tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38604362224186965762024-03-05T14:34:38.463-07:007600 AdventuresStriving to make daily life an adventure.Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-41060935492746046472024-03-03T18:12:00.003-07:002024-03-03T18:25:10.976-07:00Goat Massage<p> I’ve been climbing the Incline about three times a </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyGsbIMu1UG4wobNMxirzawrRYDzLxOr2e94pKVkoq9vMhOX1mZhkQx39YYrTuMyrJbq6X1czjpi_MISm9ilWSH_D20V5mBOmXV8gEK1NdmkbNqAXoPGZPBOzNPfr14BxzlOW9yVOp3KrlJWNJgyoLdf-uPKp0OoTmmyJ-CZnFtVkGu0CjWWKtXSfy3g/s4032/IMG_7189.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyGsbIMu1UG4wobNMxirzawrRYDzLxOr2e94pKVkoq9vMhOX1mZhkQx39YYrTuMyrJbq6X1czjpi_MISm9ilWSH_D20V5mBOmXV8gEK1NdmkbNqAXoPGZPBOzNPfr14BxzlOW9yVOp3KrlJWNJgyoLdf-uPKp0OoTmmyJ-CZnFtVkGu0CjWWKtXSfy3g/s320/IMG_7189.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />week, starting to build up a base for this coming race season. As you know, this routine has included ice bath at a temperature causing me to evaluate my life choices… but I also called up my massage therapist to get back on her schedule.<p></p><p>My massage therapist is awesome. She’s only part time, but happens to have a studio right at the end of our street, in what is literally the only business block in our community.</p><p>The rest of the time, she lives out in the mountains on a farm. Which is how, when I walked into her studio last Friday, I met Patrick McLovin.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Patrick McLovin is a two week old goat, being fostered by my massage therapist after a traumatic birth where his siblings didn’t survive. He’s imprinted on her, a fact I learned when he started bleating pitifully while I was changing and she left to wash her hands after putting him in his diaper. <p></p><p>Patrick followed her around the entire massage, happily wandering under the table, occasionally making an appearance through the face hole or rubbing his tiny head into my hand if it was hanging off the table. </p><p>This was not a bougie, bring goats to a brewery so Lululemon clad yoginis could get Instagram photos whilst downward dogging. This was just what my therapist had to do to keep Patrick McLovin alive and happy in a critical time.</p><p>After the massage, Patrick McLovin decided that I was safe, and took a flying leap into my lap… and promptly fell off. I picked him up and cuddled him for a few moments, until he decided he was done and jumped down.</p><p>Patrick McLovin then walked over to my massage therapist’s purse… and peed in it. </p><p>I’ll be getting another session at the end of the month. I hope Patrick McLovin isthere, but I will probably leave my purse in the car.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-73016543131489498382024-02-19T15:04:00.003-07:002024-02-19T15:27:25.696-07:00Bathtub Salmon<p>Since I shared about, you know, almost dying and then </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl19CJRA_UjIh2QCwqeCHOTLoQHBrl8dKgd4leZUwRtn-2MtXrF4Ag1bWWY3_AZStX9nVdd3v9mlzwfyrhspY09nT3uhaqUzdzc4xCxoOm1otkANhi7OJ4_04DsA9FZKeRccRpW-GwOgioO1iuPaRD90Q1LxEewOca0yHeX5GDDEmuWvzmCz98griZHO8/s4032/IMG_5475.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl19CJRA_UjIh2QCwqeCHOTLoQHBrl8dKgd4leZUwRtn-2MtXrF4Ag1bWWY3_AZStX9nVdd3v9mlzwfyrhspY09nT3uhaqUzdzc4xCxoOm1otkANhi7OJ4_04DsA9FZKeRccRpW-GwOgioO1iuPaRD90Q1LxEewOca0yHeX5GDDEmuWvzmCz98griZHO8/s320/IMG_5475.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />not, people occasionally ask me how I’m doing. That’s incredibly sweet and I really appreciate it.<p></p><p>The general update is that I saw the cardiologist and had some tests done in December. All looks well, the patch is where it’s supposed to be and everything appears to have healed up. They took me off the blood thinner medication and so now I don’t walk around looking like I have been beat up anymore.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>The more specific update is that I’ve started base training for summer/fall races, which will include the Pikes Peak Ascent and the Chicago marathon, races I deferred because, you know, life threatening stuff. I’ve decided that because Chicago is just three weeks after the Ascent, I’m just going to train like I’m running the Pikes Peak marathon and not just the Ascent and hope that covers both.<p></p><p>Which means I’ve started getting out on the Incline a couple times a week to start hill climb training. Today was President’s Day and I had the day off work, so I went early and for a longer run (I’m trying to outrun sunset most days). When I got home I was a mess because the trail was snowy and muddy. I was hungry and sweaty and with the increase in mileage I knew I needed an ice bath.</p><p>Which is how Eric walked in to find me sitting in our bathtub, torturing myself in ice filled water… eating salmon and avocado. I imagine the looked like a shrunken, feral chinchilla, although I did manage to use a fork and not just feed myself with my paws.</p><p>That’s the “real” how I’m doing. Its gonna be a weird training season.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-72673797382667584192023-12-13T15:01:00.012-07:002023-12-13T15:18:28.895-07:00The Definitive Guide to Christmas Music<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_1j2MwhFOcz41Y5b_S0aBqQmGwqxGmbmlKx-ZXIcRhz0kSgCWXEZ122JvDYh1luszeFkMqD8F-mMz_hyy00PKAMPsnWkZQ8wS1gydEifOS5MhhaKQv4aWdUOugwupvRyGUZL90hPDfs5DwugONRJZnFpAj1mlMcHyvMLypxlo93qwCe1qgui_FhrFjg/s976/WHAM%20Christmas.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_1j2MwhFOcz41Y5b_S0aBqQmGwqxGmbmlKx-ZXIcRhz0kSgCWXEZ122JvDYh1luszeFkMqD8F-mMz_hyy00PKAMPsnWkZQ8wS1gydEifOS5MhhaKQv4aWdUOugwupvRyGUZL90hPDfs5DwugONRJZnFpAj1mlMcHyvMLypxlo93qwCe1qgui_FhrFjg/s320/WHAM%20Christmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Welcome to the Christmas season. Sorry about the soundtrack.<p></p><p>Can we be honest for a minute? 80% of Christmas music is garbage. I'd like to issue an open recommendation to all bands and solo artists. At some point, your record label is going to come to you and say, "We think you should do a Christmas album." Resist the urge to say yes. In fact, run, and don't stop until Valentine's. </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Christmas music is much like Dante's Inferno in that it descends into several levels of hell, each with its own unique brand of torture. You may disagree with the order, but as a former mall employee at Christmas, I had enough years of "Santa Baby" on repeat to consider myself somewhat of an expert in this space.<p></p><p>Let's start with I would consider acceptable Christmas music. Most Bing Crosby or Andy Williams contemporary tunes, and Michael Buble, Pavorotti, Sara Bareillis, Sarah Brightman or Harry Connick Jr. singing carols fall into this category. String orchestras, brass quartets, and instrumental music are wonderful additions the holiday season. For levity, add in Straight No Chaser and Barenaked Ladies Christmas albums. They are tongue-in-cheek takes on the season and tolerable. </p><p><b>Introduction to the Underworld</b>: Maybe this is purgatory? These are the mildly annoying Christmas songs that don't make you want to take a letter opening and jam it into your ears, but aren't what I would choose to listen to. Unfortunately, Bing makes an appearance here with "Hawaiian Christmas," Gene Autry contributes with "Here Comes Santa Claus," "All I Want for Christmas is Two Front Teeth," and pretty much any song from a Claymation or Alvin and the Chipmunks holiday special. </p><p>Hell Level 2, the <b>Mall-at-Christmas Mix</b>: When I worked at Wilson's Leather, we had exactly one CD we played, all day, everyday at Christmas. By the end of the shift, I would have heard each time approximately 9 times, and I believe that was when I first learned to grind my teeth. These upbeat Christmas tunes include Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You," and Wham's "Last Christmas." These songs cause you to evaluate your life choices, especially those that landed you in a retail store for days at a time. </p><p>Hell Level 3, <b>You Just to Make a Record</b>: No one needs more Christmas songs. See above. Sia made a Christmas album? Were you being held hostage until you donned tinsel?</p><p>Hell Level 4, <b>Rich People Singing About "Important" Topics</b>: You know where this is going. A well-known artist pens a tune that I swear just tries to make people feel guilt. Life brings us enough guilt without the pop-star add on, am I right? See John Lennon's "Happy Christmas/War is Over:" "let's hope its a good one, without any fear." There's also several who just write really BAD songs and try to pass them off in the same guilt-ridden way - and I'm looking you, New Kids on the Block with your "This One's For the Children." In case you brain-bleached this gem, it includes the lyric "some people are happy, and some people are sad." There are not enough puke emojis for this. </p><p>Hell Level 5, <b>Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer</b>: and everything else with a horrible banjo twangy, bad attempt at humor. I can't.</p><p>Hell Level 6, <b>Questionable Judgement and Significant Creep-Factors Playlist</b>: Who decided "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" was a good idea? Seriously, this song sings about either parents' roleplaying or the child's mother's infidelity. "Baby Its Cold Outside" is the worst. At minimum, it sends unclear messages about consent. At worst, its about manipulation and victim-drugging ("say, what's in this drink?") This needs to be consigned to the dust-bin of Christmas-music past. Do better. </p><p>Hell Level 7, <b>Josh Groban on Repeat</b>: The only thing potentially worse than a wink and a nod to sexual assault (see Level 6) is the spate of designed-to-make-you-cry, emotional manipulators putting out Christmas music. I will fight you in the Kmart parking lot if "The Christmas Shoes" is your favorite Christmas Anthem. These songs come straight from the deepest level of hell and should go right back there. I was up on the ladder, decorating our tree earlier this week and Amazon Music started playing something about "Daddy I miss you, its been so long since you went off to war" and the amount of filth that came out of my mouth before I could hop down and advance the playlist rivaled George Carlin. Whoever writes this genre should be arrested. Note, I don't actually know if Josh Groban has a Christmas album, but he probably does and its probably in this category. He did sing that ice-pick-to-the-brain chart topper "You Raise Me Up." Vomit.</p><p>There you go, your definitive guide to musical survival this holiday season. Good luck and godspeed (but not God rest you, merry gentlemen.)<br /></p><p><br /></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-49753532812878092112023-11-05T20:29:00.001-07:002023-11-05T20:41:16.495-07:00I'm Grateful<p>I need to tell you the end, first. I'm ok. I wasn't there for a moment, but I'm ok now. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfa1YLjCKmNttSkOEu696jXjKcX0Bz4K-cAXhr4Y0qrNDfaI_b7YJfTUo3iUqve2xdH6ETwXTPZISNROnnjohd61d_KPD_mRoh6fbdeprsFWEBslgactIZEfLETWbsmGA07g4Crz4UXkCY_25g_aG46tPc0hMJk_HEpHneuj7A68Zt7vsADh0i8yh3QhE/s1440/22C67ECC-0B13-404F-8838-6544828D6526.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfa1YLjCKmNttSkOEu696jXjKcX0Bz4K-cAXhr4Y0qrNDfaI_b7YJfTUo3iUqve2xdH6ETwXTPZISNROnnjohd61d_KPD_mRoh6fbdeprsFWEBslgactIZEfLETWbsmGA07g4Crz4UXkCY_25g_aG46tPc0hMJk_HEpHneuj7A68Zt7vsADh0i8yh3QhE/s320/22C67ECC-0B13-404F-8838-6544828D6526.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Eric and I planned a two-week camping trip to Banff and Jasper National Parks, waking up early on a couple of different winter mornings to get online to snag sought after camping sites in July. We were going to take two weeks off - the first time we'd ever gone on vacation for that long. As that time drew near, we knew we both needed the break. We were mentally exhausted. I was scrambling for balance, doing what I knew to do to force me to stop working - sign up for a marathon and print up a training plan that told me when I needed to close my computer and go for a run. That printed plan came with me to several countries, where I put in miles near beaches, across cities, around hotel gardens and on treadmills - whenever I could fit training in during the day, wherever was safe.<p></p><p></p><p>I took that training plan to Canada, and we spent two weeks hiking, running, biking and disconnecting in the mountains, seeing amazing places and recovering from dual heavy work seasons. I put over 100 miles on my legs. We came back to a house-full. Some of our favorite people arrived for a week of vacation of their own, using our house as their base.</p><p>We went back to work, and I continued my training plan. On a Tuesday evening in mid-July, I ran eight miles, then stood in the kitchen listening to young adults tell us about their day, and talk about their first professional jobs in nursing.</p><p>I woke up Wednesday morning and had a stroke.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>It started with one arm not working, then falling on the floor of our bathroom because my left side didn't work, but me rationalizing, "I must be really tired." Then that resolved and I stood back up, but I couldn't seem to find my toothbrush and thought "well, I guess I'm not brushing my teeth today." <p></p><p>The fall and dropped toothbrush woke Eric, who followed me around the house as I attempted to get dressed, fixated as I was on prepping for the training I was supposed to be facilitating over Zoom in a few minutes. He finally said "we have to go to the hospital right now." Disconnected from it all, I vaguely agreed, and finally looked in the mirror and smiled. Only half my face smiled back. I thought, "well, that can't be good." I tried to text my colleague and good friend, Sarah, to let her know that I needed her to cover our training and I was going to the hospital. What I texted was incomprehensible (Eric followed up with clarification and then took my phone).</p><p>Eric, who is the serious hero in this story, recognized the symptoms of stroke and that we needed to go, and now. He also knew that based on where we lived and his volunteer experience with the fire department, it was going to be faster for us to get in the car and go than wait for an ambulance. </p><p>By the time we got to the hospital, most of the symptoms had passed, except I couldn't see well. We had gone to a hospital that specializes in stroke, and they put me through stroke protocols. I saw a neurologist right away who was pretty sure this was just a migraine, but popped me into a CAT scan just to be safe... then apologized when she saw the returned images. </p><p>The team decided to admit me pretty quickly, but we ended up spending 13 hours in the emergency department while we waited on a bed to open and for someone to take me to get an MRI. </p><p>The waiting was scary. We had a small reprieve - a friend of ours from our last church happened to be a hospital chaplain, and happened to be working at the hospital we were at. I'm not totally sure I remember what he said, but I was glad that Nathan saw my name on a chart, thought "surely this can't be the person I know," but came to check it out anyway. My symptoms had fully passed by that time, but I was overwhelmed and wanted to be in denial. I couldn't have had a stroke. I didn't want to be admitted to the hospital. Can't someone just let me go for a run and get back to work? I have things to do. Nathan talked to us for a while and I was glad Eric had someone there with him, because I am certain that I was no help.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigk4LVUH_DdAizi0TRr3K7fI9dI3uX7M-kBJTEjxkmZkWdTp2Xy_QFb08s8jZ-87vOgSMKokI7GTkpv7IZJfcjuOSNWdBtu2RFZZjGoYzIqrzxVk3pibKg_tpxQfGsuKLzKvKywQQSuSmiZrackEzk1GXI4lRq6cGP07ASpQnVzKKZD6-NtSMP_4YHJ1M/s4032/IMG_3887.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigk4LVUH_DdAizi0TRr3K7fI9dI3uX7M-kBJTEjxkmZkWdTp2Xy_QFb08s8jZ-87vOgSMKokI7GTkpv7IZJfcjuOSNWdBtu2RFZZjGoYzIqrzxVk3pibKg_tpxQfGsuKLzKvKywQQSuSmiZrackEzk1GXI4lRq6cGP07ASpQnVzKKZD6-NtSMP_4YHJ1M/s320/IMG_3887.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ET fingers for constant monitoring</td></tr></tbody></table>I spent a couple days in the hospital while the University of Colorado health system opened up a full-scale investigation into what caused this. Nothing fit - I didn't have any of the classic risk factors for stroke. The nurses told every specialist that came to see me that I was a marathon runner, and Eric was an EMT and that's how he knew to bring me in. "Marathon" and "EMT" are written in at least 15 different charting notes (I know, because the health system app shows you everything.) </p><p></p><p>They tested me for everything. They took enough blood to send to multiple labs, checking for everything from auto-immune issues to clotting disorders to accidental ingestion of moon rocks. They sent me for tests and imaging and literally took an ultrasound to every major vein and artery from neck to ankle. </p><p>Nada. Nothing. The negatives were impressive - I don't have lupus, HIV, hypercoagulation, DVT, SVT, genetic disorders or syphilis (and thank goodness on that one, considering all that time I spent in brothels during the Gold Rush). </p><p>Finally, they ran one more test - a bubble study where they inject agitated saline to see where the carbonation goes. It came back inconclusive, and so another, more invasive version of the test was scheduled for the next morning. </p><p>They found an inch-long hole in my heart.</p><p>Apparently, this hole has always been there, not causing any issue... until it did. In "things I didn't know until now," everyone has a hole in their heart in utero - it allows for more efficient blood flow since fetuses have no use for lungs, so the hole bypasses the lungs. At birth, the hole is supposed to naturally close and it does... except for 20% of us where it doesn't. For most of this 20%, its a nonissue and there's nothing to do about it. Until I threw a mystery clot. Docs had no other answer for "why was there a clot" except that high stress, lots of travel and birth control increase your risk for clots, and some combination therein caused some kind of tiny clot to form somewhere. That clot, were it not for the hole, would have gone to the lungs and was small enough to be naturally filtered out - they know this because the optic nerve, where the clot finally stuck, is incredibly tiny, and the damage to that nerve is faint, incredibly small and isn't causing lasting symptoms. </p><p>Definitive diagnosis. They released me from the hospital with a recommendation to get that hole patched up at my convenience. They suggested I take a day off running and then wait until the next weekend to do my long run. They prescribed one med and a baby aspirin. For all the fuss, they were rather casual about the fix.</p><p>Two weeks later, I went back to the hospital for an 11am check-in and a 1pm appointment. I was released at 4:45pm with the hole filled, a quick outpatient procedure through a vein that deployed a two-sided patch that opened like an umbrella, clamped together and covered the hole completely. They told me to stay on the meds I was previously prescribed for several months to help my heart heal, keep taking the aspirin forever, and wait until the next day to go for a run. </p><p>I'm ok. This could have been way, way different. That knowledge has taken some time to adjust to, and while my physical health is overall fine, psychologically, this had an impact. I was afraid I was going to die. My situation is different than the "average" stroke, but the follow-up from nursing teams includes scary stats about the risk of having strokes - and worse strokes - in the future. I had panic attacks for a while, particularly when out for long runs where there wasn't enough to distract me and get me out of my own head. I stopped taking the follow-up nursing calls because they were tail-spin inducing. It was helpful to hear from the cardiologist that despite the repeated voice messages and dire warnings, I did not need "cardiac rehab," and, in his professional opinion "it would bore you to tears, walking on a treadmill with a bunch of old people when you could get more out of just going for a run." Bless him.</p><p>Physically, it took me about a month to recover from the heart patch - I could run, but my body needed time to adjust to blood flowing in a different manner than it was used to. On top of that though, the anxiety disrupted several long runs on what had already been a tight training schedule with little wiggle room. I finally decided to defer my marathon until next year, recognizing that I was just not going to be ready. </p><p>If the worst that came out of this was one deferred marathon, I'm incredibly lucky. I'm working on gratitude for that. Gratefulness has required more learning than I anticipated it would.</p><p>It has taken a while, and the whole thing has been hard to process. I felt like I had done something wrong, and I had failed in some way that caused this to happen. Then it felt like a body betrayal for a while and I was angry that my body would do this to me, and I was angry this happened. I was fearful to tell people - I was afraid people would hear "stroke," and start looking for reasons to confirm that I was brain damaged, not able. I was afraid I would be sidelined and written off.</p><p>I didn't tell many people - it took a long time to find the language for what happened, even after I got over the rest of it. I didn't even call my mom when I was in the hospital - which was probably a mistake - but she was out of the country and I didn't know how to say what was happening... and I think I was hoping it would all go away and I could just call her and tell her about this funny ridiculous mistake that happened.</p><p>Three months on, I'm still more likely to end "I had a stroke" with, "but don't worry, it didn't take" because that's kind of funny and lets me minimize. I'm learning to say "but I'm ok, and I'm grateful." And I am - I'm grateful for the health care staff who took me on as their personal mission to figure out what was happening. I'm grateful for a relatively simple solution that allows me to live life like nothing happened. I'm grateful we had health insurance to cover the bills. I'm grateful for the friends and family who checked in on me and cared about me. Most of all, I'm grateful for Eric, who stepped in and took action, and has been by my side through all of this - the physical, the mental, the emotional. </p><p>I'm grateful.</p><p>PS: In case you are wondering, both cardiologists I worked with are marathon runners. They knew what I meant when I asked about "training, and understood I would not just be "going out for a jog." When I went for my three-month check-in, the cardiologist responsible for my follow-up was mad that he was on-call that weekend and couldn't run Pikes Peak. Maybe we'll be on the mountain together next year.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-33708694841385811852023-09-16T21:56:00.001-06:002023-09-16T21:56:33.653-06:00QuittingAfter eleven and a half years, its time for me to go. I'm leaving my organization - in fact, Monday is my last day.
I'm tired and I'm grateful. Things were not perfect, but no organization is. <div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYOJGjR7RL6AogbWAcxNW7zMISA5Ta8Hc1UNn_pdBl8y4j2ZluyDg6qX4LiTVpSZ1D8vEG5p0zkBA1FUwlrOg8a7PdiSkhkcZMsKFvxftlIQilzl3_bfM5u4gueE_2lvRfMzJCUi9w2vYbR2RB2YO5_FsCUtaTmzWPlbkYfbtxQsCQvasgz-0TpXnbzE/s4032/Uganda%201.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYOJGjR7RL6AogbWAcxNW7zMISA5Ta8Hc1UNn_pdBl8y4j2ZluyDg6qX4LiTVpSZ1D8vEG5p0zkBA1FUwlrOg8a7PdiSkhkcZMsKFvxftlIQilzl3_bfM5u4gueE_2lvRfMzJCUi9w2vYbR2RB2YO5_FsCUtaTmzWPlbkYfbtxQsCQvasgz-0TpXnbzE/s320/Uganda%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Family visit, Uganda</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>I could stay. In fact, there are plenty who would like me to stay. But its time. Change is hard, but it's needed. I believe I've done all I want to do in this organization, and its time for me to try my hand elsewhere. If I'm most honest, I feel used up and beat up by a relentless pace I've given absolutely everything to try to keep up with. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to another NGO, this one focused on work with refugees around the world. I'll still be working in safeguarding, working to protect vulnerable people from abuse, neglect and exploitation. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've had some amazing experiences in this organization. I've travelled to work in 26 (I think?) countries, many multiple times. I've met amazing people, seen things that have broken my heart over and over, laughed until I couldn't breathe, sobbed until I couldn't see, learned, grew and loved. </div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHN7E5tqfUDV2AOzWWyBlWL3DAm_x-Pj6LlskumLgcQYeoSrzSIjfa-6QrNd1bj-p6dinqVF26swlUCPrD4QzfBE58YhmCr2sYZGj4cuVQ3x2gVXRZVAoAPA_VjF4_XhdcITlWNU1tWJlMuJiMCndYfU96pkhrwtnVORtVNwGX6Y2gDOXzr5xExpq6TE/s750/Thailand%201.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="750" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHN7E5tqfUDV2AOzWWyBlWL3DAm_x-Pj6LlskumLgcQYeoSrzSIjfa-6QrNd1bj-p6dinqVF26swlUCPrD4QzfBE58YhmCr2sYZGj4cuVQ3x2gVXRZVAoAPA_VjF4_XhdcITlWNU1tWJlMuJiMCndYfU96pkhrwtnVORtVNwGX6Y2gDOXzr5xExpq6TE/s320/Thailand%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tough family visit along the Thai-Myanmar border</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I've held hands with children and adults, had impromptu salon sessions from tiny people who couldn't get enough of my very-different-hair, been cried on, scared small people who couldn't understand why I looked the way I do, colored, made necklaces, played soccer, volleyball and liga-liga, sat in homes, drank endless cups of tea, listened to stories, watched dramas and dances, prayed, preached, trained, facilitated, walked through neighborhoods, slogged up hills, waded through sewage, and ridden in about every form of transportation on wheels, wings or rudders. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wore the same three outfits everywhere I went (did you notice a theme in my wardrobe in my last post?) I've been given incredibly generous gifts by people who insisted on hospitality, some of the most memorable including 18 eggs, a hand woven basket, a bag of groundnuts, and a moment where I thought someone was giving me a pair of goats (and fortunately, I was wrong). <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmy1HpY_TrjtEeKqS_oEoTZfgdy_B_iR62ihD3iIRyxnwIsSPUXMmhiDaoZB7ziZBTAYwO-K0kTbHRK1r8--FvW3ureYUHnAoZxzxFaLhQ9WEhmE212_H1gsCiZfk5mElCflL7NjRjxU7ALXQg2j7gcE5qpVZb1CUn_ZPcXhb92Tag8MW6Kk9hEdwqXww/s3088/IMG_3140.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmy1HpY_TrjtEeKqS_oEoTZfgdy_B_iR62ihD3iIRyxnwIsSPUXMmhiDaoZB7ziZBTAYwO-K0kTbHRK1r8--FvW3ureYUHnAoZxzxFaLhQ9WEhmE212_H1gsCiZfk5mElCflL7NjRjxU7ALXQg2j7gcE5qpVZb1CUn_ZPcXhb92Tag8MW6Kk9hEdwqXww/s320/IMG_3140.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Shaby and I, Sri Lanka</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>I've seen incredible darkness and met people who bring incredible light. The people are the hardest part of leaving - I truly love my colleagues and have the highest respect for them. I struggle with leaving the team I lead - we've built a close and trusting working relationship, and walking away from that feels like I am abandoning the trenches. I fear I'm giving up, stopping away before the work is finished. I feel some guilt.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am seeking new learning, new opportunities, new challenges. I'm chasing better balance. I'm hoping I can do "it" again. I worry about being an imposter. </div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, its going to be a new adventure.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's go. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwYmP71v4Tj19JRJAXt4hLqKH-wbhEydKHtnhu-Hv8wQiTo4RnVdn2mJK1wl9txeM2U1tNmi6NlUnp3sDkV_A8insb7Ssqgvcqbpr67fHhvkX-VuiwrnaPZ-DafQbWIfPHbi2AeS29Ywwy1x2R2sPqk8A9eM6MNnxC2XqDjGgWSs5R8Pf5jf9NHTgGJM/s1600/723f63be-5028-48a4-b7c5-9d372bfa7f28.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwYmP71v4Tj19JRJAXt4hLqKH-wbhEydKHtnhu-Hv8wQiTo4RnVdn2mJK1wl9txeM2U1tNmi6NlUnp3sDkV_A8insb7Ssqgvcqbpr67fHhvkX-VuiwrnaPZ-DafQbWIfPHbi2AeS29Ywwy1x2R2sPqk8A9eM6MNnxC2XqDjGgWSs5R8Pf5jf9NHTgGJM/s320/723f63be-5028-48a4-b7c5-9d372bfa7f28.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Talking with Samson, Ghana</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcV6de0wq59Z8RdykkHlSoTd51qriFo02JSlEnRxIHGur8YNzKJOjwIVvlpbCDIoxMJUciv0tgZ4J70hGrs0Th_EPdC5oi6Am8aFcBFXtlaAMDKRttZ-tmoE1KH4ndIMSIVWceZISWVfPxCNfsl_DyKp3K80xgu9xj2XaIryBKIt-yfriHuVwWwjwFW-I/s1024/f5fc7829-df38-4dda-8375-11355fe39ba0.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcV6de0wq59Z8RdykkHlSoTd51qriFo02JSlEnRxIHGur8YNzKJOjwIVvlpbCDIoxMJUciv0tgZ4J70hGrs0Th_EPdC5oi6Am8aFcBFXtlaAMDKRttZ-tmoE1KH4ndIMSIVWceZISWVfPxCNfsl_DyKp3K80xgu9xj2XaIryBKIt-yfriHuVwWwjwFW-I/s320/f5fc7829-df38-4dda-8375-11355fe39ba0.jpeg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Esther and I, Togo</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><br />Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-12619502791206592942023-09-10T22:44:00.001-06:002023-09-10T22:44:17.557-06:00Nearly Two Years In Between<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Welcome back. It's been a while, hasn't it?</span></div></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIF4Mq5xkRgKwPVc5iO2z601B-_ZWtOqOVx6NmzkYZzol9SmGhlFCJiqi_AIt8WdoXeGQMQp8vI4ft-xlBkBtCNvo8OQya6C21r341wuyIBHUkEoXuySlBwEf2QpfDFRkM_ZReSS8_hcADlOWkOClWegEM73mH4N29phOvSIUCdqp-TOfqH4Tcqdq_TCc/s1334/IMG_8775.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIF4Mq5xkRgKwPVc5iO2z601B-_ZWtOqOVx6NmzkYZzol9SmGhlFCJiqi_AIt8WdoXeGQMQp8vI4ft-xlBkBtCNvo8OQya6C21r341wuyIBHUkEoXuySlBwEf2QpfDFRkM_ZReSS8_hcADlOWkOClWegEM73mH4N29phOvSIUCdqp-TOfqH4Tcqdq_TCc/s320/IMG_8775.png" width="180" /></a></div>Its been nearly two years since I put down my blog, and much has transpired in the interim. My grandmother's death made me angry - so angry I couldn't write for a while. My relationship with my grandmother was complicated, which, now that we are finally having a memorial service for her, makes writing a eulogy a challenge. Regardless of our relationship however, her death - even at 97- was preventable. It didn't have to be that way, and that anger took a while to deal with.<p></p><p>I also had months of work stress where I cried every day. </p><p>Eric joined the volunteer fire department in January, 2022. I joined the fire department board that fall and the next January, Eric got EMT licensure.</p><p>And then in April, 2022, I started travelling again. I masked up, got my hand sanitizer at the ready, wiped down every conceivable surface, and entered a period of time where I was tested for Covid weekly for months, to meet the various requirements of the multiple countries I was entering and leaving. I went to Malawi, the UK, Kenya, Uganda, and Rwanda, between April and December.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTnzSTcTAKVW-EFFfGETnpg3HUJnW6L80abATj3uySjsbizEr5hlzdM9xeodPVfhzPN18XhODTdlaiBQVWYwzX0RIFPB8DVrh_abzVtir2c0qzvtC3uC2ThVhu9JO-jjdWSy0EF0SjQgm9l6qFjaZ8m4e9H46MuKm4D3DvvvOcx_PDqD-z7OZgoelgFM/s4032/IMG_8991.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTnzSTcTAKVW-EFFfGETnpg3HUJnW6L80abATj3uySjsbizEr5hlzdM9xeodPVfhzPN18XhODTdlaiBQVWYwzX0RIFPB8DVrh_abzVtir2c0qzvtC3uC2ThVhu9JO-jjdWSy0EF0SjQgm9l6qFjaZ8m4e9H46MuKm4D3DvvvOcx_PDqD-z7OZgoelgFM/s320/IMG_8991.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sagrada Familia, Spain</td></tr></tbody></table>There was also other family stuff that went on, some good, including a cruise with my mom to Spain and Portugal, with a brief sojourn into France and a drop off in the UK, where I extended my time and met with the office in London for the first time in two years.</p><p>My work schedule got even more intense, and I scrambled between clinics and airports and inboxes overflowing and weeks where what was supposed to be a 40 hour week included 35 hours of meetings, each one with assignments and due dates and writing that had to happen outside that meeting time. </p><p>We went camping in Glacier National Park with some of our closest friends. </p><p>I deferred all my races in 2022. </p><p>Eric and I camped in Iceland, chasing Northern Lights and sleeping on an active volcano during a last minute long weekend trip over Labor Day. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbux-zYgkj0zIQnbozIUU0WK-CNw36gRaLjh1ycHxoeCQcZQ8QwMonY3NzuUgV2QuyTmG2A7nR-U5CKgza6OSu9GFa4HylXavt488q0UvwfFdwEtQINg6SvTthGWi4_sLrkVc6L1CbSV9fMIrWk35i9M8WWr7_KrE26TnSxIeQKMadOfNDdDGrZweud9g/s4032/IMG_9817.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbux-zYgkj0zIQnbozIUU0WK-CNw36gRaLjh1ycHxoeCQcZQ8QwMonY3NzuUgV2QuyTmG2A7nR-U5CKgza6OSu9GFa4HylXavt488q0UvwfFdwEtQINg6SvTthGWi4_sLrkVc6L1CbSV9fMIrWk35i9M8WWr7_KrE26TnSxIeQKMadOfNDdDGrZweud9g/s320/IMG_9817.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glacier National Park</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I got more vaccinations for Covid and everything else. At some point the travel health clinic said "well, there's not much more we can poke you with."</p><p>I flew from Rwanda to Germany in December, met Eric and took the train to Berlin to see my sister and her family, who are living there now. We then flew to Greece and toured around for our 20th anniversary. </p><p>We came home to a plan that included not decorating for Christmas and driving right to Michigan for the holiday with my parents. We got turned around by a huge blizzard and ended up staying at home for the holiday, chopping down a tree in the forest, Griswold-style, just a couple days before the holiday and throwing up some decorations. </p><p>We spent New Years' - our actual anniversary - at home and I fell asleep on the couch at 10pm. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizxZxf_CdcTfvdTYbJtleqdchmp_7Du85KK0u5qp2nsP4mreT6z_QUigfXX9BXmU8mKiUA3CdVBDo3bfwRVBvjAR5ZWlS3qIdG-ApBgWPNh85SFvyqXunFoSw4Fsh3iQG-2NdraoikRBCDeJW1jL9siS5sp-Cln8ZQLt5O3T7jGxCoK2SZsTrzEkltMs/s2400/1BC59B30-E995-4A06-B119-C4C2997FA8B3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizxZxf_CdcTfvdTYbJtleqdchmp_7Du85KK0u5qp2nsP4mreT6z_QUigfXX9BXmU8mKiUA3CdVBDo3bfwRVBvjAR5ZWlS3qIdG-ApBgWPNh85SFvyqXunFoSw4Fsh3iQG-2NdraoikRBCDeJW1jL9siS5sp-Cln8ZQLt5O3T7jGxCoK2SZsTrzEkltMs/s320/1BC59B30-E995-4A06-B119-C4C2997FA8B3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nairobi National Park</td></tr></tbody></table></p><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I started travelling at the end of January, and between February and June, had work trips to the Dominican Republic, Thailand, Colombia, Uganda, Singapore, Sri Lanka, Togo and Ghana. </div><p></p><p>In between trips, we took a long weekend and camped at the Grand Canyon. </p><p>I did not blog. I could have - there are stories in each of those trip and photos and things I've since forgotten.</p><p>We'll see if I actually start again. Here are some random photos from the last two years.</p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzWOxTrjogMZmPwpe9rM8wAf2cXoLyEmTBlkCzkudJiDUNjlj4X8iqCuPadHE6M9HxaJY7xmdEgqFiU4syKxF5-zQvXHB-GDCxHNT7v8n6Pglk4ChrKbJt5wh5kBoZSW5BkG18-7RkZrSrgJwmXc7MK8l6ssSbWzfc7qnoEmf-oG0rdB46NuG_kvu5tg/s1024/35ed42db-7a54-4e62-a410-3bd0cfc8b24a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="698" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzWOxTrjogMZmPwpe9rM8wAf2cXoLyEmTBlkCzkudJiDUNjlj4X8iqCuPadHE6M9HxaJY7xmdEgqFiU4syKxF5-zQvXHB-GDCxHNT7v8n6Pglk4ChrKbJt5wh5kBoZSW5BkG18-7RkZrSrgJwmXc7MK8l6ssSbWzfc7qnoEmf-oG0rdB46NuG_kvu5tg/s320/35ed42db-7a54-4e62-a410-3bd0cfc8b24a.jpeg" width="218" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outskirts of Kigali, Rwanda</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SwXgkSd-3Cqx5CceyiEAxuai-sq1wCRKlse1y_opDcFBQ6e6T-DyZ25IgWPgE69Tj_AqFcdL0yrUmWIxF7kq1mZyR6gP8hOIS7Rq7AmktUlT4bgUhazLJONTJeEbL99iGu0rzZBcEqe_anVWvXXy6Ntn-ckkP9QC8rhQB3aIsejxCMNrIl8cuI5XMX8/s4032/IMG_0763.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SwXgkSd-3Cqx5CceyiEAxuai-sq1wCRKlse1y_opDcFBQ6e6T-DyZ25IgWPgE69Tj_AqFcdL0yrUmWIxF7kq1mZyR6gP8hOIS7Rq7AmktUlT4bgUhazLJONTJeEbL99iGu0rzZBcEqe_anVWvXXy6Ntn-ckkP9QC8rhQB3aIsejxCMNrIl8cuI5XMX8/s320/IMG_0763.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhcyDC44Sn8Z7_anVkYSMR01TvWYCe1dCg8DtOXwsffcq3hXzyORHAzxklZKLbp0Sg7Fs3YEXjL0Dp56mQEwy-DUAnYfGcwmVdojUJUcIeu0_vf_3Ds9yR-mr0-SoD13UKAyPlw8nF7aWszHjJA8YRGx6CfCPDcC4zTTnq_C80JwCB5ojzV5PsRmQyJ0/s4032/IMG_3498.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhcyDC44Sn8Z7_anVkYSMR01TvWYCe1dCg8DtOXwsffcq3hXzyORHAzxklZKLbp0Sg7Fs3YEXjL0Dp56mQEwy-DUAnYfGcwmVdojUJUcIeu0_vf_3Ds9yR-mr0-SoD13UKAyPlw8nF7aWszHjJA8YRGx6CfCPDcC4zTTnq_C80JwCB5ojzV5PsRmQyJ0/s320/IMG_3498.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Canyon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZyL4RhA5a5Sb7yfZBst2e4fC6Dk7RI2GxgYB5aTd9SKrtF2_N3RqD6miaLIwkwf8AKO9RSAsepNfr4JfyWU2wMqWKRhPmtT1oto-RiYfbfA01CKiv3SX07hFg7e5k-zhDq_6H5FETwZjFUQ3Ph-z3Yy0PrN29W6ayb2VIh6SY9jhC7ldSy1ns7Npiw0/s3088/IMG_6225.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZyL4RhA5a5Sb7yfZBst2e4fC6Dk7RI2GxgYB5aTd9SKrtF2_N3RqD6miaLIwkwf8AKO9RSAsepNfr4JfyWU2wMqWKRhPmtT1oto-RiYfbfA01CKiv3SX07hFg7e5k-zhDq_6H5FETwZjFUQ3Ph-z3Yy0PrN29W6ayb2VIh6SY9jhC7ldSy1ns7Npiw0/s320/IMG_6225.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transit by truckbed, along the Thai-Myanmar border<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-7N57suqK8f_R3TAIZUKwmk1-0-WCG-m9gtu7BMdREDC6MwxXJdRZOw0FRqGYe6SnuGMAQsbccOLy0EJjUARnR9m5boS3lUJF6rSapUPUd6D85Nnym47D5Jt6iWRCqYqDXa8V8qTkgD6ypRSp-RbLwkL5VIcuYlxsOGadKHU-fPQuKzFhteIexnr8wc/s4032/IMG_0333.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-7N57suqK8f_R3TAIZUKwmk1-0-WCG-m9gtu7BMdREDC6MwxXJdRZOw0FRqGYe6SnuGMAQsbccOLy0EJjUARnR9m5boS3lUJF6rSapUPUd6D85Nnym47D5Jt6iWRCqYqDXa8V8qTkgD6ypRSp-RbLwkL5VIcuYlxsOGadKHU-fPQuKzFhteIexnr8wc/s320/IMG_0333.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Campervan Northern Lights Setup, Iceland</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl7Zs1C3etFpbpbMU2LHATlS9U4_tXbsEWlQqH4dBYRUBhwb-hXGsb_CePFMEHqw2FCuFSWnjMzHyPqjBHw8bVT_097SYR8aS9r7KoGDg1i_WYT8_mhMRUuDEIx-8CO3doQ7VN_PE5Ztxel7oavHREKhFzMks94niMO3n3UkVCZS0TbEZo05lYlTGfNU/s4032/IMG_0189.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl7Zs1C3etFpbpbMU2LHATlS9U4_tXbsEWlQqH4dBYRUBhwb-hXGsb_CePFMEHqw2FCuFSWnjMzHyPqjBHw8bVT_097SYR8aS9r7KoGDg1i_WYT8_mhMRUuDEIx-8CO3doQ7VN_PE5Ztxel7oavHREKhFzMks94niMO3n3UkVCZS0TbEZo05lYlTGfNU/s320/IMG_0189.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset, Iceland</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFqOd2cJp-jVGw8tMvuV36nvgvhKTt6o-a8-GQ7_YLI9aUxgVAEh4aEqSvyV_aDQhdXVC59tIKJPqitILML2E3uo0R8I19RS_PcQ61a0EqAwVaMD6pKK74DbBtrbt2fKqZVcTYLKUlHPa65asnE4iTTLWTsrrF6vdXcNqD30a_WsidLJRiX-D7aUPH4U/s4032/IMG_1290.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFqOd2cJp-jVGw8tMvuV36nvgvhKTt6o-a8-GQ7_YLI9aUxgVAEh4aEqSvyV_aDQhdXVC59tIKJPqitILML2E3uo0R8I19RS_PcQ61a0EqAwVaMD6pKK74DbBtrbt2fKqZVcTYLKUlHPa65asnE4iTTLWTsrrF6vdXcNqD30a_WsidLJRiX-D7aUPH4U/s320/IMG_1290.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise run, Dominican Republic<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gQI55AakzUi0BKa2RFflbBGorIThdRCi-KwpQPSfriq6t_PJa5jNwPEL4F0V3IvMVIko_Xy9m0nZoK-0tIXCBEtYgqT3L8RWoxQG0pyJIEEtS_rtcHtcqrgscix2mS0ZZFBctVf2XwHa6c2kUMCC7Y2DTKg8VnNqOzxzprdppx_2qw_XWuFpCSy1tKo/s4032/IMG_1755.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gQI55AakzUi0BKa2RFflbBGorIThdRCi-KwpQPSfriq6t_PJa5jNwPEL4F0V3IvMVIko_Xy9m0nZoK-0tIXCBEtYgqT3L8RWoxQG0pyJIEEtS_rtcHtcqrgscix2mS0ZZFBctVf2XwHa6c2kUMCC7Y2DTKg8VnNqOzxzprdppx_2qw_XWuFpCSy1tKo/s320/IMG_1755.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking at the opening of an <br />abuse reporting center, Thailand</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC0G_YcQ2_HKOVQNorUHG1Z6ZPQAJY68kMlWDj2m8zY9HR98dwB_y-B70NLQCEmYHnpDln3f1jM6yKHlmfXoj7Ji1tYIW6wX2Klv2d9CjzJ3I5_IryaHVCa08ZT813r6rC12znnaPUCXRJSrok07EKn0p2ffP9OItdRqN9xQ3XRgSuIJF8NY8spxdtG4/s1024/8624ecb3-2c2d-4a70-8950-72bfc5e34808.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC0G_YcQ2_HKOVQNorUHG1Z6ZPQAJY68kMlWDj2m8zY9HR98dwB_y-B70NLQCEmYHnpDln3f1jM6yKHlmfXoj7Ji1tYIW6wX2Klv2d9CjzJ3I5_IryaHVCa08ZT813r6rC12znnaPUCXRJSrok07EKn0p2ffP9OItdRqN9xQ3XRgSuIJF8NY8spxdtG4/s320/8624ecb3-2c2d-4a70-8950-72bfc5e34808.jpeg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking at Day of the African<br />Child, Lome Togo</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW99soNZZn-Hm2ZVZPtZLzW-byIZx6OOOzBK4vzgmfoKrMtizIAUIsNSkXPMPmbC3ZMJTA9nxh7g4TaGAzv1tliOTnDmadKH9m5LyqQXrZyvu5fkNaR7Bnj251VRlwReQrNRQhTUi2mGmUF9u4psewqwEu_IrjWDuQgF2w1VoSOJKKim4LSCQkaZMD1es/s1600/76831f4a-184a-4d1c-b46e-185fc69826cc.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW99soNZZn-Hm2ZVZPtZLzW-byIZx6OOOzBK4vzgmfoKrMtizIAUIsNSkXPMPmbC3ZMJTA9nxh7g4TaGAzv1tliOTnDmadKH9m5LyqQXrZyvu5fkNaR7Bnj251VRlwReQrNRQhTUi2mGmUF9u4psewqwEu_IrjWDuQgF2w1VoSOJKKim4LSCQkaZMD1es/s320/76831f4a-184a-4d1c-b46e-185fc69826cc.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classroom visit, Accra Ghana</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3cb1eZ8TxHNpet-ZOzd09rIJ07l-tMmSe3hnudZAiCxdPSnrs2uuFL9pwUg-PA-N2EIwJ7GwVPeT3xwqTusy-iKeU0p2pp6eADKDFPgXpp6xOeLorn-knGsflkKfQ55mbqRglsxtTeR1tbEev6WHRuWd271FR1u_T1WKfleyBj5bZVBvhLRcojciHNk/s782/de795a37-41ff-4807-b319-b032bf89bc6b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="782" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3cb1eZ8TxHNpet-ZOzd09rIJ07l-tMmSe3hnudZAiCxdPSnrs2uuFL9pwUg-PA-N2EIwJ7GwVPeT3xwqTusy-iKeU0p2pp6eADKDFPgXpp6xOeLorn-knGsflkKfQ55mbqRglsxtTeR1tbEev6WHRuWd271FR1u_T1WKfleyBj5bZVBvhLRcojciHNk/s320/de795a37-41ff-4807-b319-b032bf89bc6b.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home visit and terrified children, rural Malawi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxZHnCRSA416dTrSqtaVyvOQLa77pWDSIrOgqwEH8Rv2nV7JNwO41yF1cEHWdwtojXYNgs6bfS3yawJHqxOii_zgmb1orEYpUqnEkhhld-SdZnzp0C7I4a7Q1Tm8hffLtsX3UcvQEfAtmM43zr3xUAWdjG9z2LRksXjKleouoriZUrW_RLsoImO39yhI/s4032/IMG_2955.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxZHnCRSA416dTrSqtaVyvOQLa77pWDSIrOgqwEH8Rv2nV7JNwO41yF1cEHWdwtojXYNgs6bfS3yawJHqxOii_zgmb1orEYpUqnEkhhld-SdZnzp0C7I4a7Q1Tm8hffLtsX3UcvQEfAtmM43zr3xUAWdjG9z2LRksXjKleouoriZUrW_RLsoImO39yhI/s320/IMG_2955.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sri Lanka</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeNHzSmR_MTI_fG5YHEkstVTNfhrtkrwi5TanGlaL89gZxqtHeH7fvwSIG6VJnjNLnOQri4kUBDE9XU1eC45wR_vT9g3oS6vtjMN5jKQowSZZb65jZM114krBhrAfkSrT8Rmu-21Y-EUUxVGq--c3NvGLWiR81_wmOrA9AhpcGDQZg57Vi0397VRoguA/s4032/IMG_3114.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeNHzSmR_MTI_fG5YHEkstVTNfhrtkrwi5TanGlaL89gZxqtHeH7fvwSIG6VJnjNLnOQri4kUBDE9XU1eC45wR_vT9g3oS6vtjMN5jKQowSZZb65jZM114krBhrAfkSrT8Rmu-21Y-EUUxVGq--c3NvGLWiR81_wmOrA9AhpcGDQZg57Vi0397VRoguA/s320/IMG_3114.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting new friends, Sri Lanka</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJuBxhZluAG5-2DMGly59YsZN2TIOcmUiiEdLd0ytVCm3wrXBg4I2rZ2Bnr8GGy4eISuYDttJI3U9gDbUnpMZAkIwLXr48x5nQvSPOwEKt7rb32HRaDEPClq1ka93lQkQi8p7A2UjC6NJHL_W1oiELI5Vh6XldyD8TOZixF2FO_6Z8DrKELT6RO7UJ8Q/s4032/IMG_1036.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJuBxhZluAG5-2DMGly59YsZN2TIOcmUiiEdLd0ytVCm3wrXBg4I2rZ2Bnr8GGy4eISuYDttJI3U9gDbUnpMZAkIwLXr48x5nQvSPOwEKt7rb32HRaDEPClq1ka93lQkQi8p7A2UjC6NJHL_W1oiELI5Vh6XldyD8TOZixF2FO_6Z8DrKELT6RO7UJ8Q/s320/IMG_1036.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancient Corinth, Greece</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZiBkEntbC9NHT9bmiev7TWIiH_oMYJxfybJLlxlkTsWFPqEgedlWp9rsZ00Rm9UiSAld6b6rdU_yUziehCZehg8cNg9L_xZvXw6dpLckDCruNYDBokkBLodTAmQDZJc5YJ3UNMcNRQcaQuQaqv78MMrD0OIMt0H6He8yJKSpntPeG7uWB79I8oeyzOs/s3088/IMG_2717.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZiBkEntbC9NHT9bmiev7TWIiH_oMYJxfybJLlxlkTsWFPqEgedlWp9rsZ00Rm9UiSAld6b6rdU_yUziehCZehg8cNg9L_xZvXw6dpLckDCruNYDBokkBLodTAmQDZJc5YJ3UNMcNRQcaQuQaqv78MMrD0OIMt0H6He8yJKSpntPeG7uWB79I8oeyzOs/s320/IMG_2717.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire Department</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHK8SRo7ibFYX3LuYfrSY-aJsd_9V3Ck1Jm1zjpfy9jGHYq1BbnRhchjBII4UDWZc_kTo5Axlpv1IWoSmnX2jxW1cZrZU5IreE9zSMQ3oYalscxcvY0KBeTSJCqyLsyAeSXLMYh6dAqXN-VBwaHysHF1bluHqV5dTopVkVhzMCzUw4vUbja_F5d_RNw/s4032/IMG_6029.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHK8SRo7ibFYX3LuYfrSY-aJsd_9V3Ck1Jm1zjpfy9jGHYq1BbnRhchjBII4UDWZc_kTo5Axlpv1IWoSmnX2jxW1cZrZU5IreE9zSMQ3oYalscxcvY0KBeTSJCqyLsyAeSXLMYh6dAqXN-VBwaHysHF1bluHqV5dTopVkVhzMCzUw4vUbja_F5d_RNw/s320/IMG_6029.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking with friends, Glacier</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_0-3WmmNI8XnprGJoTsHhWl4EHY6HOQP6UHHgOzavbCs8HcOhLZ_tHaaJoEh2SBegCTdU9okyOeIHFaebZo6fuHGgI_d0kCABUpwdamoTIqsgGwwr6lpbgvHb61MWjzHZ4KDSGqy1wx_zk_E1jepTVZdySszt75-Uqasdz50VRxfY-x2245cwe8XQaQ/s4032/IMG_1430.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_0-3WmmNI8XnprGJoTsHhWl4EHY6HOQP6UHHgOzavbCs8HcOhLZ_tHaaJoEh2SBegCTdU9okyOeIHFaebZo6fuHGgI_d0kCABUpwdamoTIqsgGwwr6lpbgvHb61MWjzHZ4KDSGqy1wx_zk_E1jepTVZdySszt75-Uqasdz50VRxfY-x2245cwe8XQaQ/s320/IMG_1430.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Learning to cook Thai food</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3e6xx-uudLnmepXkWHmMwpEXuEn4qbcgkZyif2BaEI9AnqlSsGsRQ_pPQLowzH2vFdxDSmGvlU3UFiqbf56lVTQn9POSVUfX7LBac5LcSUhnbxue31tl8YBcqX-kWAqhMCJYyugI113OIXi_TMcJYBwnxqHEpGtmFdMHlOSy_jvDvoASbdvprieQCNhM/s4032/IMG_0107.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3e6xx-uudLnmepXkWHmMwpEXuEn4qbcgkZyif2BaEI9AnqlSsGsRQ_pPQLowzH2vFdxDSmGvlU3UFiqbf56lVTQn9POSVUfX7LBac5LcSUhnbxue31tl8YBcqX-kWAqhMCJYyugI113OIXi_TMcJYBwnxqHEpGtmFdMHlOSy_jvDvoASbdvprieQCNhM/s320/IMG_0107.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends who go way back, Uganda</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmJqJvnNTRxHCw6jTnjlfNumtox8jCyHId77oE7km8V399RJixPR5qVvQHJoZkb-Lasmt7qDvy0govyKnpHjSbKZvwuvxy_zDA_NErN5B_ldblguduzCx8SXgyuOl4zZvj08R7bGg6HqQ_ala2WcA3w6fQ7fdOCBVpjfTHV442IpQdN8VhmMoUGp8UMM/s4032/IMG_1879.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmJqJvnNTRxHCw6jTnjlfNumtox8jCyHId77oE7km8V399RJixPR5qVvQHJoZkb-Lasmt7qDvy0govyKnpHjSbKZvwuvxy_zDA_NErN5B_ldblguduzCx8SXgyuOl4zZvj08R7bGg6HqQ_ala2WcA3w6fQ7fdOCBVpjfTHV442IpQdN8VhmMoUGp8UMM/s320/IMG_1879.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fellow managers, Bogota Colombia</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-62640491272682328172021-12-20T15:14:00.005-07:002021-12-20T15:34:10.696-07:00What You Stole<p> My grandmother died from Covid-19 last Saturday. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRxnbWsKWqkMVJH3HZucHwKWwcZdwxcGX0FpoHFzVQVuisYSNso2aiozyMvG859sv9Za1mys9i18Em5ZYyQ3Mr79cTiLFDElRNsNcpQe0np3W3j2SHVSulq6brWJusokjoNkDtFWwk85UAvXLKqdXPZYejvN3ZY-13lfePopOcdgskXU8Jw65DS41L=s4032" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRxnbWsKWqkMVJH3HZucHwKWwcZdwxcGX0FpoHFzVQVuisYSNso2aiozyMvG859sv9Za1mys9i18Em5ZYyQ3Mr79cTiLFDElRNsNcpQe0np3W3j2SHVSulq6brWJusokjoNkDtFWwk85UAvXLKqdXPZYejvN3ZY-13lfePopOcdgskXU8Jw65DS41L=w240-h320" title="The last photo of my grandma and I, taken at Thanksgiving." width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The last photo of my grandma<br />and I, taken at Thanksgiving</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />She was in a rehab facility when you walked in the door, transmitting Covid-19 to another patient, because you weren't buying the hype about the virus.<p></p><p>The person you gave Covid to transmitted it onto the hands or clothes of a staff member. Because you refused to wear a mask during most of 2020 and 2021, the staff in the facility burned out. They got sick, or quit and there weren't enough of them to ensure proper patient care in the appropriate ratios. Those that were left were too tired to practice effective infection control, and transmitted to 11 other patients, then to my grandma.</p><p>When she tested positive, she was free from symptoms. The day she tested positive, I tested as well, as I had seen her just 4 days before. I was negative. My grandma was vaccinated. We were hopeful.</p><p>Two days later, her doctor sent her to the hospital because her oxygen levels had dropped and her heart was elevated, but he had a plan. He would treat my grandma with a course of Rendesivir, the same medication that treated the former president when he got Covid last year.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>It didn't work.</p><p>Because you didn't care how your actions affected others, you forced my my mom to call me on Wednesday and started asking questions about care and treatment, about whether it was better to risk blood clots in my grandma's lungs or bleeding in her intestine. To call on Thursday and say she heard from the nurse that grandma was perking up and things might be well. To call on Friday and say the nurse was worried and should she turn around from a planned trip to see her grandchildren.</p><p>Because you couldn't be inconvenienced by wearing a piece of cloth on your face, I had to call United and force Eric to ask them to change my flight because I couldn't make it through the conversation. </p><p>Because you were convinced that even though you are vaccinated for chicken pox, measles, mumps, rubella and hepatitis, somehow the Covid-19 vaccine wasn't good enough for you, I had to text my cousin for a late night ride from the airport in Detroit.</p><p>Because of your selfishness, you forced my mom and I into impossible decisions about palliative care, talking to no less than 8 medical professionals in the span of hours on Saturday morning.</p><p>Because you couldn't care about others, you forced us into choosing whether to see my grandma for "comfort" on the Covid unit, or keep ourselves safe by not going.</p><p>We went.</p><p>My grandma was 97 when she died on Saturday night, 10 hours after we made the palliative care decision. You might use that as an excuse, that she was old, and would have had underlying conditions. That’s true, but she told me at Thanksgiving she wanted to make it to 100. You stole 2 years, 3 months and 7 days from her. </p><p>You stole the chance for my grandma to die in her own bed, slipping off to sleep in the comfort of her own apartment.</p><p>You stole the dignity of holding hands with loved ones free from the barrier of a double-glove and plastic gowns.</p><p>You stole the last kiss I could give her cheek, barred by my face shield and N-95 mask.</p><p>You forced us to risk our health the longer we stayed on the Covid unit, surrounded by ill, coughing bodies of all ages. </p><p>You stole the opportunity for last words, as shallow breaths were all she could manage. Because you stole her voice, we didn't understand the last shake of her head meant "I won't be here tomorrow" when we told her we would be back then.</p><p>You stole sleep, forcing a late night return to the hospital after we got the call, to gown and glove and mask one final time to do what families do when a loved one dies. You forced me to ask a contract nurse, new to the hospital and unfamiliar with the rules, to help me find lotion to remove rings from my grandmother's cooling fingers while my mother waited in the hall. </p><p>I don't know who the particular "you" is in this story, but...</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>if you refuse to mask in public</li><li>if you refuse to get vaccinated and continue to be around people </li><li>if you scream and rant against public health measures </li><li>if you go out when you are sick because "its not that bad" </li><li>if you buy into the conspiracy theories</li></ul>then, it was YOU who killed my grandmother, as surely as if you had blown the virus into her lungs yourself.<p></p><p>And for that, all your arguments and excuses and bloviating about “your rights” are invalid. My grandma died, and murderers don’t get to complain they received corned beef hash and not steak Diane.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-90986670029362180032021-11-20T10:40:00.013-07:002021-11-20T18:37:41.076-07:00Courtroom Crookery<p>Kyle Rittenhouse was found not guilty in a court of law on Friday. Not innocent, to be sure, but that a jury was unable to convict him of the crimes he committed. Observing the prosecution and defense arguments, this isn't a terribly surprising outcome. What showed up in court was not the best prosecution that could have been mounted, and the defense was skilled at doing what the defense is legally permitted to do. As disgusting as it sounds, in the American legal system, defendants of a crime have the right to denigrate crime victims, destroy their image and reputations in a way that prosecutors do not have the ability to do so. Kyle Rittenhouse’s attorneys took advantage of this toward his less than perfect victims, but this kind of trickery shows up not only in cases of violent crime like Rittenhouse's, but most frequently in crimes of sexual violence and assault. Jon Krakauer's book <i>Missoula</i> has good commentary on this if you are interested. A system of justice that requires proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt stacks the books against conviction if you hire a skilled attorney to defend you, particularly when much of case against you is based on establishing intent, and relying on human testimony. Its why only 10% of sexual crimes are ever prosecuted and convicted. It is why when you have money, you are more likely to receive a verdict of "not guilty." It also helps if you are white and have a baby face so people have a hard time believing you are or could be violent or aggressive, a condition that never exists for young, black men.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinH45svD2_lfozDwspwaYNy4MsbmHeEZRSeCNSmi3AYnyCNFbVpWFp5AuK8KhFfwHOzSg14kgDHpG1nr2KCSmYB6BU9Kerrq5903TYYHi3PDecpWB1y_ww8F3qwc1iiw-jRo6jJQjMdRk/s814/Ahmaud.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="814" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinH45svD2_lfozDwspwaYNy4MsbmHeEZRSeCNSmi3AYnyCNFbVpWFp5AuK8KhFfwHOzSg14kgDHpG1nr2KCSmYB6BU9Kerrq5903TYYHi3PDecpWB1y_ww8F3qwc1iiw-jRo6jJQjMdRk/s320/Ahmaud.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>All of this is important when we consider another really important case currently under prosecution.<br /> Greg McMichael, William "Roddie" Bryan, Travis McMichael saw Ahmaud Aubrey running down their street, decided that he must be responsible for the recent burglaries in their area, jumped in their trucks, chased him down on the street, and caught him. When they caught him, these three men in two trucks pointed loaded guns at him, and one of them shot Ahmaud twice, killing him. These are the facts of the case, and were <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/05/this-was-hunt.html" target="_blank">captured on video, as I've posted on before</a>. <p></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>This "should" be an open and shut case - except it is not. The defense, in part because their argument is incredibly weak, is pulling out as many stops as they can get away with to get these men off. They have tried to bar "<a href="https://apnews.com/article/al-sharpton-racial-injustice-georgia-brunswick-crime-d79f3ef1a8cc16ce74adc38f9e6ec0ec" target="_blank">black pastors</a>" from the Courtroom. They tried to have a mistrial declared with no possibility of retrial when Ahmaud's <a href="https://www.newsweek.com/ahmaud-arbery-trial-judge-denies-defense-request-remove-jesse-jackson-court-1649372" target="_blank">mom started crying</a> in court when grisly photos of her shot son were introduced as evidence. The defense attorney has stated to the media that his clients are undergoing a "<a href="https://apnews.com/article/ahmaud-arbery-crime-georgia-atlanta-brunswick-39e4ca2c9e5afd9d534159550196e5e3" target="_blank">public lynching</a>," which is especially rich given the racist tones of this incident (three armed white men chasing down an unarmed black runner, one of whom has a Confederate flag sticker on the back of his truck visible in the video, to name just a few of the obvious examples). Finally, the defense argued that these three white men were threatened by Ahmaud, and were defending themselves. They focused on the portion of the video where Ahmaud, after being chased down while running on foot by three men in pickup trucks carrying guns, appears to try to grab the gun away from Travis McMichael.<p></p><p>Respectfully, and regardless of the forthcoming jury verdict:</p><p>Bullshit.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupjhnhOUiqlzIK3jVPpmGDQMN7Z5qxhTiJKynHzdlDnnabP9byR6FWb0_si6wiFmKR-mU8-zBgZOLp_uyk26giMJ3rb0uiiGTN8sWtvqgtjrfGvHKa8TqSqNoWU1Mo_9GXugz3I1v-wE/s2048/0B023750-93D0-445D-852F-0C75165B57C3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupjhnhOUiqlzIK3jVPpmGDQMN7Z5qxhTiJKynHzdlDnnabP9byR6FWb0_si6wiFmKR-mU8-zBgZOLp_uyk26giMJ3rb0uiiGTN8sWtvqgtjrfGvHKa8TqSqNoWU1Mo_9GXugz3I1v-wE/s320/0B023750-93D0-445D-852F-0C75165B57C3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Yesterday, I ran through a community that I'm a stranger to. Eric and I were in Kansas and we stopped because he had to lead a Zoom call for work. I took advantage of us being stopped and went for a 7 mile run. I looked at homes on my route. I stopped and took a couple of photos. Not once were my motives questions. No one approached me to demand to know what I was doing, even in this small town where it should have been obvious I wasn't "from there." <p></p><p></p><p>I could run in this community because I'm a white woman, and no one sees me as a threat because of the color of my skin. </p><p>I'm also cognizant of the risks I face when I run, because I'm a woman. I typically run with bear spray, knowing I am more likely to use it on a man than I ever am a wild animal. Yet not once in the hundreds of times I have palmed that canister before heading out of a run have I been concerned that I might be attacked not as a precursor to sexual violence but for existing somewhere someone else believes I shouldn't. </p><p>My work prepares its staff for the possibility of workplace violence. We engage in an annual training that teaches us to "run, hide, fight." However effective that training actually is, it is drilled in my head to run if I can, hide if I can, and fight as a last resort to save my life. I think about that when I think about Ahmaud's case. If I were him, I would do exactly what he did. I would run away from strange men (who admitted that though they have said they were trying to make a citizen’s arrest, they never told Ahmaud that) chasing me in trucks with guns. I would run as fast as I could. I would zig zag to try to get them off track and in the hopes that if they started shooting, I would be harder to hit. I would look for ways to get away and hide, but I'd realize I couldn't. When they overtook me and came out of their car with a shotgun, I would do what I could to get the muzzle of that gun away from my head and body. It would be my last, panicked resort. </p><p>And when I was shot twice, and bled out on the ground and died from the catastrophic wounds, you bet my mother would cry when she saw the photos of my mangled body in court. </p><p>The trial of my murderers would have been different. No one would believe a white woman runner in a neighborhood posed any threat, even if I went at the gun. No one would try to declare a mistrial when my mother sobbed. No one would be looking into my past to see where I might have gone wrong, what misdemeanors I might have engaged in in my youth or what drugs I might have tried at some point. </p><p>The trial for my murder would have never happened. My murderers would have looked at the evidence and pled guilty. Whether or not the plea sentence would have fit the crime would be another story, especially since we know that plea deals in cases where women are the victims of violence are often exceedingly short, but that's another argument for another day. The point here is that the defense is only able to mount a defense and have anyone consider it because the murder victim was a black man. </p><p>I am not Ahmaud. But Ahmaud should get the same shot at justice as I would have.</p><p>Ahmaud should have had the same kind of grace and assumptions extended to him as I get running through someone else's neighborhood. </p><p>Neither one of us should have ever ended up on the street in Satilla Shores, Georgia or Russell, Kanses, bleeding to death for having the audacity to exercise. One of us did, and one of us didn't, and I'm not sure I will ever get over that. </p><p>I run with Maud.</p><p>Justice for Maud.</p><p>Time's up for racists. </p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-9941877118955441292021-08-22T21:54:00.001-06:002021-08-22T21:54:36.046-06:00Race Report: Pikes Peak Marathon<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb_LQBl8hj7ivxB-mBFRSnD3Nba3D0aOLncmMuTIoITqnxsUBu3wXXLzpjsSpZM6jWEfH486AqyLtsTIyUP3QKphXJVWsD2EukaliCnIJNa7KEVaLEUH_HxoraHxU8l6CZ_YW7KQEKNU/s2048/3142F785-5FC8-4BE5-9B4C-FD00E0C60C92.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb_LQBl8hj7ivxB-mBFRSnD3Nba3D0aOLncmMuTIoITqnxsUBu3wXXLzpjsSpZM6jWEfH486AqyLtsTIyUP3QKphXJVWsD2EukaliCnIJNa7KEVaLEUH_HxoraHxU8l6CZ_YW7KQEKNU/s320/3142F785-5FC8-4BE5-9B4C-FD00E0C60C92.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> After 8 months of training, including just over 33 miles of elevation gain, today was the day. The Pikes Peak Marathon, called by Runners' World as one of the toughest races in the world. With 7800 feet of elevation gain over 13 miles on top of a granite mountain, Runners' World might have a point.<p></p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>I was up at 4:30, drinking coffee and making eggs and toast with fruit. Eric, bless him, chose to sleep in another bedroom this week so he wouldn't risk his famous SeaWorld style moves in his sleep. Unfortunately, the coffee and fruit did not produce... umm... the intended results. We were out the door a little before six and headed to Manitou Springs. Eric, bless him again, dropped me off and went and parked. We met up with a friend of ours, John, who was also running. He was starting before me, because he's amazing and fast, and so we parted ways and headed to the start line. It wasn't too long before I was off. Eric took some video of me, and I saw Andy, a runner from Arkansas I met the first year I did the Ascent. We ran several miles together, and then saw each other the next day at a diner, and then the next year both ended up running the Marathon together too! He snapped a couple of photos of me, which was super sweet. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA5oaQfQxynzjOSxdfUfhTMsNAK7YAKtNwA4mOYyROgJRTnkpYjZ8uQDD4qadO2z6hN_bixdPTuB5cvP0YOU9wA288zf5dLGQDxuESDVA4rx4O71lpRGRDxOWleOvFMEr8vmPij3ktPA/s2015/565C56B4-BBE0-4A7D-BDC4-041822DCDDD7.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2015" data-original-width="1511" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA5oaQfQxynzjOSxdfUfhTMsNAK7YAKtNwA4mOYyROgJRTnkpYjZ8uQDD4qadO2z6hN_bixdPTuB5cvP0YOU9wA288zf5dLGQDxuESDVA4rx4O71lpRGRDxOWleOvFMEr8vmPij3ktPA/s320/565C56B4-BBE0-4A7D-BDC4-041822DCDDD7.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The race runs the first mile and a bit on road - through downtown Manitou and up Ruxton Canyon before angling steeply uphill to make the connection to the spur trail that takes you to Barr Trail. I was a little slower than my time check run on Thursday through town, but I figured I had taken that a little too fast, so no big deal. </p><p>By the time I hit Barr Trail, it was warm. The W's, the first three miles of the trail are the steepest part of the whole thing except for the last .25 miles, and it was a mix of hiking and running. The temps were climbing, and by the time I hit the aid station at the Incline bailout, I had decided I needed to consistently take water and also Gatorade -which I don't always do in races. The W's didn't feel overly comfortable, but I was making decent time. Before I knew it, was over to No Name Creek and while still warm, the temps were manageable. Miles 4-6, I was running relatively consistently, although I did have a couple of breaks on the steeper uphills and this poor woman near me kept getting passed by me only to pass me again. Fortunately, she had a good attitude about it! I ended up running downhill with her from the Summit past A-Frame, although I lost her at some point, and I didn't see her at the end... although she may have been closer behind me than I imagine and I didn't see her (more on why later). </p><p>I felt a little tired coming into Barr Camp but I was about 3.5 minutes ahead of when I wanted to make that landmark, so good deal. Water/Gatorade and I was out of the aid station in no more than a minute. After Barr Camp, I'm not sure what happened. I couldn't quite keep my emotions in check and I started to get weepy, and wanted to quit. No particular reason for any of that... it just was. Eric had read me inspirational movie quotes about sports and whatnot in the morning... and weirdly, what stuck and worked to pull me out of this weirdness was "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die." 10 or 12 times of repeating that in my head and I was doing better.</p><p>But I had slowed down. I had trained running above Barr Camp, but today, it was 95% power hiking. Every time I started running, it just felt like I was burning so much energy and not making the progress I wanted to. So, I hit A-Frame about 10 minutes slower than usual. Just above tree line, I ran into a runner who was cramping up and in some pain. I stopped and gave her some of my leg cramp meds, and power hiked on. I was breathing like a walrus with a cold, but making pretty good time. I started passing folks, and things were feeling pretty good. Just past the two-to-go sign there was another running who was in trouble, laying on a rock, cramping hardcore. I again stopped and gave this guy some leg camp meds, and then left as I was told medics were coming. I'm not sure quite what was going on, but it was also full sun and while there was some decent wind, it was warmer than "normal" up there.</p><p>At this point, I could feel the elevation endorphins kicking in. As you all know, this doesn't always happen, but when it does, I get a bit euphoric and life is pretty good. I wasn't fast, but it felt like I was making good time (even though some lady was like "you are working really hard to breathe." Whatever, I passed you, so apparently not that hard.) Along with an amazing Doubler (ran both the Ascent and the Marathon), James, behind me, it made sense to start cheering on the runners who were now coming back down the mountain. Our bibs have our names on them, so anytime I could, I addressed the descending runner by name. Cheering people on also makes me feel good, so that added to the endorphin fueled euphoria and I got a little ridiculous. I'm pretty sure I told someone his beard was amazing. I know I leaned over a rock to get out of the way of a descending runner and told them they were seeing my best side. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYV6bkiPzEv3Pr1ohYyKfQM1ILgOKnKxNLMQarAjET23W2rGIGU7cnaKuWjY64-hLhZI-b3X23HZznpA2fKyTWgBrms0jhZKIFQ_q4xlhyphenhyphenCbDdphpNCQPqpDJoSjX7dGwRPtFJuvNlPis/s2048/7932F7BB-B9D6-42A4-B9A9-A5348BDC2789.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYV6bkiPzEv3Pr1ohYyKfQM1ILgOKnKxNLMQarAjET23W2rGIGU7cnaKuWjY64-hLhZI-b3X23HZznpA2fKyTWgBrms0jhZKIFQ_q4xlhyphenhyphenCbDdphpNCQPqpDJoSjX7dGwRPtFJuvNlPis/s320/7932F7BB-B9D6-42A4-B9A9-A5348BDC2789.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>At the 16 Golden Stairs, John showed up above me and started calling my name. We both confirmed that we were doing well and he kept going. At that point, I was feeling so good, although not going terribly fast, that I thought maybe I could catch him on the way down. Spoiler, I did not. However, I did meet someone named Jason, who happened to be on the same Arkansas running team as my old Ascent buddy Andy! <p></p><p>I got to the top, turned and burned. I was about 15 minutes behind my goal time for the top, but I thought maybe I could make some of it up on the downhill. Still feeling pretty high, I started making my way down. I made up a song, to the tune of "A Whole New World." It went, "A whole new race. Now we get to go mostly downhill..." and that was about it. I think there was some other song at some point, but I don't quite remember. Like I said, ridiculous. Also, I ran into the people I had given the cramp meds to and they were moving again, and that made me feel good. </p><p>The euphoria started wearing off before two miles down, but the lady who traded places with me on the way up was behind me and we chatted a bit. She pulled off the trail for a bio-break at some point but caught me around A-Frame. A-Frame had Cheezits and that was amazing.</p><p>Below A-Frame, the game changed. I was slowing down. I ate some of the food I had with me and took some Aleve to combat some aches I was having in my ankles, but I knew I was moving slower than I planned. I also knew I was begin more conservative in running because the full sun in the trees meant some serious shadows that made the rocks and tree roots harder to see. I slogged down. The temps were rising and I was starting to feel tired. I got back to Barr Camp slower than I expected, and texted Eric where I was at what time, so he knew I wasn't likely to make my planned finish time. At Barr Camp, a woman I volunteer with at Achilles International happened to be manning the aid station, and unexpectedly, I got weepy seeing her - and I don't really know her. It took a little while to get my head back under control. I was moving at an ok pace and I know this section of trail well. There's also a flat section that I have fallen on before and so I was careful to really pay attention in that area so I didn't bite it. With about 4.5 miles left in the race, the wind picked up and it felt like a hair dryer blowing on you. The sun was beating down and I was drinking water regularly. I later learned it was 91 degrees in Manitou Springs, so it must have been in the high 80's on the trail.</p><p>Through the aid station at No Name and on I went. There's a technical bit below No Name, but then at the sign for the top of the Incline (which is actually well past the Incline - there is a spur trail that can take you over there) it flattens out. I was on that section when...</p><p>Not only did I trip and fall, but for the first time in my life, my face met a protruding rock. Fortunately and luckily, I didn't hit my cheekbone that hard, but it turns out face cuts bleed instantly and profusely. I rolled over, realized I was bleeding. Three incredibly kind runners stopped to check on me and one amazing woman whipped off her neck gaiter and I had to stop her before she used her personal clothing to wipe up my blood! Their kindness, and realizing I was ok when I could have been more seriously injured caused me to burst into tears... which only made these poor people think I was really hurt. So I'm on the trail, crying, trying to tell these people I'm ok, which they clearly do not believe because my face is running with blood and tears and snot. Finally, I'm able to tell them convincingly I am ok, I have tissues to clean up my face (which the woman helps direct for me because I have no idea where the blood is), and that I am ok, just tired and having trouble regulating my emotions. They finally believe me and continue on. I was so discombobulated I didn't get their names, but bless those people. </p><p>I texted Eric "I am ok, But I fell and hit my face an am pretty sure I look really bad. I'm bleeding. But nothing is broken and I'm ok, I promise." I didn't want him to get shocked seeing me come in with a bloody face. I took the final trail miles at a bit of a slower clip. Coming into the last aid stations, I didn't know what I looked like, so I started calling out "I am ok! I look worse than I am! I do not need medical attention!" The aid stations got it, but with a little less than a mile of trail to go, I passed some hikers who had come out and got a very loud "Oh. My. GOD" from a group of large men, followed closely by a woman who gasped and I had to repeat I was ok. </p><p>I continued to pass people on the way down, even at my reduced pace (including two of the three people who stopped to help me), and finally made it back to Ruxton Avenue. By this point, I was actually feeling better, mentally and physically, and moving at a decent pace. Unfortunately, because its the last mile of the race on a street, there are spectators, and they were not quiet about how I looked. I also passed two of the Incline Club folks I run with on Thursdays who had run the Ascent the day before. Then, just before the end, surprise! My friends Carrie and Emily were there with a sign, cheering me on! Just before the finish, Eric and our friend Amy were there, with Eric filming.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfXgvVZgZGpLmiH8mOGmMAy0pKUb-Hh4DD_HF9JmDPOXCgPJUyGfUfN_rh06yUqr5qlGEu274Acuaaus6JRacFMpJsQLfdTj6ygZn1csocwI0hv_wbiR7BhyTV8zo3APd19S0eKUY4OI/s2048/56C2013D-D5DF-4F99-8231-F848F3B4EEED.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfXgvVZgZGpLmiH8mOGmMAy0pKUb-Hh4DD_HF9JmDPOXCgPJUyGfUfN_rh06yUqr5qlGEu274Acuaaus6JRacFMpJsQLfdTj6ygZn1csocwI0hv_wbiR7BhyTV8zo3APd19S0eKUY4OI/s320/56C2013D-D5DF-4F99-8231-F848F3B4EEED.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>When you finish the race, you run into a tent lined with chairs. They have you sit for a bit, drink something and give you ice. The woman who helped me after my fall had finished a few minutes ahead of me, saw me and immediately came over. She told me she had alerted the medics that I was coming in, and they came over right away. By this time, I was able to tell everyone I was ok, a little thirsty, and yes, I would like them to take a look. This is when I realized that I had gashed up my knee (I knew I had skinned it) and had bled all down my leg and soaked through my ankle gaiters. I really must have been a sight out there. They took me back to the med tent, and let Eric come in. The kindest people - the owners of the medical response company serving the race, took great care of me and spent a long time cleaning my knees, my hand (big gouge in there) and my face. They were so awesome. After I have no idea how long, I was ready to move. I picked up some more snacks and exited the tent. Andy and his wife Michelle, their teammate Jason (who I met at the top) and the friend that Andy ran with yesterday were right outside the tent! We chatted for a bit, and then we went to find first John, and then Emily and Carrie. I talked with Emily and Carrie for a while, and then headed back into the finishers' area for food and drink. Reg Leg Brewing was a race sponsor. It turns out, when you have dripped blood on your race bib that also includes your free beer ticket, they not only do not want your beer ticket, but they give you two beers instead of one (so Eric got a beer too).<p></p><p>Eric and I chatted with John and some other runners for a while. John had finished a good 30 minutes or more before me, but was kind enough to hang out with us instead of immediately driving himself back home to the Denver area where he lives. </p><p>I drew quite a bit of attention at the post-race party, but what can you do. I came up with all the jokes I could about it, and let a couple people take photos because they asked. If you see me on an advertisement for Bacitracin, please let me know because I would like a publishing fee. </p><p>I crossed the finish line in 8:17:30, 30 minutes slower than the last time I did this race - 7 minutes slower on the uphill and 23 minutes slower on the downhill. All things considered, I'll take it. However, I think I'll refrain from motivational materials from Rocky for a while. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfQXAXT0XctKbME0mv8bhjps0pCYxXa2cqgjOofS7j5gdgi4W6g98vxrGvC_wbF4g-CODy_ahkAgIXvxmmyPCvWgWK3YYBBbhP62bqXc-Prnhtfe86H0vvqdC0mjUJFBTowE_NEHSlRo/s2048/C5EB0926-3170-437A-83BA-2F20594177A5.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfQXAXT0XctKbME0mv8bhjps0pCYxXa2cqgjOofS7j5gdgi4W6g98vxrGvC_wbF4g-CODy_ahkAgIXvxmmyPCvWgWK3YYBBbhP62bqXc-Prnhtfe86H0vvqdC0mjUJFBTowE_NEHSlRo/s320/C5EB0926-3170-437A-83BA-2F20594177A5.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and I after the finish. He's been done so long he's already iced in the creek and taken off this medal.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69AjyX1NUIOr_uzbp7_U-GVqPUCxDhg4ZA6V5ftzYxbeJNdk6HpBygVwJn5zd_6hUWx-51mRiGGYqLThFxbGCQlSmFuUgWBbna4lP5jOCYxUSkwb12tph_n2JJpTKKuCNumWxihw-LPw/s2048/A756FD8F-528D-45AC-AD67-7BC3E29B0324.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69AjyX1NUIOr_uzbp7_U-GVqPUCxDhg4ZA6V5ftzYxbeJNdk6HpBygVwJn5zd_6hUWx-51mRiGGYqLThFxbGCQlSmFuUgWBbna4lP5jOCYxUSkwb12tph_n2JJpTKKuCNumWxihw-LPw/s320/A756FD8F-528D-45AC-AD67-7BC3E29B0324.jpeg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69AjyX1NUIOr_uzbp7_U-GVqPUCxDhg4ZA6V5ftzYxbeJNdk6HpBygVwJn5zd_6hUWx-51mRiGGYqLThFxbGCQlSmFuUgWBbna4lP5jOCYxUSkwb12tph_n2JJpTKKuCNumWxihw-LPw/s2048/A756FD8F-528D-45AC-AD67-7BC3E29B0324.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-74795648260876080332021-07-18T20:10:00.000-06:002021-07-18T20:10:30.728-06:00Race Report: Barr Trail Mountain Race<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KPrFPYcU4WvCviCd3GiCPOqtSYpQX3bvarhcB5m0eitmNSgKoeNkpTEU93JwNnPrccpW1uUm23NyJ7E6WrjaoKEXCOEl-nXODcQNn28L6sPtbI3cmXQTbsSR8bJ9KG9F276rVD9o244/s2048/E77FFC35-2DFD-4DB7-8AD8-12CB213ED4F2.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KPrFPYcU4WvCviCd3GiCPOqtSYpQX3bvarhcB5m0eitmNSgKoeNkpTEU93JwNnPrccpW1uUm23NyJ7E6WrjaoKEXCOEl-nXODcQNn28L6sPtbI3cmXQTbsSR8bJ9KG9F276rVD9o244/s320/E77FFC35-2DFD-4DB7-8AD8-12CB213ED4F2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Barr Trail (last week, not today)</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Trail racing is not the same as road racing. Whereas I used to be able to occasionally make the podium for age group finishing in smaller races, I'm a much slower runner on the trails - as is everyone. </p><p></p><p>Lining up this morning outside the Cog Rail station at the end of Ruxton Avenue in Manitou Springs, I was concerned about hitting the cutoff times, which I never give a second thought to in road races. The race goes up Barr Trail to Barr Camp and back down again, for a relatively random race total of 12.8 miles. I've been running Barr for years and know the trail well, and have been on it a couple times a week this season. The last several times up to Barr Camp I've been getting faster, but I also know it's a different trail each time, and there are no guarantees in trail running. </p><p>Barr Trail Mountain Race is primarily a local race, although it does attract some folks from out of state, as it is the second leg of the Pikes Peak qualifier. With the small contingent of out-of-towners, I figured I wouldn't be last, but I did want to not embarrass myself.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>The start went off with a "three-two-one-GO!" and off we went. I was far enough back that it was a pretty heavy group I was running with (although I later learned that only 378 toed the line -but that's a chunk on single track!) It was a relatively warm start, and within the first mile I was looking forward to getting up to more elevation and away from the sun. I did quite a bit of power hiking in the "W's" - the first series of steep switchbacks up the mountain. Some days I get into a groove and run these consistently, but I couldn't find that groove today. Part of it was just the number of people and not being able to get space to move. Part of it was just... not today. <p></p><p>Regardless, I made it past the first checkpoint with 8 minutes before the cutoff. I kept climbing and ran when I could. Past the rock underpass (two huge boulders you pass under), the trail was pretty rutted out with the recent rains. It flattens a bit after that, and I made up some time, catching up and passing some folks who had passed me earlier on. I got past the second checkpoint with some additional time to spare. Somewhere between mile 4 and 5, I was running uphill and around a boulder pile... and nearly crashed into the lead runner, blasting back down the hill. I hadn't heard him and no one ahead called out "runner" as is general etiquette. Fortunately, neither he nor I fell. I apologized profusely and he yelled out that it was ok as he continued on. The downhill pack started to come, and the first woman came through at number 5 overall, looking like she hadn't even broken a sweat. Amazing.</p><p>There's a high meadow somewhere after mile 5, and that's where I came up on Jason, a guy I presume was from out of town. He had hiked to Barr Camp a couple of months ago and apparently that was enough training for him, and although I could tell he was making an effort to keep up with me, he was hurting and complaining about cramping up. A little before Barr Camp, I lost him, and I don't actually remember seeing him on the downhill...</p><p>I hit Barr Camp about a minute slower than last week, but still in range of "faster than before," although I was ready to be done with the uphill at that point. The camp is a turnaround, lined with one of the high school cross-country teams staffing the aid station. There were four on the course, which is pretty amazing considering those kids had to haul ALL that aid up to each of those stations. Good job!</p><p>The downhill is where I can make up time - its quite frequently a new race for me, and I've trained to run the downhills. That's not to say I'm fast, but I am quite a bit faster than a lot of folks that otherwise run about my speed on the downs. Down felt pretty good, and I passed a number of people. With two miles to go, I realized I could probably make it in quicker than I originally anticipated. I added what gas I could and went for it. </p><p>The end of the race takes you down the trail, over to the end of Ruxton Canyon, and then a hard left up a street that leads to the Barr Trail parking lot we all call "Hydro Hill." I had passed four people down the end of Ruxton, and when I made the turn, I knew that I could take that last tenth of a mile or so. My Thursday night Incline Club finishes our training on - hill repeats up Hydro, and today, I only needed to do one. So I did, passing another four people who were walking up the hill.</p><p>Six minutes faster than expected. Not bad for a warm day and an uphill slog. I met up with some of the folks I run with at the end, and we walked down Ruxton, meeting up with Eric and heading to to Soda Springs park in town for the afterparty and awards (only a trail race has you hike a mile away to get to your refreshments and finisher's shirt. Speaking of, you only get a shirt if you finish in time. No "shirt at packet pick up here!). None of us placed in our age group, and it turns out that the 50+'ers were a heck of a lot faster than we all were! Good for them - maybe trail running means you get faster with age? </p><p>I guess time will tell! </p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-20575107417394705562021-07-11T20:58:00.000-06:002021-07-11T20:58:27.124-06:00Trail Magic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdF4I5Mm8w54l7qSDq-MWHYvoGseB1joStxnawE-2HnwrghyphenhyphenogTDcLLBKwcu5pb4pJU2226MgoF_dE7CO33k5N7LbLo6SGnaU-2szhyjuIo2SJzybS6ViYH0kjJTXtnRU-b0uSrF1k2v8/s2048/E25ACE40-251E-4902-8B47-D6506AA5FECA.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdF4I5Mm8w54l7qSDq-MWHYvoGseB1joStxnawE-2HnwrghyphenhyphenogTDcLLBKwcu5pb4pJU2226MgoF_dE7CO33k5N7LbLo6SGnaU-2szhyjuIo2SJzybS6ViYH0kjJTXtnRU-b0uSrF1k2v8/s320/E25ACE40-251E-4902-8B47-D6506AA5FECA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br /><br /> The alarm went off at 4am. <p></p><p>So many of my running stories start this way you would think I am an early morning person. I am not by nature, although life is clearly forcing me in that direction. Thank God for coffee on workdays. But I digress.</p><p>I had a long run planned for today, so I was up early to get down to Manitou. The plan was to run from bottom to top of Pikes Peak, then go back down and up 2 miles, then head over to the Crag's Trail and go down three and have Eric pick me up at the Devil's Playground. I added an extra egg to my pre-run breakfast and packed my running vest with water and food for a 20 mile excursion. </p><span></span><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>The sun rose as I was getting up the first couple miles. The trail felt pretty good, and for a while, a woman from Milwaukee kept up with me and asked about a million questions about running out here and Colorado in general. I'm not really used to talking and running anymore, but it was a good distraction and all of a sudden I was at the top of the W's. I made it to Barr Camp a solid 13 minutes faster than I did two weeks ago, and was moving at a good clip above Barr Camp. With 4.8 miles to go (there's a sign), I did the math and realized I was on track to hit the top as fast or possible faster than I raced it in my last marathon. That felt good! </p><p>That didn't last. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHY5RG5bUdy2VQFJrXjpM0GwJsYo4OgmUOheS8bnATRkFOEQqywKmY-tmYxKDp9_Wifa57Bj4rSsB803hyphenhyphenLvbXqxXORkydvElOhgM4FPOl03F1F9c4bdGVxpB40fT7LUYZjQLBWkF_q88/s2048/C822740F-AEB9-48B3-A612-3E954B010BE2.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHY5RG5bUdy2VQFJrXjpM0GwJsYo4OgmUOheS8bnATRkFOEQqywKmY-tmYxKDp9_Wifa57Bj4rSsB803hyphenhyphenLvbXqxXORkydvElOhgM4FPOl03F1F9c4bdGVxpB40fT7LUYZjQLBWkF_q88/s320/C822740F-AEB9-48B3-A612-3E954B010BE2.jpeg" /></a>I got above tree line, and things just fell apart, and fast. And by "fell apart," I mean in short order I was sitting on a rock, crying. I know it was the elevation - sometimes you are euphoric, sometimes you are sobbing and considering yourself a total failure at everything you have ever attempted while chubby, yellow-bellied marmots are literally running around you at a faster pace than you've been going. Eventually, I got my sloppy rear end up and moving again. I got to the two mile mark before the top and realized that if I made it up (and right then, it felt like a big "if," and not a "you'll get there eventually." Dying under a rock was option.), that was going to be it. I was going to be done and not get in the mileage I needed. I texted Eric, told him not to pick me up, and I was turning around.</p><p>I started back down and things were not getting better. I was slow, my stomach was gnawing at me, no matter how much trail mix I put in it. I was going down, but at some point I couldn't figure out where I was on the trail - I felt like I should have been further than I was. I got worried I didn't have enough water. I got worried I didn't have enough food. I was kind of an in-my-head mess.</p><p>I texted Eric and asked if we would pick me up at Elk Park, a spur off Barr Trail that plunks you off on the Pike's Peak toll road. "I have to get off this damn mountain." He agreed, but when I got to Barr Camp, the sign told me the mileage was double what I expected it to be to get to Elk Park, and it was uphill. Thanks to Visible wireless (which uses Verizon towers) I have a basic signal for most of the trail, so I texted Eric again and told him I was going to the bottom. </p><p>I went to Barr Camp and sat on a bench. I felt like hot garbage, and was fearful I wouldn't make it down. Not rationally fearful - I knew I could get there, but that irrational "you know this won't be fun and what if" kind of fearful based on the last five lousy miles. I drank some water and ate some energy chews. </p><p>And that's when Randy showed up, and he might have been sent by God because he made trail magic happen, and I don't think he even knows it. Randy had run to A-frame (just below tree line) and was on his way back down. He got out the filter that the Camp stores for runners, cleaned it (because it had been heavily used and not cared for) and pumped some water. He chatted with me and noticed that I didn't really look like I felt too well. This man, who I never met, asked if I needed more water and insisted on pumping the filter for me! We packed up to get on going. I ran to the outhouse and he disappeared into the Camp. When I got back, he had a plastic bag with him, and told me that the Camp was always looking for people to carry down trash, and they would give you a candy bar in exchange. </p><p>I had not told Randy that I was worried that I didn't have enough food. Yet there it was. I went in, and sure enough, came out with a cannister of trash and a Snickers. </p><p>We started out onto the trail, and looked down at my watch. Somehow, I must have hit the end button for my run, so I had to start a new run. </p><p>And it was a new run. Randy was clearly a faster runner than me (he told me his race times), even at his 62 years to my 42. (But let me tell you, this man did NOT look 62). He stayed by me, and I told him that I probably couldn't keep up with him and he could go on. "I'll hang with you for a bit." So off we went, chatting about running and diet and whatnot. And we are moving down the hill, at a good clip that actually feels good - so much so that Randy at one point says "you don't have to go so fast... unless this is your normal pace" and I realize that now speedy Randy is trying to keep up with ME. My stomach no longer hurts, my legs aren't screaming at me, and my neck isn't throbbing. </p><p>After three miles, Randy broke off the trail and went to check out the Incline, leaving me to my last four miles solo. They went just fine, and I ended my run with a total of 21.2 miles in the book. </p><p>I never even ate that Snickers.</p><p>I hope I see Randy again soon. He's training for the Ascent, so it's likely. I want to thank him and tell him what I didn't really understand until I had time in my head in the last stretch - that he stepped in gaps he didn't know were there, and alleviated all the things I was worried about: water, food, making it down by myself. </p><p>I'm sure there's all kinds of logic around him just being a nice fellow runner, and me feeling better because of a bit of rest and lower elevation. It didn't feel like that though; it felt like God-sent trail magic provided by Runner Randy the Restorer. </p><p>Post-script: I try to be a really careful, self-supported runner. I wear sunscreen and bring layers. I don't take unnecessary chances. I run in control. I bring more water than I generally need. I bring more food than I usually consume. This is the first, and I hope only, time I have thought there was a chance I might not be able to make it out of something I ran myself into on my own. In retrospect, I don't think it was that serious, but I was a little scared, probably mostly because my brain stopped working for a little while. However, looking back, I had 16 great running miles, and 5 terrible ones. I have things to fix so that in the future, I don't repeat those five miles, but, as Eric says "you don't knock it out of the park every time." Just in case though, I'm bringing more tissue next time too.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-7690198235619644632021-06-17T12:45:00.000-06:002021-06-17T12:45:29.879-06:0014 Angry White Men<p>Juneteenth is set to become the 11th federal holiday in the US, but not for the efforts by 14 white Republican men in the US House of Representatives who voted against such a measure. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><a href="https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2021/06/16/who-14-republicans-who-voted-against-juneteenth-holiday/7722634002/" target="_blank"><b>Mo Brooks</b></a> of Alabama (a state that still celebrates "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confederate_Memorial_Day" target="_blank">Confederate Memorial Day</a>" as a state holiday) said he voted against the holiday because we "should have been celebrating the Emancipation Proclamation." It seems he's much more comfortable with a holiday that celebrates when a white person said slavery was over, versus when black people actually experienced the end of bondage.</p><p><b>Mike Rogers</b>, also of Alabama, couldn't be reached for comment. I assume he was too busy changing his Wednesday stars and bars undies for his Thursday Betsy Ross flag ones. <b>Andrew Clyde</b> of Georgia declined to answer questions from reporters. Then again, this is the guy that claimed the Jan 6 insurrection was a "<a href="https://www.congress.gov/bill/117th-congress/senate-bill/475/text" target="_blank">normal tourist visit</a>," so he might actually assume Juneteenth was an attack against mediocre white men, and its up to him to fight back in the modern age.</p><p><a href="https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/politics/arizona/2021/06/16/andy-biggs-paul-gosar-among-few-who-voted-against-juneteenth-holiday/7723676002/"><b>Andy Biggs</b></a> of Arizona, <b>Chip Roy</b> of Texas voted against the holiday because they didn't like the holiday name, formally called "Juneteenth National Independence Day" in the bill. The "independence" part felt "divisive" because "we" already have an independence day, even if that "independence" only applied to people who looked like Biggs and Roy. <b>Thomas Massie</b> of Kentucky had similar objections, but was concerned that having two holidays that included the word "independence" would be confusing. Clearly, it could be! I mean, my goodness, what if people started waving the American flag around on the wrong day?!?? </p><p><b>Ronny Jackson</b> of Texas voted against the bill because "we have enough federal holidays" (<a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/niallmccarthy/2018/08/07/how-american-workers-get-a-raw-deal-on-vacation-compared-to-other-countries-infographic/?sh=2a09d755649b" target="_blank">10</a>, compared to say France with 11, Spain with 14, Germany with 13 and South Korea with 15.) He went on to say "I just don't see the reason in doing it. I just don't think it rises to the level I'm going to support it." Clearly, ending the greatest human rights atrocity in the United States doesn't rise to the level of giving American workers a paid day off. I wonder what, in his mind, would. Of course, given his own <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2021/03/02/politics/ronny-jackson-dod-inspector-general-report/index.html" target="_blank">track record</a>, I don't see him celebrating anything remotely related to improving conduct any time soon. <b>Scott DesJarlais</b> of Tennessee also voted against the bill, but he celebrated Flag Day on his <a href="https://twitter.com/desjarlaistn04?lang=en" target="_blank">Twitter</a> account, so let's assume he wasn't just against creating another holiday. </p><p><b>Matt Rosendale</b> of Montana voted against the bill because despite Juneteenth being celebrated by African Americans since 1865, for him, Juneteenth is a conspiracy designed to make "Critical Race Theory the reigning ideology of this country." You know, because its just simply intolerable for white people to have to be reminded of the complex and unclean history of America. Please note, <a href="https://www.congress.gov/bill/117th-congress/senate-bill/475/text" target="_blank">the bill</a>, which is under 100 words long, mentions nothing about Critical Race Theory, nor the promotion of any kind of ideology.</p><p><a href="https://wqow.com/2021/06/17/wisconsins-tom-tiffany-one-of-14-to-vote-against-making-juneteenth-a-federal-holiday/" target="_blank">Tom Tiffany</a> of Wisconsin called the effort an attempt to "balkanize our country and fuel separatism" - you know, because recognizing the end of slavery would tear us apart like say, a Civil War failed to do?</p><p><b>Ralph Norman</b> of North Carolina complained that another federal holiday would cost too much. However, I don't see him attempting to remove, say, the federal holiday that commemorates a man who never actually set foot in the US, discovered nothing, and thought the island of Hispanola was India. He also railed on <a href="https://twitter.com/RepRalphNorman/status/1405346744821501957" target="_blank">Twitter</a> than Independence Day is July 4, "Period... and that's the way its been for 245 years." Because clearly, there is nothing in the last 245 years that he believes should have changed? </p><p>I'm not sure what excuses <b>Tom McClintock</b> and <b>Doug LaMalfa</b> of California had for voting against the bill. <b>Paul Gosar </b>of Arizona also voted against the bill for unknown reasons, but considering his own brothers called him <a href="https://www.axios.com/paul-gosar-family-capitol-riot-a3dd9a6e-39bb-4fbb-9c27-46ef320dae20.html" target="_blank">a pathological liar </a>and a "snake oil salesman," he's clearly got too many of his own problems to be bothered with the dignity and respect of others. </p><p>Truth: I did not always know what Juneteenth was. I vaguely remember reading something in my US history book, sitting nicely in my predominantly white, suburban public high school in Michigan. I didn't understand, and even in my AP classes no one took the time to really explain the significance of this date. I had to do my own education, my own work, and my own listening to understand what Juneteenth meant to my fellow citizens, to my friends. I had to learn the complex realities of slavery, "emancipation," how long it ACTUALLY TOOK for enslaved people to be be freed and the aftermath that "freedom" didn't mean "happily ever after," or even "free."</p><p>Now, it's unconscionable to watch white men continue to try to control the narrative, blame anyone suggesting white men were anything but the heroes of history, decry themselves as the real victims here, then tell black people what they should and shouldn't be celebrating, and what to call that celebration. On an individual level, we would call these kinds of behaviors hallmarks of intimate partner violence. When they are perpetrated by men in positions of power in government... we call it systemic racism.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-52016349671331428572021-06-15T09:50:00.002-06:002021-06-15T09:53:02.010-06:00Midnight Snack<p> As a human, I find sleep more or less essential. Without enough (and "enough" has a fuzzy definition over here), I do things like:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>start the coffee pot without actually adding the coffee grounds</li><li>begin my day without glasses or contacts and then wonder why I can't see well</li><li>struggle with basic conjugations of the English language</li></ul><div>We make concerted efforts to get to bed at reasonable hours. One of us insists he is a light sleeper, and wears earplugs to bed every night. I might argue he is not quite as "light" of a sleeper as he believes himself to be, and the addition of earplugs creates a nearly impenetrable barrier that allows him to remain cocooned in dreams, while the other of us is left to do things like "<a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2016/12/oh-t-christmas-tree-redux.html" target="_blank">hear the Christmas tree fall over.</a>"</div><span></span><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>Such was the case Friday night. We went to bed around 10pm. Around 11pm, I woke up to a distinct racket outside our bedroom, much like an empty plastic tote being tossed around. I looked over, and slumber bunny was in la-la land, despite what was clearly quite a loud noise. I went through my mental checklist of what this could be. Since our bedroom is on the main level, there were several possibilities:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Ice maker? No, not crunchy enough.</li><li>Laundry rack falling off its hook onto the washer? No, no metal reverb.</li><li>Something dropping in the garage...Garage. Did we close the garage door? </li></ul></div><div>I was up and out of bed, grabbing my robe, and heading for the garage entrance, which is about 5 feet from our bedroom door, with a very good idea of what I was hearing...</div><div><br /></div><div>Bear. In the garage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bear, who came into the garage through the gaping open mouth of the garage door that we clearly had forgotten to shut., and was likely messing with the garbage and recycling containers...</div><div><br /></div><div>On the other side of the UNLOCKED house entrance.</div><div><br /></div><div>As you might imagine, I got to that door in record time, threw my weight against it and went for the lock immediately, fully expecting to see bear claws wedging around the door. I watched Jurassic Park, I know what this scene looks like.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately, that didn't happen, but now I'm on one side of the door, and I don't have a good sense of just <i>what or who</i> is on the other side. I tap on the door to try to scare off whatever is there, but if anything was there, it was not intimidated by my polite "I'm here for tea" knocking. I'm not very good at self-delusion, but I tried really hard to tell myself that the garage wasn't actually open, and if I turned on the front house lights, I would not see light coming through the cracks in the garage entryway. </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course though, that is exactly what happened, at which time, I knew I needed to wake Sleeping Beauty for backup. After a wakeup so hard I asked him the next morning if he'd taken something to sleep (nope, all natural), he was out of bed, and pounding on the door to scare off whatever was on the other side.</div><div><br /></div><div>No sound. No scuffling, nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got out the bear spray, I unlatched the safety, took a double grip and wide stance, and stood off Eric's shoulder as he quickly opened and shut the door, handily shouldering his "<a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/09/smaller-than-dog.html" target="_blank">larger than a dog</a>" responsibilities. In the millisecond the door was open, we ascertained the recycling bin was tipped over and wedged between my car and the garage steps... but weren't able to see beyond that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately, we have a video camera above the outside of the garage, and it records to the cloud. Eric fired up the computer and searched the records, where he found I was, in fact, wrong. It wasn't a bear.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was two bears.</div><div><br /></div><div>Epilogue: The bears had actually left by the time I was pondering my existence on one side of the locked door. One came in one side of the garage, and found nothing. The other came in along my car, and gave up when he wasn't able to unstick the recycle (which has been picked up the day before, fortunately) from the back of the garage, guarded by my car. We are lucky they didn't try to get into either car, or pull down the paint or chemicals from the shelves. We confirmed via video the bears were out, took a good visual inspection from the doorway, and shut the garage for the night.</div><div><br /></div><div>It took me quite a while to fall back to sleep.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy0NUMa3T7JJJNxY6_p-RUHZTrXBvdR1ps9_OXrOLxgHJRxD9voerKLYN1fnh7Z_ogMHZjrpELdgp_atggleQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzn1-7p59uA3lmU5moYk7mBn21Ng0hEv9BZISqu5X3Umi4R_9XQDNjttvLoKv2chVSOfk166nrLbe-WkadoEw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><p></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-88553887286267339052021-06-13T21:16:00.001-06:002021-06-13T21:42:03.776-06:00Race Report: Garden of the Gods 10 Miler<p> Look! A race report! The first since the <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2019/11/race-report-ny-freaking-c-marathon.html" target="_blank">New York City Marathon</a> in 2019, because, you know, #2020. I actually participated in the Climb4Change Power Hour a couple weeks ago at the Challenge Hill in Castle Rock, but this is the first distance race I've been in since I ran the five boroughs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGFxLqJapT9wKNVq_h58oUv-M-j9pMRT6NYnNwpBv_XKEDjgPHJgpg5beJ9f-4VWg-3vY_J-7gtoS7nzRIolPM2xnIqjisb_8PSF1olBH3mQmVWCgUYwNDC73HvcMr27q2bSZGDQM4Ic/s2048/7F79793C-AED7-4DB4-B781-75105BA459AC.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGFxLqJapT9wKNVq_h58oUv-M-j9pMRT6NYnNwpBv_XKEDjgPHJgpg5beJ9f-4VWg-3vY_J-7gtoS7nzRIolPM2xnIqjisb_8PSF1olBH3mQmVWCgUYwNDC73HvcMr27q2bSZGDQM4Ic/s320/7F79793C-AED7-4DB4-B781-75105BA459AC.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I was up super early this morning, after a night of tossing around. We had some friends over for dinner the night before, and I should have probably avoided eating about half the stuff I ate, as my stomach was giving me issues. Also, our normally dry Colorado weather took a turn and the humidity present overnight felt like we had somehow been transported to the beach. Knowing the day was going to be warm, I slathered on the sunscreen and the Body Glide, filled up my water bottles, and was on the road by about 5:30. I parked at the elementary school outside the park, stretched, and gave myself a one-mile warmup, ending the near the start line. I made sure to get some extra water as it was already warm and the humidity was still pretty high - which is nearly unheard of here. I was glad I was in a tank top and light colored half-tights. </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>I tend to go out too fast in races, so I made an intentional effort not to blow my chances of a good run by sprinting off the start. The first mile ended up being the slowest of my whole race, so maybe I didn't need to compensate quite so much. However, it was still faster than the guy I passed at the very beginning, who turned to his friend and exclaimed "This race is twice as far as I've ever run!"</p><p>The course takes you around and through Garden of the Gods, doubling on itself in several places to get 10 miles in through the roads and paved paths of the park. You traverse by all the major rock formations, including a loop around Balanced Rock and twice through the most popular area of rock formations near Kissing Camels. The course constantly rolls with steady uphills and down. Training for the Pikes Peak Marathon meant that I had already been doing time on hills. I had an advantage in that we live at 7600 feet of elevation, and I've been running up to nearly 11,000 feet so far. The Garden ranges between 6200 and 6500 of elevation, making the course lower than what I'm used to, and I passed a lot of people on the uphills. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u86RPHJeuL3E_VRjE-zuG1GU1NmlZQt6FsoBy3xd7unVnV7GhSdyYpp-neu4aSN_1Gz9k4MhfAaG1Vuup8x7bmwIWEXjyeR3BrQdTUJ42Kfz84lWUd1Xs9ABHnDZnVdIQHFnC17MAVY/s2048/5FEB3C4E-1488-4584-A18B-DA42C2CB7075.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u86RPHJeuL3E_VRjE-zuG1GU1NmlZQt6FsoBy3xd7unVnV7GhSdyYpp-neu4aSN_1Gz9k4MhfAaG1Vuup8x7bmwIWEXjyeR3BrQdTUJ42Kfz84lWUd1Xs9ABHnDZnVdIQHFnC17MAVY/s320/5FEB3C4E-1488-4584-A18B-DA42C2CB7075.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>After the first mile, I eased into a faster pace, and worked steadily through the hills. I kept expecting my quads to start burning at some point, but it never happened. Yay, training! What did burn was my stomach, and on and off through the race I debated if I needed to pull over for an emergency stop. Someone remind me, no brie before racing. </p><p>Coming around after the four mile mark, you can see the course return, and what looked like a big, long steep hill with a relatively drastic grade around the six mile mark. I wondered about it, and made note that it could give me some trouble. I made intentional efforts to watch my form while I was running, keeping upright with shoulders back so I opened my chest as much as possible to get air in, and so I wouldn't put pressure on my low back by slouching. I also made sure to keep my feet up and not shuffling. I felt like I had constant reminders of both during the race, as a lot of runners were really hunched over on the uphills, and the quietness of the park with few spectators (the route is closed) meant you could hear the footfalls of others. </p><p>Mile 4 or so was also where we saw the first women race leaders. We had seen the men on the double-back earlier on, but around here was where we saw the lead women. There's something about women supporting women that is so cool - I happened to be right by several other women when we saw the leaders, and simultaneously, we all noted they were the female leads and broke into cheering for each we passed.</p><p>We were cruising along the road with a pretty overlook, when behind me, I heard one guy asking about the course. "Umm, so are there more hills?" <<yes>> Man makes a troubled, 'oh' sound. "I'm from East Iowa, our courses aren't like this..." Not sure where this guy thought he was or what he thought he signed up for, but the home page of the race literally says "Big hills, Awesome rocks, All challenge!"</p><p>I wove through the park, around the Balanced Rock loop, and back. I waited for the hill trouble I was expecting, but my view point must have been skewed because while there was a long, steady hill around mile 6, it wasn't as bad as what I thought I saw. A lot of people who would walk the uphills, then catch up with me on the downhill, only to get left behind again. I passed the same people multiple times before eventually losing them all around mile 8. </p><p>When I crossed the 8 mile mark, I knew I could make it to the end without having to stop for a toilet. Someone also called out "little bit of up, lots of down from here" and that was exceedingly helpful. We trotted through the rock formations and then back out on the road in reverse, passing the backside overlook and then a long, steady downhill to reverse the start. Mile 9 was just before the turn to take the Gateway Road out of the park. Heading out, with the formations behind me, this woman who had been walk-running and switching positions with me for the last several miles was right on my tail. I could tell she, for whatever reason, wanted to beat me to the finish, as I tested this theory by speeding up slightly to hear her do so in response, with a heavy breath cadence.</p><p>Race. On.</p><p>The last mile turns through the gravel parking lot at the front of the park, then continues on to weave through the historic farm area of the park (cue the horse smells), and ending at Rock Ledge Ranch on the south end of the park. This last mile is as close to flat as the course got. I was under a mile to go, and I could feel I had still had some gas in the tank. So, I sped up. That last mile ended up being the fastest of my race by nearly a minute, and I'm pretty sure my hanger-on only kept up for about 100 yards or so as I began my gradual acceleration. Reel me in? I don't think so. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqbGe3ioQWjPWzcqQ67QdFIXcSJ9xP6JunkqJuEnyB1ke9CYoQU9abxLkcG_c8M2xpR4UIenQx6R6npUumpP5xL1c4ThSnys9mxXmo0d8ppkwaR1lGaMIMLI20zS_3Jp1bc6xXoGoWmo/s2048/E472B440-A1CF-4691-A8AB-4066486DFAC4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqbGe3ioQWjPWzcqQ67QdFIXcSJ9xP6JunkqJuEnyB1ke9CYoQU9abxLkcG_c8M2xpR4UIenQx6R6npUumpP5xL1c4ThSnys9mxXmo0d8ppkwaR1lGaMIMLI20zS_3Jp1bc6xXoGoWmo/s320/E472B440-A1CF-4691-A8AB-4066486DFAC4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I had a good stride going, and with a half mile left, I could feel some of the treadmill decreasing interval training I had been doing kick in, so I went with it. I kept notching up my speed until I was confident I knew where the finish was, but by the time I saw it coming up, I didn't have enough time to really pull out all the stops, and ended the race feeling like I had more to give and wasn't sucking wind. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3W5lCmpgrsLXXySgc-77Acu08ixqnLUewh7A5OJo2y4UBuHfQpWEqesTUbsfeWofLJ820kcsGUbTjSFXhyphenhyphen1Yh_oCz_g0j8wXioosnmh614wCEc60E9YtQRwUlX7Uw5cV7HloHTjJRvWw/s2048/4DB5B0A3-5D9E-4016-A551-A256EB2EA315.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3W5lCmpgrsLXXySgc-77Acu08ixqnLUewh7A5OJo2y4UBuHfQpWEqesTUbsfeWofLJ820kcsGUbTjSFXhyphenhyphen1Yh_oCz_g0j8wXioosnmh614wCEc60E9YtQRwUlX7Uw5cV7HloHTjJRvWw/s320/4DB5B0A3-5D9E-4016-A551-A256EB2EA315.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>I got my medal, found some members of the Incline Club I run with who had done the 10K, chatted for a while, and then got my post-race food and drink. I'm not normally a post-race beer drinker, nor a 9am beer drinker generally, but today was an exception, as it went well with the 9am pizza and Cheez-its they gave us. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHDjGg-LIkEobXVZZ7NyzieBvvA6_ghZAS-BkNN0m-VdGXOy47RyH2kIEkO1t2qMGSRj4gsV1ds3DTDps7J7XnB4h2Q3vRiSV-uTud1q6QSupVQh2Y0-zGjS1sBGmgqkaehtbqjtDCyU/s2048/C5898C8C-356B-4F13-98E6-099A73B3C83E.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHDjGg-LIkEobXVZZ7NyzieBvvA6_ghZAS-BkNN0m-VdGXOy47RyH2kIEkO1t2qMGSRj4gsV1ds3DTDps7J7XnB4h2Q3vRiSV-uTud1q6QSupVQh2Y0-zGjS1sBGmgqkaehtbqjtDCyU/s320/C5898C8C-356B-4F13-98E6-099A73B3C83E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I ended up finishing in the top third of women in my age group, and while I'm not setting any course records, I'm happy with the effort. Next up, Barr Trail Mountain Race in July... this time, with no pre-race cheese. </p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-82095257054547852602021-04-27T19:50:00.001-06:002021-04-27T19:50:14.110-06:00Don't Panic, or Tripping into Middle Age<p> 42, according to the Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy, is the secret of life, the universe, of everything. However, having recently slid through that particular birthday, 42 has yet to impart any secrets to me.</p><p>Middle-age has not come with its own guide to this particular galaxy.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>For example, I recently decided to try to be an adult woman and take better care of her face. So, I bought some lotion for overnight use, with some fancy magic in it that is supposed to renew skin and prevent aging related calamities. It came in a little purple pot, and looked suspiciously like those "cremes" my grandmothers used to use. Diligently, I washed my face each night and spread the potion all over. <p></p><p>My face started to peel off. Literally. I got big, scaly patches on my cheeks, my eyelids looked like lizard skin, and my forehead flaked. "Ok," I thought, "Maybe this is the renewal process. You know, getting rid of the built up dead skin or something." </p><p>I broke out in a rash on my neck. My face began getting angry red and inflamed. Fearing I might lose all my epidermis and end up looking like Mother Bates from Psycho, I discontinued use. Apparently, I am meant to age more naturally. </p><p>Yet another middle-age highlight: My formerly superhuman, iron clad stomach has now given up the title. For reasons that cannot be explained by logic alone, I have begun producing more bile than is strictly necessary for digestion, resulting in various levels of gastrointestinal distress not fixable by Tums and Pepto alone. I now take a pill prescribed by a doctor, and hoping that I'm not deluding myself in thinking this is perhaps, temporary.</p><p>Oh yea, now I have "a doctor." Like a real, primary care physician, who expects to have an ongoing relationship with you, and does things like order routine tests to check out your health and wellness. Including letting you know that even though your ob/gyn said you didn't need a mammogram until 45, she really thinks women should get them earlier, and ordered one for me.</p><p>So I went, thinking "ok, we'll get it out of the way, and be done." Until the test results on the online portal said all was not well, and I would need more tests, this time at a specialty center. Oh, and I have "dense breasts," which means they won't be quite so saggy in my future old-ladyhood, should I make it that far, but also that they make mammograms harder to read. </p><p>Joy.</p><p>So I went to the breast health center, where I received another mammogram, administered by two techs applying apple-cider-press levels of pressure to my lady bits. They then conferred and pointed at things on their monitors while I stood there and wondered what the circle on the displayed screen meant. They sent me to wait in a special room with two other women decades older than me, lost in their own thoughts. Which I understood, because my thoughts ran to all the what-ifs; chemo, radiation, talking to my family, and the people I know who have recently gone through all this.</p><p>They called me back for an ultrasound, where the tech dug in with the wand, then ran out of the room saying "the radiologist should see this spot live." </p><p>Spot. </p><p>I ruminated on that word (and the speed with which the tech exited) with my breast hanging out of my hospital gown, wondering if this is when we were going to say goodbye to each other. Rightie, I hardly knew ye. </p><p>The radiologist finally came in, and she repeated the exam. She showed me the concern on the screen, a dark mass with tiny triplets underneath, like a hen sitting on her eggs. "Its fluid filled and not solid, so its a cyst," she said. "I'm 98% sure this is not cancer."</p><p>When the radiologist is 98% sure its not cancer, the protocol is exams every six months to monitor the chicken coop. After two years, they call it "stable" and you are in the clear. She also talked to me about monthly breast exams (which I have been doing since forever, although not really knowing what a normal breast should feel like?) I asked if this is something I should have found but didn't. "No," she said, "They are soft because of the fluid." I held back from asking "then why are you telling me about breast exams??!!" because I know that this is good practice, albeit timing is everything. I will also tell you that I have been poking around in there ever since this second set of tests, and I STILL can't find the darn thing. However, I still have a breast to poke at, so that's good. </p><p>Exactly none of this was in the Women's Guide to Middle Age. Again, not that there's a guide. </p><p>Maybe I should write one, although I am clearly not yet qualified to do so. I would include a chapter on the continual war against facial hair. If at 60 I'm making a living in a sideshow, don't say I didn't warn you.</p><p>Don't Panic! should definitely be on the cover... which is, of course, the first helpful or intelligible thing anyone's said to me all day. </p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-32523804124580796462021-04-14T08:20:00.005-06:002021-04-14T08:20:27.086-06:00Just Checking, Are You Ok?<p>We had recently moved into our first apartment in Colorado. Eric was out of town for work, and I hosted friends in our one-bedroom, so I was sleeping on the floor in the kitchen area of the tiny space when early that morning, my phone began to buzz with texts.</p><p>"Tell me you didn't go see Batman last night."</p><p>"Just checking you are ok."</p><p>Sleepy, not having listened to the news, I started checking to see what was going on, to learn that a man opened fire in a theatre in Aurora, Colorado.</p><p>A couple years later, while Eric and I were checking out the <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/12/hailno-does-thanksgiving.html">Petrified Forest</a>, similar texts came in.</p><p>"Where are you? Are you ok?"</p><p>"Is that clinic near you?"</p><p>A man had opened fire on the Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs, which in fact, was near my primary grocery store. The police had used my bank lobby as a safe location from which to respond. </p><p>Two weeks ago, it happened again.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>"How far is Boulder from you?"</p><p>"I just want to make sure you are ok."</p><p>A man opened fire in a grocery store in Boulder.</p><p>In the intervening years, there have been more mass shootings than I can count, and if you scroll through my blog, you'll see the multiple times I've talked about these things, the times I've called out government leaders, advocated for change, proposed solutions from my little corner of the world. </p><p>I am tired and I am angry. I feel grateful that I have not been a part of any of these events, but do vaguely understand what its like. </p><p>When we first moved to Fort Wayne, and Eric had just started coaching football, we were at a game on a Friday night. It was after the game had ended and we were on the field with the other coaches. As we were standing there, from the other side of a row of hedges that divided one end zone from the street, shots were fired. They weren't aimed at us - it was two rival gangs shooting (unsuccessfully, as it turned out) at each other, but as we ran for the locker rooms, bullets started pinging off the bleachers - directly above the locker rooms to which we were headed.</p><p>I don't remember being scared, but I do remember picking up one if not both of the head coach's small children that were with us and running as fast as I could. I remember having a sense of disbelief- is this really happening, and are we really in danger? And I remember the look of terror on their mother's face when she couldn't find them immediately - she having turned left to the home team lockers I having turned right into the entrance of the opposing team's. I remember when we were finally let out of our shelter by the police, passing by cars riddled with bullets parked just yards away from where my car, unscratched, was located. </p><p>I am not a victim of gun violence. But I am an ally to survivors, and I believe something can, and should be done legislatively, to quell the ongoing epidemic. I don't believe we should remove every gun, everywhere. But I also think that we have allowed the NRA, who is nothing more than a shill for gun manufacturers and NOT a good representative of people, to exert enormous influence for the sake of increasing profit margins for Remington, Smith and Wesson, Colt, etc. They have convinced spineless legislators that weapons designed for war and never conceptualized by the Founders should be in the hands of the public, with minimal checks and boundless access to ammunition. We have allowed loopholes to circumvent background checks, we have allowed manufacturers to sell weapons modifications to increase lethality on massive scales to the general public. And we have done so with impunity, caring little for the general public placed directly in danger by the results of these actions.</p><p>We as a nation care about profits, not people. We make decisions to prop up capitalism, not compassion. We values sales, not safety. </p><p>Gun legislation will not, and cannot solve all of our problems with violence. There are systemic issues in this country that need serious reckoning with. However, we can put the pin back in the grenade through common sense gun reform. Removing weapons that are designed to inflict mass damage in seconds reduces lethality. Yes, anything can be used as a weapon, but there is nothing like a gun that can inflict the amount of damage in moments and at a distance that removes the human connection between shooter and victim. </p><p>I have recommendations I've written about <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2017/11/will-enough-ever-be-enough.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2016/06/an-open-letter-to-congress.html" target="_blank">here</a>, at minimum. I'll be writing my legislators again. I expect exactly nothing from Doug Lamborn, but I refuse to give up and I insist on making my voice heard. I'll let you know if there are any miraculous moments.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-34540484833101250942021-01-20T07:17:00.004-07:002021-01-20T16:09:33.903-07:00Tips for Making Better Films<p> Dear Hollywood,</p><p>May I offer you some advice? I know that you do a lot of research to make sure that your movies are as true-to-life they can be... I mean, you put nipples on the Batman suit, so clearly your commitment to accuracy of detail should not be underestimated. But I think we might need to talk about the apocalypse movies. Having lived through this anti-utopian affair known as #2020, which apparently signed on for the #2021 sequel, I have some thoughts.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Oyxr6T4URrs" width="320" youtube-src-id="Oyxr6T4URrs"></iframe></div><p></p><p><b><u>Stockpiling</u></b>: Hoarding food and hand sanitizer? Yep, you got that. I mean, Matt Damon is practically a walking advertisement for Purell in "Contagion." However, while Dustin Hoffman is off chasing down the monkey for its antibodies in "Outbreak," do you know what the rest of us are doing? Staying home, not sleeping, doomscrolling the news, and WebMDing our psychosomatic symptoms. Some B-roll footage of that, and you have perfect product placement opportunities for Nexium, Pepto-Bismol, orTylenol PM just waiting for you. Want to add it as a minor sub-plot? Try this:</p><p><i>Cuba Gooding Jr. "When's he gonna be back?"</i></p><p><i>Renee Russo: "I don't know."</i></p><p><i>Cuba Gooding Jr.: "This is freaking me out! All these people getting sick... I can't sleep. I think I'm losing it."</i></p><p><i>Renee Russo: "Here, try this."</i></p><p><i>Cuba: "What is it?"</i></p><p><i>Renee: "It's a script for Ambien. Its what I use when I can't sleep. Puts me out so I can rest while the population of California is dying at rapid rates."</i></p><p><i>Cuba: "Is it contraindicated with my Tums? This anxiety has also being doing a number on my gut."<br /></i></p><p><i>Renee: "Nope, perfectly safe to take together."</i></p><p><i>Cuba: "Thanks. Glad I've got a doctor around to talk to."</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EueFk0Yu2Qc" width="320" youtube-src-id="EueFk0Yu2Qc"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><b><u>What else happens when the sky falls:</u></b> Clearly, hell must break loose in all good apocalypses. You've done well with your lava bombs in "Volcano," superspeed, super strength zombies in "World War Z," and the shooting rock that kills Pierce Brosnan's wife in the beginning of "Dante's Peak." However, you clearly forgot to highlight all the other crap that is hitting the more proverbial fans at the same. Nearly everyone I know, including myself, is going/has gone through a organization restructure or corporate buyout during this crisis; because there's no time like a global pandemic to contract with org development consultants. I mean, wouldn't "Armageddon" have been that much more layered and emotionally complex if this segment had been added?</p><p><i>Scene: Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck in locker room, donning space suits for their mission. Bruce's Blackberry buzzes (employ your suspension of disbelief here. I know Blackberries weren't in use in 1998).</i></p><p><i>Bruce (looks down): "Well, damn."</i></p><p><i>Ben: "What is it?"</i></p><p><i>Bruce: "Email from Corporate. Looks like the merger is going through."</i></p><p><i>Ben: "What's that mean for us? Is this mission scrubbed?"</i></p><p><i>Bruce: "They want us to interview with Bob the consultant, day after tomorrow."</i></p><p><i>Ben: "But..."</i></p><p><i>Bruce: "That's right. We're gonna take that call...from the asteroid. Pack your resume with your space helmet. They are going to want to know your relevant work history."</i></p><p><b><u>Government Leadership</u></b>: This might be where your scripts really need some rework. Clearly, far too many of your world-ending movies have revolved around the American President doing the right thing. Listen, I would want Morgan Freeman when the asteroid is hitting earth in "Deep Impact" as much as the next fangirl, but considering that in a last minute bid of manic energy, the real-life president just issued commutations for gangsters and ne'er-do-wells like Steven Bannon and Kwame Kilpatrick while continuing to minimize the deaths of over 400,000 Americans on his watch, you may want to consider scripts like this modification of "Independence Day." </p><p><i>Scene: In the alien ship</i></p><p><i>Will Smith: "What do you think?"</i></p><p><i>Jeff Goldblum: "Checkmate." </i></p><p><i>Will Smith lights cigar. Alien bursts in.</i></p><p><i>Alien: "This is a non-smoking ship!"</i></p><p><i>Jeff Goldblum: "Wait, err, the alien speaks English?"</i></p><p><i>Alien: "Of course we do! Our intelligence level surpasses yours in so many ways that when your president first contacted us, we instantly learned your bigly language!"</i></p><p><i>Will Smith: "The President contacted you?"</i></p><p><i>Alien: "Certainly! We made a deal, a beautiful deal, for a new golf course in the constellation Xq-690 in exchange for your planet. How else do you think we got here?"</i></p><p><i>Jeff Goldblum: "God I hate being right all time time."</i></p><p><i>Will Smith: "Wrong movie, man."</i></p><p><i>Jeff Goldblum: "Still works though, now doesn't it?"</i></p><p><i>Jeff Goldblum hits the "execute" button on the computer, Jeff and Will just sit there</i>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BN6uPD5fPfU" width="320" youtube-src-id="BN6uPD5fPfU"></iframe></div><p>I really feel like with these considerations, your future films will have that<i> je ne sais quois</i> that will set them apart, quite possibly earning you those nominations you so deeply long for, almost as much as the rest of us long for that vaccine. </p><p>Thanks for your consideration.</p><p>Love,</p><p>Me</p><p><br /></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-67537420205865755462021-01-19T12:56:00.003-07:002021-01-19T13:03:42.366-07:00One Day More<div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't write music. I do, however, plagiarize a LOT of music, change the lyrics to suit my purposes, and/or randomly belt out Broadway showtunes because they have a line that sort-of-relates-to-the-topic-but-only-kind-of. </span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All. The Time.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, it should be no surprise that this is the song running through my head, and who I think should sing the different parts. Surprisingly, I had to change very little of the lyrics (yes, "one more day with him not caring" is the original). The more you know Les Miserables, the more this makes sense. </span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sing along with me, will you?</span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span></span><span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><b><span style="color: #202124;">National Guard</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One day more<br />
Another day, another destiny<br />
This never-ending road to 16-P<br />
These right-wing men who committed crimes<br />
Might actually come a second time<br />
One day more<br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Trump</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: I will not concede even today<br />
How can I Tweet when we are parted?<br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">America:</span></b><span style="color: #202124;"> One day more</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Biden Voters</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: Tomorrow Trump’ll be worlds away<br />
And yet with Joe my world restarted<br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Melania</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One more day all on my own</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Kelly-Ann and George Conway</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: Will we ever meet again?</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Melania</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One more day with him not caring</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Jerry Falwell, Jr <<staring at Trump>>:</span></b><span style="color: #202124;"> I was born to be with you</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Reince Pribus</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: What a life I might have known</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Franklin Graham <<also stares at Trump>></span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: And I swear I will be true</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Reince Pribus</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: But he never saw me there</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">Trump Supporters</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One more day before the storm<br />
Do we follow where he goes?<br />
At the barricades of DC<br />
Shall I join conspiracies there?<br />
When our sanity fully falls<br />
Do I stay or do I dare?<br />
Will Rudy take his place with me?</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">The time is now<br /></span><span style="color: #202124;">
The day is here<br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #202124;">America</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One day more<br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #202124;">National Guard</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One day more to insurrection<br />
We will nip it in the bud<br />
We'll be ready for Bugaloo Bois <br />
We will wipe their face paint off</span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><b>America</b>: One day more!</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">Fox News Reporters</span></b><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;">: Watch 'em run amuck<br />
Catch 'em as they fall<br />
Never know your luck<br />
When there's a free for all<br />
Here a little lie<br />
There a little blame<br />
Most our viewers are stupid<br />
So they won’t catch much<br /></span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">Joe Biden</span></b><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;">: One day to a new beginning<br />
Raise the flag of freedom high<br />
Every man will be an equal<br />
Trump will never be a king<br />
There's a new world for the winning<br />
There's a constituency to be won<br />
Do you hear 81 million sing?<br /></span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;">My place is here<br /></span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;">
I </span><span style="color: #202124;">inaugurate</span><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;"> with you</span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">American People</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One day more</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">FBI</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: We will join these people's socials<br />
We will follow where they go<br />
We will learn their Parler secrets<br />
We will know the lies they know</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">American People</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: One day more</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">NewsMax:</span></b><span style="color: #202124;"> Watch 'em run amuck<br />
Catch 'em as they fall<br />
Never speak the truth<br />
When there's a free for all<br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;">National Guard</span></b><span style="color: #202124;">: We'll be ready for the nat’lists</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br />
<b>Most of America</b>: Tomorrow we'll be far away</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br />
<b>Republicans in Congress who voted against certification</b>: Tomorrow is the judgement day</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><span style="color: #202124;"><b>Most of America</b>: Tomorrow we'll be far away</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><b>Congress</b>: Tomorrow is the judgement day<br /></span><b><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #202124;">Everyone:</span></b><span style="color: #202124;"> Tomorrow we'll discover<br />
What our God in Heaven has in store</span><span style="color: #202124;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">One more dawn</span><span style="color: #202124;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">One more day</span><span style="color: #202124;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">ONE DAY MORE<br /></span><o:p> </o:p></span></div><p>
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<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTzXmEnb5WyIS9xRiBspPIYEHPh6HBxVjJRr9ZZj7seOa4_IdKQWa__EMycX_XPA-JO8CO3qnoSIGoor7F0PEtSyePl1vKDH-G3w0TvdNlEDelTt2-aWkq2Z1qjQzEMhpE1JghajBi-N4/s546/One+Day+More.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTzXmEnb5WyIS9xRiBspPIYEHPh6HBxVjJRr9ZZj7seOa4_IdKQWa__EMycX_XPA-JO8CO3qnoSIGoor7F0PEtSyePl1vKDH-G3w0TvdNlEDelTt2-aWkq2Z1qjQzEMhpE1JghajBi-N4/s320/One+Day+More.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>In case you need it:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IddP8AAIGTQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="IddP8AAIGTQ"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-80815471954997218062021-01-07T21:53:00.002-07:002021-01-07T21:53:53.497-07:00No-No, or How We Broke in the New Subi<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Well, the holidays are over, and January is apparently #2020's ugly hangover. I was hoping for a fresh start, but yesterday the world burned down again in ways that ushered in new fresh hells, and, well, I need a bit of a distraction as I sort out my feelings while climbing the Incline over and over. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzasmdkewY3hbYEnWQDb4MUbzFNoeyKW73pnkSajs4214EextFuinhhsPuNfW4nzF_GS-6woG-Oqsnn52O-TQQ3Wkf-6QByrsssegWuM5BkXvgBBYxF3F5TXxDkXWMt3fHp3J3sC5oH8/s2048/DC98602F-34A4-4BD3-BC8B-E641E698F654.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzasmdkewY3hbYEnWQDb4MUbzFNoeyKW73pnkSajs4214EextFuinhhsPuNfW4nzF_GS-6woG-Oqsnn52O-TQQ3Wkf-6QByrsssegWuM5BkXvgBBYxF3F5TXxDkXWMt3fHp3J3sC5oH8/s320/DC98602F-34A4-4BD3-BC8B-E641E698F654.jpeg" /></a></div></span></div></div><p></p><p>So! Story time, boys and girls!</p><p>We have been in discussions, Eric and I, about replacing <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2014/07/hail-no.html" target="_blank">HailNo</a>. She's been a good car, but she was tripping the light fantastic toward 200,000 miles, and with a storm season coming up to coincide with a sabbatical Eric is planning, that could have meant a continent's worth of additional miles on her this spring. So he started looking, all over the country, for what's next. The smart money means you don't buy a Subaru in Colorado, as its the state car and they go for a premium here. When we got my Forester, we bought her from <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2017/06/hondont-subar-do.html" target="_blank">a dealer in Connecticut</a>, and could have sold her for $5000 more than we bought her for after we crossed the state line. </p><p><span></span></p><span><a name='more'></a></span>Eric found what's next in Virginia Beach. He bought her over the phone, and arranged to have her delivered to my parents' house in Michigan. That meant saying goodbye to HailNo. We posted on Facebook that we would be taking her to Michigan, and anyone along the way could purchase her. Our good friends and featured guests on our blog, <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/09/latergram-or-how-i-spent-someone-elses.html" target="_blank">the Z family</a>, took us up on the offer to better schlep the five kids around. <p></p><p>So we fully quarantined for two weeks (e.g. no groceries, no going out, hiding from the mailman) to make sure we were clean and could protect my parents, then drove straight through in a 20 hour blitz to Michigan, stopping only to get gas and pee in fields. No kidding, but you all know <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2014/08/the-plight-of-perilously-puny-pissers.html" target="_blank">I have this down to a science</a>. At one point I even disinfected our shoes, just to be sure we weren't tracking in the virus. We spent a lovely Thanksgiving with my parents, then headed back home, in two cars for the first 4 hours, and then the new car after that.</p><p>Meet No-No, HailNo's successor. She, of course, had to first make a cross-country journey to be worthy of garage space in our home, which she did with ease. </p><p>Once we were home however, she needed a proper induction ceremony. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVX8CmVZxgQgKqp_rZhq90H6342ikOwfZl4nmnBFgAh6lGbtdH1gUyQHFuFqPDsNu_1ePXspVO77ASLpt81rqCW2hBl5yPAeBRWT_R9Iq8eCvpjiWsWhEQDaCzDPeJ430wXFnK-ehuVI/s2048/783838C4-22BD-4F43-9F0E-20393BF744D1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVX8CmVZxgQgKqp_rZhq90H6342ikOwfZl4nmnBFgAh6lGbtdH1gUyQHFuFqPDsNu_1ePXspVO77ASLpt81rqCW2hBl5yPAeBRWT_R9Iq8eCvpjiWsWhEQDaCzDPeJ430wXFnK-ehuVI/s320/783838C4-22BD-4F43-9F0E-20393BF744D1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Which is how, the next Saturday, we found ourselves following Google on a dirt road that was supposedly leading us to a patch of pristine trees in the National Forest good for Christmas cutting. We were 1.5 hours into this journey, heading through what appeared to be a pasture with nary a tree in sight when I turned to Eric and quoted from Christmas Vacation, "You didn't bring us all the way out here just so you could buy one of those stupid ties, did you?"<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-MXBsmAWoWyuEN01VnS1-qxbkeNP-33B02lVIdE1smM0FmkPv0jRPQS2LvKlVyGV64i9d62xpb-9PcTa6SIjfKVSa1KqD30i5J0gyVHUHZJzbmEJR_ZPzI3IB0puG2hJYDMh2xtR5YZc/s2048/CD2E3362-CD9A-466D-B43F-9411537B8440.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-MXBsmAWoWyuEN01VnS1-qxbkeNP-33B02lVIdE1smM0FmkPv0jRPQS2LvKlVyGV64i9d62xpb-9PcTa6SIjfKVSa1KqD30i5J0gyVHUHZJzbmEJR_ZPzI3IB0puG2hJYDMh2xtR5YZc/s320/CD2E3362-CD9A-466D-B43F-9411537B8440.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Which is about when the buffalo appeared. <p></p><p>Yep, buffalo. Wild and wooly, there he was, standing next to this supposed "county road" that has suspiciously come <i>rightnext</i> to a broke down barn, silo and then made a hard left turn past a water trough. He stared at us. We started at him. We kept going. He followed. We sped up.</p><p>Another half mile, and we pulled over because what we were driving on looked quite a bit like snowed over pasture land, and not like a road. At that point, Google maps repositioned us... and yep, we were definitely not on a road. We turned around, crept back by the buffalo, and eventually found where we had gotten off course. We followed the "road" again, on in through the barren and tree-less countryside until...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVAO0hTUoWSOd7uN6rpJA7cmd0FuFyVY3yGR2QyEkcwtHQ5cu_uwFYP69HAKf-yyJjRwTQXeRZbWzl7lJx9nBj16eSPxIxIoi6yVl7-g9CCyOAJ6UtJju5jDaykZMkbGXzQXcdMW3E3w/s2048/A5DCE203-5DA3-4624-9310-E027F2D597F4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVAO0hTUoWSOd7uN6rpJA7cmd0FuFyVY3yGR2QyEkcwtHQ5cu_uwFYP69HAKf-yyJjRwTQXeRZbWzl7lJx9nBj16eSPxIxIoi6yVl7-g9CCyOAJ6UtJju5jDaykZMkbGXzQXcdMW3E3w/s320/A5DCE203-5DA3-4624-9310-E027F2D597F4.jpeg" /></a></div>Locked gate, straight ahead. <p></p><p>We backtracked 10 or 15 miles over snowy ground and by that buffalo for yet a third time, and eventually made our way out. We finally found some treed National Forest service land, and turned in. Up a snowy embankment, and within 10 minutes, not too different from last year, we located a tree. Slightly smaller, but fuller and heavier than last year, we took 4 feet off the bottom and ended up with a decent looking 11 footer. We dragged the tree downhill to the car, and then Eric deadlifted it onto No-No's roof, as I couldn't manage the lift from chest to straight over my head. Did I mention No-No is taller than HailNo? </p><p>As per our usual, we strapped the tree down, and headed for the self-car wash, where I cleaned off the tree and stripped it of dead and dying needles so the house wouldn't be quite so messy. Seriously, National Forest trees are dirty with a capital D. </p><p>And then home, where we de-treed the car and began the Christmas preparations. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOyRDpubq9LlcW-X0mLrMxGcyshNCCq4vcj-ekdr8iRBQEhtm8-MdM-z1GI-6epLjgRsAaT3YOaHx0ps6pBKO2cjyJ0whOsg3qEvjzL_vpwVmK37_N0rinWvj6nUI2cqlkysAWu-GzPw/s2048/0B4927B2-FC3E-44F3-88A1-3B3869339006.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOyRDpubq9LlcW-X0mLrMxGcyshNCCq4vcj-ekdr8iRBQEhtm8-MdM-z1GI-6epLjgRsAaT3YOaHx0ps6pBKO2cjyJ0whOsg3qEvjzL_vpwVmK37_N0rinWvj6nUI2cqlkysAWu-GzPw/s320/0B4927B2-FC3E-44F3-88A1-3B3869339006.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Cross-country trek, lost in the back country, random buffalo, 350 pound Christmas tree. Welcome home No-No, just wait for tornado season.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeR_nZl2W-aZWzxlnoMehIWfse2DGjN2kGbFIaodAsZ_XCmDaj18ZXyp3nqgtdQXBrvi1qPe0_a3ZtlRyuFj6h08E8AYl6HNsQlGkXGwnjf9dOAE-7nmjXvkWB7erk5eRaOi4m411YHg/s2048/2D56CC20-2488-4E70-B876-219FEF052E42.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeR_nZl2W-aZWzxlnoMehIWfse2DGjN2kGbFIaodAsZ_XCmDaj18ZXyp3nqgtdQXBrvi1qPe0_a3ZtlRyuFj6h08E8AYl6HNsQlGkXGwnjf9dOAE-7nmjXvkWB7erk5eRaOi4m411YHg/s320/2D56CC20-2488-4E70-B876-219FEF052E42.jpeg" /></a></div><p></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-40424642965727361822020-12-31T22:12:00.001-07:002020-12-31T22:12:10.713-07:002020 Out<p>We turned on CNN this evening to Mariah Carey self-promoting her memoir on Anderson/Andy’s New Year’s Eve special, which is about as #2020 as it gets. </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>It’s kind of amazing, that 2020 universally sucked as bad as it did. Misery is most frequently a solitary experience, and there is something in that we all experienced this, alone and together at the same time. In reality, tomorrow, Jan 1, will be no different than today, but the fact that it’s a new year is meaningful. We survived, mostly.<p></p><p>This year included days on the couch where I couldn’t get up from sadness and fear, runs into the mountains that felt so good I didn’t want to come down, weeks without seeing another person I wasn’t married to, camping with views of vistas that had to be seen to be believed, 15 hour work days where I felt like there was so much left undone at the end of the day, precious time at home with my guy, women in my life who lifted each other up and kept each other going, moments of crippling anxiety... all of it.</p><p>What is a bit fun is that at the end of each year, no matter how bad it was, we built in a celebration. Not only does the world celebrate, but Eric and I get our own special celebration, our wedding anniversary. </p><p>We celebrate 18 this year. 18 years of ups and downs, of adventures and homecomings, of times we didn’t know we would last one more hour let alone one more day, of times we couldn’t be closer. We are imperfect people choosing to do life together, and I love the man I am doing this life with. </p><p>We often spend our anniversary just the two of us, do this year, with fondue from a local place and Times Square on the TV, isn’t that different. But we also appreciate the select group of people we have spent our anniversary with- all except 2 in 18 years we are still in touch with: Matt, Javis (and girlfriend at the time whose name we don’t remember)Megan, Brian, Laurel, Adam, Tim, Susan, Amy, Allan, Krista and Steve. Thanks for being in our corner and celebrating with us.</p><p>Happy New Year, everyone. May the best of 2020 be the worst of 2021.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6yB5796mx7j_DOpbzmciAkNvrG-lY1T1s2Ve_606HVeSWb4nX157h97kEWe6K86XfpkXQfI_uXyYFM9_SzCifdsFsYivGJyfzD01YM2TuUoPw1iwyEaZn_sPxBMaXxyIhZ2J3q_IhGU/s2048/267C2EED-101B-4E36-8F32-A7BB59A1E612.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6yB5796mx7j_DOpbzmciAkNvrG-lY1T1s2Ve_606HVeSWb4nX157h97kEWe6K86XfpkXQfI_uXyYFM9_SzCifdsFsYivGJyfzD01YM2TuUoPw1iwyEaZn_sPxBMaXxyIhZ2J3q_IhGU/s320/267C2EED-101B-4E36-8F32-A7BB59A1E612.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-15471726798364493172020-12-14T10:58:00.004-07:002020-12-14T14:41:03.711-07:00Call Me by Your Title?<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My next blog post was going to be funny. And then I got busy and haven't written it yet and now I'm mad about something else entirely. So, funny is coming. In the interim, in case you happen to be female, an academic, have a terminal degree in your field in something other than medicine, or all of the above, this is for you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was largely offline this weekend, which meant I was a bit behind on the news when I played catch-up at o-dark-hundred this morning when I wasn't sleeping, which I hear is what normal people do at that time. So, I am slightly behind on blowing my top at the weekend's helping of sexism, but just in time for the follow-up quotes.</span></p><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The <a href="https://www.wsj.com/articles/is-there-a-doctor-in-the-white-house-not-if-you-need-an-m-d-11607727380" target="_blank">Wall Street Journal published an Op-Ed</a> on Friday written by a man who taught at Northwestern in the English department for God-knows-how-many years. In it, this man spends an inordinate amount of time </span>chastising<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Dr. Jill Biden for (clutch my pearls in horror) using her earned title of doctor because she didn't study or practice medicine. This, coming from a guy who admits he only has a bachelor's degree he "earned in absentia from the University of Chicago because he was also serving in the Army in the 1950's." Meaning, he's never gotten a terminal degree himself. He claims he never needed an advanced degree, which can only be described as the </span>penultimate<span style="font-family: inherit;"> in </span>privilege, afforded exclusively to white men of a certain era. Also, he's <span style="font-family: inherit;">old. I think the intentional inclusion of the 1950's was supposed to infer that he has the wisdom of years, but it turns out that "old" in this sense just means "rotten." </span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's the bull he opens his op-ed with:</span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Madame First Lady—Mrs. Biden—Jill—kiddo: a bit of advice on what may seem like a small but I think is a not unimportant matter. Any chance you might drop the “Dr.” before your name? “Dr. Jill Biden” sounds and feels fraudulent, not to say a touch comic. Your degree is, I believe, an Ed.D., a doctor of education, earned at the University of Delaware through a dissertation with the unpromising title “Student Retention at the Community College Level: Meeting Students’ Needs.” A wise man once said that no one should call himself “Dr.” unless he has delivered a child. Think about it, Dr. Jill, and forthwith drop the doc.</i></span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The "kiddo," the "bit of </span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">advice" and the "Think about it, Dr. Jill, and forthwith drop the doc" is so obviously condescending-old-man-misogyny that I cannot understand why the Wall Street Journal chose to publish such drivel. If that weren't enough, they then <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2020/12/14/media/wall-street-journal-dr-jill-biden/index.html" target="_blank">defended their choice </a>as "controversial" and went on to blame the Biden campaign for "playing the race and gender card" as if it wasn't the Journal's card of choice in the first place! If I were the editor, I would have stopped reading at "kiddo" and put this piece in the circular file where it belonged.</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mr. Epstein, dinosaur from an era where men were never called on the carpet for their bad behavior, goes on to say that a PhD just isn't the same as an MD, even though he WORKED AT A UNIVERSITY and presumably most of his colleagues, would have earned one. Especially in the heyday of student-professor formality during which we would have been employed, he and his colleagues would have insisted that PhDs be referred to with the appropriate honorific. </span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Next, as if to throw a bone at those colleagues I'm sure he used to smoke cigars in the university lounge with whilst drinking brandy as their wives were at home preparing the meatloaf, he says PhDs USED TO BE A THING. However, now academia is now been infected with malaise and since Dr. Biden</span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-weight: inherit;"> only got her EdD 15 years ago</span></span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">, it no longer counts. He also thoughtfully includes a brief mention of olden times when a "</span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>s</i></span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>ecretary with a pitcher of water on <b style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;">her</b> desk</i></span><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">" sitting outside the convening rooms of PhD exams at Colombia University to be ready in case any of the (white male) candidates "fainted" due to the pressure of the exams. The subtext here is obviously that since women started having the gall to</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> leave the kitchen and get their own degrees, clearly they don't mean anything anymore.</span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Epstein throws in that HE has an "honorary doctorate" - as if that were REMOTELY the same thing as a PhD. It's not, and we all know it. He also note that he was sometimes referred to as Dr. Epstein, and<span style="font-family: inherit;"> "</span></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>On such occasions it was all I could do not to reply, 'Read two chapters of Henry James and get into bed. I’ll be right over.'”</i> However, clearly he was able to restrain himself, even <span style="font-family: inherit;">though "</span></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>In contemporary universities, in the social sciences and humanities, calling oneself Dr. is thought bush league</i>." Having some experience myself working and volunteering for contemporary universities, I would like to note that the academics I have encountered with terminal degrees are referred to by others as "doctor," and use their degree initials in their signatures. Not all is as he claims. However, I think I have found something else that might match Mr. Epstein's description more aptly: allowing yourself to be referred to by an honorific you didn't earn, and then disparaging someone for using the title they did earn. Bush league indeed.</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: inherit;">The rest of the op-ed is behind the Journal's paywall and given their comments over the weekend, I am clearly not going to start subscribing. I safely assume the balance of the editorial was more of the same. Epstein's personal discomfort with a woman who has so clearly out-achieved him is so blatant it would be laughable if he hadn't also double-downed to </span><a href="https://www.cnn.com/2020/12/13/politics/jill-biden-dr-first-lady-op-ed-joseph-epstein-northwestern/index.html" style="font-style: inherit;">CNN this morning</a><span style="font-style: inherit;"> that he had nothing to add except he wrote this as "</span><i>light humor piece, but I fear there isn't much humor in the world, especially for the politically correct.</i><span style="font-style: inherit;">" To be clear, there is nothing, and has never been anything, humorous about a white male soothing his fragile ego by publicly denigrating a smart, capable woman. Unfortunately, in his dotage, I believe he is confusing "humor" with "being able to act like a jackass with impunity."</span></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;" /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This old man needs to go gentle into that good night (which hopefully he understands in the context of the original Dylan Thomas poem from which I paraphrase; he was an English professor after all). No one needs any more of his age and rage. I should also note that Northwestern has issued a statement distancing themselves from this guy, and has removed his bio from their website. How's that for "political correctness?"</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fondly,</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span color="inherit" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Megan the MSW, care to read my master's thesis, "Juvenile Firesetters: Typology and Treatment Options"? or my bachelor's thesis, "Romanian Students and Their Attitudes Toward the Future: 10 Years Post-Communism?" Or maybe you prefer to just pick at the "unpromising" titles?</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-32417048493797214272020-11-13T11:24:00.002-07:002020-11-13T11:24:53.422-07:00Forty-Two: The Secret of the Universe <p>It's been a month since I last wrote, and what a month it has been. I'm fairly confident the entire world is just exhausted, slightly feral, and ready to sit in a quiet corner with no bright lights or loud sounds for a little while. </p><p>And now its Friday the 13th. </p><p>But here's the deal; I'm pretty sure I've blown out my anxiety meter. I just can't get to "I care and I'm worried" levels and I think it may be because you can only have so many anxiety-induced migraines and panic attacks before your brain shorts out. I'm feeling like Ford Prefect in the <i>Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</i>, who looks at Earth being demolished with mild curiosity, instead of being Arthur Dent who is, justifiably, freaking the hell out. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>So, I go on.</p><p>In preparation for power driving straight through to Michigan for Thanksgiving, we are in full quarantine. No trips to the store, hiding from the mail lady, the whole bit. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I've returned to the stages of quarantine where I'm back to <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/04/things-that-happen-now.html" target="_blank">baking bread</a>, and going through the cookbooks for untried recipes. We are 2/3rds of the way through a cranberry, cinnamon and cardamom loaf, but dinner tonight is tacos, because I have corn tortillas I need to use up. This weekend will be new recipes, maybe the garden paella one I just copied out of a recent Food and Wine magazine, although I don't think I have any zucchini right now. By the way, we haven't made a ton of <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/04/reading-material.html" target="_blank">progress on the magazines</a>; they continue to arrive at higher rates than we can consume them. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The good news in this time? It appears that after six months, I have finally gotten through that terrible <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/05/truck-stop-tp.html" target="_blank">batch of toilet paper</a> I bought. One last roll and I can return to using the better quality supply we have in the house. Eric had a little panic moment this morning stemming from a nightmare he had last night about running out, so we went around the house and confirmed we have plenty, and are not in danger of resorting to old socks any time in the near future. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Happy Friday the 13th everyone.</p><p style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;">“I like the cover," he said. "Don't Panic. It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day.” - Douglas Adams, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."</span></i></p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-7005685261023812142020-10-07T15:00:00.002-06:002020-10-07T15:00:47.344-06:00Allies and the AxisOur existence on the side of this mountain has become a giant game of Risk, with us on one side, and an increasing number of aligned forces on the other. It started with the <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/08/im-alright-nobody-worry-bout-me.html" target="_blank">gophers</a>, then moved on to the rest of the <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/09/battles-on-all-sides.html#more" target="_blank">vermin filum</a>. <div><br /></div><div>They have added reinforcements. </div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>On Saturday, we got home from the farmer's market, and I noticed that our composter had been tipped over. Because I'm a bit of a granola, save-the-earth-hippie-with-slightly-better-hygiene, I have been composting for years. Or, as Eric used to call it "throw stuff into the woods," which is only partially true. I did compost over the back fence when we lived in Indiana, but I had a compost box when we lived in Monument. When we moved here, I had a pile for a while, and then friends of ours gave us their multi-gallon composter that can be spun easily for mixing. It's great. </div><div><br /></div><div>Except it's heavy. And fortunately, heavy-duty. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I picked it up and put it back in its spot next to our shed. The kids from below had been in the yard looking for their cat (eek, maybe our lazy predators got on their game finally?) so I thought that maybe they had tipped it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Monday, it was tossed halfway down the hill. Half full of compost and weighing a metric ton (well, maybe not exactly a metric ton, but it was heavy). </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigo1CZRt4g4BOtg53ZjzDZTSkMWHqhjFbsVbfBoyiiatZLIAf-CFVvSXOjI64D0d6cbpb9-CDP6cM4eNa2E_Ef-dFOp7cnoQLjO-EL2l7SL8qOxNQpa0AR_irnjt-m1QMk5bJVxW6-Cyk/s2048/E0C316B6-B377-45BC-829F-773EA7931BE2.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigo1CZRt4g4BOtg53ZjzDZTSkMWHqhjFbsVbfBoyiiatZLIAf-CFVvSXOjI64D0d6cbpb9-CDP6cM4eNa2E_Ef-dFOp7cnoQLjO-EL2l7SL8qOxNQpa0AR_irnjt-m1QMk5bJVxW6-Cyk/s320/E0C316B6-B377-45BC-829F-773EA7931BE2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>I tried hauling it back up the hill, but I had to do this alone since someone <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/10/florence-i-aint.html" target="_blank">is still on lifting restrictions</a>. Needless to say, that didn't work, so we had to pull the old <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/07/that-time-i-nearly-sunk-tractor.html" target="_blank">HailNo tow-strap trick</a>, albeit without a poorly positioned telephone pole this time. We got it dragged back up the hill, and Eric suggested we strap it down so it can't go flying again. We secured it with a cable to a tree and that was that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tuesday, Gary, the resident buck, showed up in the <br />garden and ate every last one of the carrots that were still growing in there. Not a single green leaf is left. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, the composter was flipped over and dragged to the other side of the tree from whence it had stood. Fortunately, the cable held, but the trail cam and the two puncture marks in the lid gave us proof of who was desperate for decomposing potato peels. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wtpHFenBeVgpI9rCHFsxOujOSHsu616U4zb6fbkmIc-5ugP13_dDAETycuZKVRqbxIOPQ0EvCa_-xNOMvjohhWhkEAs0ML3TMr9sNNe2DXvqlHccadQuteNiD9CSvgrQLuN0v-hzUUY/s2048/00000028.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wtpHFenBeVgpI9rCHFsxOujOSHsu616U4zb6fbkmIc-5ugP13_dDAETycuZKVRqbxIOPQ0EvCa_-xNOMvjohhWhkEAs0ML3TMr9sNNe2DXvqlHccadQuteNiD9CSvgrQLuN0v-hzUUY/s320/00000028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowlWqDctKIC0ISMuNq2jL7CA9cu8cxBnaZ2_-bexD_flA1Ln__FwFzwU1ciTcePKA-JFSXt092RAxHWWsaGgHag3hCxMy0qLHRnhvoLDtMxsiwz40-wYki2OkCUUTTdInyxdgmZS9i-8/s2048/00000031.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowlWqDctKIC0ISMuNq2jL7CA9cu8cxBnaZ2_-bexD_flA1Ln__FwFzwU1ciTcePKA-JFSXt092RAxHWWsaGgHag3hCxMy0qLHRnhvoLDtMxsiwz40-wYki2OkCUUTTdInyxdgmZS9i-8/s320/00000031.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'm not sure if we are the Axis or the Allies in this particular scenario, but I am pretty sure...</div><div><br /></div><div>We're losing.</div>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-64411733586368608952020-10-02T18:41:00.001-06:002020-10-03T18:45:25.745-06:00Florence, I Ain't<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4XFcy6DVjjRHJsCZq8-O63PivYNTVCIe6RlkGtomnL5OswjYHec4y5jVojqclwLXbXTIXrbRM9jf96GJwpoxPQdlYJg3ucCQU2BbfBZ0_cEt50K_Xotg-cK4St5T3QbyLJUWBKx75ss/s2048/6851549F-1F12-4DE1-959F-1CEE896FE1F4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4XFcy6DVjjRHJsCZq8-O63PivYNTVCIe6RlkGtomnL5OswjYHec4y5jVojqclwLXbXTIXrbRM9jf96GJwpoxPQdlYJg3ucCQU2BbfBZ0_cEt50K_Xotg-cK4St5T3QbyLJUWBKx75ss/s320/6851549F-1F12-4DE1-959F-1CEE896FE1F4.jpeg" /></a></div><br />Well, we made it to Friday, which after Tuesday's televised nuclear waste spill, I wasn't sure was a certainty.<p></p><p></p><p>Eric went in for a hernia repair on Wednesday. We were up early in the morning to get to the hospital, which is a little unsettling in and of itself during the time of Covid. We passed our screening, and went to the outpatient surgical center to check in. They took Eric back and I had some time to work before they had him settled in pre-op and I could go back to see him. We saw the doctor, hung around with little else to do but wait, and a couple hours later, they wheeled him off. I have to say, there's a gut check you have when the anesthesiologist comes in and informs you that this form of sedation includes a tube down your husband's throat and the doctor "breathing for you." I maybe could have done without that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fuZaLCX3Ju8m6OAUNkQuCeVH7-v6Rr3JqHk4l9zMsSsxWCSlVXQtjmenZoHSB-JEnJj8J0wbPLG-Sni0-cMIH_5TUvuT63XKrFR8EdicwVPikLNl1-7XGDkgePG5QY4O_Q8CDyQYYLk/s2048/9116E8BF-6AB7-4848-BC58-0F794542618D.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fuZaLCX3Ju8m6OAUNkQuCeVH7-v6Rr3JqHk4l9zMsSsxWCSlVXQtjmenZoHSB-JEnJj8J0wbPLG-Sni0-cMIH_5TUvuT63XKrFR8EdicwVPikLNl1-7XGDkgePG5QY4O_Q8CDyQYYLk/s320/9116E8BF-6AB7-4848-BC58-0F794542618D.jpeg" /></a></div><p></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>I sat in the lobby and worked, as the minutes and hours ticked by. It was quite a bit past when surgery was expected to be done, and the patient board kept noting "in progress," so I kept working and waiting. Finally, the doc came out to see me and told me everything was fine, but they did find a second area they had to repair, hence the additional time. But, things went "perfectly" and “oh, here's pictures!” I don't think I'll be framing those, but now I know what a closeup of my husband's intestine looks like.<p></p><p>After another hour, I got a call from recovery. Apparently they couldn't find me in the lobby (how? I don't know. I literally hadn't moved. I didn't even go pee and we all know how much discipline that takes for me), but it was time to go back. Eric was out of anesthesia, but still pretty groggy and not feeling great. It was a couple more hours before we were able to </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyIlgAhvK8ikVA5Ikym6svZOSduWA4c8C0q-Ua2VNxOdo053u3XxEcul6AY0WEBEhUUx69x5uc7tKU9ZkoT8zfeF1ZH1acRsD5eim6HF-y8qE-rcqI5tx8plbQgrZQvsnn6Tq8xI9Ozs/s2048/C20ADD34-3852-4F57-B719-9E5366F63B38.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyIlgAhvK8ikVA5Ikym6svZOSduWA4c8C0q-Ua2VNxOdo053u3XxEcul6AY0WEBEhUUx69x5uc7tKU9ZkoT8zfeF1ZH1acRsD5eim6HF-y8qE-rcqI5tx8plbQgrZQvsnn6Tq8xI9Ozs/s320/C20ADD34-3852-4F57-B719-9E5366F63B38.jpeg" /></a></div>leave, and we got the fun surprise that the anesthesia had affected his legs, and they weren't working so well... thank goodness for the wheelchair down! We got home and I acted as human crutch to get wobble-walk in the house. He slept for a while, and then later in the evening crutched out to the couch to sit for a bit before it was back to bed. About midnight his legs were back to normal, so while he needed some help getting up and down, he could at least walk on his own. <p></p><p>I had cleared my schedule for Thursday, so the day was mostly working, with occasional times to help Eric get up and down, have some meals, and insist he drink water like the nag-I-am. In the afternoon I ran to the store to pick up some medicine, and by special request, gummy bears. My work ended up being kind of hectic with some urgent-crisis-type stuff I was dealing with (crises are never convenient, but I would have perhaps preferred a calm no-news week), so I was trying to get out and back as quick as possible.</p><p>Enter dog.</p><p>Just about literally. </p><p>I had gotten to the top of our driveway when a dog popped out of nowhere, right in front of the car. She started prancing around the car, and darting in and out... and I can't go anywhere because I'm seriously risking running this pooch over- in fact, she disappeared at one point and I thought I did! </p><p>Fortunately, I was wrong and as soon as I got out of the car, there she was, trying to get IN my car. I tried to get her away, but she was not having it, so I jogged down the driveway and she ran down with me, all the way to the front door, where she stood as if she expected to be let in.</p><p>Please note that I do not know this dog. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuz9TiOaw8ILF5XasrnzVwoAXvlMLfqPvoBC30P0piId1D8CYHOBf0QwSy15Z1RaUq2ba6ygWWtdPdaDr7PZfw4ehCl9BodIfvbKt7GW0709aLkw6KnzeWlI_nL-bI-Xg3VIYgdsng1M/s2048/00EA2F72-9579-4795-9874-D64C0EFA1BA4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuz9TiOaw8ILF5XasrnzVwoAXvlMLfqPvoBC30P0piId1D8CYHOBf0QwSy15Z1RaUq2ba6ygWWtdPdaDr7PZfw4ehCl9BodIfvbKt7GW0709aLkw6KnzeWlI_nL-bI-Xg3VIYgdsng1M/s320/00EA2F72-9579-4795-9874-D64C0EFA1BA4.jpeg" /></a></div><p>I tried going back up to my car and she followed. I clicked the garage door open and she ran down the driveway and into the garage. By the time I got there, she was waiting in front of the door to be let in the house. I checked her collar and she has no tags, although she did have a shock collar? I took a photo of her and asked Eric to put it up on Nextdoor from his location on the couch, and see if anyone posted about a missing dog. No one had, and my new best friend was not leaving the yard or my side.</p><p>Eric suggested I tie her up so she didn’t get hurt while we found the owner, but I needed to do so away from the house as we have bait blocks around, <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/09/battles-on-all-sides.html" target="_blank">the latest landmines in our ongoing vermin war.</a> So I found some rope in the garage and made a long lead for her and tied her to the popup camper. </p><p><i>We all know<a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2013/10/meow.html" target="_blank"> how proficient I am with animals</a>, right?</i></p><p>The dog proceeded to whine piteously from the moment I walked 4 feet away from her. I brought her some water, but the whining continued. I got out a mat for her to sit on, and she cried from the moment I left. Why? I don't know and I have no way of knowing because DOGS DON'T TALK. Eric had no responses on Nextdoor and I had this pitiful creature in the yard, who only seemed happy if I was right there.</p><p>So I got Eric up and back down, took my computer and sat out there in the driveway with her. </p><p>For hours.</p><p>The dog decided that to be happy, she needed to be sitting in my lap or laying on my legs. Great. I have become the therapy for this traumatized animal. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2TIlT4qOTUpbD4NgD4LUxoUjQrJ4hr8wkWw28VB9DlxdTKuPLLHoEQUDHvsgCcoJFwavlWsLmW1CMKPt-2La63Yq6QR5UlWUZWFiSA6DaArPOVMcmfVQc8eIECB_jIu1h-mwCc8yalLU/s2048/C2845A81-9B15-4E9E-ACF1-49B228057D06.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2TIlT4qOTUpbD4NgD4LUxoUjQrJ4hr8wkWw28VB9DlxdTKuPLLHoEQUDHvsgCcoJFwavlWsLmW1CMKPt-2La63Yq6QR5UlWUZWFiSA6DaArPOVMcmfVQc8eIECB_jIu1h-mwCc8yalLU/s320/C2845A81-9B15-4E9E-ACF1-49B228057D06.jpeg" /></a></div><p></p><p>Finally, I called Animal Control because I didn't know what else to do. But, because of where we live, they preferred we KEEP her, or if I "really needed to" I could bring her to the Humane Society, but they closed at six. </p><p></p><p>By this time, it was getting to the point where I had to leave for the Humane Society to get there before they closed. I got Eric up and down again, and let him know I was going to take her. I didn't feel like we could keep her - although we did have a mild conversation about adopting her if her owner didn't reclaim her since she clearly liked me and she seemed nice enough. But, Eric's just had surgery, I didn’t know if this dog was ill or would jump on him, or god-forbid, had fleas (which by that point I would have too, since she sat on me for an hour). It was just a bad time to have a strange dog in the house. </p><p>I literally have my keys in my hand and am untying the dog when Eric called me from his roost in the basement. He found the owner, or at least he found photos of the last time the dog got out and figured out who the owner was. He told me not to take her so we could give the owner a chance to come get her. He messaged the owner directly, and when he didn't get a response, started contacting neighbors on Nextdoor to see if anyone had a phone number.</p><p>So I waited.</p><p>It got late, and I had to text our wonderful neighbor and beg some dog food, which she was gracious enough to bring over. The pooch scarfed it down like she had never eaten before, which was clearly not the case since she had... a thyroid condition?</p><p>I made Eric a lasagna and got him dinner, interrupted several times by an unhappy dog who went from crying to barking at my absence. Once I daned to feed my poor, recovering husband, I went back to attending the dog, mainly so she wouldn't annoy the neighborhood.</p><p>We waited some more. </p><p>By this point we were hanging out on the porch, and doggo-o was not happy that I wasn't giving her ALL THE TREATS since she knew I must have some, as our kind neighbor brought them over. She pawed at me and gave me hang-dog face. I was impervious. </p><p>Finally, it got too cold to be outside, and so I brought the dog into the garage. I pulled out some more mats and laid down a towel. I got her more water and then I went inside myself.</p><p>And promptly went down to the basement so I couldn't hear the crying. She settled down eventually. I took her (and Eric) to pee, and then both again before bed.</p><p>Yes, bed. Because it was now 10pm and I have become a canine caretaker in additional to temporary assistance to the poor and swollen. I got out a moving blanket and made the dog a bed, got worried that it would be too cold in the garage so put a space heater out there, got everyone settled, and down the three of us went.</p><p>The owner picked her up about nine this morning. </p><p>"She usually comes home" he commented. Because I am not our president, I was able to restrain myself from saying cruel or unnecessarily snippy things like, "not my responsibility to know what your stray dog does when she comes whining at my house asking to be let in and not leaving my yard," or "maybe if you paid better attention to your pets, I wouldn't have had a sleepover with your pooch" or the obvious "WE LIVE IN THE WOODS. WE HAVE PREDATORS AND YOUR FAT DOG IS BASICALLY CANINE BACON TO A MOUNTAIN LION."</p><p>Eric is doing much better today. We both got a shower and he had a work call, which took most of the energy he had, so we reinstalled him in his recovery position, poor guy. He hates needing help and not being able to do thing, so needs a reminder from time to time that he had a robot crocheting his insides 48 hours ago, and maybe that means that he needs all his energy to heal. Florence Nightingale probably would have kinder things to say, but clearly, I'm not her.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3860436222418696576.post-32601595839908826002020-09-25T20:02:00.001-06:002020-09-25T20:02:12.648-06:00Battles on All Sides<p>We live with nature. We love it. </p><p>With exceptions.</p><p>As you know, I was in a <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2020/08/im-alright-nobody-worry-bout-me.html" target="_blank">small battle with gophers</a>. </p><p>However, I now find myself in a multi-front creature war.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>It started with the gophers, but quickly moved on to chipmunks. Now, chipmunks are cute and squeaky, but they can wreak absolute havoc if they start burrowing where they shouldn't. And where they started burrowing was our stone wall. The same said stone wall that is directly below, and I dare say, holding back, the side of the mountain and and the carved out space on the side of it where our road runs. If that busts loose, there's a fairly good chance we end up with part of Pikes Peak in the yard, unhappy tourists and the county road commission asking us what WE are going to do about it. <p></p><p>We have some experience with chipmunks. We had some move in to our yard in one of our houses in </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqjJJjusS6S1Ailzr1HrUF2VNnoGc3sGiCEDJ_ToPI_ctWLmPBKxeXb0i0DlSf5PZaBnM75gb3e_-wPICfs0sWgxdQ3qleBjrQWt2dWkbtdGIsPfSmq-vCP_FEN4FsrcuOVGrGBZOmnk/s1777/Fall+2009+679_hq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1777" data-original-width="1608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqjJJjusS6S1Ailzr1HrUF2VNnoGc3sGiCEDJ_ToPI_ctWLmPBKxeXb0i0DlSf5PZaBnM75gb3e_-wPICfs0sWgxdQ3qleBjrQWt2dWkbtdGIsPfSmq-vCP_FEN4FsrcuOVGrGBZOmnk/s320/Fall+2009+679_hq.jpg" /></a></div>Indiana. They would literally get up on the roof and slide down the drain pipes. It was adorable, and I couldn't see offing them (although my neighbor, who had to pay to have her front porch reconstituted because of the burrowing, thought otherwise.) So we got a live trap. And back then, we would catch them, and I'd take them across the highway to a nature preserve and set them free. At that time, I named them after Supreme Court justices. <p></p><p>Despite the million times we have moved since then, we still had the live trap. Out it came, and ever since, I've been the de facto superintendent of the Cascade chipmunk relocation program. I'm naming after characters in Hamilton. So far, Washington, Burr, Hamilton, General Charles Lee, Hercules Mulligan, John Lawrence, Eliza, Angelica, Peggy and Thomas Jefferson have all found new lodging... in the field next door to a house with the giant Trump flag several miles away. </p><p>I thought we were winning, but maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to name my refugees after the folks that won the Revolutionary War...</p><p>They sent in the mice. </p><p>After more than four years without a trace (and if you have followed us for a while, you know we've had <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/08/you-cant-make-this-t-up.html">some experience</a> with mice <a href="http://www.7600adventures.com/2015/08/bears-and-mice-and-poop-oh-my.html">as well</a>), there is currently an extremely small mouse prancing his or her way around our basement, acting impervious to the traps we've now set. </p><p>There is another, much larger one that's been scouting the front porch. </p><p>We may need reinforcements. Or the Red Cross.</p>Megan B-Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08865425568697570276noreply@blogger.com0