a walk and some spuds

It started out as such a nice day today that a walk erupted into the plans. Dunstable Downs, here we come! With water bottles in hand, vicious toy poodle harnessed and waterproof jackets all around, we set off for a little walkski. It was cold enough to freeze the thoughts right out of your head but walking we were going to do. Yep. Right out there in the cold. On the hills. In the wind. It was gonna be FUN.

The first thing we saw was this thing. It was a wind catcher. Well, they claimed it was but I was feeling plenty of wind whipping across my face so I think it must have been broken.






This kite was catching some wind, as well.





Moving on, I got a few pictures of the English countryside before one of my fingers froze solid and fell off.






More proof that the wind catcher thingy was clearly faulty – this is what happened when Phoenix looked into the wind. She did not care for it.





This is how bundled up I was. I look like that kid in A Christmas Story who falls over and can’t get up because he’s got so many layers on. I’m so glad I didn’t fall over. I take a lot of spills, you know.





Back at home I made these little cottage pies in jacket potatoes, which is pretty good considering I was down one finger. The filling for these was soooo yummy! But you can’t see it so you’ll have to take my word for it.




All in all a good day.

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odds and ends, the sequel

More randomy goodness. Chopin and my street cred. What else is there for a blog?

I rolled out of bed today with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye. I thought to myself, “I shall run, I shall. I shall do it now, methinks.” Exactly like that. And before I was fully awake I was halfway around the lake. Then I thought to myself, “How in the heck did I get here?” At any rate, I got in a nice run… before breakfast. That’s right. FEAR ME.

I bet only a few of my few readers know I have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. AND I KNOW HOW TO USE IT. I would probably have to use it to strangle you because that was a few years ago and now I’m old, but I STILL KNOW HOW TO USE IT. I’ll say it again…FEAR ME.

I have a scar on my right arm that I usually tell people I got in a knife fight where I had to kill the guy. True story. I thought it might increase my street cred. Holla.

Except…I really got it from a nail sticking out of the wall in my basement. It looks like a knife fight wound, though. Hurt like one, too. And I didn’t even get to use my black belt ninja stealth on the attacker. What is it all for, I say?

I enjoyed the chords out of Zimerman playing Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 4 on YouTube this morning. I was just in the mood, you know how it is. Sometimes you just need a little Beethoven. Well, I actually started out with Chopin, so I really just moved on from there. (If I had read that on anyone else’s blog six months ago I would have called it kind of pretentious. But this is different because it’s me.) I love Chopin. He makes me happy with his sweet-little-tune-turned-crazy-mad-pounding-the-keys-like-a-looney piano ballades . I’ve thought about writing him a love letter but he won’t get it because he’s dead. That’s a shame. I think we could have had something special. I wouldn’t call him a good looking guy but I bet he could play the piano like a demon. That would make me happy, as well.

My grandmother used to tell me that if you took at dog’s picture it would die because you’ve stolen it’s soul. I must’ve de-souled many a dog in my time. I feel kind of bad. But I’ve got lots of good pictures so it’s probably okay.

I love the restaurant Brasserie Blanc. We go there more than you would think. They make a mean risotto and the gnocchi’s not too shabby, either. Raymond Blanc is good people. I watched him make a tea cup out of chocolate and fill it with cappuccino ice cream the other day. GENIUS. Oh, on TV not in person. I thought about breaking up with Chopin for Ray B, but I like piano more than I like to eat so it would never have worked out.

I’ve been researching my genealogy lately and I’ve always been a little afraid that maybe I’m my own grandpa. But much to my relief there are plenty of branches it the pedigree. I have so many interesting family members and I’m starting to move backwards into the good stuff. I *think* I have found a great times nine grandfather. His name was John and he was born in England in 1633. He gets zero points for name originality but scores of points for being really, really old.

I like not having to work to make the post make sense. What fun. Blogging is spectacular. I think I’ll keep doing it for a while.

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toy poodle fury

Phoenix will take on any dog, at any time. Big or small. Ferocious growling land leviathan or cute fluffy puffball. She does not discriminate. She’s all mad, all the time. Don’t believe me? Check out these pictures. (I snatched the word “leviathan” straight from the pen of Melville, I did. Yes, I know it generally means a sea-dwelling monster. I also know you looked it up. Yes you did.) (Oh, and I made another reference to Moby Dick. I got nothing going on in my life but Moby Dick. I’m my own Ahab. But I digress.)

She used to go to puppy training every week to socialize and learn basic skills. Basically, she learned to bully dogs 5 times her size. Her absolute favorite friend was the French mastiff who’s father weighed 13.5 stone (that’s 189 lbs in real money). She even taunted the really angry and out of control German Shepard that was snapping at everyone. Brave little devil.

Here is my intrepid furball having a placid moment before the kill:






And here she is about to sink her teeth into a nice little terrier:






“Do NOT make me come back there, Shepard.”






Is it just me or does that German Shepard look as if he’s never seen anything like it? “What is this strange being who does not fear me?”






The faceoff:






She just can’t get enough of taunting, then running, taunting then running. Living on the edge.






Her tactics are 1) Approach the biggest, meanest creature in view. 2) Bite, nip and generally aggravate said creature. 3) Run for all you’re worth. We’re cleanly into the execution of step 3 in this shot:






Here she is shoving a person. Perfect stranger. ‘Cause she just don’t care. If
you’re in the way, you get shoved. That’s how my baby rolls.







Sometimes the plan goes all wrong and you end up with a poodle on her face in the dirt. I try hard not to laugh at this but it was taken immediately before she got up and tried to maul that little terrier to death as you saw earlier, so it’s kind of okay.






Here we are keeping up with the pack and having wild success at ignoring me. Not even a glance in my direction. I had three west highland terriers and a Labrador come to me, though.






When in doubt, hover. It’s like someone stamped on the ground really hard and they all got bounced up.






Second from the right – the crazy little dot that’s flying and looking right at the camera.






Biggest dog here? LEMME AT ‘EM.






Rhodesian ridgeback: looking at master, waiting for command. Great Pyrenees: having a lazy scratch. Phoenix: ??? In short, my dog is kind of a spaz.






Think that was an isolated shot? Here’s another to convince you:





I love that little demon.


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odds and ends. mostly odd

The following is very stream-of-consciousness and I feel you must once again be warned before you commit to reading this post. It’s all over the show. This is how my brain gurgles forth thoughts. None of these seemed worthy of its own page so I made them all play nice together in this one.

Dang it. Now that song is in my head. The one I’ve been practicing at the piano. And it’s in a MINOR key. One thing I’ve learned from piano lessons is that any music that causes the pianist to break into a sweat, turn red and nearly collapse due to the physical strain of the performance is for me. And I don’t like things in a minor key. AND I love the magic tricks my teacher gives me to make it all sound better (i.e. correct). He calls them “practice exercises.” But they’re really magic tricks.

I start a lot of sentences with the word “and.” I bet that’s really bothering some of you. And that makes me giggle. By “giggle” I mean “deeply regret the offence.” Obviously.

I don’t want people to know how smart I am. I think the cover-up is going well so far. People act all funny if they think you’re smart. If they think you’re just a regular old Joe Shmoe and they still like you, you can drop the heavy burden of brilliance on them and they hardly even blink. (Disclaimer: I’m not actually brilliant. …OR am I just telling you that? You may never know.)

A word about OCD and cleanliness (okay three words): I HAVE IT. I need for things to be clean. NEED, do you hear me? I scrub and I scrub. I wipe and spray and disinfect all the live long day. And don’t get me started about clutter – I loathe the beast. Clutter and I sometimes have words and my words are louder and generally more profane. Clutter runs from the room in tears and I once again own my living space. The kitchen and bathroom gleam. My desk at work used to get the Lysol treatment weekly. I AM A SCOURING FIEND. Except I don’t vacuum. Is that gross?

I will misspell things and use the wrong version of a word. I’m sorry in advance, but I know it will happen. When I’m famous and independently wealthy, I’ll hire an editor. Until then I’ll probably continue not to use the spell check or any such superfluous device. I just can’t be asked. Real and raw, that’s how you’re getting the blog. If it makes you feel any better, I have faith in you to work out what I mean. Except you in the orange shirt. I’m not sure about you.

Closet followers. I know you’re there. I can feel your virtual eyeballs upon me. I love you all. We all need to hide sometimes and I don’t mind. But if you want to email and tell me to vacuum the floor and stop beginning a sentence with a conjunction, feel free.

I should probably write an “about me” blog in a coherent fashion so people don’t think I’m entirely sailing the crazy seas. I only push that boat out on the weekend and the occasional Wednesday. I wonder if that was a sea reference because I’m reading a book where the author speaks incessantly about whale anatomy. I wonder if I’ve talked too much about that book. Probably have.

If you’re still reading this you are my hero. Both of you.

I’m going to stop there because the stream has run dry. I’ll be back when there’s another rainstorm.

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snow everlasting

I love the weather in the UK. Yes, you heard me right - rain and all. Part of the reason I love it is because I'm used to really, really hot summers where you break into a sweat just walking from your car to the building you work in and mild winters where it's barely cold at all and for a short period of time. This is all great if you're one of those people who love the heat. I am not one of those people. I like mild weather, preferably a little bit cool. I also like winter - I want to be able to bundle up more than one day per year. UK weather = just for me.

Here's the thing: I need to run or I'll turn into a big blob. I get out of shape quickly and I need to exercise every day to keep it up. I do the easiest, most readily available and inexpensive way I can - I run. Problem is, lately I see a lot of this:




I fall down a lot at the best of times and I don't really need any help from an icy slope. I suppose I should be counting my blessings that it's not still this I see each day:




We've had a lot of snow over the past couple of months and much of it stayed with us in heaps for days and days. This stuff just puffs in during the day and usually mostly melts by the night. Although it still makes running treacherous for those who takes spills all of the time like me, I still braved it. Some flakes got a ride on my arms on my way to the lake:




It's not too bad this week even though it seems to come everyday:




Even though I was frozen to the bone after my quick dash around the lake, I came home to the smell of these, which seemed to make it so much better:




Well, that and the heat I cranked up before I went out, a hot shower and a cup of tea.

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call me ishmael

I love to read. I like all kinds of books – mostly classics, but some modern; mostly fiction, but some non-fiction. I just finished reading Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography and thoroughly enjoyed it. Yes, I read it of my own free will. Before that I read The Scarlet Letter and The House of the Seven Gables (loved former, hated the latter).

Just as a preface, I wasn’t greatly impressed with my high school education (it was horrible, apart from my Algebra teacher and one of my English teachers) and I’ve always felt a little behind in reading the classics. I’ve been fast on the heels of catching up recently and it’s great. Right now Barry and I are reading Moby Dick together and we love it. I must admit that it would have been too much for my teenage brain to appreciate if I had gone to a high school where they actually make you read this stuff, but being the philosophical old soul I am now, I’m lapping it up.

I have been spoiled by the modern fiction formula where the hero always wins even though he ALMOST doesn’t and the villain is formidable but not TOO formidable and the hero gets the girl. Etc., Etc. Don’t get me wrong, I still love that formula because like most of the American public I want what I read to make me feel good about myself, life and the order of the universe which means more plot and not too much else. Move the book along.

However, I’ve recently discovered that I also enjoy the classics where it’s sometimes plot, but mostly about characters and relationships instead. It’s about the language and making a point or making a person instead of the action. Sometime the plot is thin at best, but it’s still worth the journey. Story doesn’t have to be a twisting, turning, what’s-going-to-happen-next breakneck ride. Sometimes it’s just this thing that happened.

Moby Dick is about the journey, especially since the plot can be summed up in a sentence. Heck, the whole 508 page book can but summed up in a chapter. But that’s not the point. Melville says things so eloquently and beautifully that it’s so entertaining. Plus, he makes some pretty bold statements about wasting what we (or someone else) work so hard to get, humane treatment of animals, heritage, the psychological torture we all share…and on and on. IT’S GOOD STUFF.

I’ll grant you that it’s not for everyone. You have to WANT to love it. I want to – not just so I can say I read it, but because I’ve laughed with it and thought very hard about some very hard things. I even cried last night – real tears. It was so sad. Lots of big crocodile tears. Yes, I’m a big softy but that is also not the point. I also admire anyone who can get me interested in every page of three decent-sized chapters describing a whale’s head. That seems worthy of a blog entry to me.

“Therefore, the tormented spirit that glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from this room, was for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to color, and therefore a blankness in itself. God help thee, old man, thy thoughts have created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that vulture the very creature he creates.”

Awesome.

He loves a comma, but he’s deep. I can’t wait for tonight’s installment.

So, if you have several extra hours to spare in your life, and let’s face it- we all do, read Moby Dick. Read it again…even though you know how it ends.


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we need to do something about that accent

I’ve just started the blog and I am finding that, oddly, I don’t really have anything to say. For a person who talks so much and so often you’d think I could think of something to share with the millions of (four) people who read this. Until I hit my blogtastic stride of gem after gem, you’ll probably have to trudge through a few of these “so I was thinking about this random thing…” posts.

For some reason, I was thinking about something that happened to me shortly after I got here (to the UK) and it made me giggle. I mail my letters, mostly to the US, from the same little neighborhood post office around the corner. There are only two women who work there and one of them is an Indian woman that I’ve struck up a sort of friendship with due to the frequency of my letter posting. I know that she’s from India because A) she told me and B) she SOUNDS like she’s from India. This is an important fact for the purposes of this story.

I searched my old emails because I remember rushing home and recounting it to a friend verbatim and I found it. Here’s the scene: As I do often, I took myself down to that very post office and put my letters on the counter. With the hellos out of the way, the conversation went thusly:


Me: "I've got another [letter] for the US and a surprising domestic one, too, for a change."

Indian lady: "Domestic? Very unlike you."
(we both laugh)

Indian lady: "So how long have you been here?"

Me: "Three months."

Indian lady: "Are you studying here?" (in hindsight, she probably asked because I was wearing a University of Cambridge sweatshirt)

Me: "No, the boyfriend lives here."

Indian lady: "Well that's okay then. Have you been here before?"

Me: "Many times. Used to live here for a while."

Indian lady: "You still have the USA accent."

Me: "Oh, yes."

Indian lady: (in a very serious tone, with a very Indian accent) "We'll have to do something about that."

Me: -silence-



Barry had driven me there and I got back in the car laughing and telling him that story. He said, "I will not be pleased if you come home from the Post Office one day with an Indian accent."

And thus far, I have not. But tomorrow is another day.

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some things that make me happy

- writing letters with pen and paper the old fashioned way

- people who write letters to me the old fashioned way

- music

- completing my daily to do list

- researching my family tree and finding that I have lots of really cool relatives

- traveling to a place where I’ve never been

- reading books I should have read in high school

- witty, funny responses

- when someone comments on something I write on facebook

- the fact that I have the most wonderful, sweet and amazing parents who did the best they could

- freedom

- taking responsibility

- licorice all sorts

- reading moby dick and loving it for the language and the journey

- swinging on a big metal cemented-into-the-ground swing set

- people who love life and don’t take themselves so seriously

- cold weather

- that my dog comes to me when she’s tired, just for a cuddle

- journals, paper, pens, notebooks, folders….

- drinking enough water even though I loathe the taste of water

- having copious amounts of tea after drinking enough water



Oh and raindrops on roses are okay, but I couldn’t really care less about whiskers on kittens.

But that’s just me.

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fish = animals

I thought I’d cheat today and resurrect a blog I posted elsewhere on Saturday, September 09, 2006. It may be a blast from the past but even years later and on another continent…it’s still as true as ever. Please pardon the fury.


Fish = Animals
I am a vegetarian. Yet, when someone happens to find out that fact, the first question 98% of the time is, "Oh. Do you eat fish?" My answer is always, "No." Do you know why? You got it…because fish are animals. Vegetarianism = Doesn't eat animals. Oh, and by the way – chickens are also animals.

I realize that most people could probably care less about my consumption of Grouper or Halibut, and are likely only trying to seem interested in something so mundane. But still, the very definition of the word "vegetarian" states that the question has already been answered. So, why, people…WHY?

Since the "fish" people, as I will call them (hey – they've all incorrectly associated me with fish, I shall do the same) have no way of knowing one another, simply by the magnitude of their numbers, I must assume that it isn't personal to me. Do all vegetarians get the "fish" question? Is the "chicken" question always on it's heels? Let me just give you fish folks some advice: If someone says they are a vegetarian, but they eat fish or chicken or seafood or pork or beef or anything else that at some point had its own free will, THEY ARE NOT A VEGETARIAN. "Oh, I'm a vegetarian, except that I eat animals." See? Absurd.

In their defense, there is a such thing as a partial- or semi-vegetarian listing in the Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, but how many of those people actually go to the trouble of adding that all-important prefix? You guessed it again – slim to none. So, if you are one of those people, please do the vegetarians a favor and add it. You'll be helping yourself out, too, by also avoiding the fish-and-chicken question dance.

For all of you who are just confused about vegetarianism in general, I apologize. You must understand my frustration. Imagine that if each time someone found out that you like hamburgers they then asked you if you eat the bun. You're answer would likely be, "Of course I eat the bun." (Unless you are on Atkins, which is a different ranting blog entirely.) It's not really a personal or harmful question, but ridiculous all the same, and quite annoying after you've heard it about 8,456 times.

I know there are some vegetarians who don't eat any animal products at all, like eggs, milk, etc. (vegans), some who include some or all dairy (lacto-vegetarians), and some who eat dairy and eggs, just no meat (lacto-ovovegetarians). I am the latter – lacto ovovegetarian. Here is my explanation of what I eat, in regard to vegetarianism: I don't eat any meat itself. Everything else is fair game. Meat = anything that ever had any of the following: eyeballs, wings, feathers, a tail, fins, scales, fur, could move about of its own free will, hooves, horns, a digestive tract….well, you get the point.

I've often been made fun of because I've made the mistake of saying "eyes" as opposed to "eyeballs" and so I've made the distinction thusly. (Yes, yes, I know potatoes have "eyes." It's hilarious. You're so clever. I've heard it about 400 times. *sigh*)

I'll also say that if I manage to get past the barrage of "do you eat…" questions, people usually ask the much more important and worthy question, "Yeah, so…why don't you eat meat?" Well, for me, I just don't like it. None of it. I really, really don't. Seriously. (Sorry, but that's how I usually have to answer, over the course of several "Not even just a little?" variations.) I'm not an animal rights activist per se, but I do believe in the rights of animals and commend those who do the work to help keep animals alive and happy. (They have feelings, too. YEAH…EVEN THE FISH.) That just doesn't happen to be my reason for this particular thing.

So, in conclusion, no, I don't eat fish.

~Post Script~ To the guy who, after finding out I was a vegetarian, asked, "Do you eat pork?"…..this is also for you, my confused friend. –True story –


:::Since the original posting of this in 2006, I have discovered through my extensive research (of asking every vegetarian I see if they eat fish, gauging the response and then discussing it ad nauseum) that I am, in fact, not the only victim. You'd think that would make me feel better. It does not.:::

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feline mutiny

This story starts off slowly because of the need for a little background and there’s talk of poop. You’ve been warned.

The cat lives mostly outside and the dog lives indoors, partly because the cat sheds fur in buckets and the dog sheds exactly zero. The cat is allowed inside on a daily basis but only in the kitchen because she is a shedding machine – more than any other beast, large or small, I’ve ever seen. Also, there’s no place in our house for a litter box. The bedrooms are upstairs and carpeted. Downstairs there’s only a foyer where the piano is, the living room and the kitchen. The foyer is right when you walk in the door and I’m not having a litter box as the first thing you see as you walk in the door. Call me crazy. The living room is full of furniture – also, we live in there and having a cat poop is not what I want going on while I’m reading my book. The kitchen is DEFINITELY out because, well, we EAT in there and Jessie (the cat) thinks it’s hilarious to poop right in the middle of your meal. (Barry had the litter box in the kitchen for a while because he never ate in there, so when I first arrived, each meal we ate at the table was infused with the aroma. Romantic. Appetizing.) One other reason is because she’s fat and lazy and when she lived in the house she never went outside – NEVER. Now that she lives out there she gets a lot of exercise, plays a lot more and is in overall better health. It’s a win-win.

Apparently not to Jessie. She seems to think it’s a losing situation all around because she’s out in the cold and we’re deprived of petting her 24 hours a day. So, now and then she asserts her opinion in unmistakable ways. She claws the kitchen chairs. She sits on the kitchen table when you’re not looking. Usual cat stuff. However, a few days ago the dog started to feel the jealousy, too. Understand that the cat is not only NOT afraid of the dog, she uses Phoenix as a scratching and rubbing post as well as a playmate. She’s the most tolerant, loving kitty in the world. Except when she’s upset about the whole exile thing.



Case in point.

Here is the kitty cat. If you look closely, you’ll notice that those bowls clearly say “DOG.” Evidently those phonetic reading lessons we’ve invested in for her are not working.



“Um….kitty…whatcha doin’?”



“You know, that’s my…can I just…scoot over a little…”



“Can we at least share?”



This went on for several minutes. The dog stood back a few times, confused. She looked at me, then the cat, me, the cat – as if to say, “Someone please explain this to me. The cat is eating my food and you’re doing NOTHING. But I LOVE the cat. I’m so conflicted.” Eventually the cat moved to the side a little, as up to this point she had not budged a centimeter, and let the dog eat, too.



Until she was ready to drink, at which point she promptly bullied the dog aside and took over the whole corner.



Perhaps this is why the cat weighs nearly 12 pounds and the dog is just over half that at 6 ½.

*Just to note, Jessie sleeps indoors in Barry’s workshop where it’s warm (and there’s no one reading a book or eating a meal). We have not made our cat sleep in the snow and rain of central England. Please don’t call the Humane Society or the RSPCA. Thank you.

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ode to the bin - OR - bye-bye trash can

Being in the UK after living in the United States most of my life is a fun way to experience a different culture without some of the more shocking parts of culture shock. Things here are pretty much the same as the states except the buildings are older and it’s a 4ish hour plane ride to Italy instead of 3,807,567 hours. It’s home sweet home with a twist and a crumpet.

As an outsider, I find I notice patterns that the natives haven’t. The example that stands out in my mind the most is curry. UBIQUITOUS CURRY. I’m not kidding, people, it’s everywhere. On EVERY menu in this country (practically). I mean, the people of Great Britain love them some curry. They can have it at every meal and never tire of it. “Hey, British friends, let’s have something besides curry for dinner.” *confused looks all around* Now, just as a sidebar I love Mexican food and there is no shortage of a Mexican restaurant in the old hometown – one might even say there’s a Mexican restaurant every few feet. But this is different. It’s a force to be reckoned with – the Great Curry Phenomenon of the UK. There is a curry dish on the menu in every type of restaurant. Pubs…curry on the menu. Italian…curry on the menu. Spanish…curry. Outer Mongolian…curry, curry, curry. I love Indian just as much as the next American, but I think the overload has pushed me over the edge…into a big pile of curry.

Barry doesn’t take me for Indian food much anymore. I wonder why. Hmm.

Another thing I notice and LOVE about being in the UK is the things they say that make them who they are…and the things they say that no one in history has ever noticed but me. Like sometimes when they put random extra words on the end of the sentence: “Where are you going, then?” “We cooked a curry, and that.” Also, I love when they take 25 words to say something the average American can get out in 3. “If it’s not too much trouble would you mind terribly passing me the salt to this end of the table, please?” Translation: “Pass the salt.” (Incidentally, I’ve had someone here ask me for salt like that almost verbatim.) ILOVETHESEPEOPLE. Now when I giggle inexplicably, Barry usually just says, “Which word was it? Stalk? Kettle?” It never gets old.

There are occasions when we have two different words for the same thing. Flashlight = torch. Cookie = biscuit. I must admit that I’ve adopted a few of these just to make life easier for myself. For example, I’m a regular offender of using the word “bin” instead of trash can or garbage can. It’s a survival technique and I won’t apologize. (Notice apologize with a “z” and not a British “s.”) I now say “sat nav” instead of “GPS.” There are some things I will never say – like “tele” for “tv” or “trainers” for “tennis shoes” but now I do the “washing up” instead of the “dishes.” I’ve also found that some music terms are different, too, and since there WILL be a test (and I’ll be taking it here) I’ll be learning the European version of said words. Since I learned many of them in the US long, long ago I still say them to my piano teacher occasionally. His response is usually, “Now in English.” HILARIOUS.

There are so many of these that I could write for hours. Instead, though, I’ll save some for another day. Maybe regular installments. We’ll see how it goes.

For now, it’s time for my next cuppa tea. Cheerio.

my peruvian burial ground

If you’ve known me a day, you know I love to travel. I’ll travel just about anywhere at least once. In fact, I tend not to go to the same place twice no matter how much I like it because there are so many places I want to see. I’ve not been very many places in my time, but I’ve seen enough of the world to know I want to see more. MORE.

We’re *planning* to go to Peru soon to hike the Inca trail, see Manchu Picchu and maybe see the rain forest. I say “planning” because it’s not booked yet and until I’m irreversibly tied to a non-refundable airline ticket it’s still a MAYBE trip. Anyway, I figure that kind of thing warrants getting back in shape.

I used to run 6 days a week, for an hour at a time. I never measured the distance because that would probably just depress me, but I was consistent and in pretty good shape. I even took the stairs at work, just for fun and giggles. THOSE DAYS ARE GONE. I’m not yet a shapeless blob, but I think that’s because I saved a kitten or didn’t step on a bug at some point in the past and the Universe is just giving me the reciprocal back scratch. In other words, I’m a smidge out of shape.

Since I’ve been meaning to start running again anyway, I decided that now’s the time. I’ve been back at it for about 2 weeks or so and I’m starting to feel good for the effort. I can tell the difference when running and I break up and don’t speak to each other – it’s like a love affair gone wrong. I wonder what I’ve said to make running not like me anymore. I leave messages for running and it never returns my calls. But when running and I reconcile it’s as though the heavens open up and sing, all’s right with the universe and I can eat 15% more chocolate and not feel guilty. SCORE.

So, my fears of collapsing the first day of the mountain sojourn are slowly subsiding, but I’m not out of the woods yet. I still have many a sacrifice to make to the knee-joint and lumbar spine gods, but I’m willing to part with a little cartilage for the sake of not hearing a South American sherpa yell, “We’ve got another one down,” from the distant depths of a oxygen-deprived tomb.

Maybe I won’t die in the thin air of an Andes grave after all.

life is a phoenix

My life is metaphors. I use them constantly. Need me to explain something to you? I’ll probably use a metaphor – especially if it’s something very DEEP. I’m not sure why this is, but it’s worked well for me and has turned many a blank stare into sincere acknowledgement of understanding. Metaphors are sometimes my only rock in the shifting sands of life.

Hence, the title of my blog. I feel I’ve lived many lifetimes in my short time on Earth, due in part to my particular pattern of living. I am born into a new life – be it a new job, new relationship, new place to call home, anything – and I stumble and crawl, eyes half closed, into the light. A new era begins. As I become more confident I burn brighter, live harder, embrace the new me until I blaze white hot like myriad suns. Then, inevitably, I crash, burn and fizzle into a small pile of ashes, barely reminiscent of the old me. And the pattern begins again.

Many people live this way, but I find that I seem to do it more often and completely - with more sparks, brighter fires and more final ends. Perhaps these things are only apparent if you know me well. Instead of burning bridges, I burn versions of me. When they are finished they are recycled. It is a process of constant renewal, struggle, and triumph. It is the circle of life – my perfect infinite renaissance.

I still hold pieces of each charred edition of myself, however. A phoenix is always reborn a phoenix. My life is always my life, breathing for the first time, shining bright and falling away into a quiet and cold darkness, waiting again for the next breath. I am who I always was, but I am always different.

Perhaps I’m not the only one. Perhaps you feel the same.

My blog will be about me and my life, the same as most others. I don’t have children or an illness or any other cause that makes me feel I need a blog dedicated to it. I’m just a regular person with regular thoughts, an extraordinary fiancé, an adorable dog (incidentally named Phoenix, no relation to the blog title), an unfathomably tolerant cat and everything to be thankful for…

…and a lot of nothing to say.