Why I give my money to NPR

I'd like to make a shout out to my sister and brother-in-law in La Crosse. I heard this on NPR this morning and now I know why your kinky little 3rd congressional district covers the southwestern border of the state - because you cheeseheads like it HOT. Ohh yeah.

"Forget Las Vegas and New York! La Crosse, Wisconsin has to be America's next Super Sex Capital, and the 3rd district's congressman, Democrat Ron Kind, is apparently the Larry Flint of congress."

Just what is THIS about, you ask? Well, you can see the ad for yourself right here.

Don't worry though, because "for the record, Ron Kind is about as straight laced as a Mormon Missionary. (And the money he allegedly funneled to the sex industry was a bipartisan measure to fund the National Institutes of Health)."

Whew!! You can hear the whole story on All Things Considered (it's about 4 minutes long). It's about YouTube being used as a vessel for the evil campaigning of twisted politicians. Good stuff, NPR! Way to keep my afternoon commute spicy!

Waste Management

I recently saw this sign posted in a public restroom. (Lucky I had my digital camera with me!) It makes one wonder.... Just what should go into the toilet? I mean, does "any wastes" really mean any waste?? I certainly didn't check the trash can to find out.

Baby On Board

Guess what, World?!!!

I’M PREGNANT!!!

First, the facts:

1. It’s a BOY
2. I’m 21 weeks along
3. Due January 15, 2007 (Barely missed the tax write-off. Oh well!)

Secondly, What I Love So Far:

1. Showing my Belly Off – I’m a proud mama, and if you land in our home any evening, you’ll get a full dose of my beautiful, round, exposed belly. Sure, I practice more modesty at work, but I have no qualms about tight shirts. I love anything that screams “Look at my gut!”

2. The Ultrasound (or Sonogram, whatever) – Even though prodding my full bladder for an hour felt like a form of Chinese Torture, every second was too short. I couldn’t take my eyes off of that squirmy little monster.

3. Feeling the Little Guy Move – Fascinating, comforting and sometimes irritating, it’s the funkiest feeling ever. Even more satisfying was the first time Marc got to feel it. I’m afraid I’ll feel so empty when it’s gone (or relieved? I don’t know, ladies, you tell me!).

4. Cleavage – I’m not sure if the mama or the papa is happier about these developments. It’s pretty great, though.

5. Doting – Everyone wants to take care of the pregnant lady! I haven’t carried anything heavy at work for months. Apparently lifting a bag of lotions will give me a hernia. Well, just in case they’re right, who am I to take that kind of a risk?

6. Father and Son Bonding Time – Here’s where I get all mushy. The moments Marc spends whispering to and rubbing my belly are my favorite of all.

7. Eating Whatever I Want – I’m so obsessive about my cravings that my sweet hubs has learned not to say anything as long as I’m within reason. (Even when I’m not, he’s learning to be careful.)

And finally, the reasons it’s not so great (I’ll gloss over these). They include: midnight trips to the bathroom, sleeping on my left side (my poor shoulder), moving at a snails pace, and being sleepy, forgetful, cranky, moody, achy, and suffering a wide array of digestion issues. The list goes on, but I'm told I’m “lucky” because at least I didn’t puke!!

What a Day.

Words you don't want to hear at the end of a LONG day at the spa:

"... 80 minute deep tissue massage... really big guy... plays for the Redskins... 6'-5".. 300lbs...
ALL MUSCLE..."

The word you say in your head after hearing those words:

Well... you can use your imagination. I guarantee I thought of them all. Nice guy, though.

...and by the way, I never did find the spider.

Did I park too close to that other car? "Perhaps," I thought the other day as I contorted my body to inch out of the driver's side door. But just how close is too close?


Well, I'll tell you what too close is. Too close is squeezing your way back to that door in the middle of the night only to bulldoze a spider web with your face. That, my friends, is too close.

Almost Fat Free. Almost.

Ingredients: sugar, partially defatted peanuts, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, dextrose, nonfat milk, yada yada yada…

_______________

I ate half of a pound of Reese's today (well worth my current stomach ache), and the whole time I kept wondering:

"Why bother to defat the peanuts and milk if they’re just going to partially hydrogenate the soybeans?"

Hmm....

Seeking the pure, uncontaminated truth? Just Ask Amy.

I love Amy. Amy Dickinson, that is. She is the wise and witty woman who pens the Ask Amy advice column each day for millions to ponder over their coffee and Grape Nuts (in my case the latter). If you've read some of her work, then you know this woman doesn't fool around. She sure knows a thing or two about common sense, and she'll point it out (in her own beautifully forward way) if you don't. I enjoy most of Amy's responses, and I imagine she has a lot of fun with her answers (in between eye rolls) as she often has a way of jabbing those who should know better. A prime example is her recent response to this overly germophobic grandmother*:

Dear Amy:

What is wrong with people? Don't they know anything about spreading germs?

We were in a restaurant with my son, his wife and my 6-month-old granddaughter, and this old man walks by and comments on how cute the baby is and then touches her on the face!

Then yesterday we were in another restaurant and the waitress touched the baby again and again on the face, on her bare head and on her hands every time she came to the table.

And then you know how the baby sticks her hands in her mouth, right? I know the waitress did not wash her hands and am sure she handled dirty dishes.

Okay. So I am germ-phobic, but I know that touching with the hands is a major source of spreading germs.

This is a little baby and is very susceptible to picking up colds and who knows what else from human-to-human contact! Please inform the general public to keep their hands off of my grandchild!

What do I have to do, put a sign on her?

-Hands Off Please

________________________

Dear Hands Off,

I share your concern. I am very worried for your granddaughter because, instead of being kept at home in her safety bubble where she belongs, she is evidently being taken to restaurants and out in public, where there are germs smeared on every surface and anyone can touch her at will.

I'm further worried because I'm not sure if you remembered to wash your hands after you touched the doorknob on your way out of the ladies room and again after you grasped your chair as you seated yourself at the table.

It is not polite for strangers to touch babies, not because they might spread germs but because even babies have a right to their autonomy and shouldn't be stroked without permission.

But really -- you do have a problem. You are both wrong and very unpleasant about this. I hope that your son and his wife can prevail upon you to lighten up and back off. Soon enough, your granddaughter will be crawling. If you think her current world is germy, then just wait until she decides to cut her teeth on her daddy's cellphone or on the dog's chew toy.

- Amy

*I’m taking this opportunity to ward of my husbands imminent claim that I’m a hand washing nazi. It’s true, I can’t stand having dirty hands, but I take comfort in knowing I’m not THIS bad.

The Suckiest Forward Ever

So I just got a foward from a friend the other day that I'm still fuming about. Maybe you've all received it before: the one about Asians eating stillborn babies? It comes complete with very realistic looking pictures of a man preparing, cooking and eating human fetuses. (I won't curse any of you with links to the pics, because they will haunt you. I'll let you look them up yourself if you're that curious, but I beg you to abstain.)

Anyway, the whole thing is horrible, and I'm pissed at the friend who sent it to me. Why would I want to see trash like that? The whole premise is a hoax, which is obvious if you do a little research*. And a little research is EXACTLY what one should do before passing along this kind of garbage.

I just sent my friend what I found out, not that it will make much of a difference. You can't do much to stop the sickos out there any more than you can the neurotic forwarders.

*The hoax is this: some sick bastard in China named Zhu Yu decided to put together a piece of performance art, most likely using animal and doll parts to resemble babies. He took pictures of himself eating this monstrosity and posted them all over the internet, calling it "art". This man should burn.

Why I Took a Blogging Vacation (and why it’s likely to happen again):

I haven’t blogged for a while (news flash) and the time has ripened for me to make my comeback. Perhaps now I can find the time, means and motivation to expand on the hundreds of ideas I’ve come up with. I honestly could write something every day if I made the effort. I am chock full of random thoughts, ideas, annoyances, etc. Not convinced? Well, in my computer I’ve created a Blog Idea file. Here I have a list. A list where all my grand ideas are typed, sometimes outlined, occasionally begun, and rarely completed. Marc likes to say my Blog Idea file is where all my blogs go to die. Sadly, there is immense truth in this.

My problem is this, folks: I’m a worrier. Specifically on the subject of time. This is where I have issues with blogging, an inconvenient "single task" task. Writing doesn’t always fill my voracious need to cross out "to dos". When I write I can’t do much more than eat, watch tv, or poo (not that I would ever do the latter - girls don’t poo. It’s true, we don’t. We’re always constipated.). I have admitted in the past that blogging can actually be therapeutic and satisfying, and I still believe this; however, every time I write, read or make a comment, my relief and pride in my work soon develop into a twinge of guilt over lost time. I don’t suppose they make a morning after pill for that…

I speak as though productivity is the cure, but it’s not. No matter how much I accomplish, I frequently feel like I’ve lost precious irretrievable moments from my already too short days. The cure is finding a balance - it's prioritizing - something I’m sure we all could improve on.

I suppose this post has been a good therapy session for me. Instead of ironing or doing work, I just spent a record breaking 6 hours online doing nothing of note. I was a lazy bum and it feels pretty good. I only hope I don’t regret it in the morning.

Sick and Wrong

For those that haven't heard the latest in Czech pampering, check this one out:

Real Beer Baths

"The major bath ingredient is Dark Bathing Beer... characteristic beer foam of caramel colour... client is immersed into the baths which is enriched by a batch of active beer yeast [sic]..."

Did somebody say Spring Break in Chodovar?

That’s right, welcome to the newest and drunkenest spa on the planet, where a 20 minute soak can, get this, “enable the relaxed body and mind to release a stream of positive thoughts and energy.” So they’re saying beer can relax you? Who knew?!

But if just a soak isn’t enough, or if you’re tempted to drink the bathwater, you’d better take a tip from the pros: “To enhance the relaxation experience, the guests are recommended a glass of unique non-pasteurized Rock Lager...” Or as we say here in the states, “Moderation and sensible drinking are for pussies. Chug-a-lug, bro!”

Now I’ve officially made myself sick.

Husbanding 101

Nothing forces a pre-menstrual woman into a

Chocolate Feeding Frenzy

more than rationing her
Girl Scout Cookies!



SO DON'T DO IT AGAIN!
(You know who you are!!)

I have trouble remembering anyone’s eye color but I remember easily how messed up their teeth are.

What does that say about me?

Check it Out

Check it out -- Melbo blogged
three days in a row!!
If I were bowling, I'd get a turkey!

Hate Me if You Must, but I Still Won

"Ooo, traffic jam, got more cars than a beach got sand..."

Driving home today along the beltway, a mile and a half from my exit, I came to a standstill. Hundreds upon hundreds of cars were busily clogging the two right lanes of traffic. As is my way, I hopped over to the left to scope out a better place in line.

I thought, surely someone will let me back in at the last second. In my many months of budging since I moved to DC, I’ve only had to wait twice for the whole line of cars to pass by. There is almost always a kind soul ready to wave me in or at the very least, someone on their cell or a Mack truck slowing things down. What’s that you say? I’m a huge jerk? Au Contraire! In fact, I’m an impatient genius.

After traveling a mile watching all these cars backed up like sardines, I wondered if I might damage my almost perfect record. I ran through Plan B in my mind: skipping the exit altogether. But then…WAIT! What do I see a few car lengths from the final turn-off? Neatly pushed to the far right break down lane?

An ambulance….a banged-up car….and a stretcher.

All those cars were crawling by in single file to take in the scene, while I casually slipped in front, on my way down the exit ramp with PLENTY of room, leaving all those polite suckers in the dust.

I bet they cursed me as I drove by. Half an hour later, I bet they cursed all those rubber-neckers as they finally passed. They should really be cursing themselves for not being as smart as me, because I don’t feel the least bit guilty.

Budging Rocks.

This Really Isn't a Fat Joke

I have this client. His brother is a surgeon. He says his brother complains every now and then after performing surgery on an obese patient. Apparently, he claims that everything gets greasy from the fat, and it can be difficult to work because the tools, gloves, aprons and table get slick and oily. I've never thought of that before, but it makes sense. Anyway, it's so gross I couldn't keep it to myself.

A Man and His Guitar

The other night I got to experience Ben Lee live for the second time. It was a fabulous show and absolutely not my last. Something about the guy melts my heart like a Dreamsicle on a hot summer day.

As a talented youth, Ben recorded his first album at 15. Here are some of the lyrics to the first song he ever wrote - “My Guitar”:

And when I’m sick of hearing noise
I sit right down with one ’my favorite toys

Well my guitar is love
And my guitar’s all I need

And my guitar’s so special
Cause it plays the songs - not me
It’s my guitar

Give him a break, he was a kid when he wrote that. But, fortunately for him, his cheesy, uncomplicated lyrics are part of the old Ben Lee charm (and fortunately for him, I'm a sucker for it).

A man and his guitar (and sometimes a chick named Lara who does background vocals and plays 10 different instruments). Although I think we all know men require at least a few more essentials for survival, this charmer needs little else to fill a room with life. In fact, Ben is his best raw. Alone on stage, he and his guitar are charming, honest and engaging. His satisfaction with life is contagious. Whether sharing enthusiasm for the new trousers he’s wearing, celebrating his ongoing tour, or encouraging the crowd to sing his cheesiest lyrics back to him, Ben Lee is happy just to be Ben Lee. And wouldn’t you be, too, if you had such a cool name?

After the show, I eventually worked my way through the crowd to get this picture. I told him I would post the photo on my blog, thinking maybe he would ask for the web address. He didn’t. But who knows, if I put enough links on here, perhaps he could be reading it... right.... now!

(I heart you, Ben!)

The Deal Breaker

I see a lot of naked bodies every day. I’m pretty tolerant of bodily functions of all kinds, so few things make me shudder. However, there is one that always sends tremors down my spine, and that is my biggest and grossest pet peeve: to come upon clammy feet and hands. I’m sorry for any of you that suffer from the inability to control or absorb the massive amounts of sweat flowing from your icy, soggy hands and feet (hereafter referred to as Clammy Hand and Foot Syndrome or "CHAFS"). I don’t hate you, I just hate how it feels. The experience of sliding around in someone else’s sweat is something I won’t go into detail about, even though I'm tempted to. While massaging my latest CHAFS inflicted client today, I thought seriously about going into explicit detail about how much I suffer.

Now it could’ve been fate, her über-Italian last name, or my keen ability to find irony, but for some reason as I began massaging this woman's feet, my thoughts wandered to a blog I recently read. This post about Italian-American culture made me think: “Hey, Italian-Americans sound pretty cool. I like to eat, I love my family, I’m not against chasing my husband around with a broom (was that one of the qualities?), and I don’t actually have to be in the mafia and get people whacked?! What a deal!”

Then sweaty feet suddenly brought me back to reality. "Eww," I thought, "I better dry girlfriend's feet off with this sheet for the third time. I wonder if she knows..."

“Sorry!” she suddenly interrupted, “I’m Italian, so when I’m hot my feet get sweaty.”

Hey, hold it there for one second, signora! Did you just say that sweaty feet are the side effect of a totally sweet Italian-American lifestyle? If so man, this deal is OFF. There’s no way I’m getting slammed with CHAFS.

Righting My Wrongs

Correction: Regarding a recent post, The Blog Tag.

Regrettably, I misrepresented my favorite foods. Or my #1 favorite food. Ever. Shocking, you say? I myself can’t believe I forgot something I love so much. Rather than let it slide, I decided to give credit where credit is due. Taco Bell, Thank You.

Thank you for your scrumptiously orgasmic Nacho Supreme. You hit the spot every time, and I’m addicted to your crunchy salty dish of love. The way a baby needs its binky, that is how I desire you. Seasoned beef, warm nacho cheese sauce, cool sour cream, green onions & fresh tomatoes, all on a bed of crunchy tortilla chips. Ahhhh. Heaven in a paper box.

WARNING:

Serious blog coming through!
Stop here if you were hoping for more underwear adventures or pictures of
Jäger’s dangerous bootie. Better luck next time!

In case you missed the memo, I co-teach a bunch of active 6 year olds every Sunday in primary. The kids are a handful, but I’m lucky to have a partner that I LOVE - she’s a lot of fun and the fact that she runs a daycare is really pretty convenient. She’s also from Liberia, so obviously, she’s black. WELL, last week one of the boys was acting nuts (as he often does; either he’s the sweetest kid ever-saying things that will melt your heart, or screaming he’s going to die if he doesn’t get a snack) and when I tried to send him to the other teacher he said this to me:

“No! I don’t like her! I like you because I only like white people!”

Wow.

Not trying to hide my shock, I reacted. I held the little boy in my lap, looked him in the eye, told him how horrible his comment was and explained how we’re all God’s children. I tried hard to make it clear he should never say something like that again. Needless to say, I wasn’t his favorite anymore and he went to cool off in the back.

I know this kid’s parents, they’re kind and loving and definitely not bigots, so I know he didn't learn any racism from them. However, this really made me think about where and how kids learn acceptance and tolerance - or vice versa. With so much prejudice still prevalent today, I feel the only way to make a difference is to teach children about diversity and tolerance when they’re young (and to get pissed at them when they make ignorant racist remarks). At the very least, parents need to take time to address these issues at home.

Nonetheless, the sad truth is that we all have the glorious gift of free agency and there will always be crazies in the world to pollute the minds of innocent children. It seems that all we can hope for is that as parents we don’t screw up our own.

The Blog Tag

I guess I'm it.

Four Jobs I've Had in My Life:
Pizza Delivery Girl in a Bowling Alley
Dairy Queen
Manager at Polo
Massage Therapist

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over, and Have:
Babe: Pig in the City
Notting Hill
Night at the Roxbury
The Man Who Knew Too Little

Four Places I've Lived:
Monona, Wisconsin
Park City, Utah
Las Vegas, Nevada
Alexandria, Virginia

Shows I Love to Watch:
Lost
24
The Apprentice
Grey's Anatomy

Four Websites I Visit Daily (and more than once daily):
Gmail.com (Almost Daily)
Epicurious.com (If I'm cooking)
MyFamily.com (Sometimes)
Perhaps a blog or two... How DO you all find time??

Four Favorite Foods:
Cheese Fondue
Whipped Cream
French Fries
Chocolate

Four Places I Would Like to Visit:
Rome
New Zealand
Denmark
Thailand

Four places I'd rather be:
Tanning with a book on the French Riviera
Snuggly in Bed with my Boys
Getting a Massage
Accepting my $22 million in Powerball winnings

Four albums I can't live without:
Jack Johnson - ANY
Black Eyed Peas - Elephunk
Dashboard Confessional - ANY (he kept me alive on the loong drives to/from Vegas)
Ben Lee - Something to Remember Me By (he carried me through my teenage years)

Four People I am Tagging:
Shelly
TigerFoxBear
Gargantus
Marc

Honorable Mention Tag:
Vern

Jäger's Ass Meets Glass

JÄGER’S ASS MEETS GLASS

**A re-enactment of actual events**
Starring: Jäger and the Glass That Never Knew What Hit It

Jäger, say hello to the glass.

Glass, say hello to Jäger's ass.

Glass, you've been decapitated.

You never knew what hit ya.

Men in Womens Clothing

I fear I’ve reached a new low. I stalled taking a shower yesterday for a whole hour so I could watch Tyra Banks and guest hosts "Washed- Up- Supermodel- Now- Botoxed- to- the- Max- and- Struggling- to- Make- a- Comeback" Janice Dickinson and "Flaming- Techno- Drag- Diva (or Miva, can’t be too sure)" Kevin Aviance crown “America’s First Transexual Top Model.”

I flipped on the tv while stretching after taking a run - nothing like a dose of commercialism after a fulfilling frolic in nature - knowing I had to quickly shower so I could do my hair and get ready for a baby shower I was attending. Well, after several inward promises of "just 10 more minutes” I finally got to see the gender confused winner give his/her tearful speech on how great it was to finally feel validated and accepted. Slightly anti-climatic; I ended up a little confused myself. For this, I sacrificed my hair and make-up, but a bland face and ponytail would have to do. Kevin would be so disappointed.

Peas in a Pod

It’s not easy looking like a celebrity. I have one of those faces that always remind people of someone else. I get stopped at least once a week by a stranger frantic to tell me who I look like. I stop to talk because after all, I couldn’t disappoint a fan. The conversations usually go something like this:

Crazed Fan (CF): “Hey, do you know who you look like?!?! That girl from Fried Green Tomatoes! You know, the one that died. What’s her name?”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Is that her name? Hmm. Oh! Or that girl from Boys on the Side! You know, the one that dies? No, wait, is that the same actress? What IS her name??”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Yes! Mary Louise Parker! You look EXACTLY like her!”

CF’s Friend: “No, you know who she looks EXACTLY like? That girl from Princess Diaries! What’s her name?

Me: “Anne Hathaway.”

CF: “Oh, yeah! Anne Hathaway! You look EXACTLY like her!”

I say thank you and that I’m flattered, and I guess in some ways I am. At least these aren't Rosie O'Donnells I'm being compared to. The thing is, it's never kinda/sorta, I'm always told I look EXACTLY like someone else. In my dating years, guys said that stuff all the time. Now, everyone knows any guy you meet in a club is full of s-h-i-t, but I still wonder… how many celebrities can one person look EXACTLY like? Does everyone fool me with flattery or do I have a special chameleon gift? Did we go skinny dipping in the same gene pool or do we all just have brown hair? Anyway, I'm starting to consider a job as a professional body double. So just for fun, let's see which starlet I could "be"...

Oh, if only I could be Sarah McLachlan. American Idol would never knew what hit it! Fortunately, the guy who told me I looked like her never got to hear my singing. Why spoil the illusion?

This princess seems a little high maintanence. Even though she's starring in the biggest gay cowboy film EVER, I'm not dying to hob-nob with this drama queen. That is, unless she were in another film with Heath & Jake. Mmmm... brokeback ranchers...

This is the only picture of Alanis I think looks even a little like me. She's amazing live and I dig Canadians, but I don't think I'd fool anyone sober.

I can't remember who called me Winona - some guy in a bar somewhere. He didn't get far.

When my roomie's cousin told me I looked like Ashley Judd, I swooned. It got scary when he would only call me Ashley, and when he would call just so he could call me Ashley, and when I realized he probably didn't even know my real name. It kind of turned me off, but I still think she's cute.

I don't know something (or anything) about Mary, other than she is always playing a dying lesbian. I could stand in for that role.

Yes, the Virgin Mary. A man once gazed into my eyes and told me I resembled the Blessed Virgin. Apparently he didn't know I was a dying lesbian. Sure fooled him!

So, I'm sure I'm not alone in this. I know at least one person has been told they look like Britney Spears. Anyone else?

Under Where?

We’re about to delve into some sensitive subject matter… Underpants.

I could say: “Check your fantasies at the door,” but I’m no bouncer. Besides, isn’t the fantasy what makes blogs so awesome? So I'll simply say this: Read at your own risk.

Yesterday I had a client that made me wonder... is she dressing up for me, or does she wear this stuff all the time? I was almost embarrassed to see the back of her black silk, lace up thong. Her selection seemed more suitable for a party dress then for a massage. And no, I didn’t check the label, but Frederick would have approved. (Whoa, did I just put a link to Frederick’s of Hollywood on my blog? I sure did.) To be honest, I was pretty annoyed; the ribbons kept getting in the way.

On that note, I've seen some interesting choices (I’ll spare you the scary ones). When men wear puppy and kitty boxers, I tell myself the girlfriend bought them. I want to cry for the old women in tight-as-hell “shapewear.” They must be suffocating–no wonder they tell me they’re constipated! Finally, once I had to bite my tongue when a fellow therapist complained about her client's “knee length white cotton/spandex biking shorts” (yes, all you Mormons, that IS what she was talking about).

I'd estimate that about 30-40% of my clients wear underwear for their massage. They’re always draped, so I don’t see anything I don’t want to (and believe me, I don't want to). As a side note, most veterans go commando, which is actually a lot easier, although I don’t have much of a preference.

Lucky for me, people generally don’t like to show off their nasties. I rarely see the laundry day granny panties. And if the undies are crappy (I hope not literally), they probably end up stored in the locker or shoved into a pocket. That’s fine with me. At least I haven’t seen these yet.

If I Could Save Time In A Bottle

I have big plans for myself. Sometimes I wonder if they’re too big. See, I haven’t made much progress on the plans I made years ago, and my excuse is pretty awful… Here it is, World:

I don’t have time.

It makes me feel lame. Sheepish. Embarrassed. Pathetic. It’s a horrible excuse, but life gets crazy. We all know how it is. I hate time. But since lists help me manage my time, here is list of things I can’t manage to find the time for:

1. Check my email and blog daily. People besides my husband actually do that, right?

2. “The Website.” I have an idea for my very own dotcom. I’d rather not give details, not that I don’t trust you, but... well, okay, I really don’t. Suffice it to say that if I have my way, I will someday be the Willy Wonka of Published Wonders.

3. Open my own spa. I’m 3 years into my 5 year plan, so expect it soon.

4. Get a potter’s wheel and throw pots in my basement. I want to make beautiful art, and Marc wants to re-enact Ghost. Hey, whatever gets me the wheel.

5. Run another marathon THIS year. I’ve had a sufficient break from running my first and only marathon 4 years ago. I won’t let you down, TFB!!

6. Write a book or two… or three? First, “How to Receive the Ultimate Spa Experience”-full of massage do’s and don’ts (many of which I plan to include in my blog), along with interviews with “the pros” and personal anecdotes. Second, my autobiography. I’ve experienced some crazy stuff, and even if no one reads it, it will be interesting to re-live. I’ll probably have it published after I die anyway. Or write it under a pen name. Or maybe I’ll just squeeze it onto a postcard.

7. Go to college and study business or marketing… or writing? Heck, why not all three?

8. My own NPO. Someday I’ll create a non-profit organization geared towards bringing under-privileged kids and their overworked parents closer through art, music and massage; all activities parents and kids can do together far, far away from the TV. The jam sessions will have to be in a room far from the infant massage class, and things will get messy pottery and painting room, but it will be beautiful. Incredibly time consuming? You betcha. Lobbying local corporations and their mothers for donations and free materials on top of running a center? May have to wait for retirement.

So there they are. My major goals. Wish me luck and lots and lots of time.

Race to the Finish

What do you call someone who spends the last few days of the year struggling to finish the Book of Mormon?
A suicide B.O.M.-er