That's What She Said

Ice Climbing....Becasue Why The Hell Not?

2015-03-18T12:07:00.001-07:00

This is how you hammock.

I just got back from an ice climbing trip in New Hampshire guided by Northeast Mountaineering. Yea, that's right. Ice. Climbing. Why? Because I figure, if you're going to try something new you may as well do it big. This is what happens as you get older—if you're doing this living thing right—a drive to adventure takes over and you find yourself surfing the Internet late at night for special offers from guide companies because your best friend decides she wants to take up rock climbing as her 2015 New Year hobby. When I stumbled across the ice climbing trip glowing in blue light back from my computer monitor it was like a beacon of shiny adventure glittering through the dark of my bedroom calling me to climb and I about dropped the handful of popcorn I was holding—Night Eater since 1982, we all have our quirks. I messaged the link to my best friend with the subject line: We're doing this. Of course, she was giddy over the idea and I booked the trip the next day. A few weeks later, I brought the trip up to my other girlfriend (who coincidentally has also decided she is a rock climber this year) and she was all in. I may have waited awhile to tell her that we were also staying at the co-ed bunkhouse the guide company offers at their headquarters...maybe just a little longer than that to tell her that the bunkhouse does not have showers... and even longer still to tell her the nearest ones are coin operated fifteen miles up the road—you know...like a car wash. She's the friend you take overnight camping and she brings two suitcases full of what amounts to the whole back section of REI and wears pretty matching floral pajamas and slippers around the campsite. Three single mommies ice climbing in New Hampshire...this is how you live it—this life thing.

I have never rock climbed. I've spent a significant amount of time hiking over rocks, biking over rocks, hiking my bike over rocks...but the roped-in-belay-on kind I have no experience with. I find that when one is hell bent on pushing through one's comfort zone to try activities that involve phobias like fear of heights while hanging from frozen waterfalls on a rope, it's best not to think about it until you're in it. This doesn't work for everyone, it's just how I prefer it. I was advised by some that maybe I should get in a basic rock climbing lesson before I headed to the ice. For some reason the idea of actually being prepared for what I was about to put myself through took the fun out of it for me. In hindsight it may have been helpful to have a little groundwork laid learning climbing skills, but there is something really magical embedded in the experience of "your first time". I was going to have this first-time experience with two of my favorite people, one of which I've walked through almost every major life event a woman could go through. Many, many good times...even more trying times. This ice climbing trip meant something to us, a metaphor we didn't know the depth of until we were hanging off the ice belaying each other.

The Yo-Yo Mind Fuck on Day 1

There is, from what I can tell, one fundamental principle in traditional partnered climbing—trust. Trust the rope, trust your belay, trust you are NOT going to fall. All is easier said than done. You can know this logically when you clip onto that rope and start the climb, but to convince your central nervous system of it is an internal battle. There is nothing normal about climbing a chunk of ice...it is weird. Everything about it is. Why, you ask yourself, am I here?! Every movement makes no sense in your brain because your body is anticipating the consequences of not having a firm toe into the ice or a loosely anchored axe from a weak over the arm swing into a divot in the ice above your head. It's exhausting and exhilarating. And then there's the rope...do you know how much play those ropes have in them? It's not like you're roped in and you feel like you are. When you fall you yo-yo...and that really messes with your head.

Day two of climbing was the day that I profoundly understood what my friends and I were doing in New Hampshire climbing ice together. There are certain moments in life when (hopefully) the lesson is so obvious that it would take emotional disconnect of extreme dysfunction not to get it. In which case, maybe therapy is a good route for you and a little gentler on the nerves. I was feeling pretty good about the climb, getting further than I had gotten before. Getting higher by doing what I do best....not over thinking it and utilizing a healthy dose of disassociation from my body. Focusing on the movement to be made in the moment (Oprah used to talk about that, but I'm pretty sure she didn't climb ice to have that ah-ha moment...which makes me feel pretty bad ass about my emotional development). Then, it happened...I looked around and my central nervous system screamed, "Gurl...you is HIGH and this is ICE and this is NOT NORMAL!" At which point I heard myself from somewhere disassociated yell to my best friend who was belaying me,"Susan...hold me tighter!". Susan yelled back at me, "You are NOT going to fall...I will NOT LET YOU FALL! Relax!". Fear is a funny thing. It's a Pandora's Box. Once you break the seal you can't reseal it, you just have to ride the wave.

No One's Got Your Back Like I Do

I heard her. Logically I heard her...but it was hard to shake the fear so I went back into my head to collect myself. I must have been in there for longer than I realized because all of a sudden I heard the click click click of our guide's axes coming up behind me. I don't remember all of what he said to me, but I do remember him telling me to trust the rope. Trust. And there it was, my lesson. Trust your equipment, and the friends you keep close in your "circle of trust"—you are not doing any of this alone—and trust yourself. You put yourself here and you can do this. So I did, and when I was done going up it was time to go back down...dig in and ride the wave back down woman! Getting the courage to stand up and lean back in that harness to scale back down that chunk of ice took every coping skill I've ever collected during my forty years on this planet. Thank God for my therapist dad's voice in my head—"Rachel, you are a human made up of ever changing molecules on a rock suspended in space spinning in circles around a burning star...and it's weird. Just deal with it." So, I did and when I got down I felt really good about myself.

I thought I was done, but my guide...my Yoda...told me I wasn't done. Excuse me? I sure as shit am, I screamed at him from inside in my brain. "You're not done. You are going to climb back up and you are going to lay back and hang in your harness" he said. "How high?" I asked. "High enough to build trust in the rope", he said. Fuck. Okay. When Yoda says hang, you hang. And, he was right to make me do that because he could see that I needed more time on that ice for the lesson to really sink in.

I think it is safe to say that my friends took away the same lesson as I did from the ice. I can't speak for them, but we all gained some inner freedom during that trip. We all grew. We were all brave. We became a little better versions of ourselves. It wasn't all heavy in life lesson though. We drank beer from our Camelbaks, we laughed like we were in high school, we ate to our heart's content, we played like little kids in the snow. We met some amazing fellow Wanderlust Wanderers. We won. We won because we showed up to play...the lessons were just icing on the cake.

Northeast Mountaineering

Money shot!

Ice Climbing Changes People's Lives/The Bunkhouse

"I did it for the selfie!"

Huge thank you to our guides Corey, Brett (Yoda), and Mike at Northeast Mountaineering for taking such good care of us, and for all the laughter and kindness!
littlegreengirldesign.com

The Desert: Lessons for an Introverted Extrovert

2015-02-17T18:42:00.000-08:00

I went to the desert recently and I had a revelation...

That's how the story is supposed to go, yes? Human beings have a long history of going to the desert to learn something about themselves. Now days the desert has been replaced by air-conditioned therapist offices, but it's the same thing. Personally, I go to the desert because I breathe better outdoors. Also, I really wanted to be a part of this bike festival that I was convinced would round out my experience on two wheels.

The bike festival didn't hold a whole lot of excitement for me, but I did get to do three of the things I love most: Ride my bike at high speeds downhill over rocks and over many many (freaking many) miles, pitch a tent and wake up outside, and think alone in the dark without the distraction of a glowing monitor. (Don't worry...I dvr'ed Scandal and The Real Housewives of Orange County. I'm well rounded like that.)

One of the things I thought about on this particular trip to the desert is this: You will, if you are living even just a little—consciously or unconsciously—seek out situations that will place you outside of your box. This is good. This is important. This is the beauty of being human. This is what makes an individual a better human because humans don't have to just survive like other animals do. Humans are in a unique position of being able to create an experience out of being alive. This is how humans better themselves.

This trait, we humans possess, to experience life manifests differently for everyone. Some people will choose a different brand of deodorant than the one they have routinely used for years standing in the isle of Target one day. Others will take a different route to work, while others will decide to say hello to a stranger waiting to board a flight at the airport. For me, it manifested at a bike festival. It did and it didn't, which brings me to my revelation which is: I am who I am. I will never possess any character traits I wasn't born with...no matter how far outside my box I shove myself (thanks mom and dad). I will, however, with every effort I make toward getting to the outside perimeter of my comfort zone become a better version of myself. I will make an experience for myself out of this effort, because this is how I feel alive. I use a bicycle to get me there, but it is different for everyone.

Back to the bike festival...

I am, what someone recently pointed out to me, an Introverted Extrovert. Let's pause for a second while I roll around with my socks off like a little kid in a ball pit of the sound of that dramatic label. I had grand imaginings that I would go to this bike festival and stumble into a community of kindred spirits. We would camp out like one big happy bike family in a tent city exchanging stories of the miles we have all cranked out over stupid quantities of beer and wake up everyday a little hung over but buzzing to hit the trail and ride until we can't feel our legs. However, for whatever reason this did not happen for me. Maybe because I'm an introverted extrovert (with a tip of the scale toward introversion) and I have a tendency to observe before I jump into a crowd. Or, maybe folks didn't know what to make of a girl solo trekking through the desert...they just didn't know what to do with me? It was Valentine's Day weekend. Perhaps they felt sorry for me and were afraid if they opened a dialogue with me it would trip some wire and I would fall into a pile of spinster-dom. I don't know... but I do know for a fact that I was one of probably not one other forty year old women alone there with a bike rack half full of bikes. I am in a category unusual for sure. I wasn't there with a boyfriend or husband, I pitch my own tent and I know how to build a fire. I wasn't there as a cyclocross racer decked out in a full kit. What the hell is that about anyway? Road bike shorts and jerseys advertising corporate sponsors in Big Bend? The desert doesn't care about your sponsors good sirs...the desert will hurt you. Even if you layered two road bike jerseys, they won't protect you from this:

Anyway, I digress...

I probably am a spectacle and if I weren't me I wouldn't know how categorize myself either. I don't care really, because my desert is full of life.

I went to the desert recently and I had a revelation and my revelation went like this: At the end of the day, I am who I am. I am here to make my own experience because I am human and I can.

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New Year's Intention 2015....In A Fantastical Perfect World.

2015-01-18T15:12:00.000-08:00

I’m never going to get married again.

I’m going to buy 5 acres and build a kangaroomsystems.com community. My gaggle of men will live in their own 14x20 square foot uber modern dwellings on the back side of my property.

My 5 acres will be somewhere that doesn’t have HOA (or if it does it’s like $200 a year and they stay out of your business), in particular somewhere that doesn't have building restrictions like the house you build must meet a minimum square footage. My 5 acres will have elevation where I can build features to throw my bike down...and perhaps a little water running through the property. If my karma is really good and such a place exists it will cost me around $80k and won’t be too far from where I live now because I got a baby daddy that (sadly) I gotta share my kids with. My gaggle of men and I will mutually agree by unanimous vote the implementation of a schedule where they will trade nights cooking for and fucking me.

Oh...and one in my gaggle will be a manny to take care of the children who I won’t fuck of course...but he will be especially skilled in cooking and cleaning.

Oprah told me once...that if you voice your ‘intention’ to the Universe it will come to pass. I'm pretty sure she stole that from Maya Angelou because Oprah is a bitch. A very, very rich bitch so there must be something to her philosophy be it stolen or no.

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*Amendment to my voiced intention....my manny will be gay and he will have the most beautiful musical theater voice in the world to sing with me my favorite musical theater ballads around the campfire.

I Crash, Therefore I Am

2014-03-09T14:38:00.001-07:00

Floating. Gliding. Crashing. Hard. Soft. Scary. Comforting. Rushing. Alive.

These are some of the words that came to me as I lay in bed, bruised and sore, waking up to my third day of the Better Ride mountain bike skills clinic in Austin, TX. The weekend was for learning and drilling the basics of how to survive trail riding without breaking any of your extremities. A wise investment of time and effort when you’re standing on top of the mountain and staring into the valley of your 40’s. Let’s face it, rib fractures and bruised bums aren’t as easy to come back from in midlife as they were back in your roaring 20’s, even if they are inflicted while doing something as ridiculously fun as flying down rock steps on your pink Marine bike.

The clinic gave me a lot of time to think about why I love riding bikes so much, and why I want everyone I know and love to ride with me. I love it because when you're on a bike you wake up—every cell in your body wakes up—it’s a liberating state of being in this Cult of Personality we are all drowning in. (Oh yea…I went there with a Living Color reference! Dude rockin’ bike shorts before bike shorts were cool.)

Our lives have become so static. Technology is robbing us of our basic senses. We don’t need to smell/hear/taste anymore to survive the lion that would, without hesitation, eat us back when our species wore loin cloths and bone jewelry. Now days, the lion is an Angry Cat meme. Our senses are dulled into complacency. As we stare at spreadsheets on our retina screens all workday long peripheral vision is muted, critical thinking is muted, depth perception is muted. We are diluted versions of the physical creatures we evolved to be. We work, play, and live in sterile environments (insert dramatic pause here as I reach for my hand sanitizer). We think we're exercising when we go to the gym—but we're not— we’re only exercising a tiny fraction of our physical potential. Yes, it’s better than nothing, but I guarantee if your gym were to be set up outside on a dirt track in the woods, you wouldn’t get strep throat every year. However, these days most of us are afraid to take risk, get hurt, feel uncomfortable—“will my insurance cover that?...no? Better not try that then.”.

My Better Ride coaches spent a lot of time talking about trusting your peripheral vision, looking two steps ahead, never looking down, keeping your arms relaxed and your core stable, leaning into the curve. These things, I realized, are metaphors for living a happy life. Risk is rewarding. Crashing is rewarding. Without the crash, there is no euphoria in the sense of self pride you will feel when conquer your fear and you get up to try again. This is living to full potential, awake and free in your mind. On a bike, you get all this reward in the package of a small frame and wheel set that you can get on anytime you want without having to wait for the sweaty dude who was on it before you to wipe it down…gross.

Floating, gliding, crashing, hard, soft, scary, comforting, rushing, alive…and just the tip of a mountain of delicious sensory load on a bike. Here’s to feeling human again!

***Shout out to my Better Ride coaches, Andy Winohradsky and Brian Buell! When I grow up, I want to ride just like you guys.***

Does This Bike Make My Butt Look Big?

2013-10-10T09:03:00.000-07:00

Hello. My name is Rachel, and I'm a bicycling addict (Insert a collective, sympathetic, "Hello, Rachel" from the group here).

And I'm not alone. There are thousands of us. Yes, I know, most of us don’t have boobs, but that’s gonna change. In fact, it is changing.

But I’ve been thinking: Why don’t more women ride? Let’s see.

Safety? Women, being the more rational creature (admit it, boys), are the more safety conscious. For starters, San Antonio has a scarcity of bike lanes, and a city without bike lanes is a city of non-bike-lane-conscious drivers, from texting teens (“LOL. Where? Me too!”) to harried parents tying to find their teens––who won’t text back. And then there’s always that scary guy in the raised pickup behind you with his cast iron bumper sniffing at your thigh, or the one in front with the, "Keep honking...I'm reloading!" bumper sticker smiling back at you.

Time? I mean, who has enough of that! Between jobs, relationships, kids, and, “Oh, Jesus, the laundry? I just did the laundry!” sucking at your energy reserve...Hey, it’s hard to be a woman. Try it, Mister! I mean, how many women do you see playing golf on Saturday morning? OK, I’ve never played golf, but still. But say you want to make time. OK, my argument is: it takes a lot more of that to pack a bedazzled gym bag, drive to the gym, and wait for a favorite elliptical trainer to become available than it does to open the garage door and ride, baby, ride! Anyway, that’s been my experience.

Fashion? "Does this bike make my butt look big?" Question: Were bike shorts designed for men, by men, or is this just me? There seems to be an offensive lack of clothing designed for bodies that aren’t, well, men’s. Personally, I'm a little hesitant to stuff my own behind into an outfit that makes mine look like, well, not a man’s, a man’s doing speed trials, or one that, I’d don’t know, suggests the Michelin Man's estranged wife.

OK, those are three quick explanations that might cause any self-respecting woman to have second thoughts about cycling. Are there any benefits?

How ‘bout some sex! Remember when you actually wanted to have sex––before life mucked everything up? That’s right, ladies, being more physically active improves vascular health, which in turn boosts your sex drive. I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but trust me: orgasms will come easier. Little known fact: in order to have an orgasm, you first must become aroused (no secret there), then relaxed! All this has something to do with something called the autonomic nervous system. Look it up. Tons of stuff on the Internet.

Burning calories. For example, a 135-pound woman pedaling 12 to 14 miles an hour will burn approximately 488 calories in 60 minutes, and as a bonus will keep burning them for hours after you finish!

Being mobile. According to a recent National Household Transportation Survey, half of us live within five miles of our workplace. That's about a 20-minute bike ride each way, that if done just twice a week will burn up to 3,000 calories—that's close to one pound a month!

Muscle toning. Cyclists are notorious for having killer legs. After all, the quads, glutes, and calves are propelling the bike. And according to Erik Moen, a physical therapist who treats elite athletes, working the handlebar sculpts your upper body too, giving you balanced tone.

Boosting energy. You're tired, right? You’re burning the candle at both ends: maintaining career, the household, and family life. It's exhausting. But there's a way out of this swamp of fatigue. A study published in the journal Psychotherapy and Psychosomatics found that bike riding increases energy levels by 20% and decreases fatigue by 65%. According to lead author Patrick O’Connor, PhD, cycling triggers a release of the neurotransmitter dopamine, which is linked to increases in energy levels. Dopamine is also implicated in rewards from unexpected experiences, and if there’s anything you can expect from cycling is the unexpected, even if you’re riding your usual route: the route may be the same, but the weather won’t be (it will be in the gym), nor the colors and the people you meet or see along the way. And remember, you don't have to ride like a bat out of hell to feel better. Pedaling at a low to moderate pace just three times a week is the best way to fight fatigue.

Protecting the proverbial ticker. Scary fact: heart disease is the number-one killer of women in this country. The two top risk factors for heart disease are not your kid's talent for avoiding homework or your significant other's tendency to leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night, but high blood pressure and high LDL cholesterol. In one study, researchers had 32 women ride at a moderate to high intensity three times a week for at least half an hour. After a year, they'd lowered their blood pressure and LDL while increasing their aerobic fitness. And what have we learned about increased aerobic fitness? You'll have better sex!

So ladies, let's ride! Let's have better orgasms! Let's melt away our empty calories! Let's love our asses again! Find a bike, strap on a helmet, find the nearest hill you can coast down and free yourself! I promise it will change your life.

Boobs and Bicycles, My midlife crisis.

2013-05-01T10:46:00.001-07:00

I recently turned 38 and I find—because for once I'm paying attention—that I am going through a serious awakening. Serious. I don't know if it can be categorized as a crisis, but it is definitely comparable to the impulses men experience entering midlife. Impulses like when men go out and buy two seater sports cars when they have 4 kids to cart around, or suddenly plucking their eyebrows and getting manicures, or jumping out of a plane. My impulses don't involve things that don't already jive with my personality. Those who know me well probably aren't worriedly chatting amongst themselves about sudden changes in my behavior, expecting me to have a mental breakdown at any given moment because all of a sudden I'm buying Prada bags and joining in on orgies. My midlife crisis is more like waking up after having been put to sleep for surgery and regaining awareness of your body by slowly wiggling your toes and fingers—realizing that you made it through okay.

Have you ever been swimming in the ocean and had a wave crash over your head? There's a slight moment of panic you experience if you get turned around and don't know which way is up for air. But you do get reoriented and the moment you break the surface and gasp that first drink of air, there's a tingly feeling that charges throughout your body from the endorphin rush. And, in a quick moment you know you're okay and go right back to swimming. This is how I'm experiencing my midlife crisis. A sudden gasp for air after having been underwater for a long time. And, like a person who has been rescued from a desert island would have a mental list of the things they want to do when they get home, I have a similar list. My list is pretty short, comprised of just a couple things: Boobs and Bicycles.

Bicycles:

First of all, who doesn't love to ride a bike? Think about it. It's probably one of the only activities everyone can do as an adult that will transport you right back to being a kid again. Try it. Go get on your bike, go to the top of the steepest hill you can find, and hurl yourself down it while hollering out "WHOHOOO!". The feeling you will get coasting down a hill on your bike is the exact same one you had as a kid. I guarantee it will make you feel young again. But, I don't want to just get on my bike and coast down the paved hills in my neighborhood. I don't want to shove myself into fancy Lycra cycling outfits and go on road trips with all the other well-to-do professionals. I want to hurl myself down a rocky trail, fall off it, and show off my battle scars. I want to be the gnarliest mommy trail rider there ever was. I want to take unnecessary risks and live to tell my grandkids about it. I get on my bike now days and I scour the hills surrounding my neighborhood for new construction sites being carved out of the rock. I wait for the semi-trucks hauling off their rock loads, and I blaze trails for myself. It's ridiculous..but it's so freaking fun.

Boobs:

I don't hate my boobs. I really don't. But, now that I have regained strength and am pretty close to the shape I had 'pre-alienbabies-growing-and-cut-out-of-my-belly' (yes, pregnancy and birth was a science fiction horror flick in my experience) from all the cycling and yoga I do, I look down at the girls and they don't look like they are quite as enthusiastic about our midlife awakening as I am. In fact, they look downright disinterested. I'll even go so far as to say that they are resentful of me for shoving us into our push up bra. Oh, they will sit up like good girls in their torture chair...but they are not about to pretend like they're having a good time. So, I'm thinking about getting a boob job to restore my faded starlets to their glory years. I have late night fake boob google research sessions. I have looked at so many boobies online that I consider myself an augmented boobie connoisseur. I can tell you which are saline, which are silicone, and which are gummy bear. (Yea, you read that right...gummy bear! They call them that because just like if you were to take a gummy bear and cut it in half, the gummy bear silicone implant won't leak it's insides out.) I have already had one consultation with a plastic surgeon, and I plan on having a couple more. You know, just to get the perspective of the dudes that construct women's boobs all day long. My first consultation went well. He was very knowledgeable and not once did I feel uncomfortable while he mashed, folded, squished, and drew upon my girls. He told me that I would need a lift and implants because the breast feeding made my girls saggy and implants alone would only make them look inflated and saggy (ouf!). The cost of his service...only $11,000.

My question now is: will my quality of life really improve that much after an $11,000 surgery? I'm not exactly walking around with low self esteem issues because of my boobs. Yes, they resent me every now and then, but at the end of the day perky boobs are just a matter of vanity and not a life and death matter. I'm happy already. Will perfect boobs make me even happier? I can't be sure they would. A new bike, however, would provide hours and hours of happy for me. Perfect boobs would provide temporary happiness for whoever is looking at them. I'm sure if I got them I would spend a tremendous amount of time looking at and talking to them. But, I wonder if after a period of time I would even notice my perfect boobs? Or would they eventually just blend into the scenery after the thrill of the new wears off? Like a new couch does.

Of course, when you're faced with a tough midlife choice it's wise to discuss it with your friends—particularly the ones who have perfect boobs. Unfortunately, I don't have any friends who have killer bikes AND perfect boobs (If you're out there please email me! I'd like your perspective). My friend's answers to my question, "Get a new bike, or get new boobs?", have been varied. Almost everyone has been in favor of new boobs, but adding the advise to shop around for a better price —like I would for a new pair of shoes. My favorite response was from one of my guy friends. He said, "I would get the new boobs, use them to get a job at a bike shop of choice (it's like all guys in those places), tell the guys how hot they look in the tight pants or on the bike, become a top seller, use my awesome employee discount to load up on gear, and then quit. Boom...you have it all. Of course, you could probably do that without the boobs, but wouldn't help my story much."

More than likely I won't go through with perfect boobie surgery, but only because I've been told that you can't exercise for six weeks. Man, six weeks without being on a bicycle and having endorphins rush through my body might put me back underwater again! The most perfect bobbies in the world ain't worth that risk, I don't care if they're made out of gummy bears and painted with gold.

But damn...it would be lovely to ride a bicycle without a bra...hmmmm...

Quirkiness, A Self Disclosure

2013-02-26T19:51:00.003-08:00

I have been doing a lot of selling myself lately. I'll tell you why another time, but looking back on some of my communications I am struck by a profound realization that I am one quirky individual. I admit, I've always known that I tend to be an unusual thinker. That sounds so enlightened, "an unusual thinker". Mahatma Gandhi was an unusual thinker. Aristotle was an unusual thinker. Lucille Ball was an unusual thinker. I am not in that league of unusual thinking, but I am one none the less.

So, I've decided to make a bullet list of a few of my quirkiest self disclosures for online posterity—and also for the benefit of my children's future therapists (always a motivation to publish anything online).

I told my kid there's no tooth fairy because I'm lazy. I just don't want to have to drag my ass out of bed at midnight to go swap a dollar for a tooth...it just doesn't seem worth it.
I kind of go through hobbies a lot. My last was crocheting miniature robots, but I've gotten so busy that I haven't made one in awhile.
I have watched every single episode of the Real Housewives franchise. I can't stop, it tickles me silly and makes me feel fucking awesome about my own life skills.
I find it incredibly easy to be myself online for some very odd and quirky reason that I'm sure a good therapist could easily pick apart.
"Indeed" is indeed my favorite word of all time.
I have informed my son that first graders don't have birthday parties, but not to worry they will all start having them when he gets to second grade.
My mother used to tell my boyfriends that I was delayed five years in my cognitive development. I was not. I don't know why she used to tell people that. Admittedly I was a terrible student, but that is because "quirkiness" was not an acceptable diagnosis in the very late seventies and eighties. I was just extremely lazy in my academia. I blame private school for that. If you went to private school as a quirky kid, you know exactly what I mean.
My favorite self quote of all time: "Ain't no amount of smart can make crazy easy to live with." Feel free to use that one in your next Hobby Lobby craft project.
I laugh every time my five year old uses the word "fuck". That shit is funny, ya'll. I don't care what they say.
Sometimes, I wonder if my left brain will ever love my right brain as much as I do. And, if my right brain will ever stop treating my left brain like a punching bag—undermining it's endeavors.

I will save the quirkiest of quirk for another time, but looking over my list I do suppose it could be worse. Somewhere on that bullet list could be something like...I don't know...Yesterday I spent a little too much time imagining a narrative about a North Korean Unicorn Army. I didn't really do that, but now I've planted that seed in my own head and I can't promise that I won't spend the next half hour doing that very thing.

How Online Dating Made Me Oprah's BFF

2013-02-14T10:01:00.002-08:00

I spend a tremendous amount of time making up stories to entertain myself. It's a huge problem sometimes because I work from home and I easily distract myself from what I'm supposed to be working on—it's happening at this moment. I need an intervention.

Part of my problem is that I get email and text push notifications on my desktop. When I see that someone has messaged me while I’m “working”, I can’t ignore it. Why? Because I’m a sucker for an audience, even if it’s just myself.

For example: Today I’m working away on one of my freelance gigs like a busy little bee—super proud of myself for sticking to my self imposed schedule—and up pops a push notification. Ooo! My neighbor has sent me a message. I have to respond, right? She can probably see that I’m online..it would be rude to ignore her(I tell myself this every time).

She: “What r u doing?”

Me: “Working, what’s up?”

She: “Working. I’m joining an online dating site...thinking about what to write for my profile. What should I say?”

Me: “I don’t know, if it were me I would say something like: My interests are varied, but I enjoy art more than anything. Well, I like yoga too..it’s up there...and kayaking...and sushi...the smell of lavender...and cookies. Wait, what were we talking about? Thinking solely from the right side of my brain sometimes is my downfall.”

She: “Lmao! You should join too.”

Me: “Maybe. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if the same guy were to become interested in us both and one weekend he picks you up for a date and the next weekend he picks me up? How funny would that moment be when he drives up and realizes that he was just on our street the week before?! We’d have to be sure to get his reaction on camera though.”

She: “Omg, that WOULD be funny!”

Me: “Right?! Then I would blog about it and some huge corporation would see it—like match.com—and they would think I’m so freaking witty that they would offer me a job as their head blogger and I would become rich...and Oprah would call wanting to replace Gale with ME as her best friend! She would take me to Africa with her and we'd open schools together and change the very landscape of the entire continent.”

She: “Wow.”

And that’s how it happens. It just takes one second and I’m off on an imaginary trip to Africa with my buddy Oprah instead of doing my work. Did you know she likes baked potatoes? Can I tell you how much I LOVE baked potatoes? Oh shit...I did it again. Back to work!

How To Tame A Cranky Neighbor

2013-02-02T14:15:00.001-08:00

I have a cranky neighbor. She's always yelling at my kids to stay out of her front yard, which I would totally understand if they were ever actually in her yard. So one day I bit back and sent her a to-the-point email asking her to please refrain from scaring the neighborhood kids and that perhaps she could take up yoga or even find herself a boy toy to relieve some of the stress she's under. A week later she called me and asked me if she could get me anything from the grocery store–being that I'm a single mom and she knows how hard it can be. I asked her to bring me a box of Cheerios for my kids. She obliged. The moral of the story: Even the crankiest of neighbors can be tamed with a little tough love.

A Gradual Difference

2013-01-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

We all make decisions that change the course of our lives unexpectedly. I'm not talking about decisions like, "If I had only waited one hour this morning to leave the house for work I never would have been in this car accident." I'm talking about the little decisions you make every day like, "I'll wait until next week to call the plumber about that tiny leak in my outdoor faucet." or, "I've had this headache for one week—but I'm sure it's just allergies." I'm talking about the every day decisions we make out of the comfort of our monotonous daily routines.

You never know in the moment of making the seemingly inconsequential decisions what's going to be different or how it's going to change you. Sometimes the difference brings you to a screeching halt, but most of the time the difference is gradual—sneaking up on you when one morning you wake up out of a deep sleep that you didn't know you were in. For some people the difference is so gradual that when they finally do wake up it's too much for them to take in, breaking them temporarily. I say temporarily because for most of us the difference is adaptable. Uncomfortable—at times terrifying—but survivable, even though it may not seem like it when it's new.

I have been through a lot in my life. Not so much so that it seems extraordinary to me, but enough so that when I go through the introductory phase of new friendships, people are impressed enough to express a sense of amazement that I stand before them able to form complete sentences. I admit that in the telling of some of my life's stories sometimes I impress myself that I am not a complete wreck of a human being. I've been told many times, "You're a rock. How did that not put you over the edge? I never would have been able to get through that." People always underestimate themselves when it isn't their story. People don't realize that we have evolved to survive, it's in our DNA.

Perhaps something that makes it look like surviving life's drama is easy for me, is that I have always been able to sense when difference is brewing in my life. It's one of my greatest survival skills. I just get the sense that, huh...this feeling is different or that person is acting different—something must be about to change. So, most of the time I'm ready for it and never really too surprised when change comes knocking at my door. That is why I'm not broken. That is why I'm a better person after the shit hits the fan. It's not that it's easy for me, it's just that I have a deep sense that this—insert tribulation here—is survivable. I understand that what seems like a monotonous decision today, could very well change everything tomorrow. Man, that reminds me. I've got to call the plumber about that leak first thing in the morning.

Resolved To Try in 2013

2012-12-31T18:35:00.003-08:00

It's a New Year. Yippee!!!! (Pause for a millisecond to feel sorry for myself that I don't have someone to kiss at midnight.)

As I sit outside my children's rooms--waiting to pounce on them the minute I hear their precious little munchkin feet try to get out of bed (GO TO SLEEP! For the twentieth freaking time!)--I can hear the jovial sounds of fireworks and people laughing and shouting outside my house. Two thoughts go through my head:

1) Man! People in suburban gated communities can party just as hard as urban folks can, and maybe a little more shamelessly because they're pent up behind gates, stuck in loveless marriages.*
2) This might be the best New Year's Eve I have had in eleven years.

The nanosecond of self pity I felt beginning this post is gently pushed aside with a Ken Burns effect and replaced by the memory that I haven't had a New Year's midnight kiss in the past eleven years of marriage. So why should the absence of one this year be so bad? I have so much to be excited about starting 2013. I'm newly free of a ball and chain, my children are beautiful and thriving, I'm not crushed by debt, I've got talent and the ability to make more money. What more could a girl ask for to start off the New Year? Maybe a little more energy, but that's nothing a few yoga sessions can't remedy. There's just the matter of getting my ass too the yoga sessions that I probably should spend some time figuring out. I guess that's where the resolutions come into play. Okay then. I resolve in 2013 to get my ass to yoga. And, to stop using the word fuck when telling my kids to go to sleep. Oh...and to stop saying yes to every favor anybody ever asks of me. That goes especially for drug addicted people...I'm not Jesus you know, I can't save everybody. I also resolve to be more resolved in my parenting, work, and most of all in regard to my creativity. I will also try (because resolve implies that I will actually try to follow through with, and I can't promise that) to become a better self editor. In my communications, not my writing...but I'll try that too.

*By the way, I don't think all people in gated communities are pent up and stuck in loveless marriages. I don't mean to suggest that there aren't some blissfully happy couples in the gated hood. All I'm saying is all that glitters is not gold, that's all. Particularly in gated communities.

Christmas Blues

2012-12-23T10:08:00.004-08:00

A friend of mine, a single mom, recently messaged me, “I don't like the holidays! For some reason I always get a little lonely and sad. Why do you think that is? Is it normal to feel that way?" I responded:

"Because finding out when your a kid that this guy doesn't really exist is just the beginning of the lifelong disappointment that our fantasy of what Christmas should be like, doesn't line up at all with the reality of what Christmas is like?"

"Because we're brainwashed to think this is what Christmas is supposed to look like?"

"When for moms, single or not, it really looks like this?"

"I'm so glad you asked me that...aren't you?!"

Her question got me to thinking. I know a lot of people start to feel a little deflated around Christmas time. However, I think that just because the fantasy doesn't line up with what our reality is doesn’t mean that Christmas can't be magical—it just means that you have to think a little more outside of the box as to what magic is for you. We have to create for ourselves the magic that can make it a special time of year. Companies spend hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in marketing to convince us that a magical Christmas involves stuff, stuff, and more stuff. But stuff doesn't equate to magic. It's just stuff. Magic is not tangible, it's abstract...a state that you can define for yourself.

It’s really hard to escape the Norman Rockwell-esq images of Mom, Dad and Grandparents all sitting around the dinner table with a golden turkey at the center. But—much to the chagrin of the Focus on the Family folks, what family “looks” like has changed..it has evolved.

I think to get the magic back into Christmas we have to let go of stereotypes. It’s twenty four-hours out of 8765.81 in a year. Fill that day with only the things that are meaningful to you—not the things that some marketing exec or religious organization wants you to think are.

Condolences To Newtown, Connecticut

2012-12-14T14:09:00.001-08:00

My heart is broken as I learn of the unthinkable tragedy that has taken place in Newtown, Connecticut this morning. I cannot imagine, and do not know how I would survive, the grief of loosing one of my children. My sincere condolences go out to the families and friends of the victims of today's school shooting.

In the words of our President:

We've endured too many of these tragedies in the past few years. And each time I learn the news, I react not as a president, but as anybody else would as a parent. And that was especially true today. I know there's not a parent in America who doesn't feel the same overwhelming grief that I do.

The majority of those who died today were children — beautiful, little kids between the ages of 5 and 10 years old. They had their entire lives ahead of them — birthdays, graduations, weddings, kids of their own. Among the fallen were also teachers, men and women who devoted their lives to helping our children fulfill their dreams.

So our hearts are broken today for the parents and grandparents, sisters and brothers of these little children, and for the families of the adults who were lost.

Our hearts are broken for the parents of the survivors, as well, for as blessed as they are to have their children home tonight, they know that their children's innocence has been torn away from them too early and there are no words that will ease their pain.

As a country, we have been through this too many times. Whether it is an elementary school in Newtown, or a shopping mall in Oregon, or a temple in Wisconsin, or a movie theater in Aurora, or a street corner in Chicago, these neighborhoods are our neighborhoods and these children are our children. And we're going to have to come together and take meaningful action to prevent more tragedies like this, regardless of the politics.

This evening, Michelle and I will do what I know every parent in America will do, which is hug our children a little tighter, and we'll tell them that we love them, and we'll remind each other how deeply we love one another. But there are families in Connecticut who cannot do that tonight, and they need all of us right now. In the hard days to come, that community needs us to be at our best as Americans, and I will do everything in my power as president to help, because while nothing can fill the space of a lost child or loved one, all of us can extend a hand to those in need, to remind them that we are there for them, that we are praying for them, that the love they felt for those they lost endures not just in their memories, but also in ours.

May God bless the memory of the victims and, in the words of Scripture, heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds.

-President Barack Obama

Advise From My Therapist Dad

2012-12-11T18:32:00.000-08:00

My dad is a therapist. I know...how lucky is THAT?! I have saved a fortune in therapy bills. That's not to say I haven't paid for my fair share of therapy from professionals who aren't my dad. My mother decided when I was in elementary school that I needed to be in therapy to counteract the effects she supposed her addictions had on me. She was an extremely enlightened addict. As I got older, she would often set the condition that I stay in therapy if she were to do things for me like pay my car insurance. I guess she thought bribery was the only leverage she thought she had to keep me in line as a single mother—and she was probably right. If you look up the term codependency you'll find a picture of me and my mom on a train to Disneyland—we were the national spokes models for the campaign to bring awareness to the condition...I digress, SQUIRREL! Anyway, that's how I know that my dad is such a great therapist because I've been to so many.

Since the restructuring of my little nuclear family, I have found myself asking a lot of advice from my dad. As luck would have it he's been doing a lot of marriage counseling lately and has heard it all..I know right?! Soooo freaking lucky! Here's one of his responses to an email I sent him waxing hyperbolic about my state of upheaval. I'm sharing it with you because some advise is too great to keep for yourself.

God, I’d love to have you as a client. And I commonly recommend journaling. Get’s things out of the head, a kind of head purge. Maybe vomit’s a better word, particularly now, what with the stomach virus and all. It will eventually stop, once the head-virus is out of the system. It’s like this little boy I saw years ago. He was four. He was in a terrible traffic accident with his dad. His dad was killed. The little boy was uninjured. His mother made him a little photo album filled with pictures of him and his father, and he would carry it around everywhere he went. He would go up to complete strangers, like at the mall, and want to show them the pictures. And he’d say things like, “I was in a wreck with my dad. He got killed,” and he’d want them to see his pictures. People were shocked, of course. Anyway, he’d bring the album to session and we would go over them, page after page. Then one day he came without it, without the album. I asked him, Where’s your album? Don’t you want to talk about your dad? Oh, he said, that was was a long time ago, I don’t do that anymore (it had only been a month since the accident, which apparently is a long time when you’re four). That was it. I never saw him again. I miss him.

It’s funny, when you’re going through something, it’s like it’s always been there, like you can’t remember life before or imagine life after. But when it’s over, it’s sometimes hard to remember it happening at all. I think I know why. It’s like this. The front of the brain has two areas, one on top of the other. The top area is where thoughts occur, the bottom area is where emotions occur. These two areas touch, they communicate. As a result, every thought comes with a feeling. But this is not a stable relationship. With a little reflection, we can see this. Think about the day we buried your mother. Think about when we were riding in that ridiculous limousine to the cemetery, and think about the feeling you have now compared to, say, the thought-feeling you had that day. Same thought, but different feeling, right? This is what happens. It has to, otherwise we could never be able to go on with our lives. The same will happen in this instance, in time. Time takes care of things. Time’s working in the background, preparing for the days to come, quietly straightening up the rooms, laying out the good silver. Time’s just waiting for you to finish vomiting it all out, waiting for you to get a good night’s rest, so you can get up, shower, get the kids off to school, and put the pictures away––when it will suddenly occur to you: That was a long time ago.

Victor Was His Name...

2012-12-06T20:02:00.001-08:00

Oh God!!!! I just fell for the oldest trick in the book and gave my SS# over the phone to someone who I thought was from my bank. He's not from my bank. The sky is falling, the sky is falling!!!

So, I called the number and a very friendly voice answered.

"Thank you for calling Chase Mortgage. May I please verify the address associated with your mortgage?"

The minute I heard the cadence of his voice I got a funny feeling deep in my chest. Something was off--but he had the demeanor of an Apple Store staffer so I thought:Ah, it's nothing...pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

"Yes, it's 232_ _ _ _ _ ."
"Thank you. For security purposes, may I please verify your social security number?"
"Sure, it's 78_-_ _ _-_ _ _ _."
"Thank you very much. Now, may I please have the name associated with your account?"
"Rachel Tripp...T-R-I-P-P hyphenated H-A-J-J-I. But, I just go by Tripp now."
"And am I speaking to Ms. Tripp?"
"Yes sir."
"Wonderful! how can I help you today?"

At this moment I realized what I had done. How could I have been so dumb?! The room began to spin around me. I started hearing Chris Hansen's voice narrating the story of my identity theft on next week's Dateline: Secret's and Scams.

"I don't know. I just got this text message telling me to call. You tell me."
"Well, I don't see any alerts on your account. Is your payment due soon?"
"Uh, is it? You tell me."
"I don't have that information in front of me here. What was the date of your last payment?"
"Jeeze, I can't remember. Usually you guys have all that information when you pull up my account."
"Hmmmm."
"Yes, hmmm. Strange. So, what's your name?"

Cue the horror film background music. My face starts to go numb.

"My name is Victor."
"Hi Victor, I didn't get your last name."
"I'm sorry ma'am, we don't give out that information."

I hear his voice start to shake just for a second, but this guy's a pro. Like a skilled pilot he pulled the plane straight with just a slight flick of his wrist.

"I can give you the initial of my last name, it's M."

Long pause. I listened for background chatter. None. The only sound I hear is the blood rushing behind my eyeballs. I'm so screwed.

"Oh, okay. So, you don't see why I would have gotten a text from Chase? I always make my payment at the same time every month. Can you tell me when my payment is due? Maybe I made a mistake this month?"
"Oh yes ma'am, usually it's on the first of every month. That's normally the way companies bill people."
"Huh. Well, do you have an extension number I can reach you with? Just in case something comes up?"
"No ma'am."
"Okay. How about a reference number or something?"

Long pause. I was starting to feel like I was on a bad date. He was feeling me out, I was feeling him out...the two of us looking for cues from one another for what to say next. I wondered, why hasn't he hung up yet? He got what he needed from me in the first five seconds of our conversation. Maybe he did have a crush on me? I was starting to get a crush on him too because I was more than a little impressed by the show he was putting on. I mean, talent is talent and everybody knows I'm a sucker for creativity.

"No, I'm sorry. Again if you need assistance with anything just call the number in the text message. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No I can't think of anything. You know" I said, "I feel pretty stupid for giving you my social security number so enthusiastically."

I could literally hear the smile creep across his face as he said, "Have a nice night ma'am."

You too Victor...whoever and wherever you are.

We'll always have the fraud department.

Update: Fret not my friends. After I hung up with Victor, feeling a little twang of sadness that our conversation was over and missing our banter already, I called my bank and all the credit bureaus to have the place a security lock on all my shit. I'm locked up tighter than a skeeter's ass in a nose dive! Ain't no one tryin' to get a loan, rent an apartment, or open up a Walmart line of credit with this bitch's identity!

Mattress Firm, A Cure-all For Cabin Fever.

2012-11-27T14:50:00.000-08:00

Somebody help me.

I need adult interaction.

Please...

My daughter picked up a virus and I haven’t left the house for anything other than Children’s Motrin in five days. I take that back. I have left the house, but only to take my son to school and pick him up again. I think I’m going mad. Normally I would ignore it and send her to school anyway, but the radio active green snot running from her nose is too obvious. For those of you who are new to parenthood here’s Unwritten Parent Rule #15:

Clear snot = Shove Kleenex into your kid’s pockets and make them go to school.
Cloudy snot = Give you kid some Motrin, shove Kleenex into their pockets with instructions to actually use it or Santa will be too grossed out to bring them presents this year, and make them go to school.
Green snot = They must be quarantined for at least twenty four hours or the viral outbreak at their school is on you. (Trust me it’s not a good feeling, especially when you find out that their teacher has been taken down by it. Never put your kid's teacher in harms way, he/she is your greatest ally.)

I’ve got cabin fever so bad that anywhere is better than here, so this afternoon I bundled my little viral incubator up and drove down the street to Mattress Firm. I was so overcome with an overwhelming need to flee my house that I didn’t even pause to change out of my house slippers, brush my kid’s hair, or think about where I was going to go. I ended up at Mattress Firm probably because last night I watched Oprah’s Favorite Things 2012. She presented a room full of hysterical ladies a Temperpedic Cloud mattress, which made me cry. Did I mention I have cabin fever and PMS? Yea, I’m in a bad state.

I talked to the salesman, David, for thirty minutes about the difference between the Temperpedic Cloud and the Sealy Inspiration while my daughter leaped from one bed to another. David wasn’t phased one bit by the Kelly green mucus oozing out my kid’s nose, or her gymnastics. He was amazing and I imagined a super secret training center somewhere in Arizona where Mattress Firm sends all their salespeople to desensitize them to the worst imaginable kind of customer– disheveled suburban mothers.

Just when I was starting to feel almost human again– like I do have something to contribute to adult conversation even if their only interest in me is the $3000 he might be able to talk me into shelling out for a mattress– my daughter did a roly poly move onto the (I kid you not) $6000 bed I was lying on, leaving a trail of green snot in her wake. I immediately did a ninja like move positioning myself on top it and hoped like hell that he didn’t see it. He probably did see it, but his advanced training in the Arizona desert was so comprehensive that he didn’t skip a beat. I, on the other hand, felt dirty all of a sudden and decided it was time to go. David wrote down a deal for me that includes a free mattress protector, took down my phone number and email, and told me that he looked forward to my business. Dear, kind David...I will buy my next mattress from no other.

Put A Fork In Me...

2012-11-26T08:53:00.001-08:00

Life as I know it has changed pretty dramatically recently and suddenly I'm standing here staring at a proverbial fork in the road. My fork has more than two directions to choose from, which makes me wonder why a literal fork in the road typically has only two directions? If major life choices were really like standing at a fork in the road, wouldn't there be more like four paths to take- unless the fork in the road analogy was taken from a crab fork, which totally makes sense. Forks and roads have always reminded me of one another.

So, I'm thirty seven years old - which doesn't even sound right - and I'm hearing the call to reinvent myself...again. The past eleven years I have been preoccupied with supporting my ex-husband in walking his career path (a path that led us to becoming business partners where I discovered I harbored an entrepreneurial spirit I didn't know I had) and raising my two young children.

Now my children are growing and spending most of their time at school (that is when they're not home from school sick with wretched viruses they pick up from the classroom). Our business doesn't need me as much as it used to, and the chapter on my marriage has ended. Now it's time to focus on what I want to do, and therein lies the challenge: what DO I want to do?

I know what my passion is: art, any and every kind of art. I've always joked that I want to end up alone in a studio somewhere in the mountains, locked away from the rest of the world. The last couple of years I have been teaching myself web design, something I learned to do as a small business owner because there is never a budget to pay someone else to do the way I envisioned it. I've done a few freelance sites for people, so maybe I'll focus on that. Then there's music. I was bitten by the performance bug early in high school and I spent my twenties chasing the dream. I don't necessarily want to perform at the Tony Awards anymore, and mommy-hood is not conducive to late night lounge singing. Shit, the last thing I want to do after 8 p.m. anymore is slap on my false eyelashes and plop myself on a stool in front of a piano all night. Believe me, it sounds way more glamours than it is. Besides, I have to get my kids up too early for school the next day. I really, really love to sing though.

Wait a minute... I KNOW! Maybe there's a market for cabaret singing web designers - what kind of musical theater number do you want to hear while I tweak your website? Art and song aren't the only things I want to spend my time on. I also want to write a book of personal essays and turn the time I waste blogging into a for-profit waste of time. That's my American dream.

All I know is, I have to figure out how to pass my time before I take my daughter to New York when she's old enough to start my true calling as her stage mother. The kid's got some major talent, and I'm not just sayin' that because I'm her mother - there's no Honey Boo Boo complex here my friend. So I can't get too involved in just anything because carting her around the audition circuit is going to be a brutal schedule.

Then again... The Judds had a really good thing going... hmmmm.

Getting Good At Crazy

2012-10-19T10:03:00.002-07:00

If I didn't think I was crazy before my ex-husband and I started our own business... I can be sure I am now. I'll fit right into the insane asylum. I bet it's filled with small business owners rocking back and forth to soothe themselves.

The list of things that make a small business owner certifiably crazy is long, but at the top of my list is taxes. I swear, every other week I open my mailbox to another tax bill. There's the federal tax, the sales tax, the state tax, the franchise tax, the payroll tax, the personal property tax that our food truck falls under. I'm on a first name basis with the Comptroller's Office. We're like reluctant, codependent lovers. We think about eachother all the time and we can't break up with each other, because if we do who will take care of the children? By children I mean, of course, our employees who have their own families to take care of. That's the second on my 'List Of Things That Could Trigger Insanity This Week'. Payroll. You'd be surprised by the feeling of personal responsibility that comes over you the minute you hire an employee. Small businesses quickly become little families, and as the mom of our little family I can't help but feel anxious that my kids are well fed.

Another thing that could potentially put a business owner into the Cuckoo's Nest is exhaustion from role confusion. Loan approval for small business is virtually extinct these days so there's no budget to hire someone to handle an accountant, a web designer, a dishwasher. The first few years you have to do everything. Some days you wake up in the morning feeling like, "Where and who am I again? Oh yea, I'm everyone and everywhere. Anybody seen my keys?"

The general rule for business ownership has two components: One; if you can make it past the first five years you might have a chance for staying open, and two; during at least the first three of those five years everyone but the owners will make money. Wheelie Gourmet, LLC is in year 2.5 and we have now grown into a place where I'm not waking up every other night from nightmares in which I've gone to school and realized I'm sitting at my desk naked and I don't have a car to go home to get clothes... at this point I just sleep right through those!

The Writing's On The Wall

2012-09-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up, I see this:

Procrastinating since March 2012.

Every time I take a shower, I see this:

Procrastinating since July 2008

Every time I make my kids dinner, I see this:

Procrastinating since August 2009.

It occurs to me: I may have a slight problem with Paint Procrastination. I'm a little worried about myself. How did I get here? Is there some traumatic event I had as a child involving paint that I've pushed deep into my subconscious? Perhaps I was the victim of a paint hate crime in a past life. Are my children destined to be paint procrastinators when they grow up because they spent their childhood living in half painted rooms? I don't know. There is only one thing to do... Google it.

(Pause to come up with optimal search phrase for relevant results.)

I'm back. Google tells me I have two ways of looking at it: either, "Procrastination is the grave in which opportunity is buried"(Jeesh); or, "Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday and avoiding today." Hmmm... I think I'll go with the later of the two.

If you, or anyone you love, has a problem with procrastination...paint or otherwise... there is help. Check out Procrastinators Anonymous on the world wide web. I plan on spending the next hour and a half there since tomorrow I'll be too busy finishing my unfinished paint projects.

Art inspired by my procrastination:)

Forbidden!!!!

2012-08-30T19:53:00.001-07:00

I'm standing at the airport with my two children, my luggage-including a duffel bag filled with ten liters of Argan oil-and a sense of accomplishment which I wear like other women wear Gucci. I'm leaving Morocco, having done exactly what I set out to do. I secured my supply chain for Cinq Argan and I have gained a much better understanding of how to work with the women's Argan cooperatives. My kids got to spend quality time with their grandparents and become immersed in the other half of their heritage. And, I myself was able to spend quality time outside my comfort zone by traveling around seeing more of the Moroccan culture (I swear everyone should, because nothing gives you better perspective on your life and your home than spending time in a another country). I'm feeling like yea baby, I rule! I am one super cool mommy.

But then as I'm checking my luggage a thought pops in my head: What if they don't let me check that Argan oil? It's kind of a lot. Shouldn't be a problem though because a friend of ours just brought the same amount back with him 4 months ago, and he even had it in his carry-on bag. Besides, the women I bought it from told me that it should be fine. It's labeled properly and I even have a detailed receipt. The woman weighs my bags and says, "You're allowed to check two bags but the third bag you will have to pay an extra baggage fee of $100. And, one of your bags is overweight. That will be another $86." Okay no problem I would have had to pay the same amount to have it shipped home. As I watch the conveyor belt whisk away my luggage I breathe a sigh of relief and slip back into my feelings of pride for all I've accomplished in the past month.

We make our way to the first security check and I hand over our passports to a smiling Moroccan security officer, when all of a sudden a second officer walks up to the first and starts speaking rapidly to him-Too fast for me to understand. The (still smiling) first officer turns to me and says, "Madame, please follow this officer to the customs checkpoint. The x-ray revealed liquid in one of your bags." Oh. Okay. At this point I'm still thinking they're going to let me take it because it's not unusual for customs to want to open your bags and search them. I know the oil won't be a problem, although the antique chef's knife I'm taking back to my husband might.

The antique chef's knife.

As my little family follows the officer to the customs area, my children are laughing and skipping along the way. People are smiling at us, and I'm proud of my kids because they're behaving well and are thoroughly charming the pants off the security staff. I push my kids through the metal detector, and then pass through myself to a waiting female officer who gives me the pat down. Starting to have to consciously push down the butterflies now. Around the corner is a tiny frosted glass cubicle where two women are sitting. One is behind a desk that barely fits in the space, the other is a security officer dressed to the nines in black combat attire and I have this moment in my head like, "Hollah! You go Moroccan girl with yo bad self, looking all bad ass in a male dominated society and shit!" A moment that quickly passes when I realize the only one here who speaks English all that well is me. (Cue the swirling cartoon butterflies around my head.) I begin to explain the oil. "The red duffel bag that has a taped-up shipping box stuffed inside? Oh yes ma'am. That is Argan oil. You see, my son here has really bad eczema. Argan oil is the only thing that helps him, and we don't get to come to Morocco but every couple of years so I'm taking all this back home so we don't run out. ZAYD! Show the lady awfficur yur legs suun! LENA! Stop climbing on that conveyor belt hunny!" (My Okie accent comes out when I'm nervous or trying to sound professional. I know what your thinking. I agree, I need to work on that.) She dismisses me with a wave of her hand and forcefully says, "It's forbidden." "Really?", I ask. "Because a friend of ours just brought some home this way and the women I bought it from told me people do it all the time and....." "It's FOR-BID-DEN!", she interrupts. At this point the female paper pusher has left to find someone who speaks better English. The security officer, whose likeness I've decided will now always serve as the embodiment of my alter ego Nadine, pulls out a pocket knife and hands it to me. I know, not what I was expecting either. "Open it", she commands. This is the moment that I realize two things: one, I'm not going to be in trouble because she has just handed me a knife; and two, the Argan oil is not making it on the plane with me this trip.

The one liter of Argan Oil that made it home with me.

***End Of Mommy's Big Adventure***

Ultimately, I was told that I would just have to walk away from the oil, but there was no way I was going to just abandon my precious commodity at the airport. I've gone through too much to get it. It's mine and part of my story now. I was finally able to convince an employee of Air France to keep the oil in his office so my father-in-law could pick it up. The man's name was Hamidou, and I will be forever grateful to him for giving me a break when no one else would.

Not a word was uttered about the huge chef's knife packed in one of the bags which made it successfully into the belly of the plane, and through customs in Detroit. So now we know. You can travel from country to country with big ass knives packed in your checked luggage, but don't even think about trying to bring more than one liter of Argan oil out of Morocco on your flight home.

Dear Dad...

2012-08-29T19:35:00.001-07:00

Dear Dad,

I just wanted to send a letter of apology for my continual impulsive publishing of blog posts without waiting the 24 hours a good blog writer needs to get perspective on the quality of their compositions.

I want you to know that I really do have every intention of taking your advice and printing a paper copy* to read over. And, I totally agree that a well placed comma is the very least my readers deserve, even if they don't know the difference between a comma and a colon. (By the way;, I don't either because yes, you're right/rite... I wasn't paying attention in class that week in 9th grade*. Okay... maybe all of 9th grade. That reminds me to bookmark Grammar Girl.) It's not that I don't listen to you, it's just that for some reason this whole blogging thing has an intoxicating effect on me and the urge to click that pretty orange 'Publish' button is too powerful for me to resist! Now I know how slot machine junkies feel. Why do I feel like a lost puppy all of a sudden?

Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you. Oh, and that you're the most talented dad a girl could hope for, and I hope to be as good a writer as you are when I grow up.

Love,
Daughter

*Dad notes (taken from emails he's sent me with edits after he's read my already published posts).

-Suggestion: print a hard copy before you post (we’ve talked about this).

-I know you know I know (how ‘bout that) you have not studied grammar since...did you ever study grammar? really? Anyway, now it’s time. You’re a writer. Language is your tool. Treat it with the respect it deserves and it will serve you well.

-Also, you need to review some basic points of grammar. I was thinking maybe a short grammar (I know you’re not going to read a longer one). But on second thought I think getting the information from the internet would be more natural for you. One (there are many) that I like is Grammar Girl (Google it).

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles...

2012-08-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

I'm finally home from my adventures in Morocco. It's taken me awhile to get back into the swing of being home. It's been four weeks since I landed in Agadir to meet with who, it turns out, is to be my Argan oil supplier. Of course, things never play out the way you think they will. Especially when you're traveling in a foreign country and your grasp of the language is that of a 5 year old learning how to read in her native tongue.

In my last post I wrote about the plane ride to Agadir. What I left out of that post were the trains that I took from Rabat to the airport in Casablanca. Yes, there is an airport in Rabat but I couldn't find airfare for less than $3000. It cost about $160 to fly from Casablanca to Agadir, and it's only a little over an hour by train from Rabat to Casablanca. My ex-mother-in-law decided it best that she would ride with me going because there are several stops, including one change, along the way. I imagine she was terrified I would get confused and get on the wrong train, an entirely valid concern. It's not like riding the subway here. There are no color coded route maps, or electronic displays on the trains telling you what train you're on. They aren't even numbered. You just have to know what you're doing, which I didn't and couldn't even try to look like I did. So, having her help was huge because I'm pretty sure that I would have ended up somewhere in Algeria if not for her guidance. Oh, and by the way, my mother-in-law speaks no English. Well, she speaks some...but "sit down" and "sleepy" aren't useful words under those circumstances. At this point in my life I can understand quite a bit of Moroccan (way more than I can speak), so I was able to follow her instructions on what to do when I got to Agadir, and how to get the train back to Rabat. Yep, coming back I was on my own. (Side note: I'm told that the dear lady was so panicked that I would lose my way at some point that she couldn't rest until I was safely back in her house, which felt really nice since my own mother passed away and I've missed being the focus of a mother's over protection.)

When I arrived at the airport in Agadir, I did what I was instructed to do by my ex-mother-in-law. I walked outside to the sea of waiting taxi drivers in front of the airport. I handed the first one that approached me a piece of paper with my aunt-in-law's address written on it (They are everywhere just waiting for naive tourists to offer their services to. We are like walking cash machines to them.). I asked him, in the most apologetic and confident way I know how, to please excuse my French/Moroccan, I need you to call the number on this paper and ask for directions to her house. I gave him the prepaid cell phone I bought in Rabat and hoped for the best. The driver says, "No problem!". But, after speaking with her he quickly handed me off to another guy. Apparently my destination was too far from the airport. I flashed him my best American smile in thanks and tipped him something like 10 dirhams. He scolded me for not tipping him enough for the service of setting me up with another driver, so I doubled it. A gesture that clearly still wasn't what he was expecting, judging by the look on his face. But I wasn't going to stick around long enough to haggle with him and I jumped in the car faster than it would take him to get the disappointed look off of his face or to guilt me into giving him more. I'm a mother after all. I stopped falling for that trick a long time ago. By scolding I don't mean to paint a picture of a disgruntled guy yelling at me. Moroccans have a skilled way of saying everything with a smile so that you never suspect you're being ripped off as you find yourself tipping three times the amount that is customary.

The second driver had no problem taking me where I needed to go for a price that I didn't think was unreasonable, but one that if I were traveling with another Moroccan would have been just a starting price to be negotiated down (a verbal dance that would have taken about 10 minutes, and one that I am not skilled in and get easily bored with). He was very nice, as all Moroccans are, and was so happy to practice his English with me and make small talk about my trip. We drove for about 20 minutes when he stops and parks in front of a mosque. I'm thinking okay...I guess he's going to take a prayer break. It is Ramadan. That's cool. I can wait for him. See, that's how you have to roll when you are traveling in a country that's so culturally different from your own. Be ready for the unexpected and go with it. Just when I'm about to pat myself on the back for being such a respectful American tourist (because a European would never be that cool), he turns around and tells me that this is where we will be waiting for the diver of my ex-husband's aunt to pick me up. Yea, yea. I knew that. This experience set the tone for my stay in Agadir. For the next two days I would find myself being somewhat of a baton in an absurd Moroccan relay race, to be passed off from one driver to another. The name of the game? Get the American to the Argan oil cooperative where she thinks she has a meeting set up.

Lovely Agadir. The view from Agadir Oufela, the old Kasbah that was destroyed in a 6.7 earthquake in 1960.

Every transportation mode was worth this view.

Technicolor Bluejeans

2012-07-28T14:28:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting at the at the gate in Casablanca waiting for my plane to Agadir. A Muzak version of the Beetles song Yesterday is playing over the sound system. There aren't a lot of people. It's surprisingly nice, except for the cigarette smoke which evidently is not allowed according to the no smoking icons posted everywhere. Never in a million years did I imagine that at this time in my life I would be traveling alone to some town in the south of Morocco. Man, do I ever stick out like a sore thumb. There are some Europeans waiting with me but let's face it, even when Americans try not to look American, we just do. It's like Americans have a technicolor filter on us, whereas the rest of the world has a Sepia tone. That's how I see it anyway. I swear I feel like everyone is looking at me wondering what that crazy American lady is doing by herself here. Oh, there's a Chinese guy, but even he fits in better than I do. Now the theme song to the Godfather is playing. Suddenly I feel less out if place for some reason.

Time to board he plane! Wait. Oh my God. Tell me that's not my plane. Oh God, please don't tell me that's my plane. It has propellors! The last time I was on a plane with props I was in highschool. My best friend's dad was a pilot and owned a 4 seater. He flew us from Santa Fe to Havasu Falls in Nevada for a lake trip. I was never so scared in my life, and I think I'm about to relive the experience. It's windy. That can't be good. On the up side the plane looks brand new and smells like my mom's Cadillac used to. There's still a protective plastic covering on the floor. Maybe it won't be so rough. Airborne. Ok, it's cool. It's rough, my stomach is somewhere on the ground down there, but it's a short flight. Wow, really short because 30 minutes into flight we're starting our descent. Yes! I did it! I'm almost weepy. I've come so far to see these Argan trees! I wonder if I can see the goats who climb them from up here? Hold on...those aren't Argan trees. Those look like olive trees. Wait. Those mountains look familiar. What the...? That's Marrakech! I'm supposed to be seeing a costal town. Aw man, pit stop! I thought this flight was non-stop. I guess that's what the stewardess was talking about when we took off. You never can understand those announcements, even when they're in English. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I guess I'll have to white knuckle it one more time. Eye on the prize, Rach, eye on the prize.

I know I won't be keeping my mind off this scary flight by thinking about the last email my dad sent me:

"Agadir? Really? Did you know that...At 15 minutes to midnight on February 29, 1960, Agadir was almost totally destroyed by an earthquake that lasted 15 seconds, burying the city and killing thousands.[4] The death toll is estimated at 15,000. The earthquake destroyed the ancient Kasbah. On its front gate can still be read the following sentence in Arabic: "Fear God and honour thy King".

Have fun!"

That's my dad! He has a gift for relishing in his half empty glass.

When I arrive at the airport I've been instructed to find a taxi and show the driver an address that my mother-in-law wrote down for me. It's her sister's address, who has been kind enough to let me say there for the next 2 days. She doesn't speak English, so the time I'm invading her space should fly by for her.

I have a meeting set up with a woman's Argan oil cooperative tomorrow. At least, I think I do. My ex-husband's mother and sister helped me bridge the language divide to arrange a tour. All I know is, I have an address and a time where to be written in French. I always did like to fake my way through things.

....I know what it is. It's the blue jeans that makes us different. It's definately the jeans...and the technicolor filter.

Africa Hot

2012-07-19T16:40:00.001-07:00

I'm on my way to Marrakech with my brother in law(who is now my ex bro..long story, ill tell ya later). The windows are rolled down, the smell of petrol is in the air, and Arabic music is playing on the radio. I feel like Jack Kerouac, but without the alcohol and Buddhism (although I've thought about taking it up. Buddhism...not alcohol). It's expected to be about 115 degrees in Marrakech today. I'm either a total crazy person or this is the beginning of laying down some good roots for Cinq Argan, my Argan Oil line. The road is actually pretty nice so far. The pavement is brand new, a big improvement on the asphalt there used to be that was like driving on a concrete version of a dirt road. There are new traffic laws since theist time I was here, so driving is not the hair raising experience it used to be. There is much more order to the traffic flow now, and people are required to wear seat-belts now. The police will fine the driver double if their passenger isn't clicked in. But, seat-belts still aren't required for back seat passengers, which is why you see kids piled up in the back seats of cars. My son keeps asking me why he doesn't have to wear his seatbelt in Morocco. Uh...

The best part of this drive is conversing with my ex-husband's brother. He speaks very little English, I speak very little French, but somehow we are having whole conversations. I don't know why, but for some reason I can understand way more French than I can speak. It's a little crazy. Must have been those French cartoons I used to make my kids watch when they were babies.

Me & My Brotha From Anotha Mutha

A rap song comes on the radio. I'm not that into gangsta rap, so I've never heard it before. The song is an eloquently written composition about life in the hood. So, I ask my brother-in-law if he knows what the word 'bougie' means. No, he doesn't. So, I explain to him that it's like a girl would say (in my best ghetto fabulous voice), " Girl, you so bougie! You think you all dat". I explain that it means you're from the hood but you act like you're a movie star. (In my best Parisian voice) "Like, Ooo la la!" And he says, "Ah, je comprends...like my sister!"

The road to Marrakech has instilled in me a new understanding of heat. It's hot in Texas y'all, but you have never felt heat like this. It's Africa hot man. It's so hot my shoulder is sweating. MY SHOULDER PEOPLE! Sorry if you're one of those people who has sweaty shoulders and are thinking, what's the big deal about that? The big deal is, I've never in my life had my shoulder sweat, even back in the day when I cared about getting my ass to the gym and Jazzer-sizing my butt off.

My shoulder is sweating!

The land looks like something out of Mad Max. Remember that movie? There is NOTHING but cactus and dirt. Even the air looks like dirt. And every now and then you pass a small pueblo like village with one guy leading a donkey up a dirt path and I wonder, how is it even possible for people to survive this kind of heat? And then I remind myself of what a really dumb American thing that is to think. Of course they are used to it, and probably aren't bothered by it because they've never wasted several hours in an air conditioned mall and part of me feels like it's so nice that there are still people in the world who live "off the grid", so to speak. But then another part of me has a sudden urge to host an exchange student from one of those villages and be the first angel to come into their lives that exposes them to American excess like refrigerated malls, and super-sized Slushies from the Valero gas station.

Not just the stuff of movies.

Ah, but I think I see an oasis on the horizon! A very dry, sandy looking oasis! It's Marrakech! Oh thank Allah/Buddha/Jesus and whoever else is responsible for making sure we didn't blow a tire, or get into a collision with a truck piled up with cows. You think I'm kidding?!

Cow Food Truck

Hot, hot, and more hot.

Jetlaged with Aerosmith

2012-07-13T14:55:00.000-07:00

They say that traveling abroad is the best way to remind yourself of how old you really are. You measure how old you really are and divide it by how old you really feel. The sum equals somewhere inbetween "Hell yea! I've reached my destination! I'm ready to go party with the locals!!"... And..."Hell yea! I survived my 17 hour flight without sleep, and my kids who only had 3 hours of sleep. I'm gonna crawl into my bed like, now!". Ok. I've never heard "they" say that, but I do. I woke up in Morocco today feeling like I was out partying with Aerosmith last night..which if I were when I was 25, would have felt awesome. But I'm 37, not 25, and partying all night with Aerosmith (or anyone really) is not on my list of fun things to do to myself anymore. None of those travel blog writers talk about how brutal jet lag can be, and they sure don't talk about jet lag for kids. Let me give you a little friendly advice. When planning your next trip overseas with your kids, just forget that you're going to give them Dramamine and they will sleep like babies on the trip. They will sleep, sure, but only about 3 hours out of 17. Have you ever seen Chimpanzee babies play at the zoo? Picture that scene, but magnified by 20. That's what jet lag will do to your kids. That's what happened to my kids anyway. By the time I got to customs in Morocco everything looked like one huge blur...like I was looking from behind huge cataracts.

The customs officer took one look at me, and my screaming kids, took pity on me and let me through with minimal questioning. Despite the fact that I barely filled out the cards that they give you telling why you're visiting the country and for how long and do you have more than 500 dirhams coming here...and...I can't remember how many dirhams equal a dollar...and...wait, what did she ask me again? That lady customs officer totally has her own kids because her eyes told me that she was just glad it was me and not her traveling to a foreign country with a 4 and 6 year old. So yea, back to how I feel this morning, which is really this afternoon Texas time. My kids are sleeping right now. They have been for about 12 hours, and I sure as hell am not gonna wake them up because jet lag is a hell of a thing and I'm not quite sure how they're gonna take it that the hours of their day have been turned inside out. So for now I'll just lay here pretending that I feel so discombobulated because I was partying with Aerosmith last night, just because I've always wanted to say that I did once.