Posts (page 2)

Presidents are like furniture.

I was sitting in the car, in my curbside parking space next to the Top Pot Doughnuts in Bellevue, having the anecdotally convenient "driveway moment": I couldn't leave the car, because I was listening to something on KUOW. What I was listening to was Mr. Obama's speech on his Nobel Peace Prize.

Now, I'm not going to go into whether or not he deserved it (he says he didn't) or whether or not he should accept it (he did, on behalf of everybody), or if this is a good or bad thing (I think it's a "thing": recognition is nice, but let's keep our eyes on the ball, because the game is still in play). It occured to me, with all the pre-and-post peace prize punditry, that it's really a lot like furniture.

We spend a considerable amount of time and effort evaluating our options. Like a newlywed couple furnishing our new house, America pours over every glossy (or dull) detail of its candidates. Those that are eminently practical (Ikea shoppers -- yours truly included) do not care about the attractiveness or the hairstyle, and are more concerned with voting record and the like. Some like their furniture shiny and ornate, some like it simple and streamlined (but not quite so elegant). We agonize over the "cost" of the item, the sorts of financing we may have to use (or should we buy this other one directly, which is not as nice but we can afford outright?). We evaluate how it will fit into our lives: will it be durable enough? Will it be versatile enough? Can we show it off to friends and family only, or would we be proud to host complete strangers to dinner on it? Is it comfortable? Should it even *be* comfortable? Is this a long-term purchase, or is this just a stepping stone to the next, more idealized one?

In time, we buy the piece. We position it where we want it, and friends and family comment freely about it. We discuss our purchase criteria and why we picked it, we defend the small dent in the corner and point out that for the price you really couldn't beat it. It may not display exactly as you had planned, but then again it may be a lot sturdier than you thought. Your evaluation of the piece, over time and as you become accustomed to it, changes: you either come to think of it as part of your everyday life and enjoy it, or you grow to intensely loathe it until, after bitching about it incessantly, you put it on Craigslist (or vote against it).

For those pieces that don't get Craigslisted... that become part of the furniture inventory of the Union, as it were... they get a new coat of varnish every few years. Slowly the dent fades and becomes less noticeable against the character of the overall piece (much like Lincoln and Kennedy are immortalized in money and memory: no one mentions derisively the ape-like ambling or the ape-like rambling of the former and latter, respectively). Each coat of varnish, another decade or so, and the flaws and foibles fade, until we are left with the "perfect" piece, the one that no one would dream of removing.

The other pieces? The Craigslisted (or worse, donated) ones? Well, unless they were truly hideous (like Aunt Martha's vinyl 1970's chairs that new covers couldn't de-atrocify), you forget them. And if you can't forget them, at least you are thankful that they're no longer stationed on your floccati rug. 

I want, seriously want, to place the following personal ad in our local community paper. I have no idea if I will. Actually part of me wants to post it in the Stranger, part of me wants to post it in the local paper, and another part of me wants to post it on Craigslist. They're all currently arguing against each other, so it will remain only here. For now.

Wanted: Like Minded Parental Units of Child, 5y-8y

While I understand that it is not always possible that my son's playmate's parents are into the same things I am, or even anything I am, it would be great if they were. This way, there wouldn't be that awkward 10 minute to 2 hour conversation about the weather, sports, the weather, tea, the weather, the school, the weather, the PTSA, the weather, pets, the weather. I have Accuweather, the Parent Organizer site, and the school site for those.

Your child should be between 5 years and 8 or even 9 years, because mine is and if yours is too much older than that then s/he will get bored with mine, and if s/he is too much younger then vice-versa. I don't care if it's a boy or a girl as long as they like *active* kids. Mine will happily play in a park or with light sabers for an hour or more, without stopping. Yes, he has ADHD, but aside from the occasional compunction to hug someone and/or relate, at telling depth and obscure sequence, a particular part of a video game or movie, you can't really tell. No he's not medicated; it's not a philosophical/belief system choice (it's just the way it worked out for him).

You should be any age you are, I don't particularly care. I also don't care if you prefer tea to coffee, beer to wine, knitting to quilting, football to soccer. Really. I'd prefer if you were open minded -- but I'm not going to say "No Republicans" because frankly although I'm socially liberal, I'm fiscally conservative, and I can see both sides. I occasionally get cross eyed while trying to do so. I don't care if you're single, married, polyamorous, gay, or otherwise "alternative" to the nuclear family. I wasn't in a nuclear family growing up and I certainly don't have one.

I honestly don't care if you're stay-at-home. And I appreciate we may have different views on the relative advantages of that. Frankly, on more than one level, if you are, I'm jealous: I don't have the option, but I'm happy to live vicariously through you.  

Things I am equipped to discuss: our kids, books, movies, fiscal policy, pantheistic animism, health issues, diving, gardening, fabric arts, sql programming, geekiness of any kind, monty python, foreign policy, biking/running/swimming, the groan of 9-to-5, having dogs, baking, cooking, the relative and subjective value of chocolate, wine/wineries/wine clubs, religious theory, amusing self-depricating anecdotes, Scrabble, and video games (again, theory on that last).

Things That I Really Can't Discuss Or Will Ruin The Prospect Of "Us": intolerance (race, creed, sexual orientation, etc.) and (I really hate to put this in the same sentence as I will tolerate it much longer than the first) a driving need to keep any and all conversation about "the children".** Also, if I Facebook friend you awkwardly too early on, and you thereby post a reply or comment on *everything I do*, it will drive me bonkers.

But I really, really don't want to fall back on the weather in conversation anymore. I really have enough time with the PTSA in my work with them, and I am so involved in the school itself that I literally check in as frequently as I do with work, who pays me.

I am getting the impression, while reading through this, what I am asking for is a friend with children my son's age. That would be awesome. I have very good friends, none with kids my son's age; and maybe I'm asking for a perfect situation that is not to be. But that's it in a nutshell: you may not be here to make friends.... but I am.

**The children are fine. They are play-acting Star Wars or Adventurers. They are building cities and dungeons of Legos. They are consuming mass quantities of organic, homemade pizza and drinking 100% juice (in my house). They are painting or drawing or making candle holders for us or systematically de-furring the very very patient dog. And they are doing it all within our eyesight. 

Today's little luxuries are sponsored by self-injury, inflicted in a small, damp parking lot in the Arboretum, while on the return trip from a run. I had run, in a completely acceptable fashion, the initial 3-and-change miles, and was coming back somewhere along miles 4.5-5.5 when my knee suddenly alerted me that 1. it had had quite enough, thank you and 2. no it really had, and it must be insistent now.

For the past few weeks my knees have been making un-encouraging crunching noises when I crouch down to do things. I've largely ignored them, because I don't like trips to the doctor when success is not assured. (I love trips to the doctor when success is assured: getting pregnancy and STD tests as a virgin was awesome!) I figured I'd wait until something really painful happened and then go to the doctor.

Karma's a bitch.

All I know is I was running. Then we stopped for a pee break. Then we took off again. Then I stopped and decided to walk, because when you put weight on your knee and your knee decides to go "ow" on every footfall, you walk. After a bit of walking the feeling subsided and I started in to run. The knee reminded me that it definitely meant business and visions of bone shards poking through flesh entered my head and I walked.

I walked the remainder of the "run".

I had plans to go to my folk's house (post run, post shower) and so I did, albeit late. Explaining my lateness due to the change of pace my mother instantly applied an ice pack. I really don't like ice packs (fortunately, my father agrees with me on this) but they are necessary (unfortunately, my father agrees with me on this), especially when you have a family history of bum knees (gee thanks Dad). I gritted through lunch and let the ice pack do its thing, which was namely to wet my jeans and make my knee an uncomfortable cold-sort-of-numb. After promising my mother I'd ice it more at home, I didn't.

That's right.

I came home and decided that this was my last "me" time for a bit, and I was going to bloody well enjoy it, knee issues or not. I employed the tried and true methodology of plying myself with a little red wine (yes, a little), some homemade open faced cheese sandwiches (sharp cheddar), and a DVR-enhanced Mythbusters marathon. And then I went into the hot tub.

I love my hot tub. Loooooooooooooove my hot tub. After having six people in it last weekend, though, the water was a bit low, so oh gosh unfortunately I had to sink neck-deep into the soothing, delicious heat in order to keep the highest jet from making that gasping fish noise it does when it doesn't get enough water. Eventually I was able to elevate my leg (see? I was being good!) on the edge and finished a 2nd glass of wine while reading Bill Bryson's Notes on a Small Island.

I sit here, aglow and pink from the 'tub, signing off for the night. I'm going to go read some more (oh, sure, I'll elevate the knee -- but I ain't icing it) and possibly have a cup or two of tea. That sounds just about right to me. 

...one of these things is not quite the same.

This was one of my favorite games on Sesame Street. The music would come on and I would be riveted, so proud of myself when I was able to figure out which was *different*.

I've been on a quest to get more involved in the C's school and get him together with kids after school to help foster socialization and peer bonding and all of that other psychological term-flinging that essentially describes what it is like to be a normal kid. As such, I am social secretary: setting up "play dates" with friends (as identified by him) at their house or ours.

Play date etiquette is nuanced and not well documented. Some parents identify "play date" as "Free Babysitting" (for you or them), in and of that they do not expect you to be present in their house or vice-versa. Others assume you are inviting the whole family over (or at least all of the siblings). Some will work with the most vague planning available (yeah, let's get together, um, Tuesday?) and others require email back-and-forth (Tuesday, 2pm, my house, until 4:30pm, because Alouitious has piano practice). Some have definite preference as to whose house ("we have a pool") or what activities should be played ("Archibald just loves legos... but we don't let him play Transformers because there are g-u-n-s'").

Invariably, the date will come and I will have anywhere from 10 minutes to 2 hours of polite conversation with an adult peer while we both keep wary eyes on our offspring, ensuring they don't do something amiss or otherwise embarrass us (or themselves), while silently appraising their choice of playmate. During the course of normal conversation, then, it will come up that I am a working mom, and single at that.

You can see the instant appraisal in their eyes: How much does she make? Does she rely on alimony? What's it like to go back to the workforce after having a kid? In most every case, the other kids' moms do not work, they quit after their 2nd child, and the prospect of going back is something that they are, at most, toying with. Because I live in an area where I am the smallest and oldest house, they are typically in homes that are much larger, with budgets to match (although I suspect some of not being cognizant of the delta between income and outgo, the chances are that hubby makes enough to alleviate any occasional hiccups). Some ask me questions like the above quite frankly, others attempt to "finesse" it out of me. I'm relatively eager to answer, in hopes that it will somehow reduce my feelings of being a social pariah. There is an unspoken assumption that, because I work, my son is not getting the same quality of care that theirs are.

It is entirely possible that this is true, although thanks to an extremely accommodating boss I am able to volunteer in various projects for the school, for my son's class, and pick him up on the days I have him (no nanny, no day care). True, he knows that mommy has a laptop and that she works for Expedia, and there has been more than one occasion where I've had to take a conference call at home and be on sporadic "mute". He's learned that the utility bill is directly impacted by lights left on or turned off, that there is a fixed amount we can spend on things, and that there are quite a few chores to keep a house running.  

I think, then, it's ok to be a little different.  

Pretty durned perfect.

Friday GH and I went out, which is rare for us. We don't tend to go OUT because we tend to talk ourselves out of going OUT, along the lines of, "why go out when I can cook for less?". We went out.

We went to Poppy, and it was quite good. It's a bit like Indian-Style tapas: little platelets of everything. The food was great, the service was great, the wine was good, and the bathrooms were impressive (they have this neat hand-dryer thingie). We walked there and back, which makes me feel only slightly virtuous (having eaten an appetizer AND dinner AND  dessert... yes, it was *that good*).

Also, I got jewelry. Specifically, I got opal rings (yes, plural, no, not for ears or fingers). A quick popover to Slave to the Needle got them installed -- there was nowayinhell I was going to do it myself -- and I'm pretty darned pleased with the results. I've teased GH about posting pictures to Facebook, but as my boss and boss' boss and boss' boss' boss are all on there it doesn't seem appropriate.

Saturday morning I got up and went for a run. I got lost and didn't do the run I planned, but I found little hidden houses and gardens along the way and met an exceptionally well behaved and friendly poodle.

Then I went home to make Bread Thing, as K-bear and Margles and CC and McG came over for dinner. Margles made an apple crisp that was crazy yummy and then we sweated off all of the calories in the hot tub. While chatting we saw the local neighbor kids sneaking out of the house -- someone's van pulled up without their headlights on, doors opened (on my property side of the street), and then 2 teenagers ran like snot to get in and peel away. Good luck kids, play safe.

This morning I discovered that life's too short to drink too much wine (hey, it was a *dinner party* and those beget vino!) and went into a slight cleaning frenzy. Then I went to a babyshower/bbq (in which 2 of my 3 promised team members -- from work -- didn't show up, even though they RSVP'd they would. For some reason I feel responsible to the host, I don't know why).  A popover in Bonney Lake (hi, Ween!) and then boy retrieval; I am now home tired and happy and feeling like much was done.

And I'm actually looking forward to work tomorrow...

I have debt.

I know. I've railed against debt, having debt, the existence of debt, the very fact that debt has a silent"B" in it, but I have Student Loans.

I finally admitted the precise figure of said loans to GH, whose only comment was "Holy Shit".  Keep in mind, we've been dating (or whatever) for 1 year 9 months and 6 days. While he may have decided I wasn't really playing on my "best behavior" for that period, I think it was a shock to know that there was a little more "red" in this Woman. I'll give you a hint: you could buy a very nice car for what I owe in Student Loans from my MBA. On the flip side, you could also buy a very nice car for what I've paid of that degree.

You see, when I took out said loans, I was married. I was part of a dual income household that had a decent budget and a decent wad of savings; I fully expected them to be paid off in short order. Six months before I graduated, I divorced. Then I did what all newish divorcees do: I spent money that I oughtn't've. I bought a laptop (after all, I needed a computer). I bought a dry suit (after all, I expected to dive). I partied and went on dive vacations. And after a couple of years, I sobered up.

Not that I regret any of those purchases, mind you; it's just that I'm this much farther along in time, and not much farther along against the principal. So I have spent the last few weeks assessing, and reassessing, the habits which need to change. Ironically, I got out of the habit of purchasing coffee and trips; it seems to have morphed into purchasing cookies and other stuff of late (Concealer at Gene Juarez, anyone?). I'm doing slightly odd things like asking GH to bake me cookies so I don't buy them and scouring through my bathroom cabinets to figure out just how many bottles/tubes/canisters of lotion/soap/makeup I actually have. And I'm considering selling my dry suit.

I haven't been diving in the cold water for more than a year. Successfully, for nearly two. My last dive was in November of last year and I'm not doing a tropical trip anytime soon. I feel, like I do with my bike, that if I don't start using it I will need to cut it out as all it is doing is taking up space and collecting dust. It's a beautiful suit and it is incredibly comfortable and it doesn't deserve to just sit there.

The reality is that I know I'm rusty. I *hate* being a rusty diver, as there was a time in my life where I was the shit. Granted, that was several years ago; now I avoid going deeper than 80' and I suck air like a newb. I look at my tanks and know they need to be re-certified and while that will cost money they will almost certainly ALSO need to be replaced. I see dollar signs associated with uptaking this sport again and have to assess if they're worth it. Further, it means that when I go on my first batch of five or six dives, I will be the newb that slows my buddy down. I will be the person people are reluctant to dive with. And really, do I want to bother? Do I want to do that get-up-early, get into cold water, swim around for an hour in low vis? It just doesn't seem to hold the magic for me that it once did.  

There are other things as I take inventory that were once huge parts of my life that are just empty or by the wayside. I took up knitting for an afternoon in Portland this summer, I haven't touched it since. I have 3 quilts to make; I have 3 skirts to make and/or take in. I have neglected book club and craftaculars and it's been at least two months since I've done anything useful on the farm. My foray into container gardening failed this year -- I like to think because of the unusually hot and sunny weather; but also because of neglect. The only thing that seems to have survived unscathed were some pepper plants -- again because of the unusually hot and sunny weather.

I think that no matter how much I get done, that there will always be more that I feel as though I should -- perhaps not can -- do. There are times when I'm copacetic with that and times where it annoys the high holy shit out of me, and I think the latter is one of these times. I'll probably generate a frenzy of emails and dates to "fix" it, and probably run into a circumstance where I get overwhelmed again and have to drop some things or others.

And so, the guilt cycle will continue. Maybe *that's* the meaning of life ;)

It was 6:04 when we rolled into Genesee park and had a look at the Transition area. In a triathlon, the transition area is where everything starts and stops --- you stash your bike there to go to after you swim, you stash your running gear for after you bike. It's crowded; a set of bars to rack your bike on and a little 18" wide space for your stuff.

The official race time was posted at 7:15 and Amy and I were in "Wave 13". The swims are done in waves, because you don't release 1300 women into a small section of water safely at once. We were the last wave, 13. We were called at 8:15. After freezing in our wetsuits in line we got ready in the water discovering, to our surprise, that the water was warmer than the air. A from-ten countdown, a quick high-five, and we were off.

Swimming in a lake with a wetsuit is decidedly different than swimming in a pool in a swimsuit. Sure, you're slightly more buoyant -- but that suit provides some drag, especially if you've lost some weight and it can take on a larger water gap between you and the suit. Halfway to the first buoy I had a panic-induced thought train that included swimming to the nearest kayak (they were stationed as swim aisle guides) and asking for a ride back to shore. My goggles were fogged, I couldn't see, and lake water tastes bad.

Sheer stubbornness kept me going, for the rest of the swim. I had come all this way, and I wasn't going to give it up because my nose had been invaded by lake water and my wetsuit fit oddly.

Running out of the water and through the funnel to the transition area was hampered by the attempt to simultaneously remove my wetsuit. My official triathlon-provided swim cap -- the one that designated me part of Wave 13 Yellow -- wasn't built for long hair and so it wasn't much to remove it. In the transition area I stripped out of the wetsuit and put on running capris, shoes, and socks (my swimsuit acting as tank top), grabbed my gloves and helmet and bike, and followed Amy. This sounds really fast but we probably lollygagged for 7 or more minutes, there was a bathroom break and a mutual decision that next year, we would ditch the wetsuits and do more open water training.

Off down the bike lane (holding our bikes until we hit the "mount" area) we went, shifting slightly down as the path crept slightly up. At the I-90 -- which they had closed the express lanes for us -- we were presented with a sharp hairpin onramp that I admittedly had to walk my bike up 3/4 of the way. I caught up to Amy though and we went clear to the East side of Mercer Island and back to the transition area. 12 miles of riding, about an hour; the ride was peppered with lots of sororital "you go girls".  As we came back along the last leg we saw the sweeper -- the last person in the race and the motorcycle pacing her from behind -- and I looked to my compatriot (an unidentified woman 20 pounds heaveir, 20 years older, and who was busy passing me) and I said, "you know what that means" and she called back "yeah -- bike faster!".

Back into the transition area and my legs felt like trees. Some less than charitable women had taken our bike rack spots so we equally uncharitably shoved their gear aside, stashed our bikes, and agreed if we had to walk parts of the run we would. And that's where my 2nd wind kicked in. 

Amy said I could take off if I wanted to, but I didn't. She had waited at me in transition, twice: once at the swim, for about 5 minutes, and once at the bike, for probably 10. I was not going to clip along at my normal pace and leave her for the sake of shaving a couple of minutes off of my total time. We jogged lightly along the path, discussing this new bug of ours -- we'd agreed in Transition One to do this once a summer -- and how we'd change things. I did run up the hill -- it wasn't that big -- and we ended up sprinting across the finish line, hand in hand.

We did it. We did it in 2 hours, 15 minutes including transitions.   The swim was 26:36, the bike was 57:41, the run was 37:45 (including 3 walk breaks). We spent 14 minutes in transition.

Next year I'm shaving 4 minuts off of the swim, 10 minutes off of the bike, and 7 minutes off of the run. 

Tomorrow morning Is It.

Amy and I went to pick up our packets today and as we left (after getting "marked", collecting bibs/swag/shirts/etc.) we had to pass our "packet" over a scanner to be sure our chip scans. Well, it scanned. There it was, my full (LEGAL) name and verification that, at number 713, I was due for a triathlon.

I count at least 7 separate occasions on which I wanted to quit.

I had fantasies that went along the lines of broken legs, sprained ankles, horrific car accidents. Something, anything, to get me off the hook. I had to conquer a weird fear of drowning (it's weird because I'm a diver) yet *again* because surface swimming is a constant immersion of your face into water, vs diving where the goal is to just eventually get to the surface and float. I, who cannot for the life of me shift a manual car transmission with 5 - 6 speeds, had to learn how to shift a BIKE with 21. It has been daunting and humiliating and a lesson in pride.

Which has brought me here. As we left, it both hit us: this is very real, there is no backing out, tomorrow we are swimming, biking, and running.

I've spent the last 8 weeks toward this goal in terms of training and offsetting other things... I've put off crafts, any investigation in to what other things the gym has to offer, and spent a good deal of stress and worry over this thing as it is so new. I won't be the same way gearing up for the Seattle 1/2 Marathon this year -- after all I've done it before -- but this, this was my challenge for 2009.

I'm ready. And I'm bringing It.

Well, folks, move along, nothing to see here; the Recession is over. We still have a weak jobs market and your credit report will take a while to recover from things like random card companies closing accounts you haven't used in years (ahem!), but still. It's over, and it's time to get down with our 1980's envisaged consumerist selves and buy some Hello Kitty underwear.

Or not.

The comforting trend is that Americans, such as that generalization is, are saving again. They are also being cost conscious, yours truly included.

I've been reading about this collective cost consciousness, online and in books from that nifty place called The Library. The most recent reads were The Millionaire Next Door and Millionaire Women Next Door, which is the same book but one has a girlish font. Seriously. Both books seem to be entirely developed from the same bolt of fabric, the common thread being this:

Live within your means.

Pretty simple, huh? Everyone thinks that they live within their means, but "means" and "within" are nice stretchy words. For example, you can make $60,000 a year and spend $55,000, and you are living within your means. Your personal savings rate, then, is about 8 percent. You can make $60,000 a year and spend $59,000 and you are living within your means. That would mean a 1.7% savings rate. Or you can make $60,000 a year and attempt to live on $40,000, in which case your saving rate is 33%. All are technically "within your means", but the differences in application are drastic.

A lot of the advice online ranges from the 'heard it before' to the 'truly creative'. Examples of 'heard it before' include things like don't purchase fancy coffee, use your IRS.gov withholding calculator, minimize dining out. 'Truly creative' includes having exclusively pot-luck dinner parties, setting a budget on an expense (like groceries) and forcing yourself to live within it (so if you do in fact have to eat tuna out of the can that has sat in the back of your pantry since 2002 then so be it).

Some advice is more concrete: the book I read suggested that you shouldn't purchase a home whose price tag is more than twice your annual salary (I... so utterly failed there). They admonish new-car purchases or keeping up with Joneses. Some offer strategies for creative coupon clipping which results in $15 grocery store trips (which you only do twice a month)  (I suspect these people are surviving on bean and rice burritos with the occasional aforementioned tuna tin). They all follow the same basic advice, though, which is to Pay Yourself First.

With all this newfound fiscal conservativism, then, it is no surprise that we are increasingly inundated with red-and-white Sale signs. Merchants are all the more incentivized to sell us Something, Anything, at far smaller margins than they were used to. As if galvanized by the newfound social acceptability of coupon clipping and bargain hunting, we review what’s on sale; we scrutinize the per unit labeling; we lightly boast of our discount finds. Everywhere; the sale signs are pervasive and vary only in the number and size of exclamation points.

I’m seeing them in places I hardly expect to, like in Gene Juarez. Gene Juarez, the home of the minimum $50 haircut with the product up-sell at the end, is having a product sale and has been having their most expensive stylists reduce rates on certain days. I got free foundation, with my reduced-price haircut. (Note: haircut was last month; they didn’t have the “foundation blender” person there so they credited it to my account and I rescheduled at my convenience. Which was today.) I did actually buy something at Gene Juarez today with my free foundation. I got a concealer compact. I did not, however, spring the extra $12.50 for the special brush.

I know I can get one at a discount art supply store for $5.

You know when you don't want to do something, suddenly you have time for EVERYTHING else?

• I've completely reorganized (and labeled!) my library. All I have to do is log the hardcover fiction, which represents about 15%
• I've repotted a couple of plants
• I've refilled the hot tub and appropriately chemical'd the water, using all 3 parts of the water test kit.
• I've changed banks and reorganized my finances and budget. Again.
• I've visited the local library and checked out pertinent books, and actually read them
• I've set up and hosted playdates
• I've revamped our PTSA webmail notification application
• I've hired a fifth person at work
• I've sold some stuff on eBay

I'm really intimidated about this Sunday. I went out with Amy the Future Sister and while I'm better at shifting, I know that the bike will be my slowest part of the event. We are both literally on the "I just want to finish this" program, but Amy is better at swimming and the bike than I am, and I'm conflicted about her desire for us to "keep together". I don't want to be the reason she lags behind.

I swam a half-mile today at the gym and my time is fine; the gym pool and Lake Washington are substantially different, even though I will have a wetsuit in the lake (buoyancy advantage). I can run 3 miles in 30 minutes (with hills). The bike, though -- with hills, I'm looking at an hour to an hour and a half slog.

I'm avoiding at looking at it though, because I'm catching up on all of these other things.

Except perhaps my blogging. It's been 7 days. Oops.