Saturday, August 30, 2008


We are nearing the end of summer and doing some random travels throughout our state and a bit beyond. We have recently re-discovered the "joys" of family bike riding. It is even more enjoyable now because all of our children are actually riding bikes and we don't need to tow anyone in a seat or some other child-friendly bike accoutrement. All said, biking as a family is fun. Outside of our own state, there are some differences. Namely the lack of what I like to call the "psycho-bicyclist." This bicyclist has invaded my geographic area and when I am out of state biking, especially with children, I relish is the lack of this type of cyclist on the bike paths that were, when I last checked, designed for everyone.

The "psycho-bicyclist" believes that family friendly bike paths are for their use only, to go fast, race, and take up as much room as they think that the need. This is done with complete ignorance of the slower bikers in the under six set that may just be learning how to navigate on a bike for the first time. This is also done with complete ignorance of the parents who are trying to help and protect younger bicyclists from this rude invasion. We encountered a virtual stream of such cyclists on our local bike path one Labor Day. Mind you, this was in the middle of the day on the official last day of summer. These cyclists had set out on a serious race/ride after 12:00pm and many of these groups were seriously pissed that they had encountered families using the bike path, some even made comments complete with foul language for the benefit of the children I am sure.

Another "psycho-bicyclist" belief is that all persons should be on bikes all of the time and that cars should not be used at all. We see this in my area in the form of mass rides where the bicyclist congregate together and congest the city streets for hours on end to prove their point. The odd thing about this belief is that the "psycho-bicyclist" set is not keen on teaching young children the joys of cycling. In fact they don't even seem to want young children around. They don't believe in family friendly bike space, yet they don't want parents to tote their children around in cars. It makes no sense. I will be damned if I can figure it out.

The "psycho-bicyclist" does not believe that the rules of the road were intended for them. This makes sense, as they believe that there should be no cars and therefore no rules of the road. It is then within the purview of the "psycho-bicyclist" to take over the entire road and operate as though they are in fact motorized vehicles. If a car happens to veer anywhere near their said path, the "psycho-bicyclist" then feels it is within their right to hit the car, yell obscenities at the driver, or rant in some inappropriate fashion regarding their rights on the road.

Now I consider myself an Eco-friendly person. I appreciate those who are willing and able to do most of their commuting via bike. This is good for our roads, the environment, and helps improve the general quality of living all the way around. What I am against and don't miss when I am out of my home state, is the following; decidedly unfamily friendly behavior, lack of cooperation with the rest of humanity both on the bike paths and the road, choosing the most crowded times of day to speed bike, and the use of profanity that tends to accompany these folks. Isn't physical exercise supposed to be stress free? A little cooperation and love for their fellow bicyclist (the non-psycho sort) would go a long way in increasing their popularity with the local population.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Light up Ball

What is this:

Light up Christmas ornament?

Spaceship desending to earth?

Disco ball?


Powerful candle holder?

Cosmic Easter egg?

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Being Any Age

I spent time with a long-time friend of mine recently and she made a comment about how she had just realized that she couldn't be any age that popped into her head. She went on to talk about how easy it was for her to be "any age," usually younger than her current years. This she felt was much easier than being the age she is or older.

Now I can see not wanting to be older than one is. I can definitely see the desire as well to be younger than one is. It is easy to feel younger. The problem is that one does not usually look it. So while age is a "state of mind." Even the most fit among the early middle aged set have a bit of the middle age look to them. Once you listen to someones conversation it becomes even easier to tell their approximate age and thus more difficult for someone to cloak themselves in the shadows of their lost youth.

This is not all doom and gloom. Some propriety at any age keeps one from looking like a fool. Yearning to be younger, may actually help lead some towards a healthier lifestyle, one that can enhance their younger state of mind. As with any age, I look back and think of the pros and cons of previous decades. I can pause and think "Hm...I am glad that I don't think that way anymore" or "Wow, I really wish that I could do that again and not look like a complete idiot." Some things, like trying beer bongs, decorating my living space with garage sale items, and driving an unreliable car, I am glad to leave behind. I miss not being able to stay up all night without consequences in the morning, doing crazy things spontaneously, having so many experiences be "new," and looking great in all of my clothes and a swimsuit! Those are things that are hard to leave behind.

As I look towards my middle years, I find that I do need to adjust the "young at heart" mindset somewhat. "No, I don't look good in everything just because it is in style," "I have a career and can no longer hide out in school or afford to not try and get ahead before retirement," "I do like nice things and no longer see any allure in being poor and free," and "There are some things that I just don't like or don't like doing and I am not going to pretend otherwise." I find that at this age, I know myself better and that is the part that makes me look and act the age I am. Going forward, I will choose to see this as a benefit and play at being "any age that pops into my head" momentarily and for fun.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Deep Thoughts

Random thoughts from my thought bubble. Usually things that go through my mind when I am stopped at a red light, weeding in the yard, staring out the window, or listening to a political candidate.
1) Why do stupid people keep breeding?
2) Why isn't my car equipped with a "splat gun" so that I could "splat" bad drivers
3) Yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question
4) Why do so many lead singers kill themselves from a drug overdose?
5) Why is it so easy to make something wrong and so hard to make it right?
6) What are we going to do when our landfills are all filled up?
7) Why do people waste time being racist?
8) Why can't I be a nicer person?
9) Where will all of the criminals go when our prisons are full?
10) Why don't helpful gadgets make my life any easier?

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Awkward Greeting

What is it with the awkward greeting or possible greeting that makes me so uncomfortable? First, let me define "awkward greeting." An awkward greeting, for the purposes of this writing, is any time you feel an obligation to greet someone that you kinda know, you know, but don't know if they remember you, or you know, but don't really like and don't really want to say "hello." It is awkward when you find yourself in these situations and it is actually hard to say "hi," but you know the person saw you, so you feel really weird.

For example, I was dropping my children off at soccer camp this morning. I got into my car and was preparing to back out when I looked up and saw a woman that I kind of know, but not very well, helping her children out of the car. Did she see me? Yeah, probably. I could have waved, but I was in the process of backing up and had both hands on the steering wheel. I could have stopped, cracked my window and said "hi," but frankly I was late for work and didn't know her well enough to take the time. At that point I decided that I must just be rude.

This isn't the first time that this has happened to me. I have countless examples of this kind of behavior on my part. Sometimes I even use awkward "hi" opportunities to avoid people that I know, but may not want to say "hi" to at that given point in time. This could be for many reasons, here are a few a) I know them passing and only from large social situations, I am not sure that they will remember me (I have a better memory for faces than most people that I know), b) they talk a lot and I am in a hurry c) If I stop and say "hi" I might have to make small talk, most days I do not feel like doing this or d) I know them well enough to have said more than once "we should get together" and I have not followed through on this and feel guilty.

Those are just a few of the reasons why I might choose to avoid an awkward "hi." It never ceases to amaze me how friendly and social some people always are. These people are usually well-liked. I guess that I don't count myself in that category. I'm not complaining though because I still get invited to cool parties. So awkward "hi" and all, I must be doing something right.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Food in Beijing

I recently got a circular e-mail from a friend that pictured a variety of native foods that could be purchased around Beijing. The e-mail ended with a note about how the food was disgusting and the sender would rather stay home and watch the Olympics because the food was better here. Food items included such things as snake, silkworm, an assortment of bugs and beetles, dog meat soup, dried seahorse, and other such things that one would expect to be consumed by Andrew Zimmern. So these are native foods. If we are faced with worldwide hunger, I am going to guess that the Chinese will survive longer than we will here in America.

My point is that Americans are so damn elitist. It isn't that the food is "better" here, it is just that we don't see the junk and garbage that goes into making most of it. If you really picked apart the typical American diet, the contents of what is consumed would probably be more shocking and disgusting than dung beetles. While the items featured on this e-mail were certainly not common American foods, I could argue that they are healthy and certainly packed with plenty of protein. Infinitely better for you than a fast food meal or processed food purchased to heat and eat from the grocery store.

So the cultural elitists who think that our American diet is so awesome (I look around at most Americans and can see this isn't so), can stay home and eat their pork rinds and drink their Coke and watch the Olympics on T.V. I am one American who wishes that she could actually be there. If not to watch all of the events, then to be somewhere truly different and unique and know that I wasn't going to see the same strip malls and resturants in every single town.

I also have an inside scoop because I have a friend who is living in Beijing for two years because of work. She tells me that there are strange foods, but it isn't all that hard to get tasty Chinese food that would suit an American palette. I remain wishing to be Beijing bound at the first opportunity I have to go.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday to me!

Thursday, August 14, 2008

My Birthday

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me-Happy Birthday to Me!

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

New Band

So maybe Vampire Weekend is not so new. I really wanted to download a video of them from You Tube. Frustratingly enough, I could not get it to work Grrrrr. Love their music, very upbeat and unique, they sing the kind of songs that you want to stay in your mind all day.

Top Ten Drinks

1. Chocolate Martini
2. Blueberry vodka and lemonade
3. French 75
4. Dirty Girl Scout tini
5. Jagermeister and root beer
6. Zombie
7. Rosemary's Stockings
8. Hot apple pie
9. Absolut mandarin and grapefruit juice
10. Mojito

Sunday, August 10, 2008

What's up with Affairs?

Maybe it is the books that I am choosing to read lately (the characters are always cheating), but I just don't get "affairs." I am going to take the woman's perspective here because that is what I am and I don't really know what men think in this area well, because I am not a man. So, with that said, it seems that most affairs take place when a woman is close to or at middle age. I don't understand it, isn't one man enough work for them? I know that it is for me. I guess I could see it with someone young, really good looking, and unattached (of course even than scenario is full of complications), but to cheat with another married person who may also have children just seems like more complication than it could ever be worth. Another factor is cost. Not only does the whole thing seem emotionally draining, it is expensive to cheat. Great for people who have piles of "funny money" to do what they want, but how do the more common people justify the additional expense? I will cheat, and my husband does know this, with any of the following three people should they come knocking on my door: 1) Mick Jagger 2) Lenny Kravitz and 3) Steven Tyler. Since that is not likely to happen, it looks like I will just have to be content with channeling my time and emotional energry into the one that I am with.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

The Teeth of the World by, Maryam, Megan, Karen, and Monica

Here is another short story done by our writing group. Like the first one, we started out with a line from a novel and each wrote a contributing part.

He was wearing the old flip flops that he had brought to New York City when he’d moved there about two years ago. The flip flops that had been covered with blue paint stains from when he painted the walls of the small, basement studio apartment that he’d rented on the East side two years ago.

In the past two years, he’d thought of moving out of the apartment so many times, but never did. It seemed as if the little apartment defined New York city for him.

He dragged the flip flops as he walked on Fifth Avenue without really going anywhere, without having a destination, without a plan, aimlessly. He was high again. He looked lost. He didn’t know where he was going.

He had come to New York City two years ago, with a big dream, to become a successful artist. He wanted to have his own exhibition. He wanted to sell his paintings and drawings, but now he was walking in his flip flops, lost. His dream seemed too far away, so unreachable.

For a moment he felt exposed. He thought everybody was staring at him. Everybody wanted a piece of him. At that moment, the world had teeth and it could bite him with them anytime it wanted.

It was early September when Shane moved to New York City. He hated the farm house where he lived with his parents in Kentucky. More than anything else he wanted to get out of there and move to a big city and pursue his dream. His art teachers always loved his work and often encouraged him to pursue his talent further. So as soon as he graduated from high school, he bought a bus ticket to New York City. He had some savings and borrowed some money from his parents and left.

He never imagined that he would be a heroin addict one day. It all started with a little bit of Hashish, and had moved up the drug ladder ending up with heroin. He forced a nervous laughter out, walking aimlessly, thinking that now he was a heroin addict with no future dragging his flip flops on the streets of the city he had come to in order to be someone.

The pavement was slightly uneven, and he stumbled. His blue, paint-splashed flip flop caught in the gap between the big, square paving stones, supposedly straight and perfect, but actually rather uneven. His foot slid out of the flip flop and he fell with a thud to the ground. His hip hurt, where he landed, but he laughed because it was only half-an-hour since his last hit and he felt fine and light. He laughed because perhaps the flip flop symbolized something. Laughing, he slipped off the other painty-blue flip flop, hauled himself up and kept on walking, barefoot, down 5th Avenue. Nobody noticed. He wandered at the fate of his flip flops, in such a world where huge teeth poised waiting to bite, waiting to bite them, but not him.

He passed the Metropolitan Museum of Art and kept walking. He passed the Neve Gallery and kept walking. He passed the Guggenheim and kept walking. Art, art, art he hated art. He hated himself for hoping that art would redeem him. He hated the rough sensation of the sidewalk beneath his feet, trying to configure itself into a painting in his mind, textured, layered, pressing art from inside him despite his determination to resist it.

Shel Flumegan followed the odd bare-footed fellow up 5th Avenue, past the Met, past the Neve, past the Guggenheim. Her junior art class had been dottering around the impressionist rooms of the Met all morning and she was bored. She wanted to encounter real life, real people, real today. She wanted to get out of her own skin, so had van Gough in those curled up paintings of himself and his chair and his bed. Shel wanted to know something new, something outside the neat, perfect Burroughs of the upper West Side private school life.

A lithe, perfect young woman was walking next to him. Her legs looked as if they were made of light brown plaster. “Hi,” she said. He looked over at her, feeling embarrassed and remarked, “I lost my flip flops. They had blue paint on them, from when I first moved to New York.” “Would you like for me to help you find them?” Shel asked, uncertain as to why the man was giving her information about his flip-flops. His manic laugh startled her as he gazed up and down her body. Shel noticed that his pupils were the size of pin tops. “Hell no! I can’t even find myself, let alone some shitty pair of flip-flops that I probably should have thrown away years ago.” He gave her another full body glance. Even though she was only seventeen years old Shel could see the hunger, the sexual hunger in his eyes. It was almost like he had sharp teeth in those eyes, ready to reach out and bite her. Shane was thinking that the girl’s body looked delicious, he was tempted to bite into it. His high had reached a point where he was really quite horny, but even in this state he could recognize that she was jailbait and he really didn’t need to add any more illegal activities to his current repertoire. “Gotta go! Gotta fly!” Shane yelled as he stretched his arms wide and zoomed like a crazed albatross down Fifth Avenue. Shel was left standing in the middle of the sidewalk as she watched the barefoot man dressed all in blue disappear down the street scattering pedestrians in his wake.

Shane arrived at his blue studio apartment dripping with sweat. His feet hurt to walk on and were covered with cuts that oozed into bloodstained footprints onto the hardwood floors as he paced his apartment. Time to get to work, time to get some painting done, I really hate art, Shane thought again. Gotta work, gotta sell, gotta get the next high. Shane walked on sticky feet to the supply drawer in the kitchen. All of the necessary paraphernalia was there, except the junk. Shane rummaged through the drawer, spoon, tubing, needle, portable torch, syringe. He saw something white and powdery on the bottom of the drawer. Shane licked his finger and used it to pick up some of the white powder, he brought it to his tongue. It was good, or maybe he just imagined it was good, in his current state he wasn’t even sure exactly what it was. He had energy now and he knew that he would have to get some work done. Shane decided to start by walking his bare, bloody feet over a white canvas, kind of Jackson Pollock he thought with amusement. It seemed to take him hours to complete the piece. Shane knew from experience that heroin did not eliminate his creative process, it just caused the process to move more slowly. In this case, today, time seemed to stand still. He couldn’t remember how many pieces he owed his art manager, Vulture. Vulture wasn’t really much of a manager, he had yet to book any exhibitions for Shane. What Vulture had in abunShanece though was drugs and that was usually how Shane was paid. Shane had no idea what Vulture did with his art pieces. He was slutting his talent and it made him ache. It just didn’t make him ache as much as not being able to get high though.

Vulture took the three pieces in his thick hands and handed Shane the packet of white powder. No comment was made during the transaction. Shane gave over his art, his soul and Vulture fed him what he craved. He was shaking and craving another hit, at this point nothing mattered, not even the red notice regarding past due rent that he found taped to his door this morning. The white powder would save him from the brutality of the real world, it would save him from having to feel real feelings, and mostly it would save him by disguising the wasteland that his life was becoming. On heroin, Shane could feel deep peace and satisfaction. This didn’t happen with every high and had never been as good as the first time that he got high. Shane lived his life trying to obtain that elusive peaceful power instilled in him the first time that he got high on heroin. He watched with nervous eyes as Vulture disappeared from view into a waiting Cadillac on the corner. Shane clutched the bag of white powder closed to his bare chest as he rattled home, rasping with desire for his next high.

Shane couldn’t complete any art pieces. These last few highs were devastating to his creative process. The paintings looked like preschool drawings, he couldn’t show them to Vulture, he wouldn’t even be able to show this crap to his mother. Shane shook as he walked down the street. He was in an area heavily populated with art galleries. Not big name art galleries, small, just starting out galleries. A place where two years ago he had hoped to make his start, before he met Alicia who introduced him to addiction, she had loved him because she knew that he wouldn’t ever get completely attached to her and her addiction could always come first. Shane dabbled in drugs with Alicia as his guide, he kept going up the drug ladder stopping with the king of all drugs and staying on his filthy throne with nothing to show for his life but disgrace. Shane almost missed the gallery window, he was so deep in his thoughts that he almost passed it right by. In his peripheral vision he noticed a distinctive shade of red, his favorite shade of red, a shade of red that he had learned to mix in high school in Kentucky, a special shade taught to him by his oldest and dearest art teacher. Shane stepped back and gazed into the window of the dingy gallery. The gallery didn’t look like much “Blue Heron Art Gallery” Shane saw stenciled above the doorway. Shane forced his fuzzy eyes to gaze through the street side window and he counted at least six pieces of his own art on display under the name, Andrew Osprey. “Well I’ll be damned,” Shane said to the air. It wasn’t clear to him how, he was still a bit too high to work it all out, but it made perfect sense why Vulture was so willing to trade his shabby pieces of art for drugs. He saw a price card by the blood piece, the piece he had walked on to create, $1500.00. With a fury welling up inside, Shane pushed open the door to the “Blue Heron Art Gallery.”

“Hello, my name is Edward, how may I help you?” Shane turned to see a small man, bearded and bespectacled, wringing his pale hands while lisping his introduction. “I see that you find the Andrew Osprey collection interesting.” Something about the smallness of the man, his lisping and wheezing deflated Shane’s rage. “Yes, he seems to make good use of that shade of red.” “This is a fairly recent installment, we haven’t seen any new pieces lately.” The man continued to push his hands together, kneading them, like dough. Shane noticed the suit that Edward wore, not overly expensive looking, but tailored well to fit his small frame. Shane remembered that he was wearing Levi’s with holes in both knees, a button down shirt missing half of the buttons, and green flip-flops-his latest investment in self care. “This Andrew Osprey, does he come in often?” Edward looked startled and put a slim, pale hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “We have never seen him in this gallery, I hear that he is a recluse and doesn’t like to appear in public. It is a shame, we have sold a fair number of pieces by him, I think that he could get more money for his art if he made appearances in public.” Edward blushed and looked away, “maybe that is too much information, I should respect the privacy of the artist, especially one as good as he.” “Andrew actually sells his work then,” Shane mused half to himself and half to Edward. “People ask about him all of the time. The red is what draws them in, the red is a distinctively earthy experience for people in the city, so far from their roots is nature.” Shane had to suppress a laugh, all of this nature talk coming from a man who looked like Edward. Shane didn’t think that Edward looked like he spent any time outside, let alone actually getting close to nature. Edward coughed again and turned as the bell on the front door rang. A woman wearing a large black hat was attempting to enter the studio, so encumbered was she by shopping bags that she couldn’t get through the door. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, please let me help you with that.” Edward quickly abandoned Shane to assist Mrs. Fitzgerald with her journey through the front door. They began to talk in low voices and Edward disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the studio, Mrs. Fitzgerald trudging behind in spiked black heels that belonged on a woman about fifty pounds lighter. Shane heard them laughing and exchanging pleasantries about a piece of art Mrs. Fitzgerald had commissioned for her husband’s 60th birthday party. Shane took this opportunity to grab the blood painting and rush out the door. He took off running down the street and didn’t stop until he reached his own block, a flash of blood red zooming brilliantly through a quietly lit afternoon.

Too soon for a man his age, he lost his stamina and stopped to catch his breath. He walked along for another couple of blocks, then took a seat on a littered stairwell leading to a dirty basement. Without any warning, he was passed out, still clutching the painting tight to his body.

When he awoke there was no trace of sunlight left in the sky, though it was still almost as hot and humid as it had been in the daytime. Shane picked himself up and continued to trudge back slowly to his little blue apartment.

The blocks passed by without notice until Shane found himself in the quiet streets of his neighborhood. He let his senses awaken and began noticing his surroundings. He held the blood-covered canvas out at arm’s length. In the streetlight, he could see into it, past its carnal origins. He felt the artist inside bubbling back up again into his conscious. He very nearly smiled.

He looked back at the city surrounding him, and something caught his eye. A Cadillac was parked haphazardly at the end of the block, its lights flashing evenly in the night. Shane approached the familiar vehicle and found Vulture there, leaning against the car, his thick hands tucked under his even thicker biceps.

“I believe you have something of mine,” growled the dealer.

Shane had a surge of self as he replied, “That depends on how you define ‘mine.’ I’ve got just as much claim over it as you, if not more.” The dome light was on inside the car, and Shane’s eyes flicked over to see Alicia in the back seat. Her eyes were dark circles, but her body was sunk into the leather seat as if she had sat there many times before.

Vulture picked himself off the side of the car and reached for the canvas. Shane’s body filled with adrenaline, and he wouldn’t release his grip on the painting. The two men struggled and Shane fell back against a green lamp post that marked the entrance to the subway, finally letting go of his art. His green flip flop caught in the cracked lip of the subway entrance. Time slowed and Shane saw himself falling into the gaping maw but couldn’t stop himself. His body was crushed as it hit each snaggled step on the way down.

Vulture stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Shane’s limp and broken body. He looked up and down the deserted street, picked up the discarded canvas and took a step toward the Cadillac. As he walked away, he heard a train roar like a belch into the station below and the gasp of the brakes as it came to a stop. He slid back in next to Alicia, and in another moment, they were gone.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Favorite Pictures

It's time for a picture update and the Dolls are it!

My Ten Things

Ten things that I cannot live without:
1) Lip balm
2) Red wine
3) Cell phone
4) Library card
5) Soap from LUSH
6) Music
7) My notebook
8) Coffee
9) Trees
10) Socks

Ten things I can live without:
1) Clowns
2) Cigarettes
3) Static
4) Long lines
5) Video games
6) Bad drivers
7) Styrofoam
8) Ceiling fans
9) Plastic shopping bags
10) Pennies

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Super-Sized American by, Myself

The super-sized American
Big gulp in hand
the pantry door and
the gate, smiling and
Around the block to the
To get a bag of
Maybe some kind of
Not real, of course

Hot dogs

Buy them all scrape and
The super-sized American
Out the Plaid Pantry
Not able to wait he
Not one bag, but two bags of
All flavors and sizes in the
Show's on the big
The super-sized American
On a self-sprung couch and
The super slim and elite have
Worth living and sits
Why that body is not
The super-sized American
Understand that a life of
And ultimate snacking
Only end in the Bariatric
Of a special hospital it
To be so rare, but
Is quite common
Again and again, going back

High blood pressure
Carroded joints
Diminished lung capacity
Heart disease
High cholesterol

The super-sized American

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

In Praise of Exercise

Last week I read a quote, something to the effect of "exercising does not make you grow old, not exercising ages you." I believe this to be true and recently did something that I thought I would never do, I met with a personal trainer to revamp my work-out routine. It seems that as I age, the running (really more like jogging, but running sounds better) 3 times a week was just not cutting it. In fact, I actually seemed to be gaining weight. According to my personal trainer, my metabolsim has slowed and basically needs a kick in the pants to get started again. Exercising is hard work, most things worth having are.

After starting this new routine, I briefly thought about doing some extreme modification in the diet and drinking department. I quickly thought better of this as life is too short to cut back on everything yummy and fun. Some people may think that I drink...uhm... But those people know who they are and I never see them turning down a good glass of Merlot or Cabernet. Hell, I don't even see them turning down a bad glass of Merlot or Cabernet. In regards to alcohol consumption I think that Chelsea Handler has a good rule. Grapefruit juice apparantly detoxifies the liver, Chelsea suggests mixing vodka with grapefruit juice so that you can detoxify your liver while you drink. Not bad advice. But now, back to exercise. What is my point? I guess my point would be that even if your eating and drinking habits don't change, exercise is a good thing. It is really, really (and now that I am doing a real work-out I can say this) hard to do in terms of both energy and time. However, a little is better than none at all.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Summer Fun

This is a view off of the coast in Whidbey Island, Washington. I just got back from a three-day camping trip on the Island at South Whidbey Island State Park. One of my very good friends lives in Mexico. Every summer she brings her children up to stay with her parents in Oregon for a couple of months. We started this annual camping trip about three years ago. As the kids get older, it gets easier and easier. We actually got more time to talk than we ever have before. Also, she likes to do all of the dirty camping jobs that just really don't appeal much to me.