Turning Ten

Marissa turned 10 this year. I have two girls in double digits, that just doesn't seem believable to me.

We celebrated her birthday with a sleepover. Marissa asked to have animals at her sleepover. Ummm...animals?

I reached out to the Animal Humane Society to see if we could have a part of her birthday party there, but they were already booked up. I searched for party entertainers with an animal menagerie that they could bring and share, but all the animals were of the scaly, crawly kind, not cuddly creatures like Marissa was hoping for.

And then I got connected to Second Hand Hounds, a rescue group that was willing to share two of its dogs that are currently in foster care, for a donation.

We had a kissing booth set up in our back yard with Peanut, a 15-year-old chihuahua, and Annie, the sweetest pit bull you've ever met. The best part was that I had kept this a secret from Marissa, told the party guests that they would be taking part in a kissing booth and all their parents had approved, before telling them what kind of kissing booth. (I had asked the parents before-hand if any girls had a fear of dogs or allergies and couldn't take part, so that part is technically true.) When they realized the kissing booth was with four-legged creatures, they were delighted.

The girls had such a wonderful time petting and posing with the dogs. It was definitely a highlight of the party.

Off to change into swimsuits and play in the sprinkler. I had set up a slip and slide, but hadn't realized how much the girls had grown. I guess they were kind of young when we bought it; it for 3-5 year olds, and the girls were practically the length of it when they tried to slide. It was fun to watch and they had a great time anyways.

After drying off and changing, a supper of homemade spaghetti sauce and noodles. Marissa had requested a chocolate mousse cake like the one we'd seen at Cosetta's in St. Paul a week before, and so it was ordered,  picked up, and was absolutely amazing. Plus it had the added bonus of being perfect for Lindsey, who in some bizarre twist of DNA does not eat cake. Not even a chocolate one.

The party was a smashing success. She reported that all the girls got along, they had fun playing together and it was the best party ever.

Her actual birthday was Monday and we made our annual trip to Olive Garden for dinner. We brought presents from family with us to open there, as we had to get Lindsey home in time for a soccer game after dinner.

A gift of maraschino cherries from her Grandpa Tom, because she kept eating all of the ones at his house last time she visited.

Gone are the days of our two girls bickering and fighting. (At least for now). The sweetest gifts Marissa received were one that Lindsey either helped to pick out for her or gave her. She received a Japanese tea set that Lindsey had bought for herself a few years ago. Lindsey played with it for a while and had a hard time sharing it with Marissa, our clumsy girl who tends to break things. Every time Marissa saw it her eyes lit up. Though it was technically a "re-gift," the fact that Lindsey gave it to Marissa for her birthday was the kindest gesture.

Marissa was so excited by the Japanese tea set.

Aunt Kristi was verklempt at the sweetness of the gesture. Lindsey pretended to join her.

Joy abounds wherever Marissa is. We are so happy with our sweet youngest girl.

The Cheeseburger Story

Lindsey wanted me to re-tell her the cheeseburger story the other day, even though she was there for it. Lindsey swears it's the only time she's ever heard me yell at somebody other than my immediate family.

ACTUAL conversation while going through the Dairy Queen drive through:

Incomprehensible Speaker (IS): Welcome to Dairy Queen how can I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like a small brownie blast blizzard and...

IS: A cheeseburger?

Me: [pause] No, a small brownie blast blizzard. And I also want a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

IS: [Long pause.] Okay, that'll be $9.54, please pull around.

Me: ...$9.54? Can you read back my order, please?

IS: I have three items, a cheeseburger, a brownie blast blizzard and a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

Me: No, I don't want the cheeseburger.

IS: Okay, so you ONLY want the cheeseburger?

Me: [exasperated] Nooooo! I ONLY want the small brownie blast blizzard and small ice cream cone with chocolate dip!

IS: Hang on. [Long pause.] Okay thanks for your patience, that's $6.46, please pull around.

Lindsey and I chuckle about the miscommunication as we head to the pick up window.

Person at window (PAW): Here is your brownie blast blizzard and a small ice cream cone with chocolate dip.

Me: Where's my cheeseburger?

PAW: Uhhh....

Me: Just kidding! Ha, that was really funny. Have a great day!

Small Town Celebrations

For the first time in many years, our family was not in the Twin Cities for the 4th of July. I wasn't sure how I felt about that -- actually, I know how I felt, I kind of dreaded it. After all, I LOVE our city. On holidays like Independence Day I have my choice of a hundred different festivals, parades, gatherings, fireworks and other things to choose from. Sure, we usually take in just one parade, and just go to one fireworks show, but still, they are amazing.

We would be spending the 4th of July in Tracy, Minnesota, where they don't even have a parade, much less fireworks.

But what Tracy does have is family, and that trumped all those others festivities.

And, after scouring the local paper, I found that a town nearby did have a parade, and so we went. Well, Lindsey, Wayne and I went, Marissa went to the city pool with her Aunt Sherrie because that sounded like more fun than a parade to her.

We left the farm about 20 minutes before the parade was supposed to begin, parked right next to the parade route and picked a spot to stand. That was decidedly easier than going to a parade in the Twin Cities.

The crowd paid their respects to the flag.

The parade began with a military guard carrying the American flag -- everyone who was able stood up to pay their respects. I don't remember people doing that at the Edina parade, although maybe that's because it's so crowded most people are standing up anyway.

Antique fire truck for the city of Tracy, MN.

And then came every fire truck, amublance and rescue vehicle for every small town in the surrounding area. For a while I thought the entire parade would just be emergency vehicles. The Tracy ambulance went by -- Lindsey asked if that was the one that took Grandpa to the hospital the day he died. It probably was; I think the town only has one. So she paid special attention to that one.

Floats, beauty queens, horses, antique cars and tractors slowly made their way down the road, tossing candy the entire way. Each made a turn at the end of the street and that was the end. We practically saw the entire parade again, one vehicle at a time on various streets, as we were leaving town.

Lindsey and Wayne managed to retrieve about 2 plastic cups worth of candy, which was shared with Marissa, who was at Sherrie's house, enjoying the company of Izzy the Dog.

Marissa and Izzy.

Later that afternoon we enjoyed a barbecue at Kathy and Dave's house. Who knew that a bunch of camping chairs in a circle could be the scene of such enjoyment?

Lindsey and I were going to go see fireworks later on (Marissa doesn't like the loud noise of them),  but got into a game of cards with Grandma and Wayne and didn't leave in time. So we turned out the lights and looked out the window, where we could catch small glimpses of them on the horizon. If we were very quiet we could almost hear them.

That was festive enough for us.

Skating in the Rain

Skating marathons are few and far between, so when they happen I prefer that we have good weather.

Not this stuff.

The Apostle Island Inline Marathon was this past weekend, and we had quite the girls' weekend planned. My skating friends Mary and Megan and my sister Kristi were all carpooling together to Ashland, Wisconsin, and the three of us were going to skate it while Kristi spectated.

The forecast called for 100% chance of rain by the start of the marathon, and didn't waver from that every time I checked it during the week.

Sure enough, as we stepped off the ferry onto the island, the first few drops began. And then it started coming down steadily. At one point it was a complete downpour and I watched the rain pool on the road into long, shallow puddles. The pros were gliding up and down the practice course getting used to the pavement, and I thought they were crazy.

I have never skated in wet conditions. The few times I've encountered a puddle on my path my skate has always taken a heart-stopping slip. Mary and Megan convinced me to at least start. After all, the course was three loops, I could always peel off after 8.7 miles and call it a day.

My friend Mary had trained hard for this -- she was hoping for a new PR, beating her old time of 1:38. But with the conditions being what they were, she had to re-adjust her goal. We decided to have a collective goal: 1) Stay safe 2) Stay together 3) Have fun. And so we took off with the rest of the pro/advanced women.

By the end of the second mile my feet were swimming in lakes in my skates; I think each skate weighed 3 or 4 pounds more from the water collected in them. I grumbled, I considered, I thought about peeling off after a single loop.

And then I thought about how amazing it would be to skate a marathon in the pouring rain. How many people can say they've done that? How many people would think that was the absolutely craziest thing they've ever heard?

Once I committed to skating the whole thing, my outlook changed, my energy changed, and I was all in.

It went from being disappointing to being exhilarating.

We accomplished our goals: We stayed safe. We stayed together. We all had a blast.

We did it!

Grit and dirt everywhere.

The rain let up about half an hour after we were done. We had to stick around for the award ceremony as I had taken 2nd in my division, though I really share that with Megan, who was 7/10th of a second behind me. Mary pointed out that if we had registered in the open/recreational skate all of us would have placed.

In three years of doing this marathon I still have never seen the sun from Madeline Island, but I can guarantee you we'll be back next year.

First Father's Day Without

On June 5th Wayne's dad's heart decided it had reached its quota of beats for a lifetime. Despite his pacemaker, his heart was beating at 31 beats per minute as paramedics loaded him into the ambulance. Upon reaching the hospital his body refused to carry on despite their efforts. His wife Millie, daughter Sherrie and her husband Todd were there to say good-bye. Millie told him to save a place for her next to him, in heaven.

50th wedding anniversary, 2004.

60th wedding anniversary, 2014.

He was 10 days short of his 85th birthday. Instead of gathering to celebrate another year, family members made plans to gather for his funeral.

Trip to New York City, 2005.

While Neil had been slowly declining due to Parkinson's disease over the past five years, his departure at this time was unexpected, yet a blessing. He was spared the further loss of his mobility, his ability to dress himself, feed himself, and other such things that able-bodied people take for granted. He is no longer in pain, unable to sleep and be comfortable.

Over the past few years, if I called their home and asked how he was, his response was often something along the lines of, "Well, I'm not sure I would call this living."

The family gathered and came together in a way that honored him. They worked through the details of the funeral, they helped Millie deal with health insurance, social security, utilities and other arrangements. Together they are focused on Millie's comfort, ensuring that her needs are met and that she is able to live the way she wishes for as long as she is able.

And despite the fact that anyone could say, "He lived a long life," people have understood that losing a parent -- no matter how long that person lived -- is still a very real loss and a grief unlike any other.

Wayne's sister, Laurie, had already booked a flight to Minnesota for Neil's birthday celebration, which was to take place the following weekend. A friend paid for the change fee to move the flight, got her into first class and arranged for a limo to pick her up at her apartment and take her to the airport at 4:30 a.m.

Another family member has no bereavement leave and co-workers chipped in to help cover the time away from work.

A co-worker of Wayne's attended the visitation, driving three and a half hours from the Twin Cities to Tracy just to visit for 20 minutes, turn around and drive back again.

And today, on Father's Day, friends of ours, one of Lindsey's close friends and her family, dropped off a plant arrangement and chocolates because they know that the first Father's Day without is the hardest.

Sometimes it is through loss that we truly know our blessings.

Runner's Redemption

The last time Marissa signed up for Girls on the Run, it didn't go so well. It was disappointing. Frustrating. Anything but what GOTR is supposed to be about. You can read about it in my blog post from the day of the 5k, aptly titled "Giving Up."

I swore I would not make her sign up again for Girls on the Run -- I couldn't imagine anything worse than having a repeat of her last season. And yet, she wanted to register. I was doubtful but she insisted, so we did.

What a difference.

I was concerned that she wouldn't want to run the practice 5k because it was raining. Not drizzling, raining. But she was there with a big smile on her face, and off we went. We made a game of it -- we had to jump in every puddle we saw. We weaved back and forth across the trail to hit the puddles. If we were walking and saw a puddle ahead, we had to run to it and jump in.

Puddles ahead!

Marissa and Coach Kristi after the wet practice 5k.

She ran most of the way because of our game, unlike the other times when she only wanted to walk the entire distance. Our pants were soaked from the knees down, shoes sloshing and wet strands of hair sticking to our heads. We stopped at Caribou afterwards for a celebratory cup of hot chocolate.

Yeay for hot chocolate after getting sopping wet on a run!

What a blast. The next morning she said to me at the breakfast table, "I'm pretty proud of myself for running the 5k yesterday." She even wrote herself a note on our chalkboard in the kitchen.

The day of the actual 5k, she was bummed that it wasn't raining that morning, but decided that sunshine and a brisk breeze would do. We arrived at the event on time (actually ahead of time, since we drove with Coach Kristi), and had plenty of time to greet each girl as they arrived.

Ready to run!

A shirt-signing train.

The course was at the University of Minnesota campus. It looped around the campus in many different ways, but wasn't confusing because of all the signage and the volunteers directing runners. They had coaches and volunteers all along the course. We walked in a few areas, but once we saw a volunteer cheering Marissa wanted to run again. She didn't want to be seen walking any part of the race!

And...done! With a big smile.

We finished in 39 minutes. More importantly, Marissa accomplished what she set out to do, and was immensely proud of herself.

That's what I was hoping for. Hooray!

A Life In Elevens

While many people count milestones in decades, I like to count my life in 11's when I hit the double digits, meaning 22, 33, 44.

In May Wayne celebrated his 55th birthday, I my 44th. This makes the number 11 all the more interesting. I like to think about what was going on 11 years ago when he turned the age I am now turning. And the fact that our birthdays are only 13 days apart (plus 11 years) makes the math all the more fun.

When I was 11 I was in the 6th grade, starting my first year of education in Sheboygan Falls, the town I would eventually call my hometown, even though I spent my first 11 years elsewhere.

At age 22 I met the man who would become my husband. He was 33, the older brother of a college classmate of mine (now my sister-in-law). He lived in Burnsville and I lived in St. Cloud. He put tons of miles on his Ford Explorer and I on my Chevy Nova going back and forth between our two cities until I graduated from college and moved to the Twin Cities.

Our engagement photo.

By age 33 this husband and I had our first baby -- one year old, born just three days before his 44th birthday. I think back on those early years of parenthood and I smile and cringe at the same time. I have absolutely no desire to go back to those days of sleep deprivation, dirty diapers and interpretive communication with toddlers. Don't get me wrong, they were sweet, cute and funny, but I am happy to not spend my every waking moment caring for wee ones any longer.

Wayne and I with Lindsey, 2 days old.

This year, our growing girls will turn 10 and 12. They are at that magical stage -- not yet moody,  snappy teenagers, but no longer in need of constant care and attention. They have their own thoughts and desires, their own sets of friends and interests, and are well on their way to becoming independent adults.

Not shockingly, we have no recent family photos besides this one from this past Christmas.

What will 55 bring? Our 12 year old will be 23, our youngest (youngest!) 21. They may live at home, they may be in college.  We may be in our current house or in a condo. At least one of us will be retired, maybe both of us if we can swing it. (Or so I like to dream.)

What a trip, this life in elevens.

12

It's not possible. My eldest will be a teen next year.

This year, she is officially a "tween." Sometimes a child, sometimes a grown up.

A year ago she decorated her room with pictures of dogs taken from a book about heroic dogs. This year, she tore most of them down because they were too "little girlish."

She used to putter about in her room with her door open, music wafting throughout the upstairs. Now when she is in her room her door is closed, her music muffled. Other family members are asked to not only knock but to wait for permission to enter, in case she's in some state of partial dress.

At the beginning of this school year she went to the before-school care program with her little sister. Now she gets herself on the bus by herself every morning after everyone else has left the house. She wakes herself up, eats breakfast, gets herself ready, packs her lunch and walks to the bus stop on time. And when she arrives home from the bus in the evening, she runs upstairs to her room, grabs her white blankie, kisses it and snuggles with it to read a book.

I used to never hear about her classmates of the other gender. Now I hear about her classmates' crushes. There is speculation that so-and-so likes so-and-so, except she and her friends know that so-and-so likes that other person, but no one will approach the person they actually like, so instead they all gossip and wonder what's going to happen.

Funny. Intelligent. Generous. Kind. Happy.

Our tween.

What Hasn't Changed

This week's cover of Time Magazine struck me.

I don't believe that the civil rights leaders of the 1960's would have imagined seeing scenes like this 50 years after their own struggle lead to what they believed to be true change.

I do not pretend to understand what it means to be oppressed in our society. I can tell you what it means to be misunderstood.

I went to college at St. Cloud State in St. Cloud, Minnesota. At the time the nickname for this city of 50,000 was "White Cloud." I can't speak to the racial make up of the city itself, but I can tell you that the campus was around 85% Caucasian, 10% international students and 5% African American. Racial tensions were high -- I am not sure why it was more of a powderhorn than anywhere else, but it was. Maybe it was the lack of diversity, but at the time the racial make up didn't look much different than most other cities of comparable size in Minnesota, and other cities didn't seem to have the problems St. Cloud had.

There was the case of the white student beaten by two black students to within an inch of his life. Another incident outside a bar resulted in the opposite result. And then there was the case of the black male student charged with raping a white female student.

That one shook up campus for some time, because sadly there was the typical argument as to whether it was rape or consensual sex. I honestly do not remember the outcome of the trial, but I remember the media coverage and the unsettled feeling on campus while it was going on.

During this time, I lived in an apartment house several blocks off campus. While campus itself was well-lit, city streets the lights were few and far between and the alleys seemed ominous. At least that's how it felt to walk those streets by myself, a white woman, coming home from the campus library at midnight. (And yes, I really did -- I worked the late shift, closed it down at midnight and walked home after.)

One evening, I was walking home from the library and following the advice of all those tips and tricks that had been published in the school paper about safety.

• Be aware of your surroundings. 
• Walk confidently, looking in front of and around you, not at the ground. 
• Walk closer to the street side of the sidewalk, so someone can't grab you from the alley.
• If someone grabs you, yell something specific for others to do, like "Call 911!" instead of just "Help!" 

My spine stiffened when I saw a figure approaching me. The person was backlit by the street light behind him so I couldn't see his face, but I could clearly tell it was a man -- tall, broad-shouldered. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and my shoulders tensed. Would he grab me? Would he try to drag me down an alley? The honest, terrible truth of it is that I thought, "What if he's black?" because I thought that would increase my chances of being attacked.

We walked closer to each other, and I could see the tension in his shoulders as well. Was he about to make his move? Was I about to have my life go in a direction I never intended?

We finally got close enough to see each other. He was a black man, a student I assume, with a backpack stuffed with his studies, papers spilling out of hastily closed zippers, a book under his arm.

We looked each other in the eye, quickly nodded, looked down and kept walking our separate ways.

I realized as I passed him...he was just as scared of I as I was of him.

After all, it was only he and I on this street. I could scream, trip myself to provide bruises for the police and claim that he did it. The state of race relations on campus at that time meant that I would be believed and he would not.

Perhaps he had the same thought that I had when we passed, "Is she about to make her move? Is my life about to go in a direction I never intended?"

For a moment, I understood. We are all human beings. We all have fears. We are all individuals -- our race is not responsible for an individual's actions.

New Workplace

From a #MSPSMB presentation during my time of underemployment.

I started a new job recently.  I'm trying not to make a habit of it, so I'd better stay at this one a while.

I accepted a position as the new Director of Annual Giving at Minneapolis Heart Institute Foundation. And when I say "new" I mean that they've never had a director of annual giving before. They recently restructured their organization and decided that they needed this expertise full time. It was a perfect match with my skills, plus I LOVE being a part of creating something new; I get to play to my strengths since the role is not rigidly defined.

The building I work in is a part of the Abbott Northwestern Hospital/Allina campus. There are a total of 6 or 7 buildings in this complex, and I was really nervous about finding my way around. But I've found a lot of great things about being on a big campus.

1. There are lots of food choices. There's the hospital cafeteria, the skyway café or Midtown Global Market, which is an entire building of every kind of ethnic food you could possibly want to try.

2. There's a beautiful inner court with gardens, water fountains and plenty of seating. Need a break from your desk? Take a walk and breathe in the fresh air.

3. Parking is a breeze (now). I confess, the first day I ended up climbing and descending four flights of stairs to make it from the parking ramp to my desk, but now that I've figured it out, I'm actually closer to my office from the parking ramp than I was when I worked at Gillette. Plus no outside time walking on an icy sidewalk down a steep hill. Bonus.

4. The campus is right off the Midtown Greenway bike trail. There's a cycle shop that's right on the greenway that will let you store your bike and use their showers for a measly $15/month. Once you're in the bike shop you're on campus, so I can reach my building through the tunnels or skyways. Now I just have to figure out how to do the whole kid drop-off thing in the morning so I can bike there in the summer.

5. The office is 15 minutes from my house. I take three turns to get to work (four if you include getting out of my driveway). I don't take a single highway. I am thrilled with my commute!

There are also some perks to the job that I'm liking.

1. My boss is really cool and smart. Plus his name is John, and considering that I've reported to a John for the majority of my professional working career, I knew this position was a possibility from the first interview.

2. Everyone is so gosh darn nice! There was a beautiful blooming plant on my desk my first day of work. Everyone I met had a big smile on their face and said, "We're so glad you're here!" Every team member is competent at his/her job and wants to work collaboratively with others to accomplish the goals set forth (at least that's my take so far). Trust me, that's a hard one to find.

3. My expertise is valued. I've been digging into data the last couple of weeks (pivot table porn!) and looking at what's gone on before to determine how to structure the program moving forward. Each suggestion I've made has been met as if it's the most brilliant thing anyone has ever said. Okay, so that's not totally true, but it feels good to be appreciated.

4. They have a healthy food policy. No dishes of chocolates at anyone's desks. No break room filled with treats. This may sound like a bummer, but this is actually an amazing thing for me! My downfall has always been snacking at work. When I first started at Gillette I lost nearly 10 pounds in 3 months. That's what happened when I arrived at a new place and didn't know who had the secret stashes of chocolate, didn't know the people well enough to ask for some or, as I was doing at Paradysz, just helping myself to it. I have absolutely NO control when it comes to sweets. The fact that sweets are not approved is THRILLING to me and my health!

5. They encourage physical activity. Minneapolis Heart Institute Foundation is all about preventing heart disease through healthy lifestyles choices. We are participating in the Hennepin County "Step It Up" competition in May, where groups track their activities and see who is the most active/takes the most steps. The fact that this organization is located in a large campus with stairs everywhere already incentivizes walking and movement. I love the fact that they encourage their employees to "walk the walk" when it comes to the mission.

6. Jeans days on Fridays. Having come off a work-from-home gig, where yoga pants were the norm every day, I appreciate the break I get to take from professional wear once a week.

7. My desk is close to the break room and bathroom. It's the small things, but do you know how many times a day I get up to refill my water? And of course, that means extra trips to the bathroom. Luckily both are close but not so close as to be bothersome. At first I was worried about noisy conversations from the break room disturbing me, but then I remembered that usually any noisy conversations have me in it, so I don't have to worry. I'm actually the perfect person to have close to the break room, if you really think about it.

It's been a pretty great two and a half weeks.

There's This Thing Called Ignite

Most people I know have watched at least a few Ted Talks, wherever they would have been recorded. They are usually 18 to 25 minutes in length, and can cover any number of topics. The ones I've seen are really powerful and often moving.

There's also a format called Ignite which is much shorter, but less forgiving. Ignite talks are only 5 minutes long; each speaker provides 20 slides which automatically advance every 15 seconds, whether or not the speaker is ready for the next graphic. So while shorter, they require more planning, less extemporaneous speaking, and really, really good graphics.

The event takes place in a theatre in Minneapolis to a live audience of 600 people and is live streamed to hundreds online. Tickets go fast -- the first wave of tickets sold out in less than a minute. Audience members are encouraged to tweet throughout -- the Twitter handle of every speaker is given at the beginning of their talk, and social media is a big component of the event.

I've gone to a few IgniteMpls talks and have enjoyed the variety of topics and the bravery of those who have given them. I've also seen how forgiving the audience is. A few haven't gone off as planned, and the audience has been nothing but encouraging and supportive, which is pretty impressive considering how nasty people can get on Twitter.

After attending my first, I thought I could see myself up there. But what topic? Well, if the theme of the event is "pick your passion," then I know exactly what I'd talk about: inline skating.

It's my passion, it's something most people don't even know exists, and there are tons of different ways to go with it as a subject.

I had submitted that topic for IgniteMpls last fall and it wasn't accepted. However, I re-submitted it for the spring event and it was accepted.

Gulp.

I spent the next few weeks working on the outline, writing, re-writing, getting graphics help, revising graphics, and practicing practicing practicing.

The night of the big event arrived. I had invited my friends to attend, and they turned out in full force -- 10 in all. I was so grateful and appreciative of their support. Wayne and I had special VIP seating for speakers, while everyone else found seats elsewhere.

Eeek!

It was such a trip to see my photo on the speaker placard in the lobby. Sure, I've spoken at industry conferences before, but never to a crowd this big, or had my talk recorded, produced and put on YouTube for all to see and judge for years to come.

It was supposed to be funny, would they find it funny? My friends promised to laugh if no one else did, so there was that.

I was third from last in the line up, which meant that while I enjoyed the talks before mine, I was also nervously awaiting my turn. I most feared that the talk before mine would be incredibly emotional and that I would need time to compose myself before taking the stage. Luckily the one before mine was funny and sweet, so I took to the stage with confidence.

People laughed when they were supposed to laugh, which was a great sign. I had great feedback via Twitter, which was also cool.

When I was done I sat down in my seat and got a text from our babysitter who had let the girls stay up and watch it online. "Way to go!" it said, "They loved it!" Whew, I'm glad I edited the "f" word out of my talk.

Friends make trying new things less scary.

The next day I got an email from the organizer thanking me for speaking, that my talk was fun and engaging and I would be welcome to submit a talk again anytime. Maybe he wrote that to everyone, but I'll take the invitation as a compliment.

Hmmm....next topic?

A 5k In Every State!

Wayne and I flew to Nashville Tennessee for two very special reasons: Jim and Amy Patterson.

Okay, so there was that thing about Wayne running a marathon in every state, and he hadn't hit Tennessee yet, but it was a convenient reason to visit with some dear friends of ours.

The Patterson's used to live down the street from us in Minneapolis. After three glorious years of Minnesota living, they decided to move back to Buffalo, NY. Something about extended family and roots, whatever. They've been back in Buffalo for 7 years now.

Amy shared with me how different the community was for healthy living. Here in the Twin Cities we take things like sidewalks and bike trails for granted; back in Buffalo there weren't any. They don't know many people who walk or bike frequently, and the main entertainment is watching sports, eating wings and drinking beer.

During the past 7 years Amy had been gaining weight, and she finally got sick and tired of being sick and tired. Or, as she put it:

My motto going into this was "I'm done."
I was done being overweight, actually obese. 
Done with the lack of energy
Done being lazy. 
Done eating unhealthy. 
Done feeling like sh*t. 
Done with taking medicine,
Just done.

In September of last year she joined the Transformation Center by Body and Fitness, began making healthier food choices and working out five times a week. She went through a six-week course and dropped 23 pounds. She loved the results so much she signed up for another six-week course and in total dropped 43 pounds.

Before and after - go Amy!

Unbelievable.

Before this program, she'd tried to do the couch-to-5k program a few times, and every time lost the motivation halfway through and didn't end up doing a 5k. This time, she was committed and signed up for a 5k when her husband signed up for a half marathon in Nashville.

And I decided I wanted to be there as her supporter and witness.

So Wayne signed up for the full marathon, I signed up for the 5k, we booked our flights, Patterson's booked hotels and away we went.

That was one of the best weekend getaways we've ever had. We had a great time exploring the city of Nashville with our good friends, reconnecting and telling stories that made us all roar with laughter.

And then, of course, the run.

We stopped to take a photo at the start line, and I was just so proud of Amy for being there. So many people don't even try, and here she was, after all her hard work, at the start line of her first 5k.

She was nervous that she wouldn't make her goal, which was to not have to walk any part of the run. And except for a couple of moments when we were forced to due to a wall of walkers in front of us (seriously people, what do you think this is, the Mall of America?) she made her goal. We both finished with a time of 39:59. The Patterson's friend Sean, who had originally signed up for the half marathon but hurt his back and couldn't run that distance, joined us as well and the three of us stayed together the entire race.

It was an absolute blast.

We waited for Jim to finish the half, and then for Wayne to finish the full, which he did with a time of 3:29:40, just under his goal of 3:30.  That was marathon #14 and state #11 for him, overachiever that he is. We went back to the hotel, cleaned up, napped, and went out for a celebratory dinner.

We were all back in our rooms, asleep by 10. Exciting travelers, us runners.

We spent the next day in downtown Nashville, enjoying the live music in every venue (starting at 10 a.m. even on a Sunday!) and touring the Ryman Theatre, the original theatre that hosted the Grand Old Opry before they outgrew it in 1974. There's some good ole history for you, with amazing acoustics and beautiful woodwork. It even made a non-country music fan appreciate the history of the place.

Amy's already asking when our next one will be. We'd like to make this an annual event. Who knows? Maybe eventually she and I will finish a 5k in every state. She's got two down and I've got four. Just a few more to go!

That Embarrassing Mom

I am that embarrassing mom. You know the one.

The one who lets her 2-year-old have a screaming tantrum in the middle of Michael's because I won't buy her a $2 cheap toy that I know will break 10 minutes after we leave the store. The mom who stands two aisles away from said temper tantrum, watching her child from a distance and making sure she's safe, while store clerks wonder who that child belongs to.

I am the one who lets her 5-year-old dress herself for kindergarten in striped tights, polka dot dress and cowgirl boots. all in colors that have absolutely nothing to do with each other, because said 5-year-old is so proud that she dressed herself.

Marissa, age 5.

I'm that mom who sings loudly when her children ask her not to. "O What a Beautiful Morning" and "The Sounds of Music" are good choices for morning drop off, when the embarrassment factor in front of peers is high.

I'm that mom who will follow her child to her locker to get a hug after dropping her off at school, when said child scooted out of the car too quickly to be with her friends.

Lindsey, age 9

I'm the one who will insist on a hug when asked to retrieve forgotten homework and bring it to my child at school. Yes, in public. Perferrably while in the classroom in front of her peers.

Oh I'm not done.

I'm going to be that mom who will make my child change her clothes if she attempts to leave the house in something too revealing. At the same time, I will let her dye her hair all kinds of crazy colors, or cut it in some odd style, so she has something to be embarrassed about when she's in her 30's.

I will be that mom who yells at my kids' friends who are driving too fast down the street, who points out all the bad, unsafe drivers on the road as an example as to how NOT to drive.

I'll be that mom who won't let my child do something even if all her friends are if I don't think she's ready for it.

I will be that mom who will insist on a curfew, take away privileges, not allow my child to go places if I don't know who else where be there or if parents will be present.

That being said, I will be that mom who will show up at a party at any hour my child calls, ready to pick her up and take her home safely. I'll be the mom who won't hesitate to calls her daughters'  friends and tell them off if their parents won't.

I will be that mom who cries at recitals. At graduation. At weddings.

Yep that one. You know her. She was probably your mom, too.

Office Antics, Part I

This is my view from my workspace.

It's basically one big open room with storage and 3 desks in a row. We actually get lots of traffic down our hall, as other tenants of the building walk all the way to the end to the men's room. They take a left just in front of our open door to go do their business.

It's pretty cool to be working in such an open and entrepreneurial environment. There are many days where I am the only one in the office while the other two staff members are offsite, meeting donors or other people who want to help this mission. In many cases I'm doing Excel or database work, and honestly, there is nothing more enjoyable to me than noodling with data while listening to music. I know, I am a complete and utter geek.

Since I work alone so often, I am in the habit of playing music (perhaps loudly). And my kids know what happens when I play my favorite music:

I sing along.

I am seemingly alone. After all, no one is in this big, empty room, I hear footsteps coming down the hall every now and then of various people walking to the bathroom, that's it.

I've learned to recognize the president's steps as he walks down the hall. It isn't his gait as much as the fact that he's had bronchitis for the past few weeks and I can hear the poor guy coughing on his way down the hall.

The other day I heard him coming, so I stopped singing and turned down my music.

He walks in to the office and says, "I got a call from one of the tenants in the building, asking if I could come in to the office today so the singing could stop."

Now I'm sure he didn't actually get a call, but clearly he could hear me from way down the hall.

Um, yeah, I guess that is an open door right in front of me, and I am directly facing it and a long hallway, which probably acts as a megaphone of sorts. Plus there's lots of traffic down our hall, so I bet lots of people have been subjected to my singing the last few weeks.

Awesome.

I now have a handful of tenants of this building who all agree: singing will never be a career move for me. Whew!

So yes, even in an office of three, I can manage to make a fool of myself. Look for my next post -- I know of many others who join me in showing their human side at work as well, in a variety of ways.

All published with permission. Kind of.

Heh heh.

The Mystery Monster Bin

Since I'm currently working 20 hours a week while job hunting, I've got some time on my hands to tackle some of those pesky home projects that irritate and annoy me, but are never high enough on my priority list to take on.

Like the closets.

We have a closet under our basement stairs that is overflowing with...well, crap. It's where we store our suitcases (frequently accessed), wrapping paper and other gifting accouterments (also frequently accessed), paint supplies (never accessed) and scrapbooking supplies (why did I spend all that money on that stuff again?).

And, of course, the mystery box.

The mystery box is a huge green plastic bin that is so monstrous that in order to get it out of the closet, you have to empty the closet. Which, of course, never happens.

Until this past week.

I dragged every last little plastic container, suitcase, scrapbook supply and paint brush out to get to the monster box, only to find a trip down memory lane when I opened it.

Back when my girls were super little and their drawers overflowing with clothes because they were growing so quickly, I had stored away summer clothes for both of the girls, thinking that perhaps one or the other would fit into them yet the following summer. Then the next summer I wondered where all the clothes had gone, but couldn't find the clothes in any of the normal storage places (obviously forgetting about the monster bin). I had to buy Marissa new clothes anyway because she was practically wearing the same size as Lindsey anyways, and I promptly forgot about the missing clothes.

It seemed like only a couple of years ago that I was wondering where those clothes went, but by the size 3T and 4T clothing in the bin, it was clearly longer ago than a few years.

Snippets of summer lifted out of the box, a piece at a time, of warm summer days, ice cream cones and painting projects.

I was going to take some pictures of the clothes, but it's not the clothes that are important, it's what my kids did in them that make them memorable.

Marissa watering the tree.

Lindsey squishing I don't know what. 

Marissa playing with water. (Always with the water, that one.)

Lindsey posing in front of gifts for her cousin Nicole's bridal shower.

Lindsey reading and and Marissa playing footsie...with her own feet.

Every single outfit in every one of these photos was in that box, in such adorable littleness that I hadn't even folded them, they were so tiny.

I took them all out and smiled at them. Marissa was home the day I was looking through them, and she remembered certain favorite dresses, skirts and tops. We enjoyed the memories for a while, then we let them go.

I sorted through them all into two piles -- one for consignment and one to donate. I was able to consign 39 pieces of clothing, pretty impressive considering how they reject anything with stains or rips. Those must've been the clothes that only Lindsey wore, because if they had ever made their way to Marissa they would definitely be in the donate pile.

What the consignment shop didn't accept went back into the monster bin, and the entire thing went to Goodwill. There were four garbage bags of kids clothing still in the bin when it went to Goodwill, just to give you an idea of how big this bin was.

It felt so good to get rid of that huge bin, to purge ourselves of the stuff we don't need.  We will never lose the memories, even though the clothes themselves are gone.

Feminists Do WHAT, You Say?

Our wedding day, Sept. 1995. We paid extra for that vignette effect on this print. 

The other evening, while my eldest and I were waiting in a Starbucks when the youngest daughter was at tutoring, I overheard an interesting conversation.

A couple were discussing their marriage with another individual. At first I thought the person they were talking with was perhaps a wedding planner, but it soon became clear that he would be officiating the ceremony.

They worked out how they were going to seat people (no ushers, no assigned seats), how they would like the processional to go, and what the order of the ceremony would be. I tried not to listen, but it's difficult when you're only one seat away from the lively discussion.

At one point the person officiating asked, "Now how would you like to be introduced at the end of the ceremony?"

The couple seemed confused by his question, so he gave examples.

"Do you want to be introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson? Or Becky and Ray Johnson?"

"Oh! That's what you mean. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson is perfect, that's what we want," the bride said confidently.

And then the person officiating went on to say how some people -- women in particular -- did not like to be introduced as "Mr. and Mrs."

"Some feminists don't like it," he went on, "Some ultra feminists don't even take their husband's last names."

The bride and groom made the expected "tsk tsk" noises and agreed how terrible that is for women to not change their last names upon marriage.

Ahem.

I had a hard time restraining myself from going over there and educating these people.

For one thing, the definition of a feminist is "someone who believes that men and women should have equal rights." I would take that to mean that both genders enjoy the right to vote, the right to work, the right to be paid equally for said work, to not be denied housing on the basis of gender...I could go on. Oh wait, I think I already did.

So what exactly is an ultra feminist? Someone who believes that women should have more rights than men, like the right to not change their name when they get married? Well, I guess that would be just an equal right, because men don't have to change their names when they get married. So they're equal in that regard.

This visual effect was even more unique and expensive. 

This fall Wayne and I will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. Twenty years. Women choosing to keep their given names upon marriage is not a new concept. Had I chosen to change my last name, I would have to be married for another four years before I would have a married name longer than I had my given name.

My kids don't wonder if I'm their mother. Sure, when they were younger they had questions, and, being girls, they could relate when I talked to them about it.

"Imagine," I said, "that one day you met your prince, the love of your life. You decide to get married. And this prince's name is Joe Smith. So do you decide to become Lindsey Smith? Or do you decide to be Lindsey Horsman? There's no right or wrong, but you have the choice."

They also go to a school where classmates have hyphenated last names that combine both the mother and father's last names, or two parents of the same gender with different last names, or stepparents and half brothers and sisters from other unions.

By the way, I am not alone in my choice. I have met many women in my life who did not change their names, several on my street alone, for no other reason than they wanted to exercise that right.

Guess that makes us a bunch of ultra feminists. I think there are worse things to be.

Segue

Another bizarre dream.

I dreamt that I was a passenger in a school bus. The driver was going way too fast, and was driving around a cloverleaf, a ramp that was elevated in the air. The sign said 20 mph but the driver was clearly going faster than this. At one point two wheels of the bus lifted up, and everyone lurched over to the right, lurching nearly over the edge of the curving, inclining road. The bus slammed back down again, and everyone on the bus screamed. Someone yelled "You're going too fast! Slow down!" But that only seemed to make the driver go faster.

Finally, it happened. On the next curve, the left wheels of the bus left the roadway and the bus went over the railing. We were falling, falling, falling.

It was dead silent.

No one screamed. No one spoke a word. All I could hear was the rush of the air going by, not even the roar of the engine. In my dream I closed my eyes and I felt peace. I knew that everything would be all right. We would deal with whatever happened when we landed on the ground; we would be fine. And if we weren't fine, then that was meant to be, too.

I awoke and took a deep breath. Everything is going to turn out.

I am job hunting again.

You would think I had the perfect set-up: working out of my house. No commute. No make up. I could play my own music for anyone to hear. Yoga pants every day! I enjoyed working with my team (many of whom worked out of their homes also) and my boss. I was able to get my kids to school in the morning and was home when they got off the bus in the afternoon. I traveled a little bit, just enough to break up the time in the office, but not so much that it cut into family time.

Yet I was unhappy with the job itself. I thought, "Am I looking a gift horse in the mouth? I am well-paid with the perfect set up, ideal work/life balance; why am I not fulfilled?"

I expected to be challenged by my new role, but not in the ways I was challenged. I don't need to go into details, except to say that I began to doubt my abilities. After a while I finally realized it wasn't me or my skillset, it was just not the right fit.

In late January, the company restructured and many of my co-workers' positions were eliminated. I saw my opportunity and took it.

I quit.

In the week after, as I transitioned knowledge and know-how and notes to those who had just transferred it to me six months ago, I knew this was the right decision. I felt my shoulders begin to ease, my head to clear.

I had the satisfaction of putting hundreds of emails that I never fully understood straight into the trash, instead of gingerly and carefully sorting through them to file, in case that information would be needed at some point in the future.

For me there would be no "some point in the future" at this place. I was done.

I loved working with my clients; their missions moved me greatly, and, as I've found elsewhere, they are some of the most amazing people you'll ever meet. But my family and own career satisfaction comes first -- no one will put it first if I don't. I am so incredibly blessed that I had the option of leaving, of taking the time that I need to find something else that is more fulfilling.

I've said this my whole career and I will say it again: Love what you do and you will never work a day in your life.

Time for me to find something I love doing.

And now...what's next.

My password for my last week of work. Seemed appropriate.

I'm not sure. What I do know is that the nonprofit that I've been volunteering for for three years is excited to have me work on a short-term part-time basis to help them get their donation processing set up and documented, so that when they hire an admin assistant the process will be easy to follow. I'm thrilled to help them out, too, and am loving my time with them.

I know that my heart lies in the nonprofit world, in changing people's lives, helping others, making a difference.

I know that I am fascinated by and passionate about social media and the way that channel has changed the way people connect to others, how it has created political change in countries previously oppressed and has brought together people in ways once unimaginable. It has changed the way nonprofits engage with their donors and how retailers think about customer service. Amazing. What will it do next? What will I do next?

I have the luxury of taking the time to find out.

Don't Take Sh*t for Granted

I love books by Anne Rice, the New Orleans author most well-known for "Interview With a Vampire." One of my favorite books of hers is "The Tale of the Body Thief," when the vampire Lestat is tricked into trading his preternatural body with a mortal, who then decides not to trade bodies back.

In the first hours after Lestat becomes mortal, he is seized by a sensation that he doesn't understand. He suddenly feels a pain in his abdomen, something he hasn't felt in hundreds of years of vampiric living.

He finally realizes what the pressure is that he is feeling: he has to poop.

He makes it to the toilet in time, and feels the relief of voiding his body of the nutrients it didn't need.

What a bizarre little element of life for Anne to write about, how we as living beings eat and poop. It's part of living that truly, most of us take for granted. That is, until we can't. And then it becomes the central focus of our lives.

My dad has been battling colon cancer since he was first diagnosed with it in 2007. During a routine colonoscopy when he was 62, they found a significant sized tumor that required colon resection. He was declared cancer free and did not need chemotherapy or radiation.

The cancer recurred along the suture line in 2011. Doctors told him that this kind of recurrence rarely ever happens. He had radiation, chemotherapy, and another colon resection which left him with a very short colon.

Life since 2011 has not been pleasant for my dad. His shortened colon means that when he first feels like he may need to go, his colon is already full and has often has voided without his controlling it.  He gets up in the middle of the night several times to deal with this problem, not just a quick tinkle like many of us do. It means that indulging in particularly fatty or rich foods makes it impossible for him to leave the house for 24 hours or more.

He used to love to take road trips, and would often drive north to Minnesota and east to Michigan from there to visit family. He hasn't been able to make many of those trips, and when he does, they take infinitely longer due to the number of stops along the way.

His quality of life hasn't been the same since 2011. Then, this summer he was told that the cancer has recurred once again.

Chemotherapy was ordered -- no more radiation as he has had a lifetime worth of radiation already. The hope was to shrink the tumor and then do a colostomy, which would remove his colon altogether and he would void into a bag instead.

This was real hope for him.

He would finally have control of his body. More importantly, it would no longer control him. He had to go to Little Rock, about 3 hours from his home, for the surgery, because the surgery would be tricky due to the amount of scar tissue in the area from his prior surgeries.

He had surgery on January 15th. We are hoping that he will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow, February 9th, nearly a month after his surgery. This was much longer than the 5-7 days of post-surgical care that the doctors told him he should expect.

A few days after surgery he had a bowel obstruction, resulting in him throwing up even the smallest amounts of water that he could drink. They finally got the obstruction to flush out, after nearly 48 hours of the most incredible pain he says he has ever experienced. (Up to that point, that is.)

He developed an abscess. He had crazy amounts of discharge coming from the surgical site and other unnamed orifices, so much so that he became severely dehydrated.

Once the abscess resolved, they discovered he had a fistula, which is when two organs that aren't supposed to be connected together get connected. Part of his intestines had healed incorrectly.

The only way to treat this fistula is for him to stop using his gastrointestinal system, so that it can heal itself. That means no food by mouth. For weeks. He is getting nutrients intravenously and will do so for several weeks more after he leaves the hospital.

He'll be going home with an IV for nutrients, bags for the still unhealed stoma, and strict instructions to not eat or drink anything until he gets the doctor's okay. Once the fistula heals, he will finally -- finally! -- be able to eat and drink, though cautiously.

I believe those instructions are my dad's version of hell, the man who enjoys the gustatory pleasure of eating.

I will be flying down to Arkansas this coming weekend to visit. My sister and I had planned this trip together, thinking that he would have been home healing for several weeks by this time. Instead, Kristi flew down on a one-way ticket nearly two weeks ago to help with his care, and will be accompanying him back to his house from the hospital and ensuring that they have everything set up for his continued care.

He is surrounded by the most loving, amazing, supportive family members in my stepfamily and sister. He has friends and other relatives who call and write, wishing him a speedy recovery and good health.

All of the love and prayers help.

What would also help is for every person reading this to be screened, to get a colonoscopy so that others do not have to go through this.

Don't take shit for granted.