Eye Rolling

My daughter's teacher asked her what her parents do when they get mad. She said we sigh a lot. And we roll our eyes. And sometimes mom yells. And if it gets really loud and the children are just not listening to her yells, mom will pound her hand on the kitchen counter to make a point.

That'd be me. Sometimes eye rolling and sighing just aren't loud enough to get the point across, I guess. Although I don't do the hand pounding very often, because it hurts my hand and I'm a wimp.

Turns out the dog sighs a lot too. And harrumphs. I wonder if she's mad? Hard to tell with a dog. What does a sigh mean in dog language? If she were able to roll her eyes without looking rabid, she might. I don't think slamming her paw on the floor would make much of an impact.

I imagine you have to be careful about facial expressions when you're a dog, or people might tie you up in the barn (or the garage) for a few days to make sure you're not going mad. If dog's showed us their true feelings all the time, we might not feel as kindly toward them.

I wonder what the dog would tell her teacher about the other things the parents do at our house when the kids aren't there to monitor us. Now that could be embarrassing.

Hello Dalai

So, I got to see the Dalai Lama while I was in Seattle. Aunt Heidi volunteers for Seeds of Compassion http://www.seedsofcompassion.org/ and she scored us some tickets.

We walked 45 minutes from Capitol Hill down to Qwest Stadium, since we knew parking would be horrid. We got a little side-tracked, what with talking about soap making, herbal medicine, and stopping to smell the heavenly scent of spring Gardenias in a lovely garden along the way. So we were a tiny bit late getting there.

We heard the cheers while we were still 200 feet from the entrance. We saw the Lama on the big screen, walking out, onto the stage. He looked older than I was anticipating. He's in his 70's. He was much younger in that Brad Pitt movie "7 Days in Tibet."

We got frisked by nice, professional ladies on our way in, to make sure we didn't have weapons or cameras. I must admit, I felt a certain sense of doom after that. Not for being frisked, but at the idea that a terrorist might consider coming in and blowing up the Dalai Lama. Very sad and creepy and scary all at the same time.

We made it up to our seats after the Native dancers from different cultures had performed for him. We saw them walking back up to their seats. They had wonderful flower and feather head dresses and beautiful robes.

I have to tell you that the only time I got a little misty eyed that day was when the Chief of the Indian tribe native to Puget Sound spoke. He was an old man, in full ceremonial dress, with wonderful feathers near his ears. The close-up of his wrinkled face and piercing eyes was full- blown on the big screen. I wish I could find reference to his actual quote, but I can't even find reference to his name or his tribe's name in any of the news articles I found online, which makes me sad all over again.

So the chief got up and welcomed the Dalai Lama, as a great spirtual leader, to Seattle. And then the chief said thank you to the great people of this land, of this country, for inviting him to speak at this special event. He meant it in a heartfelt way, but the subtext floored me.

Clearly, this Indian Chief is still an outsider, in the middle of his ancesteral home, and yet was honored to be invited to speak to another holy man, who was living in exile too. But this humble, Native American Chief that most of us had never heard of, thanking Americans for inviting him, saying welcome to the Dalai Lama, who everyone outside of China reveres and worships...it just got to me.

Maybe Brad Pitt should make a movie about this Indian chief? Do you think the world would rally around this Chief, and help him help his people, the native tribe who live in near exile, outside of Seattle, forgotten on the desolate reservation?

Okay, sorry, I digress.

The rest of the event was nicely done, but predicatble, as these things are. Many local dignataries and politicians gave speeches and thanks and told about the good things they are doing. And it is all good, very, very good, and an appropriate place to tell the world how to honor children and live a life of compassion.

But man, it was hot, and most of us just wanted to hear the Lama. Can't help it, we're used to things moving faster, like in the movies.

So finally, the Dalai Lama had his turn to speak. He is charming and funny and truly able to speak from the heart, which is so very refreshing, of course. There's no way our politicians can speak they way he does. He can say politically incorrect things, and we laugh with him and nod and accept him as a man of spirit and a man of peace. We wish we could be more like him.

In our hearts we wish it were so easy to have an open dialogue where we all lay down our weapons and walk into the light of peace, but we know it is trickier than that. We know it's not so easy. And here's the great thing about the Dalai Lama: he knows that too. He doesn't talk without knowledge. He admits he is a spirtual man working for freedom and peace and compassion, not a politician, and that he doesn't know all the answers.

He is a practical man, the Lama, the living Buddha. He spoke in great length about his mother. He explained how he learned compassion from his mother, and that he was born of his mother's womb, and that she was a real person, not a lotus leaf.

He laughed with the audience, then. This was my favorite line of all, I think. So funny, and able to remind us he's a real person, and he knows it.

The Dalai Lama thinks if more women were in power, there would be less war.

He said women have more compassion naturally than men, because they bear the children and they have an innate need to protect, and men have more of an innate agression, to fight the foe who threatens him and his family and we can't change that, which is why more women need to lead (can you imagine Obama or Hilary saying this?)

I didn't necessarily feel a wave of enlightenment while watching him or being in a statium with him and 60,000 other people on a warm day in Seattle. But I truly appreciated him, and the tribal chief, in the way you appreciate all people who live their lives passionately and for the greater good.

I appreciated him as a real person, a wise person, an old person, and a frail person who must get exahusted traveling around the world at a hectic pace, spreading seeds of compassion as quickly as he can before his time to ascend to Nirvana arrives.

It was good to see the Dalai Lama in Seattle. It was good to see 60,000 people gathering together to hear words of wisdom.

And it was good that we are reminded that the seeds of compassion are planted in our hearts by our actions, and we have the power to change the world.

And I still remember how lovely the gardenias smelled on Capitol Hill.

Home Again, Home Again

I was out of town for 36 hours, exactly. It feels like I've been gone for 4 days. I don't know why. Is time slowing down, or is it just me?

Here's what I did:

1. 6:30 a.m. Friday, woke up, showered, shampooed and shined.
2. 7:30 a.m. went to Redmond, OR airport where I stood in line for about 20 seconds to make it through security. Easy peasy.
3. 8:30 a.m. flew to Seattle, got a rental car, started driving to my meeting in Redmond WA. I wonder how many Redmonds could I visit in a day?
4. 10:30 a.m. got stuck in bumper to bumper traffic near downtown Seattle, and remembered why I like living in Bend. Called boss to prep for meeting.
5. 11:30 a.m. had my meeting, it went well, feeling good, called boss.
6. 12:40 p.m., drove back to Capitol Hill in Seattle and wandered around, had lunch and worked on my laptop while flirting with cute bartender.
7. 3:00 p.m., went to "hip" loft studio to help set up for big party and fashion show for 500.
8. 4:20 p.m. spent 20 minutes attempting to fix myself up to look half as beautiful as the beautiful people setting up the party and practicing their modeling on the runway.
9. 4:45 p.m., called boss to prep for client meeting.
10. 5:00 p.m., met new clients and old friends at pre-party party. Forgot wallet in car, had to ask friend to pay the bill.
11. 6:00 p.m., took my group to the party. We had passes to the inner sanctum, but were told we couldn't enter until after the fashion show. Apparently, only the models and their handlers were allowed until 7:00 p.m. Still can't figure out why they were so quick to assume we weren't models or handlers.
12. 6:30 p.m. drank Vodka and Lavender soda with clients and ate lobster "corn dogs."
13. 7:30 p.m. scored seats in front of the runway with old friend/new client, a lovable tech nerd, who proceeded to tell me why the Milan fashion shows he went to with his super model relatives were far superior. It seems the models had feathers sticking out of their heads in Milan.
14. 9:00 p.m. convinced said Milan expert to let my company pitch services to his company. We can get feathers, and we know people who make custom feathers.
15. 9:30 p.m. heard from friends who babysat my other clients, that both are going to work with us. Feeling good, had another drink.
16. 9:45 p.m called boss to report all the good news.
17. 10:00 p.m. went to late dinner with an old friend, and ate pork chops.
18. 11:45 p.m. finally found my way to my brother in law's house, by calling him 3 times while driving.
19. 12:00 a.m. talked to brother-in-law about his upcoming world wide walking tour of Spain, India and Africa, and shared video blogging ideas to broadcast trip, live.
20. 1:15 a.m. put in earplugs to drown out snoring, and took an Ambien to kick start me into sleep land.
21. 8:00 a.m. boss called to chat about to do list for Monday.
22. 9:00 a.m. called home, talked to kids. Boy won the raffle prize at school carnival! Feeling a little homesick.
23. 9:30 a.m. went to African restaurant for delicious breakfast with brother-in-law and drank the best coffee I've ever had.
24. 12:00 p.m. walked 45 minutes down to Qwest stadium to see the Dalai Lama speak.
25. 2:00 p.m. wondered if I was enlightened, or just getting sunburned.
26. 3:30 p.m took cab back to my car on Capitol Hill, found my way back to airport.
27. 4:30 p.m. turned in my rental car, checked in, proceeded to airport security.
28. 5:00 p.m. had my bag searched in security line, including all my zip lock bags of feminine items, held up for everyone to see. So embarrassing.
29. 6:15 p.m. boarded plane back to Bend. Read New Yorker article about George Clooney.
30. 7:25 p.m. landed in Redmond, where my husband was waiting for me.

Jigeddy Jig.

Dalai Lama, the Dream

I had another dream about the Dalai Lama. I was in Seattle again last week for work, and last time I was up there, I saw him speak. Maybe my brain thinks I should see him every time I go to Seattle.

I work for a corporate event strategy company, so in my dream I was in charge of the entire Dalai Lama event. Everything went terribly, terribly wrong, in my dream. We did everything we tell our clients not to do.

We held the event in a badly lit hotel conference lobby. No one could hear. We broke every cultural custom we could think of, most likely offending him and his staff miserably, even though of course he was gracious and nice.

The place was filled with obnoxious, drunk, loud Americans. But the Dalai never stopped smiling his patient, understanding smile.

So, in my dream, I turned my speech into a "what not to do, and this is what I've learned from the world's greatest spiritual guru in the past 10 minutes, just by being here," thing. I was really summing up, I was on a roll. I told him if he'd give us another chance, we'd show him what we'd learned and do it right next time.

He asked if we could do international events, and I said "yes, yes we can!" like I always do, and I went into my speech about how we have people all over the world who understand local customs, we just didn't bring them to Seattle.

He asked if we took credit cards, and could we just bill him on a monthly retainer. This was starting to go well, I was seeing the deal close nicely, despite the miserableness. Inside, I was applauding my charm, my wit, and my ability to improvise. I'm good, really good, I told myself.

Then, in my dream, my boss interrupted me to tell him that we could find the best lemon chicken around for his dinner, and we knew a company that was making big strides in regrowing human hair that we could refer him to. She wasn't joking.

Finally, he stopped smiling.

I think we lost the deal.

Profound-ity

Blah, blah orange blah blah, blah blah.

Blah; blah blah blah, I tell you!

Apparently, blah blah blah - blah.

Blahblahblah, blah, and I'm not kidding.

I won't blah, blah blah blah, it's not right.

Blah blahblahblah, because I care about blah.

For real, for true, amen.

Lazy = Smart, Maybe?

I've been very lazy about this whole spring cleaning concept, but I did finally clean out the hall closet this weekend. I took all the snow pants and gloves and hats and scarves and boots out, since it's April now, and the weather's been warm and friendly lately. I've been putting it off, because I'm lazy, and I knew it'd be a big job.

I sorted by sizes and bagged up stuff that won't fit the kids next snow-season to give away. I organized all the gear into bins and drawers that go to the basement for storage, and the piles of bags that go to friends and Goodwill. And then I left them all in the hallway, and had a glass of wine and watched some more Indiana Jones.

Thank goodness for me, I'm still lazy at heart.

When I woke up this morning to an inch of snow on the ground, and flurries fluttering around my cold dog who just wanted to do her potty without getting her paws cold, I remembered those bags and bins in the hall. Even the dog's Ruff Wear Cloud Chaser winter coat is in a bag in the hall.

Well, I thought, good thing I didn't haul all those bags and bins to the basement! That was so smart of me.

Although, if I'd been even lazier, I never would have cleaned out the closet in the first place, and I'd be even smarter. Lesson learned.

"Mom fat stew?"

Someone in Korea reads my blog. I think that's pretty cool. So last night, after we ate our cake for dinner, we started running Queen songs through the Google Translator just for fun, to read what the Koreans see when they translate some of the world's greatest pop-songs into their native tongue.

Just for kicks, we ran my "Heavenly Chocolate Frosting" blog post from yesterday through the translator, in honor of my Korean reader.

This is funnier than the original post, by far, and I think "Mom fat stew?" would be good on the back of our Chubby Mommy Running Club t-shirts.

Pro heavenly chocolate sugar

But out of all of the people are hungry today. It is a rare, full, but today I am. It is a coincidence, I tell you.

When I was hungry, I go to the supermarket and buy the store - real good food and cooking dinner for everyone. But I do not hunger, and are not included in the mood for shopping nane (it is a coincidence!), A few things so I can decide for the rest of us, eating people in the house to eat. Maybe they get to fill baked, and I can not have dinner, I think.

My husband and the children in this house is very thin, and his hot furnaces that burn food in the belly of the remarkable speed. They had to eat a lot of calories daily. I am trying to get them to eat the "full" foods like rice cakes instead of the chips, but sometimes the husband to run out and buy the same things interesting bars, cookie jar so they survive suit.

Need about 1,800 calories a day just to maintain my chubbiness. While the order to lose two pounds a week, as I cut back to 1,400 calories and execution. It's the calm one. It's sad but true. However, I have all the people that the longer the famine. I hope alive, but the solitude. They do not eat me first. Mom, fat stew? I definitely bid and delicious.

My daughter is 14 years need to eat about 3,000 calories per day is required. She is 5'4 "and weighs 100 pounds, exactly, and the growth over time, she's a vegetarian, so we need to provide options for the good of her good health, do not forget, since she is not like vitamins, uninsured like the liver, or nuts, or most dairy products. chaeil eat cheese and eggs and some beans, and fruits and vegetables, bread.

It takes a lot of cheese and tomato string of 3000 calories. This child hunger, and sometimes I need to eat cakes like she was just enough to get her in the forest furnaces.

Today is one of those days. I made her scones in the morning, she has an orange for lunch, a vegetable omelet, popcorn for a snack. Forget. She needed. She found a box of cake, on the back of mixed groceries, and I showed her how to make chocolate butter cream from scratch.

Two sticks butter, coconut powder, powdered sugar, vanilla and a little milk. She is a whip with the mixer all bitgwadoegi teolyihapnida before. She was tested several times to make sure it tastes right, and to reinforce the body of her hunger, since the mixing process alone for at least make sure she burns 200 calories.

Willing to take her product to completion. "We eat a lot of sugar, it is easy procedure," she said, "This store - Sugar Mountain View a good professional, but a few After moisture, it's like - ick, I am enough - but is it? Do this, I could eat all day. I can not believe that people are nice in the store, even if they knew how friendly the purchase handmade, this is heaven for the taste of sugar pro? "

Oh yeah, they saw in the sky day after day, eating sugar professional, I think. This can even eat dogs in heaven, perhaps, and never sick. In fact, I bet my grandmother was feeding her dog, yet all we have to say chocolate butter cream. They were all sitting in front of her to be ready for what she was asked to do the trick, it's just a lick - spoons of sugar from the beginning, she was perfectly teolyihapnida pro. Do not store for them, of course - San pro sugar settled in heaven.

We do not move to the church, so we have our own ideas to get compensation for heaven, thank you. It is a delicious place, we think. They probably do not tteokeuldo there, and there is no need to run.

Heavenly Chocolate Frosting

Everyone is hungry today but me. It's rare that I'm full, but today I am. It's a fluke, I tell you.

When I'm hungry, I go to the store and buy super-good groceries and cook real dinners for everyone. But I'm not hungry, and I'm not in the mood to shop (that's a fluke too!) so I decided we could bake some things for the rest of the people in this house to eat. Maybe they'll get filled up on the baked things, and I won't have to make dinner, I thought.

The children and the husband at this house are quite thin, and have hot furnaces inside their bellies that burn up food at an alarming rate. They need to eat a lot of calories every day. I try to get them to eat "whole" foods like rice cakes instead of chips, but sometimes the husband has to run out and buy things like Nutty Bars and Ruffles just so they can survive.

I only need about 1800 calories a day to maintain my chubbiness. In order to lose 2 pounds a week, I have to cut back to 1400 calories and run. It's true. Sad, but true. However, I will outlast everyone in a famine. I'd be lonely, but alive. Unless they eat me first. Chubby Mommy Stew? I'm sure I would be tender and tasty.

My 14 year old daughter needs to eat about 3,000 calories a day. She's 5'4" and weighs exactly 100 pounds, and growing by the minute. She's vegetarian, so we have to remember to give her good options for good health, since she doesn't like vitamins, isn't fond of soy, or nuts, or most dairy products. She'll eat cheese and eggs and some beans, and fruits and veggies and bread.

It takes a lot of string cheese and tomatoes to get to 3,000 calories. This kid gets hungry, and sometimes she just needs to eat things like cake to get enough wood into her furnace.

Today was one of those days. I made her scones in the morning, she had an orange, a veggie omelet at lunch, popcorn for snack...forget it. She needed more. She spotted a box of cake mix in the back of the pantry, and I showed her how to make chocolate butter cream frosting from scratch.

Two sticks of butter, coco powder, powdered sugar, vanilla and a little milk. She whipped it all together with the mixer until it was light and fluffy. She taste tested it several times, to make sure it was just right, and to fortify her hungry body, since the mixing process alone surely burned up at least 200 calories for her.

The finished product delighted her. "It's easy to eat a lot of this frosting," she said "that store- bought frosting looks good, but after a couple of bites, it's like - ick, I've had enough - but this? I could eat this all day. I can't believe people would even buy that store kind if they knew how to make this homemade kind. Is this what frosting tastes like in heaven?"

Oh yes, they eat this frosting in heaven every day, I think. Even the dogs in heaven can eat this, probably, and not get sick. In fact, I bet my Grandma is feeding all her old dogs chocolate butter cream frosting as we speak. They're all sitting in front of her, ready to do any trick she asks, just for a lick-spoon of perfect fluffy frosting that she made from scratch. I'm sure they don't settle for store-bought frosting in heaven.

We don't go to church, so we get to make up our own ideas about heaven, thank goodness. It's a delicious place, we think. They probably don't even have rice cakes there, and you don't have to run.

Why I Married a Smart Guy

A girl loves softball. A boy loves baseball. A mom sees a good way to get them both outside and out of her hair.

1. The Mom buys a "pitch back" net at the store.
2. The Mom hates puzzles.
3. The Mom asks the smarty pants Dad, who's good at puzzles, to put it together.
4. The Dad is busy changing the world, he says he'll do it later.
5. The Mom dumps everything out of the box, but can't find the directions.
6. The Mom mentions to the Dad that it seems all the parts aren't included.
7. The Dad sits at the computer and rolls his eyes.
8. The Mom puts the frame together, she's quite proud. She just has to put on the net.
9. The Mom calls in the Boy, to show off, and prove she is smart and wonderful.
10. The Boy is delighted. He is impressed. He hugs the Mom.
11. The Girl views the progress from the top of the stairs. She's not ready to celebrate, yet.
12. The Mom and the Boy work on attaching the net, but the hooks don't work.
13. The Mom realizes she forgot to attach the hooks to the frame, so she can't attach the net.
14. The Mom disassembles the entire frame.
15. The Mom finds the directions in the hook bag. Eureka!
16. The Boy helps the Mom slide all the hooks onto the pieces of frame.
17. The Mom reassembles the frame. It looks different this time, for some reason.
18. The Dad and the Girl observe from afar. They are quiet.
19. The Mom shows the Boy how to attach the net to the hooks.
20. Huh.
21. Something is not right.
22. The net is too small.
23. The Dad takes the dog for a walk.
24. The Girl goes back to her room to read her book.
25. The Boy says encouraging words, to help the mom figure out a solution.
26. The Mom sighs. She is stumped. She says we need Dad after all.
27. The Boy agrees. He sits and waits for the Dad. He is a patient Boy.
28. The Mom leaves the room.
29. The Dad comes back. For some reason, he is not surprised.
30. The Dad takes apart the frame, the net, the hooks, and puts them all back together again.
31. The Boy helps the Dad attach the net.
32. The Girl comes down to look.
33. The Dad takes the Girl and the Boy and a ball and a bat to the park.
34. The Mom is not so dumb after all.

Blogging the American Dream

I've been going through all my email, trying to clean and purge and organize. Email is a little easier to keep clean than the five bathrooms in this house, so I feel a real sense of accoplishment when I flush away the unwanted messsage crap, and it doesn't leave a nasty stain I have to scrub away with a pumice stone.

I try to delete as much old email as I can, but I put the stuff I really like into folders marked "personal." Some prolific friends even have their own little folder.

Last year, before I started blogging, I wrote a lot of email to friends chronicling my hopes and dreams for the day, the week, the month, the year. I saved some of them, as a kind of diary, since I had a lot going on last year. It's a little weird reading all those emails now.

Emails to friends are different than blog posts. Blogging is much more public, and controlled. Perhaps email should be, but it just seems like talking on the phone to me. I know it's technically public, but it seems private.

Who really cares about the little mundane, everyday things you write to your friends privately, in email day in and day out? Is anyone really going to hack into my personal email to read about my friend's new puppy, or look at my kid's teacher's "What's happening in 3rd grade this week" note?

I have a friend who built a new house last year, and we wrote a lot of emails to each other about picking out the colors of tile and paint and floors. We were giddy about her new kitchen cupboards. We love how they close themselves eloquently with a mere, soft, one-fingered touch.

Here's my big, deep, profound quote about kitchen cupboards:

"It's a short life, and it's really, really cool to have cupboards that close with a touch. I mean, really, it is cool."

My friend wondered if she was being silly to spend so much of her day thinking about this stuff and worrying about little things like the best shade of green for her bathroom.

Of course I told her it wasn't silly, it was her life. And further more, for some odd reason, I was interested in hearing about the little things in her life, because I think she's interesting, and she likes to hear about my life, and that's why I hang out with her.

So why do we blog for strangers and read stranger's blogs? Blogs are little peices of personal real estate; little houses we build, and live in, and show off to anyone who wants to look. Blog worlds are like the pictures of clean houses in magazines: a stylized version of real life. We like to look in the windows of other people's houses, to see how they live.

We like to live in our blog world when we can, it's our chosen home with nifty push-button cupboards. It's a story, in words and pictures, of our hopes and dreams. A controlled story. A public story.

But the best blogs are filled with authentic stories. The cool bloggers are transparent. They let you see their real lives, their real houses, even their junk drawer and cluttered garage, if they have one.

Because a new puppy and third grade are interesting, in their own way, if a writer can capture the reasons and present a clean, clear picture of why. We like to read about the American dream, so we know what it looks like when we see it.

Being Scared of Fawn

I've been thinking about Fawn's suggestion (was it a dare?) that I sign up for the "training for the Dirty Half" marathon group that meets on Saturday mornings. The new session starts this Saturday.

This idea is causing me angst.

Part of me wants to do it just because of the name "Dirty Half." I've never trained for anything, and this seems like a good first thing to start with, if I have to choose something. It kind of reminds me of "Dirty Martini" which I don't really like, but one of my friends does, and she's so cool, I want to be like her.

Part of me is totally chicken, because if I say yes and then drop out, well, it's kind of embarrassing to publicly admit you paid money to run with people, then quit. I mean, quitting on my own self, for free, doesn't seem so bad. I have a history of that, in fact, and it's no secret that my entire running career has been full of starts and quitting.

And part of me is just being reasonable, because I'm still 20 pounds over weight, I travel a lot for work, and a half marathon seems like it might hurt. Running 3 miles a few times a week, whenever I get in the mood (even if I have to force myself to get in the mood) is doable for my poor, overworked knees. But running 30 miles a week or more? Seems like a lot of work.

When I was much thinner and in good shape a few years ago, I ran 6 or 7 miles a few days a week. But if I run too much, too fast when I'm this chubby? I'll end up hurting my knees, probably.

There's this little tiny part of me that thinks maybe this is a good idea. That nagging voice in my head that likes a challenge. It says "maybe this will give you a goal, and since you've always been goal driven, this could be a turning point for you. This could be the spring where you force yourself to turn into a real runner, even it's just for a little while."

I think the voice just wants me to be like Fawn.

The thing is, Fawn looks like a runner. She looks like her knees will hold up to 21 miles of pounding the pavement. I've never looked like Fawn, even when I was much thinner. I've never had a typical "runner's" body. I've got more of a 1950's housewife look. Like I should be wearing an apron and baking a cupcake. Maybe do a little gardening.

Now, I look more like a Lane Bryant ad. I'm not knocking those Lane Bryant girls, more power to them, and I'm sure they are in good shape. I'm just saying I'm not sure they will be running marathons or half marathons when they're 42. Maybe they are swimmers. Probably not marathoners.

For the record, I don't really like swimming so much. I hate what it does to my hair, and I hate feeling like I might drown if I get too tired. At least if I get tired during the Dirty Half, I could just stop and get a Power Bar at the aid station, right?

Yum. Power Bars.

So, dear readers, give me your advice and opinions. I'm easily swayed. Should I run away from Fawn, or embrace the dare?