tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48889728350506560442024-02-18T17:30:30.443-08:00Dione du Jour (or not)A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and some other stuff in between.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-90375745070397881272015-07-14T14:45:00.000-07:002015-07-14T14:45:39.560-07:00Down This Road: A Consciousness Stream<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6hCa9y8vnEfQ6h0ZJlUoSjsMWz9duo_1_8Cjpp5XP_-cqWrR7D7yHOqEaHH9uodTfeUXFb59Oua7CduRQamh_gDQ2n92ZDDxWynedfx2i-TGi5Bc7QEhqYIYMZ7_SWTvIswaTagbuYCc/s1600/11755337_827530767342445_3797442295207489073_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6hCa9y8vnEfQ6h0ZJlUoSjsMWz9duo_1_8Cjpp5XP_-cqWrR7D7yHOqEaHH9uodTfeUXFb59Oua7CduRQamh_gDQ2n92ZDDxWynedfx2i-TGi5Bc7QEhqYIYMZ7_SWTvIswaTagbuYCc/s640/11755337_827530767342445_3797442295207489073_n.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Benton Lutheran Church (Rural Crooks, South Dakota) - Image borrowed from Christian Begeman</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down This Road<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1980 road, I danced
with Dancer. American by a Quarter, she
was my greatest love. Dancing Snow Bear
strolled, stuttered and stomped. A retired
Rodeo Queen, she fought against the years of barrels against her knees. I had Rodeo Queen Dreams myself, but she
could not take me there, and there was no other way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1978 road, I clamped
tight to Lee’s waist. Ripping, roaring,
weeeeeeeeeeeeeee with full throttle, he sped to get us to baseball games on
time. The Crooks Merchants, because that
is what we all were. Toilers. Farmers. Slaughterers. Slaves.
I did not dream to be the only girl, but shortstop I was and girl they
deemed me. I just wanted to play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1985 road, I clung
tight to my own liberty. Jimmy once
pulled the brake on my Datsun 200X, which he borrowed from the space where it
was parked in front of the bar next to the VFW.
Keys left in the ignition, he swerved, nearly flipped the vehicle,
scaring the hell out of Tim. I was off
with his cousin Mike…fumbling toward adulthood beneath boot cut Levi seams. They loved my car. And they loved my horse. But I could never dream that any one of them
could love me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1800’s road, my father’s
mother’s mother’s parents settled in a sod house. The Johnsons direct from the old
country. They founded this Lutheran
church and this community. I attended Sunday
school in this church for a very brief time until my father decided he was
wronged by someone there. It didn’t take
long. Proclaimed Atheism and years of
him antagonizing everyone, drove them away.
Years of him antagonizing my Mom, drove her away. Years of him antagonizing me, drove me
away. Years of him antagonizing my
brother, drove him to suicide. I never
dreamed that this could affect so deeply and for so long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1983 road, we did
donuts and rosies and we played chicken.
I drove the old B John Deere with cultivator attached. I rode atop hay racks piled high in the
unforgiving summer heat. In the fields
beside, I ploughed with a terrible case of pink eye. I walked for hours with my corn knife,
chopping down amazon height sunflowers which bore amazon size
grasshoppers. I watched my brother race
and flip motorcycles and snowmobiles and me on the toboggan. Concussions for everyone and often. My dreams did not include a life without my
brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1980 road, my brother
flipped the truck on a gravel row left by the maintainer. Yet another concussion, blood running down
his face, he didn’t know where he was or what happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1981 road, my step mom
pulled out in front of my high school Accounting teacher, Mrs. Andresen. She too incurred a concussion from the shot
gun that fell out of the rack, hitting her on the back of the head. My two year old step brother, wedged on the
floor after impact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1981 road, my step
sister walked with suitcase and teddy bear, age 10, running away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1985 road, in darkness
of midnight, I sought refuge in the Geppart’s house, using their phone to call
Patty to please pick me up. Aged 16, I
was told to “Get the fuck out!” No
purse. No keys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1979 road, my mother
drove away in her small brown car, an independent example.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1982 road, my brother
fled like the Duke Brothers, evading police pursuit. Taking the ditch in lieu of the barricade,
they drew and shot upon him. With headlights
out, he coasted down the driveway and crawled into bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1982 road, on my first
solo pursuit, I drove to my Steinfurth cousin’s farm. Colliding with a rendering truck along the
way, falling sideways, totaling the pick-up, and breaking my nose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1981 road, came fire
trucks and neighbors both helpful and nosy when our barn burned down in Junior
High. So came the school bus that
dropped me off as I gasped at the billowing smoke and a man from Crooks stopped
his truck to smirkingly inform me, “I guess you won’t be milking the cows tonight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 2009 road, I tried to
erase it all when I ignorantly invited the world to witness my wedding amidst
the alfalfa blooms under my brothers Cottonwood tree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 2012 road, my husband
and I in our rental car drove to support his third farm sale where he angrily expressed
his lifelong disappointment in me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1982 road, came more
fire trucks and the ambulance that took my brother away. But not before I was told to go pack a bag so
I could stay at my Uncle Harlan’s that night.
Going up the stairs past that bedroom door where my Uncle stood with my
Dad inside and my brother’s bare foot and leg in my direct sight. Lying off the side of the bed in some strange
way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1975 road, my father
drove us – my mother, my brother, our three dogs and me. Turning down the drive, bragging and
dreaming, selling us on this Johnson family farm where we would live and grow
and cultivate a gorgeous family life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Down this 1975 road, my mother
drove us, my brother and me, shotgun shots ringing in our ears. Reloading the gun for each and every one, he
shot those dogs and their puppies. He
shot each and every one. Except for Pirate,
the girl dog that got away down this road, like my 1979 mom and like 1987 me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">07/14/2015 @ 2:24PM<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">me.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Torrance, CA, USA33.8358492 -118.3406287999999933.730331199999995 -118.50199029999999 33.9413672 -118.17926729999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-79154387089810609792015-06-23T11:11:00.003-07:002015-06-23T11:17:58.200-07:00Smell Memory: Burnt Toast and Musty Old Farm Houses<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDM4YS24Hk3WxfO9Vp_-oJvVtRzEXXDmo832cPJN9cHc29EnuB3QyCdwvrT1uvi_qV_yeVHCSVkPOyvDlDolIHS5tENznQ5xik0g1fPbwOdlv91_s9GQ2L79GutbX6fbncOt4QbN96L_o/s1600/PatienceHazelArtCUT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDM4YS24Hk3WxfO9Vp_-oJvVtRzEXXDmo832cPJN9cHc29EnuB3QyCdwvrT1uvi_qV_yeVHCSVkPOyvDlDolIHS5tENznQ5xik0g1fPbwOdlv91_s9GQ2L79GutbX6fbncOt4QbN96L_o/s400/PatienceHazelArtCUT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patience's Hazel Art <br />
(Hazel Grayson at 104 years old - 2004)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Smell Memory. What is yours like? Mine is haunting in the most beautiful way.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I walked into my kitchen just now to wash my breakfast dishes and change a load of laundry. I was pondering if there is any gardening that I can go outside to do this beautiful summer day. Lost in a mental list of productivity options, I was about three feet from the sink when a smell memory hit me and hit me hard. I suddenly walked into a cloud of what my Grandma Grayson's kitchen used to smell like - a combination of old musty farm house and burnt toast. I was taken. I stopped abruptly, doubting what I was smelling. Grabbing a hold of the counter as though I were going to lose my balance from surprise, I inhaled deeply as the smell memory grew stronger. Eyes closed, the vision of my Grandmother became prominent standing in the kitchen of her old farm house (not the newly built modern house that my Grandfather gifted her in her late 80's). Her cotton dress and apron, bowed legs from childhood illness, standing at the kitchen sink laughing as she washed the breakfast dishes. I opened my eyes for a brief moment to set my own breakfast dishes down in my sink. The smell still overwhelmingly present, I strong cry took me over. I closed my eyes and deeply inhaled again as the smell memory faded. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know if my own kitchen tends to smell like old musty farm house. It is very possible that is smells like burnt toast - a lifelong way of living that I need to re-address very soon. I won't linger too long as to why this happened, but I am thankful for it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We can easily look at a photo and say, "Oh yeah! I remember that!" Or, we can recollect with a friend or a relative about a shared memory and our own personal version of the story. We can touch a doll or a blanket or just about anything and feel the sensory touch of something that has always felt that way. But smell is more elusive. Yes, I can say, "This peach pie tastes just like Grandma used to make!" The pie could even smell the same. But to suddenly be hit with a smell that is unlikely to exist in your present environment...a smell that is a combination of elements from a time past...well that is something else altogether. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Has this happened to you?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mother used to have this wooden cabinet with glass doors that she kept as a sort of shrine to my brother who passed in his teens. It held his favorite Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, his left-handed baseball mitt, trophies, a picture of him in little league, candles and more. If you opened the cabinet, you would be overwhelmed at the intimate smell of the items inside, most notably the candles. But every once in a blue moon, on a different floor of the house or in a far away room, that combination of smells would waft under your nose. Gripping you, stopping you in yours tracks, forcing you to close your eyes and wonder. These smells were mysteriously free of their entombed moment in time - back in 1982.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Smells from my Grandma Hazel Grayson have haunted me before. In fact, I cannot think of any smells relative to others that have ever grabbed me like that. Mediums would tell you that it represents that individual's spirit is visiting you at that exact moment in time and that it is "with you", watching over you and protecting you. Whereas, neuroscientists would indicate that this is olfactory memory, where one's amygdala specifically deals with smell memory. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever the case may be, I wonder why it doesn't happen for me with smells from anyone else. Why only Hazel? Why not my brother's smells to me like they do to my mother? It both examples, the smell is not negative but, it seems, a warm reminder of a loved one passed. For me specifically, a time and a place, an age and an environment - a person who greatly nurtured me. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While it brought me tears, my memory of Grandma Hazel this morning warmed me. It gave me her being again if only for a brief moment. It brought me her love and her part in my daily morning traditions. I was happy to see her again from my 7-year-old height, peering into the kitchen while standing in the living room entry. With the morning sun shining in above her kitchen sink, she was everything I remembered and more. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com03415 West 225th Street, Torrance, CA 90505, USA33.823533 -118.345210000000018.3014984999999974 -159.653804 59.3455675 -77.036616000000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-54480825570093733312015-06-01T17:38:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.429-07:00A Letter to You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QcPKFVeMpraIRLiZ0WWD6HfWR0DTDAw5NAXfY96PAnFVp5JMnSi_U6B1F8Jj3KFQSvepDIj2TaZJ3tt9s1g71704gOem2Vvb2Vsj5KYlAuO5PSHjJWrOOQglYLHt1EAMYf-QNAD94tf_/s1600/DioneLee2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QcPKFVeMpraIRLiZ0WWD6HfWR0DTDAw5NAXfY96PAnFVp5JMnSi_U6B1F8Jj3KFQSvepDIj2TaZJ3tt9s1g71704gOem2Vvb2Vsj5KYlAuO5PSHjJWrOOQglYLHt1EAMYf-QNAD94tf_/s400/DioneLee2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A letter to those who I do not know, have never met or haven't seen in years, distant relatives, friends of friends, who know nothing of how I was raised or what I was forced to endure while under the guardianship of my father:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I know you mean well. And I appreciate your efforts. I understand your calls, your inbox messages, your prayers, your letters, your requests, your tear-filled pleas. Though, what you may find interesting is that not one person in my immediate family has asked the same of me that you have asked. This is because they were there. This is because they know. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'll be frank. My father is not a good man. He is good at things that he does, but the two are not the same. A lot of people would say that all parents do the best they can with what they have or what they know. I disagree. While this may be true for most, there are some people who have good tools at their immediate disposal but who actively choose not to use them. There are some people who choose chaos, tyranny and deception instead.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My parents lost their first son during his birth. My parents lost their second son to suicide when he was almost 16 years old. My parents weren't planning on having me, but here I am. My parents divorced when I was almost 10 years old. That my brother and I were left to survive the brutal and unforgiving upbringing provided by my father while my mother escaped for her own survival to a far away state is tragic. My brother did not survive and I narrowly escaped at age 18, just three short days after high school graduation.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In short, I have done the work and have come through the tyranny to the best of my own ability. For the remainder of my life, my upbringing will effect me in ways I am not even capable of identifying. I am now at peace with this. In fact, I've done a great deal of work to get to this place. So has my loving mother. My father has not. My father refuses to do any work, to accept any responsibility.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I invited him to join in on my work. Sheepishly, he joined two sessions. I asked him to continue the work on his own so that we could heal together and form a new bond. He refused. Beyond refusing, he defamed me to my family and my childhood community. To this very day, he continues to defame me and accept zero responsibility. I asked him again to do the work. And again, he refused. I told him that if he did the work I would know. That our family would convey it without prompting. That it would become evident in everything that he did. He refused. I told him that if he didn't do the work, I would be forced to sever ties with him. He refused.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I had to return cards and letters. I had to block phone calls. I had to inform those close to me of the tragedies that had led me to this labored decision. I have asked that those around me respect this decision - that unless they have experienced what I had that they could not understand. Most have respected this. And when pressed, I explain, and they then understand.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Right now, there are distant cousins and long lost friends of his and childhood friends of mine who still live in that community who expect that I am sympathetic to a dying man. And I am. To a fault, I am a highly compassionate human. But that does not require me to open myself up to the grievances of a man who would continue to harm me to his dying day. A few years ago, I said goodbye to the idealistic version of him that he never came close to being. And since that moment, I have never experienced a greater sense of peace. To consider letting him back in simply because he is ill is not an option. I've said everything I ever needed to say to him and he actively refused to listen. I was forced to say goodbye. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At this point, I want nothing from him but for him to consider the great harm he has inflicted in the choices that he has made across his vast lifetime, to acknowledge there is a problem, then to let it go and move forward - to forgive himself. Yet, he continues to refuse.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For my family and friends who continue to quietly support me in this decision, I thank you. And for those who cannot imagine the horrors I've personally experienced that have contributed to my decision, I ask you to step outside of your personal belief and respect my personal distance from this man. I wish no harm to come his way. His way is the reckoning of his own creation. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">While I cannot change the past, and while what's lost is lost, I can attempt to successfully clear the future of my own reckoning. And, that future is beautifully peaceful. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I wish you each all the best. I pray that your father and your mother (like my mother) loved you unconditionally, and that they did the best they could with what was provided to them - that they chose the best tools. I pray that you love your own children and grandchildren in that same spirit. I mean this. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Most sincerely,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dione</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Torrance, CA, USA33.8358492 -118.3406287999999933.730331199999995 -118.50199029999999 33.9413672 -118.17926729999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-19123607674785907602013-07-16T13:31:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.507-07:00I've Got My Namaste<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">I started Bikram Yoga this month and am currently taking part in a 30-day (30 classes in 30 days) challenge. That first day was exhilarating! I've taken many yoga classes in my lifetime mostly involving Vinyasa Flow. I'd never experienced Bikram when I signed up for it and for the challenge. I only knew that a few of my friends love it and that it is hot! Hot like 105 degrees hot (Although today I noticed that the thermostat read 108.6 degrees!). Considering this heat, I was concerned (though not greatly) about breathing, claustrophobia, and vertigo. But mostly I was concerned about keeping up the commitment. I know myself. I know this is a challenge for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Day one went lovely. Fears negated, I didn't have a problem with the heat, didn't have a problem breathing, didn't get claustrophobic, and didn't experience vertigo.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On day two, I was fatigued. This was to be expected, getting back into some sort of physical activity usually carries on me for a few days even if I've slept well. This is good. This is change.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Day three felt good but day four struck me. I cried through most of class. Positions were difficult, muscles and tendons were sore, the extent to which I had let myself go was horribly apparent. I had to let it go. And, I did. I left it there on the yoga studio floor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since mid-June, I've taken a renewed approach to eating clean. For me this means doing more research on eating Paleo. My household has been largely Paleo for a few years now but since a flu over the holidays, I had slipped off my strictness and had allowed daily consumption of bread back into my life. Regular amounts of bread is not a good thing for me. I see an immediate difference when I introduce or eliminate bread from my diet. And boy do I love to eat bread! I love toast with my coffee, or buttered toasted bagels. This is a great discipline for me for resist the temptation of good bread. But, I did it. I may indulge from time to time but mostly I avoid it and I certainly don't allow it into my home. Sure, there are many other things that I am addressing at the same time, but bread has been my greatest immune system assault.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, with this combined effort of eating clean and daily Bikram, I feel a tremendous difference. The weight is shedding slowly. My endurance and breath is improving. My definition is returning. My endorphins are kind to me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I joke that I brought my luggage to yoga class with me and set it down on my mat. This because I am 44 years old now. When I went through this in CrossFit, my friend Rob sent me a CrossFit Journal article about age and the life span of injuries you accumulate over the years and how you address this in your workouts. Its simple fact that we accumulate a list of challenges and so we need to face them, work through them. I've mentioned a short list of these personal challenges above, but I more recently encountered a couple more and big ones at that. Two years ago, I stopped CrossFitting, hiking and yoga-ing because of extreme pain in my ribs, lower back, hip, and emanating around my side, through my groin and almost all the way down my right leg. The more fitness I pursued, the more pain I encountered, but not during the workout. The pain would wake me in the middle of the night, like a dagger in my ribs, bringing me to tears and eventually sobs and cries.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzXyF2h6rTa2kFWTlJ0uBfTgW44-jGTm6FqCQdOVzyOULqt_9eg15ABN5Wh_ICEqa9oU8wk3pW1Djtni3yUcmK7MZud01twpVUpOuJ-oic1mUg2JtjP4-7VLw2gWlxRI0XVFX0PwqioMU/s1600/DioneLifting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzXyF2h6rTa2kFWTlJ0uBfTgW44-jGTm6FqCQdOVzyOULqt_9eg15ABN5Wh_ICEqa9oU8wk3pW1Djtni3yUcmK7MZud01twpVUpOuJ-oic1mUg2JtjP4-7VLw2gWlxRI0XVFX0PwqioMU/s640/DioneLifting.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deadlifts at Paradiso CrossFit (2010)</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The doctor said, "Oh! You've got quite a case of arthritis in your back and a nice little sway in your lumbar. Did you know you have lumbar scoliosis?" At this point in my life, I had been expecting the arthritis but the scoliosis took me by surprise. Once I got past the shock and to the point of acceptance, it was, however, nice to have an answer, nice to have something to work with. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I have to tell you, that pain is a major bitch. I set-out to conquer it. And when I CrossFit my ass off or yoga regularly, the pain remains. My attitude and proclamation is such that I would rather be fit and in pain than to sit around crying about it and in pain. No matter what I do, the pain is there, so it is better to fight through it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzd-MWHUtMMPyH1z5ZdNle_zfiEwXk-AO_0fADjmgCbDDSYywsGFdTUnRG5e83N6Zy22bVz0c6cUO-pg1IrPqZxcob0fWAcwe1CJu_rZyPOYjKKN48mfJMG0rmYxlE2wcTAon0QyJu3y7/s1600/06192013DioneCrossFit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzd-MWHUtMMPyH1z5ZdNle_zfiEwXk-AO_0fADjmgCbDDSYywsGFdTUnRG5e83N6Zy22bVz0c6cUO-pg1IrPqZxcob0fWAcwe1CJu_rZyPOYjKKN48mfJMG0rmYxlE2wcTAon0QyJu3y7/s640/06192013DioneCrossFit.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sit-ups at CrossFit Zen (2013)</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">So this is where I am in my Bikram and clean eating regimen. Every day when I attempt a Bikram position, the position comes easier for me. As I check my position in the mirror, I see a me that is changing shape. I don't yet feel lighter, but things are definitely moving. And, Sunday afternoon I put on a blouse that I hadn't fit into for about 3 years. Happy me! I keep pursuing the clean eating. After discovering that my new found love for peppers in my morning scramble was actually causing [night shades] inflammation that was waking me in the night with stabbing pains in my hand and feet, I simply made another adjustment, eliminated the night shades, and in a few days time the pain subsided.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm pushing through. My body hurts but my mind and my mood is benefiting tremendously. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With that, I share with you a little something that one of my mentors shared today. A moment of thankfulness for all that I've got, a message from Nina Simone: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/L5jI9I03q8E?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com03000 Flournoy Road, Manhattan Beach, CA 90266, USA33.898007 -118.40705833.8452825 -118.487739 33.950731499999996 -118.32637700000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-17110461755482740532013-04-24T14:18:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.560-07:00Bears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">He sits. He chews. He spits. Into a rusty coffee can, his chaw hits. <br /><br />Gaze ever forward. Whiskers grey. Tired eyes.<br /><br />Hat cocked back, he hunches. <br /><br />On most days, he whittles the time away. <br /><br />Film flickering. Projector heat. Mono audio. His age is old.<br /><br />Matinee children butter drip as he did way back when. <br /><br />Dreaming escape from this small town, this meager main street, this job turned inadvertent career, this life boxed up in a grey wool bow. <br /><br />Sugar laden shrills are temporary. <br /><br />He switches out the reel just as he's have done before him as none in future will.<br /><br />Through the dusty glass he sees dusty screen of images past vanquished hopes and dreams.<br /><br />He suppresses memory. Looking back means looking forward, and today is what matters. <br /><br />Remington knife from pocket pulled. Nails cleaned and back to wood.<br /><br />Little bears and big bears and medium sized bears. <br /><br />Kids like carved bears. Old ladies not so much. Old men put them on their porch or in their lawn.<br /><br />When he was young, his Grandpa laid story of a man who once killed an Appalachian bear.<br /><br />This never set well with him.<br /><br />Again, he switches the reel.<br /><br />Teaching girl and military man hop into car and drive away with stringed cans.<br /><br />How often this story has shown.<br /><br />Often into sunset they slip away from main street from this small town from this inadvertent life.<br /><br />Mothers gather children and file out of seated rows. Slow exhales. There is roast to be cooked.<br /><br />He sits. He chews. He spits. Into a rusty coffee can, his chaw hits. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dione 04/24/2012 @ 2:16PM<br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com03000 Flournoy Road, Manhattan Beach, CA 90266, USA33.898007 -118.4070587.4759239999999991 -159.715652 60.32009 -77.098464tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-4459213952306270442013-04-24T11:03:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.570-07:00I was me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: right;">Kicked, spattered, spanked</div><div style="text-align: right;">I smiled</div><div style="text-align: right;">Belittled, neglected, abused</div><div style="text-align: right;">I hoped</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">I was bartender</div><div style="text-align: right;">I was egg collector</div><div style="text-align: right;">I was calf feeder</div><div style="text-align: right;">Still I believed</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">I was 7</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Little Red Riding Hood</div><div style="text-align: right;">Youngest of 3</div><div style="text-align: right;">1 dead</div><div style="text-align: right;">1 dead to be</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">I was Midwestern</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Isolated, perfected, subjected</div><div style="text-align: right;">I cried</div><div style="text-align: right;">Dominated, berated, restricted</div><div style="text-align: right;">I tried</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">I was <i>me.</i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Dione 04/24/2013 10:55AM</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13000 Flournoy Road, Manhattan Beach, CA 90266, USA33.898007 -118.4070588.3759725000000032 -159.715652 59.420041499999996 -77.098464tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-22528700063623100132012-05-01T11:25:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.615-07:00What May Day means to me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://explorepahistory.com/kora/files/1/2/1-2-18DF-25-ExplorePAHistory-a0l9q9-a_349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="453" id="il_fi" src="http://explorepahistory.com/kora/files/1/2/1-2-18DF-25-ExplorePAHistory-a0l9q9-a_349.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was a child, I would visit my Grandmother Hazel Grayson often. As my parents had been divorced and my Mom moved to California, Grandma Hazel stepped up to mother me as much as possible. We did so many things together that I would consider "womanly". This woman (then in her 70's/80's) taught me to bake, to enjoy the fruits of such baking efforts, to embrace family, holidays and culture. Every year she would have me over to bake sizable amounts of Christmas cookies and holiday pies and cakes. She also had me over for May Day. And when I would arrive, I would find a small homemade basket (decorated in spring colors of green, pink, purple, light blue and yellow) hanging from something or sitting on the kitchen table waiting for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Grandma Hazel would get so excited and happy to see my reaction to this candy filled treat. She would laugh and giggle. This memory still warms me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQLpuQlkJ9RYpLf9Y0YoOxk3e3PsgNHnU8-h99y48-7riYa5fHo" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="272" data-width="185" height="400" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQLpuQlkJ9RYpLf9Y0YoOxk3e3PsgNHnU8-h99y48-7riYa5fHo" width="271" /></a>As I explored and savored the candies I found inside the basket, she would tell of times throughout her childhood where the neighborhood kids would all get together to celebrate the day. They would meet at a park or on one of the farms where there would be dancing around a May pole, fun and feasting. She said that if you were liked by a boy, he would hang a May basket on your door knob, ring the bell or knock on the door and then run away to hide so he could watch you from afar as you came out only to find the spring treat and wonder who left it for you. She said that this also was something that friends would do for one another as an expression of their friendship.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I never experienced May Day like this with anyone but my Grandmother. I found it to be a wonderfully warm expression of her love for me and my brother. And, when my Mom was still living with us in South Dakota, Grandma Hazel would help us create May baskets for her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Somehow, in my life in California, this tradition has slipped from my grasp. I have not necessarily passed it on to my own daughter. I do hope that I remember to pass it on to my Grandchildren. In the meantime, every single May Day that comes to me reminds me of my Grandmother Hazel's loving kindness. And that tradition -- of passing on loving kindness -- is what matters to me most.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13000 Flournoy Road, Manhattan Beach, CA 90266, USA33.898007 -118.40705833.898007 -118.407058 33.898007 -118.407058tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-39943811138030616512011-08-17T13:24:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.626-07:00Ella me conocía cuando era conocido como "Red".<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><br /> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAGbXl9a-MsLwbtV1ESMStYPhOdSX_WaPYDiqR9P5rqoilFqQQICgYx2YiAjcmjJDvkVH9_6MzvCMln5MfmbZh7aUod9zQPWOPX1j_9C2sQuY4G1640B24Hd6p7kLOFOWc4p8cRx-c63_/s1600/BrendaYDione.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAGbXl9a-MsLwbtV1ESMStYPhOdSX_WaPYDiqR9P5rqoilFqQQICgYx2YiAjcmjJDvkVH9_6MzvCMln5MfmbZh7aUod9zQPWOPX1j_9C2sQuY4G1640B24Hd6p7kLOFOWc4p8cRx-c63_/s320/BrendaYDione.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><br /> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="hps">Brenda</span> <span class="hps">y yo en</span> <span class="hps">un</span> <span class="hps">partido de fútbol</span> <span class="hps">USC</span> <span class="hps">Trojans</span>, <span class="hps">2010.</span></span></td></tr><br /> </tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><br /> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNOGYdLQglIeHiZfaCnjjKMXK7yAmaIG5mUw05e0T4xNWlqpBQOcrlDVxChO_yrBBzn80jT_9VaG1Js9bc0i4rzttIMqnqZ1goAbpXeRed0koj-k4uCxx2LxrUlCGHXkvZbpm14gC6FG5/s1600/BunDione.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNOGYdLQglIeHiZfaCnjjKMXK7yAmaIG5mUw05e0T4xNWlqpBQOcrlDVxChO_yrBBzn80jT_9VaG1Js9bc0i4rzttIMqnqZ1goAbpXeRed0koj-k4uCxx2LxrUlCGHXkvZbpm14gC6FG5/s320/BunDione.jpg" width="172" /></a></td></tr><br /> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patience and Red in 2002</td></tr><br /> </tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">She knew me when I was known as "Red". That's my friend Brenda I'm talking about. She likes to joke with me about how she knew the person that I was before I pursued my undergraduate education versus the person that I am now. And mostly, she is correct. I believe we met somewhere around the year 2000 when I was day jobbing as an Executive Assistant to the CEO and in-house legal counsel at Edwards Theatres Management in Newport Beach. However, we met while I was moonlighting as a Band Manager for a local funk band and a hotshot for an independent music label in Cerritos. I was dating the lead of the band that I was managing and she was in a longterm relationship with the drummer. We instantly bonded, though I must have not been sober enough to recall the actual moment of meeting. Doh! That might be a lie. I have visions, they're just a little blurry. Let's see. There was a small dark club and the band and was there a cowboy hat? Oh wow. Its coming back now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The strange thing is that as much as I was a party girl (I'm fortunate to have survived those years in spite of myself), I was also more serious in terms of general mood. Now I try to be less serious by laughing so much more often while taking care of business. This is a difficult line for me to tow. So, in the spirit of a good time while improving character, Brenda has invited me to join her on a twelve day trip in Spain. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During the last week of September and into the first week of October, Brenda and I will fly into Madrid and fly out of Barcelona. How we navigate in between is completely at our discretion. Instead of creating a new travel blog, I've decided to convert "Dione du Jour" to "Dione de España" for the time that I will be planning and embarking upon our trip. If you've got any suggestions or words of warning, please post those comments here. We look forward to the dialog!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hasta la próxima, tener un gran día!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-62224500342060274252011-05-25T14:13:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.671-07:00Wednesday Morning Book Club: "Rise and Shine" by Anna Quindlen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWe5hGTTe1uKb4c3h15WIMnTwvhkogWjyRAyHM5H4yz7lI6vp9zXltiB_jkvxKZRTbxCigT-PCXBhizg7i7B9wQnRJSBGeMx621HxLzxURnda0Bad2hHnfRRv4wEPJFPtN1_LtSpe9xam/s1600/Dione.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWe5hGTTe1uKb4c3h15WIMnTwvhkogWjyRAyHM5H4yz7lI6vp9zXltiB_jkvxKZRTbxCigT-PCXBhizg7i7B9wQnRJSBGeMx621HxLzxURnda0Bad2hHnfRRv4wEPJFPtN1_LtSpe9xam/s320/Dione.jpg" t8="true" width="320px" /></a></div><br />Today was my book club meeting where we discussed <iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=didujoorno-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0345505328&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: right; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>"Rise and Shine" by Anna Quindlen. I had a hell of a time getting my hands on this book due to some bizarre glitch in the half.com system where books that had already been sold were still listed for sale. Dang it! So, I ordered another and the same thing happened. For my third attempt, I ordered the book at regular price through Barnes and Noble. Had it not been such a busy week, I would have notice how far this would put me behind and just picked up the book from the library as is the original intention of our book club, but that would be far too logical. We have two weeks to read each book and, by the time I received this one, there were just over two days left. <br /><br />So, Monday morning I set out to voraciously read and was surprised at the ease of this book. By the end of day one, I was a little more than a third of the way through the 269 page book. I probably would have made it through sooner if I didn't have to compensate for my poor vocabulary skills by constantly looking up words. Sure, I can gain a gist through context, but I like to take the effort to gain clarification. I did a lot of that with this particular book. <br /><br />By the time I met with my book club to discuss, I had gotten up to page 171 - almost one hundred pages yet to go. And I might have finished thousepages were it not my turn in the book club to present suggestions for an upcoming read. Although I had been researching choices by asking friends and looking up reviews, I had not officially compiled the list until yesterday. The good thing is that while they asked me to present about three choices, I came with seven. It is very important to me to not disappoint. My first choice had already been read by the group and boy were they excited when I mentioned it "Ohhhhhhhhh! Yes! We've read that one already." The response was enough to confirm that I should read it on my own. I described my second choice and asked them if they like it or should I go on offering choices. They were pleased and let me stop. Funny thing was that while we were waiting for the book club to begin, there was chat about how a good mystery would be welcome and someone made the comment, "Do we ever consider writers who aren't American?" Turns out, the book I suggested was both a mystery and written by a European man. <br /><br />My first choice book that they had already read -- "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society<iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=didujoorno-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0385340990&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: right; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>" by Mary Ann Shafer and Annie Barros (2008)<br /><br />My second choice book that they are anxious to read -- "Amagansett<iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=didujoorno-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0425205800&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: right; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>" (sometimes referred to as "The Whaleboat House") by Mark Mills (2004)<br /><br />One of the ladies at the club is from Long Island and knows how to properly pronounce this name. She said it has roots in Native American Indian heritage. It will be nice to tap into her personal insight as she said she spent some time in Amagansett as a child.<br /><br />This leaves five other choices left on my list that I can save until it is my turn again. At this moment, I would like to thank Nicole [St. Pierre] Morris and Jane St. Pierre for these two suggestions. Thank you!<br /><br />Now, back to "Rise and Shine." As I said above, this book is a quick read. Its fairly uncomplicated and offers no real message. It is simply a nice story about two sisters who live diametrically opposed lifestyles yet seem to maintain an inexplicable bond or need between them. They rely upon one another. The protagonist is a social worker and her sister is a morning show host for a national network. When the hosts life starts to unfurl after a dasterdly on-air emotional breakdown, the sister is left to pick up the pieces. <br /><br />The ladies in my book club tell me that they were disappointed with the happy ending this book provides all nicely tied up with a pretty bow. I will have to find out for myself when I conquer those last hundred pages. If you've read it, I'd love to know your opinion on this.<br /><br />I think in contrast to Margaret Atwoods "Surfacing", this book ("Rise and Shine") was a welcome no-brainer that we didn't have to fret much over. So the general consensus was that the girls in the club liked it, minus the ending. Huh. I think they didn't like the end of "Surfacing" either. I'm sensing a pattern. Ha!<br /><br />Today we also had a new member join in much the same way that I did a month ago. And, apparently my friend from Long Island had joined just before me. So I inquired as to why business was suddenly booming within the group and the ladies said that the head librarian had been promoting the group. I hope that this is good. We sure wouldn't want the group to get too big to be fun anymore. We shall see.<br /><br />I'm happy to say that I not only survived another meeting but actually did well and quite enjoyed the experience. <br /><br />If you'd like to join in on the discussion, up next for reading are:<br />1st) "The House of Mirth<iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=didujoorno-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=1439169497&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: right; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>" by Edith Wharton (1905); and,<br />2nd) "Amagansett" by Mark Mills (2004).<br /><br />I love that my group chooses books that are written 100 years apart. Thank goodness they are not stuck in any particular timeframe or genre. Love love LOVE them!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-8336786996816635972011-05-11T15:43:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.683-07:00Wednesday Morning Book Club: "Surfacing" by Margaret Atwood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=didujoorno-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0385491050&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: right; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJ5sNxBlrnzhUCBUD1rTwSFBqIn7v0F_xNHKMQL0Ok0mkfni1gVwkbIDKB-uH6hT1AApeuV_yPh5BIMOjOm860OP83-rbWQz66mA7ivJ3-HENk-vLYoZNlriHpjdLPxyi7sOON_52Xm_5/s1600/Surfacing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRJ5sNxBlrnzhUCBUD1rTwSFBqIn7v0F_xNHKMQL0Ok0mkfni1gVwkbIDKB-uH6hT1AApeuV_yPh5BIMOjOm860OP83-rbWQz66mA7ivJ3-HENk-vLYoZNlriHpjdLPxyi7sOON_52Xm_5/s320/Surfacing.png" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At home with my first book club book, amidst my piles of writing research. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why clean when you can read instead?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So how much do I love my new book group?! Oh holy cow. I never realized exactly how much happiness discussing a good book brings to me. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two weeks ago, I dropped into my local library to inquire about volunteering. While waiting for my volunteer application, I stood around reading all the little flyers and information signs and saw that they had a summer book group for teens. So, I asked, "Do you have a book group for adults?"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Why yes. In fact, they are getting ready to meet right now. Would you like to meet them?" the Librarian replied.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tapping into my inner sister, Nicole, I snapped out a reply, "Yes, please!" and was quickly escorted into a small sideroom. She introduced me to the group who welcomed me and invited me to have a seat. The Librarian excused herself and there I sat. I was completely unprepared and had a burrito waiting for me in the car. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yet, there I sat with eight little white haired ladies - ladies with names like Eunice and Ginger. One of them is 87 years old. They were discussing a book. They said it was the prequel to Jane Austen's "Emma" and they didn't much care for it. The ladies discussed the book in earnest, respectfully debating one anothers perspective. They kept it brief, speaking on the book for a mere 60 minutes, and then they smiled their good-byes and went about their day until the next meeting in two weeks time.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I fell in love. I've always respected the wisdom and experience of elder persons. I mean, I know how I feel at forty-two and how the world weighs on me, so I clearly respect that they are still here and still smiling. Life is hard so that smile is valuable to me. So in recognition of all that this group had to offer, I signed up and ordered my first book for the next session, "Surfacing" by Margaret Atwood.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Diligently, I read myself into sickness. I have a difficult time making reading my priority, so this was a challenge for me. Then, when I finally would commit to reading, my eyes would give out. I'm past due for a new glasses perscription, so I literally did get sick - headache, nausea, light sensitivity. Fun stuff. But, I enjoyed the read.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we discussed the book in todays meeting, there were mixed reactions. Most of the ladies said that they liked the first third or two-thirds of the book. It has three parts. The first is fairly status quo, the second gets a little tricky and the third section takes you into the deep end. And, if you are not accostomed to reading literature with an analytical eye, the ending to this book can clearly pull you under and drown you. I think a lot of the ladies just got out of the pool. Ha!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I was nervous. I didn't want to be the freshly graduated smarty pants, yet I wanted to be seen as a valuable contributor to the group. So, my hope was that a few of the ladies would speak about the book before they turned to me. However, Ginger introduced the book, gave an extremely slight reaction to it, announced she would like to know what everyone else thought and immediately turned to me, "Dione, what did you think?" </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gulp.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First up with little premise to go on, I went blank. So, I nervously chatted about how I buy the book versus checking it out from the library (likely the whole purpose of our group is to keep the library in business by checking out books every two weeks). I show them the highlights in my paperback while nervously looking at all faces for reactions and frantically trying to remember what it was I wanted to say about the book. And, not helpful in the least, was the facial expression of one of the ladies who looked mortified that I would ink up a book like that. I quickly recollected the author and that I had read only one of her books before, "The Handmaid's Tale" for a moral philosophy class I took in my undergrad at USC (I actually passed this book to my sister, Nicole, a few years back). At this point, I told myself that I better produce something valuable to say and stop clambering or soon they would doubt letting me walk in the door. So I blurted out something in reference to having never read anything relative to the hippie era before and how I welcomed that idea, and that I agreed with them about the first two sections but found the third section to be quite supernatural and wasn't yet certain how I felt about it. This was all they needed from me and Ginger asked the next lady to speak on it.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat back, exhaled and then kicked myself. But when I saw that they were open to comments on their responses, I felt at ease that I hadn't lost all chances of contribution and am certainly confident enough to re-enter the discussion should the opportuinity arise.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The discussion continued around the table and interjections were welcome. I felt compelled to explicate on a few areas of ambiguity and quickly earned the respect of my fellow literary ladies. In fact, at a certain point when we seemed to be done discussing, one of them introduced a slight idea of metaphor and I womped them with a big one, stating clearly that this was purely my opinion and forgive me if I'm reaching but, "It seems to me that the lake in this book is a metaphor for the protagonist's womb and, given the era, a speak on feminism. Consider that most of the characters in this book are male and that only the males enter the water. And, that the water is dangerous. Her father died there. Her brother almost drowned there. She had an incident there. Numerous men appear in the lake, men who we don't know. There is a fence surrounding the cabin to keep you safe from the water..."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gulp, again.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A momentary pause and the group buzzed in discussion once again. All but one thought this was a remarkable theory that offered new perspective. Ginger announced, "Well, maybe we actually <em>did</em> like this story afterall!" as she laughed. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The risk paid off and I was welcomed in with warmth and smiles. They said I brought a new perspective to the group and they were glad I joined. Yay! Abound in getting-to-know-you conversation, Ginger walked me to my car. Being a UCLA grad, she teased me for coming from USC, calling it a terrible terrible school, as she chuckled some more. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I left feeling happy and renewed. I've already ordered my next set of books for reading and am quite excited about this social journey that also feeds my literary geekdom.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you'd like to join in on the discussion, up next for reading are:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1st) <a href="http://product.half.ebay.com/Rise-and-Shine-by-Anna-Quindlen-2008-Paperback-Reprint/63843494&tg=info">"Rise and Shine" by Anna Quindlen</a>; and,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2nd) <a href="http://product.half.ebay.com/The-House-of-Mirth-by-Anita-Brookner-Edith-Wharton-1995-Paperback-Reprint/14250&tg=info">"The House of Mirth" by Edith Wharton</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I found both books on <a href="http://half.com/">half.com</a> for 75 cents apiece. After that, its up to me to bring a reading suggestion to the group. Whatever it will be, I hope they like it.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Read on, Sisters. Read on!</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-75138428529768176572011-05-08T10:21:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.728-07:00Happy Mothers Day, Mom!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5W05kTFSglGka9H2PsFXOpoTmzANsrxJfgl6mrTp1obpnCuSrOdZL78_h7jKgRH0qG8Pie_xPJR3HgkPtKD_9HGqxCigt-P6U7ULeHkSl3oxQ76fVzGHOc5KRtWtBlFR81hruDzT0stOX/s1600/MothersDay2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5W05kTFSglGka9H2PsFXOpoTmzANsrxJfgl6mrTp1obpnCuSrOdZL78_h7jKgRH0qG8Pie_xPJR3HgkPtKD_9HGqxCigt-P6U7ULeHkSl3oxQ76fVzGHOc5KRtWtBlFR81hruDzT0stOX/s320/MothersDay2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dione, Judy, Lee - Grayson Farm, 1971</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqgvzvNXo1gWfjmhEpVAfQCt3QpEcU4BLtRgtnaFQC1S4fwDnaQSwc0BaO5zteUQAhA4mIu8VQUhwnirF5jZgIhIftltvqiLp5MSCxM3kSZtkTyKOTk7y8DN22pKNKdHMf2QeFVwCGw5F/s1600/MothersDay2011d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqgvzvNXo1gWfjmhEpVAfQCt3QpEcU4BLtRgtnaFQC1S4fwDnaQSwc0BaO5zteUQAhA4mIu8VQUhwnirF5jZgIhIftltvqiLp5MSCxM3kSZtkTyKOTk7y8DN22pKNKdHMf2QeFVwCGw5F/s320/MothersDay2011d.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mom is a pillar. What she has endured in her lifetime boggles my mind. And yet, she has been nothing but pure love to me for my entire my life. She is kind, gentle, pleasant, loving. She tried her best when we were little to bake us yummies and fry us pork chops and sew us costumes of gypsies and super heros. She took us to 4-H and Lutheran Sunday School for a bit, doing everything she could think of to encourage us. She helped me with my homework and taught me tricks in 4th grade math that I still use today. She shared the gift of music with me by singing her heart out shamelessly during Saturday morning housecleaning and trips to town for groceries. But most of all, she smiled. She smiled and she hugged. And she still does. Through her own discomforts in life, she has smiled and laughed and hugged away every single little boo-boo I've ever encountered. My mother is real and down-to-earth and never self-serving. And I try my best to model my own behavior after hers when parenting my beautiful daughter, Patience.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you, Mom. I love you!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBTZdLSpvIcDQun5sCDEKxlkameqTZRhi_0ZwKiO3kdcVATBzQUILrc0WBelh8gxUkB03lYytTuBp4eCJ517Kwr3UmC8wsVxN6IsP4BvIcVY6Zvjy8xj7CKCcL8nNJi97cOHLbhdGqeM0/s1600/MothersDay2011c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBTZdLSpvIcDQun5sCDEKxlkameqTZRhi_0ZwKiO3kdcVATBzQUILrc0WBelh8gxUkB03lYytTuBp4eCJ517Kwr3UmC8wsVxN6IsP4BvIcVY6Zvjy8xj7CKCcL8nNJi97cOHLbhdGqeM0/s400/MothersDay2011c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mothers Day, May 1978</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQTp4Z18xAiWcF_m2FRtA69eGCZz5ubt6_zu7u-G1kge-W2ad3f2v1F4rRHmkuLEp1CzJO_xYxY3mg5x64qKxQ_5b7t4JYYOtBx6CyXOeYc3Q1Ihf3CP9qKMeLxe-cOiqv-x8zrd3DoDZ/s1600/MothersDay2011b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQTp4Z18xAiWcF_m2FRtA69eGCZz5ubt6_zu7u-G1kge-W2ad3f2v1F4rRHmkuLEp1CzJO_xYxY3mg5x64qKxQ_5b7t4JYYOtBx6CyXOeYc3Q1Ihf3CP9qKMeLxe-cOiqv-x8zrd3DoDZ/s320/MothersDay2011b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-14745136883905537182011-04-25T16:06:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.740-07:00Back Doors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2gzz5W-XMshPUrV-iV0aStR0J59F8ipYm_Q6T0qIj1m036S9ZBmr9WDT2wkjCx2gZggN4XvFxBrIW5oqRSnwsoBWl-Rx-cEKXx_KJTXWXIY4Qgpdl3xiqC8bUHOchGYSVtcgx2IcbhM9/s1600/DorisLorraineHomeInColton1913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2gzz5W-XMshPUrV-iV0aStR0J59F8ipYm_Q6T0qIj1m036S9ZBmr9WDT2wkjCx2gZggN4XvFxBrIW5oqRSnwsoBWl-Rx-cEKXx_KJTXWXIY4Qgpdl3xiqC8bUHOchGYSVtcgx2IcbhM9/s640/DorisLorraineHomeInColton1913.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">Grandma Doris and Great-Aunt Lorraine (Colton, South Dakota)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Where I grew up, in the south east area of South Dakota, side doors were most commonly what you used to enter and exit the house. These old farm houses had front doors, side doors and back doors. And, most of these doors were preceded by porch doors. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">In my house, we had French double doors in the front - a modification to the recent addition. There was a back porch door that led to the livingroom, and a side porch door for daily use. This led directly to the kitchen. Before you entered the yard or proceded up the front porch steps, you slid your shoes or workboots over the scraper so as to remove any excessive amounts of mud or manure. Then, you went through the outside porch door to the entry way where you removed your workclothes/coveralls and then tip-toe sprinted to the bathroom for your evening bath before dinner. </span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">This side door was the one that was used and abused to the point of wear in the paint and wood and a loose door knob. It didn't matter whose home you were in, there was always a special slam or adjustment that had to be used so that this door didn't blow back open by the heady prairie winds, letting in every fly in the tri-county area. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">I can recall visiting school friends on regular days where we would enter through these types of door just off the kitchen, often times to run into their "old man" sipping his afternoon coffee and having a couple cookies or a slice of cake before heading back out to his fieldwork and evening chores. There he would sit quietly, hat messed hair strewn about above him with dust settled on his sunburnt face except where his hat had been. And there was always a hat. In fact, for every single friend and cousin's home that I can recall at this moment, we entered through that side porch kitchen door. </span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">The actual backdoor was rarely used, if ever. Mostly it was hidden from visiters by the grove of trees that surrounded the house. From the inside, this door was also hidden by a stack of boxes, an old piano, a couch, a summer bed. I think we used our backdoor for my wedding two years ago, but never for the 13 years I lived on that farm. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">My Grandma Hazel's backdoor was an entry to her basement, which had another door right there leading to the livingroom. I recall using that door once and likely only out of curiousity. Never ever do I remember that door being used for any other circumstance.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">To the east of us, Old Erwin Peterson lived in the house on his family's bicentennial homestead. This was quite a large and impressive home, painted yellow with white trim. Up the walkway, past the creaky old windmill, you could enter either via decending the steps to the basement door or by climbing the steps to his side porch door. Never ever ever did he use the front door.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">To the north of us, Elmont Baker and his wife always used the side door. Again, never ever ever the back door or the front door.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">On holidays, which always warranted a family gathering, no matter the house, the front door was cleared, dusted and used. Cob webs wiped away, and a good shove at the old door and Grandmas, Grandpas, Uncles, Aunts and Cousins were welcomed through that door. At my Grandma Hazel's, this door was on the front porch, in both the old farm house and the new house Grandpa built her in her 90's. For our house it was French doors with all the menfolk practically lifting Grandma up those steps as she smiled and laughed, jell-o and pie in her hands, net over her freshly curled hair.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">The end of those French double doors came when a large piece of sheet metal flew through those doors, practically killing my Dad and preventing him from seeking shelter in his basement, when <a href="http://www.chaseday.com/SDoutbreak-1.htm">the tornado came through his farm in 2003</a>. Most of our doors were spared that day, all except those of the other 11 buildings on his property that the tornado took that day. After the farm was rebuilt, Dad remodeled the house. The French doors had to go. But he built a new front door and a new side door and new back door.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Again, what all these side doors had in common was a direct entrance to the kitchen. There you were invited to join in morning or afternoon coffee. There amidst the smells of the days baking or lunches frying and the aroma (rarely faint) of the cattle or pig yard, there you would get a tasty homemade treat and would be privy to recent prices in corn, cattle and hogs and the expected weather.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">What I remember best about these doors though were the back doors and side doors that I used to knock on when I lived in Colton, South Dakota for one year, in 1979. My brother and I lived there with my Mom while my parents pursued a divorce. And, as I didn't have many friends there yet, I would wander and explore. And whats cool about these tiny midwestern towns is the lack of fences surrounding their homes. Lawn ran into lawn and plenty of kids would cut through the block on their way to school or the park or a friends or Grandma's house. During that summer, with my Mom at work and my brother off tormenting someone else, I would walk between these houses and greet the dogs and cats and birds and butterflies and flowers. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">One time in particular I recall talking to an elderly man in his driveway as he worked on a vintage car. He seemed happy for the conversation and invited me in for afternoon coffee. Entering through the back door, we went directly to the kitchen table where his wife served us cookies, cake, coffee for him and juice for me. She joined us and our conversation. But I remember asking him about the tatoos on his arms. There was an anchor and a pin-up girl. He told me about how he got these when he was a very young man in the navy. Then he showed me how he could make the girl dance by flexing his muscles. I was in awe and utter sugar-enhanced bliss. After coffee break, I thanked them and excused myself to return often times after that for afternoon coffee with my new friends.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">In the same town, there lived an elderly woman all alone in a decrepid old home that was grey from years of wear and lack of refresher paint. I was introduced to her by my one new girlfriend that summer who was actually my age, Angie Erickson. This frail little lady welcomed us in through the side door and, without hesitation, whipped us up some rootbeer floats. All three of us sat there laughing and talking with icecream float mustaches, slurping away. I definitely called upon her again, even without Angie.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">All those doors. Basic wooden side doors. Back doors and front doors with elaborate etching and scrolling that framed beautiful old circular glass. As I now type-up my Grandmother Doris's memoir, I wonder how many of those people knew who I was and who my parents and grandparents were. Likely they were even friends or relatives, but what we did was enjoy the time, enjoy the communion of friends and share in the moment that simply was. Perhaps that is why I take such a particular pride in inviting people to convene for coffee at my own diningroom table right next to the kitchen.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-27507903515758767692011-03-10T11:02:00.000-08:002015-06-22T14:17:08.785-07:00You are why I am here.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday afternoon, I went to USC campus for a meeting with the <a href="http://www.usc.edu/ntsaf">Norman Topping Student Aid Fund</a> of which I am a <a href="http://www.usc.edu/student-affairs/ntsaf/info_governing_board.shtml">Governing Board Member</a>. To avoid evening traffic, I arrived on campus a bit early for my meeting. My daughter, Patience, was involved in activities so I settled into a chair in the library to read away my time. I found out, however, that Patience did have time to see me for a few minutes so I set out to walk across campus to meet her. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While walking and texting in this unseasonably warm twilight, I encountered a girl who exuded this tremendous energy. She approached me, "Did you go to school here? Were you here in the last year or two? Did you cut your hair?" She had the warmest smile on her face and the most sparkling glimmer in her eyes. I was a little taken back but quickly reminded of the many times this has happened to me while I walked across this campus. I scanned her being and her beautiful face while searching the files in my memory for a match. There are many people that I spent plenty of time with but still more who's life intersected with mine for but a moment, a minute, an hour. And, it was clear to me now, that she was one of these remarkable beings. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here, she had on an 'SC sweatshirt and she was on her bike and we were gravitating toward Tommy Trojan. I confirmed her suspicions as a smile swept up inside me. Her energy grew stronger and her smile grew wider as she informed me, "Girl! I need to give you hug. I know you don't know who I am. But I told myself I would find you one day. If it took me ten years, I would find you and I would thank you for what you did for me."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These exacts moments are what its all about for me. Its that moment when I realize that something I've said to someone -- it could be something very very small -- something I've relayed about my own educational experience has connected with someone enough to give them what they need to pursue their own educational dream. Whether it is just letting them know that it is possible, that they have it within themselves, that despite all the roadblocks and walls they have encountered, or demons within themselves, that they can achieve their degree. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She said, "You are why I am here." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You are why I am here." I don't know if people understand what a statement like this does to your...your sense of worth. It is such a powerful statement and could be taken so many ways. But I feel compelled to share this moment, compelled to share how these statements affect me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She reminded me of something that I told her that set her on her path when she was unsure that a place like USC would ever take her. I offered her strategic advice, something simple, to read the school's (whichever school you are applying to) <a href="http://www.usc.edu/about/core_documents/role_and_mission_of_usc.html">Mission Statement</a>. I told her to see what it is that they were saying about themselves, then to find the parallels between their intentions for their student body and her intentions in being a part of that student body. I told her to spell it out to them that choosing her for their institution would not only be good for her but would also be good for USC. And this is what she did. But, beyond the tools and strategy, what I did was to share my personal story. And not in the "Oh, its all about me" way, but in the "I thought I wasn't worth it and I thought I couldn't do it until someone believed in me" way and "I'm here to tell you I believe in you and so should you. You should believe in you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know it sounds all sticky sweet and over the top. And, I don't apologize for that because where I am coming from is sincere. Where I am coming from is a place of experience where I heard "You never really wanted to go to college, did ya?" from the very person who should have demanded that I did so. I come from a place where I dabbled with college three times before someone recognized my ability and encouraged me to move forward. He encouraged me by blazing the path for himself and along the way just giving me little nudges, little suggestions, like tools. He handed me the tools to blaze my own path. And I find it almost impossible not to share the same with most anyone I encounter who has not yet been able to pursue their educational dreams. Education, for me, has been just that liberating. I am compelled to share the liberation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, its not me holding anybody's hand. I can tell you a million times how worthy and capable you are, and I can hand you a trillion tools, but if you don't believe it for yourself, its not going to happen for you. This is for anything in life. But there are some people out there who have been wandering around with the desire for education who simply need to hear it from one little person that they are capable of taking this on themselves. Here, here is one little tool. Now take what you know and rock it! And this girl did! She explained to me her process and her doubts and fears, and she showed me the fruits of her endeavor by standing there with her smiling gleeming self all clad in USC gear in the heart of campus.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What was interesting is that (aside from the fact that it had been two years since I had seen her, and that I almost didn't make that walk to see my daughter) I was on campus for the meeting with the <a href="http://www.usc.edu/student-affairs/ntsaf/info_governing_board.shtml">Governing Board</a> of the <a href="http://www.usc.edu/ntsaf">Norman Topping Student Aid Fund</a> because we are amidst our annual Freshman selection process for the scholarship. So, I was already gearing up for that very state of mind wherein opportunity lurks for more inspiration and more tools to be handed out to those who are capable and those who are worthy and those who have it already within themselves to embark on such a scary yet fulfilling path toward their educational dreams. I was here to pick-up my portion of the applications to evaluate for consideration. And she was reminding me why I signed-up for such an important position.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOb1qj1sUmuYzgZjwt-Mo9cuRYkE_8clz2ldmsInT3Gm2FuNg7rRxM-gG0QMZzefMT-vt0_Wxx-agM9ugdFlxQhOXSkcHJeW2HWJt3oMgi4igUbpbfTa0xKfVt7rp_6blUkNqMK0VYZzN9/s1600/DebbieClavon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOb1qj1sUmuYzgZjwt-Mo9cuRYkE_8clz2ldmsInT3Gm2FuNg7rRxM-gG0QMZzefMT-vt0_Wxx-agM9ugdFlxQhOXSkcHJeW2HWJt3oMgi4igUbpbfTa0xKfVt7rp_6blUkNqMK0VYZzN9/s400/DebbieClavon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This girl revealed to me that, although she looks like a girl, she is a woman just a few years my younger. She is married with children of her own. And, the way I see it, between she and I stands only one thing - that degree. She wants to know what it is like on the other side. I told her it is wonderful here. She is clearly on her path to get here but, in my mind, she has already arrived.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thank you, Debbie, for reminding me that I am worthy and capable. I see it in you. And <em>you</em>, Miss Debbie, are why <em>I</em> am here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0Lpc0FK_yqngxIXX_qNrfmeog18wvMX_0wAszyZuXSFmUbQq-wbhnfAeUeovcZCWKmtZS41aeloMgw6W3j07oItZB6m49mOdBOXiZZKzX7V9oBb_OoOFrSrCvsWF2obp4AHjoI8mIJ6T/s1600/Dione.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0Lpc0FK_yqngxIXX_qNrfmeog18wvMX_0wAszyZuXSFmUbQq-wbhnfAeUeovcZCWKmtZS41aeloMgw6W3j07oItZB6m49mOdBOXiZZKzX7V9oBb_OoOFrSrCvsWF2obp4AHjoI8mIJ6T/s400/Dione.bmp" width="400" /></a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-45367190310150689682011-01-28T12:37:00.000-08:002015-06-22T14:17:08.799-07:00Wednesday is Today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The rain drove down at an angle, solid. It has been pouring now for three days. Bunny's ears were gone, no longer peaked in their playful alert way. Detached from years of companionship. Years of bringing Bunny along by hanging onto his ears. Then that one painful moment of tearful tug-a-war induced by my brother. The ears came off but Bunny was loved just the same. Injured, yet loved. Bunny was my guy. Pink, green, yellow...all the colors of Easter drenched in finality. The rebirth squandered, disregarded, tossed out. As special as Sam Snake, who went early. Went first. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">There bunny was. Rain water atop kerosene. Dirty. Oily. Abandoned. Nose deep in the soot encrusted burn barrel. An old barn-red barrel about 80 gallons large. Solitary, it sits center yard under the sole yard light. One light. One light pole. A singular patch of grass. Barrel and Bunny. Abandoned bunny. Here since Sunday. Wednesday is today. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2aYPzHjBxk1VhW4PuBFUSh9qAv4_zcMVSDwfrEqrSDBxbHxnpQmDxigaVSIBuF-h2A7L_7Fju4MiKn6QB2kRbblER-cgZ2otVV6b7rn2F_E9ROqJKk43ecNY5o7p4NHoDDThjg3TTezv/s1600/DioneBunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2aYPzHjBxk1VhW4PuBFUSh9qAv4_zcMVSDwfrEqrSDBxbHxnpQmDxigaVSIBuF-h2A7L_7Fju4MiKn6QB2kRbblER-cgZ2otVV6b7rn2F_E9ROqJKk43ecNY5o7p4NHoDDThjg3TTezv/s400/DioneBunny.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Sunday brought us to see my Grandma. With Mommy half across the universe, I found comfort in Grandma. Never cross. Always shining happy and laughing. A laugh that emanates through the years. The smells of her and her kitchen haunt as they waft in smell memory. A day spent with her, shared lovingly with my brother and resentfully with my step-siblings. Often times we are forced to share our Grandmother Love with them. Step-mom placed the love scale on the table and the mound of my Grandma's love was set in the tray, heaping and oozing over the sides. It was weighed, measured. Sliced and divied up. With them. They who spent time with their Grandparents without us. They who got to see their Father every other weekend. We who saw our Mom maybe twice a year now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">After a beautiful Sunday with Grandma, we come home in time for evening chores. As Grandpa descends the driveway into the barnyard, he turns the circle around the pole. Dad and Step-Mom are west of the house, just outside the porch door. Burn barrel aflame, dolls crying, baby cribs shattered, children's games, stuffed animals distraught, various toys waiting their turn for the incinerator. Sitting in line. Sullen. Defeated. Neglected. Abandoned. In chains.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">In this overcrowded house, this blended home make-up, there are rules. Rules that must be abided by. Disregarding rules can lead to the cruelest of punishment. First, the outraged enforcer - an absolute anger-filled verbally abusive rampage of a temper tantrum, followed by a momentary pause, a deep breath, a rearing of the gargantuan hand and finished with the hit. The shove. The "Goddammit kid get your head outta your fucking ass before I pull it out for you!" The "What the fuck were you thinking?!" The "You dumb ass!" </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Younger years brought pants down, little bare bottomed girl laid sunny side up over his lap. Open handed brute force spankings from 5-inch-wide hands. Fingers like polish sausages. Older years brought cowboys booted kicks to the ass while being escorted across the lawn to finish something I had forgotten to do from my daily list. Brother endured worse. Step-sister remained untouched. Step-brother defenseless against the rage. Two years old, carried down the stairs with a softened alarmed beast, the minute boy bore a bruised eye, rivers of tears and a pathetic summation, "I think we may have gotten a little carried away. But we made up and we are buddies now." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">But today. Today is Wednesday. And Bunny gazes sullenly back at me. Bunny says, "Don't cry. You will be ok. Your brother will protect you. Don't worry about me. Don't cry." I stroke his cheek with my cow-feed encrusted cow-hide work gloves.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">The simplest of rules meant that your bed had to be made every morning. That there needed to be a clean floor in your bedroom. The rules didn't account for your two-year-old step-brother who might be intrigued by your items, while you are at school, and leave them on the floor.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Bunny was last in line. Once descended into the death chamber, Bunny was doused and lit aflame. But the sprinkles turned into drops of rain falling on Bunny's face and ears if nothing else but to grant us a last good-bye. But not a good-bye like this. Not three days of torturous detainment. From Sunday nights flames to thunderous rain. Rain for three days. Three days of waking to see Bunny sitting in the barrel. Three days of Bunny in the barrel when I get home from school, put on my coveralls and bring out the house trash to add to his grave. Three days of walking around him, crying with him, talking to him, plotting to save him. Three tedious days. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Day four brought little rain and enough sunlight for the old man to give it another go. Another gasoline drench and a toss of the match and WHOOSH! Bunny is aflame. Neglected. Abandoned. Abused. Alone. Aflame.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16645 West 86th Place #202, Los Angeles, CA 90045, USA33.959527 -118.406105000000037.5374440000000007 -159.71469900000002 60.38161 -77.097511000000026tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-87899023060809751242011-01-27T17:24:00.000-08:002015-06-22T14:17:08.843-07:00If this is writing, why is my ass so sore?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">So, I decided to take a break from my writing, by writing. What the heck? </span><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I've been sitting in my writing chair for so many hours today that my brain is getting foggy and my ass is feeling froggy, so here I am to clear the air. I need to get present, get grounded. </span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7_TkiNjq3nYd_HwQqhbcXnbrMauxocILa4190HxVYaNtZmN8eaYvYsFvGNLqzaGcfy8tW0QxIAndtS-j_tNucRLykfgQhkWSI6yd4KNpVWIhSC5uePYqt-rpnapuBPXEgAaXo-7fD8Rl/s1600/WritingRaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7_TkiNjq3nYd_HwQqhbcXnbrMauxocILa4190HxVYaNtZmN8eaYvYsFvGNLqzaGcfy8tW0QxIAndtS-j_tNucRLykfgQhkWSI6yd4KNpVWIhSC5uePYqt-rpnapuBPXEgAaXo-7fD8Rl/s320/WritingRaw.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I haven't washed my dishes or vaccuumed my floor. I barely made it into the shower by 3:30pm. I am writing. I am writing a memoir and this is exhausting. Well I think that any writing is exhausting really but sometimes it can be an exhilerating release. That is how I feel about this but its still exhausting for sure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">What was originally going to be a fictionalized account of the summer I lost my brother -- you know, a coming of age story that included death and suspense -- has turned into a memoir. This fact has revealed itself to me. Rob said, "Don't get too fictional." Then I read Rebecca Walker's <span><span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Black-White-Jewish-Autobiography-Shifting/dp/1573229075?ie=UTF8&tag=widgetsamazon-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Black White and Jewish</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=widgetsamazon-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=1573229075" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" />.</span></span> It resonated. Recently, Eddie referred me to Nick Flynn's <span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Another-Bullshit-Night-Suck-City/dp/0393329402?ie=UTF8&tag=widgetsamazon-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Another Bullshit Night in Suck City</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=widgetsamazon-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0393329402" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /></span>. It too resonates. And, I've absolutely got enough life experience now to truly subscribe to the idea that fact is far stranger than fiction. I'm sold. Memoir it is.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">So, I'm just writing. I've got a million words floating in my head that have been waiting to come out. There is no issue of writer's block. I just need to get it out, formulate later.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52PGZbqdCpD-hpVrUSE-knpjGzCdycUNN0eOxqZX1CSB4WVRJPOmEdzU3xaPUo35zm_28Rd1aDuVpnb1YvocS1F8QbgE79x48UkELsPy-anpnZOoJkNIizSoOK4jzyKRBIg6BikzwOoxE/s1600/DioneLee1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52PGZbqdCpD-hpVrUSE-knpjGzCdycUNN0eOxqZX1CSB4WVRJPOmEdzU3xaPUo35zm_28Rd1aDuVpnb1YvocS1F8QbgE79x48UkELsPy-anpnZOoJkNIizSoOK4jzyKRBIg6BikzwOoxE/s320/DioneLee1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dione and Lee (1974? Tustin, CA)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">This memoir corresponds with some personal therapy I'm putting myself through. That and the organizing and cleaning out of a lot of old heirloom boxes of stuff that include letters I wrote from about age 10-18. Perfect! </span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtInlIovmmgRiwNhk-95WuSniBvcZj1dDIrKeak8xLGCHZuL5sL2pXMkLvPO6HZvZa9OlBxwY_e83FY2zn0F4m5e3FTYxYNlJ7zxP0CGGmA6tZTzLGjdw8ct3Vt8nxy0f_WjX-F3Mqjbuc/s1600/DioneDancingSnowBear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtInlIovmmgRiwNhk-95WuSniBvcZj1dDIrKeak8xLGCHZuL5sL2pXMkLvPO6HZvZa9OlBxwY_e83FY2zn0F4m5e3FTYxYNlJ7zxP0CGGmA6tZTzLGjdw8ct3Vt8nxy0f_WjX-F3Mqjbuc/s320/DioneDancingSnowBear.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dione and Dancing Snow Bear (1982 Crooks, SD)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">This story has been brewing since junior high school when I would pass notes back and forth with my best friend, Staci Ramstad. At that young age, I secretly dreamed that someday the story could be told but never believed that anyone would care about a midwestern farm girl's life journey. I spent a great many daydreaming moments during class to now believe. And, after pursuing the wonderful experience of editing my friend Monique Antoinette's memoir <a href="http://gratefulforgrief.com/">Grateful for Grief: Seasons of Transformation</a>, the truth became explicitly clear. This is a story that needs to be told. A singular perspective explicated with the hope that someone out there will benefit from my story.</span><br /><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5FheKBCsZq5NNZDXUNjScXFVKBhGQA2I5-Z7TbpIYyhLDcW4qeHvrTZAwvVPzxDivs_dE2u5v3HAP84sdugW7imW04xoIzYQXYiMmlofqEOCINBhQUmer08uX-kMea0zhWV7sGFQXqSk/s1600/LeeSantaAna1982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5FheKBCsZq5NNZDXUNjScXFVKBhGQA2I5-Z7TbpIYyhLDcW4qeHvrTZAwvVPzxDivs_dE2u5v3HAP84sdugW7imW04xoIzYQXYiMmlofqEOCINBhQUmer08uX-kMea0zhWV7sGFQXqSk/s320/LeeSantaAna1982.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lee visiting Mom (1982 Santa Ana, CA)</span></td></tr></tbody></table> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnMTQUAV4jIYrpN-0V2iVFYvPmHTybPQ6wqQ6HNXz8nGDtMlXlpmROexVdt2ifE8I2vE1beMkPc3ba5Nc9Y4kkL-T73q1DN-ZypVmzATUmX8RNwMK7CYAuodE6mr0B_IxbIvWAR7dj7YJ/s1600/DioneSantaAna1982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnMTQUAV4jIYrpN-0V2iVFYvPmHTybPQ6wqQ6HNXz8nGDtMlXlpmROexVdt2ifE8I2vE1beMkPc3ba5Nc9Y4kkL-T73q1DN-ZypVmzATUmX8RNwMK7CYAuodE6mr0B_IxbIvWAR7dj7YJ/s320/DioneSantaAna1982.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dione visiting Mom (1982 Santa Ana, CA)</span></td></tr></tbody></table> <br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">What I do know is that the dis-ease of this journey should help to staighten out some things inside of me that have been unsettled for most of my life. And, with that, I hope to be able to move on. Yep, move on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Thank you for listening.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-1024394256116652302010-12-11T16:55:00.000-08:002015-06-22T14:17:08.855-07:00Whose mom are you?For the first time since the age of two, I have short hair. I got this haircut in July while we were in Germany. At the same time, I got my hair lifted. A lot. Its took a great amount of time to get used to the idea of cutting my hair that short. Then, it took a great deal of time to get used to the idea of lifting my hair white. I little bit of bravery on my part. But, I fell in love with the cut and the color instantly. <br /><br />I've been a slave to the color bottle since I was fourteen. My natural hair color includes a majority of blonde and a little bit of red. So, in high school, I embraced the blonde side just as all of my girlfriends were doing too. At age nineteen, I decided to shake things up and embrace the red side. I sported practically every possible shade of red over the next fifteen years. A factor in this dye addiction can be attributed to early grey hairs. My mother talks about not being able to determine what my infant hair color was going to be because my tufts were filled with every possible strand variety, including grey. And, at age nineteen, the grey factor increased. At age twenty-two, a new (single) mom, my grey hairs increased dramtically. At age twenty-seven, having had a violent near-death incident, my grey hairs suddenly turned into patches. <br /><br />I have tried multiple attempts at going natural only to have boyfriends react with quivering lip, "Yeah baby, that looks nice." Or, my stylists would tell me that I really should consider color. By age thirty-five, the grey was so dominate that my usual red dye no longer looked appealing so much as clown-like. I went back to embracing my blonde side because when the color grew out the line was not as harsh as it was on grown-out red hair. I have been a cheap bleach box blonde for the past six years until the lift in Germany. <br /><br />Since Germany, the lift has slowly grown out. Multiple cuts later and no more color, there is only about 1/8th inch left of some blonde on my longer layers that will most certainly no longer be there after my next cut in the next couple of weeks. What is there is good old fashioned blah dishwater dirty blonde sprinkled with white greys throughout with large white patches at my temples framing my face. It is so soft that I can't seem to keep my own hands out of it. Other people touch it and rub it. Its kinda cool (smirk). <br /><br />But lets talk a little more about that bravery thing. A number of months before my German haircut, a girlfriend of mine took a clippers to her sexy long mousy brown hair. I saw this as inspiration and it got me to thinking. I viewed her as very brave. I still do. So many women don't have even the slightest balls to do such a thing and never will that her act of bravery is to be commended, in my view. I recalled one of the very first issues of Jane that featured an expose by one of its feature editors that detailed that very act of deciding to shave her head, shaving her head and the social reaction to it - what it did to her mental processes and how it crept into her self esteem no matter how convicted she felt about the entire ordeal. My friend is still rocking her short cut. And now I am too.<br /><br />All this bravery and boldness. I'd been feeling real good about my cut and was marveling at the daily changes in color when strange things started to happen. Although my friends were telling me that the cut had me looking ten years younger, other public reactions were happening to fuck with my pride. When we are working out consistently, my husband works out in evenings and I work out in mornings, both at the same box. One evening, while Garrett was finishing a workout, I was hanging out waiting for him while leaning against one of the GHD machines. There was also a couple working out. I saw this couple a few times before but had never had the opportunity to properly introduce myself. To me, the man appeared to be my same age...40ish. He was average height (like me), carrying too much weight (like me) and had short dishwater blonde hair with patches and sparkles of grey hair (like me). His wife looked younger and more fit (like my husband). This day, Garrett was working out with the man, his wife and maybe one other person. They were finishing up the work-out when the man approached the grouping of GHD machines and, as he was mounting one, smiled at me while asking "So, whose Mom are you?"<br /><br />pause<br /><br />deep breath<br /><br />Is he talking to me?<br /><br />"Whose Mom am I?"<br />"Yeah, whose Mom are you?"<br />Nervous laugh, "I'm his." I reply as I point to husband.<br />"Oh, ok."<br />"He's my husband."<br />"Really? Oh, ok."<br /><br />I realize he wasn't playing with me. He was dead serious. I left him to define his ass via GHD so I could go sit on the stairs and process while Garrett finished up. The fourth wheel in the workout was long gone by now and after this guy finished up his ass workout he walked over to his wife. Shortly after he walked directly to me extending his hand for a shake. He shook my hand while expressing that he did not have his glasses on and that he sees now that he was clearly wrong for thinking that I was my husbands Mom. He apologized. I accepted.<br /><br />Clearly, he didn't mean anything by it. But what messed with me most was that he absolutely thought that I was that much older than my husband. Now, the fact that my hair was almost totally naturally grey combined with his perception messed with my ego and sat with me for many days. The next week, I told my stylist because I thought maybe I should lift my hair again. Surprisingly, she told me not to. She assured me the natural color was gorgeous. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAEql7hyphenhyphenfOK_H3_wgrXKPD1PKkKwD0gyXU14NktztDf7tG2G3qxCqMLW3s7IODauhnTLMm7t6WFsfYC_6LVDhPrvXdyxhsh6H0xqxddfEgGnsUU_83pEjPYV3ZJNRIiMVp6xj-SN_ccQw/s1600/GD2010.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAEql7hyphenhyphenfOK_H3_wgrXKPD1PKkKwD0gyXU14NktztDf7tG2G3qxCqMLW3s7IODauhnTLMm7t6WFsfYC_6LVDhPrvXdyxhsh6H0xqxddfEgGnsUU_83pEjPYV3ZJNRIiMVp6xj-SN_ccQw/s320/GD2010.bmp" width="196" /></a></div><br />So then my mind reverted to body image. I know that my husband loves me as I am. I was a much more robust weight than I currently am when he proposed to me. We have been married one and half years. In that time, I have spent a great deal of attention to dropping pounds and regaining my feminine figure. While still large, I often times forget how far I've come - like four pants sizes in that year and a half. Garrett continues to be encouraging and loving. <br /><br />I have had my ups and downs this year in regard to motivation and commitment to my fitness needs. I consistency has definite spikes and valleys. Yet the desire is always there. Twice I got sick and took longer than I should have getting back to it. This includes right now.<br /><br />At a recent social event, a woman older than me was beyond surprised to learn that my both my daughter and my husband weren't my children. Of course my college-age daughter was my kid but my husband was my kid too, right? She continued on about wanting a younger lover for herself and then stopped and looked me dead in the eyes and said "For real? He's your husband? Well, good for you!" After repeating over and over how fortunate I was to have such a husband, she explicated further about how good it is for 50-year-old women to have younger men. <br /><br />Ugh.<br /><br />What saved me (aside from my pleasant disposition in situations such as these) was my girlfriend (who witnessed the entire fiasco and who even attempted to sway the focus of conversation off of me) confiding in me that she just doesn't see it. I love her for this move. I love her for a lot of things but this sure did help. <br /><br />Last week, I went to view a new CrossFit box that is opening. During introductions, my friend told the owners (all four of them) that "We all are from Paradiso CrossFit." The guy standing closest to me shook his head in agreeance, then his face washed in realization when he turned to me and muttered, "You too? Really?" I felt both humiliated and inspired. Humiliated that it seemed as though he assumed that just because I am a big girl that I haven't come along way. Inspired to get more fully immersed in fitness. Worried that I am a poor representation for my box.<br /><br />Again, I believe this happened completely innocently. But, my effing ego took note.<br /><br />My ego has been getting the ol' one-two punch and I haven't done well to defend it.<br /><br />I've been cranky lately. <br /><br />I would say I am depressed. <br /><br />However, I am not giving up. I know myself well enough that I will make it through this. I have made it through a whole hell of a lot in my life and I refuse to let body image be the jackhole that takes me under. I suspect that many people at my box and in my life struggle with the drive toward their goals because we get run down. And, if you are like me in that you are not a life long athlete, the struggle can be even more challenging. You feel ashamed. This leads to hopelessness. This leads to a lot of other internal demons. And that is why I am sharing my story - in hopes that someone else will find inspiration in it. <br /><br />As much as I shamefully hang my head in the presence of the trainers from my box, the truth is that they aren't judging me to the degree that my mind makes it up. I know that they see the struggle and they always welcome me back. Once there, I receive a great deal of encouragment from them. And this helps me not to quit this life long battle.<br /><br />I'm still going strong in my own little ways. I hope you will too. If you've paused your regime just get back on. They will only be happy to see you in whatever environment you workout in. It happens to the best of athletes so it definitely happens to us. Don't go around thinking its just you. Its us. Lets do this!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-23702279467952150202010-10-04T20:28:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.924-07:00Disbursing Thunderclouds in My Ego<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5CZxCklfk2VbdDRUUr3Psl7KhUpsGzo7_2apsyhE4CP4JQFN-j1mPb6IBCWmC5xpE9JtHoLh-tctK2AVxuU1S-Bmp3XXLQGDG3h3KgjQp5c2d1GzkSA0PygMhfMPgdYEOTFfMlMj_emp/s1600/IMG00058-20101004-1730+00000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5CZxCklfk2VbdDRUUr3Psl7KhUpsGzo7_2apsyhE4CP4JQFN-j1mPb6IBCWmC5xpE9JtHoLh-tctK2AVxuU1S-Bmp3XXLQGDG3h3KgjQp5c2d1GzkSA0PygMhfMPgdYEOTFfMlMj_emp/s320/IMG00058-20101004-1730+00000.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Today I got back into the box and made a renewed commitment. Lets see how this rolls.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This time we were there during open gym so, after a wonderful walk n' talk with Mr. Paradiso to set a smart plan for my fitness goals, I DROM'd then rowed a set of four 500m sprints with three minute breaks in between, without inhaler. My time improved each row with stressed gasping toward the end of the second row. I broke a sexy little sweat as the thunder clouds in my ego disbursed. Aside from the disappointment felt when I noticed the black shoe strap marks from the rower on my brand new bright white New Balance trainers (a nice accent to the taco grease from Saturdays tailgate), I experienced a good feeling accompanied by low-oxygen headache and sore rib cage muscles (my rib bones connected to my backbone...you know the tune). But, most notable was the happiness that enveloped me. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I've been battling some major demons throughout August and September and am glad to be back. I've been so out of it that I am on-ramping again. This, finally, is ok with me. Four hours ago it wasn't ok. Now it is. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Alrighty then. See you at the box.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-435264719014282742010-05-20T12:41:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.935-07:00Time! --> 30 Days Give-or-Take the Last 10<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgFyA_kOfpqXSnKnlciqQy6Udk-LV3fh-8l5TaB0u_SZ6-BIIATFukGSibIelZ14NEAZeVwsVj5eitVwHO2R__paAC9gXnWmNnGfP-cTbRiS34881-kcALsEo3mAeyHcyuflFbsSS0J9f/s1600/VID01888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgFyA_kOfpqXSnKnlciqQy6Udk-LV3fh-8l5TaB0u_SZ6-BIIATFukGSibIelZ14NEAZeVwsVj5eitVwHO2R__paAC9gXnWmNnGfP-cTbRiS34881-kcALsEo3mAeyHcyuflFbsSS0J9f/s400/VID01888.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1SER3XfyRav6cHd0n_QOtR2V6uqU6rQoFvV4-PJzhXT-TRTqvO25DXqNJq7HqIL6COfwbyvKsIcTIXCM7ISgweXOjcgPuPu9TYHwylGchPj6Py7-sb-qEVNnyTXzte-lsGjUNfCZuj1o/s1600/VID01885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1SER3XfyRav6cHd0n_QOtR2V6uqU6rQoFvV4-PJzhXT-TRTqvO25DXqNJq7HqIL6COfwbyvKsIcTIXCM7ISgweXOjcgPuPu9TYHwylGchPj6Py7-sb-qEVNnyTXzte-lsGjUNfCZuj1o/s320/VID01885.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">For the past month (from April 19th through May 19th), we have been participating in a 30-day Paleo Challenge with our CrossFit box people. And while I usually would not participate in an all-or-nothing challenge, this time I did. Well, we did. Garrett and I decided to attempt it. We started one day late and gave it our best effort. We broke about the time Mothers Day came around when I decided to order a chocolate ganash <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 16px;"><em style="font-style: normal;">soufflé </em></span>for dessert. I'll call this a gateway dessert because other things clearly followed. While we do not view this as a total failure in nutrition, we did technically fail the all-or-nothing challenge because either you did it or you didn't. Either you got an A+ or an F. There was nothing in between. And, that is ok.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What the Paleo challenge did for us was to reveal a way of nutrition that we would like to follow closely but not, at this particular moment in time, strictly. This is not to say that we will go all nutty and drown ourselves in grain, sugar and dairy products (isn't that a lovely bathtub style vision?). But, we are not going to beat ourselves up if we decide that maybe today we will go ahead and have a smidgen of raw sugar in our espresso. We will not feel worthless if a bit of blue cheese would just really make this salad perfect today. And, in the world of Paleo nutrition, we will not fret over choosing the lesser of two evils when deciding to use either cow's milk or soy milk in our espresso as well. </div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">We have, in fact, changed our dietary intake drastically this year by no longer buying cereals or potatoes or rice. We've brought home a hell of a lot less cheese and milk and butter. No more are the days of buttered toast and sugar drenched espresso for breakfast followed by a dinner that included either a potato or a rice each and every time. We have made a tremendous start and that is good enough for us for now. We will continue to strive for better as we always do. Right now, right here, this is good enough. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Aside from just knowing that this is a better way to eat, how do we feel? We feel lighter, faster and more agile. We feel less lethargic when we CrossFit. There is more gumption and less panting. My asthma, while still a pain in the ol' gluteous maximus, feels less threatening. I can tell a difference in my total energy between when I eat Paleo and when I don't. And, I'm talking about the next day or two from when I ate. It carries over and carries on for a period of a couple days. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here is a sampling of various meals that have happened for us over the latter half of our challenge (please note that ketchup, cheese, creamy dressings and added sodium are are <i>not</i> Paleo):</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPVx0QH2yw6EdJOpiEf5kitLhIc3yFDSEm2bVzVZ7TpRD6CjV_cDwcD4Fh_aQ3jGh9uHtZ9fz6w7dbSBDz-d5hEf_jvzbg4JQ1xzC2VeyxfFx8A1WWniRsjlWB0qO36kFQxKUQXD5lqzn/s1600/IMG00169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPVx0QH2yw6EdJOpiEf5kitLhIc3yFDSEm2bVzVZ7TpRD6CjV_cDwcD4Fh_aQ3jGh9uHtZ9fz6w7dbSBDz-d5hEf_jvzbg4JQ1xzC2VeyxfFx8A1WWniRsjlWB0qO36kFQxKUQXD5lqzn/s320/IMG00169.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPviRRKOz8uRbxIKJZP99xYyTBn0W6Y7dx7fNRKE1GxIOW_TqD101m0_JDbmpkwKcvS9FT4DmEjPTr2QcihjSYEXSDWJsrGGlY8-GgB9zSRBBwvEEH4tcr6LhtyzNIzLjb1veixPc2VAT/s1600/IMG00174+00000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPviRRKOz8uRbxIKJZP99xYyTBn0W6Y7dx7fNRKE1GxIOW_TqD101m0_JDbmpkwKcvS9FT4DmEjPTr2QcihjSYEXSDWJsrGGlY8-GgB9zSRBBwvEEH4tcr6LhtyzNIzLjb1veixPc2VAT/s320/IMG00174+00000.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxgU0hRHdBGqLHFll8uvw_61I7N3O9Wm-aTv8JW638dJRnuSUjFXtPNccHlGjD0IK6Fsf6ERTkObobi976s_GWN0u6R2hdF5Zq9i50lDzN2n6_3t-3Dggm0XtJvtwVJCQG_vN1erWmWBL/s1600/IMG00175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxgU0hRHdBGqLHFll8uvw_61I7N3O9Wm-aTv8JW638dJRnuSUjFXtPNccHlGjD0IK6Fsf6ERTkObobi976s_GWN0u6R2hdF5Zq9i50lDzN2n6_3t-3Dggm0XtJvtwVJCQG_vN1erWmWBL/s320/IMG00175.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9Uue76bSlHz6XGQz-D27bEt0o-SQ2StNANM6q_TXvFbpC0rJtlEpyhFrvwqVtwxx8PY0ZLk9MzhpQR6MBhZrDJUy9AUdyz_KrNA5n16SxnfcJKX6umpc7cHc-8cmfKhI121s_7Z1Jnvs/s1600/IMG00181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9Uue76bSlHz6XGQz-D27bEt0o-SQ2StNANM6q_TXvFbpC0rJtlEpyhFrvwqVtwxx8PY0ZLk9MzhpQR6MBhZrDJUy9AUdyz_KrNA5n16SxnfcJKX6umpc7cHc-8cmfKhI121s_7Z1Jnvs/s320/IMG00181.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo_q5HcV-g6eHl30qutCBBbeSFLo8_1s6HwWSFRe1uAl1ylezxVDL5svbDxWRj2fWDop-xc3kO79_0vwYxi1nDi-TA3GjcMUrj3hvKMF7cbLy26mTvsbvVzqmLIU9I37cYt0mvDIlsPhz/s1600/IMG00182+00001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo_q5HcV-g6eHl30qutCBBbeSFLo8_1s6HwWSFRe1uAl1ylezxVDL5svbDxWRj2fWDop-xc3kO79_0vwYxi1nDi-TA3GjcMUrj3hvKMF7cbLy26mTvsbvVzqmLIU9I37cYt0mvDIlsPhz/s320/IMG00182+00001.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjhEvbDslzYpbJQRixFDraM_-OU-WkqrQZ7PRJ5Fup_PGH_tbNp0QdasUZB6pw1GQHeJep5R-btAmW17fSFwTR_s1LlBPGH7VQKy7aaOgxyNYl1JD9-GytWeeBLrhbY0fxsttGNxRqvD1/s1600/IMG_1381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjhEvbDslzYpbJQRixFDraM_-OU-WkqrQZ7PRJ5Fup_PGH_tbNp0QdasUZB6pw1GQHeJep5R-btAmW17fSFwTR_s1LlBPGH7VQKy7aaOgxyNYl1JD9-GytWeeBLrhbY0fxsttGNxRqvD1/s320/IMG_1381.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMGJ-VX1lYNAJZjcXCZeNWM5zmrVwNdliUrRtgVI6-JjTT0FIc8v6YVR3zE_7CIlLN5sa33WO2PJflUWjMplNL3N5OyQ262kya91xzztHVO95NrbXRQTfY3qB1QAQ658cTkMhDYzvzkhE/s1600/IMG_1382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMGJ-VX1lYNAJZjcXCZeNWM5zmrVwNdliUrRtgVI6-JjTT0FIc8v6YVR3zE_7CIlLN5sa33WO2PJflUWjMplNL3N5OyQ262kya91xzztHVO95NrbXRQTfY3qB1QAQ658cTkMhDYzvzkhE/s320/IMG_1382.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWj5mKhs6CDYqbP-g5iYzv55FDMHskYSdR518Nwn5N0oIrBv5ipdjG8MnBlpnvEUpkQ32egpITcQjLo5kQbfjWvhDXuOE8hU7gkpiTB6xp_ZpBVKcIRaEWidlj8UuPHWa-1IUK5gRCpaKU/s1600/IMG00241-20100423-1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWj5mKhs6CDYqbP-g5iYzv55FDMHskYSdR518Nwn5N0oIrBv5ipdjG8MnBlpnvEUpkQ32egpITcQjLo5kQbfjWvhDXuOE8hU7gkpiTB6xp_ZpBVKcIRaEWidlj8UuPHWa-1IUK5gRCpaKU/s320/IMG00241-20100423-1311.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXkjaXUC6llctgQt1nUVJMezi1nYlUO-BKY_igFq58iRfaLQ-dNr4C5fhmXFf-lU9Z_ibv7_NxVDt1eNtXUcau-1oBBnE1wwOCOVtlepYE5fGLATgfTuu8AEh1dvpAAaCJoygZmDd-1BQW/s1600/IMG00244-20100427-1541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXkjaXUC6llctgQt1nUVJMezi1nYlUO-BKY_igFq58iRfaLQ-dNr4C5fhmXFf-lU9Z_ibv7_NxVDt1eNtXUcau-1oBBnE1wwOCOVtlepYE5fGLATgfTuu8AEh1dvpAAaCJoygZmDd-1BQW/s320/IMG00244-20100427-1541.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMXqTzaWfVD_Vs25TEWVdW88oBdCChTozgc09TD2fhu2eeSBzIC9E5O-FyRICji8Huu7uGUmF3Y0iNcfMGg9eF4gu1U5r4n-DRjIeuksj8ytgwrQy_-T1g3dQQ5v8lLqH4k4NVrJoqL78/s1600/IMG00246-20100428-1658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMXqTzaWfVD_Vs25TEWVdW88oBdCChTozgc09TD2fhu2eeSBzIC9E5O-FyRICji8Huu7uGUmF3Y0iNcfMGg9eF4gu1U5r4n-DRjIeuksj8ytgwrQy_-T1g3dQQ5v8lLqH4k4NVrJoqL78/s320/IMG00246-20100428-1658.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">But, clarity came for me during this challenge when I began to receive comments about my appearance and how good or different my appearance was from the past. Things like, "I can see it in your face." or "I see a change in your shoulders, your posture and across your back." and "I just have to tell you how good you look, Dione." I'd say it is the Paleo but I would also say it is the CrossFit and the hiking. There is a happiness that all of this brings to both me and Garrett. And, lastly, I would say that it's the folks at my particular box, Paradiso CrossFit, that bring us smiles. I love this group. I appreciate how they challenge us and how they inspire us. They live the example that we are now living and through this example we rise to the challenge. There is a lot of laughing that goes on with this group and I look forward to spending many many years with them.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-51811983287135260102010-05-04T16:53:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:08.987-07:00The Ignorant Hiker<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8A8ofegQkS31ndnAi-hP1ODGrPDZVZy_pBmXXaotytkfW1yEcRzyjBjjEiWtNnkqVKVKeaPF6RrQto1jB8vulc9DloxDAGKUtlz_yvLqCwJu0QgRWlS9eE_vLCPvt2rXLkhoABDFL2-H/s1600/VID00365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8A8ofegQkS31ndnAi-hP1ODGrPDZVZy_pBmXXaotytkfW1yEcRzyjBjjEiWtNnkqVKVKeaPF6RrQto1jB8vulc9DloxDAGKUtlz_yvLqCwJu0QgRWlS9eE_vLCPvt2rXLkhoABDFL2-H/s1600/VID00365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8A8ofegQkS31ndnAi-hP1ODGrPDZVZy_pBmXXaotytkfW1yEcRzyjBjjEiWtNnkqVKVKeaPF6RrQto1jB8vulc9DloxDAGKUtlz_yvLqCwJu0QgRWlS9eE_vLCPvt2rXLkhoABDFL2-H/s400/VID00365.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am not a hiking expert. I am training for a six-day hike in the </span><a href="http://www.via-alpina.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Austrian Alps</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. To prepare, I have had many conversations with experienced hikers who have offered useful information for my local hikes. I hope that this information will translate to what I need to know for the Alps. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As it turns out, some of you out there are actually reading my blog and watching me on </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?profile=1&id=537466248#!/profile.php?id=3433805"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Facebook</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. I like this. Thank you. You are telling me that you want to hike or you want to </span><a href="http://www.crossfit.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">CrossFit</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> or you want to know more about this </span><a href="http://www.earth360.com/diet_paleodiet_balzer.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Paleo</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> thing. You don't really understand everything that I am doing but you want to know more and want to know how. Again, I am not an expert. What I will offer you here is a compilation of basics that I follow for myself.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A Quick List of Hiking Basics for Dione</span></b></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC01b6D5DX04zhXso4exaq5vyt8WKq18dZbRSu89BmRKelhO-JQxltB6l3OQimB6jGLYZCFLBNUmrx6apbKogbdc6Y63ObMrBtHm6QpwvedjqeLTZ11C6wwWLghzLn5fOOQqCgDAYfSfQi/s1600/Picture+108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC01b6D5DX04zhXso4exaq5vyt8WKq18dZbRSu89BmRKelhO-JQxltB6l3OQimB6jGLYZCFLBNUmrx6apbKogbdc6Y63ObMrBtHm6QpwvedjqeLTZ11C6wwWLghzLn5fOOQqCgDAYfSfQi/s200/Picture+108.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Don't be ignorant</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Our first hike was actually the Na Pali Coast in Kauai, Hawaii. We were not prepared in the least. That, my friends, will be an entirely different blog entry. Let's just say that we didn't do anything on this list. Not one thing. You are already one step ahead of us because you are here reading this. Don't be afraid to ask questions. Question asking is good.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Know your hike</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. Research your hike and know your trail. Know your elevation. Go to your local hiking store (like </span><a href="http://www.adventure16.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Adventure 16</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> or </span><a href="http://www.rei.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">R.E.I.</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">) and pick up a map that details the route and the elevation of your intended hike. Bring this map with you on the hike. While the map will be general, it will help you to be familiar with the layout and distance of the trail as well as how quickly the elevation changes. Sometimes the trail head will have a kiosk where you can pick-up a more detailed map for you specific hike. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMxF6f8O-J0Z41lf_fylGaOqMhLabDh9lcyH-QXJRrW4T74VmC2QeEcf4GfhPLhYB-QagQ8wZ8t-nG_XrKZ2e3AWx35QOt6OCgojnCfZBZHTBxImdjh-KnhB1_udfbXRCLxAi3jurghLL/s1600/VID01391.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMxF6f8O-J0Z41lf_fylGaOqMhLabDh9lcyH-QXJRrW4T74VmC2QeEcf4GfhPLhYB-QagQ8wZ8t-nG_XrKZ2e3AWx35QOt6OCgojnCfZBZHTBxImdjh-KnhB1_udfbXRCLxAi3jurghLL/s320/VID01391.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Eat</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> before you even think about stepping on the trail. You will need the energy. Then </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">eat again</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> while you are on the trail. Eat goods things that give you good energy like meats, veggies, fruits, hard boiled eggs, nuts. We usually eat something on the way then plan a lunch destination as part of the hike. This spot is usually the highest point on the trail.</span></span></div></i></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hydrate. Hydrate. Hydrate!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> I personally bring 100 oz of water on my hike (thanks, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Camelbak-Rogue-Hydration-Black-Charcoal/dp/B000IF43LO?ie=UTF8&tag=widgetsamazon-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">CamelBak</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=widgetsamazon-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000IF43LO" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />!) and have found that I tend to run out at about 4 1/2 hours. You will find your own personal level of hydration. But, if you wait until you are thirsty to drink your water then you are already too late. Keep drinking it down. Your hydration is key in cooling your body so that you don't overheat. It runs through you and it cleanses your pours. It also help flush out toxins that would impede your joints. Non-impeded joints are a good thing when hiking.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiXikZwQk6c1UFBt4thyVe7RTSZmwHa6BNkxewwS3Tld7bBRMpj5n2e-IhfK1NFcuqSNPZA3yxOqjCCs8iS1U-FQBU3ev84Teww2U42opyEFSv3ZP1sbiJakEzFVo0SzNzf0oVBQ_pxdnd/s1600/VID01392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiXikZwQk6c1UFBt4thyVe7RTSZmwHa6BNkxewwS3Tld7bBRMpj5n2e-IhfK1NFcuqSNPZA3yxOqjCCs8iS1U-FQBU3ev84Teww2U42opyEFSv3ZP1sbiJakEzFVo0SzNzf0oVBQ_pxdnd/s320/VID01392.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Stretch.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Stretch your hamstrings and whatever ails you before you hit the trail. I don't do this part very well. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Be aware.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Take it upon yourself to become familiar with what you should be aware of while you are hiking. These things could be rattle snakes, mountain lions, ticks and poison ivy/oak. Be able to identify these things when you see them. This is important and is your responsibility to yourself. Do not rely on others to convey this information to you. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Don't go off the trail.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Since you are new to hiking, you will want to stay on the trail. Do not venture off of it. People get lost and/or hurt this way. It's real simple. Don't be that person.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12HfROCdTt-kX-yC1qgzSBnesdlhmw9WGzjR4RhiF9N59kDIYblm1i5pkJv9EZ4-22xA-j9vQGmWciS2K_Esibxtj8HSJzZPsRUqPyQ398nhpGJ67sYow3rjCW8OxrkjCcJzhUwiQm2t8/s1600/VID01393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12HfROCdTt-kX-yC1qgzSBnesdlhmw9WGzjR4RhiF9N59kDIYblm1i5pkJv9EZ4-22xA-j9vQGmWciS2K_Esibxtj8HSJzZPsRUqPyQ398nhpGJ67sYow3rjCW8OxrkjCcJzhUwiQm2t8/s320/VID01393.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Leave no trace.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> You come out to nature to get away from the city. If you didn't want to enjoy the beauty of it then you would hike Figueroa through downtown Los Angeles. So, please, leave no trace of yourself out here. Any litter that you create should be tucked away into your backpack to go home with you for disposal at a later time. There should not be a trace of your plastic bottles, energy bar wrappers or broken shoe laces anywhere on the trail.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let go and Enjoy.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Afford yourself the opportunity to breath deeply and enjoy your organic environment while you are out here. Fully immerse yourself in your senses. Let go of all those daily things that grind you down. Practice letting go by sucking up what nature has to offer. Love it. Respect it. And it will be there for you the next time you need it.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div></i><br /><ul></ul></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s200/VID01637.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDL-uh-sSDoaPNY4bIdLcUlkm9hOKKLvhEVmO9NgN0Dt2ZIV8oMXcDjvi6uolN7hLVloXQkgdgHQVyEs6VoLTQBJTANkx9hIv6TqbjskLAKq1ahzPwSETuHuB1IzcepmMkaxvAMGva9r7f/s1600/VID00411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDL-uh-sSDoaPNY4bIdLcUlkm9hOKKLvhEVmO9NgN0Dt2ZIV8oMXcDjvi6uolN7hLVloXQkgdgHQVyEs6VoLTQBJTANkx9hIv6TqbjskLAKq1ahzPwSETuHuB1IzcepmMkaxvAMGva9r7f/s200/VID00411.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRvoDUZ2F2VQh279mPzsFYwxw_qji75miUYr5ZlP15ORN6KZkr35_ZGPpbAInDvTs1VRkhQ-6SlLlNtMyFEDWUufjHS_4Advst_yGjATZ0RzUNHDNPiqW3Ktqfqiksb81nzWh8VMNOwlO/s1600/VID00629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRvoDUZ2F2VQh279mPzsFYwxw_qji75miUYr5ZlP15ORN6KZkr35_ZGPpbAInDvTs1VRkhQ-6SlLlNtMyFEDWUufjHS_4Advst_yGjATZ0RzUNHDNPiqW3Ktqfqiksb81nzWh8VMNOwlO/s200/VID00629.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I average about two hikes per week. At least one of those is with my loving husband, Garrett. The others are usually with a good friend like Heather or Lizzie. Sometime soon I hope to get my beagle out there on the trails on which she would be allowed. I also look forward to including many other persons on our hikes who are open to the challenge. I have included everything that I can think of for me at this point in my training. If you think of anything else please post it here. Your comments are welcome!</div></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJd6c4bqmTvPqHJaMqNenx3JUDoznfAtL9b0H6zvTBTT0HK-xKvjm3hxB89PzY98a26uX_HxcvwS7smoGONm2zmBZ0WrATCb3U8DzUzlUjx5lGybd9kzg4D3DB53d8xaM1vlLeX5Jf8iG/s1600/VID01637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDL-uh-sSDoaPNY4bIdLcUlkm9hOKKLvhEVmO9NgN0Dt2ZIV8oMXcDjvi6uolN7hLVloXQkgdgHQVyEs6VoLTQBJTANkx9hIv6TqbjskLAKq1ahzPwSETuHuB1IzcepmMkaxvAMGva9r7f/s1600/VID00411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-61242435281363998572010-05-03T21:26:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.033-07:00Who are these Super Humans?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGO1WMuyMX82Q6bnbY6elSoc_Cy0RpWB3K4st1AUvI3nj8KknrdJ52vOz06xbQnprAgEOSP0HXQ8F_-cW5_gJEHTBb_Te5CHTGidIZkrMivu4Xjrz_XqiTQKMXrJym9if76GfHVfJvJ2zR/s1600/IMG00170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGO1WMuyMX82Q6bnbY6elSoc_Cy0RpWB3K4st1AUvI3nj8KknrdJ52vOz06xbQnprAgEOSP0HXQ8F_-cW5_gJEHTBb_Te5CHTGidIZkrMivu4Xjrz_XqiTQKMXrJym9if76GfHVfJvJ2zR/s640/IMG00170.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Todays <a href="http://paradisocrossfit.com/index.php?mact=News,cntnt01,detail,0&cntnt01articleid=312&cntnt01returnid=15">W.O.D.</a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><h3 style="color: #294b5f; font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">New England Sectional Event 1</h3><h3 style="color: #294b5f; font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Run 800 meters</h3><h3 style="color: #294b5f; font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">30 Snatches (115/75)</h3><h3 style="color: #294b5f; font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Run 800 meters</h3></span><br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I guess it is my turn to suck. I ran the first 800m, kind of. I'm not running four days per week like I used to so my running stamina (i.e., lung endurance) is down. So yeah, that took me way too long. Then, I snatched 45# for 30 reps. Well, I don't know how many actually were a snatch but I think I'm beginning to feel the form. That's the thing with me and forms...I have to feel them instead of over think them. My lungs were f-ing with me, as usual, so I rowed the second 800m. I started at like a 2:06 pace and ended somewhere between 2:25 and 2:30. This felt good but I beat myself up so immediately embraced the guilt of not running the second 800m. However, when I stopped by the grocery store on the way home and noticed my still beat red face and ears, I was thankful that I didn't hurt myself with the run. I have this fear of experiencing an asthma attack when I'm not near my trainer or others that I am working out with. I guess I need to work on that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The results: 16 minutes and 13 seconds at 45# snatches and running the first 800m while rowing the last 800m. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I feel really slow and inadequate right now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-39286263277709701902010-05-01T22:14:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.043-07:00Paradiso CrossFit 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2eoEa94QXy19tjCqcOLMKokeW-qVMXIEzkPAKUm0DrLuJtXqWkpgoJYFd3ivNDaWnNW28uNz8_IRorolPGwKqaB7n36YSVcSwLrRGA_JiTmib4cyvnBOrZlMpl3c5DnE7-fD2w0BEuUP/s1600/VID01670.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2eoEa94QXy19tjCqcOLMKokeW-qVMXIEzkPAKUm0DrLuJtXqWkpgoJYFd3ivNDaWnNW28uNz8_IRorolPGwKqaB7n36YSVcSwLrRGA_JiTmib4cyvnBOrZlMpl3c5DnE7-fD2w0BEuUP/s400/VID01670.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Saturday, May 1st, 2010<br /><br />Todays <a href="http://paradisocrossfit.com/index.php?mact=News,cntnt01,detail,0&cntnt01articleid=310&cntnt01returnid=15">W.O.D.</a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Run 5k.</div><div style="text-align: center;">But we didn't do that because we worked out in CrossFit 101. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMZ6cMfjzijA8d7a86JdMaaXt8q2dU1_KeUAmPdgARs7xo_9lsWUqjIQgPd4sDSInU6xmkGzygiiJI4ONAB6KMq2YyQSnFFUlFSEoS45ETT6LZWTKaTOE5VlNF32Lr82tkDRGBo39Xj71/s1600/VID01668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMZ6cMfjzijA8d7a86JdMaaXt8q2dU1_KeUAmPdgARs7xo_9lsWUqjIQgPd4sDSInU6xmkGzygiiJI4ONAB6KMq2YyQSnFFUlFSEoS45ETT6LZWTKaTOE5VlNF32Lr82tkDRGBo39Xj71/s400/VID01668.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>CrossFit 101 W.O.D.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Run 200m</div><div style="text-align: center;">21-15-9</div><div style="text-align: center;">Squats</div><div style="text-align: center;">Deadlifts</div><div style="text-align: center;">Push-ups</div><div style="text-align: center;">Run 200m</div><br />Results: Deadlifting 95# and doing girl push-ups improperly, I finished this in 11:06.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nK40WqLxnBjnuuS0f8Y9rrrkBuYcZm2MT_bsD_TDlr-Kch9ezlFdr112jzQs_se34WMD2TWgR8JP_HhZKDMA-7o8LXrJ2IQ4sDTVAchBqEoz7U8Wgd_ufZNN7OhvMUuOUH-DYGJli34T/s1600/VID01666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nK40WqLxnBjnuuS0f8Y9rrrkBuYcZm2MT_bsD_TDlr-Kch9ezlFdr112jzQs_se34WMD2TWgR8JP_HhZKDMA-7o8LXrJ2IQ4sDTVAchBqEoz7U8Wgd_ufZNN7OhvMUuOUH-DYGJli34T/s400/VID01666.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBGW_kW4K23nmcLtsJ-AwYEyTpYShCaV5HfV2nDCmyuYgD3v0C15XDzRf7dZU1omFq_FwksAFtOcIx1WwF7nzayMUofYRlWAa3o3mniq8o4OaxnQu3cLBam8XpQlUyqIlgaPr5dQqpVq3/s1600/VID01782.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBGW_kW4K23nmcLtsJ-AwYEyTpYShCaV5HfV2nDCmyuYgD3v0C15XDzRf7dZU1omFq_FwksAFtOcIx1WwF7nzayMUofYRlWAa3o3mniq8o4OaxnQu3cLBam8XpQlUyqIlgaPr5dQqpVq3/s400/VID01782.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Garrett joined me in this group setting. We came because it is a new thing Paradiso is doing so we wanted to support it. Also, my girl Jamie Kwak came to the class, so we wanted to support her as well. David says (there I go again) that she is good. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjkTerA6ZdRNp-hoVLCdydgAnkB2yKLrbkIHFRkidzQSrdfJziO2JWQfM-JklGLcr80-UMrhQjkQFeHvPpSuKIW8k7JH1fvsOZWGjSwjFzO9gICPA6dMlu6bgKqMA5OkG9dpQUecEo_8Z/s1600/VID01684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjkTerA6ZdRNp-hoVLCdydgAnkB2yKLrbkIHFRkidzQSrdfJziO2JWQfM-JklGLcr80-UMrhQjkQFeHvPpSuKIW8k7JH1fvsOZWGjSwjFzO9gICPA6dMlu6bgKqMA5OkG9dpQUecEo_8Z/s640/VID01684.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />I say that Zeb and David rocked the class. Excellent idea, guys!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-47554630890468960872010-04-29T21:15:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.094-07:00This Little Piggy Went to CrossFit<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span id="goog_1283690923"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span id="goog_1283690924"></span></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpuNxPEWexM8UwMWypV7SV29TvdRnzBkRtcvIraD53QzasPkhi2LxtypN0GtpbPdYULkD3LputB9x01ndFaBdKnRlWdjxC3VTkA97ZLScskqtZ6_6i3iwwx_59f2wniyOBGp7Mql5d9Xi/s1600/IMG00161+00000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpuNxPEWexM8UwMWypV7SV29TvdRnzBkRtcvIraD53QzasPkhi2LxtypN0GtpbPdYULkD3LputB9x01ndFaBdKnRlWdjxC3VTkA97ZLScskqtZ6_6i3iwwx_59f2wniyOBGp7Mql5d9Xi/s640/IMG00161+00000.jpg" width="640" /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Wednesday, 04/28/2010 </span><a href="http://paradisocrossfit.com/index.php?mact=News,cntnt01,detail,0&cntnt01articleid=306&cntnt01returnid=15"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">W.O.D.</span></a></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Front Squat 3-3-3-3-3</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My Loads: 115 - 125 - 135 - 145 - 155 (2) BASELINE</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(What does "baseline" mean again?)</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">David suggested I start at 115 because I had absolutely no clue where I should begin. The idea is that you do a front squat lifting an amount of weight three times in a row. Then, you re-rack the bar and increase the weight bit by bit continuing through 5 rounds of 3 lifts. David said, "You might want to try this without your shoes." So, sock footed, 115 felt fine. 125 was cool. 135 immediately felt like, "Oh shit, how am I ever going to lift this?!" 145 drew some deep grunting noises out of me. 155 was a challenge and on the third/last attempt I failed. David said I would have had it if I weren't gripping the bar so tight but had let it rest on my fingers/fingertips. Dang it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Really cool was the two or three times David told me how well I did with this WOD. Still cooler was my ignorance over exactly how well. Coolest of all cools - *beating </span><a href="http://dailybobby.blogspot.com/2010/04/day-26-riding-chicken-has-its.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Rob</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">.</span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">*Disclaimer: This gloat will be short lived. Personal comparison to Rob's performance in any category, be it English literature analysis, CrossFit training or ale consuming, will be in vain. One must gloat where one can for one may never see it in this lifetime [or the next] again.</span></i></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My family now rolls their eyes when I start a sentence with "David said..." They say it reminds them of "Rob said..." I roll my eyes back and say, "Whatever." This morning, I said, "Look at my cool lifting bruises on my shoulders!"</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-49390140376932373102010-04-27T09:10:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.105-07:00I'm Hike-a-licious.<div style="text-align: justify;">If I haven't mentioned it before, my husband and I are preparing to hike for a mere six days straight in the <a href="http://www.via-alpina.org/">Austrian Alps</a>. This hike is to occur in July of this year. On July 10th-ish we will join our friends Rob and Petra on the 21st day of their hike in the Alps which will have covered points in Germany, Austria and Italy. As a group, we will finish up the hike in six days as we head northwesterly back toward Germany.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hhYaMxcpQR_hQSwsJMhmeT88l2n0N3YvqV-aBB7psFJpHwkDlgYj-f6Fpsmek9LjigV4PpihjgkOjLMYrkfd2sdJzTHDKG3tyK8cJToT5SQOVmtmGteT7uhOHicYdbiBSBH3npEE3czj/s1600/VID01393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hhYaMxcpQR_hQSwsJMhmeT88l2n0N3YvqV-aBB7psFJpHwkDlgYj-f6Fpsmek9LjigV4PpihjgkOjLMYrkfd2sdJzTHDKG3tyK8cJToT5SQOVmtmGteT7uhOHicYdbiBSBH3npEE3czj/s400/VID01393.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To say the least, Garret and I are greatly concerned that we will hold the group back. In order to minimize the amount of backholding that may occur, he and I have been training. We have been <a href="http://www.paradisocrossfit.com/">CrossFitting</a> and we have been hiking. I am fully immersed (though I always feel as though I could be participating more) in CrossFit while he has dabbled in the on-ramp program at our box. We have developed a habit of hiking together on Saturday mornings while I have also developed a habit of hiking at least one other time through the week (thank you, Lizzie and Heather!). For me personally, this makes four to five days per week where I am kicking my ass in some sort of physical challenge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Combine all this physicality together with our participation in our box's 30-day paleo diet challenge and these three things seem to make for a fulltime job in themselves. Every day is consumed with thoughts of "How am I going to challenge myself physically today? What am I going to eat today? What am I <em>not</em> going to eat today? How often am I going to eat today?" We are ever referencing the Paradiso CrossFit website and Nutrition Blog and those blogs and Facebook pages of our PCF cohort. In fact, I feel like a food-ophile carefully scanning images of everyones breakfast, dinner and snacks - having food envy and moaning in delight over things like sauteed cauliflower in place of rice. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Garrett and I have faced obstacles because neither one of us considers ourselves very good cooks really. He can throw down on some fish or stirfry and I get requests for fried chicken or banana bread, but to say we feel competitive as chefs in this Paleo challenge is not going to happen. So, as I've said before, we do the best we can.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Things that I have discovered about myself this week:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">1) I can't sautee asparagus to save my life. There is a fine line between delightfully tasty and just damn soggy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2) I have attempted twice to hard boil a dozen eggs and both times, though hugely varied in approach, I managed to pop, clank, explode and otherwise abuse the shells of my unsuspecting protien delights.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3) Salt is just damn necessary in some recipes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4) Espresso requires either a smidge of milk (soy or the moo kind) or a smattering of raw sugar. We have both declared that we will give up one or the other but not both.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5) No matter how hard I work or how disciplined I consume, Garrett (who is doing far less than me physically) has already reached his high school weight and is concerned that he may lose too much.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, on a more positive note:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">6) Meat rocks!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">7) Avocados are a welcome flavor (this one is for you, Rob) in most dishes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">8) Tuesday morning Farm Fresh To You produce deliveries are one of the highlights of my week.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">9) I surprisingly don't really miss my breads, rices or potatoes. I certainly don't miss the way they make me feel. And, when I think I want them, I simply remind myself how they bog me down and interfere with my CrossFit performance well into the next day (Funny, I used this same psychological trick on myself to stop smoking nine years ago). </div><div style="text-align: justify;">10) Breathing is awesome! Achieving proper breathe is what plagues me the most in my workouts. I have increased my lung capacity greatly in the last year and am still way behind the curve. I am excited to ultimately work my asthma away. When that day comes, trust me, you will know of it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqhpUJ0g0BIhy9KF-NiJnTk0nmXSPU37b0F3v0pLkjvQnKGWcJ34U4xT83VkBNqRN2pE2PapQGUdvjcrTuleogefDAsLvopvmoBK9xGZqglmiRZnCPmUxxaQP8udNo6JkS93LCXBhGs1B/s1600/IMG_1372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqhpUJ0g0BIhy9KF-NiJnTk0nmXSPU37b0F3v0pLkjvQnKGWcJ34U4xT83VkBNqRN2pE2PapQGUdvjcrTuleogefDAsLvopvmoBK9xGZqglmiRZnCPmUxxaQP8udNo6JkS93LCXBhGs1B/s400/IMG_1372.JPG" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5uD0jqqO00JgdBxrwBnerjAhHlDmE34UDn4chcgufRNdi0J6tT91dbHu9fBPLrDo9W5QiBghjxNengVaQZnKsxo2bZ-tpjhKwpgesJUXcG5hSJJ4SJVnC53ZepCgwRJ1nwPBT9TnhcjR/s1600/IMG_1373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5uD0jqqO00JgdBxrwBnerjAhHlDmE34UDn4chcgufRNdi0J6tT91dbHu9fBPLrDo9W5QiBghjxNengVaQZnKsxo2bZ-tpjhKwpgesJUXcG5hSJJ4SJVnC53ZepCgwRJ1nwPBT9TnhcjR/s400/IMG_1373.JPG" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The days and days of Paleo menus have begun to blur for me. There have been moments where Paleo was near impossible but, more so, Paleo is more accessible than you might believe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM351FCSvm6Quk0-aAIAb374L5aecax4oVp0s-vgpzP2RPeEFeLvS897P7Cl-O0TrlzDr9aYXw1Ka6_x4L2OJaMt0goS_HTXXuVA4s7OfG9wqnvi7DHVc5BmJ_g0y0lCXinGwdq3cwAnD/s1600/GillyBurgerSin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM351FCSvm6Quk0-aAIAb374L5aecax4oVp0s-vgpzP2RPeEFeLvS897P7Cl-O0TrlzDr9aYXw1Ka6_x4L2OJaMt0goS_HTXXuVA4s7OfG9wqnvi7DHVc5BmJ_g0y0lCXinGwdq3cwAnD/s200/GillyBurgerSin.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Friday night Truxton's Gilly Burger of sin. Notice the dark looming atmosphere. Dione was a bad bad girl.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8CWJA9XPNBWD9c8FFf7mZy55QtdDiExsKUFrPp10oXVA1k_aCka7HC-8D5O3HkF2hyYmC_k3hAycLynXJkFNxEEboz2WTlw3_uhZgDMNmgq0SExTmMqzbfKVcuNsbp26GM_psiSGM2VZ/s1600/IMG00241-20100423-1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8CWJA9XPNBWD9c8FFf7mZy55QtdDiExsKUFrPp10oXVA1k_aCka7HC-8D5O3HkF2hyYmC_k3hAycLynXJkFNxEEboz2WTlw3_uhZgDMNmgq0SExTmMqzbfKVcuNsbp26GM_psiSGM2VZ/s200/IMG00241-20100423-1311.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not sure when this happened but it came compliments of Garrett (as do most of our Paleo creations) and it was dreamy! That's apples, avocado, walnuts, butter lettuce, baby romaine, grilled chicken, etc. in that there bowl. Mmmm...</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOuMh8han6KlFsBj63-X5WdPMlw_LYCB-WtrOw4KfQK0643V68Bx8eGJ1YULlNO_UdcJmJ9vkq4RdS6rUg3oMBRBZqbxuH03PxR8CM_2fdc_wERVOlh3R2P3frVYfnBWJJH6l-Wg2SHX_/s1600/IMG_1369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOuMh8han6KlFsBj63-X5WdPMlw_LYCB-WtrOw4KfQK0643V68Bx8eGJ1YULlNO_UdcJmJ9vkq4RdS6rUg3oMBRBZqbxuH03PxR8CM_2fdc_wERVOlh3R2P3frVYfnBWJJH6l-Wg2SHX_/s200/IMG_1369.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Garrett's plate of wild atlantic salmon on a bed of fresh spinach with grilled zucchini. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhB4mQfXPPiaYXGkmpmW8tIsxqUEt7HxhKg8F0yBg9PYVfVVATgkobdHnRhRMrMWFYkmA88ISzVZd8HIOC-Xsj_xeZYdQkTwNTFs-tzqzAxax6GVltqIG3ZR4SMkqRHiHWpCISlnRmt2_D/s1600/IMG_1371.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhB4mQfXPPiaYXGkmpmW8tIsxqUEt7HxhKg8F0yBg9PYVfVVATgkobdHnRhRMrMWFYkmA88ISzVZd8HIOC-Xsj_xeZYdQkTwNTFs-tzqzAxax6GVltqIG3ZR4SMkqRHiHWpCISlnRmt2_D/s200/IMG_1371.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnfdJ7YsBsOMSN7Ym9brpXfjOJNTQUcQFk4tlyMxt0BcEfU9HBm1e180fUaoAxCb-jiy_Y9S3tHvgQbf5o2SL5zaahkMT0yQS5uffPNh6C5Wt6aiOYOLSgJKoIU0LJSU22BN5YBnUytSC/s1600/IMG_1370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnfdJ7YsBsOMSN7Ym9brpXfjOJNTQUcQFk4tlyMxt0BcEfU9HBm1e180fUaoAxCb-jiy_Y9S3tHvgQbf5o2SL5zaahkMT0yQS5uffPNh6C5Wt6aiOYOLSgJKoIU0LJSU22BN5YBnUytSC/s200/IMG_1370.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Breakfast for two days in a row of leftover browned turkey with onions and bellpeppers cooked in an omelet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My plate of salmon and zucchini minus the bed of fresh spinach because I simply could not fathom another mouthful of spinach goodness yesterday.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, we eat, we drink, we crossfit and we hike. Most importantly, we live. We are not idle and we are not complacent. Certainly, we are no longer ignorant of the possibilities out there for us. And, sometimes, we rest.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-80876967664242964792010-04-22T20:34:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.166-07:00Day 2 and Day 3. Not as pale as Monday.<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was speaking to a friend of mine a couple days ago when he informed me that I need to step it up now. I'm out of the on-ramp program at PCF and I'm familiar with hiking local Los Angeles area hikes. Now, in preparation for our hike in the Austrian Alps in July, I need to lengthen my hikes and increase the frequency. I need to CrossFit more. Considering my box is committed to a 30 day Paleo challenge, I need to also step-up my nutrition.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">People, this is hard work. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Day 2 of the Paleo Challenge</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8XP8i84NCtmI7Y6nutDht1AQCcUlg9SZDGai5pUwAPi4LRh8ZxN160GpDApKB7XdEpSRbxgweXarPB8Uy66NuKzaHx4pL1GyGP8aDuJ7I_aMXtBfteeCj-n3PIk7ooJR1tu4aNzJEKU/s1600/IMG_1367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8XP8i84NCtmI7Y6nutDht1AQCcUlg9SZDGai5pUwAPi4LRh8ZxN160GpDApKB7XdEpSRbxgweXarPB8Uy66NuKzaHx4pL1GyGP8aDuJ7I_aMXtBfteeCj-n3PIk7ooJR1tu4aNzJEKU/s200/IMG_1367.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ok kids, I'm doing the best I can here. Tuesday morning I worked with what I had. It wasn't until late Monday night that Garrett and I actually decided to pursue the challenge. This meant that we didn't yet get the opportunity to buy the necessary groceries. My answer to that? Leftovers! Breakfast consisted of some leftover TJ bacon (I know, sodium) with two eggs prepared in a tiny bit of olive oil. On the side were strawberries. My beverage was a double espresso - NO sugar, NO milk (I religiously drink a cappucino). This breakfast made me very happy. And, yes, I missed my buttered toast.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLW0y3gqZhGA5f1evwQsDdUBnXs-qDgIU3UdW5qOdzyHCXgHZFpaKpA0aBRBOqvbi3YQdk-onsiqzuWO1r7XEEG4UvWVvVyI-dbT-WcoQNzZfPUwKKObfknSj_rJfMtc-do_sDC_5k4do/s1600/IMG00153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLW0y3gqZhGA5f1evwQsDdUBnXs-qDgIU3UdW5qOdzyHCXgHZFpaKpA0aBRBOqvbi3YQdk-onsiqzuWO1r7XEEG4UvWVvVyI-dbT-WcoQNzZfPUwKKObfknSj_rJfMtc-do_sDC_5k4do/s200/IMG00153.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't remember what I had for lunch but I think it included one of these and some hard boiled eggs and maybe some walnuts. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOyMJ9hQqjlj5sh7K3uUuhCBiIsnSbTnfC54Inx08v_Q8rN4xo8xan0nUINQZqqqCEZ3l04SkVZNVZ0Q5DQgJ_HGbJmMdeoBj7N88ZW_2eHbGkB6xiXYHHn-dizJJQbQenLo68hkSO78/s1600/IMG00154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOyMJ9hQqjlj5sh7K3uUuhCBiIsnSbTnfC54Inx08v_Q8rN4xo8xan0nUINQZqqqCEZ3l04SkVZNVZ0Q5DQgJ_HGbJmMdeoBj7N88ZW_2eHbGkB6xiXYHHn-dizJJQbQenLo68hkSO78/s200/IMG00154.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Dinner was the ultimate challenge for me (us). We went out for a family dinner with Garrett's family. We went to Salt Creek. When the bread was set on the table, I moved it away. I ordered a salad but didn't even realize it had a little bit of feta cheese on it. Oops.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qiUii92UdxCoir6DdwzIoHgL8igq5H_EAT_j8VgRtUvx5r0lJBsU2V1RC3nOEdNw3I6a0U7wevQcWOradtIUF7SSakLaVl-VEYbbt4wfPgwS-WI7G9l4SBswI7N2WO4N8g1wER9JcI0/s1600/IMG00155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qiUii92UdxCoir6DdwzIoHgL8igq5H_EAT_j8VgRtUvx5r0lJBsU2V1RC3nOEdNw3I6a0U7wevQcWOradtIUF7SSakLaVl-VEYbbt4wfPgwS-WI7G9l4SBswI7N2WO4N8g1wER9JcI0/s200/IMG00155.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the main course, I substituted farm fresh veggies in place of the fries that would go with my baby back ribs. Ok, I think I screwed up here too because the ribs have sauce which I'm sure included sugar and some other stuff non-Paleo. Oops again. Oh, and I didn't follow it with creme brulee. I actually believe that skipping the creme brulee is illegal in some states.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Day 3 </div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">W.O.D. (Work-out of the Day, if I haven't explained this already.)</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">"Ontario Sectional Day 1, Event 2"</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">As many rounds and reps as possible in 12 minutes of:</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">5 Deadlifts (235/150 lbs)</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">10 Pull ups</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">5 Ring dips</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XFgoBRQI-4FWDQB8hmSsNK_QPu89KcOHSVlgoxUFU_8T3gQRNp05vve960_6qU_n-w8f5ubuF4hG2aZbjXvxblzizLD7Z0vwljT14e7DnLjq0mwr3hAoeXqmohtJaCnOV_jpLWCWRNQ/s1600/IMG00156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XFgoBRQI-4FWDQB8hmSsNK_QPu89KcOHSVlgoxUFU_8T3gQRNp05vve960_6qU_n-w8f5ubuF4hG2aZbjXvxblzizLD7Z0vwljT14e7DnLjq0mwr3hAoeXqmohtJaCnOV_jpLWCWRNQ/s320/IMG00156.jpg" tt="true" width="248" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On Monday, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/42093986@N07/4407621307/in/set-72157623433410289/">Diso</a> helped me through my last on-ramp/first main W.O.D. (this was my fault...I didn't realize I was officially non-on-ramp now). Because I was the only on-ramper that morning, we made the best of things and I ended up getting to have a personal session to full W.O.D. strength. See previous blog post for details on this. This means Wednesday was truly my first mainstream W.O.D. where I got to work-out with the big kids under the direction of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/42093986@N07/4529255895/in/set-72157623878281230/">Zeb</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I came to Wednesday's W.O.D. fully recharged and ready to go. I think I did alright. I made it through four rounds with the assistance of some of the largest rubber bands I have ever seen in my life. The workout was great! Oh and I officially put my name and my weight on the Paleo Challenge sign-up sheet at my box. It is a really big effing deal for me to put my weight out there for people to see. Look at me! I don't even know who I am anymore.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9Z921ZTJDuV0qoHMA4aakGkv6qPtT8gEwxjNxIfPw9X45LhzFBjeCMt_CDvPv2KykhBONIGdHeicmRI1Qcu_M34PiXDXPD7LENjGaNnonD0Os11R8l-WjMT7yX85hKeB5B_gN-RJipQ/s1600/HardBoiledEgg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9Z921ZTJDuV0qoHMA4aakGkv6qPtT8gEwxjNxIfPw9X45LhzFBjeCMt_CDvPv2KykhBONIGdHeicmRI1Qcu_M34PiXDXPD7LENjGaNnonD0Os11R8l-WjMT7yX85hKeB5B_gN-RJipQ/s200/HardBoiledEgg.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For breakfast - two hardboiled eggs, two raw carrots, one orange and a double espresso.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For lunch - another challenge because I was working at a friends home, we went to In-n-Out. I had a double burger (NO cheese) with grilled onions (NO sauce or ketchup or anything sugary like that) in a lettuce wrap. NO fries and NO shake. My friend took amazement in this spectacular display of discipline.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3S1DudSOQrNrfBPP9T6ytn4Ey7p2Q2eesfc9oILJge5824cb4sOeZt6um_WNvJl4iOBbv2ykCraMBqd0FPcODAAYuXxZQ0bKs4xsDDLR8q3SnWfn5amLoyS1blIaAoLim943t37h0OM/s1600/IMG_1368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3S1DudSOQrNrfBPP9T6ytn4Ey7p2Q2eesfc9oILJge5824cb4sOeZt6um_WNvJl4iOBbv2ykCraMBqd0FPcODAAYuXxZQ0bKs4xsDDLR8q3SnWfn5amLoyS1blIaAoLim943t37h0OM/s200/IMG_1368.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For dinner - the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/42093986@N07/4542266167/in/photostream/">PCF potluck</a> would have been awesome if I weren't entirely exhausted and covered in cat hair. Garrett actually prepared something for us to take to the event but I was just too tired to attend. We stayed home and ate ground turkey with fire roasted onions and peppers topped with avocado. A nice end to a long day after which I promptly went to bed to rest before an early morning hike.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Nobody ever said healthy was easy.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4888972835050656044.post-20625983943549318112010-04-19T21:42:00.000-07:002015-06-22T14:17:09.176-07:00Day 1 - Paleo Dinner<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7SoDUDVlv_2uKQzw51E5AeIgxT7PbHIG0QKkccCQTLtSnZ-_l1mTAYTv2kqdkzNtLX0V97y7gZzrYBcwsFkp0bi4KVa50v9FOmPxkPQMTeehJPGJpv4Zw-x91O37ZrKulxDtU5J1yCU/s1600/Sweetwater_IPA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7SoDUDVlv_2uKQzw51E5AeIgxT7PbHIG0QKkccCQTLtSnZ-_l1mTAYTv2kqdkzNtLX0V97y7gZzrYBcwsFkp0bi4KVa50v9FOmPxkPQMTeehJPGJpv4Zw-x91O37ZrKulxDtU5J1yCU/s640/Sweetwater_IPA.jpg" width="218" wt="true" /></a></div><br />For dinner we had Trader Joe's marinated Maui style beef shortribs and avocado wrapped in butter lettuce together with a side of sauteed asparagus. Mmmmm good!<br /><br />The Paleo Challenge calls for absolutely no alcohol. Garrett didn't seem too concerned about this tonight when he grabbed his Gargoyle IPA. So, there you have it. Anyone else challenged by the no beer aspect of this?<br /><br />Going forward I will combine the food journal into a one-day summary. Goodnight. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0