WanderingAmylessly 2.0

A 20-something girly girl in the office where I temp came back to her desk this afternoon, sighed loudly and rolled her eyes to the heavens when she saw what was waiting for her. A lovely bouquet of a dozen, delightfully fragrant soft-pink roses. I wondered, "Wow, I wonder what he did to earn the doghouse." Then she explained, loudly and with much disdain in her voice, that her boyfriend sent them to her because she passed her first claims test and is on her way to becoming a full fledged claims support specialist. So let me get this straight. He spent money on her. Did something incredibly thoughtful for her. Wanted to congratulate her in a special way for her success. Exactly why did this irritate her so much? "I hate roses. Especially pink roses. What a cheeseball." That's what she said. Honestly. Ladies. Are you with me here? If your boy sends you flowers, ANY kind of flowers, because he wants to say he loves you and he's proud of you, don't you DARE

Kevin Costner and Billy Bob Thornton: Separated at birth? You decide --

I had a job interview yesterday. Or, more specifically, I had a meeting with the head of the editorial department of a publishing company to talk about the possibility that I might be interested in working for him IF he had a full-time position to offer AND IF he thought I was a good fit for the company. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I'm just as unemployed as I was at this time one day ago. I did get a freelance assignment from that same company later in the afternoon, which was a bonus. But it wasn't the long-term solution to my career frustrations that I'd hoped. I'll just keep plugging along, I guess. I've also been going several rounds with the University's purchasing department over a freelancing project I was bidding for, after several individuals tried to do everything in their power to keep me from actually working. Not going into it here -- but, needless to say, my freelancing prospects have dried up like used-up silly string on a summer side

I've heard the following comments from friends and family recently, regarding my increased interest in athletic endeavors: - How do you get up that early? - Why the sudden increase in activity? - You're really getting obsessed. - Aren't you tired? - Where does all this energy come from? And so on. As I've said before, I've never been an athlete. For a great portion of my life, I was a fat kid. The one picked last for P.E. games. The one who had to sit out because she couldn't breathe much. The one who had to hang on the rope instead of climb it because, well, she couldn't hoist her sorry ass up there. A dozen years or so ago, I lost a lot of weight (partially because of smoking, which is not one bit healthy or athletic and not something I'd recommend) and worked out at a local gym quite a bit. My interest in physical activity, though, was a sort of - geez I hate this, I'm uncoordinated, my body aches, I'd rather be eating Doritos and watching Fri

Henry was lying on the hallway floor this morning, reading from his big Disney storybook, when I got home from my walk. He kept making these weird grunty noises, so I went to see what he was doing. He said, "Hi Mommy. I bet you knew I was awake 'cause I was in here shakin' my snot around." Which, according to Google Translator for 4-year-olds, means: clearing his throat.

Fess up. We've all had occasion to secretly think about doing this. Courtesy CNN: July 26: A Milwaukee, Wisc., man, angered by his lawn mower's inability to start, could face a six-year prison term after shooting his Lawn Boy mower several times.

We nearly never go out, just the two of us. Life doesn't make it easy. Henry's favorite babysitter is spending the summer in India (the hazards of employing smart college students). The going rate for a babysitter these days practically requires us to take out a second mortgage. And lately, we've been opting for date night at home -- put the kiddo to bed, pop the cork on a bottle of wine, and cook -- one of our most favorite things to do before we had the child in the first place. But it had been too long, so we called the high school daughter of a friend of ours to watch H, and we hit the town. It didn't start out too sexy. Red Lobster. After a heaping helping of seafood, Cheddar Bay Biscuits (in which we believe they place some sort of illegal and highly addictive substance), and cocktails (including Tim's vat of wholelottacoladalamadingdong, or whatever was the drink that took up a quarter of our table), we were ready to continue our night out downtown. Going dow

I was introduced to the poetry of Ellen Bass during my mindfulness class. Ever heard of her? Now that you have, I'd invite you to learn more. Click here for some of her online readings. Pay particular attention to the poem "Don't Expect Applause" from her book The Human Line . It is what our instructor read to us. It made me weep inside. And out. "Don't Expect Applause" by Ellen Bass And yet, wouldn't it be welcome At the end of each ordinary day? The audience could be small, The theater modest. Folding chairs In a church basement would do. Just a short earnest burst of applause That you got up that morning And, one way or another Made it through the day. You soaped up in the steaming Shower, drank your Starbucks In the car, and let the guy with the Windex wipe your windshield During the long red light at Broad Street. Or maybe you were that guy, Not daring to light up While you stood there because Everyone's so down on smoke these days. Or you

They should change the name of the ride to RAINBRAI. I don't know why I would be shocked or surprised or caught unawares or anything by the fact it has rained nearly every day of the Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa this year -- given our pathetic luck with the weather during the past six months or so. I don't think I'm even shocked that my husband, the 100-miles-on-his-birthday-wacko, wanted to get up at 5 a.m., drive an hour an a half to Tama, get on his bike there and ride 75 miles with thousands of other similarly "unique" folks. In a downpour. He'll end up in North Liberty (we desperately hope), where the tour is overnighting it. Then I guess, since I'll be working, he'll ride a few more miles home. In the rain (according to the forecast, which has been surprisingly spot-on this week). And then there was some talk we'd take Henry up to NL tonight to catch the carnival-like festivities that accompany this annual ride, inclu

In no particular order: Bow Down Mister - Culture Club I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) - The Proclaimers Hey Mama - Black Eyed Peas Mr. Brightside - The Killers Then He Kissed Me - The Crystals Love Shack - B52s Wild Boys - Duran Duran MMM Bop - Hanson Two Princes - Spin Doctors SexyBack - Justin Timberlake Numb - Linkin Park Walking on Sunshine - Katrina and the Waves Welcome to the Jungle - Guns N Roses Get Ready for This - 2 Unlimited Mickey - Toni Basil Who Let the Dogs Out - Baha Men YMCA - The Village People Rock this Town - Brian Setzer Break the Ice - Brittney Spears Shut up and Drive - Rihanna Song for the Lonely - Cher Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani

We had a sub for our 5:15 spin class this morning. All the regular instructors are riding Ragbrai (the Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa, more on that tomorrow...) this week. The sub, John, is notorious for his eclectic music selections. He's been known to, in the same class, play Vogue by Madonna, My Name is Sue by Johnny Cash, and Ride of the Valkyries by Richard Wagner. He'll instruct us to do things like, "Stand up and ride as hard as you can when Carrie Underwood starts her string of vandalism," meaning we get out of the saddle for the chorus of Before He Cheats when she sings, "I tore my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive, I carved my name into his leather seats..." You never know what to expect from John, who is a maniac triathlete (he's done one Ironman, four Olympics, and a few others just for "fun") in the over-50 category. Today, part of his music selection was taken from a list com

Over the next few days, I'll share with you a few of the readings our mindfulness teacher shared with us during our weekly sessions and the day-long retreat. Whether you have been through the program or not, I bet they'll speak to you in some way. Mornings at Blackwater by Mary Oliver in Red Bird For years, every morning, I drank from Blackwater Pond. It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt, the feet of ducks. And always it assuaged me from the dry bowl of the very far past. What I want to say is that the past is the past, and the present is what your life is, and you are capable of choosing what will be, darling citizen. So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing, and put your lips to the world. And live your life.

When I started the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction/Cognitive Therapy program eight weeks ago, I was looking for ways to better understand my emotions and help keep myself on a more even keel, longing to avoid the major swings that become a way of life for your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill manic depressive basketcase. While I did develop some new, effective methods for making more skillful choices, I also learned how to better live in the present, without judging myself or giving more power to my thoughts than they deserve. As our leader, Bev, says, "Thoughts are just thoughts. Not more, not less. They are not truth, they are only thoughts." In the process of learning to be in the present, not ruminating about what might have been or what could be in the future, I learned how to better live with myself. To see the automatic negative thoughts in my head for what they are -- NOT the truth, just flashes of activity in the brain. In the past, my thoughts would say to me,

A while back, we got ourselves one of those weather alert radios -- the ones that will give you ample warning when severe weather may be approaching so that you can take immediate precautions, find a safe place in the interior-most portion of your home with no windows, sit in your bathtub with blankets over your head, watching the wicked witch fly by on her bicycle (dum-dadum-dadum-dum, dum-dadum-dadum-dum). You know the drill. I appreciate the idea of the weather alert radio. But does it have to alert me an hour before my alarm clock is supposed to wake me up? 4 a.m., we hear the tone, "The National Weather Service in the Quad Cities has issued severe thunderstorm watch number 2149 (or whatever) for..." I'm thinking, could that not have waited? A watch means it might storm. Sometime. At a later hour. Was that really necessary, I wondered. Not ten minutes later, the stinking thing goes off again. This time, "The National Weather Service in the Quad Cities has issued

Me: Tim, can you get this open? (Holding out a bottle of dark Karo syrup with a lid stuck on like superglue) Tim: Sure (begins to furiously twist the cap) Henry: Well, Daddy...if you can't get it (he puts in a long pause for dramatic effect and flashes a giant grin)...I might have to call the Turtles .

Nothing says "I love you" and "I hope we have decades upon decades ahead to share" like a big old confectionery plate of death. I baked Tim his favorite: German Chocolate Cake. But this time, I spared no expense. I cut no corners. I made it from scratch. No Betty Crocker crap for my birthday boy. I got the recipe for the cake and the accompanying coconut-pecan frosting from the inside of the Bakers Sweet German Chocolate Baking Bar box, in case you're interested. I don't have time to share right now. I'm too busy recovering from the sugar coma. Among the highlights of this decadent treat, the cake and frosting combined contain eight eggs, a cup of buttermilk, four cups of sugar, three and a half sticks of butter, a package of coconut, two cups of pecan pieces, three quarts of crack and a dash or two of heroin (to taste). I spent several hours fussing over this concoction, lining the bottoms of the pans with circles of waxed paper, separating eggs, beatin

John, Paul, George, Ringo, Hank and I want to wish Tim the happiest of birthdays. And we hope he makes it through the day unscathed. He's currently in the middle of his annual birthday bicycling century (riding a hundred miles in one day, like the nutty maniac we all know and love).

Everywhere you look these days, some grocer or pharmacy or other retail-ish business is hawking its version of a "Go Green!" bag. When they ask you "paper or plastic," you trot out one of these durable, fold up reusable shopping bags instead. We've collected several. Our socially conscious place of spiritual worship, Unitarian Universalist Society, handed them out to us after services a few months ago. My mom made us one for Christmas -- that was her family gift to everyone, what a trendsetter, Mom! And I bought two at New Pi , the home of tree-hugging foodies in my town. One was the traditional durable fabric bag with the co-op's logo on it. But the other...the other is what I would like to give my unsolicited endorsement this morning. It is the "ChicoBag." This bag is made of strong, durable woven nylon and has a tiny pouch sewn on to its side, allowing the whole bag to be easily stuffed into the pouch and cinched up, then attached to your belt l

Since the end of my 21-day detox diet on Sunday, I have been incorporating some regular foods and beverages back into my daily life. Yesterday, I had my first Diet Pepsi in over three weeks. And last night, I had a horrible stomach ache and could not sleep at all. Tossed, turned, swore into the pillow. Also, just since Sunday, I have developed a sore throat that I thought might be allergies but have since decided that it's the beginnings of the cold that my sniffling son has so thoughtfully shared with me. Lessons learned? Caffeine = baaaaad. Adding back the five forbiddens = lowered my defenses. Just my first thoughts. I stopped at the store on the way to work this a.m. for a bottle of Zicam cherry flavored melt-in-your-mouth tabs. I took them once before, at the first signs of a cold, and it kept the major symptoms at bay...until I stopped taking them, then the cold hit me with a fury. I may be postponing the inevitable, but I'm still going to take them. Procrastination is a

I am officially hanging my head in shame. I'm supposed to be the word person! I'm the one who loved diagramming sentences and taking spelling tests in junior high. I'm the one who took two English classes and served as the literature teacher's aide during my junior year of high school. I graduated with a degree in communication, an emphasis on print journalism. I'm a word geek, a proofreading fool. And yet I just lost my second online game of Scrabulous, a Facebook application similar to Scrabble. I lost. To my husband. The picture taker. This last game, he didn't just beat me. He slaughtered. He took no prisoners. He opened the old can o' whupass. I'm pretty sure he smoked me by at least a hundred points. I just went back to survey the carnage, but the game board disappeared after his nuking was complete. Just as well. I don't really need the evidence of the annihilation available for all to see. I guess we should give a shout out to his alma maters

Jumbo Tiger Shrimp, chilled, with Thomas Fish Camp original cocktail sauce Bleu Cheese Stuffed Mt. Athos Green Olives Kashi TLC party crackers -- Mediterranean Bruschetta Natural Smoked Gouda from Holland Cahill's Porter Cheese Vintage (Irish Cheddar with Porter) Red Hot Dutch cheese New Pioneer Co-Op Ciabatta bread with olive oil and spices for dipping Divine brand 70% dark chocolate Bogle Vineyards 2006 Petite Sirah Served just after 8 p.m., today, on the final day of my 21-day cleanse. You'll note that all my forbidden "fruit" is included: alcohol, caffeine and sugar, wheat gluten, and animal products. Boy's in bed. Freshly cut daisies fill a vase on the table. Candles line a long, rectangular sushi plate. Sarah McLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy plays on the stereo. What a special date night, enjoying this incredibly fresh, slightly intoxicating, so very not vegan, dining experience with the love of my life. And life is good.

I'm utterly confused (it usually doensn't take much, I acknowledge). You know how they call them " safe deposit boxes" and in them you place your most important documents, rare coins, precious jewels, perhaps a rosewood container containing a cryptex, or special cylinder with dials which must be arranged in the correct sequence to spell out a five-letter code word in order to retrieve the parchment message inside. Ok, so that last part is only if you're Tom Hanks with a fleur de lis key to a bank box in Zurich, and all bets are off. But for the average everyday person who isn't seeking a new truth for Christianity and who doesn't have a masochistic Albino following you around, you'd think a safe deposit box would be just that, safe. As in safe from harm. As in, "Don't worry ma'am, we'll provide safekeeping for your treasures." As in, you put your stuff there so that it will be more protected than it would be in your house. Funny

If I can successfully complete this 21-day diet cleanse (and Sunday's day 21, so I'm pretty confident), then I feel like I can do just about anything. That was my main motivator when I bopped into the living room last night and declared to Tim: "I'm going to become a runner." I wasn't quite sure where to go after that. I felt as though I should put on some running shoes and take off down the road like Forrest Gump. That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run. So I ran to the end of the road. And when I got there, I thought maybe I'd run to the end of town. And when I got there, I thought maybe I'd just run across Greenbow County. And I figured, since I run this far, maybe I'd just run across the great state of Alabama. And that's what I did. I ran clear across Alabama. For no particular reason I just kept on going. I ran clear to the ocean. And when I got there, I figured, since I'd gone this far, I might as well tu

I'm either -- 1. The dumbest sucker alive. 2. The worst parent in the history of parenting. or 3. The coolest, most radical righteous Mom ever, dude. My son has a thing for giant martial arts-loving shelled creatures who love pizza and live in a sewer pipe. So, in his honor, I now have a cell phone ringtone that is a polyphonic, instrumental of this:

I learned something today that made me even more impressed and inspired by "gymnast girl" from my health club. Turns out, Talya's a cancer survivor. At the age of 23, she discovered a lump in her breast and had a double mastectomy and chemo to fight it, reconstructive surgery to help get her life back on track. Your chin on the floor, too? If you'd like to read more about her, click here . A couple other bits of trivia about Talya: She and fellow UI Women's Gymnastics Coach Jeff Richards were named 2008 North Central Region Assistant Coaches of the Year. One of her brothers was Russell Crowe's stunt double in the 2007 film "American Gangster." Another of her brothers is a senior gymnastics star at Temple University. And she's a bit of a star on You Tube. That is, someone posted her performances on the various events during a meet 10 years ago when she was at Georgia. Apparently she's best known for her floor exercise. So here it is. I swear,

Is it like school -- where you sit says a lot about you? Are you a geek or blind and choose a spot up front? Or are you secretly planning to slack in the back row and chatter with your buddies? Or maybe it's like church -- always in the fourth pew on the left side of the sanctuary. For no apparent reason at all, except it's a comfortable habit. Or as comfortable as one can be on a hard wooden bench in dress clothes, reciting such passages as, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren, [even] these least, ye did it unto me." Matthew 25:40. Huh? Maybe it's not like either of those, but it's what I'm choosing to tumble around in my mind with today -- figuring out the reason why I sit where I sit in spinning class and analyzing my fellow spinners, their technique, their clothes, their physique, their ability to create small ponds of sweat beneath their bikes within the first 10 minutes of riding. I sit in the back row, of thre

Go ahead. Breathe that sigh of relief. The flood is "officially" over. Yesterday, the Iowa River inched below its 22-foot flood stage for the first time in a month. Somehow, for some strange reason, I can't seem to get myself in a celebratory mood. The water may be receding like a middle-aged man's hairline, but what is left behind makes me want to weep. The odor of rotting fish and raw sewage. The sight of pile after pile of ripped-apart, water-logged drywall and giant Dumpsters trucked in to take it away. Those white protective masks, slapped against pensive, stressed-out faces of people who have lost their lives and livelihoods to an act of nature and cruel fate. It's not like the water's completely gone, either. It still covers a main thoroughfare, various ditches, and our entire city park. Engineers still won't let us drive on Park Road Bridge because they think it might be structurally compromised. The river still runs across much of my bike path --

Our 4th of July weekend included a parade, fireworks over Old Capitol, a barbecue with friends, a trip to Niabi Zoo in the Quad Cities, and perhaps the best three days of weather in the history of Independence Day -- sunny skies, no rain, light breezes and temps in the 70s. And what holiday weekend would be complete without allowing our small child to handle flaming, sizzling explosives.

Tonight, Tim disappeared and we wondered where he went. A few minutes later, he comes back in the front door and exclaims, "Wow, you guys should see the lightning out there. It's really cool!" Henry and I didn't say anything for a moment. Then Henry turns to Tim with a crooked little smile and said what we both were thinking: "Well, Daddy, it's a good thing you didn't get killed."

I swear I didn't put him up to it. He came to me with the deck of cards with yoga poses on it all on his own and said, "Mommy, can we do yoga?" He rolled out my yoga mat, took the cards out of the box and diligently proceeded through each one, moving from cat pose to downward dog to child's pose to the one seen in this photo -- which I don't know the name of, but gosh, doesn't he look angelic doing it?

These days, I see an American flag and think of the lives destroyed by a war based on lies. I think of the word "patriotism" and hear it spilling from the mouths of deceitful, hateful warmongers on a deadly agenda. I hesitate to wear red, white and blue today because the first thought in my head is, "I wouldn't want to do anything to make people think I might be showing support for an administration worthy of war-crimes tribunals and impeachment trials." Then I remember: hey, it's my country just as much as it is theirs. This is a country that allows us freedom of speech, allows me to have my career as a writer. This is a country that offers us hope and prosperity and possibility, no matter where we started -- and more increasingly, no matter our ethnic heritage or skin color or gender or sexual orientation. It's not perfect. But it's worthy of celebration and honor. And I won't allow anyone to steal away my invitation to the party. I'm proud

Get your groaning out of the way. This is a recipe from love-her-or-hate-her Rachael Ray, perfect for a 4th of July party. Or to be more precise, the 5th of July, which is when I will be making it and taking it to our friends' BBQ. Black Bean and Corn Salad 1 can, 14 ounces, black beans, rinsed and drained 2 cups frozen corn kernels 1 small red bell pepper, seeded and chopped 1/2 red onion, chopped 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin, half a palm full 2 teaspoons hot sauce, just eyeball the amount (recommended: Tabasco) 1 lime, juiced 2 tablespoons vegetable or olive oil, eyeball it Salt and pepper Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Let stand at least 15 minutes for corn to fully defrost and flavors to combine, then toss and serve. The corn will also place a quick-chill on this easy side-salad as it defrosts -- no need to refrigerate!

I did. Or, more accurately, the saint hugged me. I attended a program in Coralville this morning, featuring Sri Mata Amritananadamayi Devi , better known around the world as Amma. She is the 50-something Indian woman who has dedicated her life to creating a network of charitable activities. In 2002, she received the Gandhi-King Award for Non-violence from Dr. Jane Goodall, the previous year's recipient. She has spoken about world peace to the U.N. General Assembly and at the U.N. in Geneva. Last year she accepted the Cinema Verité Award in Paris, for her humanitarian activities and aid, among them disaster relief, orphanages, free food and medicines, sponsored weddings for the poor, and free legal aid. She has been the driving force behind numerous charitable hospitals, hospices, the philosophies of Ayurveda natural medical care, vocational training, community development, special needs education and the GreenFriends environmental protection movement. But what she's probably mo

I apologize. It has been almost two weeks since I cut caffeine out of my life, and I fear that, in the process, I may have contributed to the continuing downfall of a company that has globally dominated its market. Yesterday, the company announced it would close 600 of its underperforming stores. It has yet to announce which stores may get the boot. I fear that one of ours may be on the chopping block, thanks to Detox 2008. So, a moment of silence for Starbucks. It just couldn't handle my loss.

Sniffsniffsniff. What's that smell? What? You smell nothing? (Besides the putrid odor of stagnant, sewage-filled flood water) You can breathe deeply, secure in the knowledge that pesky carcinogens aren't hightailing it to your bronchial tubes? Yes, readers. Rejoice. July 1 has arrived. The day Iowa goes smoke-free. Well, theoretically. Starting today, it is illegal to light up in the following: Bars; restaurants; restaurants' outdoor seating areas; financial institutions; public and private educational facilities; health care provider locations; laundries; schools; public transportation facilities, including buses and taxicabs, and the ticketing, boarding and waiting areas of these facilities; reception areas; aquariums, galleries, libraries and museums; retail food production and marketing establishments; service establishments; retail stores; shopping malls; entertainment venues, including theaters, concert halls, auditoriums and other similar facilities or sports arenas;