Scars & The School Board Race

My left knee is a mess.

It is covered in scars from bike crashes and an ACL surgery. The ugliest scar is from when I took a tumble delivering a campaign yard sign to a neighbor when I ran for Seattle School Board ten years ago.

My neighbor, Mr Eckhardt, was an elderly man who lived on Ravenna Blvd. Ravenna Blvd is a beautiful thoroughfare through Northeast Seattle designed by the Olmstead Brothers to connect Green Lake and Ravenna Park. It is one of the most beautiful streets in all of Seattle.

It was mid-afternoon in the late summer. I was going to deliver the yard sign before I truck down to Renton to watch my middle school aged son play in a soccer tournament.

I was wearing a khaki skirt and a navy blue cashmere sweater and I am drinking homemade hot chocolate in a travel mug for my mid-afternoon low-kay caffeine boost. It is summer in Seattle--a little chilly so the sweater and warm drink are fine. I was lowkey dressed up, as I always was during the campaign. I learned the hard way that I always was on stage after I went to pick up my son at school after Rocket Club. I wouldn't say I was technically wearing pajamas, but I was wearing an old t-shirt and ratty sweat pants that I had slept in before. The kids were late, and I had to get out of my car and talk to my base. In my pajamas. My then husband was horrified when I told him about it.

"You are always on stage. All the time."

I thought that was a little extreme. I mean, it was a down ballot, local race. I wasn't running for Senate or Congress or City Council, but he had a point. 

I was the establishment candidate, running for office after a few years as a parent advocate and President of the Seattle Council of PTSA. I wasn't some rabble rouser candidate, lambasting the District and the current Board. I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I had to look and act the part.

My neighbor isn't home, but the eighty year old frail Mrs. Eckhardt is. She is shy and takes the sign. I thank her for their support of my campaign, and head back home. 

About twenty feet from her house, I trip on uneven pavement. If I were skiing, the fall would have been called a yard sale. Everything went flying -- the travel mug and me. I took years of ballet as a kid and I am more graceful than the average bear. Not to brag, but I usually don't fall. Last year, I was walking in Pioneer Square and my foot caught uneven pavement and I went flying, but I defied gravity (take that, bitch) and avoided the ground and a lamppost. 

I wasn't so lucky in the summer of 2015. I hit the pavement hard. My travel mug popped open and the  hot chocolate burned my hand, but my poor knee took it the worst. Six months before a skiing tumble would lead my to ACL surgery, my knee had a pretty bad scape that my future surgeon and physical therapist would look my knee, grimace, and ask what the hell happened. 

It was ugly. 

The cry and screams I let out were uglier. A burned hand was one thing, and a bloody knee was another, but both? OMG. I let it all out.

I screamed and I cried and I ran back to my neighbor's house to ask for help. The little old lady was terrified at me covered in tears and blood and hot chocolate.

"Can you help me?" I pleaded. She led me into her kitchen. I ran my hand under cold water as she pulled out a clean kitchen towel. I wet the towel and cleaned my knee. The cold water and blood made the blood look worse, like there was way more of it than there actually was.

I was a mess. I walked home crying and blubbering, blood running down my calf.

It was the first time I had an emotional breakdown in public while running for office. Remember, I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I wasn't out protesting, yelling and screaming. I was the one on the sidelines, watching the protests, listening, talking to people on the sidelines. Then I'd go back to the halls of power and get shit done. I likened my political style to State Senator Jamie Pedersen, the rational, logical, reserved and composed politician to who wrote the legislation for marriage equality in the State of Washington. While others were marching in the streets, waving flags and carrying signs promoting gay marriage, I imagine Jamie heads down, locked in the halls of government making those protesters dreams a reality.

That was what I aspired to be--the person who made those collective dreams a reality.

After my fall, it felt good to cry, even if my knee was full of gravel and my hand as toasted. After being buttoned up for months, it felt good to let loose and cry in public, full on with snot bubbles.

Looking back, I wonder why I didn't show my emotions more during the campaign, why I wasn't sad or angry or outraged, why I didn't cry and yell and pound my fist.

I don't know. Maybe if I had, maybe I could have won.

Bigger Than the Whole Sky

If there is a feeling in the world—with the exception of being a parent, Taylor Swift has probably written about it.

“Bigger Than the Whole Sky” is a song about grief, with some theories suggesting it is about a pregnancy loss. 

As many of you know, I had a stillbirth twenty-seven years ago. Each year around this time, I remember Ada. My dad sends me flowers every year on her anniversary, which I am always grateful for. 

This year, the grief hit me harder than it typically does, and I didn’t know why. Maybe I am looking back, and wondering how my life might have been different if she had lived. But why now? Why not when my kids were little? Why now that I am divorced and an empty-nester?

Maybe now I have more space for the grief, more than I did after Claire-Adele and Pedro were born. I was so busy being their mother that I didn’t really have time to miss Ada and wonder how my life might have been different. I was grateful—and am grateful—for my kids. I traveled with each of them this summer and it was great. I would trade them for all of heaven and earth. I am so lucky. 

And I still wonder what direction my life might have taken if Ada had lived. I might have been a working mom. Jack and I might have stayed in Chicago and not moved to St Louis or Seattle. Motherhood might have been easier, and then life might have been easier. I might have had less fear and more confidence and joy. I wonder if my marriage would have not have imploded.

Thankfully, it isn’t every day that I revisit this grief. I am learning not to fear this impending grief. Perhaps I can view it as a visit from Ada. She’s stopping by to say hello and wish me well. Maybe instead of crying about it, maybe I can welcome her in, and we can have a cup of tea.

Unpacking my Bags

The Seattle Mariners have made it to the next round of the Major League Baseball playoffs. Go M's!

I just checked baseball scores, and fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, the Cubs lost today to the Milwaukee Brewers, not advancing.

But what if?

What if the Mariner had to play the Cubs in the World Series? Who would I root for? The baseball team of my childhood and my twenties, or my current hometown team? I've lived in Chicago longer than I've lived in Seattle, but not by much. The gap gets smaller every year.

I was talking to my friend Christie the other day, a Seattle friend who was born and raised in Chicago. She was once called out on rooting for a Chicago team after living in Seattle since she was thirty.

"You haven't unpacked your bags, have you?" he asked her.

Have I unpacked mine? Would I root-root-root for my home team, or my hometown team? 

When the Cubs won the World Series in 2016, I was elated, not just for me, but my grandfather's ghost. He unpacked his bags when he moved from Sicily to the U.S. in his twenties. I think the first thing he did when he arrived in Chicago after finding a job was to become a Cubs fan.

When the M's won last night after a marathon fifteen innings, I heard the fireworks from T-Mobile at my downtown condo before the internet posted the score. I was thrilled, after biting my nails for most of the game. I wanted the M's to win, and I would have been sad if they had lost.

I love Chicago and I love Seattle. They are my two favorite cities in the U.S. Asking me which one I like better is like asking me to pick my favorite child. It isn't fair. 

Nevertheless, these cities aren't my kids. Should I be loyal and root for my hometown team, the Cubs? I saw my first Major League game at Wrigley Field when I was twelve. I attended games there in my twenties with my girls and Jack. Or, should I unpack my bags and root for the team where I live now, the city where I raised my kids, where I ran for School Board? Which city and team would I root for?

After much soul searching and introspection, I realize the answer is simple. I'll root for whichever team is losing.

Thank you for your Service!

I was at work today and one of the women had to leave to attend a PTA event. She is PTA president at her daughter's high school. 

"Thank you for your service," I said. 

Back when I was PTA president, people would say that to me all the time, but I didn't get it. Now I do.

Of course, we thank people for their military service, when then risk their lives and limbs for their country.

PTA, though, is different. People don't get paid for PTA. It is quiet, but it helps schools run. It would be great if schools were funded well enough that they didn't need a flotilla of volunteers to support them, but even well funded schools benefit from parent involvement.

This is service that helps all of our kids grow up and reach their potential. PTA work is often quiet and behind the scenes, like shelving books in the library or putting together a student directory or counting money from a bake sale. Or it is messy, where parents help in the lunch room, art class or on the playground. 

Even if my kids are grown and not in school anymore, they benefited from every parent that helped at their school.

I thank them for their service.

 

Skinny People and T&A

Ozempic has hit Seattle.

I have seen a bunch of people shrink before my eyes. It is a little weird to see someone who was previously carrying an extra eighty pounds in the gut look like a bean pole, like one of the guys I used to work with who had a truckload of health problems. I didn't recognize a woman in my building because she lost so much weight. And this woman I would not have considered heavy. Maybe she was a little thick, but not any more so than other middle aged women. She looks like a different person, and I saw her a month ago. I also have one friend who lost a significant amount of weight, and she looks fabulous.

I don't want to pass judgement on people who take the drug or don't take it. I clearly understand the health benefits of losing weight. There is a Seattle doctor who believes in prescribing Ozempic for her obese patients who have Type 2 Diabetes and are on multiple meds for high blood pressure and whatnot. She figured if you get rid of the weight issue, then everything else takes care of itself. Her patients on Ozempic don't need other medications, which is awesome.

Nevertheless, I wonder if all of these vanishing people are taking Ozempic to get off of meds.

I got an email from one of my health care groups asking me if I was interested in a weight loss drug. I plugged in my numbers and it popped back that I could lose up to 30 pounds. (I've lost at least ten pounds since my peak pandemic weight, which is nice.) 

Would I want to lose that weight? I am not so sure. Filling in the computer questionnaire, it made me wonder. I worked my way out of Type 2 Diabetes by adjusting reducing processed foods, sugar and alcohol. I don't have high blood pressure. I am not on any medications related to my heart or kidneys, nor am I on anti-depressants. I would love to be more fit, but I am not sure I wanted to be smaller. I think I'd rather exercise more--walk, play pickleball, ride my bike, hike and paddle board--before I'd take a weight loss drug.

I am also thinking I like my body more or less the way it is. I don't think I want to change my body that much that I'd take Ozempic. To be fair, when I gain weight, it adds to my curves. When I was complaining about my weight once to my daughter, she said it doesn't matter if I gain weight since it all goes to my "boobs and booty."

Even if I were to lose weight, I'd still have the same life, the same job, the same problems. Ozempic wouldn't give me a personality overhaul, make me funnier or kinder or smarter. 

Norway!

Aside from the emergency plane landing, the blustery arctic weather, and calling search and rescue to find my missing daughter, the trip was great!

A friend recently asked me the best thing about the trip, and I said the bread. In the U.S., whatever they put in the bread makes me fall asleep. In Norway, they had a hearty brown bread that I'd slather with butter and salt. Soooo delicious! And I stayed awake!

The boat ride through the fjords was amazing, beautiful, and peaceful. There were ten people on the boat, including the skipper. Everyone had to take turns making meals, cleaning the kitchen, and help running the boat. The skipper could do it all himself if needed, but everyone was able-bodied (some more than others) and we took turns at the helm and hoisting the sails. One of my co-workers asked if I was fully trained to be a deck hand. Yes, not as much as Claire-Adele. She was one of the few people on board who would jump off the boat onto the dock to pull the boat in. My agility isn't what it used to be.

One of the most important things I learned was how to get along with eight strangers in tight quarters for more than a week. One woman told her travel companion to fuck off and they didn't talk to each other for the rest of the trip. Honestly, I wasn't surprised that didn't happen more often. But then again, being kind is a choice. In order to survive and have a peaceful holiday, everyone has to give grace when crammed together like a bunch of sardines. 

I am not going to talk anymore. I know you want to see pictures. Here you go!

The Boat

The Northern Lights. Photo taken by a friend from the boat

At the end of the trip without washing my hair eight days. Not too bad!

Cabin

Fresh catch

My new hat and fancy sunglasses.

We got to hike a bit, which was nice.

Our boat, the Draco.

The Draco again

Red was the cheapest paint color ages ago. White was the most expensive. Who knew?

Me and a boat friend taking a cold dip.

The orange one in the middle is the Draco.

Me before the trip, both excited and terrified.

Trollfjord

Hibernating and Water and Boat

 I've been back from Norway for two weeks, and I am still hibernating from the trip. I am not sure what is going on. I feel like I have cotton in my brain,

Today, I got back on the water with my paddle board. Green Lake is full of toxic algae, so I went to Lake Washington. It was so nice to be back on the water, floating and bouncing and riding the waves. 

One of the weirdest things about being on a boat is getting off the boat and getting on land. When I've taken fishing trips with Pedro, we stand on a float boat for hours along the Kootenai River. When the trip was over, I get back to the hotel and the room felt like it was swaying. One of the women on the Norway trip called the phenomenon "Boat" when you are on land but feel like you are swaying like you still on the boat. It means your body has adjusted to the boat, and rebels when you are off of it. Or maybe my body was missing being on the water.

Today, I was happy to be back on the water. I never thought that being on the water would be my happy place, but it is becoming that way.

Assumptions

August 28, 2025

First, everything is fine. I’m still in Norway and this story has a happy ending otherwise I wouldn’t be writing about it yet. 

Claire-Adele and I took a gondola up a mountain in Bergen for the view. It was great. From the top of the mountain, there are several hiking “trails.” I loosely use the word trail because Europeans “tramp” instead of hike. In the US, we stay on the path for fear of stamping on flowers or grass or whatever. Europeans are much more cavalier: they walk wherever they want - trail or no trail. 

Anyway, Claire-Adele and I took a gondola to the top of a mountain and went for a short hike. There is a bar and grill at the top of the mountain, and it looked like someone is hosting a corporate event here.

So we go for our hike, and we agree that will split off. It is about 6:20 p.m. She will hike ahead for about ten minutes, and I will stay and wait for her. When she comes back, we will take the gondola back down the mountain and take the bus back to the hotel around 7:15. We will go to an Indian restaurant near the hotel.

I wait for Claire-Adele. 

And wait.

And wait.

It isn'y uncommon that hiking takes longer that one thinks it should, so I am not alarmed.

It is close to 7:00, and I've been in the same spot for almost 40 minutes with no sign of her. I wonder where she is. I text, but no reply. I text her to tell her I am going up the trail a bit to see if I can find her.

I can't.

I text again. No reply. 

I text her on WhatsApp. 

No reply.

At 7:00, I wonder where she is.

At 7:15, I become concerned.

Around 7:30, I start to worry. I head back to the cafe to see if she is there. She is not. I ask a few people I saw on the trail if they saw a 25 year old woman in a white shirt and black pants. 

No.

Claire-Adele likes to hike and will take her time, but she has never been inconsiderate.

I tell someone at the cafe I can't find my daughter. There aren't forest rangers here -- just people who work at the restaurant. A woman listens, and looks alarmed.

"Someone died here three months ago," she said.

Now I am panicking.

"Would you like me to call the Red Cross search and rescue?" It is 7:45. It is getting dark and it is raining. By 8:15, I've talked to the police. They ask what hotel we are staying at, and if she could be there.

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't see her cross me on the path. I don't think she is there." I am convinced she is still on the mountain, lost or hurt or worse. She still isn't answering her phone.

"Should I go look for her on the trail? Should I go back to the hotel?" I ask the Norwegian police officer. 

"No," she said. "Wait in the restaurant." It is getting cold, and Claire-Adele isn't wearing a warm jacket. When we came to the mountain, it was 75 degrees. Now it is raining and in the 60's. I hang up with the police officer. She has my number to call me back.

I am lost be befuddled. I consider calling someone--anyone--stateside. At what point to I call Claire-Adele's dad to tell him she is missing?

I stare at my phone, waiting for something.

All of a sudden, I see her initials pop on her text screen.

"I'm at the hotel," she said. "Where are you?"

I burst into tears, sobbing. The cafe people call off the police to let them know Claire-Adele has been found. The help me down the gondola, and order me a cab back to the hotel.

"My phone died on the mountain," she texted. "I had 15% and then it died."

I meet Claire-Adele at the hotel.

"I am so sorry, Mom," she said. "You must have been scared."

She has no idea.

We discussed how we got our wires crossed. When she walked back, she didn't see me on the trail, so she assumed I was back at the cafe. She saw a woman who looked like me get on the gondola, and went down. It wasn't me, she quickly figured out, but it was too late. She waited for more gondolas, before she walked two miles back to the hotel. She plugged in her phone and texted me.

I assumed that since I didn't see her that she was still on the mountain. I also assumed her phone was charged and she got my texts.

It all ended well, but man that did a umber on my nerves.

On Top of the World

Aug. 18, 2025

I’m sitting right now north of the Artic Circle. I can’t believe it. It freaks me out a little bit to be so far away from home and to be some place so remote. I’m in the little town of Bodo (pronounced Buddha) which is mostly industrial until fifteen years ago when they decided to cater to tourists.

In a two days, Claire-Adele and I will embark on an eight trip through fjords of Lofoten on a fifty foot sailboat.

Right now, it is raining sideways, the wind is howling and the water is choppy. 

I am going to spend eight days on a boat in this shit?

What the fuck am I thinking? Why am I doing this? How come I didn't read the fine print or google where "Lofoten" was? I had no idea it was north of the Artic Circle. I thought the trip dipped north of the Artic Circle, but we are well above the line now, and the trip starts further north. My friend J did this trip last year and I thought it sounded super cool when J talked about it. I sent the link to Claire-Adele and let her pick the trip. Seriously. It was fine she picked the trip, but I could have read about what she picked. What was I thinking?

My friend Jen took a road trip in Norway last year at the same time and she said it rained every day. Not a little rain, but it poured. The videos on the website show people in bikini's jumping off boats. There is no way I would be jumping off a boat in this weather. No way. I doubt I'd die, but it would be really, really unpleasant.

Yeah, so I'm terrified. I am excited, but also terrified. Terri-cited, I think is what Glennon Doyle would call this.

I hope this doesn't suck.

Maybe it is better that I didn't read up about this before. I probably wouldn't have signed up.

Yes, I am north of the Arctic Circle.

Scandinavians know their pastries.

Defeated & The Scream

This morning I woke up in Oslo and had a new realization about my travel debacle from the day before: I felt defeated. I didn’t go into the city of Copenhagen because I didn’t want to inadvertently mess up an already exceptionally challenging travel day. My logic was particularly flawed: just because one thing got royally messed up (see: Flight 1438) doesn’t mean that everything else was going to get botched. I am a human, not a robot, and my emotions and level of fatigue do impact my level of performance. 

Overall, I felt defeated. I already had been through the travel wringer and I didn’t need to feel worse if I couldn’t connect with Claire-Adele. 

This morning, I saw Munch’s The Scream. What impressed me the most was the number of people who wanted to seen it, like it was the local Mona Lisa. Can all of these people so deeply relate to the angst and agony? Can I?

Flight 1438

First of all, I’m fine in Oslo. Nothing bad happened, technically. Just a scare where an abundance of caution took place. 

I had flown in from Seattle to Copenhagen this morning and was scheduled to take a flight from Copenhagen to Oslo. The plane took off, and when the landing gear pulled up, it made odd noises. Like, I’m not a pro when it comes to how an airplane should sound, but I’ve been on enough flights in my life to know that this rising of the landing gear was much longer and screechier than usual. 

After the gear went up, I conked out. I was exhausted from the international flight from Seattle. Plus there were two guys sitting next to me who I did not want to engage in conversation because I’m a judgmental snob. The guy next to me was sweating. Not a little. A lot. Like a sweating disorder kind of sweat. No one else on the plane was sweating. (There were also a couple of rednecky looking guys on the plane that I recognized from the Seattle flight who I also dodged.)

Halfway through the flight, the pilot comes on speaking some Scandinavian language and I understand “circling” and “holding pattern” and “Oslo.” I figured we were circling Oslo.

Nope.

The pilot came on in English and said one of three hydraulic systems were broken and we were circling Copenhagen, dumping fuel, preparing for an emergency landing.

That was not what I was expecting. 

I suddenly decided to be nice and chatting to the dudes next to me.

“You missed the flight attendants running to the cockpit earlier,” the sweaty guy said.

The flight attendants then gave us instructions on how to brace for an emergency landing. I saw the movie “Sully” where the flight attendants were yelling “Brace! Brace! Brace!” as that plane landed on the Hudson River.

“Prepare to brace,” the flight attendant said, “and prepare to evacuate. If we need to evacuate, we will yell ‘Evacuate! Evacuate! Evacuate!’”  

I have flown a lot over my life—mostly for work—but I’ve never had an emergency landing because the plane was malfunctioning.  

The flight attendant was standing next to my row, and the sweaty guy and his friend (both chatty souls from Wisconsin, god bless them) asked the stewardess what to do. She pointed to the bracing image in the safety card.

She seemed calm, but her hand was shaking.

Oh shit, I thought. This could be rough. There are times in one’s life where all there is to do is pray. That was all I had power over.  

Then I realized I could put my passport, phone and wallet in my pocket so if I did need to evacuate the plane, I could call people, get a hotel, and get back home.

Then I prayed for the pilots to land the plane safely. I prayed for the flight attendants. I prayed for the other passengers, including the sweaty guy and his 23 friends from the Wisconsin Norway Historical Society. I prayed for the rednecks.

The plane landed fine. Firetrucks and safety crews were parked next to the runaway. They checked out the plane before they let it back in barn with the other planes to make sure it wasn’t going to burst into a ball of flames at the terminal with a bajillion gallons of jet fuel nearby.

Back in the day when my ex was a medical resident, he earned extra cash by going on medical flights. Once he was on a Lear jet that prepared for an emergency landing when they thought the landing gear was stuck. The plane landed fine, but the fire trucks were waiting on standby in case something bad happened. Jack initially wasn’t worried about the landing gear or thought he was in danger until he saw the firetrucks on standby.

Planes have redundant systems for these exact reasons, and the good thing is that they usually work. I have a friend whose grandfather was a Boeing engineer. Decades ago, someone wanted to put in five redundant wing operations systems. That idea was scrapped.

“If you are in a situation where you need to go to the fifth system,” the grandfather had told my friend Lance years ago, “you are going to have a way bigger problem.” Like the plane would be heading to the ground in a ball of flames or something.

Once we landed, then came the challenge of getting a full flight of people to Oslo. I was supposed to meet Claire-Adele there at 12:50 in the afternoon. That wasn’t going to happen. I called her to discuss the situation. She had been looking up my flight information, but couldn’t find anything. 

One of the challenges Claire-Adele and I faced was should I try to take a flight to Bodo directly the next day, or should I swing through Oslo. I waited for a while to get an answer. The answer was no. If I changed my Oslo flight to Bodo, my return trip to Seattle would be cancelled, which would not have been good.

After this experience, I can see why rich people have private jets.

Then I was hungry and then I went to get my boarding pass.

Claire-Adele suggested I get out of the airport and go it to Copenhagen. When I was planning this trip, I had no plans to visit Copenhagen and I had no idea where to start. I texted my friend from high school who has friends and relatives in Denmark and the Netherlands. 

By the time the dust settled, I would have had two hours to explore, but I was fried. Let me put it into context how tired I was: I missed the Wordle today, not because it was a hard word, but because my brain was firing on 20%. I didn’t feel confident navigating a new city on the fly and have to make it back to the airport in time. Plus I was seriously afraid I’d get on a train, fall asleep, and wake up three hours away from the airport. I needed to rest. But believe me, there was lots of inner conflict: should I rest and drink hot chocolate and work on an embroidery project at the airport or should I have an adventure? Rest won.

My HS friend understood. “If we were there together and we got stranded, at least we’d be stranded together.” Yeah.

At the Oslo airport baggage claim around 11:00 pm, I saw the rednecks from the Seattle and first Oslo flight. I said hello. They were three guys from Bend, Oregon on a dudes vacation. They showed me how to take the train into downtown Oslo, which I appreciated. I was going to take an Uber, but they said the train was safe, fast and clean.

“It’s Norway,” they said.

I asked if they went into Copenhagen.

“It was awesome,” one of the guys said. “The Ironman race was going through town. There were 100,000 people out and about.”

I need to be nicer to strangers while traveling, especially my fellow Americans, no matter how annoying they might be. I should have befriended strangers before and after this chaos. Who knew that sweaty guy was actually kind to flight attendants, and got us good information? Maybe I could have joined another group on an adventure into Copenhagen when I was afraid to go by myself.

My treat for surviving the emergency landing.

Boats versus Fire & Wheels

My daughter and I are going to spend seven days on a sailboat cruising the fjords of Norway at the end of the summer. The boat will be a 45 or 50 footer, with three crew members and nine guests. This will be a working boat ride -- the guests will be expected to help with meal prep and sail the boat. 

Claire-Adele insisted I take at least one sailing lesson before the big trip. I was nervous about it, so I waited until the last possible moment to take a class at Sail Sandpoint. I scheduled the class for last night, less than a week before I leave for Norway.

It was fun. Lots of fun. It was a beautiful, warm night and we rode small catamarans. We never got going fast enough to get up on one side, but still it was a blast, even if I was on a boat with a 20-something mansplainer* who was otherwise very nice.

As the boat was floating on the water, I was amazed. As a civilization, we think that fire and the wheel were the top inventions of ancient worlds.

I think the boat should be up there with fire and wheels. Seriously. Who thought of the way to get across large expanses of water on a vehicle? Why would anyone want to do that? Did it start out as something practical, or did someone try it out for fun? Did our distance ancestors know how to play? Puppies and kittens and lion and bear cubs know how to play. Why not humans from thousands of years ago?

I digress. I can't believe I've lived in Seattle--a city surrounded by water--for decades, and I never learned to sail. Since I can't go back to my thirty year old self and take those lessons, I am taking them now.

*Note to mansplaining men: Sometimes when a woman says "I don't know what to do" or asks for help, it means she is processing or perhaps lacks 100% confidence in the task at hand. It does not mean she is a helpless, clueless idiot who would be lost without your guidance. She is simply looking for an opinion, which she may or may not take. Since biblical times (see: The Red Tent by Anita Diamant, which NGL I never finished), women needed collaboration skills to survive motherhood. I believe asking for support is wired into our DNA as a survival mechanism so the results of the pains of childbirth could survive into adulthood. It was a matter of life and death: Should I feed my baby a raw egg, or should I cook it? Honey? My baby is barfing uncontrollably. What should I do? I know you don't mean to mansplain, but that was probably how you were socialized. Likewise, many women today were socialized to doubt themselves.