The Ultimate Man Toy

Often times throughout life we make decisions not based entirely on need, but instead heavily influenced by what we want.  We made a recent purchase that was based on this particular notion, and despite my husbands protest, I like to call the purchase the ultimate man toy.

There are an infinite number of differences between living in New York City and living in an undeniably smaller town in South Carolina.  Then again, there are an infinite number of differences between living in New York City and living anywhere else in the U.S.  Either way, there is one major difference in way of life that warranted an immediate change when we moved, and that is owning a car.

When we first moved from New York, we knew there would be a mad rush to find a car and fast.  Where before public transportation was a way of life and great convenience living in a big city, we were now living in a place where public transportation was not an option.  We would need a car.  After three days, one rental car and a painful process with the dealership, we purchased our ride: a purple (more like amethyst) mid-sized SUV.  A used Chevy Equinox - the purple-people-eater.

Over the course of the past ten months we have lived in South Carolina, Eric and I have shared the ride.  Any time we would reveal this bit of information about our current situation to a new person, the response was unwavering.  "I had to share a car with my wife one time when her car was in the shop... how on earth do you do it!" Or, "Wow, that must be really something to have to share a way of getting around".  It seems this sharing transportation notion invoked flashbacks of bad carpools from the past to many people.  To us, it was fine.  I mean we live together, now we work together, it seemed natural to be sharing a car.  It felt this way for the majority of the past ten months until one day, as I was dutifully driving back across town from our apartment to work to pick up Eric who was patiently waiting, I happened to notice the odometer... we had put 150 miles on the car in one day... and we had stayed in town.  Time to get a second car.

We decided that the purple-people-eater would be "my car" and he would pick out a second vehicle.  Something "beat up", "worn", something just to get around town from Point A to Point B.  Naturally, this meant getting a truck.

Now I have known people with Trucks.  I even expressed to my significant other that I liked Ford F-150s in particular - yeah, I liked how they looked and they seemed like a great truck.  We proceeded for the next month to spot trucks on the side of the road in varying degrees of distress.  Many with For Sale signs tacked onto their side or scribbled in white chalk across the windshield.  And often I would think why would anyone want to buy THAT thing.  Of course when this thought appeared in my head, it usually meant before long I found myself pulled over on the side of the truck, peering into the vehicle to see it's condition.  Then the remark: "This doesn't look that bad... what do you think?".  At that point, I would smile and nod.

We would scour the web for cars on sale, and he would methodically call out to the sellers asking all kinds of questions about said trucks - what kind of engine, is it 4 wheel drive, how is the clutch?  I listened, thinking - maybe I dont know so much about trucks...

Then one night I was called over to look at one he found on a website.  It was white, it was a truck, it was exactly what he had been looking for.  Instead of the numbers 150, on it's side were the numbers 250 which frankly I didn't understand... "What do you think?" he asked.  My reply: "I think it looks great.  If it's everything you are looking for, it sounds good to me."

So we went.  We drove the 3 1/2 hours to go see the truck.  As we passed through the fourth small mountainside town in Georgia, we both looked at each other and without having to speak communicated that we sure hoped this was "the one".  We pulled up to the dealership, and were immediately approached by the salesman.  "I got the keys for you right here, lemme show you the truck!"  He was excited... I was curious and I'll admit, a bit nervous.  We walked up to the truck and I think my jaw dropped.  It was the largest thing I had ever seen... A monster.  He started it up and it growled and sputtered and then transitioned to a hefty idling noise.  I could tell, Eric seemed a bit apprehensive about such a bit purchase - and it wasn't the money for the beat up thing... it was a physically BIG purchase.

Then it was decision time.  And you know, it was one of those great times when you find yourself looking at the intended item thinking:  Did we really need that kind of car... no.  Would it be better if we got the truck?... probably didn't matter.  Would it be fun?... most definitely.  And sometimes, you make decisions because you want to and not because you need to.

So we drove off the lot with the monster, me following in the purple-people-eater.  I watched as car after car would move out of the truck's way - dwarfed in it's looming shadow.  When we safely arrived back home we looked at each other and nervously laughed at our somewhat crazy purchase.

"You do know what this is, don't you?" I asked.  "It's the ultimate man toy - let's go for a ride."

My Southern Living Exposure

I've been a terrible blogger lately.  I'm trying to break my silence today with a feeble attempt at an entry.  So bear with me.  It's not that I have something profound to say or a story that will make you think, wow, that's amazing.  It's just that I like to write and I haven't been doing it.  So as the ever-popular saying goes - I'm getting back on the horse.

For a girl that had only been to "The South" but once or twice before taking up residence in one of the deepest parts, I would say that of late, I'm becoming quite acquainted with it.  This past weekend we took a trip up to Atlanta, GA where we indulged in a fabulous performance by Zac Brown Band.  Now, if you don't know who this band is, they are kind of a cross between country and Dave Matthews or jam-band type music.  I suppose that generally they are considered a country group but as I found out this weekend in talking to some "true" southerners, there are bands that fit the country grain way more than Zac Brown Band.

We sat and enjoyed the concert at a beautiful (but cold) outdoor amphitheater and listened to Zac and his band sing their hearts out with songs like "Chicken Fried", "Highway 20 Ride" and "Sick 'em on a Chicken".  Now I at first thought "Sick 'em on a Chicken" was called "Sick OF Mamma's Chicken"... boy was I wrong! Case in point, I'm learning new things every day.  Apparently the song was not at all about Bad Chicken, but rather how they Sick the Dog on the chicken and then proceed to fry the bird...


The concert was wonderful, the songs were great and once I actually got the words right, I felt really a part of this southern thing.  As we were driving back home to South Carolina from Atlanta, my husband asked me a quite pointed question: "Sooo, what do you like better, South Carolina or Georgia?" I have to confess the look I gave him was somewhat of a blank one... well, gosh, I had never really thought about it until he posed the question.  After a few moments in thought as I looked out the window down Highway 20 at the seemingly endless road lined by a mass of beautiful green trees.  It is in those moments, it's hard to imagine cultures and areas more different than California, New York, and South Carolina.  I suppose I'll have to ponder that one for another day and keep exploring the many things the two states have to offer...

I've been pleasantly surprised living in our town in South Carolina at the amount of festivals and events they have going on almost every week.  There are live bands that play each week outdoors this time of year, and there seems to be a rotating festival featuring some kind of Southern delicacy or tradition every time I turn around.  Sadly, we missed the Crawfish Festival two weeks ago due to work, but hey, maybe we'll catch the BBQ event going on Saturday - they say they'll have 40 different kinds of barbecue... I wasn't even aware there were more than two kinds!

One last Southern Moment to share before I sign off for the day, victorious that at least I've completed a blog.  We live in a great apartment complex that is built right by a river and canal.  It's a wonderful thing living by water, especially for a California girl like me that has an unprecedented love for the ocean. While taking a sunset stroll just a few weeks ago, we stopped at the railing to peer down into the canal (I guess from that far away I was hoping for a gator sighting... yes, gator).  Well most lucky for us, it wasn't a gator, but a water rat.  Yes, a water rat.  If you haven't ever seen one, it looks just as it sounds.  A rat that swims.  It seems the rat, which we affectionately have named Frank, has a home in that canal outside our apartment.  We've seen him four or five times since the first sighting, swimming back and forth from his home - I guess he must be doing errands.  So as you can see, I'm embracing my life in the south.  Learning songs like "Sick 'em on a Chicken" and looking out for my neighbors like Frank.  Until next time, bye y'all :-)

No Pain, No Gain

I inhaled deeply and tried to concentrate on each step I was taking.  I tried to keep my head up and focus on my end destination so I wouldn't loose sight of the goal.  Why was this so difficult today? I've been finding that question present itself in my thoughts every time I embark on such a challenge.  It was just a run, but sometimes a run seems so tough, even if I have been running frequently, and there are days when I find it is flat out discouraging.

Lately, I have been thinking back to when I was growing up and participated in competitive sports.  Most of the time, I think of swimming.  It's odd I would compare gliding through the water to running on concrete but the actions to me seem very alike.  Swimming back and forth across the length of a pool is not all that different than running back and forth along a path - both activities take a necessary level of commitment and self determination paired with the right amount of motivation. 

I swam on a competitive recreational team from the time I was 5 until I was 18.  We were the Dolphins, the Mighty Dolphins in fact, and our coach was tough but he was great.  "No pain, no gain" he would say, as me and my team mates were lined up along the swimming pool wall, staring up at him with half blank expressions. I'll admit, I understood this mantra at quite different levels when I was five than what I understood when I was eighteen. "You have to put in a lot of effort and push yourself to get better results".  Hmmm, no pain, no gain. I learned this was a mantra that proved to be incredibly true. 

Oddly enough, the stroke I was good at happened to be butterfly.  This is the stroke where both arms literally fly out of the water simultaneously.  As you dive back in each time you move forward through the water by "kicking" with both feet held together.  Ironically, butterfly arm movements are paired with a dolphin-like kick.  Some people think this is one of the hardest strokes, but if you ask me, that endowment would go to backstroke.  I never could get backstroke down.  In high school, the event I swam during meets was the 100 yard butterfly.  This is four lengths of the pool and I remember that at the end of such events, I was for lack of better terms, pooped.

I can vividly recall standing on top of the diving block, looking out over the pool.  At one meet against a neighboring high school, I waited for the starters commands:  "On your mark", I stood tall and looked out across the length of the pool, deep breath in, don't be nervous, just concentrate "Get set"  Reach down and grab the block, ready to catapult at the next command "GO!" I shot off the block and into the water.  As I moved down the pool I could see out of the corner of my eye I was keeping pace with the other girls.  My arms flew out of the water and I tried to take as many strokes before taking a breath as I could possibly stand. I reached the first end, touched and shot back off the wall - three more laps to go.  I kept my concentration... no pain, no gain - well this was pain, I hoped it was paying off.  Finally at the fourth lap it was time to step it up with what little energy was left in me.  I could see I had a chance to pull forward - as I took the last half length of the pool I felt good about the race.  My fingers touched the wall at the finish and I looked up from the pool at the time keeper "What was my time?".  Instead, one of the referrees posed me an odd question: "What time is it?", I looked at my watch and replied "Uh, 4:30".  "Well, you're disqualified, you can't wear a watch or any jewelry during a race."

Competing is tough.

You can imagine after the unfortunate disqualification, I never made that mistake while racing again.  I realize how valuable all those years of swimming were to help me push myself, learn to be a little bit tougher, and to sometimes push myself physically to where I wasn't even sure I was capable.  Now as I go for my four mile runs I try to think back about all those things.  I mostly try to remember my coaches, the tough practices and the challenging races, meets and matches I participated in to help push myself now, even though I'm not competing in a race.  And when it seems my motivation is lacking, I think back at that mantra - if I want results - no pain, no gain.

A Town Painted Green

As the snow begins its very first stages of the melting process in many parts of this country, we can all smell a hint of spring awaiting us right around the corner.  It's mid-March which not only is synonymous with the madness of college basketball but is also marked by perhaps one of the craziest holidays all year round: Saint Patrick's Day.

St. Patty's Day to me is always a curious study of people's love to celebrate.  I for one, don't have any Irish in me (or at least I don't think I do...), but that aside, every year I am quick to don a green outfit and join the masses in eating bangers and mash and swaying to Irish songs alongside all my friends at an "Irish Bar" no matter what city I'm living in.

New York, known for gloriously celebrating holidays, always had a fantastic Saint Patricks Day Parade.  Now the holiday usually falls during a week day so unfortunately, I was never able to go see the parade... there were other obligations, namely work, that prevented me from a mid-week rendezvous.  But fear not, someone a long time ago thought - why should a holiday mid-week prevent everyone from celebrating?! Easy solution: move the party to the weekend.  Every year the Saturday before or after, whichever was closer, would hold a city-wide Saint Patricks Day celebration.  In a city so cold this time of year, I think it is not only a day to celebrate Irish heritage but also to celebrate the coming of spring.

This year, even though I wasn't in NYC, the celebration this past weekend was still huge.  Actually, I think it's one of the biggest all year that takes place in Columbia, South Carolina.  Complete with green-dyed fountains, the town was transformed into a sea of green, and I mean that quite literally.  25,000 people came out to celebrate Saint Patricks Day.  The festival was complete with food vendors, beer trucks and three stages graced by a continuous string of bands filling the air with music.  Of course I was soaking up the nice weather with green beer in hand, yes green, and not holding back in my indulgence of Irish bangers, bbq sandwiches and the free nachos one stand was giving out... hey, it's an American celebration of Saint Pats and in the South no less.

Being new to town, we decided that it would be fun to "volunteer" during this festival, at least for part of it.  Our charitable duties including nothing more than standing in front of a Budweiser truck and pouring out a selection of beers for any thirsty festival-goer willing to shell out $3.  It was a site to see watching people pass by our truck.  Since we worked the morning shift which ended at 1PM we hardly saw the tip of the iceberg, so-to-speak, of people in attendance.  I did however, see a few families with babies in strollers who ever so cautiously would eye our truck, almost making it all the way by until one person (I saw it happen via Mom AND Dad) would hang a sharp left with the stroller, whip out some change and sheepishly say - well I guess I'll have one!  Amongst the crowd was lots of green hair dye, sparkling and even light-up mardi gras beads and yes, I even saw a 6 foot tall leprechan - complete with orange hair, top hat and cane.



Although it was quite the interesting crowd, I noticed that fortunately it was a nice and well behaved one with everyone genuinely happy to be celebrating a great day with food, music and lucky for us - sunshine.  I love that Saint Patricks Day is a day to celebrate such a strong and proud heritage.  I hope one day I get the chance to actually travel to Ireland, which I hear is beautiful and inhabited by very gracious and fun people.  For now, I'll just continue to find as much green clothing in my closet as I can and join the masses in food, drink and good times, every March to celebrate Saint Patricks.

The Road

There is a famous poem by Robert Frost that you are probably familiar with.  It's his poem titled The Road Not Taken and as I was trying to fall asleep last night, the verses unexpectedly popped in my head.  I suppose my sudden attention to the poem was some sort of after-effect of having been an English major, which included the study of many authors, poets, poems and stories.

This particular poem by Frost is a beautiful and honest questioning that not only invokes images of choosing a literal path but also provokes thought about past decisions, future decisions and the blatant fact that we as people are faced with choices very often in life.

In case you aren't familiar with the poem, it goes like this:

The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Definitely one of the more well-known and popular poems, I love The Road Not Taken for its irony and quite literal contemplation of a journey.  

It's curious that such thoughts could be applied to something so ordinary, like which way I decided to drive to our office this morning.  Then there are the more significant and life-altering paths we choose, or are rather drawn to in life.  It seems at first, maybe the speaker in the poem is hesitant about his choice, even trying to peer as far down the fork in the road as he can, as if to try and see what the result of that choice would bring.

I received a very excited phone call from my sister just last night.  She has been accepted to a graduate program to receive her masters and teaching credential.  Words can't quite express how proud I am of my little sister and how thrilled I am for the journey she is waiting to begin.  It made me think, before she decided to go back to school, she too was looking down two paths.  Deciding to take the one, her results will be much different than if she hadn't embarked down that route.  These are truly the exciting and defining moments that are filled with anticipation and curiosity about what a chosen path will bring.

In thinking more about choices and the points Frost brings up in his poem, I have one additional comment.  I think it's the irony the poet is trying to bring to front with his words but it's interesting the speaker chooses one path while thinking about the other.  While I too constantly think about what if one decision would have been made over the other, I think I'd rather resolve to focus on the choices I did make and the wonderful outcomes most of them have had.  Maybe I would have titled the poem The Road I Have Taken instead of  The Road Not Taken... But that's enough poetry for one day, tonight when I fall asleep I hope to put Frost aside and be thinking about what my next great adventure could possibly be.

The Slopes

I struggled as I worked to secure the last buckle on the stiff plastic boot.  The five layers I had piled on that morning were simply not conducive to indoor activity.  As the last buckle snapped into place I stood up straight, relieved I was finally ready to go.  Stiff legged, I ackwardly waddled around the hords of people and out into the cold, crisp morning air.  I was ready to hit the slopes.

Skiing is my most favorite winter-time activity.  I consider myself more of a beach goer and summer person rather than snow and winter person; however, when each winter rolls around and I find myself flanked by cold I immediately see a silver lining when a ski trip has been planned.  Turns out, I embarked on such a trip this past weekend. 

Skiing is quite different now that I live on the East Coast.  Growing up out West I was accustomed to traveling to Lake Tahoe or Park City Utah or even the local LA mountains of Big Bear and Arrowhead in California.  The climate is dry, the mountains are large with expansive ski resorts and usually the snow there is bountiful.  I know I seem bias, and that's because I am, but out East the options are more limited with some of the best East Coast skiing featured in Vermont where it is usually colder and much wetter resulting in icier conditions.

In search of the slopes, we made the trek from South Carolina up to Vermont, passing through no fewer than 5 states in 4 days to make the journey.  But it was all worth it.  That said, I thought it would be a relevant time to go through some of the things I love most about skiing as well as a few points I find utterly perplexing about the cold weathered sport.

1. The Attire:
Ski boots are uncomfortable.  I think most people would agree.  What surprises me is why hasn't someone come up with a better option? Snowboarders practically get to wear tennis shoes while skiers are doomed to wear boots that look like they belong part of a Star Wars Storm Troopers costume. And how about all those layers? I usually feel like some rendition of the Michelin Man when fully equipped for the sport.

2. The Ski Lifts:
First let me say I'm glad there is such an invention so I don't have to shimmy up the hill on foot with all that heavy gear in tow.  That said, some lifts are much better than others.  This weekend I was nearly knocked flat on my face as I was waiting for a lift.  It swung around so fast I was lucky to have quick reflexes to grab the bar and hoist myself up before the chair continued up the mountain.  It was going with or without me on it. 
Then there was the time when I was young and was on a ski lift with my Mother.  Her fanny pack (it was a functional piece at the time) got stuck on the lift and to my horror I watched as she failed to exit the lift, instead swinging around, clinging to the bar and trying to get the fanny pack unstuck, at which point she had no choice but to ride the chair back down.  (Dont worry, she wasn't hurt which made this for a fantastically hillarious story for years to come).

3.  The Lodge:
This past weekend we were skiing with a group of 12.  This group was at all levels so naturally we would split up and go on our separate runs to meet back at the summit Lodge at a given time.  Each time I entered the lodge it was impossibly crowded with no seats open.  Of course this meant retorting to "lodge manners" where we would promptly stare at a table that looked like it was almost finished, only to pounce once they started grabbing their gloves and hats in preparation to return to the mountain.  It seems that all dining norms change when you're on a ski slope and what's more is I think everyone feels like a different person since you can't really tell who people are and what they normally look like with so much gear on.

4. Moguls:
Maybe it's because the Winter Olympics are currently taking place, or maybe it's just my inner desire to be an expert skier, or maybe it's that I think I'm a much better skier than I am... I'll go with the latter.  We went on several runs this trip that were markedly more difficult with the addition of moguls.  Moguls are those treacherous mounds of snow that undoubtedly will give you a great skiing workout with the result being a sore back, tight knees and sore legs immediately following.  Naturally, this is appealing to me so we went on a few of those runs.  I tried my hardest to picture how Lindsey Vonn takes on the slopes... come on, Rachel, try to do it like she does.  Needless to say I have no idea what I looked like but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Lindsey Vonn - especially when I happened to loose my footing resulting in a rapid slide down the mountain turtle shell style for a few hundred yards...

5. The Beautiful Scenery:
Now that I've laid out my qualms, which I'd like to note are also the details that have me already looking forward to next years ski trip... There is one undeniably universal thing that is wonderful about skiing, and that is the scenery.  Whether your on the East Coast or the West Coast or perhaps even in another country, skiing is I believe a therapeutic exercise not matched by many activities.  I love the quiet surroundings where many times the only sound is the swish and movement of snow passing underneath skis.  The evergreen trees that surround you while skiing is a constant reminder of nature's quiet and constant beauty.  The trees are present in their natural climate no matter how cold, icy, stormy or miserable it gets on the mountain.  The views from the top of the mountain are like looking at a real life snow globe except it gives you the opportunity to see miles of terrain you can only view from the top.

Despite some of the uncomfortable and funny rituals we all partake in when we want to go skiing; it will remain one of my favorite sports to do in some of my least favorite weather conditions.  Back from our weekend trip, I just finished packing up our layers of coats and winter wear and tucking them away in the closet.  But I'm already anticipating when winter again presents itself next year, and hopefully, there will be a ski trip to look forward to.

If These Walls Could Talk

Bubble wrap.  There was lots and lots of bubble wrap.  I was watching the news a few weeks ago when the anchor mentioned the inventor, Alfred Fielding, had passed away. The anchor explained that Mr. Fielding's ingenious idea had come to him while on an airplane. As he looked out the window at the bubble-looking clouds below, the idea came - why not create wrap that could be used as a protective layer?

That's one of those, now why didn't I think of that momments.

In this particular instance, I was glad they used so much of that plastic pop-wrap.  It was layered and taped to protect a table and six chairs that had just arrived at my apartment after making a cross country journey.  I was fortunate enough to inherit this beautiful set of furniture from my Great Aunt who recently passed.  It's the first time I have owned a passed down piece from my family and consequently, the nicest piece of furniture I have.

As I worked my way through the stubborn and tightly bound wrap, I couldn't help but think about the journey this table and six chairs has been on.  How many people sat in those seats, how many meals were served, cups of coffee poured and pieces of cake sliced? This table undoubtedly has a story, and I'm sure a fascinating one.  But of course, the whole of it, no one will ever know.  Those experiences and happenings will only be recorded through the wear in the wood, maybe an occassional stain on one chair or maybe even just the silent presence of such a beautiful piece of furniture.

Imagine what stories we would have if that table, other family heirlooms, even rugs, clocks, a piece of jewelry, or the very walls in an old home could talk.  I know this is not a new concept but nonetheless it's an interesting one to think about.  As the table sits in our living room, people will pass by each day, conversations will be held in its seats and meals will be set on its surface.  As me and my family partake in the continuation of this table's history, I'll simply continue to wonder about its past.

Maybe it's crazy I wonder so much about an inanimate object's experiences.  My curiosity gets the better of me sometimes... nevertheless, until that table and chair gets bubble wrapped up again to make it's next journey, there will be lots of coffee poured and cake sliced and holidays had on it's surface right here in my home.