more bacon than the pan can handle

I'm back! Sometimes you just have to take a year off from blogging. Let's move on, shall we?

I have re-entered the blog arena because my friend Sue says I'm really funny and I should be writing it all down. If Sue had a blog it would be called Part Time Personal Trainer. She has the best arms, gun show. She could probably kill you in 30 seconds with her bare hands but she prefers to torture you slowly with medicine balls and big, heavy barbells. But if you saw her arms you would do whatever she tells you, just like I do.

At Sue's suggestion, I have downloaded a lifestyle tool from the iphone app store, and am using it to track my daily calorie intake and exercise. Losing weight is a frighteningly simple equation - eat less, exercise more. So why are so many people fat? Oh, right, because bacon tastes good.

But I have figured out a calorie-free way to enjoy bacon. Maybe it's not quite as good as the dead, cured, pig variety. But it is zero calories and if you stick it to the back of your hand and squint your eyes while you look at it you can almost taste the bacony goodness. Thanks, Lauren.

Losing is for Losers

From our local paper...

What I find most amusing amid the ridiculousness of the "backlash" is that I bet all the parents who were offended by this guy's email would readily fork over 8 bucks a pop for tickets to the Disney comedy "Green Death," starring the Rock and Abigail Breslin.

http://www.patriotledger.com/sports/x575725578/-Green-Death-coach-resigns#email

Why I put up with the snoring and the guy smells and the inability to find anything in the kitchen...

Me: Hey, have you seen the thumb drive with the IOSC proceedings on it?

Pete: Not sure, I have a bunch at work I'll bring home.

Me: I think it says Vikoma on it.

Pete: If it said Vicodin on it, you would know where it was.

Me: If it said Vicodin on it, it would be empty.

Otherwise Known as Foxtail

Two years ago, at age 36, on what amounted to little more than a dare, I was persuaded to jam my feet into heavy, stiff boots, affix them to two long pieces of waxed fiberglass, don every piece of wicking insulated clothing I owned, and brave single digit temperatures in order to hurl myself down a snowy slope in the Chugach Mountains. After 2 hours of private instruction, I was amazed at how easily I was making my way down the beginner slopes. I spent the entire first day, where the high temp never quite made it above +4, slipping & sliding down Alyeska's green circle runs and feeling pretty much like a badass. I love the ski lodge culture, I loved all the clunky gear, I love the woman vs. mountain. And I love the amazing, beautiful scenery. You can see Cook Inlet from the ski lift. That year (2007) was a record snowfall, there was over 4 feet of snow on the ground, over 80 feet had fallen so far that winter.

Day 2 of my new life as a skier (still 2007 at Alyeska), I took another private lesson & then rendezvoused with my business partner & his girlfriend, who are both lifelong amazing expert skiers. After watching me scrape out a few wedge turns on the green slope, they pronounced me ready to go to the top. So they snuck me onto the gondola since I didn't have an all mountain ticket (it was about 7 degrees that day, but -5 on the summit, very cold for a lift). We paused at the summit for a hot chocolate which in retrospect very well could have been my last supper. And then they led me out to the trail. They assured me that there were enough gentle intermediate slopes to get down to the bottom, no problem. So we emerge from the summit lodge into this huge bowl, with skiers and snowboarders zipping down slopes that looked to me to be straight vertical, and then flying onto the skinny, steep, winding, switchbacky trail that was my only way back to sea level, 2500 vertical feet and many many more linear feet below me.

Like childbirth, I have managed to block out most of the horror of my prolonged, messy, death-defying slide to the bottom of the hill. I do recall that I fell within the first 20 feet of the run, on the perilous switchbacky part where I could easily have plunged right over the edge. I remember that Tim and Ronda were frighteningly unconcerned for my mortal peril, and that by about 1/4 of the way down, when I had reached the point where I would gladly have traded both of my children for the ability to click my heels and return home, that they were starting to be sort of amused by my twisted interactions with gravity. They started naming my falls. "Ooh, that one looked like a spider" they chuckled as I slid down an icy rock face in crab walk position. "Ouch, the wheelbarrow looked like it stung a bit."

I am told that all skiers have a "then my friends dragged me to the top of the mountain and let me go" story. And maybe this is some secret ritual, a way of separating out those individuals who are highly evolved enough to realize that a sport where you can drop endless cash and risk your life at every turn while suffering the most uncomfortable footwear ever...well, maybe Darwin intervenes on behalf of those folks who know better. I'm just not one of the those folks.

So, last year Pete (absolutely thrilled that I have picked up yet another of his bad habits) and I spent some time up in NH, put the girls in ski school, and officially anointed ourselves as a ski family. And despite the rented gear, too-long snowpants, unyielding nose running, my many, many falls down mountains in AK, CO, and NH, and the harsh realization that I will probably never evolve much beyond "average," well...I return.

This weekend we questioned our judgment when the weather folks predicted record lows, but we decided to give it a go, and had an amazing time. Nearly a foot of fresh powder fell over the course of the weekend, and the conditions though cold, were ideal. I took another lesson & have just about graduated from pizza to french fry, and can finally do a hockey stop, at least on one side (the other side is still more of a hockey pause). Emma is now safely skiing some of the shorter blue runs, and when Sofia actually pays attention she is probably the most naturally gifted skier in the family. (Unfortunately, she is also the one most likely to ski into a snowboarder in the lift line, or fall down when it is completely flat & then refuse to get up. But I remind myself, she's only 4).

Our routine is ski school for the kids in the morning, then ski together as a family on the lower mountain in the afternoon. Pete & I switch off kids. Emma is more fun to ski with because she can take more challenging runs, but it is tiring for me because I have trouble matching her speed, and end up either passing her or way behind her. She is also a lot harder to help up when she falls. Fia is limited to a few of the easier runs, but she's much easier to pick up when she falls. So yesterday, I skied a few runs with her down a fairly underutilized green run, which Pete convinced her was her own secret run that she discovered. So I told Fia that since she had discovered it, she had naming rights. And thus there is a new run on Cannon Mountain, off the Tuckerbrook lift, called the Unicorn Mermaid Fairy Ladybug Princess Sparkle Sofia Run.

Fade to White

Outside my window the wind is howling and the snow is swirling so thick that I can barely see the house across the street. Ordinarily, I love a good blizzard. But not when I'm expecting 25 people for a New Year's Eve bash that's been in the works for 2 months. Timing.

This is actually a perfect cap to a year of swirling craziness. Reflecting back, there were some great times. Skiing as a family in February and March. Cuttyhunk. Pete's promotion. Another prosperous year for Nuka. A great new nanny. Many new friends. But there was also a whole lot of churn and anxiety.

I've been struggling with the holiday blues, with the dark feelings that creep in, especially this time of year. I recognize that there is an element of choice to my moods - sulking is a choice, fear is a choice, anger is a choice. So my challenge to myself for the New Year is to make better choices about how to handle the inevitable stressors - to focus on the bright, shiny moments and let go of the dark, angry ones. Let the swirling snow pile up where it will, and appreciate that I am safe and warm. And most of all, remember that I already have everything I need to let in the light. It is simply a matter of choice.

Believe

I'm feeling particularly dull this holiday season.  I've gone through all the motions, but I can't quite get in touch with the joy.  I think this is fairly common, especially among over-achieving moms of young children who literally spend every spare moment from Thanksgiving to Dec 24th making lists, baking, shopping, decorating, hiding, wrapping, menu planning, shopping for things we forget, making new lists, wrapping some more, and constantly anxious that we've forgotten that one critical piece and that our oversight will ultimately send the entire house of holiday cards crashing down.

I sat through Sofia's adorable preschool holiday play totally dry-eyed.  Typically I am a weepy mess.  Ditto for flying santa, for the 12 days of christmas sing-a-long at the neighborhood holiday party.  Usually I am a sentimental wreck, but this year I feel like I'm in a bubble, watching the whole thing unfold through a dirty window.  

I'm not typically one to succumb to the holiday blues, but this year they've gripped me.  So, if you happen to run into Clarence the Angel or Buddy the Elf, or even Bad Santa...could you send them my way?  

Thanksgiving

Sofia is 72 hours out of the OR and climbing on furniture, shaking her booty to High School Musical, and eating turkey like a Pilgrim.

When we brought Sofia home from the hospital, she and her sister hugged so hard I lost my breath for a moment.

Tomorrow Pete will lug the 15 rubbermaid tubs full of Christmas flair out of the basement.

My wineglass is full and the DVR is loaded.

Game on.

I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

Perhaps I should elaborate, lest my 3 faithful readers suffer from concern that I am somehow on the wagon. Don't worry, Monica. I am doing my best to prove that liquor stores are recession-proof.

But honestly, the dread and fear won't go away, no matter how much I dull it with alcohol or sublimate it with loud music, exercise, caffeine, food. Nothing works.

Sofia's teacher came up to me this morning and asked that I keep her informed next week. Then she said that Sofia has seemed a little off this week, crying at weird times, kind of weepy. She talks about the surgery very matter-of-fact but I think she is picking up on our unease. Poor thing is trying to put a brave face on. She's my girl in so many ways.

From what I have heard, the surgery takes about 4 hours. I could sniff a lot of glue in 4 hours.

Perspective

I am totally losing my shit.

Less than a week now until my sweet baby goes under the knife and I am a wreck. I can't even talk about it without getting teary. And this is so unlike me - I am usually such a cool cucumber...rational and calm. Right? But not when it's my kid.

So tonight we dropped Emma at CCD and then headed to Target, the happiest place on earth. I needed paper towels (not a one left in the house, see my previous post about my domestic management challenges...) and we also needed to pick up some underwear for Sofia post-surgery. The incision is about where a C-section incision would be, and I spoke to another mom who's daughter had the ureter reimplantation surgery and she mentioned that she had to buy underwear several sizes larger so that it wouldn't irritate the scar. So that was our mission.

But of course, it's Target, you never go there just for the items on your list, so I told Fia that we were going to also pick up a treat for her for the hospital. And good sport that she is, she said "yeah mom, and you can give it to me in the hospital when I wake up."

Oh my sweet, precious child. Yesssss! Mommy will give you anything you like, anything in the world.

And then she says, "And mom? When people visit me in the hospital? They will bring me treats too, right?"

And I say "Of course they will, sweetie."

And she says, "Mom? Can you write a note for that? To make sure people know that they have to bring me treats?"

And I said, "How about this? Dear Friends and Family...If you come to visit Sofia in the hospital please remember to bring her a present."

"That's perfect, mom."

At least one of us is staying focused.

Unforgetable

One of the few constants in my life is my unyielding superiority in the field of parental blunders. I forget to pack water bottles in lunch boxes. I almost never host playdates. The nanny knows more of the kids' friends' parents than I do...in fact she does host playdates. We constantly run out of yogurt and I never buy the right kind of cereal. My pancakes are nowhere near as good as daddy's even though they come from the same damn box. I even missed Sofia's first birthday (just by a few hours, I was on an airplane...at least it was flying toward her and not away).

But yesterday I outdid myself. It was the 6th and final day of the living hell I like to call "The nanny goes to Mexico." When she brought up the idea of a vacation, I played it so cool. Of course she should take the week off. They are my children after all. I can handle a week of juggling bus stops, preschool, acting class, dance class, lunches, homework, laundry. I'll even take them for a flu shot. My full-time plus job? I'll squeeze it in there, no problem.

Last week started OK. They were off school Tuesday, so I took the day off and took them rock climbing, to a friend's house for lunch, to the flu shot clinic, and to the polls (they both voted for Brocco!) I even managed to meet an old friend for dinner that night. Easy peasy. Then I woke up the next morning half dead with what I assume was a reaction to the flu shot. So add to the work/kid juggling act a truckload of Zicam, kleenex & vitamin C. I got through the week in triage mode, and managed to hit the one deadline that I had no leeway on (all other projects got stuck in neutral). And then it was yesterday. My last day sans nanny. Piece of cake.

Typically, Mondays are hectic for me. I usually start with my favorite gym class of all time - cardio sport. It is hard to explain, does "ultimate death match for 30-something moms" make any sense? You just have to try it. So normal Mondays start with putting Emma on the bus, dropping Fia at preschool, hitting the gym for 90 minutes of sheer exhiliaration, then rushing home to prep for weekly staff meeting and all the other crap I do for a paycheck. Sofia has lunch bunch, and the nanny usually picks her up at 1, brings her home, and manages the kids while I work. Simple. So yesterday, I got it all right...right up until 1:15. Sanne walked into my office for our staff meeting at 1:30 just as the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID - Room 2 Grow. Hmmm....oh shit. I pick up the phone "Oh crap, Miss Carol, I totally forgot. On my way." I could hear the disdain in her voice. Miss Carol is in her mid-60s. Raised 4 kids. Has been running her own preschool for 20 years. I bet she never abandons anyone.

I rush to the school, blurting out to the teachers and Sofia "I am so sorry...can't believe I forgot my own child." Miss Denise shoots me a "you fucking moron" look and says in perfect preschool teacher happy voice, "It's Okaaay. You were stuck in traffic. Sofia wasn't worried." All the while shooting daggers at me. Poor pathetic mother. Doesn't even have the decency to cover up her stupidity with a nice white lie.

Next time, I'm going to Mexico with the nanny.

Caddyshack

A text from my brother this morning reads...

"I am officially board certified. You can finally stop asking if I am a REAL doctor."

Oh, little brother. How sweetly optimistic.

I will believe you are a REAL doctor only after you pioneer a surgical technique to reattach the hair you amputated from my Barbies' heads in 1977.

Or buy me a Mercedes.

Soccer Mom

Last night at 8pm, a time at which any reasonable 38-year old tired, working mom would be settling in with the remote control and a blanket...I was putting on shin guards.

Last year, for the first time since I was 11, I walked onto a soccer field. A co-ed, indoor soccer league. Last season I was mediocre at best, and our team was a little worse than mediocre. I had decided I wasn't going to put myself through it again - the time commitment, the bruised legs, the bruised ego. But then somehow there I was, lacing up my damn cleats with a bunch of other suckers. And despite my pleadings to move my tired legs back to defense, I was playing left forward again.

So we got absolutely killed last night, 7-0. We actually played OK in the first half, it sort of fell apart in the second half. I choked about 3 times with shots on goal that just didn't make it, but overall I think I played fairly well. The beauty of the sophomore season.

What really killed us last night was a complete lack of leadership. We had no clearly communicated strategy. There were several new players who hadn't been there last year and had no idea how to cover their position, about the pace of 6 on 6. There were 8 people on the sideline at any given time, all shouting out different directions to a field team that just never found its groove.

This strikes me as a timely metaphor for an extremely frustrating project I'm involved with. I have spent the last two months on an extremely fast-paced, challenging and interesting policy issue, with a looming deadline set by the legislature. A project chock-full of operational and technical challenges, which we have systematically faced down. I have put together an amazing team with just the right skill sets, and we've done some great work. The problem is, the client. The individual who has the last word on this project is completely and utterly lacking in the ability to make a decision. She is paranoid and controlling, but also ambivalent and second-guessing. Unlike my soccer team, we have had game plans. But they are continually shifting, and the shifts are not always well communicated to the players on the field. There's only one coach on the sideline, but she's whispering to herself. As a consultant, I can advise but I cannot decide, and so I am left constantly reacting and trying to translate this tenuous and tentative directive into actual work. I finally make a shot on goal, only to find the client has somehow moved the goalposts. Or the game has shifted to hockey, and now I need to learn how to skate.

Oh well, bring it on. I may be running in circles, but at the end of the day, it's all billable time.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I have nothing against change, but I loathe transition.

So autumn typically leaves me somewhat conflicted. I love the clear, crisp air and the vibrant colors. But I find myself grumbling when it comes to digging through the old rubbermaids in the attic to try to find a pair of gloves, a warm hat. Transitioning out the girls wardrobes, trying to find that one box with all of the tights and sweaters in it. Fighting with Sofia every morning because she still wants to wear a tank top and flip flops. And then struggling to dress to kids for a day where the temperature gains and loses almost as much as the Dow.

I love the fall, but it is the ultimate in-between, and I find it so hard to stay in the present when all of a sudden we are booking the calendar for the holidays and looking for pre-season deals on ski gear.

I think the in-betweens are exacerbated this year by the impending election. Only two more weeks of living in limbo, afraid to even believe that it is possible that the 8-year winter could finally turn to spring. (mixing seasons, mixing metaphors...I told you, the change of seasons throws me off). Emma's school is participating in Kids Vote this year, which means she can come to the polls with me in 2 weeks, and cast a ballot herself. Curiously, she had settled on a candidate before either Pete or I could get to her. She likes "Arrocco Bama" because "he wants to let new people into this country and John McCain wants to keep everybody out." Her words, her interpretation of the teacher's explanation of immigration policy. When she asked me why I was voting for Arocco, I chose an issue that I know she understands and cares about - the environment. We talk a lot about endangered species and about global warming, so I told her that Mr. 'Bama had a better plan to reduce carbon emissions and combat global warning. She loved that. And then I sealed the deal by mentioning that Sarah Palin likes to shoot wolves from helicopters.

So only 3 more election cycles (2020!) until Emma can cast a real vote. Hopefully, she survives the many transitions to come with her left-leaning ideals intact. Then we will finally be a "blue" house, instead of Pete & I splitting our vote, stuck in between.

Reunited

It turns out that 20 years is exactly the right amount of time. You are in your late 30's, which at age 18 seemed dreadfully old but now that you're here, you realize that you are actually so much better than you were in your late teens. Wiser, more focused, more streamlined. The faint smile lines are enough to add character, without emphasizing age. The life experience adds shading. The high tech undergarments suck it all in, invisibly, under the outfit you chose, maybe, because it conveys something about your life since high school - I am more classy, more successful. I am more intellectual, I am thinner, I am richer. I am totally unconcerned with my appearance. I am more successful. I am more cultured. I am more confident.

We can legally consume alcohol now, and we do it in force. The memories have faded enough that we can color them in a way that makes us feel better about ourselves. Even the people you full out hated, the ones who never made eye contact, not once in 4 years. Even they are tolerable, if not any more likeable. Because they no longer have any bearing on your day-to-day life.

You see a face you haven't seen in 20 years and the name flashes across your mind-screen, a name you may not have pronounced or thought about in 2 decades. Others, you have to cheat and look at the nametag, which has a copy of the senior yearbook picture next to the name. If you are really good, you can do this undetected. I am not really good.

After 4 or 5 glasses of wine and the initial round of small talk, you can settle into real conversations with the people who hold your interest. In my case, there were a few surprises - people I went to school with for 4 or 6 or even 12 years but never really knew. Others, people I knew casually & liked at 18, I found I liked even more at 38. And then there were the no-eye-contact girls. They still suck but it matters so little. Not at all.

I know that reunions are not for everyone, and after a full weekend of Pete's CGA reunion last week, followed by last night's event which I have been involved in planning for about 8 months, well...I'm reunioned out. But I thoroughly enjoyed spending an evening reconnecting with people who knew me as a child, an adolescent, a teen. In most of our day-to-day lives, we spend very little time thinking about our younger selves. Being among a large crowd who all knew each other in that context, I think it keeps you honest. If not about who you are now, then at least about how you got here.

Free lunch

There is no place on earth that I enjoy less than a chemotherapy treatment room.

And yet I willingly entered one on Monday, and spent about a half hour with an IV in my hand, receiving an infusion of an osteoporosis drug that may prevent cancer recurrence.

Oncology nurses are amazing when it comes to inserting IVs, and even though my left arm veins are all very tired and worn, she found one in between my ring finger and pinky, and deftly inserted the skinniest little needle with barely a pinch. The infusion was a breeze, nothing like the first time. It didn't make me puke and it didn't make my hair fall out, and I didn't have to chase it with massive doses of steroids. Chemo ultra-light. Piece of cake.

The whole thing took no time at all, and I spent most of it noticing the differences between the chemo room at Beth Israel, where I sat now, and the chemo room at Bethesda Naval Medical Center, where I was systematically poisoned 3 years ago. BI wins hands-down. Newer, brighter. Actual windows. Curtains in between chairs for privacy (at Bethesda you could practically hold hands with the half-dead patient next to you). BI even has individual TVs you can watch. And just when you're thinking - wow, this place is AWESOME - the aide comes around with a cart full of complimentary sandwiches, chips, juice, and fruit. All it cost me was my breasts.

Zoom zoom

I drove a $120,000 car this week.

The Massachusetts Affiliate of Susan G. Komen invited me to participate as a "local hero" in the BMW Ultimate Drive Event. I was a little sketchy on the details, except that they needed a head shot of me (which precipitated a very humorous 3-day photo shoot where I first had Sofia try to get a picture of me, then I tried the timer on the camera, and finally ended up with Pete taking the shot at 11pm in our kitchen. I can only imagine what they neighbors thought with all those flashes going off.)

I had my entourage in tow (Pete & my mom) and got there early enough to take a quick spin in a 7-series. I wish I could say I enjoyed driving a car that costs more money than most people make in a year, but I was totally confounded by the seat massager (I prefer that my butt cheeks remain stationary while driving) and terrified that someone would crash into me. The fridge in the backseat was a nice touch, though. I wish I had an opportunity to open her up, but I don't think I topped 60 mph.

BMW donates $1 for every mile test driven in their fleet of pink ribbon vehicles. It's a nice, easy way to raise funds for an organization that is tireless in its mission to end breast cancer. If you do check it out at the BMW dealer near you, look for my picture on the left rear passenger door.

And if you figure out how to turn off the seat massager, will you let me know?

Don't take my damn towels!!

So here I am ensconced in a hotel room in Portland, ME trying to juggle a seminar on oil & ice with a work list that's 3 pages long, and growing every time my phone rings.

And yet I still have time to blog about how flat out wrong it is for hotels to put the little card in the bathroom with the picture of a snowy owl and a globe wrapped in shiny script that reads "conserving for tomorrow," explaining that if I choose to re-use my towels, I should simply hang them up and I will save all those gallons of water and bleach. So I did my part, despite the fact that I take a secret and strong delight in trashing hotel rooms rock star-style, because as we established downwind of the coal pile, I give a shit about the planet.

I came back to my room at lunch to brush my teeth & write a few emails, and guess what? My towels which were hung exactly as specified on the owl sheet have been carted away to the hotel laundry & I have to brand new towels all folded nicely with the washcloth shaped into a min-fan.

To quote my friend Monica's awesomely cool phrase, which is quickly gaining internet steam, WTBC???? (translation for the tragically un-hip: "what the bull crap"???) This is a brilliant and edgy alternative to the altogether overused WTF. But you must send Monica a dollar every time you use it.

And the worst part is, I cannot think of a single way in which I can effectively complain about this without looking like a complete lunatic. Maybe I'll find my inspiration at the bottom of a pint at Gritty McDuffs. Don't wait up...

Cheers if you miss daddy!

Pete has been gone for a week, but it feels like a year. When we were first married, he would deploy for 2 months at a time and somehow the time would go by. But this past week has been just brutal.

The day Pete flew out I sat in a meeting with the state & said "sure, I can organize & facilitate an industry workshop where we address a highly contentious and extremely technical issue. I'll facilitate it myself. Next Wednesday? You bet.

So today was next Wednesday, and there were over 40 professional mariners in the room and I think I held my own. But of course I drove home & replayed a million missed opportunities to say the right thing, stun them with my brilliance. I did get one really good laugh, but also a lot of stunned silence. On the plus side, I now know more about tugboat operations, and horsepower, and bollard pull, and crew rotations, and firefighting capabilities than I ever imagined, in my wildest dreams. And you just never know when that kind of information could come in handy.

Like tonight at Emma's Open House. I marched in, head held high, ready to exchange pleasantries with the Principal Who Hates Me Because I Coerced Her Into Switching Emma From The Lame Teacher To the Good One. I actually tried to make eye contact with her, and she ignored me with such purpose, for a minute I thought I was back in high school and she was a popular girl in the cafeteria willing me not to sit at her table. And at first I felt slighted. But then I thought...could it be that the 60-year old woman who runs Emma's school is afraid of me? Or are her people skills just that bad? Neither scenario is particularly comforting. But listening to Emma's teacher tonight was brilliantly comforting, she is just fantastic - so far ahead of the power curve, an inspiring example of all that is good about public education. Switching her was worth making the principal cry.

So Open House was a perfectly complicated ending to a perfectly crazy week. We managed to squeeze in dinner at Friendly's beforehand, and as we sat in the booth waiting for our food, Sofia raised her cup of chocolate milk & said "Cheers if you miss Daddy!" And it was so on point that for just the briefest of moments, I forgot how disappointed I was that there was no rum in my diet coke.

Canary in a coal mine

Last week I participated in a boom deployment drill at a nearby power plant. I don't spend a whole lot of time in industrial settings but I like to think that I fit right in, with my hard hat and life vest. Pay no attention to that "visitor" badge...

This particular power plant is known in some circles as being part of the "dirty dozen" - because it is of the environmentally unfriendly coal-fired variety, which still feed our national power grid in certain parts of the country because the EPA is a wholly-owned subsidiary of BP. And we all know Sarah Palin eats coal for breakfast (the perfect compliment to moose stew!).

But in all fairness, if you can look past the black coal smoke belching out from the smokestacks and the bjillions of gallons of bay water that are sucked into the plant each day for cooling, you will find that at this plant, as in many of this country's pollution-belching industrial complexes, the people who work in the safety and environmental branches come to work every day and do their best to comply with regulations and prevent human injuries.

I was at the power plant with a group of state regulators who had been invited by the plant's environmental compliance staff to observe a boom deployment drill as part of an exercise that simulated how the plant would close off their water intake if there were an oil spill near the plant. And they did a bang-up job. From the safety briefing to the demobilization, I watched well-trained, competent professionals work well under less than ideal conditions (there was a big squall bearing down on us, 30+knot wind gusts, not the ideal conditions for towing boom or operating small boats.)

So the exercise was a success. Except for one minor inconvenience. The deployment site was directly downwind from the giant pile of coal. You would think they'd keep the coal in a silo or something, but no - just an enormous, black pile. Have you ever stood downwind of a giant coal pile during a windstorm? Every surface of my body was coated with black grit. I sped home and raced to the shower, and scrubbed black gritty dust out of all the nooks and crannies. I was horrified, and yet I'd spent all of an hour there, with my visitor badge and clipboard. What about the hard-working folks who are there every day, who have worked in that environment for years?

As much as I would like to throw it all back on Sarah Palin, or George Bush, or the EPA, I know I'm part of the problem. There's no better primer on the ugliness of fossil fuel combustion than a light coating of coal dust. So I now believe that every American who has ever flipped a light switch should be required to stand downwind of the coal pile for an hour or so. Because, even after you've lingered under a hot shower and washed away the last little specks of coal grit, you have to admit...you still feel a little dirty, don't you?

"We can't solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them."

Albert Einstein

Why I love my family

Dinner at Bertucci's tonight, on the eve of Pete leaving for a prolonged trip. The girls often fight about who gets to sit with which parent, but tonight was smooth sailing - Emma wanted Pete & Fia wanted me. We had a great family meal where we talked with our kids, and laughed, and told stupid knock-knock jokes. We talked about school, and work, and Pete & I went back and forth quite a bit about our respective, ridiculous workloads. Emma did her best to track the conversation & chimed in with a note of solidarity, pointing out how Sofia still hasn't started school, while Emma is back full time & Pete and I continue to work like dogs.

Emma:
"While THREE of us are busy WORKING all day, ONE of us stays HOME and just PARTIES!"

Sofia:
"Yeah, and it's an I DON'T MISS YOU party!!"