Think of this as your desert island time

The set up is like this . . . last Wednesday had all the makings of an excellent, good news, shiny day. (And having recently availed myself of Firefly via Netflix I mean "Shiny!") Instead, it turned into a day where I worked very hard to stay professional and calm, and as a result found myself sitting in the back of my car, trying to meditate my way through not losing my shit.

In between the things that happened were an interview where the job offer that had been previously discussed was divided by 2, and the territory for said job had magically relocated too. (Note: even if the salary offer wasn't an issue, which it was, the fact that 4 hours of phone interviews had given me one set of details on salary and territory and the in-person interview gave me another was the bigger red flag.) I held things down and asked some pretty intelligent questions about this, I thought, without getting accusatory or defensive. So, that was good. But then, I got back into the parking garage and found that the jacknut parked next to me was literally about 3 inches from my driver's side. Couldn't even get my arm through to open the door. So, I had to see if I could crawl in from the passenger side. I tried a couple of tactics, all the while dreaming of notes with flaming hot prose left on their windshield. So, I ended up sitting in the backseat, trying to breathe out the rage and find the cool, calm, center of the universe.

I had posted lots of rainbows-and-hearts type things on Facebook about this interview, so of course when I got myself together and crawled my way into the front seat,  I posted something cursory on FB. I didn't want to be over-the-top negative; I did want people to know that things were not as promised and not hold out on details for the people who were wanting to know.

This caused my sister and a couple of my best friends to call me. I kept it together with my sister for half an hour, but finally found myself in a parking lot just saying, "Why can't I just have a year where everything is ok?" One of my friends then let me swear, pretty much non-stop for 10 minutes and then obliged me when I said we needed to talk about other things. We spent another 10 minutes talking about him and other things about me and making jokes.

The other friend asked me what happened. And I told him . . . calmly. Not without emotion, but with some perspective. We talked about my job prospects, and his work situation (job talk in the near future! Yeah!). And he asked me if there was anything else going on in my life.

The hard truth is . . . not so much. I see friends. I go running. I went on a date. (well, by now a couple) I've never been so on top of the TV shows I like. I write. A lot. I read. And in terms of job searching - I have 5 places I check on the regular, I file what I find, I write and adjust cover letters, I submit letters and resumes online. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I said to him, "I'm not chasing after a kid, but I'm growing to really appreciate how hard it is to be at home all the time. I feel very much not a part of the world, and so it's hard to have anything interesting to say when people ask me what I've been doing. It's a lot of the same." Over and over, I would add. (I have to say, I have two mommy friends in particular in mind as I write this paragraph and hope they know that I'm not saying I understand the full scope of how hard that job is, just a small glimpse)

My friend said to this, "Think of this as your desert island time . . . so rare are the down times that when they come they really annoy you!"

It is ironic, actually, that what I was fighting for in my last job was the ability to keep being successful but not have to sacrifice my personal life to do so."Be careful what you wish for" is cliche, and also doesn't adequately describe what I feel about this. I think this time is . . . harder work than my job. But maybe better for me in terms of my long term goals and needs and wants. I'm not sorry for what I wished for because it is still what I wish for - a job where I can use my strengths to my best advantage, make a difference, and be successful, but also go home and feel like I can service the rest of my life.

So, back to last Wednesday. I was annoyed that I spent 7 hours to hear what, had I heard in the first half hour, I would have said no to. Annoyed that I had to crawl into my car from the back seat. I'm annoyed that I had to invest 5 hours to get to was such a bust. I'm really annoyed that I'm becoming a boring person that pretty much only has this to talk about. And annoyed that I'm the horrible friend that had this discussion with my friend on his birthday. Ugggghhhh.

I'm also annoyed that because of the nature of this position, this could be a mind game. It could be (I don't think so, but I can't help but wonder) that they were expecting me to come back and sell them on me being worth the potential offer that was discussed initially in my phone interview. Of course, it could be, just thinking about the wording, that the phone interview person was just not being clear on how their compensation works . . . either on purpose or by accident.

If this is my desert island, well, it's filled with a lot of doubts, second-guesses, and questioning myself. But, as a very wise therapist pointed out yesterday (not related to this story, actually, which makes me believe that it's even more true) that is what my desert island is whether I'm interviewing, or employed, single or coupled, living alone or with someone. I often make decisions competently and confidently, and then second guess them. I sometimes aim lower than I should, and while it doesn't happen all the time doubting or blaming myself is something that has importantly defined some of the situations that have most shaped me. So, maybe this isn't the island I asked to be on, or maybe it is. But, I was living some of this island life before I was let go.

But now that I am on the island, coconut in hand, it's interesting to note what is different and what is the same. Once, in a very bad movie (that I nonetheless enjoyed) Harrison Ford said, "It's an island, if you didn't bring it with you it's probably not here," or something very like that. There's some truth to that. What I had with me, came to the island. In that sense my insecurities don't have a lot to do with my situation. And, the culture and realities here are importantly different. It's filled with a chance to sleep 8 hours every night, but also not always of peace of mind to implement that. It's filled with a lot of alone time . . . though I suppose that's the point of a desert island. If it was an island where I had more means, it would be a time to redo some of the rooms of my house and take some online courses, but as it is, it has been a chance to read a lot, and educate myself on a couple of new things. (Both of them pretty cool!)

Much like a desert island, I ration food, and other resources. And, my days are very repetitive and a little bit . . . boring, and lonely. It's clear that while I was making a zombie survival plan I should have also been making a plan to survive the desert island. You know - what would you bring, who would you want there, how would you make it through. You know the game.

Let's I was in the way of being stuck on the LOST island, for instance. My scary unseen monster is the day my bank account hits zero, and I have to live in my car. (Yes, that is hyperbole. Because as we all know there's a beautiful room waiting for me in Boston) Or ask people for money. (Of the two, the later is VASTLY worse.) The "others" on my island of unemployment island are . . . well, ok, I haven't figured that out yet. And, the force controlling everything that I'm trying to reconcile myself with, well that's obvious.

So, the survival plan so far has been, as my friend said that night, keeping my options open. (He actually said something porny-er but, you know, I'm reporting the part that applies.) In this case, it takes a lot of work and energy to create those options, but, this is ok because I am excited about finding them, and settling on the right fit. What I need on the desert island to keep that going are the people who help me see myself, and think out loud. I suppose this is like the zombie survival plan in that way. It's the people. In this case though, the skills I'm looking for may have a little more variation. If it were a real island, of course, my top priorities would be someone who knows about living/eating in the wild (food and shelter),  someone who can patch people up (medicine), someone who can fix the radio or get us things we need out of the scrap metal or plane crash (electronics and technology), and ideally, a barrista who happened to wash ashore with their trusty espresso machine. (Let's be clear though, if it's a choice between saving the barrista and the espresso machine itself . . . well, I'd at least have to think about it since I ran a cafe in college and could make my way back to making a decent latte if needed.) Those things don't change in my survival scenarios. You know, just the basics.

But, desert living, I've discovered, is different than zombie living.  A lot less flesh eating, a lot more people wanting to eat lunch with you. A lot less running for your life, a lot more making yourself go to the gym to run. So, on this island, I need my people. I need David who keeps me practical without letting me get grim. I need Wil's special brand of hope and pessimism, of intricate, even artistic language, and the ability to be blunt and efficient. I need Rob, because there is nowhere in my life where I don't need the person who knows me best, and has known me for 32 years. Also, who else can I find myself in 7 off-shoot conversations from the original topic? And more to the point, Rob and I are very different, but the same, so he is sometimes my conscience and heart, and yet can also make me laugh like no one else. I need my girls because they love me for exactly who I am, and it is rare that I'm with any of them for more than 30 minutes before things get pretty irreverent. Rebecca, Elisabeth, Gabrielle, Krystel, and Annette are high on this list because they keep everything real whether it's good or bad, celebration or consolation time, dance party or dealing. I need Heather, because where Rob is my heart, Heather is my head. She and I think much the same, and yet subtly differently. In the last year I noted that when I'm at her house, my working vocabulary goes up and I feel more intelligent and more clear in my thoughts. (Importantly, this doesn't mean I don't also need her affection. Just, if I'm giving out jobs, well, she excels at that one) And I need Susan who is much like Rob, in that we seem to be able to share everything without reserve. She has so much heart that some of it has to be on her sleeve, and in her over-abundance, she gives a lot of it away. She helps keep me grounded in faith and belief while also supporting me in every other way she knows how. And, I need a trainer on this island, so it's lucky that I have the best one.

I know, espresso, trainer . . . this is a very swanky desert island. That's just how I roll. I should just go for broke and wish for ice, limes, and tequila, eh?

The thing I'm trying to do is to leave the desert island, but take some of this with me. To have brought whatever I brought here is inevitable but to take out only what is useful is, I think, the task at hand. I'll take these friends without question, because they take me without reservation. I'll take the trainer, and the espresso and tequila (not together!) if it's available. But there are some other deeply important things I'd like to pack when I board to leave. this is crucial, because what I actually want is NOT a year where everything is "ok" but a year in which I have the same ups and downs as everyone else yet still feel, on the whole, that my life is better than ok, stunning and moving even.

• The belief that I live in a time, and have the skills and strength to choose and shape the future I want
• This new found faith and belief. But even more than that, the wonder I feel at being able glimpse the tiny bit of the pattern I see
• The understanding that it's not accidental that I "fall" into creative pursuits - this blog, other writing, singing, photography. That it is what most feeds and energizes me, and so it has to be part of my lifestyle. Not an afterthought
• The time and quiet to read as voraciously as I can, and have in the past. I missed you old friend, glad you're back.
• The understanding that my values of being there for others, showing love, and offering help where I'm able has to work both ways. There is a way in which always being the giver is . . . ironically, selfish. If I truly believe that being here for each other is what we're here to do, I have to be willing to participate in the whole cycle, not just the part I'm comfortable with. Independence is one thing, pride just damages that cycle.
• This new found ability to be passionate without apology
• All the honesty I brought in, has to come back out with me.
• Patience and Forgiveness. These are still underway but maybe will be formed enough to survive the trip when it comes time?
• The understanding that I can think one thing, and feel another
• The certainty that I am loved, and at the end of the day, that is enough.
• The ability to let go - total responsibility and accountability for the things I can and should do, zero judgment or blame for the things I cannot control
• As much gratitude as I can carry. I may need a bigger suitcase for this, honestly.
  
  
  

And you know, if customs isn't a problem, I'll take some coconuts too.

Good trade?

This is a story you all know.

An addict walks into their 12-step meeting, and while talking about their addiction (coke, meth, alcohol, gambling) they are digging deep into a cup of coffee and something sugary. It's almost expected that when alcoholics start to seek sobreity that they will start smoking, drinking coffee, and seeking sugar. Likewise, the thing people always talk about when they are breaking up with their cigarettes is eating, eating, eating.

Heroine addicts seek chocolate. Smokers seek beer, wine, and food. Drinkers seek coffee and sugar. So I shouldn't be surprised to be reporting this, but I am.

Here it is. Drum roll . . . All of a sudden, in the last month, I am drinking a lot of coffee.

Let me qualify this. Normally, I drink a cup of coffee 1-3 times a month, usually when I'm traveling and am waaaay-haaayyy off my schedule. But you may recall that I traveled a LOT in November. Somewhere between flying to Orlando, driving to Williston, FL, flying back to CO, then jetting off right away to Utah, flying back, having my break-up disrupt my sleep, cooking all night for Thanksgiving, Black Friday the next night it became a LOT of coffee.

Like, a cup every day. Ok, ok, I know that most of my readers (aka EVERY adult I know) drinks 2-4 cups every day, but I don't. Except now I do. I find myself buying coffee, stopping for fat-free lattes, making coffee at home, thinking about coffee and finding ways to work it in almost every. day.

I've given up coffee twice. Once in college, and once in grad school. In college it was because I was disturbed by the reality that I was planning my schedule around free coffee stops at the college's various offices. Like, I would plan my route through campus based on where I could stop for a cup. I wanted to be unshackled from that need. I wanted to not have an addiction driving me around, ironically.

I recognized after a few years that the issue was really that I have an addictive personality. I can get addicted to Cheezits, coffee, popcorn, TV, almost anything. I drank a lot in grad school, and during my second masters, it was a daily activity (and a necessary one to keep me from violently rejecting my circumstances . . . more on that another time), but I actually think alcohol and drugs are among the few things I'd have to work to be addicted to. Because at the end of the day, I really hate not being in control.

With that in mind, I realized that general addictive tendencies were the issue; so,  when I had a lovely, wonderful, smart, talented roomate who made me coffee every morning, I thought, "Ok. One cup." And you know what, one cup a day was fine. (It was mighty fine, s'matter o' fact since she would get up and make it! in a french press! ) It didn't go further than that -  it was all good.

But, I was addicted to LOST, I went out and drank with friends at least once a week, I smoked socially (I know. So baaaad) , I worked out like a fiend . . . so, you know, my addictive energies went other places. I gave up that one cup because when it became clear that I had insulin and blood sugar issues, I did my research. And I found that lower glycemic foods were a good idea, whole grains, less gluten, and more protein. I also found out that alcohol, and caffeine have been known to affect blood sugar in some ways that are pretty gnarly. I thought, "Ok, if I'm going to really go for this I should take those out of the rotation." So, I gave them both up for 6 months outright. Then I decided I could have them in moderation.

Usually I think the phrase "in moderation" is a bunch of bull. It's a slippery slope that means different things to different people. For someone else, in moderation with sugar means one cube instead of two, but to someone like me it means I have white sugar only on special occasions. But in this case, it worked, for a really long time. I would have my 1-4 cups a month (mostly at airports and conferences) and if I went out I might have one or two drinks.

But, it turns out I'm like every other addict. If you take my substance away, I glom on to something else. So, here I have given up everything. Popcorn, Cheezits, pizza, white flour, chocolate, desserts of all kinds, sandwiches, extra servings of fruit, and eating non-vegetable sources of carbs after 5pm (this is to say, potatoes count as carbs, as do most squashes and I can have those with dinner, but oatmeals, rices, pastas, etc. are a before 5pm thing only). I don't drink, not because I can't handle it, but because alcohol is carbs too. That discipline is hard, hard, hard work. It is made harder by how busy I am, how often I don't get to stop and eat a meal like a real person at a table. And the discipline of working out on top of things is stressful.

So, here are these holes in my life. I don't get enough sleep. I don't get enough support. I don't get enough down-time. I don't get enough results. I definitely don't get enough popcorn, damnit!! So, along comes my new substance: coffee. And man, I gotta say, coffee is good. It's warm, and lovely, and creamy, even when it's skim or 1% milk. It makes it easier to get through the day with my pre-measured portions and not enough sleep. So, is that so bad?

I think I'm going to just have to go with it right now and keep it to once a day.

sisters

I grew up feeling surrounded by men. I wanted to play soccer, and there weren't enough girls for an all girls team so I played with the boys. Most of my friends, the really good ones, were boys throughout my life. Not to mention that in my house it was me and two brothers and a dad who really geared things towards male-ness. It was a land of Legos, Star Wars, and football. The best way to keep up with the pack was to find out what was interesting about football, be up for a hike, and genuinely want to watch Harrison Ford movies. It was important to my father that I be involved in a sport (though once my brothers started playing football, no other sporting event compared), be analytical, and bond with him by watching sci fi and action movies.

Now, to be clear, there are some women who genuinely like those things. I am not sexist (and I now have genuine affection for those activities for other reasons). I do think that while men and women should have equal opportunities, equal does not mean same. Let me offer a simple example to help illustrate what I am saying. We all have probably noticed that when there are lines for the bathroom, the line for the men's room is shorter. Men and women pee differently for obvious reasons, allowing more men to efficiently get in and out of the bathroom. Most facilities offer the same number of receptacles (in the men's room this is the number of urinals plus toilets, in the women's room just the number of toilets/stalls) in the two different gendered bathrooms. This is a case where equality was measured as absolute value, as in giving men and women the same number of something. another way to measure it would be to give women MORE toilets since it takes us more time to get in and out.

Beyond "equipment" and logistics (it was so much easier for my brothers to pee when we hiked!), I think it's safe to say that while men and women need to be valued equally, and not pigeon-holed, we are not the same. Statistically speaking we don't live the same number of years, we benefit from activities unequally (e.g. statistically speaking, men benefit more from heterosexual marriage than women do - and I have more sources than I have space for links. So, Rick Santorum notwithstanding, marriage which is TRADITIONALLY considered to be the place where men and women come together for common purposes doesn't result in common good, necessarily) and in the end, what convinces me most is that our psyches are measurably different. Our development is different, and even in cases of abnormal psychology, two people may have the same diagnosis but if one is male and the other female, the processes of their disease or disturbance are statistically likely to be different from one another.So, I grew up feeling a bit of being an outsider, and with good reason. Boys and girls, men and women, aren't the same.

Yes, I had a mother, but in terms of my closest friends and enemies (otherwise known as siblings) I was the only girl. It seemed simple enough, but as my family history is complicated, that was only the surface. As it happens, I had a half-sister out in the world, 7 years older than me. She had her sister that she grew up with (and they had no idea of the daddy-drama behind the scenes so in their minds they were and are just sisters). As families got shuffled and remarried there was also a half brother, and two step sisters and a step brother as well - the family bonding being of much greater importance than the labels. And through all of this, they may have even more cousins than I do (and as my mom was one of six I have a LOT of cousins). So, by extension through my sister (after we both helped our parent to die, and helped each other through that, halfness became very uninteresting to us; I simply refer to her as my sister now) I have a sister-once-removed (my half-sister's half sister) whom I adore, and have recently met their other sisters (step sisters).

My sister is enamored with planning sister weekends, once a year if she can. The first was when she brought her sister to Colorado to meet me. Then last year, and I couldn't go because it was shortly after my knee surgery. Now this year was planned with sisters of all varieties and cousins and friends too in Seattle. It has been a weekend filled with sisterly love. And here is what I have learned:

• Purse, shoe, and hat envy are real
• There can never be enough conversations about who is wearing what for the day's fun activity and why they chose it
  
• Talk about sex, men, dates, and husbands can happen at any time
• Pedicures are common 
• Once the talk about breasts and bras starts, who knows where it ends
  
• Woe betide those who don't travel with hairspray, curling irons, and/or a blowdryer (I get out of the shower and shake my curls out and that's it so the combined hair-effort was STUNNING)
• Sisters really do walk around in towels, robes, and underwear! Not just in the movies!
• Personal space is expressed by letting you take a shower with the door closed and without someone else coming in (and even this was a respect accorded to me more than others since I was still a "newbie"). Sharing is for things as personal as plates of food and hairbrushes. Affection is expressed by piling 5 women on one bed.

I'm sure this comes off as me picking only the stereotypical elements of female bonding. But for me, these were some of the standouts. I grew up where I had to fight for personal grooming time in a bathroom that I shared with gross boys (I kept my towel in my room for many years because the prospect of them mistaking my towel for theirs was so disgusting). I shared gel with my brothers. Roughhousing and wrestling were more common than hugs and compliments on clothes. Still today, one of my brothers greets me by slinging my arm across his shoulders and picking me up - fully, bodily, lifting all of me off of the ground and then lightly tossing me up and down a couple of times. Nobody cared what kind of purse I had, and even today I don't own a curling or straightening iron! And because I was a "young lady" as my southern father put it, modestly was important. There wasn't a lot of wandering around in undies.

To say that I felt like I had entered a strange new land is an understatement.

But there are other things to say too. Like, it is nice to be cooking in the kitchen and have your sisters actively come to you and say, "What can I do to help?" or even better to have one be open and self-aware enough to say, "I need some time to relax for a few minutes but then I AM coming to help." Also, the freedom of being able to share openly and discuss things like our families' tangled pasts, or the differences in our upbringings was a welcome and astounding contrast for me, compared to discussions of working out and jobs with my brothers. I like both conversations for different reasons but talking about who we are and why feels . . . more personal. Finally, my brothers love me, and I them. Deeply and unquestionably. (Don't mess with my brothers!) But the relationship is one of good-natured teasing and competition. The relationships of these women was one where they could say, "I'm so proud of you," or "I think your kids are amazing. " The way love and support and encouragement were given freely and authentically was eye-opening for me. There were lots of hugs and kisses, and yes, some teasing, but lots of understanding and acceptance as well.

Luckily, I've had some prototpyical sisters along the way. Early in my life, my Aunt and cousin lived with us for a short while. I was pretty sure my own personal role model had moved in. I just had to grow up and be exactly like my extremely smart, funny, interesting, and quircky cousin. Even after they moved out, she was the cousin I saw the most and looked up to. Then fast forward through high-school and college (where again the vast majority of my friends were men) until I met my friend, and for two years, roomate in grad school. She was an oldest sister and had a sister. Living with her was my first opportunity to to practice being a little sister. I was a couple of years behind her in the grad program and she knew her way around the department, the town, and life better than I. It was nice to not have to know what to do at all times. Her music was cooler than mine and she cooked (and still does) like a goddess. I believe you've already heard about the wonders of waking up to fresh coffee each day while I lived with her. I think back to this now as being the practice run of learning how to be a little sister. Once my own sister was in the picture, we had to not only learn about each other, but negotiate our position in the family, since we both had grown up as the oldest child.

For the past 4 days being in a house with all of the other sisters has taught me, really, what I missed as a child. I didn't just miss knowing my sister as I grew up, but knowing her family too. I missed having a gaggle of young women who became young adults and now thirty-somethings to learn from. When I was called upon to help with curling the back of the hair of my sister-once-removed I punted and had to hand off the curling iron to my sister because I don't know how to use it! I wonder what else I don't know?


I also missed some essential understandings between women, because I was surrounded by athletic men and was the oddball who wanted to swim, but wanted to sing, read, and direct plays more. My sister, and her sister, and all of their sisters are fit, trim, healthy looking women. They are wonderful people on the inside, and beautiful people on the outside. They all tell each other how pretty they are, how nice they look, and compliment each others' best features. Of course my parents did this for me, of course they did. (Though, how that happened in my house may be the subject of another post some time) But most of us, I think, have some difference of hearing when it comes from our parents. Even as an adult, there's an internal editor that seems to re-arrange the words coming out of my mother's mouth. Growing up, surrounded by brothers and friends-who-were-boys well . . . the competition for positive feedback was fierce. I couldn't run very fast, lift more weights, make a tackle or a touchdown that won the game. I think most of us listen to our peers more purely because we believe that they meet us where we are at and know what matters to us since they are closer to our own situation in life. Who is a closer peer than your siblings - not only closer in age but possessed of special knowledge of your family and household? And the feedback from my brothers had nothing to do with how I looked (unless I was going through a phase where I tried particularly hard to look weird - and there were a few). I heard praise and support when I . . . did something they wanted me to do or won a swim meet.

I wonder how I would feel about myself and understand myself differently if the sibling teasing me and irritating me and borrowing my things without asking had also been telling me I was pretty? I wonder if my insides would know better how to receive that compliment now? I'm not sorry I had brothers, and love mine with serious fierceness but women are different.

I will tell you that despite the fact that my sisters are gorgeous, as are their sisters, they all are prone to saying what they don't like about themselves. Their skin, hair, how their butt looks in a specific pair of shorts, the size of their chest, etc. Maybe what I would have learned is that these feelings of insecurity about who I am are normal. Maybe I would have learned different ways to process and move through those feelings. Maybe I would have learned the feeling of being healed by being loved by someone who is like me even in the hardest moments of not loving myself.

Whatever the case, I am glad to have had a long weekend to spend with them, as well as some time to spend with my prototypical big-sister-cousin now. Another day in Seattle - impossible to know how much coffee and walking await!

p.s. no sisters, men, or marriages were harmed in the making of this post. Furthermore, while marriage has traditionally been defined as being between a man and woman, even the most cursory view of my Facebook page will tell you that one of the only topics that will get me frothing at the mouth politically is the questions of whether or not my friends can get married. I want to be at all of their weddings - all of 'em!

"cha-ching!"

What is this I see? Not one, not two, but three separate Starbucks in one terminal, as I walked through 16 gates. Bronzed fish bas relief type sculptures inset in the floor tiles. The skin color here is no longer predominantly pale (and my predominantly, I mean the 90-95% white of Colorado). Free wi-fi. Lots of people looking impossibly hip, and somehow still casual, modern, and yet individualized - not running in a pack when it comes to fashion. Oh, and lots of backpacks and comfortable shoes. Must be Seattle!

It's not so much any one of these things, but the collection of them that distinguishes this city from others. Yes, yes, free wi-fi is becoming more prevalent everywhere, but I remember when one of my best friends (and my personal Mac guru) used to have to carry his "airport" with him. (Oh how he loved sitting in the main admin office of the academic building where many of his colleagues worked. He'd plunk himself down on the couch most people used to sort copies or wait for the Dean and say he was in his "office." ) And here, wi-fi is pretty much taken for granted. Yes, I could go to NYC or just about anywhere in Cali and see diversity (or, I could go visit my peeps in Jerz!), but man does it calm my soul. I'm as white as they come, but one of the few things that sets me on edge living in Colorado is the glaring, blinding caucasion-ness of it all.

The fish represent something I love about this city. Seattle is devoted to not just good seafood, but good, fresh seafood. OmiGOODness, I love to eat fish. This is the good-food news about this vacation. I have the opportunity to truly enjoy my protein sources.

And oh, coffee. Starbucks in its natural habitat. I'm not much of a coffee drinker. I should qualify that. Coming from the family background that I do, and having discussed some of my personal struggles with food on this blog already, it won't shock any readers, methinks, to find that I have a self-diagnosed addictive personality. I've been addicted to a few things in my life time. Work, gum, and coffee top the list of past demons. I love coffee. Actually, what I love is the experience of really good coffee. I like the smell. I like sitting over a cup and talking with people. I like what my good friend and former roomate referred to as the daily "coffee ritual." (Life was fiiiiiiiine when she was dissertating because her internal clock was wound tight. Up every day between 6 and 7am she would creep around our tiny apartment being considerate of me, and then as I rose and began to shower would make freshly ground coffee in, yes, the height of luxury, a french press. I would arrive out of the shower to fresh coffee steeped and pressed for me. Ahhhhhh)

In college when I ran an office as part of my many, many jobs I easily drank 4-6 cups a day. But in grad school (of all the times to give up something that you actually have to detox from) I gave it up! And it was haaaaaaaaaaaarrrd. It was a tough three weeks, and I should thank my dear former roomate for still liking me after it and remaining my very good friend. I gave up coffee because I had done a lot of reading and self-education on hypoglycemia and blood sugar. I discovered that while many people focus on simple carbohydrates (table sugar, corn syrup, processed and "white" foods and junk foods) as culprits, there were a few that the masses had overlooked. For instance, maltose - the sugar in beer - has a glycemic index rivaled only by table sugar. And since beer is liquid and goes down faster than food, this means that in practice and in use, beer usually does more damage than eating an equal amount of table sugar.

Another way to look at it is what the source of energy triggers your body to do. In the case of coffee, one of the body responses is to release glycogen, a form of energy. This is one of the ways in which coffee makes people feel alert and energized, by actually giving them a burst of energy via glycogen/sugar jolting the system. The trouble is, for anyone with issue maintaining blood sugar this can cause the body to think, "Oh, sugar! I know what to do with that! Release the insulin." Since Glycogen can cause a real spike, the release of insulin from the body of someone like me is as though I just had a Thanksgiving meal by myself and instead of sending one maid to clean up the carnage, an entire cleaning crew is sent. This in turn can cause my body to crash like a train coming off the rails, if joined by other factors, and send my blood sugar to a lower level than when it started.

Since I do have an issue with over-zealous insulin, as I like to think of it, and since, at that time I was training very hard and wanted to do all I could to keep my blood sugar stable and at the ready, I gave up my coffee. (In truth, part of my thinking was, "Maybe if I give this up I can more easily work in the beer!") I realized over time that sleeping enough had its own rewards, and that on the days where I didn't get enough rest, there were more healthy ways to keep moving forward.

But when in Seattle do as the Seattle-ites do. Within one hour of coming to Seattle on my first trip in 2009, my cousin and I had steered into a Starbucks. And yup, I had some. I quickly realized that it had been so many years since coffee was a daily craving that I could now just enjoy it for it's own sake, not as a daily expectation. (So, there is some evidence that I can leave cravings behind and come back around in a different way.)

On the second day of my 2009 Seattle trip we went on the Duck Tour. And, by the way, it was awesomely, hilariously cheesy and a riot. On the way, the driver pointed out a Starbucks, paused and said "cha-ching!" and then went on his story of how Starbucks began in this area and then swept the country, how many Starbucks are here, and all things Starbucks. Then for the next four days, as my cousin and I traipsed all over the city, whatever we were discussing - kids, politics, books, family - if we passed a Starbucks we would insert into the middle of the sentence "cha-ching" and then continue on. As in, "Well, the thing about Obama is "cha-ching" that when he was elected . . . "

So, as I exited the plane and thought, "B2 . . . B4 . . . cha-ching . . . B6 . . . B8 . . . cha-ching . . . B10 B12 B14 B16 cha-ching!!" I knew for sure I had entered the land of sea-level city wonders.