Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: With Lucky Leslicita on the lam, Englettlaw bunkered down for the deluge of a center that could not hold without its fulcrum. Business models shook and shimmied. Associates fled the hallowed halls of office cozies and dabbled in internships. Ovens were - eventually - ignited. Bundles of services unravelled in the air of manic mediation. Rice cooker banana bombs detonated. And friends were found in the rainiest of places. Sleep was lost, but found again behind the sofa cushions.
Coming Up: Families and Funerals Galore, oh my! The A-Team meet with a little over-scheduled R&R during family fun and memorial weekend, which proves to be a stretch. Will tendons snap to the rhythm of the cardio-beat? Will comrades go cray-cray over crepes? A long forlorn dancing habit serenades our heroine with siren snippets of succulent strings and breathy bandoneons. Avoiding bears and beers in family festivity, the (W)rights fly with gelato-stained maws to try the tango once again. Will arches endure? Will communities revive? Will the rest of the family ever wind their way home from the post-nuptial nuptial gala? And as mysteriously as they arrived, the Falconers fly the roost, leaving the chimera of "normalcy" and "routine" in their white-capped wake! Can such mirages auger disaster?
Strap on your dancing flats, break out the chopsticks and tango over the sushi bridge for the answer to these questions and more.
A Stretch of a Spot Or a Spot of Stretching.
The weird week wound down... wonkily? But wonky in a good way, lest anyone fret. After a flurry and flutter of extraneous office oddities, Englettlaw went dark for much of Thursday and Friday. This was conveniently abutting the scheduled "our hall is swarming with painters blaring Russian pop music on their radios, and the whole place looks abandoned" portion of our office schedule. The poor clients who mounted our lift and came out to the CSI crime scene that appeared to be "our lobby" were disconcerted to say the least.
This "going-dark" semi-shutdown was more directly approximate to the arrival of Ryan and Rachel for the upcoming family festivities and funereal chaser (cousin's getting married, coincidentally the day before Rachel's childhood friend's memorial service).
Mom-boss leapt at the opportunity to hop into a car and retrieve her prodigal daughter plus one from Seatac on Thursday. I, in turn, leapt at the opportunity to lock the door behind her and "work" in peace and quiet. On Friday, operations remained minimal, although we did both come into work in the morning, and I returned later in the afternoon.
Since the office was dark, and no appointments were set, we decided to start Friday morning with a YMCA "Morning Stretch" class. Accustomed to the Y-Pilates-style (i.e. "a couple of regulars and one or two random people spread across a very large aerobics room") we blanched with mouths agape upon our arrival at the multipurpose space. Afore us was a cinereal sea of senior sweat pants! I believe in those moments of mounting mirth, my mother couldn't look straight at me (in my surprisingly coordinated - for a woman who's daily wardrobe "statement" is "rolled out of bed and found this on the washer/dryer" - workout ensemble, and lack of an AARP card) without laughing.
Once we were given instructions - grab a mat, set up by a wall space - we actually had a great class chock full of the kind of stretching and moving I should be doing pretty much every morning; coincidentally this is also the kind of stretching and moving that I never do because it's just too demanding of my increasingly rationed out patience.
Upon completion of the full relaxation, we sufficiently erased all improvements with a sprint of work, and were once more off to The Sports Bar in town to meet up with the sibs and sibs-in-law. I guess "we" were watching the Vanderbilt baseball game, though the ladies left to find sunglasses at Target (all of ours had been lost). Narrowly evading the steely finger trap of a cubic zirconian bijoux which would not let go (and now we know why my mother carries several tons of various lotions and unguents in her purse), my sister eventually chose between her eight pairs of prospective lunnettes. I found a pair that passed the head-bopping test (can I put them on my head and will they stay there reliably if I look down?), and went back to work while the rest of the menagerie plowed onwards. Sororal shopping spree concluded.
The clan reconnoitered once I'd gathered Andrew for a BRIDGE full of sushi (my suggestion, as a place where parents probably could not usually go with kids in tow) and we again bailed before the massive ice cream and donuts outing that was to follow. Today is wide open until this evening, when I try my tango-legs again after possibly the longest straight hiatus from dancing of my life. I'm more than a little nervous, but looking forward to seeing everyone again. I'm only bailing on a family wedding for the event. I'd better dust those shoes off and behave presentably. Oh dear. I've forgotten what on earth that might mean.
Tango-lango-Ding-Dong: The DINK is back! But Leaving Early (so what else is new?)Well, all said, I'm glad that I'm a horrible, horrible relative. There are perks to such things. Mostly missing out on otherwise and impliedly mandatory "family affairs" to do something more fun... like a root canal... I jest, I jest (the jesting fits the socks, which have kind of a Neapolitan vibe to me!). Yesterday evening, my family flocked on mass to a wedding in some far flung corner of the Mt. Vernon area (all I know is that, judging by the picture my sister sent me, there were bears). I remained flockless. In lieu of the post-nuptial nuptials (said cousin has actually been married via civil ceremony for some months), I went to on my first tango outing of 2014.2014! We're halfway through 2014! Which is surreal. I used to tango just about three times a week, often travelling great distances to do so. Even during the law school slump, I never went more than a month between some form of milonga or other, and often had practice partners. But between some significant lifestyles changes, the achin' arch o' pain-o-rama, and several other major intervening events, it just hasn't worked out. I'm still nursing my arch a little. I can run a half hour (or perhaps only 25 minutes when I'm still getting over a cold and am simultaneously running too fast because it's so darned hard to hit my cadence at a slower pace). I can walk for straight hours. But dancing puts all new stressors and strains on feet. And, as my PT was wont to point out, it took some years building up the strength in my feet. It's going to take some time to rebuild that strength. I was gentle with myself, staying to teach a lesson and getting in a few three-song tandas before cramming my bag full of food (because I'm classy like that) and fleeing the premises. But it was grounding to stumble-step traspie back into the thick of a community. While I may have drifted to the mysterious periphery long before my hiatus, it's affirming to see it continue on in a familiar way. People evolve, but they also frequently don't change at all! Every one there was so very concertedly the same from dance style to personality, to the inevitable little creaks and cracks of tensions between those styles. But back to how I'm glad I was a horrible relative. I was at a tango event in town. Meaning I wasn't at an all-nighter out-door wedding in the middle of somewhere with family I usually only see at funerals. Guilty that my sister and her husband flew out specifically for a wedding I could have easily reached by car? Maybe. Possibly more if it hadn't been a late night even completely overlapping with my previous engagement. Possibly more so if they hadn't been requested with a last minute noon email on the day of to arrive two hours early at the sight for family photos that happened a predictable forty minutes late. Possibly even more so if after the brief belated 8:15 p.m. ceremony there was not another hour and a half of milling while the bride and groom reunited for their wedding photos. Possibly even more so if it weren't outdoors on a temperate but chilly June evening flocked with mosquitos... so many ifs. Let's just say, I don't feel too bad about missing the wedding for some flat-footed tango boogie. I may, in fact, feel pretty good about it. Before the Tango-extravaganza began, Andrew and I had an oddly early dinner at Boomer's with the departing dutiful contingent of my family. They were off to arrive early for those last-minute-requested wedding photos that would run late. Of course. But first, they came for burgers, baby. And shocker of shockers: while Boomer's is hardly dead at 4:20, there are actually seats and services. College is letting out, so perhaps we can actually eat there again sometimes after several thwarted school year attempts.
After returning home for another small interlude of time (we'd filled a previous one with a nap), we date-nighted ourselves to Chocolate Necessities for a groggy gelato and coffee. Having steeled up on ebony indulgence, we helped set up for TE, mostly by unloading several tons of sweets and snacks (sampling as appropriate, along the way, and marking out exactly what items I'd be swiping in bags and cups upon my hasty departure). And here we return to the beginning.With a double-cyclical return of "Adella stayed out late last night, but still rose at 4:50 a.m. on the freakin' dot-dash-pip"Still, I feel no huge concerns in the creaky arch and am ready to take on the day! My sis and bro-in-law are here for one more event: a memorial service for a childhood friend/old neighbor. Since I never knew him, I'll be opting out of that as well, but will likely be filling in the pre and post gaps with some sort of interaction. Starting with getting the story on that bear that crashed the wedding! Over crepes, apparently.Carpe the Crepe, baby! And let there be Sunday!
Ask Not For Whom The Crepe Crumbles Breakfast Bonding Blitz in Yuppie Limbo.
I'm not really a crepe person, although I still stand by our collective brainstorm to get the Food Truck Statutory Crepe up on wheels. There's a certain disappointment inherent in all my previous crepe experiences. And, perhaps because crepes have certain comfortably "different" connotations, they tend to associate with other yuppie trappings that don't work for me. These include a tendency for louder restaurants, fussier ingredients, and higher prices. But really, I'm not really a ____ (name most any kind of breakfast indulgence other than a "stay at home and eat my hippy bread and eggy-flax sandwich with avocado") type person, so my personal compatibility with any given breakfast destination is irrelevant. As such, I had no cavils agreeing to meet the "fam" at Magdalena's Creperie for a Sunday morning breakfast.
Note, I say breakfast. This was no brunch. For one, we - at least initially - agreed to meet at 9:00 a.m. Ten is the earliest cut off for brunch in my land. Beyond time considerations, brunch implies a certain glut of culinary gorging; as well it should, considering that its very portmanteau implies that either breakfast or lunch has been folded into this grand meal. Crepes - the Crepes at Magdalena's, at any rate - may have pretenses of culinary indulgence, but lack all trappings of excess in their trim presentation and spare caloric explosions. The "indulgence" lay exclusively in how thoroughly "hand-crafted" (dare I say "artisanal" and run for the skies shrieking?) each plate was. How "locally sourced" the ingredients were. How poshly viands and bevvies were nestled in creative and indeterminately ethnic ceramics, and how sonorously the ting-ting of the silver echoed off the thoroughly insulated vaulted ceilings.
Thinking about the experience later, I wouldn't say that I'd never go to Magdalena's of my own volition, but I would only go there under very particular circumstances. It would be an off-meal time on a sunny day, and I'd be meeting a friend for something a little more than coffee but a little less than a meal. We'd sit outside, and maybe split a pastry or pierogi.
As for Breakfast, I'm not super keen on repeating the experience. Our troupe was already running about an hour behind, or else the experience may have been worse. Andrew and I arrived around 9:30, and dropped the terrifying news that their quaint little corner shoppe would be harboring a party of six at some point. No such space was available on our arrival, so we sat at a different table and waited for another family to leave. By the time our "party" arrived, the other family had left, but the tables hadn't been cleared or combined. Since Magdalena's is quite a tiny little echo chamber, half of the party went back outside, Andrew and I remained awkwardly seated, and the remaining half stood in the middle of several crucial passageways, keeping very still as others attempted ingress and egress past them.
The restaurant was an 80-90 decibel venue and the tables were lined up long-style, so I can't say I really know how the rest of the group enjoyed their culinary experience. Or their evening before. Or really anything other than that texting via cell phone was an acceptable substitute if only reception weren't so poor in that area. There were raised and garbled voices, and many facial expressions to clue us into some sense of communal experience. Andrew - who can't hear all that well anyways, and was in the middle of the table, enjoying a bit of monologue - was thoroughly unphased by the atmosphere. I know that much. Beyond that, though, I am pretty sure that all scheduled guests were accounted for.
Having turned ravenous much earlier than the 10:15 a.m. seating time and 10:30 a.m. dining time, I'd - once again - already eaten, so my culinary experience was limited to minor salad. The salad was basic, but good. I am sure that the field greens were hand-crafted, local and appreciable artisanal.
The crepes looked different than I'd have anticipated. I even would posit that they do not resemble the salaciously seductive macro-photos of crepes that litter their walls and website. I think of crepes as weird french pancake-tortillas. It's an imperfect analogy, but mostly I expect "a decent bunch of ingredients wrapped up in a manner that ranges from quesadilla to enchilada to burrito in final girth" for my standard crepe order, depending on the hipness and poshness quotient (food truck = burrito; cafe/creperie = enchilada).
These were "polish crepes" and/or "fancy because we're in yuppie central Fairhaven and these are hand-crafted local organic crepes" - They were more like the fancy lite-pancake-taco salad of the crepe world. A delicate lining of egg across the crepe foundation. In the center, a dab of other painstakingly assembled ingredients. Finally, the sides of the crepe were volumized to rise in crinkles and create little crepe-walls around the inside ingredients. Pretty. Purportedly tasty, but spare and surprising.
I have no quibbles with lighter meals of high quality, but it does raise the issue of price, in that these crepes were ten dollars a pop before adding in the french-press local coffee or the hand-squeezed 6 ouncer of ginger-lemongrass orange juice. We get to a point where with Andrew's voracious metabolism (slower than it was, but still pretty stunning to those more familiar with regular humans), a satisfying meal would bankrupt us in a few visits. And I'm fussy enough about my food, that I'd just as soon hand-craft my own locally-bought-from-Freddy's-bulk-bin-sales-section food for cents on the dollar.
Anyways, as I say, I could definitely see meeting up with somebody for a nicer coffee on a lovely day. And I'm sure - given the attractiveness of Fairhaven to our frequently upper-upper middle class guests - that I'll be there again. But probably not on the regular rotation.
Though I must reflect that sometimes it's nice to go places that aren't "us" as a couple. Because there is a decided bonding ritual involved in the post-game discussion of why a certain place "isn't us" and that in itself cements this oddly satisfying "US" buzz. Kind of like when we bond over how our wedding was the best wedding ever and feel superior to other weddings that we've begrudgingly attended. Shared smugness is a solid glue for any relationship!
Restaurant review aside, Sunday was a nice day. Andrew and I took advantage of being in Fairhaven to drop off one of his bikes for an extensive tune up (hei hei says "hey, bye bye" for a while). We popped into Village Books and bought updated guide books for Prague (my new morning tradition will be reading random snippets of the guidebook, butchering Czech pronunciation of basic phrases, and insisting that our first trip with be the cubist lamp-post followed by the miniature museum).
I even managed to take another nap! This is miraculous. Apparently I just need sufficient time and a decent sleep deficit to be capable of all sorts of slumbering!
Rachel and Ryan finished off their wedding experience and spent yesterday at a memorial service. They're now heading out on a morning plane to Houston for an unanticipated lay-over in Huston before leaping back into full parental mode. I'm thinking I'll ride down with them to actually have some non-restaurant time with them. Next time we see them, they'll be back to "mommy/Moooooooooooom" and "daddy/i-want-moooooooooooomy"
As we wind our way back to a regular week, I've got a mediation to plan for and lord knows what else waiting in the work-wings. But that will be sorted out later. Probably not over crepes.
Back to Work and Other Oddities - Let Your Normally Abnormal June CommenceAfter a mini-reunion-coda last evening (one generation above me, so I missed that too) the family events have concluded. No more incredulous hiding from extended events. No more text-tag logistical limbo. No more concerned waiter's faces upon hearing the answer to "dinner for two?" We're sidling to status quo after a bit of May - June diversion. No event-races. No sallies in Right Coast rowdies. No tormentous trips to the airport. No half-closed offices and recondite excel tables dividing "personal time" against the odd hour squeezed in between meals and excursions. Just (W)rights, mom-boss, bikes, and work. Which is plenty after a tsunami of excitement this last month or so. Leslie is still off sipping tequila somewhere warm, so things aren't technically back to normal. And with a Thursday mediation coming up for clients completely off the Practicemaster grid (yes, I'll spelunk through the programs before Thursday to set them up myself... maybe), it won't necessarily be a smooth summery skate to another placid weekend. But it's a stumble in the (W)right direction at any rate. Yesterday, I decided that I really have more meaningful bonding times with people when I catch them in low-stimulation environments (shocker) and that I felt like I hadn't really gotten a chance to just chill with R&R this trip. Being stuck in a car together is an excellent locale for catching up, so I crashed the caravan back to Seatac. I'm not sure it's really skipping work when you join your mom-boss to do it. I'm really glad I got the chance to do so. I got to hear all kinds of little snippets of otherwise unshared news and strands of forming life plans. I got further caught up on the tale of the grandiose wedding ceremony in the middle of nowhere (dancing bears being a post-production edit on my part, but one that I feel good about), and the perfectly-PNW memorial service held at the Deming Log Show Grounds. We made pleasantly perfunctory time (no Seattle snarls beyond the usual congestion), and the Falconers upped the ante by changing to an earlier flight. I'm told this flight ended up sitting on the runway for two hours in Chicago, but that this was still an improvement on their previously scheduled flight through Houston (which also was delayed after being scheduled to get in at 2: 00 a.m.) Falconers flown back towards their roosts, we wheeled back to Bellingham and reluctantly opened Pandora's casket of "WORK EMAILS and messages." Nothing awful, but enough to consume the remaining shreds of work time before pilates, to which I dragged my snively sleepy little toosh on principle if not out of some grand desire to contort and ache amongst a community of flummoxed newbies and jocular regulars. But I'm glad I went, as I often am. Despite feeling this residual malaise that could be blamed on so many factors that I've stopped attempting to determine proximate causality (hormones, sleep, heat, lurgy, visceral reaction to the indignities of a world that has yet to officially declare me queen and give me my own island with weekly tributes of exotic vegetables and dark chocolates), I felt great controting and torturing myself in front of an oh so non-judgmental mirror.It's fascinating to notice how infrequently people use the mirrors in our class compared to me. I'd say either it's clear that I'm a raging narcissist or I have built up an extremely high tolerance for the horrors of self-reflection during my dancing days. Maybe I'm just keeping an eye on my evil doppelganger, because I know she's itching to get out and dally with evil Associate Thompson and Auntie Adella. And with Andrew's gradual ascension to the top of the wage-earner percentile pyramid, Fitness Instructor Adelia knows her time will come! Don't worry, though, she's got her own stash of socks, so it will be fun to compare wardrobes when she finally bursts erumpent through the looking glass.
But for the meantime, she stays at bay waiting for the weekend wearies to catch up with me and let me drop my guard. Stay on your guard as to tip your toes into the week, though. Gyrotonics attacks are only minutes away and nobody is safe!
Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Beware the Kobucha Demons and their venomous listerine spittle! Our plucky couple narrowly avoid the clutches of extra work hours, instead falling into the equally painful clutches of the messianic masseuse on a mission! TRIAL! The inconceivable occurs and sets off a series of apocalyptic events culminating in an actual family law case going to trial!!! Clearly the product of a carefully calculated government conspiracy set off in concert with our own client and her mastermind mafiosos. And Andrew faces the abyss of work instanity as THE PIECE arrives!
Coming up: Say it Ceylon: the pantry shelters emerging superheroism with a homey nostalgic redolence. Pathfinder down! Andrew's car falters and stumbles its way to a Sterling automechanic. Will it ever find its path home? What will home be? Shall the Cerulean Avenger be forced to pick up her husband mid-flight to Japan? Appropriately shamed and girded, Adella feeds from the victory of a not entirely ambivalent make-up weigh-in. Will she make the cut? Is cake on the horizon for celebration or merely penance? The work-weekend resurges. This time victory cannot be certain. Will our couple survive? And another tango revelation. But will it be for good or for evil?? On the hive of ballerinas can know for sure and they are brandishing their fencing foils in an ominous fashion.
Read on to find out...
Less Sugar, More Spice, and Not Everything Nice...
We have a pretty fantastic pantry in our current house. I've never had such a thing before. I'm not even sure single ladies who do the majority of their cooking in a microwave are legally allowed to have such pantries. Panties, perhaps, but that is one of those unsavory words I'd just as soon avoid. Not sure why the difference of a single "r" can turn a word from sour to savory as it lulls about my tongue, but there we go. Maybe I've made do with closets to store my excess kitchenalia. But that special word pantry is reserved for chefs and DINKS and, well, anyone who wants one and can afford a decently sized living space. It's still kind of magical. My own little portal to untold shelves of raw ingredients loosened from their tiny cabinet cages and grazing in peace (mmmm free range flours and grains!). And batteries. And maybe the recycling bins. And, ok, gifts that never made it anywhere else, some instruction manuals, the odd piece of paper... Plus, it's not a bad hiding spot. If Andrew more or less inherited the "study" then I claim this as my lair. I'm pretty sure that it has a secret door or two to other areas of the house. And my superhero costume will definitely fit in there just fine. I do already hang my robe on a door-hook there. My big fluffy gray (nee white) robe may, in fact, by my super hero cape in training. I will probably dye it before I go out fighting crime. It's looking a bit nappy in crusty cinereal cream. Anyways, my pantry discovery of the week has to be this Whole Spice ceylon cinnamon. I've ordered what claimed to be ceylon cinnamon before, but it didn't taste significantly different from the casia that generally passes for cinnamon. Lighter in timber and tone, but still far shy of revelatory. When my subscribe and save was cancelled for the frontier ceylon cinnamon order, I decided to try this Whole Spice version (it being cheaper and all). Wow, it is amazing! I love cassia as well, but a spoonful of this cinnamon is a minute-of-infinity mull in the redolence of warmth, love, and childhood enchantment. The flicker of its mild fire across my tongue is the gustatory equivalent of velvet across a cheek, or a warm cidery hug on a cold night. Definitely a price bump, but well worth it. And yes, yes, I've read all about the FDA finding all kind of nasty things ground up in spices. As long as those things don't kill me or ruin the flavor of my spices I'll take my chances.In non-pantry related news, the old bike and chain is currently - wait for it, it's pretty terrifying, so you might want to sit down - carless! Or SUVless. Well, both. Apparently his little Nissan decided that it didn't always feel like starting up. I guess Andrew feels that this is an important component of a car's work for him, so he thought he'd take it to car-training bootcamp and/or maybe just replace the spark plugs, which were looking a bit wan.He had to take yesterday off to locate a mechanic and garner estimates... and maybe take a long bike ride because, hell, he's already off for the day and might as well use the commute time he's lost travelling in a big series of circles atop a mountain on his hey-hey (yes, that is how I intend to spell it, and I may add girl at the end with a flick of my ebulliantly epicene wrist) .Today, I dropped him off... no, not in Mukilteo sillies, although that would have been a fun adventure! I dropped him off at the park and ride for his carpool. I felt quite a bit like a mom dropping her teen off at school. If only I'd been wearing my cinereal superhero robe and curlers!! Sadly, I was just in work appropriate(ish) clothing and it was too dark to thoroughly embarrass anyone, including myself. But I have now seen the cars Andrew rides in! Ooooh my. Very exciting day, of course. I'm really not sure how the rest of my day can live up to such excitement. Perhaps if I rush back home and hide in my pantry... maybe mix some of that cinnamon with some cardamon or cloves or apples or mmmmm Ok, I've worked enough today!
If wishes were horses, I'd probably step in a lot of wish poop on the trails by our house -
Andrew's little Nissan has lived up to its name and found its path back home. I'm quite impressed. He took it in on Wednesday. They gave him an estimate a few hours later. He gave them the go ahead to work on it late Wednesday evening. And mid-day Thursday, the darned thing was all tuned up and timing belted.
Andrew is quite pleased with himself for finding a nearby mechanic that seems honest and efficient, but he says that the proof will be in some pudding or other. I have seen no pudding, but if there is pudding - and it is not doused in car oil or radiator fluid - I would certainly like some! I will go digging intrepidly for this supposed "truth" nonsense with two spoons and a jar of sprinkles!!
Pudding aside, Andrew will be putting the new repairs to the test with his turn at carpool chauffeur today. I don't expect to receive any calls about being stranded due to the Pathfinder gaining sentience, breaking out its jetpacks and flying home to Japan. Then again, I'm sure Japan is lovely this time of year, so I'll be ready if such contingincies emerge. Hell, I'm a lawyer (in personality as much as practice), so I've got contingency plans for roughly three-thousand potential variations on this and other disaster-motifs.
My frolicsome Kia has yet to pull a full on drama queen snit-fit about the extra attention given to the Pathfinder, so I'm hoping it will continue on as my trusty steed that crumples like tissue paper with the slightest wind... kind of its thing.
In other news of a more ambivalent nature, it's been unseasonably warm this week. This is fantastic in terms of scenery, crisp outdoor walks, and wool-gathering window-glances. However, this unseasonability runs into discrepancies with the seasonally-adjusted HVAC in all relevant indoor areas. I did, indeed spend most of yesterday at work with the fan on and a workout tank (this close to just going full out with the sports bra). And I'm pretty sure that notice at the YMCA about the steam room being out of service was actually code for "the entire workout area is the steamroom today!" I don't generally leave a slime trail of sudor on the exercise mats.
Speaking of exercise mats, I've rediscovered the exercise balls (haha, I said balls... snort snort chortle chuckle). I am quite concertedly convinced that they are harbingers of germy nastiness unlike anything above the mats themselves, but I have transcended my hygienic hysteria and embraced the bouncy squishy fun version of making my core scream out like a little girl on a horror movie foley track.
When I'm working on the machines, I try to use the wet wipes they provide before touching anything, which is a nice delusional way to pretend I'm keeping myself from burying my head in Grime's chest and giving her a thorough motorboard. Granted, I eventually get so sweaty myself that I'll willingly wipe my face with the wet towel I've been leaving various contaminated locations. But psychologically, the wiping down helps.
Wiping down the mats and ball are a bit counterproductive, unless you're up for the challenge of turning the workout area into a slip and slide before attempting to do balance-focused exercises. I usually give up on the wiping down and whatnot around this area. My sanitary compromise is generally to say several prayers to the almight Lysolia and her consort (the demon demi-god Purell), make a few wet nap sacrifices at the edge of the mats, try desperately to abstain from any physical contact with myself or my possessions, and then wash my hands back in the dressing room. Of course, if I were being honest, my keyboard is probably germier by far than the dirt-covered corner of the gym, but they're my germs goshdarnit (well, my collection of germs harvested throughout the day).
But yes, I've considered purchasing my own ball to avoid this grimy compromise. Because my house is pure, of course. I wonder, though, if I had a ball at home if I would disqualify using one at the gym (because, gosh, I have one at home!) and then fail to use it at home! I sometimes feel that way about the foam roller, although I still make some effort to use this after runs. But hey, even if I didn't use the ball for its designated purpose, it would be a huge bouncy ball in my house! I'm sure +Andrew Wright would never wake up in terror in any way related to this possession and my sense of ... frolic.
Hope that whatever the transportation and whatever the temperature, you are having a fantastic Friday and heading right off into a splendid weekend. I hear we're almost immersed in Christmas season, so I'd suggest getting your red and green scuba suits out before the tides rise!
Special Edition Truncated Weekend: The Weight is Over
Ok, that pun misses its own mark, but I remembered this morning that I failed to publicly shame myself appropriately last weekend (well, I manage to do a fine job of flummoxing, bamboozling, and bewildering myself and others in a "public" manner, but generally in a less targeted fashion).
As I mentioned, I've gotten a bit more lackadaisical about this weight gain project now that I'm smack dab between the initial payoffs of more energy/overnight muscle development and the longer term hopes of stabilizing at the weight my body would like to be at. Recently, it's taken a temporary stopover at the 133-ish area (about ten pounds from where I started and 12 from where I'm still aiming). Last week, I even went down a smidge from the week before, so I had been attempting a minor re-calibration binging forward. I think it worked. But my scale was being fussy, so don't quote me on that. Also, if you're quoting my peppy palaver about weight gains and goes, you may be boring the crap out of any potential interlocutors. Long story less excruciatingly driveling: I am edging up again with some measure of accuracy, but my scale does not like it when the cleaners move it around and store it on its side.
Alright, that was a zesty shaming/declaration of psuedo-victory. Onto other things. Yesterday, Mr. (W)right decided to go into work to make up for the day he lost dealing with his pathfinder. Incidentally the pathfinder did indeed find its way home to us and appears to be behaving as per usual. Plus side is that "usual" means "mostly obedient, but occasionally sometimes the lights on the dashboard and tail don't want to turn on because of a faulty wire connection somewhere." Sturdy enough steed to do the Mukilteo trip anyways.
Since Andrew was headed off to work, and I'd left my office in a state of devastation on Friday afternoon, I also went into work a bit. There is this leviathan beast of a response declaration from a fairly ... um... interesting other party. The response declaration is roughly 100 pages over limit, a day late, full of irrelevant and inscrutable documents (inevitably not labeled accurately), and snarling balefully in the corner of my office. Sure, it's probably all irrelevant, but maybe one tiny thing somewhere is important. Maybe that document will slip free of the muck and mire and burble its way to the top of the commissioner's papers. Which is to say: I had three spectacular hours of dredging through the cranberry bog with waders on. I actually enjoyed this nonsense, even if I'm not sure I came to any solid conclusions.
Needless to say we both worked tiresome days. I buried myself in papers and lurid tales of licentiousness libertinism and familial intrigue. Andrew did some equally lurid things with an ginormous torque wrench, some screws, and ooooh I am sure I can add some more entendre, but it's early yet. I had the luxury of recovering for a spell, while Andrew subsequently enjoyed the luxury of an extra large pizza.
We were obviously both in good stead for tango. Ok, I was in good stead for tango. Fortunate, since I was teaching. We had a dj down from Burnaby and the event had been well promoted after the WiTF (an acronym that still entertains me), so the place was packed. The hook was that she is well known for dj-ing alternative tango (non-traditional tango to anything that blends well with fusion dancing and tango nuevo, and hell, really well with young people in San Francisco).
I haven't taught a lesson that large in years. I'm not sure I could officially claim to having taught one yesterday, so much as cracked some jokes, gave some advice and wrangled wrangled wrangled.
But, as promised to myself during my wild and windy ride to Whidbey, I tapped into my single tangeura intrepidity and asked new leads to dance. I am apparently now intimidating so not a lot of leads will actually ask me to dance. First I was unfamiliar, so I had to do my own asking. Now I'm intimidating! Yeesh. This reticence of most leads is something I can rely on to abet my inner-wuss. But I full well know how to track and target leads on the dance floor. As recalled from days of yore, I was aglow! It wasn't necessarily that the new dancers were better, but they were less comfortable. And less comfort required more attention. And more attention pulled me away from my own "ooooh sickle foot, you mad woman!" head and back into the dance. I did steps - simple steps, but steps - that I haven't done in years, because leads I know don't lead them.
And I got that little burst of maniacal energy from sharing the first "wow" with a new partner. One man - sharing a name with my all time favorite and exhibiting quite promising aptitude with rhythm and connection - announced that he'd learned tonight that when he dances with a higher level follow, he becomes a higher level dancer. He told me that he'd just had a dance-breakthrough and I felt his radiance bubble out from his pores straight through my own veins.
I still called it an earlyish night with several unfamiliar leads yet tapped, but it really was crowded and I really do go to bed before these darned events begin. I did end it on a lovely note, though. Andrew had been quite the trooper, despite being mostly comatose upon return from his weekend work-day. I popped in to check on him just as a blues set came on. Because I have no propriety and propriety would be highly out of place at an alternative milonga anyways, we blues danced to it. Of course, with a highly elevated tango flavor on my behalf. I had the shoes for adornos, and the balance to pivot into those damned boleos/ganchos/flicks and tricks. Fortunately Andrew remained strong enough to handle my sudden impulses to take both feet off the floor and hang from one arm or a thigh.
This morning I'm feeling the after-glow-over in a tired but pleasant sort of way. I managed to "sleep in" a whole extra hour. This is an accomplishment for me, trust me. We're off to the ballet this afternoon. No DINK running this weekend, but I think we'll survive.
Nuts, Bananas and Lunatic Sauce on that Mondae Treat -
Let there be no mistake: this is a real Monday. this is none of your little working holidays. None of your drowsy lulling lurches into a proper work week. This is a head-first swan dive into the roiling seas of wheeeeee-wheeeee-work!
Waiting for The Bald Birthday Party Soprano to Take us to a Zoo Where We Can Have Happy Days: The Musical continues after a good six day airing. Since we seem to be seesawing on a pattern of "our side takes a half hour to question our witness, followed by an entire day of cross examination with a minor two or three minutes for redirect," I expect that our final witness will take up the entire day today. Leaving tomorrow for Mr. Opposing Party to present his brilliant revelatory performance art piece on his convoluted feelings about pumpkin pie (it's giving him the evil eye, but it smells oh so good!).
In the meantime, Miss Most Interesting Service Avoider 2013 has emerged unscathed from her exciting car chase of one across her own lawn and provided roughly two-thousand pages of "response" mostly addressing a contempt motion she has already lost and finishing with some opinions about the final parenting plan that is not currently at issue. She was a day late, so we are also likely to be a day late in our reply. Of course, it would be nice to hear from our client since I can only put so many words in his mouth before he needs to at least sign something saying it's not all the feverish phantasms of a diseased attorney's morbid mind.
It should be an interesting scurry through the morning! We'll tiptoe through tulips on Tuesday, maybe. Today it's a clomp through the Monday mire. We also appear to have another trial in another case that might happen this next. A settlement conference with Ms. Service Avoider just after the hearing that is already likely to set her inner bile a murmur. And a mediation with yet another intractable other party who seems to think "shared decision making" means a deep-soul searching pow wow on every single possible decision made in the child's life, and resulting in a parental consensus to go with whatever random thing he thinks is appropriate!
To prepare for this slush pile of a week, +Andrew Wright and I had a very nice date afternoon yesterday at the PNB's Kylian and Pite. We'd seen Sechs Tanzes and Petite Mort before a few seasons ago. I think it might have been the first rep we saw at the PNB, actually. Very brilliant. Kylian has such a way of using the energy between dancers and the music to thwart expectations and play with surprise. Pite's piece was teeming and swarming, based in part on the movements of bees and insects. It must have been a success! Andrew only needed one cup of coffee and only almost-nodded off for a few seconds during the first piece!
But enough wool-gathering (I can't knit anyways). Back to the obsessive typing of a whole 'nother kind.
Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Twinkletoes Longshanks spreads her wings and flies (well, hovers a spell before crashing to the ground, but what a rush)! Tricks are treated and treats are tricked, with swarms of adorable imps and goblins hugging bears and giggling at in-jokes swapped with the dead. Sammy G-3 gets a snazzy new jacket and prepares for a watery grave. And Milla Jovovich drops by the office to clean out some zombie cases lurking in the kitchen. Man can that girl kick!
Coming up: What the Tango (festival in Whidbey Island)! Our hero and heroine part ways in the midst of a raging tempest. While Andrew runs forward into the breach of mud with bike in hand (or on shoulder), Adella runs kia-first into the looming gales and torrents guarding Coupeville's secret tango temptations. Will Andrew survive his first cross race intact? Will he bring home enough soil to start that shower-garden? Will Adella defeat the jitters and quivers of her tiny car and tense heart to find tango bliss? Thrown into the wormhole of the past, will she find her answers to questions long beyond her? Will she break any of her students once and for all? On the run, again, the couple separates once more. Will they ever meet again at the pathfinder or will Adella be caught in an endless loop of five minute turn-arounds. And trial beckons! Does this mean the end of the world is nigh?? Will anyone survive??
What the Tango?? -
I'm off (in oh so many ways) into the wet and wilds of Whidbey Island. I haven't been to Whidbey since my Grandmother's funeral, and what a day to go. All signs are pointing to a torrid tempest or two on the drive over. But tango calls. More specifically, I was drafted to teach and dj at the newly minted Whidbey Island Tango Fest, which is quite beautifully referred to as the WiTF. The official organizers are Whidbey folk with whom I've only had peripheral contact so I don't know their fluency in the argot of lolcats and textspeak, but I like to believe they are as entertained by this as I am. I'm guessing it is not entirely tin-earred, but I hate to speculate. That's a lie. I love to speculate. I hate getting caught in egregious speculation down the road. I'm also uncertain if my co-teacher (the one who drafted me and the man generally behind the Tango Popolare - TP ha ha - curtain) finds this funny either. Life is full of mysteries. At least I am amused. Because that's such a challenge, amusing me. I never drift off into my own little world and start smirking at the swerving of atoms.
I am doing - as always - a technique workshop. Ladies love my pretty feets and think it's skill instead of socks. I won't disenchant them of that notion since I do bring a background and insight from other disciplines which appears to be helpful to tango dancers. Because I'm me, I have dubbed my class Heels, Shoulders, Knees and Toes: Technique-al Support for Tangueras . This never made it onto the website, which makes me a sad panda. But that's what it is in my head still. Being insane, I've actually printed out a written outline for students to take with them.
I'm also dj-ing a practica later in the afternoon. For some reason - despite the fact that I may have cultivated an early reputation and fixation with non-traditional tango music - I am manning the traditional practica while others handle the "nuevo" and "alternative" ones. I'm happy with that, as I also love traditional tango music. But if I can't play several bizarre tango covers of pop songs, I will at least have my day in the cortinas (little pieces of music between sets), which definitely includes a swing version of Smells Like Teen Spirit, a charleston version of Crazy in Love, and a spicy salsa version of Fever.
And yes, this is the first outing for THE BAG! Laptop is all packed up and ready to go with a few snacks to boot. I stopped the effort at the socks today, wearing workout capris and a small t-shirt (hey this technique shnizzle is serious ). I am so not the part today. But will I remember to bring my shoes? Now that's a question only time can answer.
Oh yeah, it's Saturday. I weighed in - apparently I'm in the mid-weight change slump where I'm keeping on keeping on but feeling less ebullient or nervous about the process. But I will continue my trusty reporting for at least another week. This morning. I'm at 134.somethingorother. More than 134 but less than 135. So that's good I think. I'm planning a shopping excursion once I break 135. So far, again, no need for new clothes yet, but why not celebrate? Besides since I default to dressing like a very sporty bag lady when I'm not going to costume events, it's probably time again to reinvigorate my wardrobe choices.
And, I don't have enough toe socks to pull this off for a month, but to celebrate the passing of a month, HAPPY #Toevember !!!
What the Tango-Pic?
When people ask how long I've been dancing I get kind of confused. I do this for several reasons. First off, any one who's seen me wandering around a local grocery store (or heaven forbid, sat next to me during a musical performance) knows I've been "dancing" in one way or another probably before I ever took a step or a breath of open air. And of course, I studied some form of dance since I was about four. And naturally I always loved me a good dance party from teen years to college and back again. In highschool, people jokingly referred to my compulsion to spend high school dances actually dancing (usually the only one while every one else milled awkwardly in other rooms waiting for the chaperones to leave so the awkward flirting could commence) by calling me the dancing queen. I was never one to pass up '80's night. And the noise musicians HNTIW (I think that's how you spell it) knew me as the Dance Master and got excited whenever I came to one of their events, baby. But, somehow, I don't think that totally counts. Except it can. Except that's probably not what's being asked.
Of course there is always the urge to temper any impressive sounding durational measure with plenty of peppered "sporadically" "on and off" "not as much as I'd like these days" so that I do not raise the bar of expectations far beyond my abilities.
Duration of dance experience is not patently indicative of ability. I'd say that the majority of dancers peak out after about two to three years. The true-believers who are willing to go the extra step can become significantly better with hard work, but the marginal returns are lower after that point; most people merely sediment their own habits and acclimate to their familiar partners. There may even be a fairly common drop off of ability at around the two and a half to three year mark, as habits set in and novelty is replaced by rote.
The other reason I hem and haw is that - as indicated in the stuttered quotes above - I don't necessarily dance with that much frequency all the time. In fact, over the course of my dance timeline, I've got months at a time hardly dancing at all.
I've expressed my surprise before at how little difference time can make either way - I have lost far less of my flourish during those times off than I'd have expected. Once there's a certain base of technique, if you are still building strength and flexibility somewhere, then you can get away with long vacations free of significant desuetude or attrition. Not perfectly by any means, but it reminds me of pacing in running. Most people have a huge problem learning pace when they first start running, but once they've got it they've got it for life.
Not to say my dancing is nearly as good as it has been at my most serious (there was a time when I danced several hours a day and much of that was drilling and other unpleasant deliberately practiced sorts of dancing), and certainly not as good as it could be. I'm patently aware of all my shortcomings in a way only somebody who has once been serious enough to learn oneself can really be. It's not always comforting to foster that awareness in lapse of the associated dedication to make use of such awareness. But, I digress.
The other reason I have a hard time answering the "how long" query is because, well, wow, I have a hard time answering that. It's been a long time now. Years blend together over time. When you first start, there's an infatuated rush that lasts into about the three year mark. You struggle the first year, but things start to click. Things start to click rapidly in the second. Somewhere in between two and four is the peak time of obsession. I know because I see these little cycles of core community members ebb and flow according to reliable timelines. At two years, I started travelling to Seattle frequently. At two and a bit more, I pulled my first Buenos Aires trip. At three, I pulled another one. I taught, I performed, I did the full festival passes and squeezed every conceivable drop of dance time from any milonga, all travels came with tango shoes in-bag, and I had an absolutely epic tango wardrobe.
Four through seven was law school. I still practiced drills intermittently. I had two practice partners that filled out my calendar to about once a week. I tried to get out for a class or workshop every quarter. I'd show up to a practica or milonga if it were near my house, I wasn't too slammed, and the boyfriend was doing something else. And I still taught a bit in Seattle and a bit in Bellingham.
Eight through ten is about where I am now, I think. I teach at times. I go to milongas sometimes and rarely stay the full time. I still have my brief encounters of sheer obsessive finger-on-the-pulse-of-life-bliss here and with my tango fanatic friend in San Francisco (who is insanely devoted enough after ten years to be improving with duration), and I supplement of course with all my other dances, as always.
So yes, I think it's ten now? Or maybe eleven. Perhaps going on eleven since I started tango in earnest.
Anyways, what I was going to say is that this photo was taken by a woman I knew from my first tango class however many years ago that was. It's not the most shining example of technical style on my part, but I like to think the socks make up for it a bit!
November Showers Bring December... Showers?
I mixed my weekend days up with a blender and some ice, but it appears that my head is still prepared to understand that this is Monday. That it is also the first Monday of November, and thus a day for board meetings and other unspeakable commitments, is something that may take a few more days to hit home... but Monday, at least I've got sorted out ok.
Saturday
was quite the excursion through wind, rain and various island trappings. The tango festival that I was helping out with was in Coupe(d-up-on-a-small-touristy-island)ville, a nice little town on some corner of Whidbey Island. I feel that festival may have been a bit of an exaggeration, having experienced my small corner of it. It was more like a series of workshops featuring Tony and Ilana from Seattle, with a few extra trappings to fluff the weekend up a bit.
The workshops and practicas that I manned were mostly sort of a "see we've got variety for every taste!" figurehead statement than anything hugely official. I don't mind. I had a small smattering of brave follows for my technique-al support workshop. And I ran them appropriately to the ground. Or just short of neurophysio-explosion with a series of drills and practice points that have been handily summarized on a three page outline I also brought to the class. Despite many unsmiling facial contortions during the workshop, each of the follows subsequently approached me and thanked me deeply for the lesson, noting some revelation that had been had during that grueling hour. One even wants to set up an encore in Bellingham. We are masochists, we are dancers! While I hurt them, I also hurt myself: boy am I sore.
The practica that I was supposed to be (whooooooa)manning was merged into the practica that David was supposed to be (ooooooh)manning in some kind of sparsely attended traditional-alternative souffle The one the Tony was dj-ing happened to be where the free wine "tasting" was simultaneously on tap (or on oak barrel or whatever the oenophile's equivalent is) so by all reports, most people were there and not dancing. Ours was a nice intimate affair atop a nice intimate Italian bakery, though. I have half an unused playlist to whip out the next time insta-dj is called upon. I cut some mad cortinas, gosh darnit, and I am not afraid to use them!
Andrew was tentatively going to go as far as driving down with me, possibly to mountain bike in the area (my creative suggestion), but such plans were stymied by the Tempest in a Whidbey Commemorative Teapot we had for ourselves on Saturday. I was a bit nervous when I realized I'd be going all by myself (my car probably weighs about as much as a medium sized Great Dane and doesn't handle wind well), but somewhere along the drive I remembered - as I usually do - that I have several years of crazy adventuring under my (thoroughly knotched out) belt.
As a cautious person, I've often found myself taking advantage of a social/emotional crutch to avoid several manifestations of risk. Sure, driving in a safer car makes sense, but I also have used social surrogates or dance partners as a way of shielding myself from too much novelty or uncertainty. Perhaps I bring my handsome husband along and then spend the entire evening dancing with him instead of asking new people to dance. Perhaps, I notice he looks "a bit tired" and allow myself the excuse that he'd like to go home soon. Perhaps.
This isn't a bad thing, but it's worth investigating my more daring tendencies as well. I'm the girl who would randomly drive down to an alien event in Seattle at a second's whim and dance myself into a reverie of sheer bliss without batting an eye. I'd get nervous before heading into the dancehall. I'd remember the inconvenience of parking and driving and getting home late, and the horror of potential rejection or an unfamiliar unsafe partner pushing me straight onto my tango-tush, but I didn't let it stop me. Hell, I'm the girl who'd plan trips to Argentina by herself on the same "well, what hell" heel and a prayer. I have that in me and I usually end up enjoying letting that side of me out. I know it's natural to hedge my odds (because I don't always end up finding those perfect new experiences), but going off on my own is something I'm more than talented at, and it was good to remember this.
Released from driving and dancing obligations, Andrew went off and thoroughly muddied himself at his premier (and finale, perhaps) cyclocross event of the season. He brought several pounds of dirt and mud back with him as a trophy. Thank goodness, we have a cleaning service! Not that I haven't always wanted to plant kale and cabbage in our shower stall... Sounds like he had fun, but reaffirmed that 'cross is not his discipline. And we were both appropriate sore and tired by day's end.
Sunday:
For those of you who observe Daylight Savings Time, you may be aware that it ended (for now) sometime between Saturday night and this morning. With some very calculated planning ahead, I managed not to let this throw me into waking up at 4 a.m. on an ever expanding trajectory towards earlier and earlier birding (I really have enough worms, thank you very much) and spent the remainder of my still-early Sunday morning time battling various clocks around the house. By far, the oven was the least amenable and - after several skirmishes, we compromised. It spent most of Sunday running 10 minutes slow . This morning I managed to brave the buttons and unspoken voodoo rituals required in setting the clock, and all is well with the world. While it lasted, it added a nice surreal quality to my day to lose ten minutes every time I switched my gaze from the oven to the microwave.
Sunday was a more localized and familiar DINKscursion, and quite a typical Saturday aside from it actually being Sunday. Andrew and I whittled our morning into a nice pointy stick of connubial amity and relaxation before donning our spandex and hitting the carefully groomed "trails." I have a new jacket that will be perfect in about two or three weeks.
There were plenty of people out and I was energetic enough to bound off fairly early in the run mid-conversation with my handsome hubby. He sanely decided to continue running at his own pace, so we didn't quite finish that conversation yet.
Our route is a little equivocal at this point, since+Andrew Wright is off his pace-training (nagging beepy watch) and running a bit faster as a result. This means the original turn around point is somewhat less conveniently in the middle. The new plan has been to run out and turn around at "the 30 minute mark," but Andrew's watch starts somewhere between the warm up and the actual run, while I start mine on the run, so our clocks don't always sync up. Apparently this time he kept running until he'd hit three miles out and then turned around.
Figuring half-and-half for the run made as much sense as anything (and really, I tend to run faster on the way back than the way out since part of that is warm up), I decided to just wing it and choose a bit of a circuitous route past the theoretical halfway mark.
Since the route I took was a loop up through Fairhaven instead of just turning around, I didn't run into (har har - pun) Andrew on the way back like I might usually. Which was kind of entertainingly mysterious because I didn't know when he might have turned around and whether he was in front of me or behind me. As such, I ran all the way almost to the car, back onto the trail for about five minutes, back all the way to the car, and then finally back to the trail to run into him. Whatever else, it kept me bounding and bobbing. And the people I barreled past several times were only moderately traumatized by the experience. No baby carts were overturned in the making of this run.
I also did another spat of running on the YMCA treadmill. I think it's increasingly impossible for me to run on the treadmill and not do some kind of intervals. The tedium corrodes my morale, otherwise. But I find that that little extra time on the treadmill evens out Andrew's strength routine to mine rather well and minimizes me idle-milling-about phase of the work out. Or discourages me from stretching as thoroughly as I ought to, something I usually will only do if bored and trying to kill time or far after it's too late to avoid some serious stiffness (so, last night, after sitting in a movie theater for two and a half hours).
By all promises, Andrew is set to get THE REALLY BIG PART that will change everything on his project and likely consume all of his heart, mind, and schedule. We shall see, but I'm glad we got part of the weekend together.
Anomie in the Courtroom - Waiting for The Bald Birthday Party Soprano to Take us to a Zoo Where We Can Have Happy Days: The Musical Returns -
Oh yes, we are going to trial today! No bumpety bump! As astounding as this sounds, a family law case of ours may somehow and rather implausibly make it in front of an actual judge. I remain skeptical. There's a lot that can happen between now and nine a.m. The courthouse will likely implode. I'm guessing that in a few minutes, we'll be hit be a raging blizzard and perhaps a swarm of mutated ice-wolf-sharks - damn you Washington voters, don't you see what you've done with this GMO bill??
However, barring apocalypse: trial! The exclamation point is a half-hearted one. See, we have been set up so many times that at this point we can't even work ourselves into a good froth. If it goes, meh. If it doesn't go, meh. Which is why I suspect it is going at all. I think the trick is definitely playing hard to get.Trials like to be the initiator. They want to think you've got plenty of other trials sniffing around you waiting to initiate.
While the trial is the exciting part, my day will actually be far afield and watched mostly via the odd panicked chat message asking where the hell some random legal document from 2008 is, and can I retrieve it immediately! I'm looking forward to those. In the meantime, I'll be ballasting the fort with my sanguine smile and total avoidance of all client-related interactions. Of course, now that there's blood in the water, several other little trials are swarming, so I'll still have plenty to do (hiding in a closet, rocking back and forth singing soothing children's songs, most likely).
For now, I shall focus all my energy on keeping the courthouse open and the streets clear of wolf-sharks. Wish me luck!! To get into the spirit, I am listening to a songza station called Code Your Face Off. I'm not sure why, as I'd like to keep my face and am not coding, but I somehow couldn't resist the name.
