The Training Program

They told the stories of their adventure over beers and wine. They talked of the physical and mental challenges, of the hilarious moments, the odd folks, the tired but determined dog, and the brushes with death.

He said, "You should go with us next time."

Such a benign little statement. Warm. Welcoming. It seemed to say that if you join us, you will be enveloped in love and laughter. We want you there. You belong there. And you will have tales to tell of your adventure for decades to come. You are one of us. JOIN US. Come, climb the White Mountains.

And so I agreed.

I agreed to a three-day, two-night hike in the White Mountains, sleeping in huts along the trail where I was told I would have no napkins or paper towels and might get to meet a skunk in the middle of the night and definitely would have a chance to pet a friendly bear.

Six months ago, The Brother, The Husband, The Jock and I started talking about training. Fitness levels were assessed and mocked.

The Brother rows. He's in shape. The Husband runs, plays tennis, and enjoys some unfair genetics. He's in shape. The Jock -- hello? He's The Jock. He's going to kick everyone's ass. Me? I play with the dog. AND I sometimes wear those sneakers that simulate walking in the sand. So, clearly, I'm in shape.

Five months ago, The Husband and I started getting in shape for our trip to New Zealand. It would be our spark to start training for the White Mountians. While in NZ, were going to be hiking and walking and bike riding and generally active. The Husband played tennis twice a week and ran. I did a 10-minute butt blaster work out on a Tuesday while waiting for my mozzarella sticks to finish reheating.

The Brother rowed. Claimed other exploits yet to be verified.

The Jock ran. He swam. He lifted. He cycled.

Four months ago, The Husband and I went to New Zealand. We carefully balanced all athletic activity with equal amounts of sloth. Husband emerged thinner and in better shape. I got a blister.

The Brother lifted. The Brother rowed. The Brother engaged in activities with his daughter. The Brother gloated.

The Jock competed. The Jock hiked. The Jock quietly rolled his eyes at us.

Three months ago, The Husband trained for The Corporate Challenge and netted a not-too-shabby time. I hugged him when he came home (arm workout).

Two months ago, The Husband ran another race. I went for a walk.

Hearing of this, The Brother indicated to The Mother his concern about my fitness levels (which he would not be concerned about if my sister, The Stud, was going with them.

And it began.

First, I claimed to be in fantastic shape and that, as happened the last time we hiked, I would beat The Brother to the top and be laying on the grass at the bottom, enjoying my thoughts, when he finally reached the summit.

The Brother insisted that would only be true if I never started the hike.

The Jock noted that he climbed 2534 feet in one mile that morning before work.

The Brother, The Husband, and I decided that he could carry us.

The Husband noted we were training by going for hikes every weekend. While true,  he left out that I kept bringing our small dog along who can't walk fast or long. When the dog bonks out (after a mile), we "have" to go home.

The Brother noted that he was in perfect shape and that I better start training soon.

The Jock said nothing.

I noted that given his advanced age and tendency to carry entirely too much food, I figured we would be about even as I was much younger and would let Husband carry 90% of my crap.

The Husband noted that he would not be coming if the sibling rivalry continued.

The Brother asked The Stud if she wanted to come in my place.

The Stud said yes.

I vetoed.

The Stud said he would run a half marathon pushing her two daughters instead. Because she's The Stud.

Three weeks ago, The Brother started carbo-loading and carrying a 150-lb rucksack everywhere.

The Jock rode from Virginia to Maine on a Tuesday afternoon.

The Husband started running four days a week and took the dogs for walks by carrying them on his shoulders.

I bought zip-off pants AND a pair of socks.

Two weeks ago, The Husband started packing.

The Jock had taken a week of and climbed Everest, just to ensure he's ready.

The Brother claimed to be running 15 miles a day. With a pack. At altitude.

I took the stairs one day.

Three days ago, The Husband started buying all of the high-energy food, printing the maps, memorizing the trail, and checking all of his gear.

The Jock confirmed all travel data.

The Brother wondered which day we were going and where we were meeting.

I asked if the hike would be hard.

Last night, The Husband made me go for a walk with a really super steep section a whole twenty feet in distance. It was brutal.

It occurred to me that I might not be in tip-top shape.

We leave in one week. My new training program is easy: rest so as not to strain myself on the climb by hiking with sore muscles over-spent from a mad week of training. Oh, and buy another pair of socks. Then I'll be all set. And I'll kick arse.

not sent from an iPad

Adventures in Detroit: The Hotel

Dear Tess,

Jamie and I, being the world travelers that we are, have just gotten back from a short stint in exotic Detroit. I was struck by many things (e.g., we drove down 8 Mile to see where he used to live and I did NOT see Eminem which was quite a shocking disappointment), but I didn't realize how much of an impact our hotel would have on my life. I experienced so many new and unexpected things.

1. The Check-In Ladies are Aliens. Or puppets. Hard to tell what's behind the alarming level of calm cheer, slightly like that sugar-sweet demeanor of one Michelle Duggar who is also, I'm quite sure, not human. I was curious as to whether they are pod-born or just land here and, as she offered Jamie a chocolate, I was very alarmed that he was going to either disappear on the spot and be taken to their home planet or that I would wake up and he would be in a cocoon waiting for The Change to happen.
2. They have happily removed the mini-bar to ensure you don't accidentally drink all the wine or eat $10 Jelly Bellies in the middle of the night. They're helping you control your spending and calorie intake.
3. They also help you watch your weight by providing a shocking lack of cream and sugar for your morning coffee. This will also help you get moving in search of cream and sugar, thus increasing your heart rate and contributing to overall good health.
4. To improve your mental skills, the parking garage is specially designed to be a complex maze which you must try to navigate while tired and confused. (Note, we didn't navigate successfully and we're not going to talk about that.)
5. Did I mention the mini bar? Yeah. That's totally awesome. Saving money AND calories. I LOVE IT.
6. In order to help you achieve greater intimacy with your partner, they've removed the sound-masking fan from the bathroom so you can hear each every single sniffle, breath, and thought your loved one makes while in there.
7. To encourage you to relax, they charge you an obscene rate for Internet, unlike other hotels that offer it for free because those other hotels clearly don't care about your ability to unplug and chill out. How thoughtful is that? They are helping to lower my blood pressure!
8. THE MINI BAR.
9. In order to teach you to control your expectations and plan for the unexpected, they will randomly not clean your room. This helps in so many ways, Tess. First, it helps you to not take things for granted and plan for (or deal with) such catastrophic events as having to use a still-damp towel, a shortage of hotel shampoo/soap/conditioner, and the heart stopping horror of walking into your room and having to embrace what a huge slob you really are because no one cleaned up your mess. (Question: why do all of the blankets and sheets end up on the floor in a hotel but this never happens at home?).
10. To help you hone your speaking skills, methods of persuasion, and patience as well as your ability to teach others key aspects of their jobs, they've provided you with Star Rewards Points but carefully trained only some staff members on how they can be used. This allows you to deliver a presentation on how their program works at least three times.
11. Another benefit of the lack of the minibar is that it allows you to work on your people skills by having to order your $4.00 Oreos or your $10 Jellie Bellies or your $6.00 beer and then face the person delivering your late-night snack to you. It also helps you practice looking Judgment in the eye and saying, "I am my own person and if I want to eat Jellie Bellies and Oreos and a Beer at 3am, I can and I do not care what you think. Nor am I tipping you."

So, you see Tess, this was not, as I first thought, crappy service. This was a whole educational program aimed at making me a thinner, stronger, more frugal, more patient, better prepared woman with an increased ability to effectively communicate and embrace the unknown.

BTW, if you tell the woman at the counter that your room wasn't serviced the whole time you were there and she says she'll look into it, how does that help me when I"m checking out? And how does it help me to hear I should have called down to let them know when I got in at 12:40 and was in no way interested in getting the room serviced at that time because it was BED TIME?

Also, just heard China is now the world's second largest economy -- happening just months after you and Dunc arrived. Coincidence? I think not. I think the country should thank you by providing better cable options and unlimited Gene Lite. Who shall I call to make this happen?

Birkenstocks = No Dates

Tess,

You think you already knew why Birks don't equal dates, but you don't.

Let's just get the first part on the table so we can move on: they are ugly. Really ugly. They make all feet that don them look ugly. When I think Birkenstock in my head, I have three images:

1. Clammy, hairy stark white male feet attached to a skinny, slumpy, clammy, stake white male


2. Dark, dirty feet worn by hippy and/or fake-poor college student (note: Birks are not cheap and therefore, that "poor" college student has rich parents.


3. Fuzzy-socked feet attached to cool, folksy, art-teacher nun who would leave the order after 10 to 15 years and many awesome clay pots and art projects.

None of these are images couple easily with the idea of dating. So when on, or looking for, a date, you don't wear them. Unless you want to date one of those listed above and, if so, you're on your own.

But just because they are fugly doesn't mean they are not very comfortable (and not in a disgusting, cheap-arse, slimy croc kind of a way. crocs are cool NEVER). In fact, this is a remarkably well-made shoe that will, after consistent use, mold to your foot so that the shoe will only fit your foot and it fits perfectly. Uber comfortable. I'll acknowledge that. I appreciate it. Sort of.

Anyway.

When I was in college I got a pair. This was during the week I decided I was cool and granola, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and really awesome wool sweaters and no makeup and never do my hair. It was an ugly week. Literally. No dates.

Years later, after a day of marching around in 4" heels, I decided I was going to head out to Borders. Borders, as I imagined it then, was where I would meet Mr. Right. I would be browsing my section and he would come in, think I'm awesomely intelligent, interesting, and wonderful. We would strike up a conversation, I would be witty and calm and not at all the trainwreck I usually was when a boy talked to me.

But my feet hurt.

And there were my purple Birks. Waiting for me. "We're comfortable and flat and we'll hug your feet even though you didn't wear us long enough to break us in."

"No. You are ugly," I said.

"You are mean. And we have character. And those 4" heels look like you are trying too hard. Boys don't like that. Be the cool chick who doesn't need the fabulous shoes."

"I don't need them. I like them."

Right then, my feet entered the conversation, "We hate them. Uggs! Birks! Flip flops! More of those."

"Shut up," I said.

"We'll revolt."

"What?"

"We'll revolt. We'll trip over ourselves and you'll fall down."

I pondered this. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Often. We dislike a lot of your shoes. But if you want to not meet a guy after you fall down because you'll have to immediately leave, fine with us..."

"Please! We want to go outside! We want to see the world! We won't embarrass you!" The Birks pleaded.

I'm only human. Under pleading and threats, I gave in.

And I was somewhat right about Mr. Right. You see, Tess, there was a guy in the same area I was. He was attractive, well-dressed, the right age, the right height, and thumbing through good books. I moved a little closer, ready for us to start talking which would then lead to, "Oh, let's get some coffee in the cafe." And then, "Can I call you?" And then a mortgage payment and dogs.

But as I stepped over to him in my 'We won't embarrass you' Birkenstck, something truly awful happened. As I stepped to within three feet of him, there came through the warm silence the one sound you just don't ever want to come through warm silence: fart sound.

FART SOUND IN THE SILENCE.

And, I'm afraid, it was from me.

I saw him shift his eyes a bit to the right, clearly letting me know I was gross, he was not, and he knew what I just did. I didn't move. He slowly ambled away. Mr. Right: Gone.

Now, there's a reason why I didn't move. I didn't fart.

I foot-farted.

Foot-farting is the sound that your arch makes as it pushes the air out from between your foot and the sole of your leather and cork shoe.

A sound that is particularly prevalent among Birkenstock because of how they are made.

A sound that will not get you a mortgage and dogs.

A sound that doomed those Birks to the back of my closet.

A sound that is highly entertaining when you are bored and home alone on a Tuesday afternoon.

A SOUND OF CONSPIRACY AND BETRAYAL BETWEEN THE BIRKS AND MY FEET.

Mildred's Response To The Disaster

Dear Crazy Person With the Water Sprayer,

I am a single mother. It's not an easy life. It has been up to me to create a safe haven for my 243 children whom that waste of eyes, Dennis, left me with.

I spent several months constructing that house, ensuring it was protected from the elements, built strongly to keep my babies safe, and near enough to a food supply to keep them healthy.

I have been living here for quite some time.

I have never bothered you.

My children have eaten the bugs that have come to your house because you don't know how to clean.

I have kept disgusting creatures from crawling through the hole in the screen and coming upstairs to eat your face in your sleep. (Didn't know about the hole, did you?)

I thought we were working together, lady.

Imagine, if you will, that after a long day of carnivorous eating you are enjoying a well-deserved nap with your little ones. It's a warm, sunny afternoon, and you are happy in your home. Life is good. You're even wearing that Life is Good shirt to show the world that life is good.

And then, just as you are getting to the very best part of your dream (when you catch that evasive cricket in your web), there's a Tsunami in your living room.

What you thought was an attack upon you, you narcissistic wench, was me being half drowned by your Cobher faucet while you destroyed my home, thus eliminating our ability to trap YOUR UNWANTED BUGS and stay alive. You know, FEMA doesn't help us. Well, FEMA doesn't seem to help you much either, so...

But what REALLY gets me isn't that you decided to tell the world that my near-death experience via drowning was the flailings of a mentally-disturbed human-killer (as if). And then you did the same damn thing to me the next morning! WTF? I can see Tsunami in your living room once, but TWICE? Really? You had to do it again in the morning when I had made just the tiniest progress of rebuilding? You didn't tell Tessa about that, did you? No. Because you knew that was just mean.

Who's the psychopath now, eh?

Who's going to hell for cruel and unusual punishment?

Who's going to have extra bugs in her house?

Who's suddenly very worried about that hole in the screen?


Truly yours,
Mildred the Mother Spider Who Was Not Psychotic Until You Demolished Her Home. Twice.

The dangerous side of house cleaning

Dear Tess,

Here's an example of why it's good you moved.


We're having company over today. As such, I decided that it was far past time that I actually clean the house rather than the lame-ass approach I take each week which mainly involves vacuuming some areas and doing some laundry and then bragging about how I cleaned the whole house to Jamie.


First, I cleaned his bathroom. I do not go into his bathroom because it's a generally scary man-space which is hostile to girls. In the process of cleaning his bathroom, I used almost all of the cleaning products, of which we have an alarming amount given that I don't clean. Perhaps I'm thinking if I have enough unused products, they'll clean for me in the middle of the night like little brownies. (Note: brownies in this case = sturdy little fairies, but now all I can think about are moist, chocolaty brownies running around my house with a spray bottle of 409).


After, like 20 hours cleaning the bathroom, I headed down stairs and started in the kitchen. This is where I noticed that there was a prehistoric wall of spiderweb stretched across my kitchen window. While I lied and told myself that this had just been created that morning because how could I have missed such a thing, I'm pretty sure this existed when the house was built in the 50's. It was ghastly. It was horrifying. It needed to go.


First, I opened the window next to it to break up any connections between the two windows. No connection. The web remained.


Then I turned on the water faucet full blast, picked up the little sink sprayer thingy and, emboldened by the screen between me and the evil web of misery and death, started spraying.


This was a mistake.


As soon as I started to spray, the biggest most nasty looking beast of a spider jumped up and he went for my face. I know I always think the spider will go for my face if I bug it. I know this is irrational and stupid, but I assure you, he was coming for me. He was coming for me with rage and anger not unlike the way I reacted when some stupid ho stole my Zappos deliver when we lived in the city. THAT kind of rage and anger.


I didn't really think Spiders could move like this. He was jumping around manically, his thousand legs were twirling and jerking and spazing and his fangs were dripping Gretchen-killing venom. Reflecting on his movements and facial expression, I concluded that not only is he a mean spider, he's a psychotic spider. And I pissed him off by destroying his family domicile. Or he had nap hangover.

Luckily, the screen saved my life, preventing this cranky, mal-adjusted, in need of strong medication, a good psychiatrist, and some cookies from eating my face.

But he's out there.

And he's holding a grudge (because what else will he do without cable?)

So, now I can't go out on that side of the house for at least a month.


I"m not sure he hasn't found a way inside and is raising an army of my indoor spiders to attack me in the night. I think he'll also be accessing my email accounts, cross referencing with whitepages.com, and hunting down all of my friends. Therefore, you're safe. I'm pretty sure psychotic spider won't make it through security at the airport.


Oh, and he kind of looked like this. But bigger. And meaner. And a crazier. Which is another reason why I've decided not to join the military.

Stuffed Animal in a Huge Pool of Pesto

Tessa moved to Shanghai. For three years. THREE YEARS.

And she's not blogging, the shit.

I'm hoping.

Waiting.

Waiting.

WAITING.

Waiting like that Erica Kane person waited for an Emmy. (Did she ever get one?)
Waiting like I waited for my mom to pick me up after work at Hegedorn's only to have to call her to remind her that she had abandoned her youngest child.
Waiting like a rebellious teenager in a po-dunk small town waits to graduate from high school so he can join the army and get the hell out of that place only to end up stationed in the dessert or the arctic.

It's not like she lacks subject matter.

Among the blogs she should have written include the inability of her neighbors to form lines at the cash registers, the frightening lack of decent beer, the never-ending fear that they are going to steal/eat/beat her cat, the desire to see other apartments (and the failed attempt to do so), crazy maids barging into their house and cleaning, taxis, supermarkets, the scientific research to determine how long one person can live off the the Dominos Pizza place on the first floor of her building.

You see, Tessa's just the last person (aside from me) who I would envision living in China. It doesn't make sense, even though she's doing it. Other things that don't make sense but can be done: brushing your teeth with cat food, not eating cheese, keeping your favorite stuffed animal in a huge pool of pesto sauce, putting your cat in a baby stroller, listening to Justin Beiber, wearing unfabulous shoes... you get the picture.

And so, given that she's in another time zone and practically on another planet based on the stories she's told me, I've decided I need to write to her, to remind her of what life here in America is like, to make her laugh, to make her think, and to MAKE HER BLOG, DAMMIT.

So, we'll have some changes around here ... new look on Crease in the Pants, slightly new way of writing, same purpose: avoid taking the dishes out of the dishwasher.