Book report

When I joined a book club about 10 years ago I had an agenda. My goal was to step out of my usual reading genre and expand my reading horizons. Ditch the “bodice rippers” and move on to something worthy of my time. In those 10 years I’ve read a lot of wonderful fiction and compelling non-fiction. Books I never would have sought out on my own, introduced to me by this great group of women. I missed the last group discussion, so I’m not sure what inspired the next choice, but I’m now 289 pages into Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James. 

Before I even cracked the cover my interest was peaked by a question on Facebook posted by friend and columnist Jim Stingl, “I'm writing about "50 Shades of Grey" for tomorrow's column. Any of my female Facebook friends want to help me explain the appeal of this steamy, domination-theme book everyone's talking about?” Whoa, what? Not yet having read the book, I didn’t feel I could respond, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the question. So here it is, (a little late for Jim’s column) my answer…

Pick up any steamy romance, written by a woman, for women and the formula is always the same. She’s beautiful (but doesn’t know it), willful, smart, young and a virgin. He’s an older, drop dead gorgeous, perfect male (as described by the cut of his clothing), incredibly rich and inscrutable. She has a trendy name – Ashley, Serene, Elenora; he’s got a manly name – Roque, Gavin, Crawford. The story begins with the meet cute; pages of literary foreplay; the coming together in a blaze of sexual glory and multiple orgasms; more hot sex and always orgasms; betrayal and misunderstanding; deep regret and longing; clarity; a return to each other; more hot sex and happily ever after.

It’s that simple, and it’s that complex. Now, if you’re a man reading this, you read hot sex and orgasms, and bam, that was all you needed. Think about it, for a man, every issue of a Playboy is a brand new visual – so many variations on the theme. If a woman even has a Playgirl, she probably has just the one and it’s not the current issue. Why? Because there are so few variations on the theme, it’s all just junk. But a well written romance novel will transport you to emotional heights and visceral responses. It will leave you unable to set the book down as the end of each page has the promise of more tension and deliciousness on the next page. It’s pure escape; it’s inspiring and it's fun.

Fifty Shades of Grey takes this theme to a whole new level, but it’s the same story. She’s a beautiful, young, willful virgin; he’s a handsome, rich and inscrutable man. Pages of relationship foreplay, a cautious introduction of the domination theme with the heightened tension of fear. The story hits it’s first peak around page 120 and it’s a roller coaster ride from there. So there it is, it’s about the escapism, the quality of the build-up, the tension, the response and the . . . education.

It’s that simple and it’s that complex. Now, excuse me, I’ve got 200+ pages of fantasy land left to read.


Songs that resonate:
Jar of Hearts - Christina Perri
Ooh La La - Goldfrapp

"All politics is local"

I find it interesting that a quote from a liberal democrat, Tip O’Neill, is the key to my voting decision in the upcoming Wisconsin presidential primary. I’ve often repeated this quote but it has never meant more to me than the upcoming opportunity to regulate something personal that is completely out of control. So here it is. I’m voting for Rick Santorum because he’s the only candidate with the political courage to regulate my uterus.

It's out of control!

You may remember that I railed about my uterus in a December 2010 post, "Periods. And the periodic table." The thing is out of control and that has not changed. Until my uterus quits working, and nature renders me functionally useless as a breeder in today’s society, I have no idea when it is going to act up again.  In fact, it seems to be getting worse with time and frankly I’m ready for a higher authority to lay down the law!

 

And here’s Rick Santorum, ready and willing to tell my uterus exactly what it can and can not do. I need this kind of definitive control. I can’t get it from my physician and it won’t listen to my husband. Rick Santorum offers the promise of local control in the most personal way. How can I not cast my vote in his favor? He’s thinking about ME!

And that’s all I have to say about this presidential primary. Period.


Music that resonates:
Imma Vote for Rick Santorum (And You Know You Should Too) - Hunter Johnson

Big Blue Marble*

*Addendum to Landscaping


Many people I know have a phobia about parts of their body. For Dan it's his ears, which are incredibly tender. Our dear friend Malcolm has a thing about his eyes. I'm lucky enough to have two "things": my eyes and my belly button. Eye exams bring high anxiety, but this blog is about my belly button. When we were newlyweds, Dan would put his finger in my belly button. I would shriek in terror and scream that I was about to unravel. When pregnancy pushed my inny belly button out, it was a constant source of concern.


But pregnancy was a long time ago, and apparently I didn't think through the full implications of how a tummy tuck would affect my belly button. For those of you who are unaware, during the procedure the surgeon untethers your belly button from it's current mooring and shifts it upstream where it looks completely natural and normal, and looks downstream toward it's now rehabbed neighborhood. The doctor literally stitches your real belly button into skin that had previously been somewhere inches higher on your abdomen.


During recovery I had a circle of stitches that I basically ignored. They were removed at two weeks post-op and the doctor was pleased with how it looked. I went back last week for another check-up. Once again, everything looked great, except, my belly button was shrinking. Really? I thought it looked cute. But no, not cute, it was going to vanish due to the contraction of the circular scar tissue. However, the doctor was not concerned, as this often happened and there was an easy fix.


"Go home and put a marble in your belly button. Tape it in place and leave it there overnight. And repeat until the shape settles in and the shrinking stops. Good? Great, see you in two months."


Dan quickly volunteered that he had a marble. Really? WTF? It's like Wally Cleaver at a swap meet. What grown man knows where he can lay his hand instantly on a blue cat's eye? I was even more delighted to find that he found it two years ago while trenching in a drain tile in our backyard, where it popped to the surface. It had been on a shelf in our bathroom of "old-shit-posing-as-antiques" ever since. Little did I know at that moment that it had more popping to do. He boiled it in a frying pan. The visuals never cease at the Villa Johnson. 


But, back to the subject at hand. I'm here to tell you that a marble either fits into your belly button, or it doesn't. And no amount of twisting, or antibiotic cream lubrication is going to get that marble to sit nicely in your belly button if the marble is too big. I'm a compliant patient. I wanted to follow the doctor's advice. He's the expert and he knows what he's talking about. 


I gave the marble one last push. And--pop!--it vanished. Yup, gone. Well actually, it looked like my belly button was about to give birth to a small blue baby, as about 1/8 inch of the marble was "crowning". And no amount of manipulation got the marble out. It was stuck. 


In a panic, worried that the marble was going to do some permanent damage or get sucked into my body, I had two choices.  Go to the ER, sit there for many embarrassed hours and have it extracted, or wait it out until morning, call the surgeon and have him fix it. He would at least understand, he's the one who told me to put it there! 


I covered it up with gauze and went to bed. At some point during the night it worked it's way out. I woke to find it gently held in place by the bandage. Thank goodness.


Since then, every waking hour, I've been acutely aware of my belly button. I can't bring myself to try the marble again, so I've substituted an ear plug. I go to sleep with my belly button packed and wake up fully aware that there is a foreign object in my remodeled belly button. I'm aware, but fortunately, can't hear any complaints. 

Leave the gun, take the canoli

That’s all the Italian I know.

About three months ago we started “Friday night mystery date.” Dan or I (mostly Dan) finds a fun or unique place to go out, just the two of us. I wasn’t feeling well on Friday, so we stayed in. Feeling responsible for a missed opportunity, I explored some options for Saturday instead. Milwaukee has some long-standing gastronomic institutions. I settled on Mimma’s, an Italian restaurant that has been around forever. We’ve never been there so I thought it might be a nice, romantic destination. I called and made a reservation.

Parking near the restaurant is dicey, it’s in a old neighborhood with limited street parking. Dan circled the block and came upon a parking spot within 50-feet of the entrance. His parking juju. I used to ridicule it until that night—three days before Christmas a few years ago--when we needed to make a run to Mayfair mall. In an endless stream of cars looking for a spot, I turned to Dan and, ala The Ten Commandments, threw down the parking gauntlet. “So where's your messiah now?” or more accurately, “so where's your parking juju now?” With God As My Witness, Dan said nothing, but turned into the main entrance to Mayfair. He waited in the line of cars, and With God As My Witness, he pulled up and parked in the Very Closest Parking Spot to the front door of the mall. I was stunned, and bowed to the juju. I have not dissed it since.

Years later, on a 14 degree night, the juju came through again. We had about 40 minutes before our reservation, so we stopped at another establishment for an aperitif. Thirty minutes later we walked over to Mimma’s.

The check-in area was packed; we barely made it through the front door. A quick discussion with the patient folks standing closest to the door found that they all had reservations and had not yet been able to check-in. No problem, we’re friendly. We continued conversing with others while assessing the situation. I really wanted to eat here. I really wanted some good Italian food. OK, I didn’t plan for a Valentine’s rush, my mistake, but it would be worth the wait.

The 150 year old lady at the check in counter asked once “Do you all have reservations?”  We all nodded and she shuffled away. That was the last thing she said to the crowd. About 30 minutes later a table of two, who’d been perusing the menu and sipping their water abruptly left. A large, visibly flustered waiter (“We only have three servers! We only have three servers!”) walked by and asked where they went. The waiting crowd said they left. “Well we are incredibly busy and I just couldn’t get to them!” At this point Dan began to narrate what should be happening. The curse of working for a company in the top quartile for customer service is that he doesn’t tolerate lesser service well. The hungry, waiting crowd ate it up (pun intended). A table of 4 and a table of 3 were seated.  When the 150-year old came by again she saw the empty table and seated the party of two ahead of us. A nice young couple who had a reservation 15 minutes ahead of ours. 

Dan continued. A little explanation to the waiting patrons. Apologies and a small appetizer. There are a dozen people in line—a quick glass of wine? Nope. Twenty minutes later that young couple seated at the table of invisibility looked over the menu and continued to sip water.  Eventually, that same flustered waiter stopped by and said someone would help them out soon, not sure if it would be him or someone else, but someone would come around “eventually”?  Dan pulled out his iPhone and asked Siri for Italian restaurants in the area. “There are 13 Italian restaurants close to you.” The hungry crowd laughed. Time for us to bail.

We took a short drive to another chain Italian restaurant, again scoring a parking space Right In Front of the establishment. We were seated within 15-minutes, without a reservation. Granted, this is a chain, with a lot of tables and big staff.  It was now 9ish and lunch had worn off completely. Food was on the horizon and I was happy.

Everything is served family style. We ordered a salad and two main courses. We talked and couldn’t help but notice the large table of large folks obviously celebrating some event – probably a birthday, as evidenced by the woman in a tiara.  Our salad arrived and we dug in. The waitress offered a garlic bread basket, but I declined, knowing that it would only serve as a butter delivery system. The large party next to us got multiple pizzas and pasta dishes. Our entrée’s came and we quickly realized we had over ordered. We both ate a portion and sat looking at dinner for the next week.

Desert? No, thank you, stuffed. And then came the lit candelabra and large birthday cake. Yes, it was her birthday. This large table of very large people were celebrating her 23^rd birthday. And really enjoying the cake. A lot. We have been there. We understand. But like a reformed smoker, when you see people that large shoveling in cake on top of an insane amount of food, all you can think about is “must get on the treadmill.” The waitress came back with our leftovers, in four separate containers.  Yup, dinner for a week. 

On second thought, perhaps we should take the gun and leave the canoli. And never diss the juju.


Music that resonates: 
That's Amore - Dean Martin

How do you cook a Nauga?

Today started with a list of things to do. Get a muffler fixed, stop at the bank, get some boots repaired, buy some new shoes, grocery store and so on. Dan and the dog-face boys took care of the car drop-off at a local muffler shop, a small independently owned place that has done work on all of our cars. Dan has a relationship with them and they once even signed some custom work they did on his 1960 Ranchero. They know him there and he likes to take his business to the small shop.  

I lounged in, loving Saturday morning until Dan and the herd returned.  When I got up I looked around the bedroom. Quite a mess as I’ve been trying on clothes to see how they fit since my recent landscaping. Very pleased with what I’m seeing in the mirror, the resulting debris of cast-off costume changes needed some attention. Included in that pile were a pair of boots that never quite fit properly. 

Dan did a quick Google search to find out the hours of the local shoe repair shop. The search led to one of those sites where people leave reviews. The owner of the little shop really ticked off a customer with a rant about folks from a political persuasion other than theirs (and ours as well). This led to a discussion of patronage – do we go to the most local shop, or do we find another place for the repair – simply because of this review and the owners political affiliation? Does it matter if we take our business to a shop in Wauwatosa or West Allis? 

We went to the Tosa store and turns out the owner doesn’t care to do that type of repair work. He did give us the name of the one shop in town that might help us and no political commentary. Off we went to downtown Milwaukee, to a store that has been in business for over 75 years. This felt good. The proprietor took a look at the fix we wanted and declined to do the work. Turns out the original purchase, made over the internet, was not of sufficient quality to warrant the amount of work needed for the repair.

Next was a stop at the “big bank” to close our checking account of over 30 years. Since last November I’ve gone through the tedious exercise of moving all of our automatic bill deductions from the bank to the credit union.  A quick check of the remaining bank balance yesterday uncovered another fee deducted, I suspect from going under the “minimum required account balance.” Time to bail. Asked why we were closing the account I mentioned fees and loss of services. Dan placed his hand on my leg – a gentle reminder that getting snarky with the woman stuck working on a Saturday, and with no control over these things, was not the person to vent on.

This led to a discussion of what does “local” mean. Here was an individual, working “locally” at a bank whose home office is in another country.  Didn’t our use of that bank constitute local support of their employees? Which led me to thinking about an all-hands meeting at my employer yesterday where we discussed economic issues in Europe and Asia that were impacting “our” projections. I work locally, don’t I? For a multinational. Am I a hypocrite in my fight against the big bank?

Next stop, locally owned shoe store to pick up some new running shoes. I’ve been advised by my physical therapist that now is the time to transition to more foot/body friendly natural running shoes. The shop is tiny. The shoes are made in China. Damn. Apparently the only barefoot running that I can do, that is guaranteed to be made in the USA, is my own bare feet. Shoes purchased and now I was feeling really conflicted.

Leave it to Dan to bring me back to reality. Through all this chasing Dan was puzzling over how to fix the “unfixable boots”.  Back at home he exclaims, “I’ve got naugahyde!  I bought it before we got married to fix those scratch and dent end-tables we had.  I can use that to fix the boots.”  So, once again, my do-yourself-husband will implement a home made fix with a material older than the internet on a cheap internet purchase. And I think I need to buy another cow, or pig, or nauga through the Heifer project just to balance out the karma for the day. Does anyone know—are naugas white or dark meat?

Landscaping

I’ve used this blog to metaphorically think out-loud, a combination reality check, rant, quasi-journal, self-reflection and sub-text chronicle of a thought-process that would get me from here (Wauwatosa) to there (Key West). Most of the time I feel like the writing is a quick throw-away that allows me to move on to the next thing that needs attention. For the few of you who do pay attention (and I thank you for that), you’ll have noticed a short absence. I haven’t written anything for awhile, mostly because I’ve had one really BIG THING on my mind, and felt the need to keep it quiet.

This one thing was about a desire for personal change that I could barely articulate to myself, much less my husband of 32+ years, and with extreme difficulty to the few people from whom I felt the need to gather opinions. The decision has now been made, the money has been spent and I’m on the road to recovery.

Let me back up a minute. We are a family of do-it-yourselfers (as immortalized in the Atomic Boy post from last year.) If at all possible we get it done, and only in rare circumstances do we call in the experts (tree trimming, dryer repair, roofs on three story houses). But the one personal project on which I have devoted a lot of time and energy is one where I was making no progress, and my frustration levels were rising.

I have certainly commiserated with fellow moms about how some women have skin that snaps back in place moments after giving birth to their 20 pound baby, and some women (like me) lost all elasticity before the 6.3 pound baby’s first cry. Throw in another 8.8 pound baby, via C-section, and we no longer needed to pack a tent for camping.

Now, 25 years later, I find I have been subconsciously communicating that I wanted to make a change. Clothes shopping for me has always been grim, and even at my thinnest (post-baby) weight nothing ever fit right. And when it’s picture time I much prefer to stand behind someone or some thing, and please, don’t catch me sitting down. As I walked through my thought process with my husband he described a completely non-verbal interaction that I’ve had with the mirror on a daily basis for many years. So when I told Dan I was ready for some personal landscaping, he did some research and helped me make an appointment. When I told my sister I had the procedure on the calendar she said “well yeah, I know you’ve wanted to do that forever.” So on December 27 I didn’t get puffed-up “fish-lips”, plumped up Pamela Anderson breasts or the “is it faux-real” Joan Rivers face. I just had my stomach cinched in a bit.

So, why, in this day and age would I bother with this? Ultimately, because no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. The final realization came when I completed my latest triathlon. Dan and the professional photographers on the route pulled off some pretty good action shots – me running from lake to bike; me biking full speed in my tri-suit; me running on the 6-mile course. I reviewed the professional shots (mostly side views) and purchased none of them. I deleted most of Dan’s shots and posted few. I ran that last leg of the race looking at the shadow of a woman much larger than my image of myself.  If two coaches had been asked to pick 10 competitors (based on appearance) who would “finish” it would have been a throwback to every gym class I’d every been in and I’d have been left on the bench. I finally realized I wanted my physical self to look somewhat as good as I actually felt.  I completely and totally did this for me. And I kept it quiet because I didn’t need anyone talking me out of it.

This was absolutely not a decision made lightly. I joined an on-line forum that provided an opportunity for Q&A with surgeons as well as women in all phases of the process, from research to recovery.  What I found were women in agony months later. Rented hospital beds and purchased walkers. “I wish I’d NEVER done this” said one poster who’d had two surgeries to repair the first. Bad infections. Women walking hunched over six months later. Sure, there were success stories, too, but 98% of the women posting were much younger than me. I went back and forth for months, changing my mind multiple times a day. I had several in-person sessions with the surgeon who patiently answered all my questions. I thought the holidays would be a nice diversion, but instead I was in a funk of nerves. I kept going to the gym and sweating it out, but no amount of crunches, tucks, lunges, planks, rows, spins, runs or stair climbs was going to move the unmovable mass of my abdomen. Soon checks were sent and cashed. The day was approaching. My surgeon made a point to say that this was the most painful procedure he did. It would require an overnight stay for monitoring and pain management. 

That day—we arrive at 5:30 am. By 7:30, I am in the operating room. By 11, I am in recovery. By 1 pm, I’m in my room, groggy but feeling OK—like a really tough abs workout. By 10:30 pm I had completed 2 short walks up and down the hallway. By 7:30 the next morning Dan was back with a big cup of tea. He and a nurse helped me out of bed for another short walk. I sat in the chair and enjoyed my tea—waiting for the pain to hit. By about 10 am my surgeon came in to check on things, and was very surprised to see me out of bed. Surprised that I’d already walked the halls. Surprised that I’d already used the little girl’s room. Surprised that I was smiling and ready to head home.

Dan kept an eye on the timing for pills, and the “1 or 2 for pain” was only 1, and is diminishing daily. By the three day checkup my surgeon told me I was in the “top 5 to 10 percent” of recovering patients. Despite the fact that my abs never looked like a 6-pack, all that exercise had paid off.

And the result? While it will take several months for all of the healing to resolve, that first post-op shower, with all the swelling, stitches and bruises was-pretty amazing. I suspect I’ll be buying more post-race pictures this summer. And I’m already looking forward to buying a beautiful fitted dress for a June wedding, new swimsuits for our next diving vacation and a few new costumes for a triumphant return to Key West in the fall!

Shell Game

Recent efforts to close our 30+ year-old checking account with a big bank and move our daily finances over to a credit union have me thinking about money in an entirely different way. The impetus for this transfer was some mailings from the bank regarding changes in the fee structure and loss of the opportunity to earn points. Frankly, the bank had just stopped selling itself as the financial provider of choice and it was time to move on.

For those of you who have had a long term relationship with a bank, you know the transition is not easy. I’ve had to start over with direct deposits, automatic withdrawals and on-line bill pay. I keep remembering yet another entity that hit the checking account without me having to think about it. In addition, the current bank has a nifty auto-reconcile feature using Quicken, something the credit union does not offer. Math is not my forte.

What’s funny to me is that throughout this whole process I haven’t touched a single piece of currency. It’s all virtual. In fact, when I think about it, I haven’t actually been paid in cash for work in years. Neither has Dan. The money I’m dealing with seems like more of an idea than a reality.

How many of us can draw a straight line between work and money? When was the last time an employer handed you cash that you in turn took to the grocery store and used to buy food? I haven’t received cash for work since I provided in-home childcare services. The money I earned seemed to mean a lot more to me then. Its immediacy to the job I performed gave it special relevance. I bypassed using the bank because I had the cash I needed to access the goods and services the family consumed on a daily basis.

So, I have to wonder, if as a society (broad generalization here) we’ve become so disconnected from currency and it’s real value that we no longer understand what it means not to have money. It’s just numbers on a computer screen, or a point of purchase touchpad. For so many of us it’s a magic card that works like a Disney fast pass, providing instant gratification.

On Saturday, our debit card was cancelled due to suspicion of fraudulent charges generating from Bolivia. Our card was declined at the grocery store, the computer ink store and the ATM. We couldn’t pay and we couldn’t get currency. Brief panic ensued until we regrouped and tapped other options. I had momentary flashbacks to living “from check-to-check” and praying that an unforeseen ear infection didn’t derail our delicate financial balance. In that instant I was reconnected with so many people in the US that are just trying to have their voices heard. They’ve watched the financial shell game go on long enough, as banks and governments shift virtual dollars, playing chicken with real people managing the real needs of real lives.

Somewhere in Bolivia someone charged $63.00 for a cab ride. Somewhere in California there are some protesters getting over pepper spray. All over Milwaukee there are moms wondering what they are going to do about rent…and breakfast. Just south of us a close relative is moving on after being laid off last week. Somewhere in Canada there is a millionaire banker who couldn’t care less that Paula Johnson moved her checking account to a little credit union. We lead a blessed, blessed life, and I need to be reminded of it more than once every 30 years.

The Reality of Fantasy Fest

It took a few days of reflection, but I’ve concluded there are both glaring differences and striking similarities between lots of things. Some examples include jet skis and motorcycles; shirts and body paint; people with cameras and people with cameras; sitting at the beach and sitting by the pool; and men wearing socks and men wearing socks. For my 14 loyal readers out there, you know that last week was our third trip to Fantasy Fest, a week long party in Key West Florida. What a blast.

I have written about our first Fantasy Fest before—how Dan researched it for two years prior, and as I’d walk past the computer and catch images of people in paint or wearing next to nothing, my comment was always the same: “If you expect me to wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” After this year, I realize that somewhere in the great internetosphere, some wife is possibly looking at photos of me and saying the same thing. But I am getting ahead of myself…

For the Loyal 14, you’ll recall that in a previous post I wrote about my love of roller coasters and high speeds. While I wanted to do it last year, we never seemed to find the time to take a jet ski around the island. And while I mentioned it several times over the winter, I can’t say that Dan yelped with excitement. So when I stopped at a booth to inquire on price and availability, I looked at Dan, and he had the same plastic smile I’ve seen several dozen times down in Disneyworld as we’d queue for a coaster. And as I did on those occasions, I smiled back and charged ahead.
 

We arrived at the dock, were given some brief instructions (Dan was driving—he has a sport bike—how hard can this be?) and we were launched. Everything was fine until we started to move. The jet ski seemed to veer to the right on its own. Dan would slow down and correct, then veer again. Falling behind our tour group Dan would accelerate only to suddenly veer left or right. His cursing started off soft, but grew ever louder. He was now carpeting the Key West harbor with F-bombs, screaming that he wanted to return to the dock. Thankfully our guide stopped after about 10 minutes to see how everyone was doing. Dan piped up that he’d love to return to the dock and get on a motorcycle. The guide said this: “Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars.” Dan said later that those same instructions on his high center of gravity V-4 Sabre would allow you to taste the wonder of God’s gravel and pavement.

The rest of the trip smoothed. Pretty soon I was hanging on tight and squealing with delight as we bombed over the waves at well over 40 mph. The trip was over way too soon.

That was also on Plaid Tuesday. The day I had decided to get body paint on my upper body (gulp). My skimpy costumes of the previous nights included items that kept me safely covered. At the appointed time we jumped on our bicycles and headed to the paint shop. Most painters are located next to the sidewalk. My painter, Frankie, was located away from the street, but not behind a closed door. In a moment of truth I had to take off my shirt (double gulp). Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars. For the next hour I sat topless as Frankie applied one color after another, working to match the plaid shirt that Dan was wearing. A finishing spray of light lacquer and Frankie was done. He signed his work, took a photo for his album, and I was walking toward a packed Duvall Street wearing shorts, socks and gym shoes. And it was fine.

Looking at the pictures, I was more covered by paint than I was or would be by clothes at several other parties. Which brings me to people with cameras.

There is etiquette at Fantasy Fest when it comes to people with cameras. Here is our version of the rules:

1.) You compliment the person on their costume or paint

2.) You always ask if you can take a picture

3.) You snap the photo of the whole person—no zooming

4.) You thank the person for the photo

5.) You must be in costume/paint to ask for or take a photo

These people can take my picture all night. It’s quite flattering to be a 54-year-old mom of two and to be asked for and to be in lots of pictures—often with other partiers half my age. And then there are The Creepers.

These men are usually white, obese and alone, with high-end cameras and big lenses being used at close range. They:

1.) Step in front of you so you can’t get past

2.) Snap away without asking, confident that neither your chin nor navel will be in the frame

3.) Follow you around if they don’t get what they want

4.) They don’t wear a costume

I put up with it at first, but it got old. One memory: In Capt. Tony’s one night, a creeper would not take my repeated turning away as “No.” He kept trying to get his shot. Dan, sensing my discomfort, did what any Midwesterner would do. He set down his drink, reached out his right hand, and introduced himself. I only saw it from the back, but Dan, smiling, stood there for five to ten seconds, and then released his handshake, turned around and picked up his drink. The creeper said nothing, but turned and left. Only later did Dan admit what happened. There are advantages to lifting heavy things all the time. You can administer a crushing handshake while never losing your smile.

Late that week, Dan had painted on his back “Next year I’m coming as a creepy fat guy with a camera and no costume.” He got a lot of compliments.

And then there is the beach. We sat on the Southernmost beach for a few hours pretty much every day. It is a top optional beach and I absorbed a winter’s worth of Vitamin D. Fletcher, the man who runs the beach and takes care of the beach chairs, will bring around frozen strawberries or frozen towels or put beads on the ladies’ heads or just stop to chat and it’s just natural. Back at the pool by our condo, had something happened to my top I’d be grabbing for a towel. Yes, private pool is on the list for next year.

Lastly, socks. There is an icon on that same beach that we call Sock Man. He’s been there for years. Buff, tan, and wearing a hat and a sock on a string (but only one and not on his feet). As best we can tell, it’s his only job. I don’t really have an analogy to other men in socks—I guess he just popped into my mind.

The most important things I take away from our week in Key West have nothing to do with the pictures or the costumes or the paint or the parties. They have to do with how much more fun we are having as individuals and as a couple. It’s a wonderful emotional connection to Dan and despite the crowds we do focus on each other. We are a couple in love, and in love with fun and adventure. Dan always says “Have fun every day. You’ll be dead a long time.” We're working on the fun, for sure.

Key Distraction

For the past few weeks Dan has been preoccupied with work. Employee reviews, trying to spend capitol dollars before year-end, wrapping up several big projects, etc. So preoccupied that his usual "Holy Cow--Key West is XXX days away!" e-mails I'd get every day last year vanished months ago. But his mood is lifting in fits and starts. The costumes are ready, the condo key will be in the lock box when we get there, our roomies will do the grocery shopping on the way down so food, beer and wine will be ready on arrival. I just need Dan to focus on the Keys. Just think about the Keys. The work stuff will pass. The Keys are right around the corner.

This morning I got another snarly cell phone call as Dan left one meeting on the road to another. I continued to type, interjecting a "Yes dear" and "I understand" and "That's terrible" as appropriate. "Dan, think about the Keys!" 

That rant finished, I went back to work. 30 minutes later he called back, apologetic, and with a better tone. The first night in Key West is a little black dress party. I have several, and I asked Dan to look through my closet, and if he didn't find exactly what he was looking for, we'd go shopping tonight. (He won't find the perfect dress, of course, because I'll reject them all.) His mood brightened noticeably at that prospect (Dan loves to act as my personal shopper). "Well, I just pulled into work--gotta go!" he announced. I hung up. 

Two minutes later my phone rang again. "Um, guess what?" a sheepish Dan asked.

It took me almost two hours to drive from Glendale to Waukesha and back to Glendale today. I had to unlock Dan's car. Clearly he was not thinking about the keys when he got out and locked the door. But based on where I know his mind was, I think he's moving into full-on Keys vacation mode.

Roller Coaster

I happen to love roller coasters. I like standing in the line and chatting with the captive group that surrounds you. I like hearing the enthusiasm of people anticipating the thrill of the upcoming ride. I like climbing into the car, securing myself into the seat, getting a good grip and listening to the click-click-click as the train climbs the first big hill. I love the building anxiety of wondering what that first drop is going to feel like. I love the pause as you crest the top of the hill and then the sudden rush as you plummet to the bottom, only to hit another incline and experience the next high speed thrill. And I love getting back in line and riding the coaster, again and again.

This last week I had the opportunity to attend a professional conference at Disney World. For a theme park/roller coaster junkie like me the icing on the cake was also being asked to present information about a major work project I manage. I was asked and happily got in the line. I agonized over the story I would tell and how I would visually present it. I practiced in front of Dan at home and a friendly audience at work. I arrived at the conference and checked out the room. I was introduced, got up and delivered the content to an audience of 50+ strangers.  I experienced the thrill of a solid performance and strong finish. I felt the rush of applause and the excitement of answering questions. And I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Roller coasters are a great metaphor for my life. For years I sat back and watched as world went by, enjoying the stories told by others and looking at pictures of their adventures.  I hit my late 30’s and found myself looking back with regret at what I had missed and the chances I hadn’t taken. Somewhere, between then and now, I’ve come to realize that a good personal stretch is worth the effort. The commitment to get in line and take the steps needed to reach the goal, the thrilling payback, is absolutely a critical part of the ride.

I know that life isn’t easy, or always fun. Sometime the amount of time you have to spend in the line for the roller coaster makes you doubt the potential payback. But wow, when the train comes to a stop and I’m feeling that zip of conquering a fear, I’m so glad I invested the energy.

So, stay tuned, next up – some daily accounts of fun and sun from Key West and … Fantasy Fest!


Music that resonates:
Life is a Roller Coaster -- Ronan Keating

Vanilla Teasers in Paradise

Vanilla

First off, we need to talk about vanilla. Could there be anything more dull? But the word has a fascinating history. The Spanish sailors, arriving in the New World, encountered this fragrant plant. The flower bore a resemblance to a part of the female anatomy they had not seen in many months. Suddenly, dull ol’ vanilla is one hot word. 

In a post I wrote on January 6, 2011 called “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy”, I mentioned “Vanilla Teasers”, with the promise of an explanation. So here it is. I’m a Midwestern girl, with corresponding sensibilities, modest wardrobe and approach to life. Serious risk taking scares me, especially when it involves a personal investment. Five years ago Dan began researching this wild, week-long party in Key West called Fantasy Fest. Dan, always crazy over Halloween, became possessed with the idea of going. I’d walk past the computer to see picture of painted, scantily clad people and would remark “If you think I’d wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” Dan’s comment was always the same. “Feel free to wear a Burqa, I just want you to be comfortable and have fun.” For two years Dan corresponded with Fantasy Fest veterans about the things to do and not do. During that time two ladies sent me almost the same e-mail: “Hon, take that special nightie that you would only wear on special occasions and throw it in your suitcase. By the third night you’ll wear it out on the street.” Dan was dealing with some freaks—an intervention may be in order.

Gradually, partly due to exercising, I started looking at those pictures differently. I starting seeing that these were not all 21-year-old hard bodies at this shin dig, there were a lot of women like me. In fact, there were a lot of women there who clearly didn’t run, bike, swim and lift heavy objects for no reason. I started looking at the nightie drawer with possibility.

With that said,  two years ago I somewhat reluctantly agreed to our first Fantasy Fest. On our first trip we were joined by four great friends. We all researched the themes for the nightly parties, brought appropriate costumes, participated in the four-hour long parade down Duval Street, and had a wonderful time. Back at home, we downloaded the borrowed laptop where we had stored photos during the trip. As we watched the 1200-plus photos transfer, Dan looked at me with just a bit of surprise, and commented that “it looked like you had more fun than I did!” It was a revelation for us both.

Last year, Dan and I returned on our own. I bought some new swim suits and planned costumes for the evening events. Wearing one of my outfits—completely covered, mind you--many people with cameras asked the 25-year-olds wearing just paint to move so they could get pictures of me. One flash after another, the reason for lifting heavy objects was made clear.

In another instance a sly over the shoulder smile and a kicked-up leopard high heel resulted in hundreds of flashes going off at once. So many, in fact, that Dan didn’t get the shot. “My God, you just channeled Betty Page,” was his remark as I walked back to him. (From Dan, there is no higher compliment in the world.) A photographer who did get the picture shared it with Dan. It hangs in our Betty Page room, unless the room is set to a “G” rating, as it is for most parties (more on that in a future post). Affirming? Yeah, I’d say so. Times one hundred.

Prior to last year’s trip Dan had proactively participated in an internet forum and made virtual contacts with other people who were also going. As we were not traveling with friends this seemed a good way to make introductions prior to the week. As a result, we were invited to two parties.  The first, a clothing optional pool party; the second a surprise birthday party.

Yes, you just read clothing optional pool party. For Dan, no problem, as he constantly reminds me that when it comes to men, “you can’t think simple enough.” For me, that falls under unbelievably serious risk taking. After all, I’ve got a 53 year old body marked by significant stretch marks, a nasty C-section scar and I suffer from the cruel effects of gravity (stupid, stupid laws of physics). However, as the invitation reads “optional”, then I have the option to leave all my clothes on.

The day arrives, we get on our rental bikes and head over to check it out. I must admit that I was repulsed and intrigued by the idea of witnessing a few naked people eating picnic foods. We walked in the courtyard and found, I don’t know, maybe 150 naked people in and about the pool. Dan immediately stripped off his suit and jumped in the pool. After about 5 minutes, and feeling self-conscious because I was overdressed, I lost half my suit and found Dan in the pool.  What passed was a surreal afternoon of people talking about their kids, their jobs, the ingredients in the chip dip and the next vacation on their calendars. We stayed for about 2-hours, met some very nice people and had a great time.

"Red" night

That evening, the night-time theme was “Red”. We put on our outfits and headed out to the first stop, Captain Tony’s.  There was a nice crowd, live music and pirate’s punch. Standing near the bar a couple who had been at the pool party stopped to say hi. Conversation was animated and we found a lot to talk about. He and I had worked for the same employer; he had taken a work transfer to Florida. She (as Dan has reminded me 100 times since) was wearing a skin-tight, one piece white Speed Racer jumpsuit unzipped far enough to fit in at Fantasy Fest. Needless to say, she and Dan were having an intense conversation. And then there were the odd comments that her husband would lean over and whisper in my ear. Did I just hear what I think I just heard? Yes, that’s what I thought I heard.

So, he comes right out and asks “What do you guys do for fun?”

Dan turns to me and says, “Paula, why don’t you start?”  (I slowly turned and stared at Dan, thinking really, are you really that unaware?)

I slowly turned back, smiled and said, “Not so much.”

Him, “Not so much?”

Me, “No, not so much.”

Him, “Well when you take out the not so much, how much is left?”

Me, “Not so much.” (I’m an outrageous flirt, that’s all the much he was going to get.)

Him to his wife, “They’re ‘not so much’.”

Her, “Really?”

Him, “Yes, let’s go dance.”

And off they went. Dan turned to me and asked “what the hell just happened?” I grab his hand and walk as fast as I can out the door and down the street. About a block away I finally stop and say, “They were SWINGERS, they wanted to have sex with us.” Dan, momentarily stunned, replies “But she was hot!” (Insert the sound of an old transmission being shifted without the use of a clutch.) The bulb still not coming on. “Dan, they wanted to have sex with us!” You can now hear the gears starting to engage. Dan repeats “But she was hot!” I wait, knowing that shifting Dan out of “I get to stare at cleavage” mode takes a while. He gets a huge smile on his face and says “high-five, we’re HOT.”  And it is true, when it comes to men you can’t think simple enough.

We meandered through various bars and at midnight found our way over to the surprise birthday party. Walking into the backyard we once again find people in various states of undress. This time, we both stayed fully clothed. We started talking to one couple, from Minnesota. She was wearing a snowflake skirt and no top. He had on a shirt and shorts. Suddenly, there it was again, were we interested in a little fun? Dan jumps in, confessing to having “fallen off the turnip truck earlier in the day” and no, thank you, we were not interested. They were totally cool, as was Dan. I, on the other hand, had had enough, it was time to leave.

The next day we had reservations for a clothing optional cruise. Dan, sensing my displeasure with the entire turn of events, figured we would just skip it and head to the pool for the day. My Midwestern frugality kicked in and I insisted we go – it was pre-paid. At the pier we found a group of 30 people, many who seemed to know each other already. We recognized one couple and Dan bravely stepped up to chat. We introduced ourselves and Dan relayed our “adventures” from the previous evening, quickly setting expectations that we were not looking for any extra-marital activities.

This was our introduction to our now dear friends from central Wisconsin who started laughing and nodding in understanding. She explained that they were not interested in that either and, in fact, there is a name for couples like us – “we’re Vanilla Teasers.”  Fun to be around, but no funny business. Since then we’ve had several opportunities to spend time with our new Vanilla Teaser friends and have enjoyed their company immensely.

So this year, we are heading back to Fantasy Fest, members of a club we never knew existed. Our wonderful new friends are going as well.  And I’m proud to be a Vanilla Teaser, in a 32+ year marriage that allows me to enjoy a week of wearing costumes and paint, a clothing optional cruise, a lot of flirting – but not even a thought of chocolate syrup, whipped cream or colored sprinkles on my vanilla fun.

Voices

For as long as I can remember Dan has been telling me about the seven distinct voices in his head. They join him on projects, talking him through the work to be done; they pipe up when he’s problem solving, weighing in on the options; and they fill the silent spaces if the radio or TV aren’t on (WDRJ, 24/7), reminding him of things he has to do. I’ve always just smiled and thought his head must be a confusing and noisy place, but I never really knew what he meant.  Until today.

Dan and I were up at 4:40 a.m. so I could get to Williams Bay for my first Olympic Length Triathlon. The Lake Geneva Olympic Triathlon is a 1 mile swim; 26 mile bike ride; 6.2 mile run. This was my first attempt at these distances, having conquered the sprint distance a few times over the last two years. Last winter my trainer, Steve, challenged me to move past my comfort zone. It’s funny, the things we say yes to, when the snow is flying and an outside race is months away.

Dan dropped me off at the staging area around 6:00 a.m. The race crowd was a bit different than I was used to. My previous races were for women only.  This was a co-ed race with four distance options, a super-sprint, sprint, Olympic and half-Ironman. It was a whole new ballgame and I was feeling unworthy. The race didn’t feel as well organized as I racked my bike in an unmarked spot I hoped I’d be able to remember. All around me were really fit looking athletes with expensive gear. And the biggest difference I noticed? I was old enough to be their mom – the whole damn lot of them.

I put on my wetsuit and headed to the swim start. The half-Ironman group would start first, then the women in the Olympic length race. As I looked over the lake I expected to see a well marked swim course, as in previous races. What I saw was a line of about six buoys and a few boats on either side of what you might call a large lane. There was no pre race pep talk, just some guy yelling into the megaphone that you better know your starting wave because he couldn’t fix your timing if you got it wrong. At that point I realized the prior women’s only races had been positively warm, pink and fuzzy by comparison.

They herded my group over the starting chips, we wade out into the water, the horn goes off and everyone lunges into a swim. I held back for about a minute, waiting for the crowd to clear, as I’ve been pummeled in the past. The water was cold and initially took my breath away. I started to swim, awkwardly, and with very little on my right to sight against I struggled to ensure I wasn’t wasting energy swimming too far off course. I was about 1/8 of the way out and the cold panic was rising in my body. I could feel it. This was not going well. I stopped and started to tread water. I felt totally out of control and needed to get it together. To my left there was another woman, also treading water. I looked at her and said “what am I doing? I don’t know if I can do this.” She smiled and agreed that it was more difficult than she thought it would be. We bobbed there, catching our breath and exchanged names. Her name was Lisa and she asked if I needed help. I said no, I thought I could make it, and unbidden, there was Steve’s voice (voice one),  – “Paula, you’re going to do better than you think.”

We both started swimming again and I settled into a steadier stroke with minimal leg motion (I was going to need them at top form later) and heard Steve coaching me on good swim form. Heading straight out into the water the turn-around buoy came up remarkably fast. So did the wave of swimmers heading back towards me. The race organizers had created a situation where the faster swimmers came right back through the slower swimmers. It occurred to me that I had a choice. I could very easily turn around and head back the other way. I was at least, guessing here, 100 yards from the buoy. Who would know? I would. I got to the buoy, turned myself around and there was Lisa. We had matched each other for speed. We exchanged congratulations and headed back with a renewed confidence.

Triathlons involve a transition area where you move from one event to the next. Once back at my bike, I stripped off my wetsuit, dried my feet and put on my very friendly hard soled tennis shoes. Earlier in the week I had asked Dan to remove the “clip-in” pedals that required special shoes. Dan had thought they were a very bad idea from the start, as I can be “tippy” on my bike. As I slipped my shoes into the familiar but low tech, and loose, toe cages I heard Dan say “Thank you.” Voice two.

The first mile was a monster hill, “the worst” of the course, they said. Climbing that hill, being passed by everyone was humbling. One rider on his way by called it “heartbreak ridge”. A third voice chimed in to help me out – Amberlea – my favorite Spin instructor was talking me through the hill. “Best two minutes of your day, right here, right now.” Up, up and over, settling into a nice ride through the country-side. My bike was acting up, shifting itself on inclines. At one point one of my water-bottle carriers came loose and tipped off the bike, bottle hitting the ground and spilling out. I stopped to pick it up, but that was the only real glitch. Overall, it was a good ride, and I was accompanied by Amberlea for 26 miles, talking me through hills, sprints and surges.

Back to transition and another shoe change, this time for the run. I moved through this fairly quickly and was back on the road, legs feeling like bricks. The route description on the web site had said it was a challenging run. Seriously, the understatement of the year. The first half-mile was a continuous steep incline. I thought for sure there must be a cardiologist at the top of the hill, waiting to pick up a few extra patients. I could only walk; it was faster than attempting to run. I reached the first water stop, the Super Sprint turnaround at ½ mile. The hill started to flatten out, my calves started to settle down and I heard a fourth voice. “It’s only two more blocks Mom, just two more blocks.” My son Carl had repeated this to me during a cross-town tour of Philadelphia, on a most enjoyable day. And there he was telling me in his cheerful way, to go just two more blocks. Yes, of course I can. I began to run.

I hit the quarter distance marker, the turnaround for the 5K and thought, I could do that, I could turn around and finish this, quick and easy. I grabbed some energy drink and kept going. I hit the three mile marker and felt myself settle into an easy jog (I am no gazelle) and felt great. I heard Hunter in my head, “you’re beautiful Mom, I love you”, and he was right, I was beautiful, enjoying a glorious day feeling better than I’d ever felt. That’s five voices. Dan tells me I experienced the runners high. Not sure, but I felt fabulous. The entire running course doubled back so the last mile was mostly downhill. As I headed for the finish line I realized that the challenge had been met, physically, and with the help of my wonderful team of voices, mentally.

Thanks everyone for being there for me. Imagine what I can do when I get the whole crew of seven!

Overall Time = 4:16:50

Swim 48:58 // T1 6:15 // Bike 1:48:46 // T2 7:02 // Run 1:25:52

This old home

I had a moment of clarity this week that really surprised me. Standing in the back yard, watering plants, I realized that I could leave this house. Just walk away. It would be fine. The idea that I would be able to do this also made me a bit melancholy.

I didn’t come to this conclusion lightly. The thing is, I love this house. We bought in July 1996, after 13 years of driving by and wondering if it would ever go up for sale. We put together a financial house of cards to make the purchase possible, a kind of lending hocus-pocus that in it’s day was not to be believed. We moved our two kids from a beautifully remodeled home to a tired old living space that needed a lot of work. And before that, we moved our babies from a cute, remodeled little Riverwest house into our first home in Wauwatosa that also required a lot of work. But that’s another story…

Our house was built in 1882, an old Queen Anne with a turret. In 1927 it was converted to a duplex. Over the years it received varying degrees of love and attention—or not so much. Talking to former first floor tenants; when it started to rain it took exactly five minutes before the water was coming through their ceilings. The 1960’s were not kind to Victorians.

But by the time we bought it the lower space was a beautifully remodeled 2 bedroom/2 bathroom apartment. We rented that out and moved in upstairs. By October of 2000, our house was one of six featured in the Wauwatosa Historical Society annual tour of homes.  In the intervening years Dan and I (mostly Dan) built 3 bedrooms, bathroom and laundry room in empty space on the third floor; added a second stairway to meet building codes; tore out walls to create a large living room of what had been two bedrooms; created a dining room out of a third bedroom including gorgeous built in cabinets; and removed another wall in the back of the house to create a large kitchen with separate eating area. Did I mention the recovered tin ceiling? The red fireplace?

And the work doesn’t end. Four different colors applied to the exterior require constant touch up. The shady yard is plant and grass resistant. The remodeling is now over 10-years old and starting to look a bit tired. Two big dogs have worn out a few carpets. Home to teenage boys who have since moved on to adulthood, the wear and tear still shows in places.

Then of course we also have tenants living downstairs. An interesting variety over the years. Three medical students; a surgeon, his wife and two kids (the always amusing 2-year old nearly naked Neal); a mom and her high school daughter; and our longest term tenants, a couple. Tenants bring a different level of complexity to home ownership. You share common spaces; you have responsibility for the upkeep of someone else’s living space; you need to make arrangements for unexpected emergencies when you are out of town;  and so on. Until this week, all expected and routine.

At 3:00am on Thursday morning the phone rang. There was a “bat or a bird or something in the apartment, could Dan come and take care of it.” Really? Dan, trooper that he is went downstairs and dealt with the problem. When he returned to bed he said it was a large bat.  I asked him if it was “ a pterodactyl?” No just a big bat that came through an open flue. Great, now we are landlords to the bat cave.

A rainy Saturday morning allowed for breakfast at one of our favorite places. As we debriefed the week Dan told me about the extra effort he had to put in on a Friday vacation day to touch up on the front of the house, having gotten rid of a rickety 40-foot ladder and replacing it with a 36-foot ladder. Yes I said, I’m sure that missing 5-feet really makes a difference. And then we laughed at my Paula-ism, one of many over the years, and talked about how our view of the house, or our home, have evolved.

With mixed emotions our younger boy Hunter and his fiancé leave for LA in just a few weeks. Carl is in Philly. Neither boy is, at the moment, thinking of moving “home.” It’s just us and the dog faced boys.

Dan has commented over the past couple of years that he has “one house left in him.” But this one will require a roof that can be accessed with only a 6’ ladder. And we can trade in the four car garage for a carport—one just big enough for the car we will use to evacuate when the hurricane warnings sound. And a fat tired bike will lean against the back of the house, used almost daily to ride to the beach to just stare at it and say “Damn, we made it.” I love my big old house. But I am ready for someone to love it even more than I do.

Heat

On January 31 I wrote a post called Flakes, about a snowmageddon event scheduled for Wisconsin. It seems only fitting that almost 6-months later I respond to the extreme heatwave currently blanketing the state. After all, we are planning to relocate to a state of excessive heat and humidity. So here goes nothing, my thoughts on a heatwave.


Heat causes stupidity. It does. You get overheated and cranky -- next thing you know you've said something you would never have said on a 60 degree day.


Heat causes misunderstanding. Why? Heat amplifies "every little thing" because you are too physically washed out to preoccupy yourself with activity, so you just sit and think and overprocess.


Heat causes impatience, that get out of my face feeling. Heat expands the amount of personal space we all need.


Heat causes an out of control feeling. True. When it's cold you can pile on the layers. You control your environment through a protective response to the temperature. You can cover every inch of your skin and burrow into a cozy quilt to get warm. When it's hot, it's just hot - no amount of artificial climate control eliminates an overheated feeling.


Heat causes laziness. Witness myself, right now. I've got so many other more productive things on my list, but I'm sitting here, barely typing and feeling smug that I've actually accomplished something. Yah.


Heat transforms animals. The dog-faced boys don't want to go outside. Just too damn hot when you are wearing a permanent fur coat.


OK, that's it, my brain is now officially drained...see my first point above. Stay cool, stay calm, and get yourself a refreshing lemonade.  This too shall pass.

Road Warrior

I seem to be having a love/hate relationship with my bicycle. Biking is one of the few athletic activities I’ve enjoyed my whole life. Even during my most extreme couch potato years I would still get on my bike and go for a several mile ride. There is something about the breeze on your face and the ability to travel significant distances, under your own power, in a reasonable amount of time.   Lately I’ve begun to view my bicycle as some kind of torture device. My old reliable mode of transportation has caused me some mental and physical anguish.

My first mistake was to add toe-cages to my pedals. Of course, everyone tells me I should go to clips and bike shoes, but it seemed an unnecessary investment for a casual rider who participates (competes is totally the wrong word here) in a few triathlons. The toe cages add an extra pull to my pedal stroke and provide just a bit more power and efficiency. The toe cages also add a layer of complexity to starting and stopping during a ride.

On a ride to the lakefront a few years back I stopped behind Dan at a stop sign—but forgot to get my feet down in time. Apparently a stream of curse words issued forth as I fell over sideways and crashed to the pavement. The ride was cut short as I needed some water, a bandaid—and a tall vodka lemonade—stat. Dan didn’t see that fall, but on a recent 50 mile charity ride for the Milwaukee area United Performing Arts Fund my sis and bro-in-law did. I pulled into the last oasis, and parked my bike by simply falling over sideways.  Anyone old enough to remember the show “Laugh-in” will remember Artie Johnson on the tricycle. I am the Artie Johnson of 2011, destined to have a scabby knee well into autumn. It was another ten miles of riding before I got the crudest of care possible (a beer—yuck!), before being transferred to a proper facility that served brunch and mimosas.

Fresh off a successful completion of that ride (and only one crash) I decided to up my biking game. The gym I belong to has a weekly “bike-club”, a group ride. Having taken Spin class at least once a week for about two years I felt up to the challenge. I showed up, appropriately attired and ready to ride. The leader asked if I had ever done this before and what my biking experience was. We talked about the 50-mile ride, my participation in Tri’s and what I hoped to get out of it. He mentioned that he had just completed a long ride the day before and today’s ride would be “leisurely.” Perfect.

Right turn out of the parking lot and up a gradual incline, pedaling my ass off to keep up, and the pace never let up. Hard-core cyclists must have an alternative definition of leisurely. According to my odometer, we covered 4 hilly miles in record time. My heart rate monitor was showing some scary numbers and my lungs were ready to explode. It was clear the group was dogging it on my behalf, very encouraging, yet frustrated with my pace none the less. I opted to drop away, it was my only hope. After assuring the leader that I could get back on my own I turned around to begin the return trip.

Those of you who know me (and have walked in town with me), know that I should not be left to deal with car traffic on my own. When Dan and I reach an intersection he literally grabs my hand and guides me across the street. The near misses I’ve had with cars are the stuff of legend. On one memorable occasion, on our way to Spontaneous Thursday Night at Hectors, I apparently walked out into the path of several speeding cars. Dan pulled me back and began to scream at me (to the amusement of all of the people sitting at the outdoor patio) that WHEN I got hit by the car and WHEN I was laying paralyzed in the nursing home wearing a diaper he WOULD divorce me, sell everything, find a trophy girlfriend and move to the Keys with her, because IF AT 53 YOU CAN’T LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE STREET YOU DESERVE TO SPEND YOUR FINAL DAYS SAD, ALONE AND STINKY. With that he took my hand and led a red-faced Paula to dinner.

Now, on a narrow, two lane road with no shoulder I’m not much more traffic savvy on a bike. Basically, on streets in anything other than my beloved little SUV, I’m a freaking disaster.  I found my way to the bug infested bike trail previously disdained by the cycling group as quickly as possible to ensure a safer ride home. Let us not share this with Dan, OK?

Arriving home, exhausted, hungry and humbled, I thought about one of the reasons we want to move to Key West. The land area of Key West is just less than 8 square miles. We envision leisurely daily bike rides, to the beach, the store, restaurants, and the like on fat tired bikes with big baskets.  Dan has fantasized for years about walking away from our four car garage one last time, knowing the snow blowers, snow shovels, ice choppers and salt bucket will be left behind.  Hanging on a hook above the snow blower will be a well-worn ladies’ hybrid bike—complete with scratched toe-cages.

Music that resonates:

Bicycle Race -- Queen