It's time.

I'm ready.  No-nonsense Monica is ready.  The space age contacts are ready.

Here we go.

I sit in the chair as Monica lovingly unwraps them.  I am not exaggerating about this.    No-nonsense Monica is being weird.  She is...smiling.  She is smiling at me.  No, wait.  She's smiling at the contacts.  She holds up the left contact and admires it.  I think she is in love with it.  She asks if I want to put it on my eye or if she should.  I know for a fact she is only asking me this to be nice.  Last time we had a few small, shall we say, mishaps, when I tried to put contacts in myself.  Don't look at me.  I have no idea how the contacts kept ending up splattered on her face.  

Monica reaches over and in two seconds has the contact in my eye.  I don't have time to react before she whips the right contact in.  I hear her sigh with happiness.   Ever so slowly I open my eyes.  I blink once, twice.   I know Monica is waiting for me to say something.  To rejoice in my new space age vision.  To thank the NASA scientists for being such brainiacs and creating this amazing, awesome pair of contacts just for me.

There's just one teeny tiny little problem.

 I can't see.

"Um, does it take a minute for the contacts to work?" I ask.

"NOOO," Monica replies sharply, " it most certainly does not."  She does not sound happy.  I bet she doesn't look happy either, I just can't see her.

"Read the top line of the chart," she barks.

I jump and turn my head in the direction of the chart. I take a deep breath.   I look ahead.  And look.  And look.  Finally, I turn to where I hear Monica huffing.  "I trust that there is still an eye chart on that wall because you are telling me there is one," I say, "but I cannot see a thing."

 I have never felt so blind with my eyes so wide open before in my entire life.  I reach up to feel my eyes to make sure they are open.  Yup.  Just poked myself in the eye.

 "I'm sorry," I say, "I just can't see anything at all with these contacts."   "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT??" Monica bellows.  "THAT CANNOT BE POSSIBLE!!  Those contacts were made specifically for YOUR eyes!  What are you saying??"  She is hyperventilating.  I think.  But, again, I can't see her.  I seriously can't see anything.  I open my eyes as wide as possible and concentrate, really concentrate,  on..... seeing.  Ok, it's ok.   I can make out Monica's outline.  I can see she is sitting right over there.  I can't see her face but I'm pretty sure that's a good thing at this point.  I take a deep breath.  I sit still for a minute.  A few minutes.   I tell her I think things are getting better.  I say I think my eyes just needed to adjust to having contacts on them but now they are feeling better.   Maybe I can't see well because the room is so dim. Maybe if the lights are on I can see better.    I ask her to turn the lights on.  I hear her flip the switch.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!   OOOOWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!  OUCHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!   omgomgomgomg.  The pain.  The stabbing, burning pain in both eyes.  I close my eyes immediately.  There is no way I can tell Monica what is happening.  She already doesn't like me.   I sit with my eyes closed for a minute and wait for the shooting pain to subside.  I ask Monica to please, please dim the lights again.

Slowly, slowly I open my eyes.  Better.  Much better with the lights out.  I tell Monica maybe I just need a little more time to adjust.  That I'm not used to contacts and perhaps it's just taking me a minute.  She seems to buy it and relaxes a bit.  Well, at least her breathing relaxes.  I still can't see her.

Monica comes over and puts some eye/contact measuring machine in front of my face.  She looks in my left eye.  She grunts.  She looks in my right eye.  Another grunt.  She looks in both eyes again.  Grunt. Grunt.

"These are the right contacts," she announces,  "You shouldn't be having any trouble with them whatsoever."

I have become accustomed to the dark room.  And, by accustomed, I mean I can't see.  I'm just getting used to being blind.

A few minutes pass.  I am doing ok.  I feel ok.  My eyes feel ok.  I have convinced myself I just needed to get used to the contacts.  Monica is convinced I just needed to get used to the contacts.  Because as far as she is concerned, these are the perfect contacts for me and she is just waiting for me to admit it.

I am starting to feel better.  In fact, I am starting to feel good.  Whew.  Finally.  That was a little rough patch there.  But all is good now.  My eyes are adjusting.  Monica is happy.   I am happy.  Yay!!  We are friends again!!   Monica reaches over and hits the light switch  and.......  OOOWWWWW!!!!!  OMG!!  OWWWWWW.  THE PAIN!!  OW OW OW OW OW OW.  I can't see I can't see I can't see. Never mind not seeing, I cannot open my eyes!!  I have knives in my eyes.  My eyes have never hurt so much in my entire life.  I didn't know it was even possible for eyes to hurt so much.


"GET-THEM-OUT-GET-THEM-OUT-GET-THEM-OUT GET THEM THE H*** OUT OF MY EYES!!"  I scream.  Monica jumps up in fright,  partly because I just scared the living daylights out of her and partly because I look like a lunatic all of a sudden, bouncing up and down on my seat, screaming in pain  and rubbing maniacally at my eyes.  She rushes to my side and tries to get the contacts out,  mumbling about measurements and polymers and angles and I have no idea what else because MY EYES ARE KILLING ME but I'm moving around so much she can't get the contacts out.  Monica is getting louder and louder ...."have to be correct"...."made to order"..."exact measurements"....."NASA's never wrong"....."NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE"...."I'VE BEEN DOING THIS FOR 25 YEARS!"  I am getting getting louder and louder....  "HELP  ME!!"...."GET THESE OUT!!"....."STUPID FREAKIN CONTACTS!!"....  I am getting more and more frantic with tears and mascara and snot streaming down my face.  Monica is getting more and more frantic yelling about space age technology and perfect base curves and light waves while trying to get the contacts out.  I am crying,  Monica is crying.  I am yelling. Monica is yelling.  We both are thrashing and yelling and crying and........

Silence.

The contacts are out.
Monica is sitting in her chair.
I am sitting in my chair.
We are staring at each other.

Monica obviously wants to say something but realizes that it would be inappropriate to articulate what she actually thinks of me.  After an uncomfortably long silence, she finally says, "you are quite..... challenging."

At this point I'm not sure how any of this is my fault.  I mean, I'm not the one who who made the perfect-fit-exactly-for-me contact lenses.  Why doesn't she get NASA on the line and give them a piece of her mind?   Why is she glaring at me?  I'm the one who had to go through the trauma of being blind and having knife contacts.  What the heck is she mad at me for??

After another extremely long, extremely uncomfortable silence, Monica reaches up on the shelf and takes down two different boxes.  More contacts.  But regular contacts, not space age contacts.  She says she just wants to try them.  She puts the left one in.  I keep my eye closed.  She puts the right one in.  Both eyes are closed.  "Open your eyes," she says.  "I don't want to," I say.  I know.  I can't help it.  I am seriously pushing it here.  I slowly, slowly open my eyes.  Once again I blink.  And blink again.

 And then it happens.  The  most unexpected, unbelievable thing.

 The room comes into focus.

 I can see.

I can see!  I can see!!  I have contacts in and I can see!!  "Monica!!!!  Monica!!  I can see!!"  I absolutely, positively cannot believe it.  The contacts fit.  They are not knives. They are not killing my eyes.  I look all around the room.  I look up.  I look down.  I look at the chart.  E D F C Z P.   It is a miracle.  It is AWESOME!!   (I am not going to dwell on the fact that the right contacts were there all along.  Let me just say that now I know how Dorothy felt).

I look over at Monica who has been very quiet this whole time.  She is now sitting in her chair.  I can see her face perfectly with my new contacts.  And that's how I could see it when it happened.  It was fleeting, but I caught it.

A smile.





    

Monica gives me the spoon to hold over my left eye, dims the lights and tells me to read the first line.

 I am in my optometrist's office for my first contact lens fitting.  As much as I like my cute black with sparkle glasses, I have decided it may be time for contacts.  And so here I sit, across from Monica, about to  read the chart, when it happens. 

 My heart starts racing.  My palms get sweaty.  The room closes in. 

 I start to have a freak-out.  

  A vision test. This happens to me every time I have a vision test.  I hate vision tests.  There is a right answer, a letter, right up there on that chart a mere twenty feet away.   All I have to do is read the letter.  So simple.  What could be easier?   I just have to tell her the letter.  

Except I can't.  I can't tell her the letter because I am in full panic mode and not only can I not see out of my left eye because of the spoon, for some reason I can't see out of my right eye either.  I am now blind.  It's totally black.  (Sidebar:  I am fully aware that I bring this weird freak-out factor on myself.  It's happened before.  Once when a church in my town organized a blood drive I decided  to donate blood.  Everything was going great.  No problems at all.  Donated the blood easy peasey.  Oh, yay!  We get cookies and juice.   Walk over to the food table.  Sit down next to the nice little volunteer gentleman.   Start sipping my juice.  More people come and sit at the table.  The nice little old man is saying if anyone at the table feels faint to let him know and he will ring his little bell.  I look around.  Does anyone look like they feel faint?  No.  Do I feel faint?  No, I'm fine.  I don't feel faint.  I'm fine.  I was fine.  I was fine until this nice little old man said faint and now I think I feel faint.  Wait.  Do I feel faint?  No.  And then...it happens...racing heart, sweaty palms.  Please don't ring the bell, please don't ring the bell.  Oh, @#$%, I said that out loud.  He's ringing the bell.  People come flying from every direction and swarm me.  I am surrounded by people in white coats who think I am about to faint when, in actuality, I am perfectly fine, never did feel faint,  just had a little freak out.  All those faces, all those concerned eyes looking at me.   I look up sheepishly......and shove a cookie in my mouth).

And so it is with my vision test.  I have gotten myself so worked up that I now can't see.  I will fail this test.  I will never get violet colored contacts. Ok, I was never actually  going to get violet colored contacts but I liked thinking that I could have the Elizabeth Taylor option.   I will fail  and be forever stuck with glasses as my only eye accessory (cute as they may be). 

Ok, breathe.  Take a nice big breath. It's ok.  It's all ok.  You are not blind.  You are fine.  You are in a room with a nice woman who wants to help you see.  And you are going to try these fun little things called contacts.

I fail my vision test.  At least, I think I failed. I have no idea.  E? F?  T?  I don't know.  I say E then hear a sigh and know it's wrong.  Or maybe Monica just breathes heavy.   I try again.  F?  Another sigh. T? What??  Is it wrong or are you just asthmatic??

Monica hates me.  I am convinced of this.

We are talking about my contact options.  They are very limited.  I can have contacts that let me see near.  I can have contacts that let me see far.  But because of the weird things going on with my eyes I can't have contacts that let me see both near AND far.  Huh?? Isn't the point of having contacts the ability to, oh, I don't know, SEE??

 This is not going well. Monica cannot find one pair of contacts that works for me.  I am getting frustrated.  Monica is getting frustrated.  Monica sits quietly for a few minutes.  I start to fidget.  Monica makes me nervous.  She's one of those people who doesn't smile.  Ever. She is all business.  No small talk.    Not one of those gushing "oh-my-gosh-i-just-love-your-shoes-where-did-you-ever-find-them?" kind of gals.  Nope.  Not Monica.  And now no-nonsense Monica is sitting there staring at me with her arms crossed.  My fidgeting goes into overdrive.

"All right," she says at last, "You are a challenge.  But I have one last thing we can try."  

Whew.  Maybe Monica doesn't hate me after all. 

Monica tells me about these new, space-agey contacts made out of this oxygen breathing super conductible polymer isotope that was developed by NASA engineers.   Ok, she didn't really say any of that but that's how I heard it.   She did say that the contacts were made specifically for my eyes. She had to take exact measurements of each eye a thousand different ways.  She went over the cost (a million dollars) and how I could try them for a while and if I didn't like them I could return them.  She reassured me that I would love them, though, because they would be made to order for my very own eyes.  She would send my measurements to NASA and my contacts would be ready in two weeks.  

To be continued.....

To see, or not to see

I am in a fight.  With my eyes.  I want to see.  My eyes want to sit there looking blue.  And not let me see.  My eyes are winning.

Awhile ago I was told I needed glasses.  And not just a cute pair of readers.  I needed big girl glasses. The kind you wear all the time.  At first I was kind of excited about this news.  Glasses.  A new accessory.  I'm great at accessorizing.  Accessorizing is fun.   I do it daily.  Wake up, have coffee, shower, get dressed, accessorize.   I got this.

I head to Lens Crafters to pick out my new accessory.  Five hours, three exhausted Lens Crafters employees, one long suffering husband and two thousand pairs of discarded glasses later, I have my new accessory.  Super cute, shiny black with little crystal flowers on the sides.  This is great.  I love my new glasses.  It's my new look.  I look smarter.  I am smarter.  I am a new, smarter, cute, glasses wearing woman.

I put my new, cute, make-me-smarter glasses on, admire myself in the mirror one last time, wave good-bye to the Lens Crafters employees (wow, they must really like me...they are cheering as I leave the store) and head out the door.  I have a spring in my step as I walk along in my new super cute fashion accessory.  I am smiling, admiring the world around me which is now suddenly all so vibrant and crystal clear.  I am loving this brand new world.  I am loving this new, confident, super smart woman I have become.  I am happy, I am carefree,  I am.....falling off the curb!!  

My new, cute, make-me-look-smart glasses are progressives.  Now, maybe you don't know what progressives are. Oh sweet, innocent, lucky you.  Progressives are glasses that have different powers in the same lens.  So you have one power in the top for seeing distance, another power on the bottom for reading, and a third power in the middle for...middle seeing.

Apparently wearing progressives takes some getting used to.  And it involves a bit of coordination.  Your eyes and your head have to work together in perfect harmony.  You have to get used to moving your head this way to see far, dipping your head that way to see near,  swiveling your head this way or that to see anything at all.  Well, apparently, my eyes and my head don't work well together.  There is no harmony.  They are not friends.  There is virtually no communication between my eyes and my head.  None.  I had not known about theses enemies within before my new venture into eyeglass world.  As it turns out,  my eyes move....a lot.  Glancing, darting, sweeping, surveying, scanning, giving the once over, having a look-see, taking a gander, and, of course, rolling.  My eyes move way before my head is ready.  In my pre-glasses life, this eye activity was perfectly acceptable.  I did it constantly and was happily oblivious to it.  Post-glasses, however, I became acutely aware of the horrible disconnect happening between my eyes and my head.  I became aware of it as my head was in a near constant state of whiplash trying to keep up with my ever moving eyes so that I could see out of my new glasses.

I've tried.  I really have.  They said it would take a while so I have tried.   It's been three years.

And so, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, I have entered the world of contacts.  Let's just say the entry has not been smooth.

It all started when I went to Monica for my contact lens fitting.   And made Monica cry.

To be continued.......

I am rounding the corner at the mile eleven mark.  I am cruising.  I am a well oiled machine.  My legs are turning over in glorious precision, each muscle tweaked to maximum performance, creating the perfect stride.  My body is the picture of efficiency, every movement propelling me toward the finish line in record time.  My months of training have prepared me perfectly for these last two miles.  I am breathing easy, my pony tail flying in the wind, my skirt sparkling in the sunshine.  I am calm, I am peaceful, I am zen.  I am...oh, who the **** am I kidding?   I am none of those things and where the ****  is the #!&*!%@$* finish line????

It was the hills.  There were HILLS in the race.  OK, not like huge hills and not like a thousand of them but still....a hill is a hill and add a bunch of them together and you get death.

The wheels came off at mile eleven.  The first ten miles were ok.  ish.  I mean, I got through them.

Starting line.  Well, for some, the starting line.  For me....ten minutes behind the starting line. There were approximately a bajillion runners in the ING Hartford marathon and half marathon this year.  A bajillion.   We take up ten city blocks at the start.  A lot of pre-race festivities, songs, announcements and then bang...the starting gun and we are off!!   And off down a hill.  Yay!  I love this race.  Starting down a hill...my time is going to be amazing.  I am going to crush it!

I should have known.  I should have thought it through.  I should have realized what was to come.  It should have dawned on me right then and there....we were going downhill.  Down a hill.  We had thirteen miles to go.    Something may be ahead.  Let's see.  Hmmm. Something, something.   What could it be? Oh, I know.  AN UPHILL.

A ton of uphills actually.  It was these mini Kilamanjaros that got me.  And so there I found myself at mile eleven, hot, sweaty, my legs screaming to stop, my feet barely managing to lift off the ground, my face contorted in all kinds of ugly pain, my mind on the brink of giving my failing body permission to stop running and start crawling walking.  And then it happened.

I was running this race for charity.  I was running this race for all those brave kids living with Crohn's disease.  I was running this race for Christie.  A lot of very wonderful and generous people had donated their hard earned money to me, to this cause, putting their faith in me, trusting that I would cross that finish line.

I tried.  I really tried to think of all of that.  To think of all of those kids with Crohn's, to think of Christie, to think of my sponsors.  I wish  I could say it was those thoughts that carried me to the finish line.

It wasn't.

It was the HUGE, SCARY, YELLING, FREAKING GIANT who appeared at my side out of nowhere at mile eleven and started screaming in my ear.  "YO, PEACH!!  WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU??  HUH??  WHAT?  YOU GONNA START WALKING NOW?? WHAT?  YOU A BABY??  I DON'T THINK SO!!  YOU BETTA KEEP RUNNING, PEACH.  I AIN'T JOKING WITH YOU.  I SAID RUN AND I MEAN RUN!!  YOU AIN'T GONNA QUIT NOW.  NOT ON MY WATCH.  YOU AIN'T WASTING ALL THAT TRAINING.  YOU HEAR ME PEACH??  I SAID RUN!  NOW RUN!!"

That's what got me to the finish line.

Guardian angels can come in all shapes and sizes.

Mine happens to be a hulking, screaming, very scary looking african american man.

Thank you, big, scary, screaming guardian angel for appearing when I needed you most.  Mile 11.

I did it.  I crossed that finish line.

Thank you to all of you who donated to my run.  I am extremely grateful and humbled by the generosity of my wonderful family and friends.

Thank you Hoka One One.  My feet may have been shuffling but they were blister-free and in a happy marshmallow cloud the entire time.

Thank you Rock City Skirts for making me sparkle and get a ton of attention and cheers of "go, Sparkle Girl, go" along the way.

And finally, thank you to Christie.  You may be "drama" about everything else in your life but you have never been drama about Crohn's.  Your quiet determination and positive, never complaining attitude are truly inspiring.  You are amazing and make me proud every single day.

And so, dear twenty followers and two lurkers, that is my half marathon story.  What a journey it has been.  Thank you for sharing it with me.  And don't worry!  If you meant to donate but somehow forgot, good news!  There's still time.  (You didn't think I'd let you get away that easy, did you??).  The fundraising site will be open for a while longer.

To donate go to:   http://www.crowdrise.com/CTChildrens/fundraiser/petraamrein 

Stayed tuned for more adventures in the life of Peach.

T minus 4 days.

It's Tuesday.  My race is on Saturday.  This Saturday.   Oct 12th.  The day I have been obsessing about forever. The day that seemed so far away when I originally had this crazy little idea to run a half marathon.  Like, so far away it was never going to actually get here. So far away that it was never going to be an actual day with an actual race. That I had to actually run.

Well, it's actually happening.

All that running.  All those long runs in Stratton.  All those runs in the heat.  All those runs when I rocked and the runs when I....didn't.  All those months of training.  It's all been leading up to this.

I got this.

I'm ready.

And by ready, I mean I have my outfit picked out.

Why just walk through life when you can SPARKLE through it?

Thank you, thank you thank you to Amy Maust from Rock City Skirts (http://rockcityskirts.com/) for sending me this totally awesome running skirt:

Isn't it so cute??  I was a princess on my run today.  Princess Peach.   Running through my kingdom Stratton.  Giving a royal wave to my subjects fellow runners.  Adjusting the tiara sweatband on my head.  Making my Prince husband take my picture when I got back.  (Well, that last part is true, actually.  He really is my prince).

"I can't help it if I'm lucky,"  Bob Dylan.

I'm lucky.  I know I'm lucky.  But you make your own luck.  I put myself out there all the time.  That's what life is all about.  I said I would run a half marathon and I will.  In a pink sparkly running skirt that Amy from Rock City Skirts sent me.  Because when you put yourself out there, luck finds you.

http://rockcityskirts.com/

\

When I was in Stone Harbor, Amy told me I should try her running shoes.   They were these funky, BIG, clod-hoppery looking things called Hoka One One.  I was skeptical.  Very skeptical.  But Amy's cool...she's super smart, is a surgeon and in her spare time is going to law school (in my spare time I go to sleep) and has competed in half ironman triathlons.  Yes, I said half ironman.  You know how I am training for a half marathon?  Well, a half ironman is a half marathon, too.  AFTER you've finished a 1.2 mile swim and a 56 mile bike.

So if Amy told me I should try her running shoes, I should try her running shoes.

I laced up, went out the door and...... RAN ON A CLOUD.  I am serious.  These running shoes were the most amazing things I have ever put on my feet (and that includes those drop dead gorgeous Gucci boots I tried on in Nordstroms).    I don't know how they do it but it's like running on air.  I think there is some kind of magic involved.  I felt light and bouncy and free.  They were simply wonderful.  Perfect run start to finish.  Thank you, Amy.  This sure was a treat.

Well, it appears that the magic wasn't over in Stone Harbor.

Look what arrived at my doorstep recently:

Thank you to the AWESOME people at Hoka One One for sponsoring me in my half marathon with A NEW PAIR OF RUNNING SHOES!!  Can you believe it??  I know!!  I can't either.  I am so totally psyched.  And very, very grateful.

Hoka One One (pronounced Ho-kah Oh-nay Oh-nay) means "Time to Fly" in Maori.

Thank you, Hoka One One, for letting it be my time to fly.

http://www.crowdrise.com/CTChildrens/fundraiser/petraamrein

I'm going to run a half marathon.  What?  I'm serious.  Stop laughing.  I am!

I sort of have to.

It was Monday a few months ago.  I had had a great run on Sunday.  One of those perfect weather, perfect outfit, perfect Stratton days when everything comes together and it's just a great run from start to finish.  And so on Monday, when I saw the email about a team forming from the hospital for the ING Hartford Marathon, inspiration hit.  We should form a team from our own department and not only invite staff to participate but patients and families as well. And we should make it a fundraiser.

"That's a great idea!' my boss said.  "Make it happen."

>Gulp<

Sidebar:  I love my boss.  Dr. Hyams is an amazing, awesome, world renowned gastroenterologist.  He is an expert in his field.  He takes excellent care of his patients and does cutting edge research.   He travels the world and gives lectures to other doctors.  He literally wrote the textbook on pediatric gastroenterology.  Dr. Hyams was also my daughter's doctor until two months ago when she finally got too old and had to "graduate" from his practice.   He diagnosed her with Crohn's disease when she was 14.  He said he would do everything in his power to get her healthy and keep her healthy.  And he did.  He took amazing care of her.  And I am forever grateful.


So, the fundraising marathon is happening.

I can do this.  I know I can do this.  I have been here before.  And it was a full marathon, not a half.  Of course, that was before my legs fell and before I had angel wings.  Before my bones started making funny creaking noises. Before it took me two tries to get out of my little red car.  Before I hit that magic birthday number.   But still, it happened.  I did cross that finish line.  So I can do this.  Right?

I can do this because it is for a cause I really, really care about.  Crohn's disease is yucky.  It just is.  Nobody should have to deal with it.  Think back to a time when you had an upset stomach or some kind of bad food reaction and couldn't get out of the bathroom.  Now, multiply that by a thousand and add a bunch of other symptoms like canker sores, achy joints and constant fatigue just to name a few and you have Crohn's disease.

Dr. Hyams and the other doctors I work with are determined to find a cure for Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis.  The research they are doing is truly amazing.  I honestly believe they will find a cure in my lifetime.  I want a cure for the sake of all the kids I see everyday bravely battling these stupid diseases while trying to live normal kid lives.  They shouldn't have to deal with what they have to deal with.    I want a cure for Christie.

So I am running a half marathon.

And I am coming right out and asking for donations.  If you already have donated, THANK YOU!!  If you haven't donated yet, now's your chance.

http://www.crowdrise.com/CTChildrens/fundraiser/petraamrein

Thank you.

I looked super cute as I headed out the door for my run today.  What?  I did.  I can't help it.  Cute white ruffle running skirt, lime green tank top, hot pink sports bra, peach tattoo peeking out, matching lime green headband, pink socks.  See?  So cute.  (Well,  something has to look good when I'm running because it sure the heck isn't me.  Might as well be my running clothes).

Out the door (looking cute), down the street, across to Stratton.  Looking good, feeling good.

The first couple of miles were fine.  Nice, easy, not too many creaking parts.

It was around mile three that the wheels came off.  Perhaps it was my two (or five) days of "rest."  I don't know.  I just didn't have it in me. I started to slow down.  At this point I believe a turtle passed me. I looked around. If I went right I could go up that path, cut through the parking lot and be home in five minutes.  If I stay on course I have to go straight,  run for a while, turn around, then run some more.

Uggggggg. I go straight.  Bleckkkkkkkkkkk.  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Aaarrrggggg. Why? Why do I do this to myself?  What is wrong with me?  Why do I run again?

I manage to get myself to the end of the path and turn around.  I am overheated, farther from home than I want to be and cursing all those potato chips I ate at lunch.

A runner is approaching, about to pass me going the other way.  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she shouts out to me: "YOU ROCK!!"  Huh?  I look around.  Nope, nobody else there.  Are you talking to me?  I rock??  Me??  Right now?

And then I thought about it.  She was right.  I do rock!  I was out there. I was trying.  I was gutting it out, going the long way instead of taking a short cut.   So I may not look pretty (except for my outfit...it still looks amahhhzing!), so my face may be so red it's almost a shade of purple not found in nature, so my running form stinks and I am slower than molasses..... I am here, at Stratton, in my cute little running outfit, putting one foot in front of the other.

I give her a big thumbs up and kick my run into gear.  I finish the path, race up the hill, run out of Stratton and head back home.  Feeling awesome.  And very rock-star-ish.


That fellow runner's two little words changed my whole run.  Complete one eighty. My entire attitude changed.  I went from having a really bad run to having one of my best runs of the summer.  And she probably had no idea the effect her words had on me.

I know I have already given you this assignment, dear 20 followers and two lurkers.   I am giving it to you again.

Words matter.  A lot.  I want you to use your words to build somebody up today.  It can be somebody you love, somebody you like, somebody you don't like or a complete stranger.  Use your words.  For good.

AND....if you are willing, I would love for you to share with the group exactly how you used your words to build someone up.

 Please leave a comment.  (I think there may be a problem when people try to leave comments, however.  I mean, I can't believe it is working properly.  There were zero comments after my last post.  Zero. So it must be broken.  I mean, there can't possibly be any other explanation for having absolutely no comments, right?).  Ok, ok, I'll come right out and say it:  Leave comments!!  Always!!  After every post.

Words matter.  Positivity is contagious.  Start now.

Vacations are all about food.  I mean family.  Family.  Vacations are all about family.

I just got back from vacation.  Which was all about family.  

Stone Harbor, NJ.  Doesn't get any better.

One night after dinner (with family) I was in the mood for something sweet. Well there's a surprise.  But not ice cream.   Definitely not ice cream.  No reason, just not in the mood.  Absolutely nothing to do with the two scoop oreo sugar cone with jimmies from Springers I had after lunch.  

Let's try out that new bakery across from League Shore.  After we go into League Shore. (Sidebar:  I'm obsessed with  League Shore. I can't help it. It's just a little clothing store conveniently located right next to Springers.  I limit my trips to League Shore.  I can only go when I happen to go to Springers.  So like, twice.  A day.   Anyway, I think League Shore has invented some kind of new fabric for their clothes. Some kind of cotton mixed with heaven.  They have the softest, cutest, comfiest clothes ever.  Like, you put on one of their tee shirts and a pair of their shorts  and you can't stop touching the fabric.  You just can't believe how soft it is.  For me, this is perfect timing.  Vacation = tee shirts and shorts.  Sale rack.  1/2 price.  Obvi.  So I'm feeling soft and comfy 24 / 7.  But.... I am starting to get some funny looks.  Better keep the whole feeling my clothes thing under wraps.  But watch out when it gets a little colder and the sweatshirt and sweatpants come out. And all bets are off when I splurge on that blanket.  I will want to be wrapped in my heaven blanket all of the time. I will never want to get out of bed. I will never want to leave my heaven blanket bed and get dressed.   Hmmm... What can I do?  What can I do?  I will have to go to work.  I mean, I can't very well call my serious, important doctor boss and tell him that sorry,  I am wrapped in my heaven blanket and cannot possibly drag myself out of bed and into the hospital today just to take care of sick children. What can I do?  Wait,  I know.  I know what I can do.  I can set a new fashion trend at work.  Yes, that's it!   It will be called the blanket look.  It will catch on.  It will be awesome.   People everywhere will be wearing nothing but blankets (with underwear, of course. Semper ubi sub ubi).   I will be famous. I will be in People magazine.  They will have me as a guest judge on Project Runway. OMG.  I have to start saving my pennies.  I have to get that heaven blanket.  My future, not to mention the entire fashion world's future, depends on it!! ).   

Where was I?  Vacation.  Food.  Family.  Oh, yes, the new bakery, Maryanne's.    We walk in.  We are the only customers.  That's ok.  It's so pretty in the bakery.  And all those baked goods.  Pretty, pretty baked goods.  So many baked goods.  Everything looks so good.  And smells so good.  One of the girls behind the counter comes over to help.  "What would you like?"  Oh dear.  What would I like? What would I like?  So many choices.  Maybe that pie.  That pie looks amazing.  "What kind of pie?"  I hope for peach.  "Apple" she says.  Hmm.....really wanted a peach pie and I know if I whine enough my sister will make one sometime this week.   Every year she says she isn't going to make one and every year she does make one. (And I am not too proud to admit I eat half the pie.  Because vacation is about family.  And I love my sister.  And so I just need to show her that I love her.  By eating the pie she makes).  So I move on from the pie.  Cookies, brownies,  eclairs....  My sister calls me over to another display case.  "Petra, what about these?"  "What are they?" I say.  "They are little shot glass desserts."  Huh?  "You know, desserts in little glasses."  I don't understand so the girl behind the counter pulls the tray out of the case to show me.  She puts the tray of little glass desserts on the counter.  The girl is so cute and helpful.  She patiently points to each glass and explains its contents.  You see, each little glass has about four or five layers of yuminess.  She goes through each layer.  There are a lot of little dessert shot glasses.  Like, a real lot.  A full tray of teeny tiny little dessert shot glasses.  She doesn't have to explain each one as there are repeats but still, it was a lot of work.   

A few shot glass desserts will be good, but I still want something else.  They are shot glasses after all.     Richie had 72 shot glasses on Happy Days for pete's sake.  Teeny weeny.   And we are on vacation. Which is about family.  So I really have a downright obligation to provide enough dessert for my family.

 I head back over to the other counter to pick out something else.  

I hear it before I see it.  A slight tinkling sound that quickly grows into a louder tinkling slash horrible omg-I-can't-believe-what-I-am-hearing sound.  I turn my head just in time to see a hundred teeny tiny shot glasses, each filled with five layers of yummy dessert and topped with whipped cream, fly up into the air, the tray that held them two seconds earlier bouncing off the display case door.   Chocolate and lemon tart and banana cream and cherry something leap up out of the shot glasses and shoot out in every direction.  All those shot glasses fly up in the air,  seem to stop for a split second then, as if in very slow motion, come crashing down to the ground.  All of them.  All of the teeny tiny glasses.  All five layers in each teeny tiny shot glass.  And all the whipped cream.  The whipped cream goes everywhere. I mean everywhere.   I have never seen so much whipped cream in so many places it really shouldn't be.  

After the crash there is complete and utter silence.  Nobody moves.  Nobody says anything.  We all just stand there, frozen,  eyes bugging out, jaws dropped open. 

I can't help it.  I just can't.  I try so hard not to.  But there is no controlling it.

I burst out laughing.  I laugh and laugh and laugh til tears are streaming down my face.  And before you know it, everyone is laughing,  We are all just standing there, clutching our sides, laughing.  Even poor 

Alex ( because sharing dessert catastrophes automatically put you on a first name basis) starts laughing. Although, to be honest, hers is a bit nervous and possibly on the touch hysterical side. 

We stay long enough to make sure Alex is ok, write a note to her manager pleading leniency for her, make another dessert choice (we tell Alex to just grab the closest, easiest thing...a chocolate cake which was amaaaazing by the way) and stuff the tip jar.  

I tell Alex this is the highlight of my vacation so far.  

 And that, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, is life.  Accidents happen.  They just do. 

 Dessert shot glasses fall.  You hit "reply all"  instead of "reply."   You add cumin instead of curry to the shrimp curry.  Your shorts fall down when you are riding your bike.

Accidents happen.   How you react to them is up to you. 

It is now 4:30pm.  I went for a run at 9am.   Seven and a half hours ago.  I am still trying to recover.

My run was awful for a number of reasons.

Number one:  I was running.

     Yes, yes, I know.  I love running.  I write about how much I love running, my wonderful runs through Stratton Brook, my great long runs.....  blah blah blah.  Today was torture from the second I started to the last painful, god-awful step.

Number two:  I was running using my legs.  You know, the legs that fell.

Number three:  It was a bajillion degrees out.

 Seriously.  A bajillion.  At least.  (Sidebar:  it has been a bajillion degrees out for the past week.  We are in the middle of a heat wave.    A bajillion degrees every day for a week.  Normally, that would be bad enough.  But not this time.  This time it's been even worse.  Why you ask?  Well,  Let me tell you.  It was Robbie's graduation (congratulations, Robbie!!  Don't leave me!!!!!).  We had a house full of guests for Robbie's graduation.  A house full of guests.  What fun!!
Our air conditioning  broke.  Our air conditioning broke and we had a house full of guests.
Graduation was moved indoors due to the threat of thunderstorms because that's what happens when it's a bajillion degrees out.  We were given three tickets for an indoor graduation.   Three tickets.  Three.  Mike, me and........Now I know how William Styron came up with his idea for Sophie's Choice.  Graduation in the gym.   Hot.  A bajillion degrees hot.  So, so hot.  At least I was too dehydrated to cry.  We head home for the party.  Streamers, balloons, presents, good food, good times.  Turn on to our street.  Fire trucks on the street.   Fire trucks, police cars, firemen, policemen, tape.  Tape up everywhere.  Can't get down the street.   Wires down. Live wires down.   Because of the bajillion degree heat.   Walk home.  To a house with no air conditioning.  And now a house with no air conditioning and no electricity.  A house filled with guests, half-cooked cheeseburger pies, melting ice cream and warm wine.  Turns out, warm wine isn't half bad and melting guests with good attitudes are even better).


 But it wasn't really the heat that did me in on my run.  It was my old nemesis, the humidity.  As I have mentioned before, I don't do well in the humidity.  And no, three other runners who  passed me, it doesn't really help when you give me a thumbs-up with a "you can do it" or "almost there" as you breeze by me looking cool as a cucumber with your 22 year old non-fallen down legs in your size two running outfits with your long blond pony tails flying through the air while I pant up the path with my face so red it's purple,  my hair  plastered to my head and my bat wings dripping sweat.

Number four:  a bug flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing.

Number five:  The bug that flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing made me stop, scream, spit, hop up and down, spit some more, choke and cause the size two, pony-tailed 22 year old cool as cucumber runners who had just breezed by me to turn around, see the purple-faced, plaster headed woman waving her bat wings around doing some sort of tribal war dance,  look at each other, shake their heads pityingly and run off.

Number five:  I was running.  In the heat.  The bajillion degree heat.

I am still recovering,  I think an ice cream cone from Tulmeadow will help.

My legs fell.

No, no, no...don't worry.  I'm okay. Really.  It didn't hurt.  In fact, I didn't even know that it had happened.  I have no idea exactly when it happened. But it did.   Happen.   My legs.  They fell.

And they aren't the only things.

I now have angel wings.  Only they are not on my back.   They are under my arms.  And they are not angel wings.   They are bat wings.  Bat wings like, if you are standing behind me and I suddenly decide to wave at someone across the room, you are going to get slapped in the face.  By my wings.  By my not angel wings.


A few weeks ago I found myself googling "how to get rid of ginormous bags under your eyes."  A lovely, very pretty young British man popped up.   He had an elaborate, multi-step tutorial on youtube with surprisingly dramatic results.   Quite a convincing before and after.

 One trip to Sephora and $95 later I was ready to go.

I spread the four different concealers and five brushes out in front of me.  I opened my laptop so the pretty British man could talk to me.   I  diligently and meticulously followed him through all fifteen minutes of "take concealer number one and apply it here," and " use number three brush and lightly feather two shades lighter concealer here," to "dusting of finishing powder here."  There.  Done.  Whew,  I was exhausted.  And sweating.  Which was probably not good for concealer number two.   But it's ok.  It'll be worth it.   Anything to get rid of these suitcases bags under my eyes.  Just have to remember to get up half an hour earlier every day.  Which won't be a problem because I now know how to conceal how tired I will be.

I  step back to survey my results.  Huh.  Must be the light in here.  Something is a bit off.  I turn on the second light and take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

And scream.

There is a ghost in the bathroom mirror.


You see, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, something happened since the last time I saw you.  Something big.

I turned 50.

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do.  The only thing that made sense.

I got a tattoo.

So, I've been thinking....

I may start writing this blog again.  Maybe.  Thinking about it.  Testing the waters here.  Wondering if my 18 followers and 2 lurkers have any interest in hearing about pterodactyls, falling legs, space age contact lenses and, of course, my own personal summer moments (yes, STILL happening).

I KNOW I'm supposed to write for me, for personal satisfaction alone.  I KNOW blogging is supposed to be fun and easy, that I should be happy just writing.... that should be enough.  That I should use this blog as an outlet and who cares if anyone reads what I write.   Um, hello??  I CARE.  I'm not spending the time to write all this stuff if no one is reading it!!  Are you kidding me??

So....are you still out there 18 followers and 2 lurkers?

It's winter.  Except...it isn't.  50 degrees and sunny today.  Again.  Same as last week, and the weeks before that.  In the middle of February.  In Connecticut.  

Flashback:  Winter, Connecticut, 2011.  Forecast:   Monday:  snow, 6-12 inches.  Tuesday:  snow 6-12 inches, Wednesday:  snow, 6-12 inches, Thursday: snow, 6-12 inches, Friday: snow, 6-12 inches, Saturday and Sunday: snow, 6-12 inches.  Tons of snow every day.  Every. Single. Day.  Mike fell off the roof three times while shoveling up there.   

Yes, last year was a nightmare.  It would take me half an hour just to get out of the parking lot at work.  Why, you ask?  Because once you got out of the parking lot, there was nowhere to go.  There was so much snow they had nowhere to put it all.  So it stayed on the streets.  They tried to plow it but ended up just pushing it to the side,  making all the streets in Hartford one lane roads.   One lane traffic.  At rush hour.  It became a game of chicken.  You would start down the road.  Another car would be coming up the road.  You would get closer.  And closer.  One of you has to back down.  One of you has to give. Well, let me just tell you something.  You may be coming at me with your souped up, bass booming, low-riding, rap blaring tricked out ride, but I am a hormonal, hungry, winter-hating, snow-despising 47- year-old  in the middle of a hot flash so get the  *$%*# out of my way.  

This winter is different.  Wonderfully different.

 And so it was today in this 50 degree weather that I set out for my run.    Sometimes, you take those first few steps and you know... you just know....   it's going to be a great run.  Today was one of those times.  I'm out there in the sunshine. I feel great.  My legs feel stronger.   I can feel the sweaty efforts of Bikram starting to pay off.  My lungs breathe in the clean, fresh air.  My arms pump rhythmically.  I go to my favorite running place, Stratton, of course.  I cruise through the entrance, around the parking lot and hit the bike path.  Running, running, running.  Feeling great.  Happy, happy, happy.  Running down the path.  Legs working great, arms working great, whole body in sync.  I'm loving this.  Haven't had a good run in a while.  This run is giving me a much needed running confidence boost.  

I'm coming to the end of the path, right before the turnaround.  In front of me I see a man walking a dog. The man is holding a child.  A little boy.   It looks like maybe the boy had gotten tired walking and the dad just scooped him up.  The dad was walking in the same direction I was running, so facing forward.  The boy was turned backwards.  So he was looking at me.  I saw the boy watching me as I approached.  His eyes were glued on me.  I got closer.  His blue eyes got wider.  I came up along side them.  "Hi!" I said as I passed, looking at the little boy.  What a cute little boy. "Hi" said the dad.  I was about ten feet in front of them when I heard it.  The dad's voice, in obvious answer to a question from the little boy:   "It was a woman running."

It was a woman running??   Wait a minute here. What??  Why?  Why did the Dad have to explain to his little boy that I was a woman running??    I mean, the boy was like three or four years old.  I'm sure he has seen a woman before.  And people running.  So what, exactly, was the problem?  Why didn't he recognize the fact that I was a woman who was running?  The little brat.

Hours later, the question nags at me still:  what, exactly, did he think I was?

Day 30.

We signed up for 30 days for 30 dollars.  I am on day 30.  My last day.  I have come to class routinely.  I have stayed in the room.  I have learned the 26 postures.  (I can correctly do one of them).  But here I am, once again giving it my all.  Dripping with sweat.  No, seriously, buckets.  I didn't know beads of sweat could form into such gushing rivers.   I am trying to breathe correctly.  Breathing correctly in yoga is huge.  It's one of the most important things.  I have discovered two things about breathing in yoga.  Number one:  I can't do it.   And number  two:  it is impossible to breathe correctly while silently screaming curses at your instructor in your head.  Ok, Breathe.  Breathe.  In and out.  In and out.  Ok.  Doing ok so far.

We are on Eagle pose.  This is one of the poses I have come close to mastering.  It involves pretty much twisting your whole body like a pretzel while standing.  Your arms twist, your legs twist, your hair twists, your face twists.  It is only because of my chicken legs that I am almost, just barely, able to achieve this pose.  (sidebar:  yes,  chicken legs.   Thank you, Laura.  True story:  Laura, Mike and I sitting watching the playoffs last weekend.  The subject somehow, inexplicably, turns to my legs.  The legs that Laura long ago deemed chicken legs.  I pull out my laptop and google image chicken legs.   Me:  I do not have chicken legs.  Laura:  sorry, Mom, yes, you do.  Mike:  Peach, go put on your running tights so we can see your chicken legs.  67% of the people in this room will get a kick out of it).  In Eagle pose I can easily twist my legs around each other.   I look around the room.  Everyone around me is struggling.  (I suppose I should mention here that the entire row behind me is brand new.  It's their very first class.  At this point they are splayed out on their mats, crying).  I twist my legs.  I twist my arms.  I sit down lower in the pose.  I arch my back further in the pose.  I breathe in.  I breathe out.  I hold the posture.  I am doing it.  I am doing it!!    Yes!!  Success!!  I did it.  I did Eagle Pose!!

 I am so happy.  I am grinning from ear to ear.  I look around me.  My neighbors are grinning, too.  They are so happy for me.  They realize just how much it took for me to do Eagle Pose.  They are grinning at me.  And pointing.  And laughing.  Wait.  Laughing?  Why are they laughing?  I look down.

My shorts are on inside out.

I lose my breathing as the cursing starts again.

Christie:  Mom, want to sign up for Bikram yoga with me?  
Me:  Sure, sounds great.


Three days later.
Location:  Bikram yoga
Time:  Two minutes to start of class.


Christie:  Mom, you look terrified.


Two minutes later.
Location:  Bikram yoga.


Enter:  Richard, Bikram yoga instructor.  Richard heads to the front of the room.  Everyone stands.


Richard:  Hi  Class, Welco....


Christie:  (sinking to the floor)  I'm going down.  I'm going down.


Bikram yoga.  Do you know what Bikram yoga is?  Bikram yoga is yoga that is done in a room that is hot.  Not just mildly hot but really hot.  Really, really hot.  Fifteen thousand degrees hot.  And do you know what they tell you your goal is for your first class?  To stay in the room.  Your goal is to stay in the room for 90 minutes.  Not learn a new pose, not follow along as best you can, not push yourself a little harder.   No.  Your one and only goal is to not leave the room.


The class starts with a breathing exercise.  It lasts five minutes.  The goal of this breathing exercise is to open up your lungs... to get rich, oxygenated blood to every part of your body and to prepare your body for the 85 minutes of true yoga to come.    After the five minute breathing exercise the only rich, oxygenated blood I had was in my pinkie toe.  I was dizzy from now zero oxygen to my brain, drenched from the fifteen thousand degree heat and one hundred percent out of the breath I was supposedly just channeling.   85 minutes to go.

Stay in the room.  The only goal.    Stay. In. The. Room.

Time:  85 minutes later
Location:  Bikram yoga
Scene:  Two yoga mats side by side.  Christie one one, me on the other.   Red faced, dripping wet.  Showing our complete mastery of the dead body pose.  


Still in the room.

Namaste

                                                 

Night of the Great Freak-Out

I like to sleep.  Strike that.  I love to sleep.  I love to get into my comfy jammies, climb into my comfy bed, lay my head down on my comfy pillow, pull my comfy, comfy comforter up over me (where it will stay until at some point in the night I will curse it and fling it off in a desperate attempt to be less than twelve thousand degrees) and drift off into never never land.  Aahhh...peaceful, quiet, dreamy sleep.  The calm, the serenity, the joy, the voice telling me to wake up, there's a squirrel in our room.
 Start of the great freak out.

"What??  What did you say??"  I am instantly wide awake, terrified, and panicked.  "There is a squirrel in our room," my husband repeats calmly as he gets up and turns the light on.  Wait.  Wait.  Number one.  What are you talking about??  Number two.  What are you talking about??    " I heard something in the wall earlier so I knew a squirrel found its way in again."  (Yes, we have had squirrels before.  In our attic.  Which is bad enough.  But the attic is, well, an attic.  It's way up there.  Far away from me.  Mike sets a few traps, gets the squirrels and I never have to deal with them.  Ever.  Ever ever).   "I felt something touch my head," he says, "and I thought it was you but when I looked, you were way over in the bed so it couldn't have been you.  I thought maybe I imagined it but a few minutes later I heard rustling and then papers fell off your nightstand."
 I want to do multiple things at once:  throw up, burn my sheets, seek the immediate aid of a Freudian-trained therapist and cry hysterically.
Mike at this point has the lights on, a broom in his hand and is looking under the bed.  "Yup, there's a squirrel all right."   I am sitting bolt upright in bed with all of the covers wrapped so tightly around me I am suffocating.  I'm not sure what my thinking is...that the squirrel will jump back up on the bed and want to cuddle up and share my blankie.... I don't know......but I feel a fierce need to shield myself.  Mike sees the squirrel and starts to prod it out with the broom.  The squirrel races out from under the bed and makes a mad dash for the bedroom door.  Right before our very eyes we see the squirrel squeeze through the bottom of the door out into the rest of the house.  Nooooooo!!

We race to the door, open it, and ...nothing.  No squirrel anywhere.  Mike turns on all the lights...hallway, kitchen, living room.  Nothing.  Mind you, I am operating in full on freak out panic mode at this point. Not only is there a squirrel in my house, there is now a squirrel loose in my house somewhere.  Which means that at any moment I could round a corner or open a door or pick a up a discarded sweatshirt off the floor and there will be a squirrel waiting to jump out at me.  (sidebar:  I do not like to be scared.  At all.  Ever.  My poor husband used to come home from work, walk into the house and if I was in the bedroom and didn't hear him come in would have me walk around the corner into the kitchen only to let out a blood curdling scream upon seeing him.  Now that's a nice greeting after a long day at the office, huh?  Thus, the following rule:  Always, always sing out loudly  "I'm home!!"  upon entering the house.  A simple rule that has saved us both from near heart attacks multiple times).
We search and search....no squirrel.  Mike's searching involves physically moving from room to room, looking under and around furniture, moving things, checking in closets.  My searching involves standing perfectly immobile in one spot, furtively darting my eyes back and forth, readying myself to jump on the kitchen table at a moment's notice.

We search / stand for half an hour.  Nothing. No squirrel anywhere.  "Well, I don't think we're going to find it now.  Let's just go back to bed," Mike says, heading towards the bedroom.  I tiptoe behind him (why am I tiptoeing??), follow him into the bedroom and gingerly hop up into the bed, getting dizzy from the motion of my head jerking in every direction at once, looking for the squirrel.  "Mike, there is absolutely no way I am going to be able to fall back to sleep now knowing there is a squirrel loose somewhere  in ZZZZZZZZZZZ. "

My alarm goes off at 5:15.  I hazard a fuzzy squirrel running across my feet and run into the kitchen to turn my coffee on.  I have my priorities even in the most dire of circumstances.  Then it's off to the bathroom for a quick shower.  Two minutes in Mike calls out to me.  Robbie, who had fallen asleep in the family room the night before, called on the home phone (kids these days) to tell him there were animals in the family room with him.  O.M.G.  The squirrel has my baby!!  I jump out of the shower, throw my bathrobe on and race to save my son.  Ok, ok.  This did not really happen.  What really happened is that I stayed in the shower for as long as I possibly could hoping and praying that by the time I got out  my 17 year old baby (happy birthday, Robbie!) and his father would have defeated and disposed of the enemy.

No such luck.  The enemy was very much still alive.   But at least Mike had it cornered in the closet.  He was holding the broom in one hand, clearing out the closet with the other.  Finally he had everything off the closet floor.  The squirrel was hiding behind a little built-in shelf in the back of the closet.  "There are two of us going in this closet, " Mike said, "but only one of us is coming out."  He told me to close the door behind him and shove a blanket under it.  That was my job, to make sure that blanket was shoved good and tight under that door.  "No matter what I say, do not open this door," Mike says.  He walks into the closet and I quickly shut the door behind him.  I immediately hear a muffled "Get me out, get me out, get me the hell out of here!!"

Did I mention this squirrel was a flying squirrel?  Yes.  A flying squirrel.  They really do exist.  And I have one.  In my house.  In my closet.  With my husband.

I hear thuds and bangs and grunts and noises bouncing off the walls and floor and ceiling.  I do not remember this but afterward my husband told me all he heard at this time was me on the other side of the door repeating something over and over.   Not "be careful, please be careful" or "please dear god, don't let the squirrel bite Mike and give him rabies" or "thank god I have such a wonderful husband who will risk his life to protect me from this squirrel."  ....no, not any of those things.  Apparently what I felt the need to repeat over and over was: "I can't believe this is happening to me."

All of a sudden Mike yells out,  "he's trying to get out under the door!!"  Under the door.  Where I have shoved the blanket.  My one job.  To make sure that blanket was shoved tightly all the way under the door.  Along the whole door.  Not missing a spot.  Not missing  the one spot the squirrel would find and burrow under.  I see the blanket move.  I see a lump under the blanket.  I feel Mike trying to open the door to get at the squirrel.  I do what I feel needs to be done in this situation.  I scream.

  The squirrel runs into the middle of the room, does a victory dance, and races away.

Thwarted.  Again.  I cannot believe it.  Robbie grabs his pillow. "Ok, well, I'm going upstairs," he says,  clearly having had enough of a squirrel interfering with his birthday sleep.  Mike goes back to the bedroom to get ready for work.  I go to the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast.  My fear is starting to turn to anger.  This little monster is getting the better of us.  I don't like it.  I don't like it one bit.

I bring my breakfast into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.  I'm talking to Mike, watching Morning Joe and sipping my coffee.  And see it.   Out of the corner of my eye, I see the squirrel run across the living room.   I cannot believe it.  Now I'm really angry. That stupid squirrel is just toying with me.  That's it.  I've had it.  Enough.  You interrupted my morning coffee.  This is war.

"Squirrel!!"  I yell out and race into the other room.   Mike is two seconds behind me.  We see it run into the family room.  We move so fast we are like two blurs.   There!  There it is!   It  jumps up onto the back of the chair.   We see it jump onto the curtain and climb up to the top.  It is sitting on the curtain rod.   Mike heads toward it with the broom.  With a steely glint in my eye I slam the door shut.  And  reach for a blanket.    

 My trip to Europe, part two. And as a special treat for you, my dear 18 followers and 2 lurkers, this post was written by a very special guest blogger. For your enjoyment,  may I present.... the one and only.....  Christie Amrein!!

Mama, You've Been On My Mind

As I previously mentioned, my mom came to visit me in Europe.  She managed to blog about the first half of our time together, but has left it up to me to handle the second half.  Just thinking back to our two weeks together makes me physically exhausted.  I truly do not know how we managed to do so much in such a short period of time.  Lots of cafes con leche, and our fair share of siestas.

Seeing as I am surrounded by a bunch of loco 20-year-olds on a daily basis, for which Europe is an endless playground, I figured my trip with my mother would be relaxing, easy-going, and sophisticated.  As is usually the case with any assumption I make in Spain, I was wrong.  On her first night in town, we headed to a local bar to tag-time a Jarra de Sangria Grande.  Please note the “Grande” part of in this description, as the bartender blatantly laughed at me when I ordered it the first time when he realized there were only two of us.   However, by our third visit to his place, he no longer doubted our ability to take down the entire pitcher.  It was on this first night that I should have realized that my time with Peachie was going to be nothing short of an adventure.

After spending our first week in Bilbao, we were up before the sun at the beginning of her second weekend in Europe to head to Barcelona.  We were out the door of my dorm building by 5:00 AM and were on our way to the bus station, which I have been to about a million times, as there is a bus that goes directly from the center of Bilbao to the airport.  Usually, I take a metro to the bus station, where I catch the bus to the airport.  However, since we were awake before the metros had started running, we had to walk to the bus station instead.  The bus to the airport only costs one euro, as opposed to a twenty-five euro taxi ride. I assured my mom that the bus station was not that far away, and that I could find it on foot. I have been living in Bilbao for three months and have been to that same bus station a million times, where I have always taken that same bus to get to the airport.

Forty minutes and one very unattractive meltdown later, we were in the middle of nowhere, helplessly flagging down a taxi to take us to the airport. Apparently, when mommy is around, I remember how to throw one hell of a tantrum.  What I could not remember was how to get to that stupid bus station. I was overheated, under-caffeinated, and teary-eyed.  Just get me to the airport, and get me to Barcelona –the place where dreams are made.

Upon landing in Barcelona, I whipped out my instructions detailing how to find our hostel from the airport.  We hopped on a bus that would take us to the center of the city. We were to get off at the first stop the bus made.  Well, the first stop came around and the doors of the bus did not open.  We stood there like mute babies and did not think to ask the driver to simply open the doors and let us get off.  The same thing happened at the second stop.  And the third.  I was working up a sweat, screaming about the indecency of our bus driver and the fact that his unbelievably rude decision to keep us as prisoners had taken us way off track from the route my directions instructed me to follow.  Finally, at the last stop the bus was to make, the doors opened and we got out, now completely disoriented.  It was not until our trip had ended and we were on our way back to the airport on this same bus that we realized the multiple “STOP” buttons located throughout the vehicle, with clear instructions (in English) indicating that we were to press any of the many, many buttons to alert the driver that a passenger was looking to exit the bus. 

Luckily, I learned a few things about the metro stations in Barcelona during my last visit there, and I was able to backtrack without too much added hysteria.  However, I noticed that my phone battery was blinking on completely empty, and remembered that I had not packed my phone charger.  I had plans to meet Chema for lunch and was not going to be able to tell him where to find us.  He had planned on skipping his afternoon class to meet up with us, but we had not yet set a time or place.  At this point, I was getting just slightly annoyed with the series of unfortunate events that were unfolding.  We dropped our things off at the hostel, and I declared that my only mission in life was to charge my dinky little cell phone.  I found a MoviStar phone company relatively easily, and asked to purchase a charger.  They told me that my phone was so cheap that the charger was going to be 18 euros whereas buying an entire new phone would be 19 euros.  I told them I didn’t had neither the time nor the patience to set up a new phone and to please kindly allow me to pay them whatever they wanted so long as I could avoid the wrath of Chema Voilo. Let’s just say that he did not exactly voluntarily decide to skip his class to see me, and he MAY have had to deal with just a BIT of an overreaction on my part on Wednesday night when he had tried telling me that he couldn’t easily meet up with us on this particular Thursday.  If I ended up screwing up this lunch then we probably wouldn’t be talking today.  Or ever again, for that matter.  So, I bought the phone charger, charged my phone for ten minutes, and decided to mentally erase the entire morning and start again.

Alright, Mom, it’s time to put these minor roadblocks behind us and enjoy my favorite city in Europe.  We bought a map the size of Texas and, checking the street signs to orient ourselves about six times, headed in the direction of La Sagrada Familia.  About 45 minutes later, we realized we had gone in the exact opposite direction from that which we were meant to walk.  Luckily, everywhere in Barcelona is beautiful, and we ended up in the Gothic Quarter of the city, which I had missed on my first trip and was happy to stumble across on my second one.  We then headed over to Las Ramblas to walk towards the water and wait for Chema, our tour guide for the afternoon.  We had a great lunch and walk along the beach, followed by a visit to a magic little café in the style of Alice in Wonderland. Things were turning around and I was remembering why I loved Barcelona so much.  Thanks for dealing with me, Chemita!  

This picture is awkwardly in black and white, and I'm awkwardly holding an H&M bag, but BFFs regardless.

America's Next Top Mom Model

After lunch, my Mom and I made the journey up to Park Guell in time to watch the sunset.  While that was a beautiful sight, I realized it was already way too dark for my mom to understand how beautiful that park is during the daytime.  We decided to return in the morning, and headed out to have tapas in the city.  While sitting outside in the middle of Barcelona, sharing our tapas and drinking some more of our much loved sangria, we took a few minutes to realize that this was probably one of the coolest moments of our lives.

Buenas Noches, Barcelona!

The next day, we shared the most expensive meal of our trip, AKA we went to Starbucks, and then headed back to Park Guell.  I would like to remind everyone about my previous decision to get married there, and would also like to once again reach out to Javier Bardem and let him know that he has 3 more weeks to find me in Spain. 

I miss this woman.

Pretending we are on a photo shoot.

The perfect place to walk down the aisle.

After exploring Park Guell for a couple hours, we had to head right back to the Barcelona airport to catch our flight to Rome.  I was beyond excited to go to Italy.  I brought my stretchiest pair of jeggings to prepare myself for the binge eating that I intended to do.  I was also extra excited because I had booked my mom and myself a private room at a place called Salvador Bed and Breakfast. I had never stayed at a Bed and Breakfast before!  I couldn’t wait to see our cute little room and settle in. 

We stumbled upon our B&B around 7:00 PM or so.  It was not much to look at from the outside, but I was sure it was going to be wonderfully charming on the inside.  I rang the buzzer at the front door.  Nothing happened.  Rang it again.  Nothing happened.  Huh.  What now?  It was then that I noticed an older, stout gentleman bumbling up the street towards the building.  “Salvador?” he asked, as he headed to open the door for us.  “¡Si, gracias!”  I told him, before remembering that we are not in Spain, but since I knew absolutely zero words in Italian other than “gelato,” I just had to hope that he would get the general idea.  I figured this man was just someone who lived in the building and was used to confused American tourists standing outside the door, wondering how to get inside.  He did not speak English by any means, but somehow managed to tell us that he had just finished eating dinner.  Spaghetti, to be specific.  His name was George.  Alright, old man George, that’s nice.  He took us all the way right up to the door of the B&B.  How kind!  Wow, Italians sure go out of their way to help people. 

Then, he did something that I had not been expecting.  He took out some keys and opened the door to the B&B.  Wait, are you staying here, too?  What’s going on?  He then walks up to a very messy little desk, with about a million shreds of paper strewn everywhere, and proceeds to ask me my name.  It is then that I realize that this bumbling old man is the owner of this place.  And by “this place,” I mean…his place.  His personal apartment that he is pretending to have transformed in to a Bed and Breakfast.  He sloppily writes down my passport number in a calendar (under the month of March, mind you), and takes us to our room.  It is spacious and clean, so I can’t complain.  He then points to the clock, at the numbers 8, 9, and 10, and says “Breakfast.”  He then goes over to a door marked “Privado” and motions for us to knock on the door.  He then goes back and points to the clock again.  We figure breakfast is beyond the doors between the hours of 8 and 10.  How cute!  The kitchen is behind closed doors to keep breakfast a surprise.  He must go through great pains to personally prepare our meals, considering we are staying in his personal apartment.  Thanks, George!  With that, my mom and I head out to eat our first Italian meal.

As we were stumbling through the streets to find somewhere to eat, we happened across the Pantheon.  Rome is the most bizarre city on Earth.  There is not just a mixture of new and old, as there is in Bilbao, but rather a striking juxtaposition between brand new and absolutely ANCIENT.  The magnificent buildings I have read about in history books my entire life are just mixed in amongst commercial shopping and dining areas.  It is so amazing, and so weird. We ended up eating on a side street near the Plaza Navonna.    I could write an epic poem describing how delicious our food was, but all I will say is, YUM.  We also came to love the owner of the restaurant (who also most likely loved my mother), and we decided that we were going to love Rome.  

The Pantheon

Vatican City

The next morning, my mom and I woke up, showered, and talked about what we might be having for breakfast.  It was 9:00, but there seemed to be no one else awake except for us.  We could have sworn George told us breakfast was anytime between 8:00 and 10:00, so we awkwardly crept up to the door marked “Privado.”  I guess we should just…knock on the door and see what happens?  My mom knocked on the door quietly.  Nothing happens.  My mom knocked on the door loudly.  We heard someone rustling about, followed by George’s shouting, “Minuto!”  Behind that door does not lie a kitchen.  We just knocked on George’s bedroom door.  He was asleep, and our knocking has just woken him up.  I feel incredibly awkward and run back to our room. 

George emerges from his room, groggy-eyed but cheerful. He points to my sock-covered feet and says, “Shoes.” What?  Why do I have to put shoes on to eat?  He then opens the door that leads out of the B&B.  Okay…is breakfast downstairs or something?  I put my shoes on and follow him.  Follow him out the door, down the elevator, out the front door of the building, down the street, around the corner, and into a café.  My hair is soaking wet.  We are in a café.  There are two cute baristas looking at me like I am an absolute idiot, and also as if they are expecting me to say something.  I don’t speak Italian, I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I look like a wet dog.  I feel incredibly awkward and run to the closest table.  George gets us two cappuccinos and 2 pastries.  He tells us not to wake him up the following day, as he will be sleeping, and now that we know where the café is, we know what to do.  So, this is the breakfast part of our Bed and Breakfast.  We are uncontrollably laughing, and I still looking like a shaggy poodle, so we down our cappuccinos and leave. 

Our day is filled with sightseeing and exploring.  Rome is by far the most touristy place I have ever been, which makes sense seeing as the entire city feels like one big museum of amazing buildings forever frozen in time.  For lunch, I was able to meet up with the BEAUTIFUL and amazing Sara Gil, who is Rebecca Drake’s roommate at Emory College in Atlanta.  Although I had never met Sara before, I had heard so much about her and had wanted to meet her for what feels like forever, so I was beyond excited to get the chance to see her…in Rome.  She took us to eat one of the best meals of my entire life, followed by the best gelato in the world, followed by a tour of the city.  She knows just about everything about Rome, and was simply the most lovely person with which to spend the afternoon.  I seriously feel like I have known that girl for years, and am so, so, so happy to have finally actually met her in person!

Mama making a wish at the Trevvi Fountain!

Sara!!!!!!! I'm so happy just writing this caption and remembering this happened.

At this point, it was Saturday evening.  Saturday, November 12^th, 2011.  I had been waiting for that day for months, for that was the day that Bob Dylan was playing in Rome.  That was the day I picked out last Spring from Dylan’s tour dates as the concert I wanted to see while studying abroad.  That day was the reason I traveled to Rome.  That day was the reason my Mom’s trip fell at the time that it did.  I was going to see Bob Dylan…in Rome.  I couldn’t wait.  There was just one little problem, that being that we didn’t actually have tickets due to an unsurpassable error with the ticketing site.  However, I have been to over 40 Dylan concerts, and I have witnessed countless numbers of people pick up tickets the day of the show.  My mom and I got at the venue at about 5:30pm, for a 9:00 show, which we figured would give us plenty of time to buy a ticket (either from the ticket booth, from someone with an extra ticket, or from a scalper).  I saw some people I recognized who I have met during various legs of the Never Ending Tour in the States..  I also met a very nice (and very handsome) fellow Californian with whom to pass the hours outside the venue.  I was so happy to be there.  I couldn’t wait for the concert to begin. 

The next 5 hours are a blur of emotion that I do not really wish to describe.  Let’s just say that at 10:30, in tears, I turned to my Mom, still ticketless, and simply said, “I’m ready to go home now.” I’ll leave it to the words of Bobby D himself to sum up how I felt that night:

“I see nothing to be gained by any explanation There are no words that need to be said You left me standing in the doorway crying Blues wrapped around my head.”

We took the metro home in absolute silence.  I suddenly really missed my Dad, who I know would have found a way to get  us in to that show, even if he had to rip down the walls to do it.  When we got back to the B&B, I decided that we had to look towards tomorrow as opposed to dwelling on the unfortunate events of that night.  I took out the tickets to the Colosseum, Palatine Hill, and the Roman Forum that I had bought weeks ago in preparation for our trip. The tickets were valid for 2 days.  I thought that I had purchased them for Saturday the 12^th and Sunday the 13^th, and my Mom and I had planned on visiting these sites on Sunday.  I was especially looking forward to seeing the Colosseum. I took out the tickets and read, “Validity: Friday, November 11^th- Saturday, November 12^th.”  I pulled the blanket over my head and went to sleep. 

The next morning, my Mom and I resumed speaking.  Maybe last night had not gone as we may have wanted it to, but we were visiting the cradle of Western Civilization.  We truly could not complain about anything at all.  Not one thing.  We could not have been more lucky and blessed to be in Rome together.  However, we still decided to cut our losses and scratch every item off our to-do list so as to have a completely stress-free day.  We spent the entire day shopping and eating.  It was the best decision we could have made.  We headed to the airport with our suitcases stuffed with souvenirs and our bodies stuffed with pizza.  It was a good day.  It was a great trip.  We headed back to Bilbao on Sunday night.

On Monday, I skipped the majority of my classes (school isn’t real, my life isn’t real, nothing is real) and had a picnic with my Mom and my best friends here.  I then reluctantly helped my mother pack.  Well, that’s a lie. I mostly just watched her pack and yelled at her not to leave me.  Then we went for Sangria.

My mom looks younger than my friends.

My mom left on Tuesday, and I spent the entire day in my bed, in mourning.  I had gotten so used to having her here with me, and I was just truly so sad for her to leave.  Luckily, I had spent two of the best weeks of my life with here –two weeks that I will never, ever forget.  I have so many wonderful memories with her that I will genuinely always cherish.

I woke up the next day and went to the cafeteria to have some coffee by myself.  I was still feeling very sad, especially while having my coffee alone, as having coffee with my mom is one of my very favorite things to do.  I went to my first class and came home to take a run.  I put on my left running shoe, and went to put on my right one, but there was something blocking my foot.  Something rather large.  What the heck?  I stuck my hand in my shoe and found a little package, with a note from my Mom.  She had bought for me the bracelet I had obsessed over in Barcelona but had not bought for myself, wrapped it up, and left it in my running sneaker.  What’s more, she left me a little bag with euros inside it, with directions to buy myself a matching ring.  I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.  My day was infinitely better from then on.

Highlights of my last couple weeks include eating gnocchi, eating pasta, eating pizza, eating gelato, and eating a cookie the size of my head, all in Rome.  Minor setbacks include gaining ten pounds in Rome.  One major, MAJOR setback was being flashed in Rome.  Yes, flashed.  By a man.  A man flashed me in Rome.  TWICE.  I am still having nightmares.

Needless to say, I loved having Peach here.  In three weeks from tomorrow, I will be seeing her again.  I cannot even believe that I will be moving out of here in three weeks.  We have 21 days left here…and we are going to make them count.