Looking a Lot Like Christmas

Behold, the Christmas tree!

With the help of my wonderful mother, I finally put up this year's Christmas tree.  We picked it out carefully and after much deliberation at Home Depot.  Actually, it was the tree in the front of the pile, and it was so heavy we could barely carry it to the front, where a nice and rather burly man trimmed the trunk and bottom branches before wrapping it netting and tying it to the top of my car.  Hooray!

Once home and secure in its stand, we tucked twinkly white lights between its bushy boughs and then began adorning it with my eclectic collection of ornaments from around the world, gathered on my travels and given to me by friends. There are glass balls from Egypt, cloth camels and wooden bells with desert scenes from Dubai, delicately painted blown eggs and blue ceramic stars from Prague, colorful glass cones and balls painted with country village abodes from Jordan, hand-carved nativity scenes also from Jordan, Santa with a grass skirt and lei from Hawaii, a tiny windmill from Holland, bagpipes from Scotland, and even a big cow's face that I must have picked up at the Ben & Jerry's factory in Vermont.  There are also assorted bells, jolly Santas and snowmen, and two pretty stained glass stars from my Aunt Bev that reflect the light just right.  Every tree-trimming party is filled with exclamations of delighted surprise, as I rediscover ornaments I'd forgotten I had.

Once the tree was sufficiently dressed and the boxes put back in the closet, my mom and I had way too much fun taking pictures of ourselves with the Christmas tree.   

Now it finally feels (and smells) like Christmas.  Thanks, Mom!

All Dressed Up

My forays into the gay community of Washington, DC, continued last night at my friend Dave's annual Christmas party, featuring an amazing dinner and a rather competitive gift exchange. (Unlike last year's NYE party at Dave's, this time I was not the only woman in attendance.) Here I am pictured with my good friend Randall and his partner Mario--both delightful souls who always make me feel beautiful, interesting, and worth knowing.  How is it that the gay men are better at that than the straight ones I meet?

No matter.  

It was a fun way to celebrate the Christmas season and gave me an excuse to get all dressed up for an evening out, even if none of the men there were checking me out.  (Truth be told, that was probably a good thing, as the neckline of my dress kept puckering and slipping to show a little too much cleavage. Oops!)  I think I looked pretty great, if I do say so myself!

A Clean Room and a Christmas Goat

I've had multiple blog posts floating around in my head recently, but haven't gotten around to putting any of them on paper.  Instead, you're getting this random post with some random photos.

The nondescript scene above is a corner of my bedroom, a corner that, up until a couple of days ago, was littered with piles of papers, notebooks, and folders, as well as a clear plastic box with colorful files hanging inside it.  I pulled all that detritus out of my closet more than 18 months ago in a moment of organizational fervor, determined to cull and tame it.  After paring it down and putting a few things in the files, however, I lost steam, and shoved it into the corner until such time as I felt motivated to revisit it.  Thus has it languished, untouched and gathering dust, since May 2012, as my neat freak mojo went into hiding.

At long last, last Tuesday I finally felt the uncontrollable itch to tackle those piles and take no prisoners.  I sorted and organized that clutter once and for all.  I put a pile of papers at least a foot high into the recycling bin and shredded another large stack.  Hurrah for throwing stuff out! Hurrah for getting my neat freak mojo back!

Every time I look in the corner now, I feel a little giddy.  It's so liberating to be free of that mess!  If the space were bigger, I'd do a little jig on the spot to celebrate. 

And now, for something completely different, I give to you: a Christmas goat.

This adorable little farm animal was part of a live Christmas nativity held in a church parking lot in south-eastern Virginia over the weekend.  He was so cute, I wanted to take him home with me.  (Hey, now that the corner of my bedroom is clean, I have a bit more space in here.) Naturally I had to pet the goat and talk to him in a goopy baby-talk voice.  He acted aloof but I'm sure he liked it. The nativity also featured a donkey, a baby bull, a bigger brown goat, a llama, and some people.  None of them was very cute or worth smuggling into the back seat of my car.

There you have it, folks!  Another scintillating episode in the life of the Adventuring Spinster!

And to all, a good night.

Don't Mess With Texas

I stood over my suitcase with two shirts in hand, trying to decide which one to take with me on my trip to Austin, Texas.  It was my first visit to the state and I was unsure what to expect, both from the weather and from the state itself.  I was well-versed in the stereotypes that came with Texas's reputation:  guns and pick-up trucks, intense state pride, outspoken--even radical--conservatives everywhere you looked, and vast quantities of meat at every meal.  How would a pacifist liberal like me be received?  At least I like meat.

Thankfully I didn't encounter any guns, radical conservatives (that I know of), or over-the-top displays of state pride while I was in Texas.  In fact, I found Austin to be a beautiful, green, eclectic city with a vibrant home-grown music scene and very affordable housing to boot!

View from the top of Mt. Bonnell

My friends Jess and Lucie were excellent hosts.  Although my visit was short, we hit many of the Austin "must-sees," had authentic barbecue (the rumors about the meat were true) and delicious Tex Mex, and heard some live music.

Mmm, barbecue ribs (very smoky flavor!)

One morning Lucie and I went for a walk around the lovely Lady Bird Lake--actually one of several reservoirs of sorts in the city caused by the damming of the Colorado river.  We pushed her baby in a stroller along the wide dirt path, bordered by plentiful foliage.  Runners and fellow walkers bounded around us on all sides.  Boats glided up and down the lake and the elegant Austin skyline was close at hand.

Lady Bird Lake.  The words "Never Give Up" are written next to the Pac Man cartoon on the side of the railroad bridge in the top photo.  A random tree sculpture representing "drought" was also in the lake.

Another morning we went for a bike ride.  Before Lucie and Jess moved to Austin, Lucie and I were biking buddies here in DC.  We got to know each other as we pedaled past the Potomac River together over the course of many months.  It was a real treat to ride with her again, even more so because we rode part of the LiveStrong Challenge route.  Our ride took us through the charming hamlet of Buda, past country cemeteries, and through scrubby countryside.

Lucie's bike; Buda facades; Halloween "cheekiness"

We also rode over a river that had clearly been gorged in a recent bout of flooding.  The most obvious signs of the magnitude of the flood's fury were all the debris that had been washed up into the trees. Check out the lawn chair that's hanging high in the tree on the left!

As a random side note, I also saw a real pomegranate tree with real pomegranates.  Yes, that round red fruit with the tart seeds that are so hard to get out, growing there in front of me on a big, bushy tree.  What an unexpected delight!  Do you think I could grow one of those in my apartment?

After such a nice weekend in Texas, I'm a fan.  While I'm sure there are guns and pick-up trucks enough to go around, I also found warm hospitality, good food, a lively cultural scene, and abundant natural beauty.  I can see why Lucie and Jess have decided to settle there.  

Next time I go visit, I'd like to see San Antonio and the Alamo, and I think I need to eat more of that fine Texas meat.

Trees on Fire

Autumn colors have been in overdrive here in Washington, DC, the past few weeks.  Here are a few photos I snapped during a recent walk and during a bike ride through Georgetown.

Mounds of color on the Potomac River

 

Red roses, red berries

A boat cruises the Potomac toward the Key Bridge

Confluence of colors

This grand tree looks like it's ablaze

My First Century

Every so often in life, something momentous happens.  These events are even more remarkable when they're the result of your own blood, sweat, and tears.  Or at least your own sweat.  I sweat a LOT when I ride a bike in 88-degree heat, especially when I'm riding ONE HUNDRED MILES.  

To cut to the chase, it was hard, friends, very hard.  I asked myself more than once why I was putting myself through it.  I say with no exaggeration that my glutes have never worked as hard or been as sore as they were at the end of this ride.  Actually, I hurt all over and really wanted a massage.  Would it sound indecent to ask for just a butt massage?

My first century ride was a long time coming.  Year after year I'd set myself the goal of riding a century and year after year, I'd not train enough or let myself be intimidated by the triple-digit mileage or simply put it off.  Not so, 2013!

After an early morning full of delays, I finally set out, accompanied by three friends who quickly shot ahead of me.  They later waited until I caught up and then one of them, Joanne, rode with me nearly the entire time, even though she was clearly a much faster rider. 

"It's your first century," she said when I thanked them for waiting for me.  "I want to see you finish it."  It was an incredible act of friendship and solidarity for which I am extremely grateful.
 
The day started hazy and still but quickly turned hot, humid, and windy.  The route was flat and rural, clogged with 7,000 other avid cyclists of all shapes, sizes, and ages riding equally diverse bikes.  We passed random people out on their front lawns cheering us on and ringing cow bells.  Never underestimate the power of the cow bell.  

Miles 0-50 were pleasant.  Joanne and I chatted and admired the scenery.  I chewed on thick energy bars while I rode in an effort to keep my strength up during the 20 miles between rest stops.  We passed farms and fields and country churches of all denominations, rode through forests and occasional small towns.  We passed cyclists and were passed in turn by others churning their pedals in a steady cadence. 

Miles 50-64 were solely about getting to Assateague Island and the rest stop there.  It was in the parking lot next to the dunes--full sun with no shade, heat wafting up off the asphalt.  To get there, we had to ride over a bridge.  I whimpered when I saw the incline of the bridge, modest as it was.  The thought of exerting more effort when I was already so tired was almost too much.  Of course, when I actually started riding up the bridge, it wasn't difficult at all.  On the other side was a stretch of marshland leading to the beach.  I spotted a wild horse grazing in the distance.  

Once at the rest stop, we met up with the guys, downed a PBJ, and stretched our legs.  I was closing in on the upper limit of how many miles I'd ridden previously and I was more than a little nervous about what the next third of the race would bring.

Descending the bridge to Assateauge; me in front of the dunes at the rest stop; Assategue's wild marshland

Miles 64-100 were pure muscle pain and Little Engine-style "I think I can! I think I can!" self-pep talks.  Somewhere around mile 68, it started raining men--on my iPod, that is.  I turned on my On the Go playlist to distract myself from my aching legs until I caught up with Joanne, who had managed to get ahead with her swift pace. Throughout the ride, she pushed me to go faster than I otherwise would have.  Left to my own devices, I would have given in to the pain and slowed down, which ultimately would only have prolonged the agony.  When I got really tired, I tucked in behind her and focused on the motion of her feet pumping steadily round and round and round.  The rest of the world didn't matter, only the constant movement of the pedals--hers and mine--pushing us ever closer to the finish line.

The group forged ahead from the last rest stop, at mile 85, leaving me to spend a few more minutes gathering strength for the final stretch.  I ate some ice cream and a bagel, listened to the live band playing under a tent in the middle of a field behind a church.  I noted the father-daughter duo with matching jerseys coming towards the food tables.  The daughter looked like she was about 12 years old.  When I was 12, bikes were for riding around the neighborhood to get to your friends' houses, not for long-haul journeys just for the fun of it.  What was this sport called cycling? 

When I hit mile 90, I knew I had done something extraordinary.  I was entering truly uncharted territory.  The farthest I'd ever ridden before was 89 miles, and that only once, several years ago, unplanned. (Okay, I was trying to impress a boy.  Not recommended.)  From here on out, it was all new.  

Mile 90 was also when I began to feel that I really would finish this beastly ride.  Not that I'd had doubts about finishing before, but with only 10 miles to go, finishing suddenly felt more tangible. Only 10 more miles.  I could do 10 miles.  Ten miles is easy.  I was really going to complete this century thing!

At mile 94 I passed three people sitting in chairs on their front lawn, ringing cowbells for every cyclist who passed.  A huge sign next to them said, "You can do it, cyclists!  Only 6.5 miles to go!"  I waved and smiled and thanked them as I passed.  Wow, how that cow bell spurned me on!

A couple of miles later I came to a busy intersection where state troopers were directing traffic to allow the cyclists to pass through safely.  As I approached, I spotted one state trooper walking slowly and monitoring the riders.  

"Feel the burn!" I heard him shout.  "Come on, cyclists!  Finish strong!"  He was suddenly my own personal drill sergeant, pushing me to keep going, and it worked.

"Yes sir!" I thought.  "I will finish strong!"  

Suddenly, I felt more energy than I had for the past 30 miles.  The pain in my legs disappeared.  I started pedaling faster.  I shifted into a higher gear.  I passed other riders going up the incline of an overpass and surged ahead.  Now I was back in town, closing in on the finish.  The numbers on my odometer ticked closer to 100 with every pedal stroke and I saw signs and people pointing the way to the finish line a hundred yards ahead.  My friends were there on the sidelines waiting for me, waving and cheering.  I rode under the balloon banner, euphoric, completing my first century ride.

 

Total time: Eight hours.  Riding time: 6:37.  Just what I'd expected.  I was happy.

 

After the ride, when all the pedaling was over and I was putting things away in my car, I had a surreal moment of wondering if I'd really just accomplished this long-sought feat, or if it had just been a dream.  All the toil and muscle pain and sweat and saddle soreness, all the miles and rest stops and corn fields--did I really experience all that was in my memory?  It didn't seem now like it was really that hard or really that long, even though I knew it was.  My odometer and my sore muscles proved it.  

It's a funny thing about cycling.  You end up right back where you started, and yet not where you started at all, because those hard-earned miles change you a little bit.  You set off feeling hopeful, determined, energized, and maybe even a little bit apprehensive.  Miles later, you come back exhausted, hungry, and very, very smelly, but knowing with certainty that you have the power to go as far as the open road does, and even beyond it, as long as you keep pedaling.  

Oh, and don't forget to take along a cow bell.

It's Shutdown Thursday!

Dear Congress,

Thank you for bickering, grandstanding, politicking, and defaulting on your promise to govern our nation responsibly, all so that thousands of federal workers and contractors could have a few extra days off this year.  It really was extremely considerate of you, forcing us all to stay home for a week...or three or four.  After all, we keep the nation's vital services running, keep you safe, even help the economy by staffing and maintaining our national parks, monuments, and museums where tourists spend lots of money.  You obviously wanted to pay us back for that--especially those government workers whose salaries have been frozen for the past three years (I notice your salary goes up every year) and who had to take a significant pay hit this past summer when you couldn't stop arguing long enough to prevent sequestration.  I think I speak for everyone who's now home instead of at work when I say, you really shouldn't have.

I'm sure you'll be glad to know that I have been using this forced stay-cation to catch up on a number of projects around the house and get in some extra bike rides.  At least the shut-down happened when the weather is fine, rather than in, say, January.  That was considerate of you.  Here are a few things I've been doing to stay productive while waiting for you to get your act together.
 

Heap of memories

1.  Sorting and throwing out old photos.  I had stack upon stack of photos of people whose names I no longer remember and hazy vacation shots I haven't looked at in 20 years, not to mention all the duplicate prints.  I don't think I'll miss them.

2. Reorganizing all my books and book shelves.  I was able to clear two whole shelves and found space for all the childhood and college journals I recently brought back from my mom's house.  Room for new books! Yay!

3.  Catching up on superhero movies.  Today I watched Thor and earlier in the week I watched Captain America.  What's next?  Maybe the Green Lantern? 

4.  Turning old shirts into cleaning rags.  I now have enough rags to dust everyone's house (but don't ask me to).

5.  Dusting, laundry, errands, and generally checking every small thing off my To Do list.

6.  Meeting with furloughed friends for frozen yogurt.  (We can't afford to actually meet for lunch or dinner since who knows when we'll next get paid!)

7.  Bike rides and more glorious bike rides!  It's so nice to ride during the day, when I have the trail practically to myself.

With no way of knowing how long this shutdown will last, I have no idea whether I should spread out all of my projects or accomplish them as quickly as I can.  It would be much easier to plan if only we could count on you, Congress, to move with any degree of alacrity to end this shutdown.  However, since you've demonstrated repeatedly they you are entirely incapable of that, we all must content ourselves with superhero movies and long To Do lists.  Oh, and bike rides.

Yours Sincerely (and with lots of free time on my hands),
M

Amish and Corn Fields and Bikes! Oh My!

My arms were shivering.

Or they would have been if Linda hadn't loaned me her fleece-lined jacket.  For all my obsessive planning, early packing, and double-checking of my gear, I neglected to bring a jacket, a long-sleeved jersey, or arm-warmers.  Somehow that weather forecast of early-morning temps in the high 50s and low 60s didn't register when I was making my DO NOT FORGET list for this trip.

Luckily there was a guy selling biking gear on a little cardboard table who just happened to have some arm warmers that fit.  I nearly kissed him from relief.  No, not really.  He wasn't that cute.

The morning was clear and crisp.  Linda and I had both slept poorly in our hotel beds and took awhile to shake off our grogginess.  We took our time getting ready, pulling on our padded shorts and fingerless gloves, pumping up our tires and stuffing extra food into our jersey pockets.  All around us in the parking lot, other cyclists were doing the same.  We smeared sun screen over our faces, arms, and legs, and pinned ride numbers to the back of each others' jerseys.

Pre-ride, with my new arm-warmers

At last we made our way to the starting line and joined the hundreds of other riders gradually leaking out of Dover's Legislative Green onto its city streets, where policemen were directing traffic to let us pass, and then into the blissfully flat Delaware farmland beyond.  

We kept a consistent, fast pace, faster than I've ever ridden on a long-distance ride, easily overtaking other riders who clogged the street.  We wouldn't have impressed pro-cyclist Bradley Wiggins but I was thrilled by our speed.  Linda, I could tell, is a fast rider.  She's used to mountain bike races and triathlons where you have to bolt out of the gate and give it all you've got.  Nevertheless, she hung with me and paced herself.

By the first rest stop at mile 24, it was warm enough to peel off the arm-warmers.  The Baptist church's parking lot was packed with at least 300 cyclists milling about and a line for the port-a-potties that was 20+ people long.  We gulped down PBJ sandwiches and a banana while stretching our legs. 

The first rest stop

Setting out again, miles of corn and potato fields flew past us.  Dozens of small churches sat quietly, waiting for Sunday meetings.  The hoards of cyclists thinned out until we had the road nearly to ourselves.  We breathed in fragrant, pungent country air and tried to avoid squashing the plethora of fuzzy caterpillars making their way across the road every few dozen feet.

We passed Amish children sitting in their front yards, watching the spectacle.  The boys wore matching light-blue button-down shirts and suspenders while the girls wore plain cotton dresses in bright colors with white bonnets on their heads, the ties hanging down by their cheeks.  They smiled and waved at us as we passed.

At the second rest stop, a guy at the medic station was being treated for abrasions on his cheeks, lip, and chin--the result of a massive face plant a few miles back.  He said his teeth were numb.  That's right, his teeth were numb.  The nurses worried that he had done serious damage to the bones in his face, including his eye socket and mandible, and urged him to let a support vehicle take him to the finish.  Though he could barely talk for his wounded lip, he insisted he was well enough to ride his bike to the finish and then drive himself to the ER.  Ah, the stubbornness of cyclists!

Miles 44-52 were a struggle.  My legs felt sluggish and we pushed against pockets of wind.  The shot blocks I had snagged from Linda during the first half of the ride made my stomach cramp from the concentrated rush of sugar. I sucked down more water to push it through my system, hoping my tummy would stop clenching.  I also had to remind myself to keep drinking so my legs wouldn't cramp up.  Unfortunately, all that water did nothing to stop my saddle area from going numb, which was arguably worse than either stomach or leg cramps.

And then we were in the home stretch!  Farmland transitioned to suburbs and suburbs became commercial streets.  The odometer kept ticking upward, upward, closing in on our target distance of 62 miles.  My nether regions were numb and my legs weren't too happy either.  I really wanted a nap.  I ignored my body's protests and kept going, rhythmically pedaling to propel myself forward no matter what.  At mile 62.7, we crossed the finish line, smiling for the photographer who snapped our pictures to welcome us.  Suddenly it was over and we'd barely registered where we'd been.  We were supremely conscious of the miles we'd traveled but not the space those miles occupied.  All we knew is we had worked hard and achieved something terrific.

Every cyclist knows that at least half the pleasure of riding long distances is in the post-ride meal.  Today was no exception.  Tents with a barbecue feast were waiting for us on the Legislative Green: pulled pork and chicken, potato salad steeped in mayo, coleslaw, baked beans, and cookies.  Sitting down on a rickety folding chair to eat never felt so good. 

Getting ready to devour the post-ride lunch

My nose is now slightly sun-burned, my body weary, and my cycling clothes in need of some strong laundry detergent.  It's hard to explain why something so physically demanding and even downright uncomfortable at times is still so enjoyable.  And yet, it lifts the soul.  Endorphins probably have a lot to do with it.

I saw a poster last week that encapsulates why I continue to put myself and my body through days like this one.  It said, "You can't buy happiness but you can by a bike and that's pretty close."  Indeed it is.

The Bicycle Diaries

It's amazing how much more time I've had to ride my bike this summer since not having a boyfriend!  Every outing on the bike is a delight and a revelation, an uber-feast for the senses and a journey of discovery about the stuff my inner stuffing is made of. 

Typical pre-ride prep

A few highlights, in pictures.

First there was the 20-mile Peach Tree loop in Maryland.  (We never did figure out why it's called that.)  That's me in the Hello Kitty jersey in the top photo.  Check out how long my hair is!

Then I road the Indian Head Rail Trail in Southern Maryland--truly a gem of a trail.  Flat, scenic, nearly deserted, 26 miles round-trip.

In July I was part of a brutal group ride from College Park, MD, to Annapolis, MD, and back on one of the hottest days of the year, when the heat index went over 90 degrees F.  (That's into the 30s for you Europeans.)  The untested route was meant to be 63 miles but with all the wrong turns and retracing of steps, we actually rode 72 miles.  When we finally arrived back at the starting point, one guy exclaimed, "I've never been so happy to see this car in my life!"  Amen, dude!  We did have some pretty glimpses of the water, and we passed by the entrance to the US Naval Academy (bottom right).

Last but not least was a terrific 44-mile ride from Annapolis up to Baltimore, around the Baltimore airport, and back to Annapolis. We had a fantastic view from atop a hill behind the airport of the terminals and all the planes taking off and landing.

As you can see, this girl was born to ride.

Crazy Things I Want to Do Before I Die

One of my favorite Pinterest pinners is a personal trainer who puts up a steady stream of motivational quotes.  Themes include persistence, consistency, and never giving up on your dreams.  I have to admit that there have been many times in the past 9+ months that I didn't know what my dreams were anymore, or I thought they were so outlandish that they weren't really dreams in the achievable sense--they were just clouds in the sky, day dreams, Disney-esque fantasies like those we have as children.

Then one day I realized that is exactly what dreams are, and that just because they are fantastical doesn't mean I shouldn't believe they can happen.  After all, when I was in elementary school, I loved watching TV so much that I used to fantasize about a personal TV that I could carry with me to school to watch during recess or as I walked home.  Now we have smart phones and iPads that allow us to do just that and more.  I didn't invent those devices, but someone else shared my dream and made it a reality.  Pretty cool, eh?

With that rather lengthy preamble, here, in no particular order, are a few crazy things I'd like to do before I die. 

1.  Marry a Brit.  (I'd also settle for a nice man with a beard who can do a passable impression of Captain Picard.)
2.  Live in a castle.
3.  Be a published author.
4.  Ride my bike across the United States.
5.  See the northern lights.
6.  Learn at least a few words in every language.
7.  Work for an organization that does good in the world and whose mission I truly care about.  

I may not ever do any of these things or even have control over whether they come to pass, but I lose nothing by putting my dream list out into the universe.  It's like blowing fluffy dandelion seeds into the wind as I make a wish for the future.

What's on your crazy dream list?

On the Boardwalk with Sting

Despite blog post appearances to the contrary, I have been doing more this summer than putting a new face on my kitchen.  (And in case you were wondering, having a newly-redone kitchen has not induced me to cook any more often than I did before, in spite of the gorgeous new granite counter tops.)

In June, my friend Rachel and I met up in Atlantic City for an epic concert--nay, an EVENT.  We got tenth-row tickets to see the one and only STING in concert.  Sting!  Tenth row!

Sting is my favorite artist/musician/singer/rock star, okay, favorite person ever.  Of all time.  In history.  His creative melodies and poetic lyrics feel like the embrace of an old friend.  I swoon every time I see him on-stage, and I swooned even more at this concert to see him from such a near distance.  He was so close, we could see the little patches of sweat forming on his shirt as the concert progressed and see the veins bulge in his neck when he held a note long. It was awesome!

See how close he is in this picture?  He was actually even closer than the camera shows!

He played all the fan favorites from his entire career, spanning his days with the Police up through his later albums, from "Roxanne," "An Englishman in New York," and "King of Pain" to "Shape of My Heart," "Hounds of Winter," and "Heavy Cloud, No Rain."  He saved for an encore my personal favorite, the soulful, longing-filled, semi-stalkerish love anthem, "Every Breath You Take." The whole crowd--or maybe it was just Rachel and me, I couldn't hear over the noise of the band--sang along to every song, got up and danced to the beat, and put our hands in the air.  It was a fantastic concert.

Just when we thought it couldn't get any better, Sting introduced a special musical guest.  He prefaced the introduction by telling us he had a neighbor at his apartment in New York City who was an artsy/musician type and kept bugging Sting to listen to his music and collaborate on a song.  Finally Sting relented and said they could do a song together.  "He's here tonight," Sting continued in his dreamy British accent, "and I think you might like him."  He then ushered on stage none other than the legendary Paul Simon!

Rachel and I turned to each other, mouths gaping, eyes huge with amazement and glee.  My first thought: "That means the concert will go even longer!  Yes!"  Rachel's comment:  "Two for the price of one!" 

Paul Simon strode out onto the stage, guitar already strapped diagonally across his front, and proceeded to sing a Simon and Garfunkel song, with Sting playing his guitar and singing along in the background.  Then they sang a Sting favorite together, "Fields of Gold," beautiful harmonies dripping from their mouths and fingers with every note.

(I tried to get a picture of them on stage together but they just came out looking like two blobs of light every time.)

Paul Simon told a story about a time when he was stopped by a fan while walking near Central Park in New York's Upper West Side.  The woman said that her young son was his biggest fan--which rather surprised him--and that his favorite song was "The Boxer," which they sang him every night before he went to bed.  She went on to say that they changed the line "all the whores down on 7th avenue" to "all the toy stores on 7th avenue."  Ha!

At the end of the concert--after an incredible THREE encores--Sting wished us all a good night by saying that he hoped everyone got lucky that night, both at the casino and at home.  He he he.  Ah, Sting, how I love thee!  

The next morning, Rachel and I spent a few hours wandering leisurely along the Atlantic City boardwalk.  We saw all manner of people, shops, restaurants, and hotels, from the tacky and tasteless to... well, there wasn't much variety. 

Early-morning mist over the ocean burned off by lunchtime, leaving a bright, sunny day with a mild ocean breeze, the kind of day that makes you want to put on a little extra sun screen and stay outdoors all afternoon.  Strolling along the boardwalk with my dear long-time friend, still on a high from the previous night's concert, I felt utterly and completely relaxed.  Splendid!

 

We finally pulled ourselves away from the boardwalk after lunch and headed back to our normal lives, she to NYC and I to WDC, humming Sting tunes all the way down I-95.

Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every smile you fake....

 

Kitchen Nightmares, Part 4: What I Learned

In retrospect and now that I have a beautiful new kitchen, the kitchen flood ordeal doesn't seem like it should have been a very big deal, and yet it was incredibly stressful.  A huge part of the stress is because I'd never experienced anything similar and didn't know what my rights were as a flood victim, where to turn for information, what resources I could draw on, or even what questions I should be asking.

One very important life lesson was forcefully driven home to me during this experience:  Don't be afraid to ask for what you want.  And then ask for it again.

Even though the plumber's mistake had reeked havoc on my kitchen and resulting in having to have two small area rugs in my dining room professionally cleaned, I didn't know what I was entitled to as a victim and I was afraid to ask for anything, even to ask them to pay for the rug cleaning (which wasn't cheap!).  With a lot of encouragement and guidance from a couple of people savvy about the construction and remediation processes, I discovered what I was entitled to, and then got up the courage to ask for that and more. 

The act of simply asking and then asking again and again made all the difference.  I had to ask for some things repeatedly and even hound them for a reimbursement for my out-of-pocket expenses at the end.  Sometimes they responded promptly, sometimes they gave me the run-around.  Sometimes I asked someone else involved in the case to ask on my behalf for what I wanted, to reinforce my original request.  It was a pain in the you-know-where but it ultimately meant that I'm not longer living with a mold-infested kitchen and I didn't have to pay for the rug cleaning.

Why are we often so afraid to ask for things, even when we are entitled to or owed them?  The psychology behind it eludes me.  Do women fear asking more than men?  (I think this is a yes.)  Do we see asking as confrontational or challenging when we don't want to rock the boat or appear too demanding?  Maybe that's the worst-case scenario--not that we will be told no but that we will appear demanding and high-maintenance and not be liked. 

Do we assume the other party will simply give us what we are owed--implying that if they don't offer something, it's not within our rights to have it?  Does it go back to some childhood lesson involving not speaking unless spoken to or waiting our turn or simply playing nicely with others? 

It's not hard to ask for what we want and deserve in a respectful and professional manner.  We don't have to be confrontational or the nightmarish overly-demanding customer to get our point across and get what we are owed.  So why do we hesitate to ASK?

I may never learn the definitive answer to that question, but I do know that I need to be more assertive and forward when it comes to the small act of ASKING for what I want/am owed/deserve/am guaranteed/am promised.  And if my voice isn't heard the first time, I shouldn't be afraid to ask again.  How many more doors could open for me--for all of us--just by asking them to do so?

Kitchen Nightmares, Part 3: Renovation

The two most stressful aspects of this entire kitchen nightmare were 1) dealing with the contractor; and 2) having to make big decisions quickly.  

The general contractor who worked for the plumbing company and oversaw the remediation and renovation of my kitchen was very experienced.  He knew home repair, construction, and the inside of Home Depot like the back of his hand.  He also was a horrible communicator when it came to talking about what was going to happen to my kitchen.  He consistently treated this as his project rather than my kitchen.  Although he said he would "work with me" to make sure I got what I wanted in the new kitchen, he chose the cabinets himself--informing me after the fact of his decision and that he'd "assumed" I wanted white cabinets--and never discussed budget or options with me, in spite of me asking for that several times, both from him and the customer service rep for my case.  I asked in person, over the phone, and in writing, all to no avail.  It was evident that he was trying to meet the company's obligations to me as cheaply as possible.  So strong is the emotion associated with my dealings with him, my right eye is starting to twitch with anger even as I type this.

It was also stressful to have to decide what I wanted in the new kitchen (to the extent I could decide, that is) within the time span of only a couple of weeks.  Designing a new kitchen is fun, everyone said when I told them what had happened. Enjoy the process! That's true if you've had six months to peruse home magazines and designer showrooms, I'm sure.  When you have to make a decision pronto and your best resource is Pinterest, it's stressful.  I'm the girl who took two years and eight sample-sized paint swatches to choose what color to paint her bedroom.  (You can read about that here.) Figuring out in less than a month what kind of flooring and counter tops and sink I wanted--and within that mix, trying to decide whether I could afford to spring for an upgrade or should just take the basic materials the plumbing company was willing to pay for--was quite taxing.  

In spite of the stress and the frustration and all the dishes washed in the bathtub, my kitchen was finally  put back together again and I am very happy with the result.  I decided to get granite counter tops to replace the generic white Formica I'd had before, I picked out a new stainless steel sink with a fancy faucet, and I choose tile to replace the linoleum previously on the floor.  All of that was purchased at my own expense, but I decided that I should use this as an opportunity to improve my kitchen.  Honestly, my old kitchen was nothing special but it was bright and clean and cheerful, and if this hadn't happened, I don't know that I ever would have upgraded the kitchen, given all the other things I'd rather spend my money on (like trips to far-flung corners of the globe).

The plumbing company assigned one of their own guys to install the new cabinets and the floor.  Barry was a chatty guy with a long goatee from West Virginia who had worked for years as a master craftsman before becoming a plumber.  He kept asking me things like, "Did they leave any more screws this size when they took out the cabinets?" and "Do you know if they kept the old baseboard that was removed here?"  Every time, I'd point to the same small box of screws, knobs, hinges, and assorted other materials the remediation crew had left behind.  "If it's not in there, they didn't leave it," I'd say.  Most of the time, it wasn't in there, but he kept asking.

Barry had a habit of talking through solutions out loud, which initially alarmed be because I thought it meant he couldn't complete the job or didn't know what he was doing.  Later I realized it was just his way of figuring out how he was going to approach a tough problem.  For instance, I asked him to hook up the dishwasher after the cabinets were installed.  He said he needed different hoses, which I searched for in vain at Home Depot.  When I told him I couldn't find the other hoses, he started to scratch his head and look skeptical.  "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to hook it up then.  I'll have to take a look and see if I can do it with these original hoses."  He implied I'd have to find the hoses somewhere else and hook it up myself.

"Barry!"  I wanted to shout.  "You're the plumber!  If you can't hook it up, I certainly can't hook it up!"

In the end, he hooked it up just fine and even put new valves on the hot and cold water pipes under the sink.  He also found solutions to the other problems that he'd previously either simply left undone or said were unfixable--like using part of the old threshold to make a new threshold, or finding some wood in his truck to replace part of a baseboard that had been discarded by the remediation team.  Working with him was definitely entertaining!

About a week after Barry finished, the new counter tops were installed.  One of my kind coworkers who lives nearby came over that same afternoon and put in the new sink, including connecting all the pipes below.  Washing my dishes in the sink and dishwasher had never been such a pleasure!  

I spent the next few days putting things back in the cabinets and painting the room.  All in all, the whole process lasted about six weeks.  It was a stressful experience that I wouldn't want to endure again but now that it's finished, I am very pleased with the result.  See for yourself in the photos below.

My brother-in-law later came over and put silver knobs on the base cabinet doors and drawers to match the top cabinets, which makes them blend well.

Here are a couple of other After photos, including a close-up of the granite.  Picking the granite was actually fun--the first time in the entire process that I enjoyed considering options and making a decision (in spite of the price!).  For reference, the granite is Giallo Napoleone and the paint color is Saguaro by Martha Stewart.

 

The granite I looked at was all so beautiful, I would have been happy with any of them.  That said, I am really pleased with the one I chose as it brings warmth and depth to the kitchen to offset the white cabinets and appliances.  It's also wonderful at hiding crumbs and dirt, which is great when people come over but also means that I clean it obsessively to make sure I haven't missed anything!

If you really want to see how far my kitchen has come since I bought my condo in 2007, here's a picture of what it looked like when I moved in.  The previous owner hadn't done anything to it since he'd moved in before I was born.

Don't you dig those mustard yellow appliances?  The double oven?  Those 1970's generic brown cabinets?  You can read all about the original kitchen makeover in my (wonderful but now discontinued) online magazine, 31 Magazine.  In fact, let's see the full evolution side by side.

It's a big improvement, if I do say so myself!

This experience taught me many valuable life lessons, which I will share with you later, as this blog post has been long enough already.  In the meantime, I'm going to go enjoy my new kitchen. 

Kitchen Nightmares, Part 2: Remediation

When we last left our heroine, she was vigorously moving everything out of her kitchen and into the dining room in preparation for the water clean-up company to treat the mold and elevated moisture found in said kitchen following The Potato Peel Flood.

The water clean-up company came as scheduled, a couple of weeks after the flood.  They immediately moved the fridge into the dining room and the stove into the living room.

 

With those out of the way, the two-man crew got to work pulling up the linoleum and sub-floor and tearing out the cabinets.  They obviously had to take off the counter top and sink in the process.  It was a noisy, messy job that took a few hours, at least.  In the process, they discovered mold under a second cabinet. (We already knew there was mold under the cabinet under the sink.)  Here are a few pictures of the carnage.

Floor removal

Cabinet destruction

Part-way through, they sealed the kitchen with plastic (as shown above, next to the fridge) in order to contain the mold spores and any other hazardous air particles.  Once all the debris had been removed, they set up a large fan/air purifier device that ran continuously for 48 hours.  Supposedly it killed all the mold spores and harmful bacteria in the air, making my kitchen the most sanitary room in the house.

Below is what it looked like when they were done.  Notice the counter top leaning vertically against the wall in the photo on the right. They had saved the non-moldy cabinet because the plumber's insurance was trying to be cheap and not replace it, even though that would mean that the lower cabinets didn't match.  Thankfully, they saw common decency and responsibility and did replace it in the end.

 Next up:  Renovation!