blind insight

The couple that, um, bleeds together....?

Friday's CAT scan was a piece of cake. I was in and out in 15 minutes, with no need for that nasty contrast goop or even a hospital gown. My doctor will receive the results tomorrow, and then will (hopefully) give me the green light for surgery on the 16th.

On unrelated fronts, Steve and I had an awesome day of climbing in Eldo yesterday. We haven't had an entire weekend day to hang out justthetwoofus since FEBRUARY, if you can believe that. We were slated to attend a wedding in Albuquerque this weekend, but Steve had a major deadline that precluded us from driving, and the airfares turned out to be astronomical. $300+ to fly to ALBUQUERQUE? It's barely an hour in the air from here! So we incurred bad wedding karma that will someday come back to haunt us, and stayed home.

Here's a lovely photo from the end of our day on the rocks. Isn't it romantic?

In case you were wondering.

This weekend produced a few choice observations, which I hereby share with you:

1) If the forecast is questionable, and you thumb your nose at the clouds and go rock climbing anyway, it will not start to rain until you are halfway up the route, making a bail-out complicated and gear-abandonment-intensive. The rain will then cease until the precise moment that you begin a second attempt at the rock, when the skies will open up and the clouds will laugh as you slide off the slippery chalk-laden crack. If you abandon all further climbing efforts and retreat to the local watering hole, the sun promptly will reemerge, leaving you to ponder whether the Great Weathermaker might actively be encouraging your consumption of fermented malt beverages.

2) Should you choose to flout 60-mile-an-hour winds and go for a bike ride, be prepared to watch ribbons of your own snot fly in a sweeping arc from your nose before landing smack in the middle of your sunglasses.

3) Just because your boyfriend spends a fraction of the time you do engaged in cardiovascular training activities does not mean that he will not leave you in the dust during the second mile of the Bolder Boulder 10K race. Expect to entertain a moment or two of bitter admiration when he finishes in 7-minute pace, despite his consumption over the past three days of at least four times as much beer as you've imbibed.

4) Proper post-race hydration does not consist of Diet Sierra Mist, Michelob Ultra, or homebrew. Ingestion of such beverages is likely to lead to a world-class headache only partially curable by later consumption of large quantities of water and ibuprofen.

5) You play canasta with a Wisconsinite at your own risk. Consider yourself forewarned.

Reasons to ride.

I took my bike out for a spin this morning. Riding before work always makes me feel tough and virtuous in a way that going to the gym or running never does. There's something about suiting up with shoes, helmet, tights, and gloves and hopping on my totally awesome bike at 6:00 a.m. on a weekday that fills me with the pride of being a "real" triathlete (even though I'm really just a weekend warrior wannabe tri-geek).

Tooling along the path, dodging joggers and bike commuters and too-fat urban squirrels and funky early-morning shadows, I drank in the sprinkler-fresh morning air. I also realized that (except for that brief heart-stopping moment when I enter an intersection, having looked both ways but knowing there's just the very slightest chance that a car was lurking in one of my ever-growing blind spots) I see pretty darn well when I'm on my bike. Particularly on a bike path, the popping-into-my-way-unexpectedly opportunities for pedestrians and other cyclists are minimal, and I'm going just fast enough, and sitting at just the right angle, that my field of vision is maximized and I've got a really good view of what's ahead. During my morning runs, I don't really see more than what's right in front of me, and while I do scan from side to side semi-consciously, I'm often lost in thought and not focusing on much of anything. But on the bike, I can see all that's before me and much of what surrounds. Today it was lush trees and spring flowers and birds and puddles and a little construction and a few people and not too many cars.

One more reason to spend more time in the saddle. Given my goal of riding the whole darn way up Old Stage Road on August 8, I need as many of those reasons as I can muster.

On a much lighter note . . .

An anonymous (but extremely sweet) co-worker left this bumper sticker in my mailbox yesterday. My Betty Boop collection, thusly enriched, now extends to the very door of my office.

Yet another reason why I love my job!

Whew!

Every once in a while, all the stars align with the planets and all the round pegs fall neatly into round holes, and stuff works. Last night was the culmination of months of planning by my spectacular committee on a reception for 200+ young professionals following a huge, community Holocaust commemmoration event. We'd put out the last-minute fires (chief among these was the discovery on Thursday afternoon that only half the necessary quantity of alcohol had been received), taken it on faith that almost everyone who RSVPed would actually show, and held our collective breath in the hope that things would flow smoothly.

And they did! They really did! The room was packed, the food was great, the booze was more than enough, and the energy was infectious. Once I'd made my way through the room a couple of times to shake hands and schmooze and introduce people to one another (and play yenta a bit), I was able to sit down with Steve and other friends (and my parents, who are young and professional at heart) and just enjoy the buzz. I'm still a-glow with the satisfaction of a job well done, though I doubt I'll ever again have as wonderful a planning committee with which to work.

Perhaps by tomorrow I'll be back to blogging about things edgy or insightful. For now, though, I'm just trying to dig out from the pre-event piles and come down from my adrenaline high.

Mad's Marchness.

At last, at last, it's March Mayhem time again! Which brings me to a very important question: What in the name of Dick Vitale are you doing reading my blog right now, when you should be over here watching the snazzy little scoreboard update itself every 2.3 seconds or so. I shouldn't even be here myself right now, because for the past 11 months I have been the proud owner of an almost-courtside seat to the first two rounds of the tournament, now underway over at the Pepsi Center. But I've got all this pesky work to do (and I spontaneously decided to go play in Crested Butte this weekend) so I sold off my tickets for most of the games to the highest bidder (actually, I just sold them to the billing manager and one of the secretaries for face value, but "highest bidder" sounded cooler). I will bear witness this evening, however, when Princeton hopefully beats the hide off the Longhorns and Air Force dive bombs UNC (or, beats the tar out of the Heels, whichever sportswriterism you prefer). I'm so excited!

So far, my brackets are holding up, despite heart-thumping scares from Wake Forest, Maryland, and Syracuse. And my Cardinal is making short work of UT-San Antonio (school motto: All you have to do to graduate is remember the Alamo!) even as I write. I'll be holding a grudge against Florida for years to come, however. I'm kicking myself for not following my gut-level antipathy towards all things SEC and picking the damn Gators to exit early.

As is my habit, I have two brackets in this year's office pool. The first reflects my earnest dream of a Tournament in which all that is good and right reaps its just reward (in other words, Stanford wins). The other represents the Bizarro Big Dance Universe in which all four #1 seeds fall by the Round of Eight and UConn (why? Because my daddy went there) beats Pitt for the NCAA crown.

Steve and I have also formed a Tourney Pool of Two, which our relationship hopefully will survive. As the rules stand now (under a point system arbitrarily devised by Mr. Badger Fan himself), the loser will have to cook the winner a gourmet dinner, complete with wine and dessert. I've added to these stakes the requirement that the loser pony up a full-body massage for the winner's enjoyment. Further side bets may be added upon the agreement of all participants, but probably will not be suitable for sharing with the blogging public.

Let the Madness continue. Oh, baby!

Quiz show.

Seems like I'm constantly getting quizzes via e-mail. Who's your celebrity love match? What color is your personality? What's your kissing style? Which reality show is right for you? What breed of dog are you? That kind of garbage. But just this week, I've received two interesting twists on the format, both of which involve subjects that have some actual relevance to my world.

First up, "What Book Are You?"

And here's my result:

You're A Theory of Justice!
by John Rawls

In the beginning, you lived in a town. The town had many problems! Rather than moving, you decided to come up with the idea for the best town ever. Going all the way back to the original position, you created the idea for the best town ever! Lo and behold, the best town ever looked almost identical to the town you lived in. You decided to stay in the town. Now you resent people mistaking your refined thought experiments for "the wall of stupidity" in high school debate rounds.

This seems rather apt in a weird sort of way. I was hoping more for, say, "Love in the Time of Cholera," but I suppose it's better than being "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." Plus, I managed to survive an International Studies undergrad major and three years of law school without ever actually reading John Rawls, so I'm not really familiar with this work that supposedly epitomizes me.

Then, for even more quizzly entertainment, I learned Which Federal Rule of Civil Procedure Are You?

I'm Rule 20(a). Here's what this means:

YOU ARE RULE 20(a)! You are Rule 20, an important part of the Federal Rules' policy of permissive joinder. You are designed specifically to allow as many parties in an action as can be tried efficiently, and you'll include someone as long as there is some factual overlap between a claim involving them and the rest of the case at hand. You are popular, out-going, and are never far from friends. However, your overly gregarious nature and magnanimous approach to all things cause your closest friends to wonder that, even when you're surrounded by your compatriots, there is a part of you that feels cold and very alone.

Hmm. Not sure how accurate this is. I like the idea of bringing people together, but that last part . . . .

So What's next? Which Bill of Rights Amendment Are You? Which Brainwashing Cult Leader Would You Follow? Which Media Scandal Would You Be Most Likely To Cause? Which Superstore That's Slowly Destroying American Culture Suits Your Style? The possibilities seem endless.

Kitchen confidential.

The weekend was lovely, filled with eating, drinking, skiing, card playing, and general silliness and camaraderie (not necessarily in that order). Among the highlights was the Bananas Foster prepared by my friend Traci, wowing the crowd and putting my mediocre creme brulee to shame. T. prepared the showpiece dessert in her gorgeous All-Clad skillet, courtesy of her wedding registry. I spent much of the weekend coveting this beautiful piece of kitchen gear.

Yesterday, I spent the better part of the day running around Boulder with my mom. Among other errands, we stopped in to Marshalls to look at housewares and picture frames. Lo and behold, there on the shelf was a shiny, gleaming stainless steel skillet, nearly identical to the All-Clad, but at a ridiculously low price. It's mine now, along with a beautiful ceramic salad bowl to which my mommy treated me and a few other kitchen goodies. Bananas Foster, here we come!

Now, if I could only find a screaming deal on a KitchenAid mixer, I might never have to get married!

TGIF.

It's been a long week, between struggling to focus and motivate on this latest brief, trying to get my arms around some new cases, attending various meetings and social obligations, hitting the gym, and warding off a cold. On the latter front, I've been sucking down Cold Snap all morning, and my chi is finally beginning to feel righteous again.

In just a few short hours, I will be heading to the hills for what promises to be a relaxing and fun weekend. Steve and I, along with two other couples, an eight-month-old baby, and a large white dog will be spending the next couple of days in Winter Park, here.

The boys have promised to prepare a romantic and delectable Valentine's Day feast for the ladies tomorrow night, and we are crossing our fingers that they've abandoned the macaroni and cheese, fried pork rinds, and Schaeffer Light concept Steve floated earlier in the week. For our part, we'll be bringing up the sweet end of things, with lemon creme brulee (inaugurating the blowtorch Steve bought me for Hanukkah) and Bananas Foster. There may be a little bit more of each of us to love after this weekend's gluttony.

I've been looking forward to this getaway all week, in anticipation of good skiing, heated card playing, and excessive wine drinking. I'll be back on the blog sometime next week. In the meantime, enjoy your Hallmark Holiday!

Quiz show.

I'm not terribly busy this week and am recovering from post-filing exhaustion. So when a friend sent me this link to some sort of "personality test," I figured it would offer a nice afternoon diversion.

Upon clicking the link, I discovered that the test is aimed at sussing out my "personal attraction" factor, and is run by uber-cyber-yenta service Match.com. I'm certainly not out on the dating market, but in the interests of time wasting, I took the test anyway.

As it turns out, only 3% of all women (at least among the "over 10,000 women" who've taken the test) have personalities very similar to mine, and another 12% are somewhat similar. In other words, Match says my personality sets me apart from 85% of the internet-test-taking population. I admit to being rather pleased by this discovery, since I'd hate to learn that despite spending thirty-some-odd years cultivating my own array of quirks and neuroses, I'm just like all those other chicks.

Unfortunately, the test also reveals that only 2% of the male population is very attracted to my unique combination of personality traits. I can't remember if there are more boys than girls in my age cohort of singletons these days, but that's not a particularly reassuring statistic. Then again, Match says that 34% of men are "attracted" to my personality, and only 7% are completely turned off by my style.

I don't intend to lose any sleep over these results, nor do I plan to take any steps to make my personality more attractive to the 57% of the male population that apparently is "indifferent" to my traits. But I admit to taking a wee bit of solace in the fact that I'm not looking these days!