Man, the expression, "Seniority has its privileges" does not correspond directly to your chronological age; not by a long shot.

All plain old seniority gets you is cold hands.

I've been noticing that for the last several years my hands are getting colder and colder. I used to be able to ride my bike when it was in the mid 40s with no gloves at all. Not anymore. Shoot, now I go crying for the chemical hand warmer when it dips down close to 50.

The other day (read: about one month ago) I was at one of Cameron's ultimate Frisbee games and I was DYING. I had on two shirts, two jackets, long pants, warm shoes and my hands were like blocks of ice. I had brought along the digital camera to shoot some pictures and by the end of the game I could hardly turn the thing on or off.

I know your circulation to the extremities will usually deteriorate as you age but this is ridiculous. My hands looked all waxy and pasty and there were these lines across the backs of my palms - that would not go away - from the opening in my pants pockets.

You know it's bad when you can hardly unlock the car and all you have to do is push a button on the remote... :|

After winning about this for a couple of years to Shelley she finally did some research and came up with Raynaud's disease. I doubt this is it as I did not perceive any stress watching my son play ultimate but man, I need to figure this out. Then again, since stress is not the only cause and mere contact with cold can bring this on too, maybe there is some merit to this.

I'll just ignore this condition and eventually get frostbite. Yep, that's the ticket.

This entry is from Blog #2. The Sister Blog. Which really never had a chance to get its fledgling wings off the ground. Crippled as it was by the Ball and Chain of innate Harman Laziness. A laziness gifted to us in our DNA. A laziness so powerful it crushes souls. Or gets around to crushing them...someday. A laziness so complete it still has a Christmas Tree up in its living room in April. A laziness that prays for a rainstorm instead of heading down to the Brown Bear like every other normal human would. A laziness that is now medicated and isn't quite so lazy anymore.

But I digress.

Here's the post from last December about how much fun it is to ice skate at Seattle Center.

This past weekend we made a trip to the Seattle Center for a little holiday ice skating jam. I remember loving ice skating when I was young. Roller skating was really my thing but ice skates were also part of the repertoire. Shannon and I have pictures of ourselves skating at Lloyd's Center with our cooler older cousins circa what, 1980? Noses rosy. Asses soaked. Pant cuffs frozen and dragging under sharp skate blades. Was ice just softer then? Cause I swear to you, it's harder now. And my fear of snapping a bone has grown with my age. I took diggers all the time when I was a kid! What's my problem? God made dirt so dirt don't hurt. Right? Just dust it off, Nancy. And ice? That doesn't even stain...so who cares?

Apparently, I do.

The second my foot hit that ice, every joint seized up like a rusty bike chain. It doesn't help that the entrance to the rink is crowded. Parents holding kids, passing kids to other parents, tripping on other kids. Old folks who really do believe they're still adequately lubricated doing the one-legged dismount onto the ice and learning the hard way that you do not mess around with oil slicks, tight pants and a trick knee. The entrance was like a feeding frenzy in a koi pond: bodies pressed together until someone either pops out onto the rink or shoots back out onto dry land. This would be bad enough. However now there's this new invention, like bumpers in bowling for kids who can't keep it out of the gutter. I'll call it The Walker. It's a metal frame that looks like a walker for grandpas but with no wheels. And the perfect height for optimal shin damage. So kids hang onto this and, regardless of skating ability, they've got something to hold and can skate on their own. Kind of like grabbing the side of the pool when you can't swim. Except the side of the pool is portable. I'm all for leveling the playing field. Bowling bumpers are a nice way to let everyone enjoy the fun of bowling. I get it. That's awesome. But sometimes, requiring a certain skill set serves a purpose. Namely, keeping your teeth in your head and your blood off the ice. Tiny kids would latch onto the Ice Walker and shoot off, blades glinting, still wobbly to the brink of falling down every second. Just barely holding it together with each pump of their little legs, ankles frighteningly contorted and turned in, knees dutifully bringing up the rear. Some did dangerous high back kicks with tiny ninja skate blades. Others would gather some speed, put all their weight on their arms and let their feet fly forward: A mini metal snow plow spiralling across 4 lanes of skater traffic. Some gave up trying to hold onto it altogether and cracked their peanut noggins on the hardpack. Still others managed to get theirs airborne.

I couldn't tell who was worse, the kids with the walkers or the absolute nutzoid out of control parents who had no qualms about grabbing complete strangers as they went down in flames. Or the same crazy parents fighting at the rink entrance over the walkers for their equally crazy kids.

Just believe me when I tell you it was mayhem. Bedlam even.

At the Seattle Center they don't use a Zamboni, they just come out every 2 hours or so and sweep up the shavings. This leaves the ice so rutted. I've gone four-wheeling on dirt roads that had less washboarding. Skating a smooth straight line made my teeth clack together. I don't know how I managed to stay upright. It's possible the sheer number of people on the ice helped; you couldn't fall too far to the left or right without landing on somebody and bouncing back. Weebles wobble, People. I think I probably had some, "Isn't this FUN!" - in a totally manic/frightened/let it be over soon, God, way- smile on my face. And I KNOW I was skating a snails pace. My internal mantra was "Slow and Easy Wins the Race" interspersed with a random "Outta my way, Motherfucker". It was a little panic-inducing to say the least. Maybe it wasn't the actual falling that scared me. It was falling and being consumed by the swirling, peppermint-scented, sticky cloud of mitten and blade. A fate too often observed in my comrades of lesser balance. For a split second, I actually thought I ran over a toddler’s fingers. Another time, when something on the sidelines drew my attention, I looked back too late to find me butt-bumping some Bill Gates look-a-like and his wife. Eew.

I squeezed 45 minutes of skating out of my legs and then called it quits. I filled the fun meter. Punched the frivolity clock.

I've added a picture of me having said fun.*

*Notice one finger pointing straight to hell and my mouth saying "hot, hot, h-h-h-hot" a la Lou Costello.

As a nod to my two previous foray's into blogdom, I've decided to post a previous entry from both. This one I wrote almost 3 years ago when I  started reading all of Anthony Bourdain's books. I'm still a huge fan. I watch "No Reservations" whenever I can remember it's on and I've recently reread two of his books. I must have had some spare time on my hands for that one. Probably back when I wasn't training for that marathon. Interestingly, two people have told me they see why I fell for Marty as he has that certain jeu ne sais Bourdain: Tall, slender, curly dark hair, prominent bone structure, earrings, penchant for Levis. I guess I see what they're talking about. But Martin doesn't smoke nearly enough for me to truly love him. (I kid).

Ah yes. Annie Wilkes. The crazy chick in 'Misery'. The one who found James Caan in his car in the snow and kept him hopped up on goofballs so he'd keep writing his fancy books. She fed him tomato soup and bought him a typewriter and then hobbled him something good during an especially brutal bout of the "don't-ever-leave-me's". But she was his #1 FAN!!! I loved that line. I still use it sometimes. That and 'dirty birdy'. But Dirty Birdies aren't the point of my post today. What has brought me out of my blog retirement, you ask? What has prompted the return to my famous 4-entry wonder journal? Wasn't 4 enough? I figured 6 months had passed; it's time to give it another whirl. And I have a very important announcement to make. I am the new (and improved!) #1 fan of Anthony Bourdain. How did this happen? What about my infatuation with Bobby Flay? Why do I even give a shit in the first place? I need to break it down for ya. First of all, Bobby. Oh Bobby. We had a good run. I stumbled upon you in the very beginning. On your first show. I made your caesar salad dressing AND your roasted jalapeno salsa. We had a thing. But then I realized I really only loved you for your red hair and fair complexion. I liked the IDEA of you but your personality sucks. And like, the southwestern schtick is getting old. Branch out, dude. Everyone says you're an asshole but I don't agree. Plus, as we'll see with Tony B, being an asshole doesn't necessarily preclude you from being the object of my #1 Fan-Fare. The spell was broken when I couldn't find any of your cookbooks for less than $40. When I saw you sweating the pits out of your too-tight, purple, Tommy Bahama shirt, grillin' & chillin' on the deck of your pseudo-rooftop, Manhattan celebrity chef pad and when you went and married that bleached blond Harpie I spied in your 'studio audience' one too many times on Boy Meets Grill. That's another thing. You have too many shows. BBQ with Bobby Flay? Iron Chef America? Food Nation? Celebrity Kitchen Makeover or whatever it's called? Stop. Who is running your restaurant? Better yet, who is picking out those hideodorous tight button-ups that clash with your wonderful skin tone? Magenta? Think twice, Apple Spice. I still feel a little glowing ember of love for you, Brother that will glow on but as of today, if you plowed your car over a snowy embankment whilst trying to light your one celebratory Lucky Strike after putting the finishing touches on your new $50 cookbook that I can't afford and I happened upon your buried wreckage, I wouldn't steal you away to my doiley-lined, knick-knack infested, guest room so you could grill me meats forevermore. I think I would just call a tow truck.

But for Anthony? I would lump his 98lb carcass over the river and through the woods. It's not the cigarettes, former heroin addiction, bad taste in leather and tight pants, cheesy one-liners & potty mouth, the sad torch he still carries for 70's punk, the hatred of vegetarians. It's the nutty fact that these attributes don't make me want to kill him. I can stomach his painful posturing (with Samurai Swords!!) on the cover of Kitchen Confidential because he writes so well. If you can read his piece about eating his first oyster in France and not giggle or get misty, you're a rock. An island even. And a moron.

Anyone who can write like a champ, cook food I would never eat, be married to the same woman for 16 years* and drink like a fish is a-ok in my book.

That settles it, I'm making a t-shirt.

* Update: Bourdain has since divorced his wife and married some Italian chick and popped out a kid.