New England Mamas

Boston, You're My Home

Those who read my regular blog know that my sister-in-law has breast cancer.  At 37, she has an aggressive type which, had it not been for the skilled hands of her OB/GYN, could still be growing rapidly in her body.  In the past two weeks, she has canceled her formal wedding plans, her planned honeymoon to Europe, and undergone two surgeries.

She is also getting on a plane to visit us soon, flying across ten states to see our family before she starts her chemo treatments (her visit has long been planned, and she is determined to make the trip).

When I found out that she was still going to be able to visit, one of the first things I told her was that she should call Dana-Farber and get in to see a breast cancer specialist.  I was careful to tell her that while I thought her doctors at home were likely very competent, and I didn't question their decisions thus far, "when in Rome. . ."

More specifically, when in Boston, avail yourself of some of the top medical minds in the world. 

This can be tricky territory.  I know that some people may have interpreted what I said to her as meddling or showing a distrust of the doctors she has back home.  But, that is not the case.  I have some history here.

Several years ago, my father was diagnosed with advanced colorectal cancer.  It had spread to several lymph nodes, he had a large portion of his colon removed and  "cure" was not an option.  Survival, for however long possible, was the only option. 

My sister and I went to him and offered to drive him to and from Boston for treatments.  He refused, saying that it was too much to ask, Boston was too far (44 miles from his home), and he had good doctors nearby.  The doctors he had seemed quite competent, but it drove me crazy that he wouldn't take advantage of the technology, expertise and opinions less than an hour from his doorstep. 

Quite a while after his diagnosis, we finally got him to see a specialist at Dana-Farber.  I know that my dad appreciated our commitment to him, and he liked this doctor very much.  The doctor reviewed my father's medical plan and agreed with his oncologist's proposal.  He also made plans to speak with my dad's oncologist regularly to review the plan for care.

But, there was little anyone could do.  My dad died in December '04, a few months after our meeting at Dana-Farber.   I will never stop believing that perhaps things would have been different if he had gone into Boston earlier.

(and let it be said that I birthed all my children  and had a few medical procedures done at a small, independent local hospital---I am not questioning the competency of such places, but questioning why someone, who is facing choices that can mean life or death, would not try to find the "creme de la creme", especially when "la creme" is so close).

Yesterday, my sister-in-law made an appointment to see a specialist during her visit.  My hope is that they agree with her own doctors' proposal in full, and she can feel confident in her care at home.

However, if after this appointment she says, "boy, I wish I lived in the area so that I could finish treatment up here", I will begin making a bed for her.

Local politics are better than television around here

It's been quite a week here in our fair city. I don't even think I can capture the insanity of it all, but I'll try to give you a bit of a peek into what happens when an entire city divides over money. You know, the root of all evil? Money, where some of the people have way more than enough, and some of the people have a lot less than they need. Money, which divides our city geographically, with the North being the less well endowed (monetarily, at least) and the South being where much of the Big Money resides. But not all of it. It's all an impression, anyhow.

So let's see what's been happening this week.

First, we have an override campaign in full swing. What's an override campaign? Oh goodness me, it goes way back to the 1980's when a certain bitch from Marblehead decided that she paid too much in state taxes and brought forth a law called Proposition 2.5, very similar to California's Proposition 13. The law states that the cities and towns cannot raise property taxes by more than 2.5% per year without an override vote. This vote means the entire town has to come out to approve any tax increase over the 2.5% raise per year. Since inflation alone gobbles up more than the 2.5% per year, cities and towns in MA have been slowly but surely cutting services they can no longer afford. Services for veterans, children, the handicapped, the poor, the elderly, the roads, the buildings, the entire state infrastructure. You name it, we can no longer afford it.

In our city the fire stations and falling apart. They are in horrid disrepair. Plus the firefighters are at war with the Mayor over a stupid mayoral policy about sick days, and so the Mayor has effectively reduced the fire department to an unsafe size. We've gotten rid of a lot of the po-po (no great loss as far as I'm concerned), our bridges are falling down, our school buildings are in such serious need of repair that we are in trouble with state inspectors. Our city hall itself is in pretty poor shape with a leaky roof and peeling plaster.

Needless to say, our city desperately needs an override. The money the Mayor is asking for, $12 million, is designated mostly for upgrading the schools. They need it, everyone in the city agrees that some schools are literally bursting at the seams from overcrowding while the school bathrooms are falling apart, the ceilings contain asbestos and lord only knows what else, and the roofs are leaking. We need to repair these buildings.

BUT... the city, in it's ultimate bizarro decision, also voted to rebuild one of our two high schools. Not only did they decide to rebuild, they hired architect Graham Gund,  a famous residential/commercial architect who has never designed a school building. Yes, his buildings are gorgeous. No argument here. But he designed a building for our new high school that is literally an homage to a VERY unpopular Mayor, with glass walls and a big zig zag design that will be very difficult to heat and air-condition. A design many people (myself included) thought was way over the top and way too expensive.

The city was so divided over the rebuilding of the high school that we held a vote just a year ago, and the people (not me) voted to use Gund's site plan and design. Sigh. So we're building the most expensive high school in Massachusetts at a whopping $197 million, but not by ANY means the most expensive high school in the country, despite what claims are made by the folks against any tax override/hike.

OK, with me so far?

So we have two sides, the people that are rabid Mayor haters and see a conspiracy behind every door. And the rest of us, who aren't happy with the Mayor but believe that improvements to the city's infrastructure are desperately needed.

Back to the override campaign. Again, the city is divided. The No voters, the people who would rather pull out their own teeth rather than to pay one more cent in taxes, are totally up in arms about allowing the Mayor another $12 million to "mismanage." The Yes voters believe that the Board of Alderman (BOA) along with the Mayor will use this money to fix the damn schools and fire stations.

Meanwhile, the city is getting major bad press in the Globe and the Herald and the whole state is laughing at us because we're seen as this richy-rich suburb that doesn't want to fix anything, while the Mayor is being portrayed as a total buffoon. Pretty accurately, IMO.

This week, the Mayor, in what can be seen as the worst case of bad timing ever, decides that he's going to increase his salary along with the salaries of many other city employees. OMG, you cannot believe the fallout. This got NATIONAL attention. Now there is background to this. In 2005 the Mayor was granted a salary increase by the BOA, which he declined. And declined again every year. He's only paid $87K to manage over 3000 employees in a city of ~90K residents. He's not only not near the top of the highest paid city employees, he's really poorly paid compared to other Mayors in comparable towns. So he decided that he would take the increase this week.

And the shit hit the fan!

Now, in all fairness to our Mayor, I believe that he should be making more. And the deal is, his pension is based upon the last three years of employment, so raising his salary for the last 2 years of his gig makes total sense for his pension protection.

But try and tell that the the malcontents.

Then they Mayor backed down and said he would NOT take the pay raise.

Hysteria ensued.

The local paper challenged the Mayor to say he would not run for another term (he has a year left) in order to get the override passed.

Then we all sat and waited.

State employees also asked the Mayor to step aside. As did members of the BOA.

This morning the Mayor held a press conference and said that he would not run for re-election.

Following this statement, the malcontents started on the city blog, saying that it was a 'trick' and that voting No on the override is the only way to get a message through to the Mayor. They don't seen to understand that we're not talking about the Mayor suffering, we're talking about the city workers, the children in schools, the firefighters.

Yes, it has been a very busy week in town. Every citizen I know is talking about our local politics much more than the national election. It's been so exciting and crazy here, we just about forgot there even IS a national election. We're all for Obama anyhow! Except the malcontents. They're Republicans. What a shock, eh?

Wherein I go on a Dyson tangent

I have a bone to pick with this guy:

 

You know him, he's the Dyson Vacuum inventor. Sir James Dyson, to be exact.

But I like to call him Sir D, because it makes him sound like a rapper, and that's cool.

Not so cool? Sir D has led me astray in my domestic duties.

I first started to hear a lot of good things about the Dyson about 4 years ago, right around the time I got engaged and was starting to think about my our wedding registry.

I'll admit that I was wooed by the hoopla surrounding the whole "no bag" thing. I would always forget to replace the bag of my old vacuum, and by the time I remembered, it just wasn't a good scene.

Besides that, I would always forget to buy new vacuum bags (things like food and other basic human necessities were at the top of my shopping list, shockingly) so if I actually did remember to change it, I would be out of luck (well, more so my dirty rugs than me, I guess).

In the commercials, Sir D would say that sure, the current vacuum models were great and all, but (and this was the important thing) they had ONE design flaw - they lost suction.

But because of his innovation - the bagless vacuum - all would now be right in the world.

Plus, he had a British accent, which automatically meant he knew what he was talking about. And that Sir title didn't hurt his credibility. (I'm easily impressed like that.)

So, pretty much convinced that Sir D had solved the world's big puzzle - and already addicted to registering for just about anything and everything at Target - I put the Dyson on my our registry.

 

I mean, he had solved THE vacuum design flaw, right?

And I we did receive the Dyson as a shower gift, thanks to my mother-in-law. I was all gung-ho about using it at first, and I was pleased with how it worked, although carrying that heavy sucker up and down the stairs was no easy task.

However, with two big dogs, which equaled big time shedding, which equaled increased amount of vacuuming, I started to notice that it just wasn't living up to its suctioning promises when it came to the dog hair.

Lo and behold, around that same time, they released a Dyson specifically created for use on pet hair. Unwilling to shell out $500 for a new vacuum when I we had just received one, I sucked it up (as it were) and only cursed Sir D internally for not coming out with the pet hair model before I we registered for our wedding.

 

But hey, if they already mastered that ONE design flaw, I thought, why would they even need a whole 'nother vacuum just for pet hair?

Just sayin'.

OK, so a few years have gone by now and I've been mildly happy with my Dyson.

My husband and I did have to send it back to Dyson once because it wasn't picking anything up... when it came back, it worked better for a few weeks, and then went to being so-so. Which was better than picking up nothing, but not great.

Honestly, though, it was too much of a hassle to get people back on the phone and have to send it back/wait for its return again.

I had just kind of resigned myself to the fact that it seemed everyone else loved their Dyson but me. But what could I do? Sir D had made THE FLAWLESS vacuum!

So imagine my surprise when I heard Sir D's voice from my television the other day, talking about how for hundreds of years, vacuum cleaners have had, "ONE fundamental design flaw."

Old news! I thought.

But nooooo! He was talking about a NEW fundamental design flaw... the fixed axle that only allows vacuums to go in a straight line. So he has now created the Dyson Ball vacuum, which operates with one big ball - no wheels - allowing the vacuum to "pivot on the spot."

 

He compares it to a computer mouse, which has a ball on the bottom so it can easily travel anywhere.

OK, I get that. But the absolute kicker in this commercial is when he says this line: "I mean, you wouldn't make a computer mouse with wheels, would you?"

Of course I wouldn't, Sir D. That would be silly!

But YOU DID make a vacuum with wheels. Remember that one!? The one that was supposed to be the be-all-end-all of vacuums.

I mean, I understand that things evolve and the need for new things comes about... but I remember in one of his original commercials, he said that he had gone through about 5,000 vacuum prototypes before he finally cracked the code in creating the perfect cyclone for his bagless vacuum.

Never once during those 5,000 failures did his team think, "Hey! Maybe there isn't just ONE design flaw to be working on?"

I mean, going through 5,000 prototypes must have taken awhile.

I'm just thinking that maybe a light bulb could have gone off in someone's head a little sooner.

OK, end rant. Consider bone picked.

Thanks for listening. I'm off to vacuum some dog hair.

- Jane

Ode to Stop and Shop from the Hummus VIP

Surprising and remarkable things always seem to happen to me while patronizing my local, less-than-perfect grocery store.

Oh, I've written about this black sheep of the Stop & Shop family before, a store I continue to visit almost daily despite its shortcomings. You've all read ad nausea about how I "take it where I can get it" from my bagger lady friend.  Believe me, her "You look pretty" compliments - regardless of how haphazardly or infrequently dispensed to one and all - keep me lining up with my basket of expired dairy products and wilted broccoli rabe, hoping that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day.

Or maybe, today will be the day that some random person does or says  something so nice, so beautiful, it stops me dead in my tracks.

Or maybe, today I will discover that my very favorite brand of hummus is now being carried by the store - the same hummus I publicly declared my love for many moons ago...the only hummus I will eat while watching Marat Safin play tennis (satisfying on so many levels).

Well, friends, today was the day.

While deciding which delicious flavor of Sabra Hummus to buy, I happened to notice a woman with a clipboard checking food product inventory nearby. I started rambling at her immediately.

"I just want you to know how THRILLED I was to see that you are now carrying Sabra Hummus.  I LOVE this hummus. I used to drive fifteen minutes down the road simply to buy this hummus from your competitor, but now that you're carrying it I don't have to do that. It's just so creamy and delicious and I am very very very happy.  So thank you!"

The poor woman probably thought I was completely nuts, but she was gracious and even shared with me some insider hummus information.

"We'll be carrying the Luscious Lemon flavor soon, too."

I may have drooled as I thanked her again and wandered off. About 30-minutes later, after I had unloaded my grocery bags into the car, I looked up and noticed that someone was walking straight toward me at a fast pace.

It was the woman with the insider hummus information.

She handed me this.
It turns out that she really was a Hummus Insider.  She represented the company and wanted to give me a VIP coupon that she had in her car.  What luck!  Such fortune!  Who knew???

Call me Ruth Dynamite, VIP of Hummus.

You know, I've been very excited about my town's plans to demolish this little Stop & Shop and build a brand new, bigger version in its place.  And as I write, construction of the new building is moving along full speed ahead.

Which leaves me with a lump in  my throat.  (Or is that an unidentifiable clump from that yogurt I just bought?)

I'm going to miss this stinky little store...where I always feel "pretty" and I never know what I'm going to get (whether it's a kind compliment, a VIP coupon for my favorite food, or a big tub of mold).

Cross-posted on Ruthless in the Suburbs.

You Know You're in MA When...

We love MA, don't get me wrong.  Next month we will have lived in our house for 7 years and I went to college here as well.  MA is our home.  However, because neither my husband nor I am from here, occasionally we see things that just crack us up.  I'm sure it's quite similar to someone from out East moving to Chicago and wondering what the deal is with all the hot dog places.  Hmmm... what's the deal with the lack of hot dog places out here? 

Last week I was in my usual morning spinning class when I noticed the teacher staring out the window and smiling.  She motioned for the few of us facing the window to look. That's how I knew there and then that I was in MA.  There were four wild turkeys staring back at us.  That's not a sight that I ever saw growing up outside of Chicago. 

My Ultimate: Hey Mama

("My Ultimate" will run most Tuesdays and will feature any topic that hops into my head.  The views expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of the other New England Mamas. . . although they should).

Should you need a Mother's Day gift for the mama(s) in your life,  you can turn to a fabulous online gift guide,  search etsy for ideas or take the easy way out and send flowers ("easy" still being a-ok with me; who doesn't like getting flowers?).

However, this being "MY" ultimate gift idea, I'll turn to that part of the body that is often forgotten but then suddenly remembered at this time of year, often with a look of disgust. . .the feet.

I really don't like feet.  I do not want to be touched by feet, even those feet of my cute little munchkins.  So, don't worry, I will not fill up this page with pictures of ugly feet in an attempt to make my point.  But, you should stop by here to see how one pair of ugly feet can ruin someone's perfectly ordinary day (her "ordinary" being my 'omigod').

Giving your mom the gift of a pedicure is not difficult, per se, but you should consider a few things:

Will she go alone, or do you need to take her?  If you need to take her, you should buy yourself a pedicure and get them side-by-side (hey, you're a mom too!).  This is particularly helpful if your mother is a "Spa Virgin" and is totally intimidated by the thought of entering a spa's hallowed halls.

Will she be insulted by the gift?  Giving a pedicure to someone with ugly feet can fall as flat as giving a new scale to the constant dieter or a Roomba to the messy housekeeper (not that I'd turn it down, hint, hint).   Instead, hide the pedicure into a "Day of Beauty" and add on a manicure or massage or facial (or all three if you are feeling particularly generous).

What kind of spa would your mother prefer?  Is she more Norwich Inn or urban Boston?  Do you have a favorite place where everyone knows your name?  And, by all means, if you like a particularly pedicurist, book your mom an appointment with her (or him).  We just took my mom out for her 65th birthday here  (Canton location), and she raved about Diane. 

Finally, don't forget to pack her some flip-flops so she can leave the salon in something other than those ugly disposable shoes the spa will give her.   With any luck, she will be hooked and pretty soon will say the words, "Hey, let's go back to that spa----my treat!"

On My Own.

The stars and planets aligned just right this weekend, leaving me alone in the house from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon.  Let me repeat myself:  glorious solitude is miiiiiiiiinnnneee! 

I don't know about other people, but I love being alone.  I've always needed time away from others, as far back as I can remember from childhood.  I'm the oldest, and my sisters and I are each about 20 months apart, so by the time I turned 4, there were 3 of us already. Some of my earliest memories involve time spent in secret hiding spaces, like sitting a closet or laying under a bed.  It sounds odd, but the memories feel safe and comforting. 

As I've gotten older and become the mother of a child with sensory issues, I've come to recognize some of those same feelings in myself.  Too much noise makes me jittery, strong smells make me gag, and I rely heavily on visual cues - bulletin boards, chalkboards, post-it notes on every surface - to keep me on track.  I also have an inordinate fondness for cashmere sweaters, flat shoes, and elastic waistbands.  These clothing preferences could be "sensory," but c'mon, I'm a chunky middle aged woman!  Let's call them "common sensory" choices, shall we?

As a parent of young children, you have to be in "Alert" mode all the time.  It is incredibly relaxing to be able to turn off that switch every now and then.  I don't think enough parents, moms especially, take the time to recharge by being alone.

I usually feel compelled to work on a project of some sort when I get a chunk of time alone like this.  This weekend, I am painting one of the small walls in my kitchen with black chalkboard paint.  I'm blasting the "inappropriate for children" music, I'm eating non-meals of cheese and crackers and fruit, and I'm watching gory investigative crime dramas full of fake autopsies on television.  It's wonderful, and I highly recommend it. 

If you are feeling frazzled and discombobulated, I have some advice.  This week, when your family asks what you'd like for Mother's Day?  Don't answer and say the usual flowers and brunch will be great.  Instead, just tell them to leave you alone.

Be vewy, vewy quiet...

Is it some sort of Darwinian impulse that keeps me from sharing the details of the house I am trying desperately not to fall in love with? I am a mass of contradiction. I feel like shouting out about it, and at the same time, I harbor a Gollum-like tendency to curl up around the property, shield it from the gaze of the world, stroke it tenderly and hiss:

"My preciousssssss.....my owwwnnnnn."

It's not like there is tons of competition in the town we are moving to. It's not like flocks of people are going to suddenly in the next 2 months (two months!!! AHHHHHHH!) move en masse to Aroostook County, Maine.

So. What the hell is getting my panties in such a bunch?

Maybe some of it is information overload. We saw 12 houses in the space of 9 hours. Houses in town, houses in the country, houses with crystal chandeliers, houses with scary, homicidal dogs, houses with apple trees, houses surrounded with farmland and nary another house in sight. I've learned about dug wells; drilled wells; septic tanks; the best foundation for the area (poured concrete); the pros and cons of metal roofing, and fireplaces; the wonderfulness that is the pellet stove; flood plains; waste disposal; heat zoning; the drawbacks of forced air heating;

Hmm. fast pulse, shortness of breath...panic attack coming on...

It's just a fucking house.

I'm healthy, if neurotic. So is my husband. (Healthy I mean). My daughter is happily tearing apart her room while I type. Our lease here runs out in August. We have to move by the end of July. Breath. Great. I just burned the fuck out of my lip with my green tea which thanks to my blasted travel mug is still scalding hot after ten minutes. Ah pain. The head cleanser.

Things are slowly falling into place. Daily, something is done to get us closer to our goals. We were approved for a mortgage. That's good. Dr. Science is one test and some paperwork away from obtaining his Maine medical license. That is also good. We have our passports all ready for our trip to the Netherlands at the end of June for Great Oma's 90th birthday. We have tickets. This is good.

We have 17 days between the time we return and Dr. Science's first day of work in Maine to move. That's...bad. We haven't made an offer yet. Also bad.

For those of you not in the know, the whole "this is good/bad" thing comes from the years in medical school. Particularly, from working in the ED. Things get down to basics very quickly when you have a short time to get results. So looking over a patient, one says..."he's breathing...that's good. He doesn't have a pulse. That's bad". It reminds you where your priorities should lie.

Right now it is...make the fucking offer already.

And be vewy, vewy quiet...

Cross posted at Rock the Cradle .

Titles. Tags. And labels. STAY AWAY!

I was at the playground yesterday with the boys. There were 4 other mothers standing around next to me watching their kids play.

None of us had ever met, but we all had kids that were about the same ages - 5 and under.

Out of the 5 of us there, 4 of us had 3 children.  So there were 14 kids playing together.  It was very cute.

But then one of the little boys started crying because his older sister “by mistake” threw sand at him.

This mother (obviously embarrassed) ran over to diffuse the sibling situation.

As she was doing her “thing,” one of the other mothers asked the group of mothers, “So which one is your cry baby?”

Cry baby!? Gee… great term for your child.

All of us were a little stunned by the bluntness.  After all, we just met.

But then… she goes on.

“My oldest is my cry-baby. All he does is whine. My middle daughter is an emotional roller coaster. Drama. Drama. Drama. She’s up, she’s down. And my youngest is my shining star. He’s the easiest child.”

So let me digest.

Older one = cry baby.

Middle one = drama.

Youngest = star.

Can’t see this not messing them up at all. And let me interject that her youngest is exactly Benjamin’s age. He just turned one last week. Let’s face it, anything could happen.

I just sat there listening to 2 of the other mothers “labeling” their kids too. Shy. Outgoing. Reserved. Little clown. Attention-getter. My athlete. My bookworm. Needy. My messy one.

AND LET ME REPEAT… the kids are all 5 and under!  Not one of them is in kindergarten yet! 

And the list went on.

I just kept remembering a family friend once telling my parents in front of Jane and me as kids… “Well, I can tell who the little shy one is out of these two.”

It was me. I must have been about 7 or 8 years old. And I have never forgotten that comment. I never had thought of myself as shy, my parents certainly never called me out on it. I just remember thinking, even at the young age, I will NEVER do that to my kids. I always respected my parents for never “labeling” or “tagging” or putting “titles” to any of us 4 kids.

So William, Alex and Ben… yes, you all have different personalities. It’s a beautiful thing to see. And yes, one of you is a little more comfortable in group situations. And yes, one of you likes to be holding my hand. And yes, one of you attracts a lot of attention from strangers with your funny little antics.

But you will never know which one it is. At least not from me. All of you are the funniest… cutest… most outgoing… and most LOVED little men in my life!

Where the Streets Have No Name

I'll give you a moment to get the U2 song into your head (or click on it so you can actually hear it). It will set the tone for this post. Then you can be mad at me for the rest of the day when you can't get it back out of your head.

One of the many things that just leaves me staring in amazement is the way streets are named in Massachusetts. Many streets do not appear to have a name. That's not to be confused with streets that change names every block. I've had quite a few debates with people over the names of streets. They will insist that a road may be called Belmont Street or Boston Turnpike, while I will point out that if I follow the signs for Route 9 and ignore when it is called Belmont Street, Boston Turnpike, Highland Street, or any other name, I will get to Natick and see the fabulous new mall with the Cheesecake Factory. Quite honestly, if it takes you to cheesecake, does it really matter what it's called?

This brings me to this past Sunday. I decided to take a second stab at running the course (literally) for the triathlon. Well...most of the course. I didn't do the swimming. I did the biking again with no problem. Then armed with the handwritten list of street names for the running course that I had copied from the triathlon website, I took off. Everything seemed fine, until I realized I was back at the main street without having run through every street on my list. Based on the amount of time that elapsed, there were two possibilities: I had doubled my running speed or more likely, I had somehow lost a mile of the course. How weird does that sound? It's true though. The same thing happened the week before when my triathlon training buddy and I also attempted the running part of the course. The only difference was that time she had written the directions.

Determined to find where I took a wrong turn, I retraced my steps. That's when I realized the third possible explanation. I had stepped into a Harry Potter book. You HP fans know that in order to get to Diagon Alley, someone (usually Hagrid) has to tap a strange pattern of swipes onto what looks to the average person like a brick wall with his umbrella. The wall then magically disappears revealing a magical town. I believe that the triathlon course is similar. I needed Hagrid to bring his magic pink umbrella to tap on one of the luxury driveways in this neighborhood to magically cause another street to appear. I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside.

Of course in this very nice neighborhood it is hard to distinguish driveways from small streets; I suspect one of those non-driveways may be the missing link on the secret triathlon route. I did take a gander down several driveways, but after getting weird looks from a homeowner or two, I decided it was better to hedge my bets that the course will be marked on race day than spend the next several hours in jail after the cops were called on me for trespassing. That would make me want to run and want to hide. This does impact my race gear. In addition to needing shoes, a bike, a swim suit, a helmet, brown and a bag to wear over my head or throw up in (but not in that order), I also need a magic pink umbrella.

Alright, I am sure the prosaic among you may have come up with another explanation for the missing mile on my triathlon route. It is possible that the map on-line was wrong. It could also just be my mistake. My spinning instructor told me that she missed the microscopic street the first time she ran that triathlon while waving back at a friendly (or mischievous) neighborhood kid who waved at her. HP magic sounds way more fun. My favorite explanation remains the possibility that I developed superpowers and ran the until course in record breaking speed... All I can do is what I told my training buddy. "When I go there, I go there with you. It's all I can do."

Cross posted at Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting