and weight loss, is that I am completely 100% addicted to House of Cards on Netflix. I can watch an entire episode while pedaling away--or whatever you call it when you're on an elliptical. It makes me look at the House of Representatives a little differently (it's interesting to me how many people on the list I just linked are no longer contenders, by the way). Granted, the show is super heavy handed with the obvious metaphors, like when a reporter makes a deal with a congressman (played by the brilliant Kevin Spacey) and, as the reporter turns to leave, the congressman's wife says, "Be careful. The roads are icy."

Yeah yeah. We get it. Dangerous deal. Yadda yadda yadda.

I'm also annoyed with group therapy scenes where a member of the group delivers a well thought-out soliloquy about his life and his decisions. You're telling me a strung-out recovering drug addict who steals televisions and shoots up in the back of an El Camino can string his freebasing thoughts together to create the perfect essay on the fly? Mmm. I'm not saying, if you're a drug addict, you're stupid. I am saying, however, most people can't order coherently from a drive-thru when they simply have a class II hangover, and that merely entails saying, "I'll take a Number Three." Major detox doesn't make you Annie Dillard. David Foster Wallace, maybe. (Too soon?)

Case in point, I am slightly hungover today after a gin martini and many glasses of wine and I knew walking into this that this post would be alllll over the place. There will be no pretty bow at the end tying it all up into one cohesive conclusion.

so much fruit!

Let's get back to the point of this blog. I'm eating a lot of fruit. And, I switched out the GMO-bearing Kashi waffles for non-GMO-bearing Van's. Honestly, I'm having a hell of a time trying to keep up with what's good and what isn't, which brings me back to eating local foods. The Bath Farmer's Market heads outdoors again this weekend (yaaay), so I'm looking forward to picking up some local what whats. Good god, I hope they have arugula.

And, no. I still haven't made a date for a swimming lesson. 


That's it. I got nothin' else. Headed into town for First Friday, starting with an opening at Casco Bay Frames.

One more thought: Anyone else feel like attending an art opening is akin to attending a wake? Where do you stand? What do you say? How loudly can you speak? Is it inappropriate that I just hit up the free bar for my third glass of wine?

I posed the question to a very good friend of mine and this was her response. I love that she took my query seriously. This is the same woman who brings hostess gifts to parties and always sends thank-you notes.

I usually go with the tried-and-true method of having a clear plan and letting it be known the minute I walk in.  "Wow, this looks great....I wish we could stay longer...we have to leave by < blank > to get to the < blank >."  Everybody does it, but it allows the most flexibility.  Of course you go to the bar first and hopefully turn that into a social moment that lasts for one glass.  When ready for the second, get wine, then use the time excuse to get out of the conversation you no longer want to be a part of.  Briskly walk through show, then return to bar.  This is either the exit gracefully point, or get the third glass and commit to staying for another hour.  Will have to walk through show again if chose the latter.

And people don't drink like they used to, so I don't think we need to feel guilty about abusing a free bar.  Saves them having to lug the leftover back to the house. As someone who frequently moves booze from one place to another, I would rather people drink it, than me store it.

And....scene.

Gull Rock

Because of my post yesterday in which I confess that I need a swimming lesson, my sister--the one who swims, not to be confused with the one who runs, which I suppose makes me the one who skis--suggested we swim together this summer at the lake where we spent our summers. She suggested laps out to "Loon Rock," which could mean either of two prominent fixtures I refer to as "Gull Rock" and "Turtle Island" on the lake.

Gull Rock and outboard. Bad picture.

When my sisters and brothers were kids, back when Hotel California was on constant rotation as a current rock song on BLM and everyone seemed to be driving Camaros (Camaroes? Eh. Tomato, tomato.) and smoking pot, my parents created a rule that you could not be alone in our little lake boat--a fiberglass something powered by a 65-hp Mercury--without a life jacket unless you could swim to Gull Rock. It was a small island about a quarter of a mile from the house inhabited by laughing gulls that would shriek if you got too close, swoop down threateningly, and ultimately shit on your head.

It was a perfect landing spot for someone who wanted to prove something.

The swim to Gull Rock became almost like the Bar/Bat Mitzvah for our family. The age to drive a boat alone was 12, so that was the age my siblings gave it a shot. My oldest sister--the one who swims and could for as long as I can remember--took the first plunge since she was probably about 14 when the rule was instated. My other sister paddled along beside her in an inflatable dinghy with giant plastic oars to make sure she didn't drown. If I remember correctly, and this memory could be hazy because I was probably about seven years old at the time and spending most of my days staring at conifer needles while daydreaming that Novia--the new boy in class--was going to show up at our summer house and tell me he loved me. As it was, the most attention I ever got from Novia was the day he sat on my chest in the recess yard at Center School and poked at my chin yelling, "You are ugly," until I ended up with a star-shaped scab that I picked mercilessly for days, trying to keep it raw because it was the only connection I had with him.

turtle island, much farther away

If I remember correctly, my sister didn't rest at Gull Rock, but rather flipped around and swam back to the house. Easy peasy. My other sister--the one who runs--was next to give it a try. Even I could tell that my other sister clung to the side of the inflatable dinghy the entire way to the rock, but she had passed the test.

My oldest brother turned 12 the next summer. He made it to the rock and nearly back to the bedroom he shared with my other brother, who was 11 at the time, before he hurled copious amounts of red and orange macaroni.

My other brother and I were never made to swim to the rock because by the time we were 12--he's four years older than I am--our parents had other things to worry about. My memory of my parents at the house is a vague slideshow--I see my mother playing solitaire on the front porch and sipping wine, but I don't know whether she drank that much wine. I hear the radio playing old country hits--Hank Williams, George Jones, Loretta Lynn. I imagine my father sitting at the table smearing Skippy peanut butter on Saltines and talking politics between sips of Coca-Cola out of tiny shrimp cocktail glasses. (This was before he was diagnosed with diabetes.)

By the time my mom had shuffled out her last game of solitaire, it was a given we could all swim.

But I really couldn't swim. I spent every summer during my teenage years in that little speedster boat, coming up with excuses as to why I couldn't join everyone at the rope swing ("I would love to but my dad says I can't") and why I couldn't waterski or kneeboard ("I injured my knee when I was younger and I can't do that kind of activity").

summer boy in the middle

Just before my freshman year in high school, I rode up to the lake house with my dad and my brother--the one who hadn't swum to Gull Rock--during Labor Day Weekend to shut down that house. I was feeling nostalgic because a summer boy had broken my heart. I'm certain he had blue eyes and dark hair, but I can't remember his name and I don't remember having any meaningful time with him. I spent the entire weekend outside, thinking he would somehow materialize near our house in his boat even though most of the boats had been hauled for the season. It was chilly--I think I first used that word that weekend, in fact--and the water was already cold.

My dad and my brother started arguing. Even though our house is directly on the water, I wandered down the road to the public beach near the house and walked into the water from there. Very slowly, I worked my way to Gull Rock, mostly the backstroke and breast strokes, sometimes the crawl, and never with my face wet or under water. I could hear only my breath. Hooo. Hoooo. Hooooo. Gradually, I got closer. I knew from sailing our Sunfish that the rock was surrounded by ledge, and I was careful not to scrape my knees.

The laughing gulls had vacated the rock for the winter and I hauled myself out of the water to survey the disturbingly quiet lake around me. My friends were gone. All the summer fellas were gone. I was in high school. My mother had recently been admitted into a convalescent care facility because she was in the final stages of MS. My dad and my brother continued to argue back at the house. I was cold and tired, but nobody knew where I was and I had to get back.

I eventually slid into the water, slowly swam back to the beach, and returned to the house in time to help pack up the trunk of the k-car with the last of the summer blankets. As we rolled over the needles in the driveway and headed toward Route 1, my brother turned the radio dial until he found a Quiet Riot song. My father pursed his lips and said nothing.

keep on swimming

I mentioned in a previous post that I went on vacation for two weeks in the tropics. As I said, a couple nights in San Juan at the Gallery Inn, a week on a boat with Groom's family,

the view

and a few days at a house overlooking the water and near a small beach that we could afford because it was on the road to the airport. Plus it had cockroaches the size of my thumb.

right next to the airport. kinda neat.

Let's go back to the good stuff. I swam every day--something I don't do. Ever. I don't kick. I don't run. I don't swim. I mean, I know how to swim. But, I never really learned, per se. Rather, I walked into the lake when I was a kid and hoped for the best. I was the last of five kids. I didn't expect a swimming lesson. In fact, I didn't expect much--I spent the first six years of my life facing the wrong way on top of luggage in the way back of a Gran Torino for crying out loud.

I walked through the muck and leeches and lily pads and kept walking until I was close to the big rock in front of our camp, up on my tippy toes. A boat and waterskier screamed by and the wake hit me. First lesson about boating: Wakes disrupt the calm water. My head went under water and I gasped. I remember very little about my childhood, but I remember this very clearly. Air. Water. Air. Water. Air. Water. Air. Dogpaddle. And, voila. I could swim.

For the rest of my life, I've hated to get my face wet. I wouldn't jump into water. I wouldn't swim under water.

his ridiculously good looking family

yeah, I jumped

Now I think I might. First day in the Caribbean, I went snorkling. By the end of the trip, I had jumped off the bow of the boat. I had my nose blocked, but still. It was worth the effort. (As for getting actual exercise, I was unable to stand for any length of time on a paddleboard and I definitely couldn't haul myself up on a kneeboard. And, no, I did not feel incredibly demoralized when my ridiculously good looking sister-in-law with two kids did all of it with barely an effort. Shut up.)

I still haven't worked up the courage to sign up for a swimming lesson. I just feel like such a dope, but Groom and I did go to the Y. We both hopped on stationary bikes. Groom went to work and I took a few laps around the indoor track. (God, I love to jog.) That was Saturday. On Sunday, Groom and I went to Sugarloaf where I got my ass kicked in the late spring snow. Yesterday, I was sore from all the activity and wanted to get some work done, so I skipped exercise altogether. But, I swear I will overcome my fear of talking to people and will sign up for swimming lesson this week. After I conquer that fear, I will face my fear of wearing a Speedo in public. Then, we'll talk about actually getting my face in the water for laps.

vegetables, not much dressing

For eating, I've been sticking to vegetables, unprocessed foods, fruits, grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, an obligatory Bag Burger with fries (I'm not a superhero, but I did skip supper), plenty of yogurt, and Kashi 7-grain waffles. Please don't ruin those waffles for me by telling me about GMOs.

Crap. I know. I know. I'll stop eating them.

No I won't.

Today, I woke up with a new lease on life, did a little work, ate my Kashi waffles, and then quietly consumed an entire jar of artichoke hearts.

Jumping right in

you want me to get into...what?

"How much do you weigh?"

When I saw the tiny little two-prop Cape Air plane, I knew I would be asked that question. And, I knew I couldn't lie. I don't have much of an issue with telling people my weight. All winter long, if I had my ski bindings adjusted, I would have to offer up my weight to people I saw on a daily basis.

But, for the plane ride, I went a little farther with it. I stated a weight I knew to be a little higher than my actual weight. I don't know why I felt it was necessary to add ten pounds to my figure, but I am terrified of flying, so my brain wasn't exactly thinking all that clearly.

My brain was thinking clearly enough, however, to notice the guy behind the counter didn't flinch. He didn't raise his eyebrows. He didn't even look up at me. And, that's when it dawned on me. Am I heavier than I think I am?? Do I look like I weigh that much?

way too many of these

After two weeks in the tropics drinking nothing but Painkillers (rum, orange juice, Coco Lopez, and nutmeg) and eating nothing but butter and cheese and more butter, I stated my weight for the plane ride home with much more certainty. Again, no reaction from the guy behind the counter.

I got home last night, wiped away the spiderwebs on the bathroom scale, changed the acid-encrusted batteries, and hopped on. Not only am I heavier than I thought, I am 20 pounds heavier than I thought.

I've already gone through the "muscle weighs more than fat" and "the guy at the airline has been trained not to react when a woman offers--nay, practically declares--her weight" arguments. Cutting to the chase, I don't want to die.

Don't let me fool you. I didn't ski. I did this, mostly.

Let me circle back to this winter. I'd like to apologize for being quiet all season. At the risk of sounding like a big whiner, winter for me is intense. I work at the ski resort 40 hours a week--which includes at least two days a week getting up between 4 and 5 in the morning and I'm an owl so that just throws me off entirely. I also work on freelance up to 30 hours a week. And, I like to have social drinking time. And, I like to eat out. And, the dog needs to be walked three and four times a day. In short? You know how much I love to write, but I have my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it.

Reading that last paragraph fills me with shame. Am I really complaining because I work at a ski resort and I have too much freelance work? Do I have a place to live? Yes. Do I have resources to eat? Yes. Are my loved ones mostly healthy? Yes. Am I happy and grateful? Shut up. Of course. My biggest complaint is that I'm a lazy shit sack and I eat too much. This is crazy.

Carrying on.

The ski season ended for me on April 7. (Just there, I linked last year's end-of-season video but I think it's so beautifully edited, I could watch it over and over.) On April 9, I hopped a plane to go sailing for my father-in-law's birthday (it was spectacular), spent a few days in Tortola, a couple nights in San Juan.

Not allowed to complain.

At all.

And, now we're back.

Sorry. No. I have to post just one of many pictures I took in San Juan. We stayed at the Gallery Inn and it was, in a word, amazing. My friend Caroline suggested it (and, no, Caroline, I did not get pregnant there like some people...ahem), and it was more than I even anticipated. Sculptures, amazing rooms, parrots in the building, beautiful ocean views, rooftop overlooking the city, crazy spooky old building, and nobody there.

I can report that since I started this blog, even though I haven't been writing, I have gotten my strength back, mostly from walking the dog up the side of a mountain every day and skiing almost every day. Whenever I could walk, I would. I walked to work. I walked to meetings in other buildings. I guess that's about it, but when you live on the side of a mountain, everything is uphill. Both ways. Oh my god it sucks.

eggamuffin and coke

But, my diet? That's another thing. I survived on eggamuffin sandwiches, BBQ potato chips, and bourbon. Every now and then, I would eat a salad, but only if it was smothered in cheese. Even the occasional yogurt would be full-fat vanilla yogurt, aka pudding.

My body is just plain weird now. The good stuff: My butt is no longer attached to the backs of my knees. My calves have some nice definition. My thighs are rock hard. (Oh, that just triggered a memory. I went to see a friend play some music in Portland a few weeks ago and after a few drinks I was convincing everyone to squeeze my thighs. Then, I would go, "Hard. Am I right?!" I'm obnoxious.)

But but but, my top half? Jesus. It's a mess. My midsection continues to grow and I have no strength in my arms--I couldn't haul myself onto a kneeboard last week. The easiest watersport ever and I couldn't do it. I also couldn't work a standup paddleboard--I've even used those before. I know how they work. But, nope. No strength in my core; no strength in my arms.  I look like the hanker for a hunka cheese guy. My muffin top has a muffin top.

So, even though my lower-body strength is entrenched in the plus column, my weight remains decidedly on the plus side. (Heh. You like that play on words? It's good, right? No?)

Today, I did a few things. First, I got on the elliptical. I figured I'd be good for about 10 minutes since I haven't set foot on that thing since last fall. I was on it for 30 minutes and could have continued for another 15-20, no problem. So, yay for me.

Second, I signed up for Weight Watchers. I don't plan to follow the program to a T, so I know I won't lose 50 pounds or whatever--for instance, I don't intend to stop drinking alcohol, although I will stay away from Painkillers for a very long time. I like the program because it totally taps into the gaming/OCD side of me. I want to fill in all the blanks and earn all the points and use the points I have. I don't need, nor want, the meetings, the daily affirmations, and the "atta girl" stuff. But, checking off the little drinking water tabs and filling in my workout? I am just dorky enough to LOVE that.

Honestly, Phippsburg. Waterfalls now?

Third, after an hour-long walk through the woods around Sprague Pond (Phippsburg, you are such a delight), groom and I joined the YMCA. The Bath Y is freaking incredible with an indoor track, racquetball courts, a pool, etc. I'm not a confident swimmer, never actually having learned as a child, so I plan to take a swimming lesson this week. I need to get my face in the water. Even though I loved snorkeling and thrashing around in the ocean these past couple of weeks, I just...I don't like being in the water sometimes.

But, I think I'd like to try to swim for exercise. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that before, so we'll see if I actually do it.

Tomorrow, I'll take a few laps on the indoor track at the Y and hop on the bicycle. I recognize neither of those will do anything for my upper-body strength, but whatever. Baby steps.

A quiet mind

lazy dinner for a lazy girl

My sister emailed me to remind me that I haven't posted here in a long time. She's right. So, I creaked open the blog box, wiped away some dust, and discovered a few drafts I never published. It's lazy, true. But, I think we've established pretty well that I'm lazy. Well, I'm lazy about eating right and working out.

Aw hell. Let's be honest. I would choose a nap on the couch over pretty much anything. Tonight, I have a bunch of work to do so I plopped on the couch with some Annie's Mac and Cheese with frozen peas and arugula. A whole pile of non-local. All in one bowl. That I'm eating with a shovel.

Here's one of my old drafts: 

I have no idea where I heard "A quiet mind lives in the present" or something similar--I'm pretty certain it was on a sitcom--but it weirdly resonated with me. But, no. My brain doesn't like to be shut off, unless it's been shut down by copious amounts of bourbon, in which case it loves it.

While it's true that the more exercise and activity I see, the better I feel and the more I can accomplish. It's like perpetual motion. My muscles are stronger since partaking in this new "daily exercise" routine and I stand taller. My ass is slightly higher too, and I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy looking in the mirror and noticing my ass has moved closer to where it's supposed to be as opposed to resting comfortably on the backs of my knees.

But, overall, the laundry gets folded, the trash gets picked up, and I'm more likely to hop up and run upstairs to grab something I want when I want it, rather than making a list of all the things I need on the second floor and finally trudging up the stairs out of necessity.

But a quiet mind? No. I was just folding laundry and had that moment of quiet. I have a list of things I need to do today, both personally and professionally, but I wasn't thinking about any of it. I wasn't thinking about anything. Just folding.

And then I realized I wasn't thinking about anything. The only other times that happens are 1) when I'm super drunk and 2) when I'm utterly exhausted. I'm neither of those things.

(Aside: "The only other times that happens..." That clause right there is a hot mess.)

And then I thought...well, what am I missing? What needs to be cataloged that I'm not cataloging in my brain? What am I going to forget to do today? Hunh...Oh, I need to email that guy about the newsletter and I really need to finalize that web copy today and I have to call that woman about some A/V requests for an upcoming conference...crap I gotta go to the bank and the dog is out of food and you know what? I'm folding only jeans here. I should wear skirts more often. I'll buy some tights this afternoon, and while I'm out I'll pick up a pound of coffee....this shirt has a stain. Do we have any of that rubby-rub stain remover? I'm going to bake some cookies tonight. How much data usage is Groom using when he listens to his sport podcasts?

Aaaah. I was back. Slightly anxious, slightly overwhelmed, and slightly annoyed. Much better.

My mind will never be quiet.