Everybody wants to be a cat? Not in our house

Meet Ben.



Ben is Peanut’s cat.



She loves him. A lot. Probably more than she loves me.



She talks to him like he is a baby and wraps him up in a blanket.



He is fairly tolerant of this.

He sleeps in her room, curled up next to her.

She loves this.

Ben had a collar. A black, reflective one. With an ID tag on it.

On one of Ben’s recent adventures, he lost his collar, and along with it, his ID tag.

This made Peanut very, VERY unhappy.

She was convinced he was going to get lost, like, IMMEDIATELY.

So we went to PetCo so she could pick out a new collar and ID tag for Ben.

Peanut is very girly.

VERY.

Ben is now sporting a bright pink sparkly collar. But that is not the worst of it.

Oh no.

His ID tag is a black heart, rimmed with hot pink. One side features his name, address, phone number. The other side? Reads “DIVA.”



Poor emasculated Ben.

(And he thought getting neutered would be the worst of it.)

Women's work

My daughters were deep in the midst of an imaginative role playing game.

They have dozens upon which they draw for daily entertainment:
- Molly and Sally go the store
- Snow White and Baby Horse at school
- Rudolph and Clarice at the North Pole

Loaf is often delegated the boy’s role, if there is one, or the role of lesser importance. In a recent game based on Little House on the Prairie, Peanut was Laura and Loaf was assigned the role of Jack . . . the Ingalls' family dog.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Yet.

But I digress.

There they were, playing some game. They were chattering back and forth. I was off to the side, folding laundry and sort of half listening, but mostly lost in my own thoughts. When suddenly, Peanut, who was wearing a bandana tied around her head like an old-fashioned kerchief and a pint-sized apron tied around her dress said, “I will go pick the berries because that’s women’s work.”

I froze mid fold and stared at her.

What?!?

Over the past several months, Mark has been reading chapter books to her – the entire Great Brain series, as well as the aforementioned Little House on the Prairie books.

While I am thrilled that she enjoys this time with her father and is completely enraptured by these big books with few pictures, these are tales written in an entirely different time – a time when men’s and women’s roles were clearly defined, rigid and limited.

It is good to learn about these times – the historical lessons are important – but I’m less than thrilled that the concept of “women’s work,” has been introduced into my six-year-old daughter’s lexicon.

And who’s to say it even came from these books? It could just have easily been slipped into one of the old Disney princess films, or another source I’m not even aware of.

“Peanut,” I asked her delicately, trying to keep my tone casual, “where did you hear that phrase? Women’s work?”

She looked at me with a skeptical grin. Maybe my tone wasn’t as casual as I’d hoped. “No where,” she said. “I made it up.”

“I’m not mad,” I quickly clarified. “I just want to know where you heard it.”

“No where. It’s from inside my head.”

Which I know is totally not true. But I decided not to press.

Instead I launched into an explanation of how roles have changed. How “women’s work” is a very old-fashioned term. How women can do any type of work—and for that matter so can men. I finish my diatribe using our own family as an example.

“Dad does the dishes. I take out the trash. We both take care of you and your sister.”

“Uh, OK, Mom,” she said, turning to resume her game. I can practically hear the eyeroll.

A few minutes later, I am back to folding laundry (and no, the irony of what I am doing as I deliver my little speech about today's changing gender roles is not lost on me) and they are once again playing.

“You pick the berries,” Peanut declares to Loaf. “I am going to sweep the floor.”

And then I walked up the hall, found a good solid wall and proceeded to bang my head against it for 10 or 15 minutes.

And the laundry? I left the rest of it for Mark to fold.

Let them watch their father finish it up while I’m in the office today. I think it might be good for them.

Helllooooo, Lover.

I am a bargain shopper.

I loooove finding a hidden gem – some retail item that has been deep discounted. It is a thrill¬—my reward, my due—for suffering the mall, or worse, the disorganized big box store.

Lately, I have been getting my thrills in thrift stores. They appeal not only to my love of bargain hunting, but also to my desire to live a green lifestyle: reduce, reuse, recycle and all that good stuff.

About a year ago, a coworker discovered a thrift store about 10 minutes from our office. It benefits the Lupus Foundation, and while 85% of the stuff there is of no interest to me, every now and then I find something truly spectacular.

Like a caramel colored Ralph Lauren belted suede coat for $9. Or a black Tahari suit jacket for $12.

But in truth I am Carrie Bradshaw at heart. I loves me some fine shoes. Unlike Carrie, I don’t have the budget to stock up on Jimmy’s or Manolo’s. Once in a while I’ll stroll through Nordstrom or Neimans and fondle the fine Italian leather in the designer shoe section, wishing and hoping, but never buying.

There is a thrift store about 15 minutes from my house that I haven’t – until recently – spent much time in.

But last week, I went there looking for a pair of dress pants and I came home with two pairs of practically brand new Ann Taylor suit pants for a grand total of $7. Yesterday, I had nothing much to do after I dropped Loaf off at school, so I went back.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular – just killing time. I browsed around the clothing, but didn’t really find anything. Then I went downstairs and picked up two paperback books—The Shack and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for 25 cents each.

I was standing in line waiting to check out, when I noticed a wall of designer shoes near the registers. And on top of that wall was a pair of black pumps.

Killer black pumps.

To some, they are just shoes. But to my inner Carrie Bradshaw, they are sex and classic elegance stacked on a three-and-a-half-inch glossy black leather heel. They are feminine and powerful and hot.

I sauntered over and lifted them from that shelf, feeling their weight in my hands – a weight that only the finest made shoes have.

They were by Dolce & Gabbana.



And they were my size.

I slipped them on and strolled slowly in front of the registers.

”Those are gorgeous,” said a woman standing by the register. “You have to get them.”

I pulled them off and turned them over, expecting to find a price tag of at least $50.

Instead? $25!

SCORE!



My inner Carrie is extremely pleased.

Happy Halloween!

Hope you all had a fun, safe and chocolate-filled day!

Wordless Wednesday: Getting ready for Halloween

Click here for more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Well hello, blog

Nice to see you? How've you been?

Anything new? (Ha! Obviously not).

Sorry for not stopping by sooner. It's been a little crazy around here, and on top of that, I've just not been in a very writer-y kind of mood lately. Hope you understand.

I do - finally - have a couple of posts brewing in my head, so I'll be back very soon.

Looking forward to catching up some more.

Kimberly

Third tri's a charm

On Saturday, I completed my third sprint triathlon, but this time with a few twists:
- I was joined by two friends
- It was the Mainiac Tri all the way up in Maine
- The swim was in a 62-degree OCEAN

Now, before I go any further, I need to explain to what the ocean means to me. Its vastness and unpredictability, its swift currents and crashing waves, its odd and menacing marine life, represents a cornucopia of phobias.

It the mother of all phobias, because it is so many things wrapped into one: open water, drowning, sharks and jellyfish. Undertows, riptides that pull you out to sea and waves that knock you off your feet and crash over you with terrible force.

I have not been in the ocean past my upper thighs since I was about 10-years-old, flanked by my mom on one side and my step-father on the other, both gripping my hands and lifting me up and over each swell. Back then, the ocean was fun, but sometime after that, the joy of the ocean left and in seeped fear. It has never left.

I signed up for this tri under the promise that the waters of Biddeford Pool in Maine were fairly smooth and calm, but even so, the thought of swimming in the open ocean filled me with anxiety. For weeks, I dreamed of being swept out to sea and lost forever. I dreamed of swimming so dreadfully off course that I could no longer see land. I dreamed of waves of water pounding down on me, choking and suffocating me until I woke in my bed gripped in fear and unable to get back to sleep for hours.

So the most eventful part of this tri - for me - was the anxiety that I felt from the moment I woke up in my bed at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday until I rose from that water having completed the swim sometime after 11 a.m.

When I arrived on site with my friends Beckie and Michelle that morning, I could hear the breakers, but could not see them. My body seized and I felt instantly nauseous. Now, in reality, they were fairly mild, but still . . . breakers. There were not supposed to be breakers. The website said "calm and flat" waters. Breakers are neither calm nor flat.

I visited the water's edge several times before the race (we arrived onsite around 8:15, which was just Too. Much. Time. To. Think. And look).

The tide was going out and we were assured the waves would flatten out by the time the race started, but the buoys weren't up and it was hard to picture how far OUT we'd have to swim. How far in those waves? With a current or against it?

I stressed for hours, stomach tumbling, unable to eat. But oddly, when I slipped on my wetsuit, I felt a bit calmer. The buoys went up and most of the swim was parallel to the beach, which made me feel better for some reason. The waves did flatten out and watching each wave take off was a thrill. Beckie went in wave 3 and Michelle and I were in wave 4.

We hugged Beckie and off she went. Just minutes later it was our turn. I hugged Michelle and wished her luck and someone yelled, "GO!" and I went.



The water was freezing, but I was so focused on just getting past the (admittedly very small breakers) I didn't even notice at first. I waded out, walking as far as I could and bobbing over the swells the way I did when I was 10.

When the water was around my ribcage, I started swimming a slow easy breaststroke, just trying to acclimate to the temp. I hyperventilated a bit from the cold, but only for a minute or two. Just before the first buoy, I started freestyle swimming - the correct way. Face in water, though I did breathe every two strokes for most of the course instead of my usual three. I sighted the way I'm supposed to. The portion parallel to the beach seemed long, and I kept getting logjammed behind groups of slower swimmers, but I did pass quite a few people and soon enough I was rounding the final buoy and heading back to the beach. I kept thinking the incoming waves would work in my favor and push me toward shore faster, but if they did I didn't notice.

However, suddenly, I could see the ocean floor (OCEAN FLOOR!) and the next time I looked ahead people were standing up, so I put in two more good strokes and stood myself and ran out of the ocean (OCEAN!), cold and very winded, but also ELATED to have done something that scared me so much!



That's me in the front. You can't see my face, but I must have an ear-to-ear smile because I am just so happy in this picture.

Swim time: 11:37

NOTE: This is actually quite a bit slower than my 9:36 time from the quarter mile swim in August, but I'll take it. I swam in the OCEAN! That is bragging rights enough for me for now.

I had a really long T1. My feet were covered in sand ankle to toe and I struggled to pull my long-sleeved tech shirt on over my soaked arms and hands. This is definitely an area I need to improve.

T1: 4:32

The 14.85 bike was fairly uneventful. It was an almost entirely flat course, which is good and bad (good, because hills suck, but bad because you have to pedal constantly). I was passed a few times, but also passed several people, including a couple from the previous wave.



Start of the bike leg.

Two things of note:
1. The scenery was amazing. I found myself wishing it wasn't a race so I could stop and enjoy it more.
2. This was my fastest race pace to date - I averaged 14.07 mph - which I know isn't fast, but I am happy to see my speed improving.

Bike: 1:03:20

This was a decent T2, but there's still lots of room to improve here. I basically ran in, racked the bike, dropped my helmet, hydrated, pulled off the tech shirt, grabbed an energy gel and ran out.

T2: 1:21

The first mile of the run was sheer torture. My legs were wobbly, my sore knee was acting up and there was a hill. Plus, there was a slew of runners on the other side of the road returning from the run and I found that pretty demoralizing. When I hit the first mile marker, I felt like I'd been running for-EVER and literally shouted out, "Are you freakin' kidding me?!"

Yet, I kept running. This is the first run leg that I actually RAN the whole time. I passed three people of the male persuasion, which made me happy because all the men took off two waves ahead of me.

Again, the course was beautiful. Parts of it ran right along the ocean and that was a nice diversion. Finally, I reached a volunteer who said there was a half mile left, so I tried to pick it up a little, though admittedly, I was drained. Regardless, I set a PR (personal record) for this run, and for that, I am extremely proud and happy.



Run: 32:20

So that is that - the last tri of the season for me (though I have to admit, today I found myself looking to see if there are any tris or duathlons (run-bike-run) in NJ in October, and there are, but really, I think I'm done for this season). I feel like that was a good race to end on - I conquered a fear, set a couple of PRs on pace and got to do it with two friends.

And I have a whole set of new training goals. Only seven months until next season!

Summer's last hurrah

June 2009

Peanut: Mom, remember last summer when we went to the beach, how fun that was?

Me: I do. It was very fun.

Peanut: Can we do that again this summer?

Me: Absolutely. We'll go again this summer. I promise.

September 2009

My words to my daughter have been weighing heavily on me these last few weeks because as summer '09 drew to a close, I still had not fulfilled them.

June was more or less a washout, with rain every weekend.

July had a few good weekends, but we were only free one of them. I recall that weekend in mid-July, sitting around the breakfast table on a Saturday debating whether or not to jump in the car for a quick day trip to the beach. I ultimately decided against it, opting to take them to a local outdoor swimming hole instead.

August was also chock full - a wedding, a triathlon, a road trip to Indiana and then Peanut's birthday party - and as the month drew to a close I found myself deeply regretting my promise, thankful that she did not bring it up, hopeful that she had forgotten.

September arrived and unlike previous years, it seemed the weather instantly cooled. Nothing awful, but there was a definite chill in the air, requiring a sweater during the day and an extra blanket on the bed at night.

But this past weekend was gorgeous - the kind of September weather that makes living in the Northeast so amazing. The skies were a cloudless, bright blue and the air was mild with temps in the 70s.

"This is it," I thought. "Our last chance to hit the shore."

So Sunday around 10 a.m. we piled in the car and drove just over an hour to Sandy Hook - the Jersey Shore's most northern beach. We spread out on a blanket and munched on barbecue chicken wraps, grapes and cookies. We dug in the sand. We collected shells and we even splashed (a bit) in the waves.

It was breezy, but beautiful. And I felt at ease having finally fulfilled my promise. Just. Under. The. Wire.







Happy fall '09 everyone!