Shelley rules.

We have had a fruit fly 'bloom' lately and it got to the point of being pretty gross. They were in your face in the kitchen, in the upstairs bathroom, in the living room, everywhere. Well a few days ago she looked up a recipe for a trap and it's been HUGELY successful. Check out the results:

Apple cider vinegar, sugar and a little bit of liquid dish soap. Who would have thought.

She placed three of these around the house and they all filled up TWICE. The other day I caught Shelley staring at one intently coaxing a fruit fly to jump in... this has become her passion.

See, now this is where this gets funny. So I'll put away my hanky from that last post and tell you the sad, pathetic story of my unrequited teen years.

As luck would have it, I ended up going to school on the north shore of Lake Tahoe. Incline Village to be exact. From about 2nd grade on. Not until I reach 6th grade did I realize the wonder that was Grady Clifford. He played drums in my band class. Clifford, meaning Doug Clifford. Cosmo. Not that I even grasped that fact at the time. He just played drums and I played clarinet. Was there ever a more sexy instrument than clarinet? Just ask Benny Goodman.  So he was like the pinnacle of hotness and he dated some chick named Cindy and they made out in the back of the bus all the way down to the Nevada Band-Off or whatever the hell the field trip and I drowned my sorrows in Twizzlers. Such is love at 14. I carried a torch for Grady for a year or two. Until the time one winter where I actually got to ride up the ski lift with him. OK. Yes. Here was Shelley's big moment. The culmination of all my dreamy ruminations in my girly bedroom, painting my toenails and tracing his initials on my Keds. The moment I had dreamed of for all of 1986. My girlfriend (who was TECHNICALLY DATING HIM at the time) let us take a lift ride together. And what did I do? All that time imagining the day we would actually come face to face. Applying makeup in my Clairol mirror just so with the blue eyeliner, just a touch of the shimmer pink lipstick.

Total silence.

I did not say one word the entire ride. All the way to the top of the lift. Zip.

And that was that.

He went left, I went right.

Isn't that weird? If I wasn't a sad, sad, confused teenager, I'd really beat myself up about that one. But I'm beginning to forgive myself for being a complete douche between the ages of 12 to 19. I know, 19 seems beyond the douche cut-off but break me off, eh?

Anyway. I wonder sometimes what Grady Clifford is doing and if he knows that he had any effect on a silly retarded girl from junior high. My guess is no but then maybe. Just maybe.

After a stressful week I thought I would treat myself to a massage today. Actually I called on Tuesday and pleaded for them to get me in as soon as possible. As soon as possible was 5 days later. I get things done, people. That's all I'm saying. If you want dinner reservations for say, next month sometime - you know who to call.

I show up at Spa Scotta early and go to their Quiet Room. I grab a water from the fridge and am almost tempted to rip open a bag of complimentary Ruffles on the table (Ruffles? Really? At the spa?) but I figured the crunching and bag-crackling would be kinda anti-quiet room of me. I'm lead back to the room, meet my masseuse, she's nice enough, it smells good, the chimey-Japanese-lute music is playing, I hear a small babbling brook in the distance. Masseuse girl leaves the room. I get naked and get under the blanket on my back. Mustering my relaxed face. Girl comes back in turns the lights down. Walks to the closet. I see her chewing something. It's not gum. Flashes through my mind Oh no she did not just finish her lunch in the breakroom. She's going to pop a mint certainly. She knows not to ruin my flow with lunch breath. No mints are popped. She's at the head of the massage table beginning with my neck and sure thing, I get a whiff of some meaty Kung Pao chicken. I immediately want my money back. Who does that!? I'm supposed to be all sniffing on some essential oils, listening to the creek, the fake birds, melting my cares away. Not this. I did not request the garlic dip. That shit belongs in the quiet room with the Ruffles, honey.

To me, this is a basic rule. Maybe I'm wrong. I remember my sister telling me a story of when she was in aestheticians school. The girls would get a break during the day. Some used this break to study, others get a drink, what have you. One lady used her break to pop to the shop next door for some ciggies and a chili-cheese dog with jalapeno's. My brain just sort of goes blank at that point. What on earth. Can you imagine the same fingers that had just held a Parliament and choked down a hot dog rubbing all up and down your face applying a clay mask? I realize beauty school offers some severely discounted treatments on a count of the learning curve but those poor folks needed to get paid for that trauma.

OK, so it wasn't ball parks and cigarettes but it wasn't lavender and it was about 6 inches from my face. She eventually moved down to the arms, legs and feet. And then thankfully I got to turn over and put my face in the donut. Wherein I made sure to sniff heartily as it was doused with eucalyptus. The damage was done. And god damn, I really wanted that massage to transport me to nirvana. I got about as far as PF Chang's.

Oh my. I think this blog needs some Female Influence. No offense, Martin. Your 'Windows Server 2003 with IIS 6' and 'Response Write FormatDateTime( Now(), 2)' is very impressive but you need to sit down. Good grief, what does that even mean? Ouch.

Anyway, for all you NORMAL EARTHLINGS: you're welcome.

While I wait for my meds to kick in on the inflamed knee, I've decided to jump back into the Bikram Yoga. I don't know why. I hate myself? Maybe that's it. I think because it's the easiest access and most familiar of the yoga studios in my area. I've been debating going to Santosha Yoga in Madison Park but I missed their beginner session, at least until next go 'round in March. So, let's sweat our brains out, ya'll!

I haven't been doing much (read:any) exercising in the last month and a half so suffice to say, I'm Rusty. But Sweet Pickles, I didn't think I needed a tetanus shot.

I had to get psyched to go to class. I was pumped around noon on Monday, hydrating, looking forward to the strenuous concentration that class would surely bring but quickly lost my focus around 6 when I finally got home. And was hungry. You aren't supposed to eat before class. Empty stomach is best. 105 degree heat & twisting yourself into a Fisherman's Knot tends to curdle anything in the guts. Go figure.

I entered. I picked my place in the front cause it actually helps me to see myself in the mirror. I smelled the smell. The carpet-sweat, warm yeast smell. The one I'd been complaining to Martin about ever since I admitted I was thinking about going to class again. "It's the SMELL! I can't abide!" It's not BO, it's slow-simmered lycra bodysuit with crystal rock deodorant stick. It's not rank. Like, "Whoa, who's got the funky sweatsocks?" It's a damply-aged internal brew. It permeates your yoga mat and towel. It's insidious. A sweaty, sweaty, smell. Dog Carpet. It's dog carpet. That's the best I can do.

Slowly, it all became very familiar. Taking my cleansing breaths at the beginning of class, I immediately wanted to leave. Just like every other time - huzzah! I hung in for about 4 asanas and then felt the room spinning and had to lay down on my towel. I took great pride in being the first to hit the deck because not 5 seconds later, 6 others laid down, too. Holding out, not wanting to be the first loser. I have no problem being a loser. I learned that Loser Lesson the hard way in 2000 in Tai Chi class at Naropa University. Remind me to tell that story later. Fun times. No, I'd rather swallow my pride than faint, thankyouverymuch. I realized the place I had laid my towel was near an air vent that, when I laid down with my head near it, was blowing sweet cool air straight from baby Jesus. A tiny rogue force in the face of the satanic heat poaching my body . Would it be wrong to press my face against this vent? To french kiss this vent? Oh, whatever. I got up, did a few more poses and then had to lay back down again. A little closer to the vent this time. I repeated this ridiculousness for the rest of class. At least until we got to the non-standing portion. Where at least, I figured, I was already on the floor. Not much harm in that.

I just could not hang today. True, I hadn't been to class for over 6 months. I bought the 5-class punch card so I have at least 4 more to go. I have to find my motivation even if it's financial.

I'm heading to the doctor on Thursday for my knee. I'm hoping that he will be able to tell me why I'm in ever-lovin' agony going down stairs, going up stairs, sitting in a chair, not sitting in a chair, breathing, walking upright, that kind of thing. If there's one thing I hate, it's inconclusive doctor visits. I've had too many 'well, let's just wait and see on this one' appointments. I realize making a diagnosis takes time but Jesus H, I took a 3 hour lunch just to be here. Break me off with the Patellar Subluxation and let's get on with it.

In the mean time, I've busied myself with all variety of Exciting projects. Let me tell you. The first being the New Diet. After Martin and I came back from Whistler, where we had eaten our weight in bagels and Guinness*, we made a pact of sorts to eat better for a while, a week or two, just to even things out. Get back to basics so to speak. We've all read about Martin's feelings on keeping it below 180. And in general my fondness for being able to fit inside the house. So it didn't seem like a bad idea at the time. We decided to cut out cheese, bad carbs (rice, crackers, white bread, etc), sugar (in the form of pints of ice cream Martin likes to hoover apres dinner) and alcohol. We also tried to be mindful of portion-size, at least during the day at work, when Martin has been known to eat 4 yogurts, 6 bagels, half a jar of peanut butter, 2 protein bars & 3 Odwalla juices before lunch. It's been tricky all week making dinners that conform to these rules, provide enough protein and fiber yet still let me get my buzz on. I'll admit, it was incredibly hard not to drink this week. It was a tough week in many respects and I did have wine two nights and sake on Sunday. I also had a beer on Friday when Martin threw in the towel and ordered a pizza (now tell me, at that point, is it so wrong to drink a beer?) in which I promptly did damage control by making a kale and cabbage Roughage Bomb salad. I think I prefer notions to ultimatums. When you say I absolutely can't have something, I kinda want it. I've made dishes with bulghur, red lentils, I even attempted onion noodles. I heard the recipe on NPR. Of course, this French chef was making "No-Carbonara" with butter, cream, parmesan and bacon. And when you've got butter, cream, parmesan cheese and bacon, who gives shit about noodles anyway? But he made the noodles from from blanched onions. Long and stringy like noodles. No one ( I don't know who this 'no one' was) could tell the difference, they couldn't figure out it was onions. So I was intrigued, I wanted to give it a try. Many tears later, I had my onions in the steamer basket. I was to steam them until 'translucent yet al dente'. Easier said than done. I thought they were too crunchy but were indeed totally translucent.

Probably won't be making them again any time soon. At least not without the cream & bacon.

Not a good day for me at Blackcomb. Today my past got cozy with my present and they didn't really get along. I've never thought of myself as old or inept or untalented in any area. I try something, I usually succeed. I might not WIN but I keep up. Today, all I could think about was how I used to ski. Back when I was 15. Is that a fair comparison? No. But it didn't stop me from reminiscing how I once hit the hill with gusto and skillz. How I could ski all day, take any run, race and laugh all the way to the bottom of the hill. Trees? No problem. Moguls? You call these moguls. In reality, I did do okay for someone who's skied 4 times in 17 years. I should be proud of myself. But the hard, judgmental part of me said I should have picked it back up just like riding a bike. That my quads shouldn't be burning after 3 turns. My boots hurt, my skis are old. If I had better boots, better skis. But let's face it, I'm just old. I think that was the part that hurt the most. I've never considered myself old. Not until today. My knee is injured, I couldn't ski one run worth a shit, today sucked.

And that's why I spent two hours in the Glacier Creek Lodge. Listening to Queen, The Who and Canned Heat. Talk about old, Jesus. The 70's are still alive and kicking here in Canada, folks. I hear Mott The Hoople is up for a Juno this year. Hang tight.

This is the best thing I've read all week.

I was born with the anxiety gene. Martin without.

A peek into the brains of those less fortunate. :)

http://www.finslippy.com/finslippy/2007/12/the-worst-that.html

This post was prompted by my trip to the store today. Sitting in holiday traffic. Trying to find my happy place. Never ending shiz on the radio. Suddenly the fog lifted and I found myself singing every word to Icehouse's "Electric Blue". And instead of taking a sharp right off the Montlake Bridge as any normal human would, I thought, hey do I have this on my ipod? I confess. I love crappy music. I love it for its unabashed crappiness. I bask in its sheer craposity. You can't always share this with people. Most take themselves too seriously. A nod to Icehouse would be a blight on their personal record. But you can't truly appreciate good music unless you know what's shitty, correct? I like the spectrum. The nuance of crap. Maybe the nuance I speak of here is of the Cheesy variety. I don't know. Maybe I like Electric Blue because it reminds me of 7th grade and singing into my Clairol Makeup Mirror. Maybe I just have really bad taste in music. But it got me thinking, what other unspeakable's are hiding on my ipod? Downloads I won't admit to downloading. Songs no human in their right mind will admit to liking* Well, here you go everybody, the top 9 cheesiest songs on my ipod today**:

"Jive Talkin'" - Bee Gees     We all love to hate the Bee Gees but come on. They're catchy. Admit it. The beginning guitar pickin' sound? It's awesome. I'm going to ramp up the cheese factor by confessing I also dig "One" and "Alone" which were late 80's and early 90's Bee Gees songs that nobody should ever cop to knowing. Shame on me.

"Night Moves" - Bob Seger     Ooh. This one hurts me about as much as it hurts you, but it's true. How could I? Even worse? How could I own Bob Seger's Greatest Hits? I could easily pick any song on that album but this one is actually on my ipod. Oh Sweet Hosanna, I'm really digging myself in here. "Tight pants, points, hardly renown". You heavenly wordsmith, you. It's so wonderfully disturbing.

"Sister Golden Hair" - Bread     I have a soft spot for 70's hooks, what can I say. Obviously, I was born in the wrong decade. Although, I ask Martin and he doesn't remember half of these songs. I think it's because my parents owned a Chevy van with wall-to-wall red shag carpet. I was raised on 8 tracks. And my father owned one of those knitted Budweiser can hats.

"Somebody" - Depeche Mode    Now this one is embarrassing. Only because I truly thought this was The Way love was supposed to be back in the 80's. Oy, God. How gay. I, too, was 'carefully trying to steer clear of those things". Yikes.  What were 'those things'? My girlfriends and I would sit around and brush each others hair and marinate in our bereftness. So emo.

"Sara Smile" - Hall & Oates        Truth be told, this should be "She's Gone" but I don't technically have that on the ipod. Hall & Oates rocks my socks. This guys' too. WHAT is that?

"Do It To Me" - Lionel Richie   I will probably have to write a whole separate post on my relationship with Smooth Jazz. Suffice to say, I like the slow grooves. Unabashedly cheesey and saxophoney ones. With plenty of "motown lovin'". Lionel came out with a couple gems in the early 90's. I don't know why I like them. Again, I don't know what is wrong with me. It's not even Commodores Cool. It's like lame elevator rock. I am the first to admit it.

"Crazy Love" - Poco     The vocals on this song remind me of every song I heard when I was in kindergarten in 1980. Those were good times.

Entire Kamakiriad Album - Donald Fagen    Some Steely Dan songs are so retro their cool. Steely Dan has street cred. But only an absolute Donald Fagen fan would love every single song on Kamakiriad. Only an absolute dork fan would choreograph a whole dance in their living room to "Tomorrow's Girls". Ssshhh. Forget I told you that. There was wine involved and lots of snow. We were snowed in. And bored. And drunk. Sometimes, always actually, I feel way too young to like Donald Fagen as much as I do.

"Year of the Cat" - Al Stewart     I picture hilltop mansions in LA. Or the Regal Beagle. That's exactly what I see. Jack, Janet and Chrissy sipping Riunite on ice. That's nice. Sharing some calamari. How long is this song? It's one of those story-songs that takes you high and brings you way down low. It's Epic. Epically 70's.

*I can't even bring myself to put Lou Gramm's "Midnight Blue" on the list because it's so good. Anything that involves this:

You were the restless one
And you did not care
That I was the trouble boy
Lookin' for a double dare

Is f'ing sweet in my book.

**meaning, there could be crappier ones on there tomorrow, just wait.

Sometimes those animated greeting cards just make me want to slash my wrists and end the suffering as quickly as possible. This one Shelley sent me had me in tears. Of laughter.

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1176491072

Shelley just sent me her results from this race today:

http://results.active.com/pages/oneResult.jsp?pID=29165020&rsID=50503&pubID=3

I am so impressed! She has not had much time to train at all what with work and her heinous commute and trying to schedule stuff for us to do together around my exercising so to only be a couple of seconds slower than the Iron Girl 10 km run she did earlier this fall is awesome. Way to go.

That's right, you read it here first (if you read it on the Internet at all)! Today I married the woman I have been crazy about for the last three plus years.

Not to worry, I did not spend our wedding day on line writing this post... through the black box miracle that is blogging technology I am able to create a post and back-date it so what you are reading here was actually written after our wedding.

Hey, at the very least I had to wait and make sure this day was actually going to happen.

Pictures to follow once our photographer gets them to us.

Adendum

Here are the pictures.

Nice! Today Shelley ran twice around Green Lake (with a little detour thrown in) for her first running race since I have met her.

http://results.active.com/pages/oneResult.jsp?pID=25604014&rsID=48231&pubID=3

Okay, 10 km is 6.2 miles and so her pace is about 9:53? Her goal was to go under 10 minutes per mile so this is fantastic.