"A Little Something About Something Little"

or, the alternative title, "So Now What Do I Do With These Things?"

WARNING! WARNING! It's another strange post that tells you about what goes through my warped brain. And it starts with a little back story that goes a little something like this...

For many years, a rather wealthy widow (who I'll call Nana) lived in a large home on an even larger piece of property in Brookdale, a small town in the Santa Cruz mountains. During the war, Nana was one of the many people around the country who answered a request from the USO to open their homes to soldiers returning from the war who had to layover in various places including the Bay Area.. The 70+ soldiers who passed through Nana’s home from August 1944 through November 1945 left a little bit of themselves in Brookdale by jotting down a short note of appreciation, and in most cases, a home address in a plain bound daytimer. In the case of two of those soldiers, they each left a photograph paperclipped in the daytimer.

Sixty-four years later, in January of this year, that same daytimer was found by me and my loving, adopted second mother (we'll call her Beezy) as we sorted through the personal effects of her 97 year old father who had passed away (RIP Kenny, the world was a brighter place with you in it). Beezy and I thought it was one of the greatest treasures ever found since she lived through the war, and I've always been fascinated with it. Together we decided that we should try to track down as many of the names in the daytimer and send them a copy of their entry (no, we haven't quite figured out what the accompanying letter is going to say - we haven't gotten that far).

Here's where the sappy sentimental part takes a turn for the weird...

About a month ago I was copying the daytimer pages and I realized that the two small, partly rusted metal paperclips would eventually leave rust marks both on the photos and the pages. I replaced them with plastic clips. Just as I was about to toss the them in the garbage can, I thought "holy smokes! These paperclips are at least 67 years old!". Expanding on this weird realization, I thought that it was totally cool that I actually knew the age of these two paperclips!

If you think about it, it's not impossible to know the age of a single paperclip that you’re holding in your hand. But you have to admit that it’s not likely that you know its age. As far as dating a paperclip, it can’t be more than 108 years old since that little marvel we know modernly as a paperclip only invented in 1899 by the Norwegian inventor, John Vaaler. His invention was first patented in 1899 in Germany and Vaaler received the American patent in 1901. So anyone can at least argue that a particular paperclip is less than 108 years old.

On the flip side, you are likely to be able to look at the package of clips sitting in your desk drawer that you personally bought new and state with certainty that you know roughly how old it is. If you bought the package 1 year, 4 years, or however many years ago, you can be reasonably certain that every paperclip in that package is as old as however many years ago you bought it.

I also have no doubt around the country and the world even there are various museums that may, for example, have papers being held together with a paperclip that were drafted by Theodore Roosevelt in 1910. Yes, in that case you would likely be able to state that the paperclip is at least 99 years old. But that’s in a museum, and this story derives from some unspectacular event in the normal course of living our lives.

The bottom line is that in the here and now, I can say with a high degree of certainty that these two insignificant paperclips are almost seven decades old. How cool is that?!

Now, I wish this were leading into some great social commentary about society's descent into a self-absorbed disposable society where material goods are often discarded not because they are no longer useful but simply because they are old. But no, that’s not the point.

Nor is this story leading to a reflection on the war itself and the amazing soldiers who fought for freedom against one egomaniacal nutjob and his dreams of tyranny and oppression. But nope, that’s also not the point.

Nor is this a commentary on how this daytimer and its contents came to exist during a vastly different time with different people and my own cynical belief that, if asked by the USO to extend the same offer to soldiers returning home from war, American citizens would not extend the same kindnesses to unknown soldiers fighting for our country. And no, that’s still not the point.

(Okay, well maybe there was a little social commentary in there)

While this post is truly just about two small paperclips that gave me pause and made me smile (and of course gave me a strange blog subject), maybe the point was to just to give you a wacky story that made you think ‘huh, weird.’ Or maybe at the end of all of this you're only question is what happened to those two paperclips? Don’t worry because I just couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. They’re sitting safely in that section of my jewelry box where I’ve thrown various odds and ends like single earrings, backings from long since gone earrings, screws, and the occasional odd button from a shirt I probably don't have anymore. And in 50 years if you stumble across two small, slightly (or possibly completely) rusted paperclips while sorting through my lifetime of crap, I hope you remember this little story and just pause to think about where those paperclips came from and that they meant a little something to me. At the very least, I hope you smile with the realization that by those two paperclips are now more than 117 years old.





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"Hello, I’m Happy For My Loss"

or the alternative title “Ooooh, Do You Have That In A Smaller Size?”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's been a while since my last post. I'm a bad blogger. So sue me.

In truth, over the last month or two I've had some great ideas for posts (and some that were really stupid in hindsight) but I've never been able to carve out an hour or so to sit down and write. So as I sit here on BART riding home, I'm going to write about my favorite subject...me!

Now don't worry, I'm not going to blather about how wonderful I am and that I'm so fabulous that when I fart rainbows come flying out. Nah, that's not me. But what I am going to do is basically the literary equivalent of patting myself on the back...tooting my own horn...giving myself some major props! Why you may ask? Because part of the reason I haven't had a lot of time to write is because I've dedicated much of my summer to trying to lose some weight. And while it wasn't "fun", it has been an accomplishment about which I'm very proud.

As of writing this, I've lost a total of 55 pounds since last summer. I even ran my first 5k last week and I couldn't be more proud than if I had climbed Everest (which, by the way, will be the first thing I do if I win the lottery)! And I won the entire race!

Okay, that's a total lie. I was slower than molasses. The hare AND the tortoise passed me. Snails were blowing by me like they were traveling at warp speed. But I did it. Yay for me. I decided to celebrate by running a 7k in two weeks and another 5k at the end of October. And I plan to win both of those too! Okay, I plan to finish. That’s good enough for me.

While I'm thrilled about where I am now, it's been a tough struggle; it's been far more mental than physical. You see, anyone who knows me really well knows that I am the hardest on myself. For whatever reason, I’ve learned to set myself up for failure. Yes, I'm a saboteur or my own life. I set goals for myself that are impossible to meet. I have expectations of myself that I can never reach. My insane To Do lists on the weekend (and at work for that matter) are pages and pages long. It allows me to not be surprised when I fail, and generally see myself as inadequate. A perfect example of this is that even after losing 55 pounds, I can only seem to concentrate on the fact that I still have 40 pounds to go. I’m working on it, but it’s something that doesn’t disappear overnight. But I digress...

So, (insert upbeat, happy music here) in an effort to recognize the accomplishment of losing 55 pounds, I have compiled a list of positive things that have come from it. Some items on the list are small; some are more significant. But if you've never had a weight problem, you wouldn't even think about these things. If you've had to battle your weight before, then you'll understand why this warrants getting on the list. I just want to remind myself that, in the immortal words of the prophet Bob the Builder, yes I can.

1. I don't fear when the escalator is out of service at the BART station. I can now walk up the stairs without thinking I need to take a break halfway up.

2. I can walk my dogs without getting winded on the way back up the hill. It's only a mile.

3. I can cross my legs without the crossing leg sticking straight out or hurting because the circulation was cut off.

4. I no longer shop in the plus size department.

5. I can wear shoes with a heel higher than an inch (55 extra pounds can make your feet hurt from the added pressure).

6. I had to buy all new clothes, including underwear (although financially this was a bit of a bummer).

7. My slouching is getting better (after all these years, Mom can now stop whispering to me to stand up straight - and she was right).

8. I can't finish my plate of food at a restaurant.

9. I feel comfortable wearing shorts.

10. Men offer to give me their seat on the BART train (no, they don't offer when you're overweight). And for the record, I now say thank you and decline their offer. I can stand for the 25 minute ride home without my legs starting to hurt; I would dread that happening before.

11. I feel pretty.

There are more that I just can’t think of right now, but in the end, it all adds up to one thing: hooray for me.

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"The Best Backpacking Trip Ever!"

or the alternative title “It’s All Fun And Games Until Someone Forgets The Water Purifier”

It’s about time that I finally post my post-backpacking trip . . . well . . . post. For those of you who didn’t hear about the change in plans, we decided not to try to hike to the Mt. Whitney summit due to some seriously unstable weather conditions. Rain, hail, thunder, lightening, and snow are five factors that none of us were particularly interested in battling just to get up to a summit that was completely socked in by clouds. And the conditions would have also meant that we would have been cold and miserable; not a great way to bond as a family. So . . . we chose a different location that resulted in the Best Backpacking Trip EVER!

Based on prior travels by brother “S” and his lovely wife “L”, we went to Kennedy Meadows just north of Yosemite. The weather was in the upper 70s and low 80s, and my pony couldn’t have been happier to be able to enjoy the fabulous weather as we hiked the trail from Kennedy Meadows to a secluded and completely AWESOME campsite along Lower Relief Reservoir. We were on top of a granite outcropping overlooking the reservoir with an abundance of water and a complete lack of other people. In fact, our first day after we set up camp, we all walked down the big granite rocks to the edge of the reservoir where we found this little niche in the side of the granite. From there we all laid back and watched the sun makes its slow trip down the sky and behind the ridge on the other side of the reservoir. This quiet moment quickly reminded me why John Muir fell in love with this area.

Now, if you think that this entire post is going to be lovely-granite-outcropping-this and surrounded-by-unimaginably-beautiful-nature-that, then obviously you don’t know me very well. And for anyone who knows me, and more importantly my family, you know that we had a ton of laughs (many at each other’s expenses) and our fair share of only-in-this-family-type moments. Allow me to summarize some of the highlights:

· I have to start off by giving some kudos to my sweet, loving sister-in-law who was able to laugh as my brother S handed her her alloted ration of toilet paper amounting to three squares. I silently patted myself on the back for bringing two half rolls (one for brother J and one for myself). We were in toilet paper heaven! Sorry L.

· The image of J passing through a portal to try and disrupt the time/space continuum was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. Okay, this was really just J who noticed a really cool fallen tree and decided to crawl through it. The portal description just sort of developed from there.

· The mosquitoes on the first two days sucked! It took almost two weeks for me to stop itching. I hate those little bastards.

· There are always those things that, at least in our family, start out one way and then evolve into something even funnier. That was the case when S made a comment to me as I was trying to light the campfire. He said that one thing I could use as a fire-starter would be Old Man’s Beard (um, yeah, there wasn’t any where we were, so that was not going to help). Of course, neither J nor I could remember what it was called so on one of our dayhikes I came up with Uncle Bob’s Mustache. The name was further bastardized over the next couple of days until J finally took it to the next step and the name evolved into Grandma’s Butthairs. Yep, I love our family. We crack ourselves up.

· The bucket. Ahhh the bucket - that handy dandy little piece of collapsible equipment that was blown over the side of the granite outcropping and came to rest on a bush. And from that came the absolutely brilliant idea that S would repel down the side using some caribiners and parachute cord. Thank God they realized the danger and chose a different retrieval method.

· Wow, I had forgotten how incredible the Sierras are. The trees and the creeks and the rocks and the chipmunks and the osprey (okay, we only saw one) and the flowers and the views. I mean Wow! Yeah, ‘nuff said.

· And finally, it was only appropriate to have one slightly bad thing happen for which we could blame J. In this case, he forgot the water purifier on our second dayhike. It was alleged that his passing through the portal and disrupting the time/space continuum was the reason for him forgetting it. So what could he do to fix the situation? Duh, he was going to have to go through it backwards! And so he did. And after he did that, he didn’t forget anything else. The fact that our trip was done the next day is irrelevant.

Other than the mosquitoes, I’m not quite sure how this could have been any better. The weather was ideal, the water and firewood were in abundance, and the location was indescribable. And for the record, the wine was well worth the weight (even though pony appears to have had a little more than her fair share by the campfire!) Most importantly, the company was perfect and I have always loved being able to spend time with my brothers. This trip was no different. We laughed and we were silly and I felt so lucky to also be able to time with my sister-in-law. I always knew what a kind and loving person she is, and this trip reinforced that to the nth power. I’m glad I was able to share this with her. And God help her if after all of that she still likes us, because I think most people would run screaming from us and never look back!

Thanks S for your amazing organizational skills, your attention to detail, and your planning of our fabulous outing. Thanks J for financing my portion of the trip and coming so far to make this adventure with us. And thank you L for taking all of the pictures as well as for just being you and always smiling and laughing even when our jokes are so bad they should be illegal.

And that’s why the 2009 backpacking trip was The Best Trip Ever!

"The Perpetual Get Out Of Jail Free Card"

or the alternative title "Holy Crap, Christy's Gone Sentimental On Us...Run For Your Lives!"

I've always found it strange the phrase 'you can't pick your family.' In truth, that's only part true since you can choose your mate who may or may not have kids, or who your sibling or parent marries, etc. But for the most part, you really don't have any choice in your parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins...well you get the point. So then given this, what makes it the case that we are willing to forgive so often the actions of family members that we feel are wrong, or insulting or hurtful, or inconsiderate, or whatever. Why do we give family members a free pass? I know I certainly do.

At work, I'm completely the opposite. If a vendor screws up a project, I don’t use that vendor anymore. Simple.

Yet with my family, I won't utter a peep. I'll let some comment or some action go by and I'll just simmer (or try not to cry). Many a phone call has been made to our mother or one of my best friends to vent so I don't explode from either anger or hurt. Then, no more than a month needs to go by and I've forgotten what was said or done to upset me so much. In fact, I've been reminded of things that happened 6 months earlier and I only have a limited recollection, if any, of what happened. While I can remember with great detail the crappy things any ex-boyfriend did to me 10 years earlier, if it involves my family I wash it from my memory. Why is this? But the most ironic and curious part of all of this is that this blog entry was originally started after something happened that really bothered me. I was really hurt and I had a little crisis of family for a brief second (well, more like nanosecond). And now, more than a month later, I can’t remember why I was so angry. Apparently I have “Familial Short-Term Amnesia”. Yes, it’s a recognized condition. Look it up.

(I’m about to get uncharacteristically mushy – almost sentimental. Brace yourselves...)

Seriously, I wish I had an answer. I suppose it all boils down to one word: family. It's a noun (and sometimes an adjective) that has numerous definitions in the dictionary. Yet, none of the definitions I found truly convey the meaning of family. That simple word really has a greater, much deeper definition that can't be explained with words. My brothers are the world to me; my idols. Their children are my joy. And I have developed an unlimited love for each of my beautiful, sweet sisters-in-law. I would do anything and everything for any of them. No strings attached; with all the love I have. No, you won’t find a definition to explain those feelings. This definition can't be found in the dictionary; it can only be found in the heart.

In writing this, I've realized that trying to truly understand why my family means this much to me is futile. What I do understand, albeit fleetingly, is that I have an overwhelming need to have my family be happy and get along. Do I want this for the sake of my Mom? Likely. She's the same way when it comes to wanting her kids and their spouses and grandchildren to get along. Does that mean that I learned it from her? Definitely. But is this bad? Definitely not; at least I don’t consider it a bad thing. It’s just the way I am.

So, I have to ask myself: "Self? What's the point of all of this?" Well...there really is no point other than to realize that you can't answer the question: why do family's get a free pass? The answer is because. There’s no logic. There’s no quantifiable explanation. Love is just another way of saying family. It just is. Accept it.





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"Just Call Me Swammy"

or the alternative title "My Raison d'Hiking Etre"

It's been a while since my last post. Mainly, the last couple of weeks have been pretty boring. The inspiration for my first posts hit me like bolts of lightening. In the last few weeks, not so much.

Unlike before, this little bit of insight came to me during a conversation with my co-worker who I'll call "G", or maybe "G-Lady." Ooh, I've got it! I'll call her "G-Mama"! It rolls off the tongue a little better. Okay, so where was I...? Oh yeah, G-Mama and I were discussing my misadventures of joining new hiking groups and during one of those discussions, she helped me learn a new little nugget about myself. And just FYI, this little nugget of is small so don't expect some grand revelation at the end of this...I'm just not that deep.

A few weekends ago I hooked up with a new hiking group whose members could only be described as hard core extreme hikers. Within the first 50 feet of the hike, I realized that these people were practically running the trail at a pace that I couldn’t keep. They could only be described as extreme hikers, and I ate their dust as they left me way behind.

Basically, that wasn't my style of hiking. And that's where G-Mama and I began talking about why I hike. I told her that I didn't like hiking at supersonic speeds not because I wanted to enjoy the flora and fauna, but just because I like my own pace. Who cares about the flora and fauna? I don’t. She asked me if it was about the views. Nah, I could give a crap about the views. She then asked if it was about being outside in the fresh air and surrounded by nature. Nope, that's not it either. Nor did G-Mama have to ask me if it had to do with the whole communing with nature mumbo jumbo, because anyone who knows me knows that that's definitely not it.

But why do I hike? G-Mama's first comment to me was that if I go with anymore hiking groups, I may want to keep those comments to myself. Good advice. But in addition to this excellent point, she helped me realize that it's not that I don't care about any of those things. Actually, it's that I do care just a bit about those factors but only as smaller, almost inconsequential parts of the greater whole. Hiking is about...well, the hike. It's about being there – outside and on the trail surrounded by everything. And it’s about simply putting one foot in front of the other. At that moment, I recognized that hiking is my own wacky form of meditation. Go figure.

(I told you it was a small nugget of self-realization!)

The bottom line is that I really do like the fresh air and the flora and the fauna and being able to commune with nature, but only taken together. The whole enchilada (mmm . . . yum) allows me that ability walk and release those negative energies that have built up from work, finances, family and the world generally. I’ve done a lot of thinking on the trails, including coming up with ideas for this blog, having revelations about myself, resolving little annoyances clogging my mind, and just generally taking a vacation from reality. I've thought through a problem or a frustrating situation only to be tired of thinking about it by the end of the trek and ready to let it go. And I've daydreamed about various innocuous things and for that limited time I was able to step out of my own reality and escape the world. Man, that’s some serious deep thinking!

Sure, my hikes sometimes include the occasional slip and fall, or slightly sunburned ears, or the ancient and mystical bee-buzzing-around-my-head-panic-and-it-won’t-leave-me-alone-dance. But these are also parts of my meditative package. It wouldn’t be a complete and fulfilling meditative experience without these.

So yep, that's the answer. Hiking is my meditation. I guess you could say that I’m my own dirty faced, scraped knee, sunburned ears, bee stung trail guru.

Cool. I feel one with the world.




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“Life’s A Bitch . . . And Then You Quit Smoking”

or the alternative title “Screw You And Everything Sucks”

After 19 1/2 years (yes, since I was 17), I decided that it’s finally time to quit smoking. I’m tired of smelling like an ashtray. I’m tired of being the only person at a function who has to leave the building to go inhale some nicotine. I’m tired of hacking up a lung when I do a strenuous hike. I’m tired of the panic that comes from knowing you only have one cigarette left in the pack and you don’t know when you can buy another pack. I’m tired of putting out the money to buy a pack almost every single day. But most of all, I’m tired of watching my poor puppy, Lola, scratch from her severe allergies knowing that the cigarette smoke makes it worse.

So, when I decided to climb Mt. Whitney this summer (see previous post) and I talked to my brother, he said that I really need to quit. He was right not only because of Mt. Whitney, but also because of the many cons and the almost non-existent pros that go along with smoking. After that conversation, I vowed to quit on May 1st, and that’s what I’ve done as of midnight last night. I have the patch securely stuck to my shoulder, and I’m determined. But boy, this sucks.

You see, you get into a routine. Mine was to have one on the way to work, and then to have one with my co-workers when we all got to the office. Throughout the day there would also be breaks, and then one when I would get home, one after dinner, one while watching TV, etc. etc. etc. But now I feel a little lost. My routine has been disrupted, and as the people who know me can attest, I like routine. This morning I even went out and just sat with my co-workers and it was fine, but I want one. Boy, do I want one.

In my head, I have all of the things I hate (see above) going around in my head. I also keep telling myself that I’m also doing it for my health (and equally important, for the health of Lola and my other dog, Gigi). But it’s funny how addiction makes you not care a lot about that when you’re going through withdrawals. Screw every reason that I don't like smoking because a cigarette tastes sooooo good. Yummmm.

Again, there’s no point to this little blurb other than to point out that today is going to be tough. I’d like to bury myself in work, but it’s hard to concentrate. I’d like to be the rock that people at work know me as, but every thought that’s going through my head keeps making me tear up for no good reason. I’d like to look forward to the weekend that is beginning in just a few hours, but I just want to buy a pack. I suppose this is going to be like this for a while.

Yep, life’s a bitch . . . and then you quit smoking.

“A Small Mountain But Big Determination”

or the alternative title “I Think I Can, I Think I Can”

Brace yourselves, this is a long one . . .

At a family dinner a couple of months ago, my brother (who I’ll call “S”) announced that he and my other brother (who I’ll call “Young J” since I have two brothers whose names begin with J) were planning to climb Mt. Whitney this summer for S’s 50th birthday. I immediately chimed in that I wanted to go too. Now, most people who know me well know that my desire to go with my brothers on this trip really has more to do with my love of being with them and spending time with them. I idolize my four brothers—I always have—and I would crawl through a sewer with them if it meant I could spend a little more time with them.

I can’t remember if I immediately said that I wanted to do the climb or if I just said that I wanted to be at base camp, but either way, I was planning to go. And over the next couple of weeks, I vacillated back and forth with S about whether I was going to make the climb. And to make this long story short, I finally told S about a month ago that yes, I do in fact want to summit Mt. Whitney. His response was a little disappointing in that he put out a number of warnings about how hard it was going to be and that I would need to be ready for a tough climb and that I would need to be ready to deal with elevation and yadda, yadda, yadda. He told me that if I could climb Mt. Diablo which is about 3,800 feet, then I would likely be able to climb Mt. Whitney. I said fine, I’ll take a stab at Mt. Diablo and see how it goes. And it wasn’t until about a week or so later that I realized that I was a little hurt by his warnings. But, rather than being defeated by his obvious, although clearly unintentional vote of semi-no confidence, I got a little angry. And in my strange way, I turned that anger into determination. I was going to make it up Mt. Diablo, and this summer I will summit Mt. Whitney.

So, a couple of weekends ago was the first challenge. I found a local hiking club (out of deference to my Mom and her concerns that I often hike alone) and it just so happened that they were going to be doing the trail up Mt. Diablo to the campground just below the summit. I showed up ready to go, and up we hiked . . . and up and up and up. It was the hottest weekend of the year so far, and the trail was brutal. It was 5.7 miles of uphill, in the sun, in 90 degree heat. We got to the Juniper Campground almost three hours later, and I was pretty tired. Of course, I knew that the scheduled hike ended at the campground rather than at the summit that was 1.8 miles further. But I couldn’t let it go that I was so close to the summit. The challenge laid down by S at the front of my thoughts, and so I continued. And I did it.

To be honest, it sucked. It was hot, I was already sweaty, and the little piggy on my left foot that I had managed to break the week before (I battled a cabinet and lost) was starting to throb. But I did it. And My Pony was thrilled to see the view of the surrounding areas from the summit.

I was proud, and ready to head down the hill. After four hours of hiking uphill, and only two hours to cover the same ground on the way down (minus the minute or two delay to survey my road burned shin from falling on the trail during the descent—typical), I got in my car and smiled because I had met the challenge that had been laid down. As many of you know, I don’t like it when I am posed a challenge that someone thinks I can’t do. In this case, I didn’t care if my heart exploded on the way up. I was going to make it. And I did. Hooray for me. I rock.

Oh, and as far as my hike rating, I give this an overall score of four dead salamanders out of five. Obviously, the views alone (and the field of thousands of beautiful orange poppies) would have ranked this five dead salamanders, but it was completely and entirely uphill so I took off half a dead salamander because sometimes a little bit of flat trail or even downhill would have been a nice break.

So, there’s no real moral to this story, and there’s no attempt by me to counter my usual complaining with seeing the upside of the adventure. No, this is just me saying that I met the challenge. And this weekend, I’m meeting the challenge again . . . and I’m worried that this time I won’t be able to make it. But I’m going to kill myself trying, because I won’t let a little thing like a mountain stop me.

“There Are Those People Who Really Touch Your Life”

or the alternative title, “Saying Good-Bye Sucks So I Refuse To Do It”

When I walked into work yesterday morning, I had no idea that I was going to have to say good-bye to someone about whom I care so much. You see, one of the partners I worked with for the past seven plus years (I’ll call him “K”) announced that yesterday was going to be his last day. We had known that he was going to be leaving because of . . . well, let’s just say we knew that he was leaving and it wasn’t under ideal circumstances. But it still was a shock and one of the saddest days I’ve had here at work.

K was always more than just a partner that I worked for – he was always a true friend. We went through some of the craziest times and the craziest cases during the last seven years. Through all of the frustration and stress, and yes, sometimes anger, we still managed to eventually smile and laugh again. Ultimately, it made us closer and it made us better friends. All of that made yesterday so much more difficult.

I have no intention of letting K slip out of my life, and I’m thrilled to know that he’s excited about his next move. I also try to take comfort in knowing that our paths will always be intertwined as we go on with our lives and careers. But the pain and sadness still creep in like a fog. That’s inevitable. For now I’m going to take a stance and say that I’m not really willing to say ‘good-bye.’ I am, however, willing to say ‘see you later’ because I guarantee that we will always be friends.

Thank you K, for touching my life. I’m a better person for having the opportunity to know you and your family. I’ll see you later.

“Picture Yourself as a Steamed Lobster . . . Now Be a Steamed Lobster”

or the alternative title “You Want Me To Bend What and Put What Where How?!?”

My dear friend and co-worker somehow convinced me that taking a Bikram yoga class with her would be a good thing. And for those of you unfamiliar with Bikram, the word translates to “hot” or “fire”, and it’s yoga that’s done in a 110 degree room with at least 40% humidity with a whole bunch of other sweating people. Who comes up with this messed up stuff?!? Oh, some guy in L.A. in the early 1970s (thanks Wikipedia!). Well, let me tell you that when you’re big boned like me, you’re just not going to be as flexible as other folks. But that’s okay because I was willing to give it my all on a cold April night in Berkeley.

My journey of a thousand sweat beads began when I walked into the front door of the business on Shattuck in Berkeley and immediately looked through the glass window where the earlier class was still going on. It was then that I noticed that each and every person in the room was sweating like a pig in a bacon factory. They were absolutely dripping and all I could think was GROSS!!!

My friend arrived soon thereafter and after putting our stuff away, we walked to the sweatlodge of a room. Before opening the door, my friend simply said “brace yourself for this”. Well, I failed to truly understand that warning until I stepped in and the heat of a thousand suns hit me in the face and the sweat of a thousand armpits burned my olfactory receptors. In his book, Dante described nine circles of hell, but had Bikram yoga existed during Dante’s lifetime, he would have included a tenth circle.

But I dug in and decided to try my best. My goal was to make it through the class without giving up or passing out. In my head, both would be considered a failure.

So, I listened to the tiny little woman barking out fast, authoritative orders as I tried to bend in ways that weren’t possible. The best still had to be when we were all on our stomachs with our hands out to the side on the floor. She barked out to LIFT your chest off the floor and to LIFT your abdomen off the floor. And as she further barked at us to keep our heads up and look forward and HOLD, HOLD, HOLD, I looked down and thought to myself ‘how the hell am I suppose to lift my abdomen off the floor when I can’t even get my boobs off the floor?!?’

Despite all of the unspoken protests that went through my head, and despite not being able to do most of the moves, I made it through the whole 90 minutes. The most important thing is that I tried, and I survived. And as I was driving home that night, still sweating like the aforementioned pig, I realized that I actually enjoyed the whole thing. Sure, I’m not very bendy. Sure the idea of having to lay on the mat near a floor that's riddled with tens of thousands of fallen sweat beads is one of the grossest things I can think of (and I can think of a lot of gross things). And sure I was sore for a full week after that 90 minutes of tropical torture. But I felt great, both physically and mentally. I survived the class without quitting, and I got an incredible workout.

So, my fellow Bikram yogaers, make room for Christy, because her quest for inner peace and complete bendiness has only just begun.

"I Just Got Passed By the Fat Chick!"

or "Just Because I’m Fat Doesn’t Mean I’m Out of Shape"

I love hiking. It calms me. It makes me feel free and relaxed. It makes me forget my stress. It helps me do some deep thinking while getting some exercise. Now, if I could only figure out how to make everyone else disappear.

I’m not a small woman by any means and with 50 extra pounds on me, I think people are surprised that I can walk the 2.7 mile path that has a fair number of hilly parts. I usually walk it not once, but twice. Maybe it’s just me, but on several occasions I’ve passed someone and within 50 feet, they started to jog until they passed me. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that they can jog. I miss jogging and if I could finally get motivated to lose another 20 pounds, my knees would tolerate jogging again. But that’s a different post for a different time. The problem is that they jog by me and then stop jogging about 20 feet in front of me. Once again I have to pass them. And they never jog on the uphill; they always jog past me on the downhill so I end up passing them . . . again . . . on the uphill. It messes up my pace.

It doesn’t help that I’m secretly competitive. I certainly get a sense of satisfaction from kicking their ass again. But why do people have to be that way? I walk that path a couple of times a week. And usually I do two laps. I also hike more rural paths a couple of times a week in the hills in the county. So I’m not in horrible shape.

Rather than letting it really get to me, I'm trying to see the silver lining in things as I have a tendency to bitch and moan about a lot of things that I see. So maybe I can just say that this is one of those times when I shouldn’t care what people are thinking (or doing) and think about the extra strenuous workout I just had because of those people and how beneficial that is to my health. At the same time, I can still secretly hate them and laugh at them in my head when I pass them for the second, third and fourth time. Ha ha ha. You got passed by the fat chick, and now you have to watch my jiggly butt.

Enjoy the view.

"Where The Hell Am I?!"

or, the alternative title "One Salamander...Two Salamander...Three Salamander...DEAD!"

My Pony and I took a hike this weekend on Mt. Tam that we've never taken before. It was the Cataract Trail to the High Marsh Trail to the...oh, who cares. Either way, it was 1 mile of beautiful scenery and 6.5 miles of boring, and slightly scary woods.

You see, as many of my co-workers will gladly confirm, I'm notorious for not reading everything fully before moving ahead. Many an email has been responded to with the wrong response because I got bored after the first sentence or two and didn't read the whole thing. Apparently the same thing happens when I get a new book about local trails and I start trekking about before reading all of the details. Had I fully read the trail description in my book, I would have read the paragraph describing this as one of most wild and underutilized trails on Mt. Tam and it would have helped explain why I didn't see another soul for roughly 2 hours except three salamanders (four salamanders if you count the dead one in the middle of the trail). In fact, at one point I literally said out loud "where the f--k am I?!" Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the physical aspect of it, and the challenge of some pretty steep and rocky parts of the trail. And of course, had I completely read everything instead of just relying on the oversimplified map, I wouldn't have taken the unintentional "shortcut" that somehow managed to add about a mile onto the trip.

I also think My Pony enjoyed the hike. She insisted on posing at the only two pretty spots on the trail, but these pictures are not really indicative of the kind of trail this was. It was almost entirely woods and a little creepy to the point where I started thinking of the Blair Witch. We've come to the consensus, however, that on a scale of one to five dead salamanders, with five dead salamanders being the coolest hike ever, that this warranted two and a half dead salamanders.

I do, however, try to find the upside of things, and this hike was another one of those times where I reached the end and came to three conclusions. First, I don't think being a salamander is very fun, but it's not like they really know that because...well...they're salamanders. Two, if you like to hike because it's relaxing and helps de-stress, then read your trail book completely. Otherwise, you may end up more stressed out after the hike than when you started. And three, you sometimes have to take bad hikes to really appreciate the good ones. I can't wait for this weekend's hike!

"There's A Spring In My Step Today"

or the alternative title: "I Had A Great Night's Sleep - Thanks Noel Coward"


Something happens when you do something on a worknight that was enjoyable. Whether it was a good movie, a nice dinner with some friends, or whatever, there's something that happens when you have a great experience but still have to wake up early the next morning to get to work.

That's exactly what happened to me last night. Barbara (my retired neighbor who's like a second Mom to me) and I went to see our other neighbor, Michael, in High Spirits at the Eureka Theatre here in the City. It's the musical version of Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit, and just plain funny in a wonderfully macabre way.

My dinner with Barbara was wonderful as usual (thanks again Orale Orale), and the show was fun and whimsical and completely enjoyable. I laughed the entire time.

Now, to be honest, I tend to be a little overcritical when I see shows, but this even surprised me. It's obviously an old theater complete with missing ceiling tiles and frayed carpets, but that didn't matter. And despite my usual pet peeve that I can't stand Americans trying to do British accents, they pulled it off pretty well. Michael truly had me believing for two and a half hours that he was a British straight man - Bravo! My only regret is that this was one of the show's last performances, and I would have loved to have brought my Mom to see it. She would have laughed out loud - which doesn't always happen.

The fact that I didn't get to sleep until midnight didn't really matter when my alarm went off at dark o'clock this morning because there's a certain contentment that carries over from a fun night the night before. I'm now at work, and I'm ready to do some legal stuff with energy and that sense of fun still lingering.

So, thank you to the cast and crew of High Spirits, and even though you're dead, thank you too Mr. Coward.

"My Pony, I'd Like You To Meet The Web. Web, This Is My Pony."

or the alternative title: "No, 'My Pony' Is Not A Euphemism You Sick, Sick Person"

Yep, I have a pony. My Pony is named...well, My Pony. She’s a bit cheeky and inappropriate at times, but she’s definitely the “I’ll do anything once” type of pony.

I got her when she was tossed into a discount bin at a Rite Aid in downtown L.A. I was there for an arbitration (I’m a paralegal) and there had been a long-standing joke that I was getting so much overtime from the case that I could buy myself a pony. Call it fate, destiny, or kismet, it was just one of those moments. I was standing in the checkout line and there she was. Sure, her mane wasn’t full and perfect anymore. Sure, her legs are a little bit wobbly. And sure, she may not be the young filly she once was, but neither am I at the ripe 'ol age of 37. At that moment, our fates were inexplicably merged. She knew it too.

Today, she watches over my office in a highrise building in San Francisco’s financial district. She sits on her bookshelf quietly with just a hint of a smile. My only hope is that we can share many interesting adventures together. Being from Los Angeles, San Francisco wasn’t that far of a journey, and now it's home. She’s also traveled to Seattle with a friend of mine where she ventured to the top of the Space Needle. She was also kidnapped and I had to pay a ransom of a plate of chocolate chip cookies. We'll try to remember the good times and put the bad times behind us.

So, My Pony, please say hello to the Web. Web, I’d like to introduce you to My Pony.

"My Tribute To The Big Guy"

No, the tribute isn't to God or any other higher being. The title of this blog is a tribute to my dearly departed Dad who we use to call the Big Guy. He's been gone for a little over four years, but I still miss him. And the one phrase that always reminds me of him is now the title of this blog.

Of course, he had a number of sayings that still make me laugh and are brought up at our family get-togethers, but "what do you want outta me?" was really the Big Guy's best known saying. Other sayings such as "not too nice now; not too nice" and the infamous "give her the sausage" are still heard every so often in my head.

So for now, with the Big Guy still in my mind and in my heart, that's the start of this blog. I miss him even if he was a little quirky.

Here's to you Big Guy.