Ode to Homer Simpson

I've been a casual Simpson's fan from it's conception back in the late 80s. Being a square straight-A's Lutheran girl, I was initially drawn to bad boy Bart's impudence and lack of respect for all authority (did he really just tell his teacher to eat his shorts?!). I don't watch the show as frequently these days, but during those occasions when I catch it I find my devotion has been diverted to another character--this time to Homer.

Just what is it about the bald-headed, pot-bellied, simpleton Homer that catches my eye? His obsession with donuts...aggghhh. Yes, it is his devotion to all things sweet that resonates with me, for I, too, am a sugar-haulic.

Today my drug of choice came in the form of Nerds and Laffy Taffy. This week I made the egregious error of buying a large bag of this type of candy to keep in the car for bribing Jack. (Go ahead, judge if you want. This is not a blog about good parenting, after all, and it works). Now this was poor judgement on my part for various reasons, the main one being that, due to an extreme lack of self-control, I have been using the sugary stuff to cope with what can only be described as a week to forget.

Now I know that there is nothing redeemable about this food (if that is an accurate term for something that is fluorescent red and yellow and tastes like bananas from a can). It is pure sugary junk and does horrible things to my body's glucose levels, has high teeth-rotting potential, and makes me feel like flopping down on my couch and watching tv (see "Simpson, Homer").

Lately I've been wondering how cutting out refined sugar from my diet would affect me--my workouts, my energy levels, my moods. In Ultramarathon Man, (a book I would not recommend unless you are interested in reading a poorly written autobiography about a man with an extremely high estimation of himself) the author talks about how he was forced to cut all white sugar and simple carbs from his diet in order to train for his 100+ mile runs. Now I consider myself a reasonable person so obviously I would never do something that extreme (I am talking about cutting out all sugar, but the running 100 miles seems a bit insane to me as well). It would be, however, an interesting experiment to try: would the gains made in energy and performance outweigh the sacrifices made in taste? Not sure if I'm willing to try this...yet.

Dietary reasons aside, though, I have been thinking a lot about my relationship with food. Our culture has an intense love/hate relationship with food. We use it in occasions of celebration and mourning. We make it the center of social gatherings, but we also often find ourselves eating alone. We laud food for the joy it brings, while cursing it the next morning when we are unhappy with the number on the scale or that empty pint of Ben and Jerry's, as will be the case tomorrow (it was worth it!!!). It is the body's source of energy, yet it can kill us if we consume the wrong things. On the whole, the way we think about food can be complex and confusing.

This doesn't resonate more clearly with anyone than it does with me. Food is something I've struggled with in some form or another for as long as I can remember. I've had something referred to as "disordered eating", and while God has helped me through that, there still remains something abnormal in the way I eat. This week is a perfect example: between Boy #2's teeth, Boy #1's cold, and Kevin's grad school, I just about went insane. My usual stress relievers--working out, time to myself--were encroached upon by uncooperative children and I found myself at my wits end. So, to whom did I turn? Nerds. Laffy Taffy. Candy. I turned to candy and I ate to my heart's content and my stomach's discontent.

There are many problems with this, but the main one is that I turned to food during a time of stress when I have a resource, a stress reliever, a source of comfort like no other. The God of the Universe wants nothing more than for me to call upon Him in my day of trouble. He is omnipotent and promises to deliver me. I believe this, yet when things get tough, I find that my functional savior turns out to be lumps of oddly-shaped sugar that will do nothing but rot my teeth and add pounds to my hips.

I want to eat healthy. I want to feel good about myself physically. But more than anything, I want to tap into the power of my Redeemer. I want to call on Him in every season, good, bad, or indifferent. I want to live as though every bite of food I put into my mouth should be done in communion with him, as though we are dining together. This is possible. I just have to turn away from my measly gods (and they are gods, if I am honest with myself) and turn completely to Him.

So sorry, Homer. I envy your ways, sure. Who wouldn't want to eat a box of donuts before lunchtime? But your donuts have got nothing on my Lord.

Disappointment. (For Lisa)

If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.
-Henry David Thorough

Disappointment This week has been fraught with it. There has been the disappointment I've felt in Virginia and it's unrelenting heat. I'm so over the 100+ degree days I could scream. Seriously, summer, we get it. You're hot. Can we move on now? It sounds melodramatic, but I feel like the heat's affected almost every area of my life--I can't take the dog and the kids for a walk without putting all of us at risk of heat stroke, I can only enjoy our new screened-in porch by gazing at it from inside my house, I've been extremely irritable and impatient with my kids, and I'm L-A-Z-Y. The heat has zapped my motivation, which means no early morning workouts, which means working out later on in the day, which means not running or swimming or biking, which means a lower quality workout, all which translates into another form of disappointment--the disappointment I feel in myself.

Fortunately, last night I was blessed to have found something to serve as a scapegoat for my disappointment. Actually, it was a place--a restaurant I will call Shoe, or the restaurant formerly known as The Shoe, so as not to give away it's real name. Shoe is a local restaurant in a trendy area of town with a laudable goal: to "explore and preserve our fine Virginia heritage food-ways". Meaning, I suppose, it tries to buy locally grown food when it can and changes it's menu to correspond with the seasonal harvest. I can definitely support this. I enjoy jumping on bandwagons, as Shoe has done with the localvore movement (or, in our server's words, "the slow-growth movement"). So my husband and I, along with two dear friends of ours, decided to give their fare a try.

Unfortunately, Shoe is going to have a difficult time convincing anyone to eat local with food items such as they served last night. The biggest travesty they committed was in their calamari. A little known fact about my husband is that he LOVES calamari and likes to order it at most every new restaurant at which we eat. I'm sure if The McDonald's offered calamari as a new item on their dollar menu he would give it a try. Thus, seeing it on Shoe's menu as an appetizer, we decided to order it.

Bad idea. The server brought out the calamari. There were four of them. As in, four pieces. For those of you who have never ordered this delight, most places serve calamari much like french fries. There are a bunch of them and they are fried. Squeeze some lemon on them and muaw--delicious. So to see four pieces of grilled squid come out was a little--wait for it--disappointing. The squid had been cut up and stuffed with what the menu claimed was "shrimp, orange, black olives, basil, and zucchini". What the cooks REALLY stuffed in there was onions, onions, and some more onions with a side of mandarin oranges from a can. We all were game for trying it, though, as this was an $11 appetizer. As you can imagine, no one at our table was even the slightest bit impressed. The squid itself was rubbery and tough to chew. The stuffing was all onions, which I, for one, do not even like. As for the shrimp...well, if it had managed to find a spot in there amongst all those onions, I couldn't taste it. Nor had I the opportunity, as when you are eating one little piece of squid the size of your thumb you don't really have a chance to savor its flavors.

The entrees? I'm afraid they were a disappointment too. Jonathan's potatoes were cold, Kevin's lasagna was burnt, and our pasta (Lisa and I ordered the same thing)--which the waitress told us was far and away the best pasta dish being served--was, well, disgusting. And perhaps we should have guessed this, as we ordered black fettuccine. Come to find out that they use squid dye to give the fettuccine its color, which may make the pasta "a little saltier" than that which we are accustomed to. A little saltier and a great deal less edible, in my opinion. Yuck. Needless to say, we won't be eating at Shoe again. As far as I'm concerned, Shoe deserves The Boot (o; (this is an inside joke for those of you who are wondering what is wrong with me).

Fortunately, there is a silver lining to my week of disappointment. So I didn't work out first thing in the morning. I have just come off a two week vacation. I am ok with giving myself a grace period to readjust to normal life. At least I didn't waste my time taking a post-workout shower in the morning, only to step outside and immediately be drenched with sweat. Next week will be better (at least for working out). And although our dinner was yuck, I thoroughly enjoyed the company of our friends last night, as I think we all did. The nasty cuisine only made for more jokes. And because no one enjoyed their meals, no one ate very much, and we all felt entitled to get some ice cream following dinner. So I got to dine on a large bowl of Cold Stone guilt free. How's that for compensation, Henry David?

Now, reading this post you may be disappointed that it has almost nothing to do with the rest of my blog. Maybe you are right to feel that way. Or maybe you can view it as a form of solidarity--not only are you reading about my experiences with disappointment, you are experiencing a form of it yourself. We now have that in common. You see? I'm just doing my part to bring us closer together. You're welcome.

Tri time!

I just realized it's been almost two weeks since the big day (my triathlon) and I've yet to blog about it! In my post-race excitement, I've been too caught up in searching for future tri's to reflect on my inaugural race. Obviously, this means the triathlon went well, but this blog would be incomplete if I didn't at least touch on my first tri, the Stevens Point Lactic Edge Sprint Triathlon (how official sounding!).

Let me begin by saying that there's a lot more prep work for a triathlon than for a running event. The eve of the triathlon found me scrambling to get together all the equipment needed for this deceptively simple event. The swim required a cap and goggles. I needed a towel to dry off following the swim, and I needed shoes and socks following that. I had to make sure my bike was ready and that my helmet fit. And I couldn't forget my running visor or my stopwatch. And I am an amateur, which is to say that I don't use a wet suit for the swim, or special bike shoes which I would have to change in order to strap on my running shoes. All the prepping didn't help my nerves, but fortunately I had everything I needed come race time.

My dad and I drove the half hour to the park in Point where the event was taking place. I was immediately struck by how small the crowd was: there were maybe 250 or so people taking part and another handful volunteering or spectating. The other thing that jumped out at me was the lack of hybrid bikes people were unloading from their cars. Now I had expected to be one of the few with a non-road bike but I didn't see ANY hybrids, which caused me to panic. As this was my first triathlon and I didn't know what to expect, I had set the goal for myself to not stick out, meaning, don't do anything embarrassing! Finishing dead last because I had a bike that resembled the one on The Wizard of Oz was not going to help me keep my goal. Fortunately, I found myself next to an easy-going guy my age who walked me through the events. He had a road bike, albeit a very old one (think 1970s Schwinn) and was a first timer as well, which helped me relax.

After waiting an obscenely long time, during which I must have checked my gear and gone to the bathroom at least seven times, the race started with the 500 yard swim that took place in a dirty-looking river (I am not exaggerating when I say that I had a lot of green gook in my shirt post race). Entering the race I was pretty confident with my stroke, but when I actually got out in the open water with all the other frantic swimmers, my nerves--and the other swimmers' elbows, legs and feet--got the best of me and I panicked, causing me to loose my breath. I did make it, though, albeit slowly, and didn't have to be rescued by one of the folks on the long boards, which counts as not sticking out. Yay for meeting my goal in the first leg of the race!

Next it was on to the bike. The 17 miles took us through the back roads of Stevens Point, which are brown and boring. There was very little to see, but it was beautiful. Why? There were no red lights to wait for, no intersections to stop for, no cars to move over for, and no obnoxious drivers yelling out the window for me to get off the road. I could bike without fear. I was slow, but I loved the ride and felt great throughout it's duration. (And I did not come in last. A win.)

The last leg of the tri was a 3.1 mile run. This was really the only portion of the race in which I felt confident. Initially my legs rebelled at running after biking for an hour, but I've run for much longer distances before so they eventually gave in and shoved on.

And that was it! I finished! And didn't do anything too embarrassing. Overall, I loved the triathlon, but while participating a few thoughts came to mind that surprised me. First, I was shocked to feel so...isolated. Obviously you are not talking to anyone during the swim portion. The bike portion really separated individuals from each other, so that I occasionally forgot that I was in a competition. I found myself yearning for the type of conversation you hear during running events, about how crazy we all are for doing this, or how hard it is or where the next water station is. There's a connection between runners, albeit unspoken, in the body contact and even in the small talk you hear between people. This tri had none of that and it surprised me how much I missed it.

Secondly, and this is by far the bigger issue for me, raw talent and training can only get you so far in triathlons. If you do not have the proper gear (read: "bike") you will not be competitive. I haven't looked into the cost of a road bike, but I know the good ones are a few thousand dollars, an amount which I am not willing to dole out on a bike for myself quite yet. And so I pedal my mountain bike, going nowhere and getting passed by everyone. This was fine for my first race, acceptable even, but I know myself and I know that in future races I will not be quite so cavalier about it. It really made me appreciate running. All you need are a pair of shoes (not even that if you come from other countries) and you are as apt to perform well as anyone else.

Despite these pitfalls, I loved my first triathlon. [Oh, I should mention that my dad was not able to compete due to an injury that set him back (he is on pace to compete in the Waupaca tri come August), but he was my number one fan and I loved having him there to share in my excitement.] The excitement still lingers, and I definitely plan on doing one again, although there is some work to be done between now and then (for starters, I need to learn how to swim. A road bike would be nice, too). And I must now make the decision on whether to train for another tri or for the OBX marathon in November. Oh how I love choices like these!

When life gives you lemons...

I have an informal list running continuously in my head that consists of the reasons I enjoy living in Hampton Roads. Although the list is something I forced myself to compile, I try to dwell on it frequently, as thinking about Virginia's good points helps me to have a positive attitude toward my circumstances, something I struggle with occasionally. My reasoning is that we aren't leaving the area any time soon, so I might as well embrace it.

Lately, however, the list has been receding to the background as I find more and more faults with the area. The most prominent fault as of late? Jellyfish. Just when I became comfortable swimming in the bay and embraced that body of water as a convenient alternative to my pool, out of nowhere I get attacked by one of those horrid creatures.

Jellyfish are something I have never given much thought to. I've seen the strange gelatinous creatures wash up on the shore in the past, their transparent membranes plastered to the sand, rendering them seemingly innocuous. But do not be deceived by their heavenly beauty. From my scant research, these predators will search you out with whatever primitive sensors are available to them. And when they do, any part of their tentacle that touches you leaves a toxin that feels the equivalent of 1,000 bee stings.

My initial reaction to the sting was panic. I instinctively reached for my leg to pull it off, which proved to be a mistake as the diablo just stung my hand and arm as well. With a yelp, I ran onto the beach, screaming to Kevin, "I've been stung by a jellyfish!" over and over. A few feet away a lounging beach couple took that as their cue to come over and strike up a conversation whose topics ranged from the jellyfish sting the guy received the previous day to our adorable boys to where we originated from. Now, ordinarily I am a fan of meeting random people on the beach, but this was hardly the time. I was in PAIN. I was also being actively pursued by a gigantic horsefly who had decided to lunch on my leg. The sight of my now bloodied leg proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back, and I hastily made my retreat from both my family and the well-meaning couple with the poor timing. I jumped on my bike and headed for home, where I learned that the best remedy for treating stings is NOT to pee on yourself but to cover yourself with a vinegar-baking soda paste and let that sit for five minutes. (good to know, as it seems much more reasonable and far less disgusting to carry these things in your beach bag than a bottle of urine).

As I rode home I'll admit that I found myself crying. The tears were not so much from the pain-- although believe me, they very well could have been--as from a feeling of betrayal. Betrayal from what I'm not sure. The bay would be a likely candidate. I've been faithfully swimming in that unfamiliar body of water with the hope that I would grow to embrace it, or at the very least to tolerate it, and I felt like I was making progress. With this sting, though, I've been set back quite a bit. I figure it just as easily could have been my two year old getting stung, a lively little boy who ADORES water, waves, and sand. An event like that would have scarred him, much like it did me.

As much as I want to blame the bay for all my woes, I am discovering--or rather, admitting--that overall I am just not at home in this place. The busy roads that qualify biking as an extreme sport, the monotonous concrete blocks, the salt water and stinking jellyfish--it is not my ideal. Of course, I may be overly nostalgic as I'm writing this from my beloved state of Wisconsin in my beloved (I can't believe I just said that) hometown. I've been here for close to two weeks and have been running daily on wooded paths, biking on trails and friendly roads, and swimming in fresh and jellyfish-less waters. I am drinking in the slow-paced life that this place offers and yearning for it, not just because it suits me so perfectly, but because it suits family life so well. Sharing some of the places most precious to me with my boys has been close to a dream come true. Sadly, those places just don't exist for me in Virginia.

One thing Virginia does have, however, is jobs, so there we remain. I hate admitting it, but I've resigned myself to that fact and I feel defeated by it. Hopefully this thing with the jellyfish is just a small battle lost in the war to change my attitude toward Hampton Roads. Right now at this moment, though, it sure feels like I've surrendered the war.