Sick Day

As a wife of an intensive care doctor and a mother, I've learned to perfect the art of not acting sick when I am. I need to be bleeding out of an orifice or not breathing to be considered "ill" by my husband. Anything less = Suck it up, Buttercup. You'd think he was a Marine. As a mom, I never had a day off when I was sick. Ever. I know there are some nice husbands who skip work when their wife is vomiting or whatever. Not mine. He goes to work when he is sick himself. The only accept reason for missing work in his line of business is: Death, Your Own. You'd think doctors would be more sympathetic to themselves and their colleagues when they are sick. They are not. They are completely hypocritical.

So, I've perfected the art of pretending not to be sick. I should get an Academy Award. Or maybe an Emmy. I've driven carpools. I've gone grocery shopping for myself. My secret: drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. 

-- Allergy pills (Zyrtec, Sudafed, etc.) and cold medicine
-- Allergy eye drops
-- Allergy nose spray

-- Ibuprofen

-- Pepto Bismol

-- Vitamins: D, C, B, Folic Acid, whatever else is in the cabinet

-- Cough drops

-- Tea: black, green, and herbals like Wellberry made with elderberries to prevent the flu.

-- Hot lemon and honey
-- Kombucha

-- Coffee

-- PLUS: Vacuuming to get rid of allergens.

My second secret is make-up, dressing up and smiling. Sick people don't smile; ergo, if I smile, people won't think I'm sick. I've got this mastered. I've been on death's doorstep, did my drugs-make-up-smile shtick, gone to run meetings, and come back home and dropped dead again and no one knew I had that horrible pig flu that was going around a few years ago.

Why the martyr act? Eh. I don't know. I know my blog is supposed to be about introspection and whatnot, but even I can't make sense of my irrationality here. I suppose it has to do with my old job -- stay-at-home and volunteer--not having clear boundaries around being sick. And my husband doesn't think people are sick if their heart is beating.

Monday, I was feeling sluggish. I tried biking twenty miles, but couldn't. I am good enough shape to ride twenty miles, but I was too tired to pull it off. Tuesday morning, I woke up with a sore throat. I went to work anyway. I figured between dry night air and stuffy nose, my throat might have been a little achy as a result. I figured getting up and moving would make me feel better, plus I did my little regimen above. 

Tuesday morning, my co-worker called in sick with a sore throat, and then I felt like a heel for showing up possibly germy. So I smiled and told myself I am fine. It is probably just allergies and I am not contagious. I was outside all weekend and this is what the plant debris looks like in my neighborhood. Mother Nature gave this mouse statue a pollen blanket.

At work, I was fine until after lunch. I became very, very sleepy and my throat hurt like a bitch. I went to the company over-the-counter medicine cabinet (where I am a frequent flier) and took one of everything. I still felt like I was going to fall asleep. I told my manager I not feeling well and went home. I slept for three hours.

This morning I woke up and still felt a little meh. I took a handful of vitamins and allergy pills. I went to the coffee shop and got a split shot mocha, and I still felt meh. I figured I was really sick if I still felt bad after coffee.

Why am I dissecting this? Because now I am back at work after being a mom for so long, I no longer know what it means to be sick. I don't when I should stay home because work and home used to be the same thing.

When I came home Tuesday night, my daughter asked me, "If you are sick, why are you running around doing the dishes?" Excellent question: Why am I running around, doing the dishes? Answer: because no one else will do them and... I suppose the dishes could wait, but I'd have to do them anyway, so sick or not... It is all messed up.

The standards for decorum and professionalism are higher at work than at home. Today, I had the attention span of a gnat. And I was grouchy. And tired. I ordered a Beacon Hill sandwich from Bagel Oasis and I had to drive to the other side of Ravenna to get it, which is like five minutes away by car. I was too tired to drive. Who on earth is ever to tired to drive? Me, I guess. I was a cranky driver, too. Why is this pedestrian trying to cross the street? They are in my way, I whined to myself. Why is this car trying to park in a spot I want? My thoughts had the same hideous virus or allergy attack I had.

I laid in bed for and hour and a half, not asleep, but not awake either. I just laid there and did nothing. The phone rang and I didn't get it. 

At one point during the day, I checked my work email. There was a note from a leader from one of the lines of business congratulating a group for a successful service launch. This group of twenty people did this work in the middle of the night, like 2:41 a.m. 

Then, it all became clear. Those people who normally work regular business hours who had to pull an all-nighter didn't need me grogging around, possibly contagious. That is why people stay home from work when they are sick. 

Also, being sick sucks and people who love you should take care of you when you are sick. But when you are a mom, the people who love you can't take care of themselves, yet someone needs to take care of mom.

Tell that to the good doctor.

Tuesday

This is my first Memorial Day since I started my job last August. Last Tuesday, I went to lunch with several members of my team, and the conversation turned to plans for the holiday weekend. One person had plans to go to Oregon, another was going camping. Another was going to host a barbeque with friends.

"What are you doing, Lauren?" they asked. What should have been an innocent question gave me a pit in my stomach. Jack would be working all weekend and I would have the kids. I wasn't sure if they had plans or not. Jack and I did have plans to see a play Saturday night, but that was it. The pit in my stomach grew larger when I thought about the Tuesday after the holiday weekend, when everyone comes back with tales from their holiday.

Being a doctor's wife, I have experienced every holiday, birthday and anniversary alone, all more than once. That is part of the deal of working a field that requires 24/7 coverage: someone always has to work.

I hadn't thought about the loneliness of the Tuesday after a holiday weekend in a long time. Before, I was a stay-at-home-mom, so I didn't have to go talk to a group of colleagues about my weekend, what I did or didn't do. Northeast Seattle is a ghost town over holiday weekends. My friends are usually not available because their families are often just as busy or out of town, too.

Thursday, I was feeling super cruddy about my lack of plans for the weekend.

So I made some. I texted Ellen and Carla to see what they were up to. They both had half a day open. I didn't want to just walk Green Lake for the 3,000th time. I dusted off three books of walks in the Seattle area. We picked walks outside of Northeast Seattle. Carla and I walked Interlaken Park and ate lunch at the Volunteer Park Cafe. Ellen and I went to the Boeing Creek Park in Shoreline and then Richmond Beach. Yesterday, I took the Boy to Duthe, a mountain bike park where he rode a trail called Gravy Train with thirteen roller hills jumps. I logged about 30 miles biking for the "Bike Everywhere Challenge."

Peer pressure made me get off my duff and make plans, whereas in the past I didn't have to report to anyone about my weekend. Even if my colleagues don't ask about my plans, that is fine. I know I had a good weekend.

Ellen crossing the creek at Boeing Creek Park. This trail was super sketchy, which was fun.

A Nice Weekend

I spent the afternoon with Claire-Adele and Fox today at Discovery Park where there was a seasonally low tide. Surprisingly, the park was not jammed packed.

Nothing major to report here other than I had a lovely afternoon with my daughter in a beautiful spot before she leaves for school in three months. Jack and I used to bring the kids here when they were little. After a while, they became too busy with soccer and Lego Club and volunteering to go to parks on weekends.

The Third Wheel

Monday morning this week I woke up and I was in a bad mood. When I am grouchy, I try to do this exercise where I ask myself:

1. What am I feeling?
2. Why am I feeling this way? Is there a cause?
3. What am I going to do about it? How will I react?

I’ve had to adopt this strategy since I started working again as it is not acceptable or sufficient to haul off and tell people they are pissing me off. But don’t think I’m all zen or whatever. I’m not.

So Monday I am grouchy.  Did I watch too much Ali “being a stay-at-home mom is like being in solitary confinement” Wong and now I am hostile at the three people who put me there?

Yeah, possibly.

This past weekend was my daughter’s prom and Mother’s Day.

First, the boutonniere debacle. Claire-Adele ordered flowers to be delivered for the prom. For Winter Ball, her boyfriend wanted to get her a corsage and she did not see the point of spending an hour of money she earned on something that she’d wear for a night then it would shrivel and die. For prom, she got the point and ordered flowers without fuss. She failed to check her voicemail until Saturday afternoon when she heard a message from earlier in the week from the florist saying they couldn’t deliver her flowers because they were slammed with Mother’s Day orders. She learned Saturday around 1:00. She was leaving for dinner at 7:00.

She was stressed. Jack drilled her with questions: Did you get a confirmation? Did you call them? Did you get your money back? The Boy said he was going to call the florist and yell at them until they brought her a flower. She became more stressed.

I looked at the Boy and Jack and said, "You guys need to go buy some bike parts" as I shooed them out the door. Claire-Adele went to her room and cried.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked. "The roses are in bloom in front of the house. We can make something."

"Leave me alone for five minutes," she said through sobs.

I thought for three minutes. I yelled up the stairs, "I can call Met Market and see if they can get you a flower."

"I am texting Robby," she said. "Okay, call Met Market."

I did. The woman at the other end of the line was as cheerful as a florist could possibly be before Mother's Day. "I can get you something by six. Does that work?"

"Sure." I told Claire-Adele.

"Robby got flowers from the Safeway where he used to work," she said. "Can you cancel yours?"

After the crisis was narrowly averted, neither Robby or I were going to cancel our flowers. Better to have two boutonnieres than none. "Robby can wear two," I said.

When he arrived and flower time came, Eleanor pinned on Robby's lapel the flower Robby brought. Of course she should. He's the boyfriend. I'm just the mom. It is my job to stand back and let her stand on her own. She should take his flower.

But still. I decided to not let a good rose go to waste, so I unwrapped the flower and put it in a vase by my kitchen sink.

Then next day was Mother's Day. Jack and I decided to go for a bike ride, and I was delighted the Boy decided to join us. It was a warm, sunny day, prefect for a ride across the 520 bridge. When we got to the park on the Eastside, we admired the view for a bit and then I was ready to go back home.

"I'm hungry," said the Boy. Which means his hunger has slowly been building for a while and now he was ravenous. 

"Why don't we go back and got to lunch in Ballard?" Ballard is full of fun places to go for lunch on a Saturday. That suggestion was met with ridicule from Jack and the Boy.

"It is only three more miles to Bellevue," Jack said, not looking at the elevation gain. As we left, we rode down a giant hill. Which meant on the way back I'd have to ride up a giant hill. Fuck. And then there was the mile uphill climb. The ride to Ballard is along the water and is as flat as a any ride you can find in Seattle.

Jack and the Boy were consistently twenty yards ahead of me. Once in a while, Jack would turn around and yell "You can do it!" Just because I could do it, doesn't mean I wanted to. And this was Mother's Day. It was supposed to be my ride and it was turning into theirs. I was getting pissed and I was the weak link, holding them back. Plus, I was carrying the Boy's water.

Literally.

We were the sweatiest people Bellevue Square has ever seen. Truckloads of people were dressed up and at the mall on the nicest weekend day of spring so far this year. It was weird. I didn't bring my saddle bags, so I couldn't shop--for much! I did manage to get a little "treat yourself" Mother's Day goodies in my fanny pack from Lego and Lush. The boy got Jamba Juice.

I was in need of some powerful feminine energy after riding with the Boys. And lip gloss.

The ride from Bellevue Square back to the 520 bridge wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I got to the bottom of the steep part, I found a mantra--In two months, I'll be in London. London is flat. There are no hills in London. Magically, the hill I was terrified about wasn't nearly as killer as I thought it would be. Evan, my physical therapist, would have been proud.

At the end of the day, I had fun slogging to Bellevue Square, even though I was swearing under my breath for the second half of the ride. I had 16 miles to add to my "Bike Everywhere" log for May.

So why was I so grumpy on Monday? Did I watch too much Ali Wong over the weekend and I was deeply pondering the inequity women face in the world?

Perhaps it is the realization that for so long, my world revolved around them, and that there never will be a day where their world revolves around me--not that it should. Still--I'd like a weekend where I am not the third wheel in my family events.

Ali Wong: My Hero, Part I

This weekend, I watched Ali Wong's Baby Cobra on Netflix, which was released on Mother's Day in 2016.

The woman is brilliant. She is my new hero.

I don't follow comedy, but aside from the obvious part about making people laugh, the woman is a genius storyteller. Her act had a complete narrative, that tied together beautifully--and hilariously--and truthfully--at the end. All of the threads braid together.

Warning: Ali is crude and crass. On a scale from one to ten, she is in the mid-fifties for grossness. She would make Dan Savage blush. I have to remember not to quote her at work, because I will get fired. And if I didn't get fired for quoting her, I probably should get fired because it could potentially cause a toxic work environment and I wouldn't want to work in a place where someone of the opposite gender could say the same shit to me. (She talks about dating white men "absorbing their privilege and entitlement...") And also, may favorite lines are from the end, and I won't want to be a marplot and give away the ending, which is awesome.  #Beentheredonethat. She married a Harvard MBA, I married a doctor. Our plot points are different, but the gist is the same. Same shit, different degree.

Her new show is released today, Mother's Day 2018. I heard about it from, oh, everywhere. She got front page, above the fold photo in the Sunday New York Times Arts & Leisure section last week. She trumped Benedict Cumberbatch, who is awesome, which means Ali is more awesome than Sherlock Holmes.

So how did I not hear about her two years ago, when I was laid up recovering from my torn ACL? Seriously. I had de nada going on then and I had countless hours to devote to Netflix et al.

Anyhow, I can't wait to watch her new special later today. Even if it isn't as awesome as her last special, she is still my hero.

The Corner, or My Awesome Weekend

Jack is a doctor who works a ton of hours. He works 7 to 6. He works nights. He works weekends. He works all the fucking time.

Before I had kids, I missed him when he worked on weekends or at night. Those were the nights I'd eat Totino's frozen pizzas for dinner, because Jack thought that a Totino's frozen pizza was unacceptable for a meal. Whatev. Or, I'd go out to dinner with my friends. Or I'd read by book for book club. Or I'd go to book club. 

Then I had kids.

When Jack worked weekends and nights, my life became a fresh slice of hell, being home alone with a kid with no adult companionship for days on end. With no family in town, in new towns where I had no friends. They wouldn't do that to prisoners. It probably violate the Geneva convention or something. And people think doctors' wives have an easy, glamourous life. Some might. Not me.

When the kids were little, I'd take them out of the house so I could maintain my sanity, but like not really. Winters in Seattle are cold and gray, and you can get a little housebound if you stay inside the whole time. I remember when Claire-Adele was four and the Boy was one, we went to the Children's Museum at the Seattle Center where they could be busy and I could zone out. 

We'd go to lunch at the food court. I'd order the food, wait, sit down, spread out the fried cod and french fries and then get them all buckled in. One day, after I had all of the food spread out, Claire-Adele said "I have to go to the bathroom." I just got food. I paid $23 for my lunch and two kids meals and if they don't eat they will melt down and...

...she was gone. She had been to the Seattle Center food court enough she knew where the bathrooms are so she went by herself. Independent, smart, take care of herself kind of kid, right? I should be proud, right?

No, because it was January in Seattle and my preschooler went to the bathroom in the Seattle Center by herself. Who knows what kind of weirdos stay there in the winter? What if she got lost? What if she were abducted? What if her food got cold? I lost the Boy once at the Flight Museum when the Blue Angels were there. You'd think Jack would have gotten me a nanny based on how many times I almost lost my kids, but no. He trusted no one except me. Eventually, Claire-Adele came back from the bathroom, but not after my heart rate reached that of someone getting poked with a cattle prod.

Fast forward thirteen years. Jack worked this weekend. The Boy went skiing twice with friends. Claire-Adele worked.

I could do whatever I wanted. I met one friend on Saturday morning and we walked Ravenna Park. I met another in the afternoon and we walked Green Lake. I got my haircut. I went to Sephora and then I bought myself a new necklace so I won't feel so miserable next weekend when my family acts like they've never heard of Mother's Day. I went to a party. I had my writing group on Sunday. According to my phone, I walked thirteen miles this weekend.

I hear stories from my empty-nester friends who go to New York City for the weekend and catch three shows. Or they go camping. Or they eat dinner at 9:00. I'll miss Claire-Adele when she goes to college next year blah, blah, blah, but baby I have turned a corner. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it is awesome.

Cognitive Dissonance and the Other Side

Earlier this week, my past and present lives collided in an unexpected way.

Tuesday, I went to charity breakfast for Literacy Source, an organization that teaches adult immigrants and refugees to speak, read and write English so they may find gainful employment and fully engage in American society. Nancy Pearl, famous Seattle Librarian, Pulitzer Prize jurist for Fiction, and long-time supporter of Literacy Source, was the keynote speaker. She gave us her top picks for summer reading. (See below if you are curious.)

My attendance at these charity breakfasts, lunches and auctions has greatly diminished since my days as a stay-at-home mom, volunteer and community activist. Still, when my friend Barb invited me to this event, I said yes.

It was a year ago last week that I started training for my job. Since then, I've been buried in settling myself into my new roles of working mom and data analyst. I now have "colleagues" and "co-workers" instead of "friends," but really they not much different aside from gender. (Most of my stay-at-home mom friends started out as a volunteer colleague or someone I met through a non-profit.) After the initial phase of drinking out of a fire hose was over, work felt familiar, comfortable in fact. Why? Because I was returning to my past-past-life where I was in consulting and project management. Returning to work was like riding a bicycle...while simultaneously drinking from a fire hose.

Barb picked me up early Tuesday morning. I hadn't seen her in a while. She was one of a very early supporters of my campaign for school board. She is a perennial do-gooder with a massive heart and a fierce brain that wants to solve all of the inequities and injustices in the world. And she isn't smarmy or self-righteous. She is nice and she is kind, one of the kindest people I know.

"Tell me about your job," she asked, as have many other women I know.

I told her I was part of Apprenti, an organization that brings women, veterans and people of color into tech jobs. When I told her I finished my training and am in a data job, she looked confused, as have many other women I know.

"Wait," she said. "You are one of the people in the training?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, I thought you were running the program," she said as have many other women I know. "Tell me about your job search. You have such great experience. It must have been easy to find a job."

"Ummm, no," I said. "Finding paid employment after being a stay-at-home mom for seventeen years is a tale worthy of Tolkien." Like Bilbo Baggins, I was seriously kicked out of my comfort zone complete with second breakfasts and whatnot and thrown into a world of grand adventure where I was breathed on by Smaug, the evil tech recruiter who told me I should consider being an administrative assistant. Yeah. Would you say that to guy? No. (Sorry. In my rage when I look back at my job search, I am repeating an existing blog post. My bad.)

Barb, bless her heart, thought my job search entailed me looking up really cool jobs online, and then picking the best one.

Ha! I started a full-throtle bitch session on how hard it was to find a job. Poor Barb. I felt sorry for her having to listen to me rant.

I got back to the office from charity breakfast filled with gray haired middle-aged women. (Women who support refugees don't have time to dye their hair. C'mon! We have better things to do.) At work, I did work related stuff. Once in awhile, I'll check my personal email at work, and 95% I have nothing interesting or urgent. In my email, a friend invited me to a dress rehearsal of the Seattle Opera's Aida. I also had an email reminding me of a fundraiser for Maria Cantwell, the U.S. Senator from Washington. My arts and culture life collided with my political life.

Then, the greatest clash of all--I was invited to attend the Gala for the Apprenti program. As an apprentice. So I could sit with people and they could see the benefit of the program. I am used to being on the giving side of these things, not the receiving.

And yet. I replied to the invite, which the program director replied back: Do you want to bring your husband?

And let everyone see I am married to a doctor? Good god no. Why would anyone donate money to the cause that provides upper middle class white women the opportunity to return to the workforce in a professional position? When I told Jack I couldn't bring him, he said, "You don't think people will donate money to support ladies who lunch?"

I hope to god the dear, kind, true-blue believers at Apprenti do not ask me to give a speech. It would be the worse speech ever.

"I want to thank Apprenti for saving me from a life of volunteerism, benefit luncheons, and driving my kids places. Now that I have a real job, I can buy Prada shoes and not have to explain or discuss with my husband."

Or worse, "Hey all of you tech leaders! Without this program, I would not have been able to enter the workforce even though I have really cool work experiences and a top shelf education. Two of my college professors won Nobel Prizes in Economics. Two. You have a shortage of workers and I know of at least three women who are stay-at-home mom volunteer types who have MBA's from kickass colleges. I know an electrical engineer who is now a Zumba instructor! I know bankers and tech saleswomen and software people who are now yoga instructors! Maybe make your workplaces suck a little less--as in not make them white collar sweatshops--and have you HR people have a little decency to look outside of their little boxes and hire a former mom! Seriously. You are bringing this on yourselves. You are your own worst enemy. Hire more women, stop harassing the women you do have and pay them equitably." (mic drop.)

Yeah. Those speeches will get people to donate money.

Not.

So here I am, freaking out, reading my email at work instead of working. I have to decide between Aida and Maria Cantwell. Oh the conflicts I have in my ever-so-privileged and connected life! So I decide on Maria.

It was the best thing ever. It was a small group at a home on Capitol Hill. It was not unlike the dozens of fundraisers I did when I was running for school board where I'd talk to people at the party over hors d'oeuvres, give a little speech and answer questions. I was too fangirl, starstruck to talk to the Senator, but she talked to the group of less than thirty people.

How in the hell did I get invited to this event with this rarified air? It was unbelievable. The next morning, I woke up and remembered: when I ran for school board, I'd attend events of other politicians, and I'd make a contribution. I must have made twenty contributions to local political campaigns over the past two years. Why? Unfortunately, campaigns cost money and good people need strong campaigns to win. I know the game because I've been on the other side.

So that is the lesson for this week -- I've been on both sides of the same coin. I've been the donor, to causes and campaigns. And I've been a beneficiary of the largess of others, as a candidate and as an apprentice. It just so rare for me to be looking at both sides of this coin at the same time.

Nancy Pearl's Book List

#CityGirl

I was riding my bike home from work today along Elliott Bay when I saw two little rats out of the corner of my eye, nibbling on some grass along side the bike trail.

Geez those rats are brazen, eating out in the open in daylight, I thought.

When I got a better look, I realized they were baby bunnies.

Egads. I'm such as city girl that when I see a small rodent outside, I assume it is a rat.

#citygirl

Otherwise, the rest of the ride was nice.

This picture is from Friday, but this is the trail I bike home on.

Laundry

I don't do laundry
because I love doing laundry.

I do laundry
because I hate the pile of dirty clothes.

I don't fold the laundry
because I love folding it.

I fold laundry
because I hate the pile of unfolded clothes.

Someday, I will not care
one way or another.

I long for that day.

College, Part 34 and Room for Everyone

While Claire-Adele seems to be happy abut her college choice, her wounds from being rejected from fancy, east coast establishment schools still sting. I try to be empathetic, but I struggle. She is convinced that other kids--kids of color, low income students, immigrants, first generation college students--have an easier time getting into top colleges than she does. The way she rants about this makes her sounds like a Trump supporter and it makes me want to puke. How could I have raised someone so completely tone-deaf, self-absorbed and narrow-minded? What a princess.

I was talking to a friend who said that middle class white girls with college educated parents are in the most competitive deomgraphic to get into to college. Lots of people in this group apply, and a large number of them are qualified, hard working candidates. More so than white males. They compete with each other in their demographic. Is this fair? I don't know.

I struggle with this. Our society needs to open doors to kids who have less opportunities to succeed, hence the "Opportunity Gap." I have an old friend from my previous job, a woman of color. Louise Mae was hard working, smart, kind, and grew up in poverty. When I was in high school, I was given a car, clothes and the time to participate in a million activities by my parents. This friend had to take care of her mom and older siblings. She got a job, and went to college at night, a class at a time. Is she still a kind, smart, hardworking person? Yes. Did she get a pass to skip to the head of the line and get a solid professional job when she was 22 like my college education gave me? No. Was that fair? No. 

Policies that benefits society can hurt an individual. Middle class white kids like my daughter don't need to get a job to help their families pay rent. Claire-Adele works, and her paycheck goes in her savings account. She doesn't have to buy her own clothes or food. She lives in an all inclusive resort, fancy excurisions included. 

So why doesn't my daughter get this? I discussed it with my friend Carla today at lunch today. It is Claire-Adele's age, that her teenage brain can't understand trends greater than herself? In fairness, I know "Princess" is a phase, and I hope she grows out of it soon. Is is Claire-Adele's inner stubborness? Is is because she doesn't know any Louise Mae's in her day-to-day life? I didn't until I went to work. My friends who were kids of color in college grew up in middle class to wealthy families. No one I knew came from poverty.

"The problem isn't that more minority kids are getting into good schools," I told Carla. "The problem is that these other kids are putting too much emphasis on getting to into an elite college."

Or is it that Claire-Adele sees herself as female and see this group of half of humanity is getting beat down left and right? I can imagine Claire-Adele thinking, Yeah right girls and women have it easy.

A more qualified woman candidate for President lost to a psychologically unstable, inexperienced man who sexually harasses women. Harvey Weinstein and that gymnastics doctor sexually assaulted young women. Women took to the streets to march to say "This is enough." How does this make her or any woman not part of a protected class?

She would be right, and still... "Adding diversity is probably making all schools better," said Carla. "If a good student like Claire-Adele can't get into an elite college, it means she goes someplace else. And then that school now had stronger students."

By adding kids who previously would not have been candidates to good schools, we are increasing the size of the pipeline. At one point, the US had one college: Harvard. Now we have hundreds of universities. Are we better off now? Absolutely. The problem isn't that too many kids are applying, the problem is too few seats. We need to make sure there is room for everybody.

(And Carla, the accountant, reminded me this: "If she goes to a state school, you'll save $120K over four years.")

One Last Run, and Snow > Rain

Yesterday was my fifth day of skiing in a row, and I was kind of tired of the whole thing. After the first three runs of the first day, I was skiing by myself as Jack and the kids decided they wanted bluer and blacker pastures. Skiing alone gets old, although I did get in the "Singles" lift line and bypassed the longer lines with people skiing with friends and family.

There are many reasons I love/hate skiing. First, it is depressing to suck at something I used to be decent at, avoiding runs that I used to easily do. The best part of Whistler is exploring different runs. It would take days to do all of the runs there. I stuck to the same two or three runs the entire five days.

I suppose this is part of aging and/or recovering from injury. Jack told me about some extreme athlete who was seriously injured when he was hit by a car. He started his training for the Boston Marathon while wearning a halo, a nasty brace that keeps the head, neck and spine aligned. (I'll spare you a direct link to the google search or the NYT article about the guy.) Part of me thinks the guy is nuts, but am I any different for wanting to ski again after I tore my ACL?

Back to the knee. Yesterday after lunch and before we drove back to Seattle, I was going to do one last run. One last run. I put on my right ski and then as I was about to snap into my left ski, my formerly injured knee gave me a ping of mild pain. I tried again. Ping.

What did that ping mean? Should I do one last run, or ride the gondola down? How does one know when it is time to call it a day and when there is still enough energy to do another run? On the previous run, I hit a mogul and fell over. When my legs are tired, my form reverts to my sloppy old ways. When I ski sloppy, I am more likely to fall. Did I want to end of a bad note, or a good one? You never know. I played it safe and I took the gondola down. I wasn't happy about it. Part of me wanted to ski some more, but the other part didn't want to get hurt.

I stopped for coffee while the rest of my family skied and then later met Jack and the kids at the car and we drove home. Sometimes I feel like that song from Sesame Street where they show a grid with four objects. Bob sings:

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things just doesn't belong

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song?

I am green and they are black. It is miserable to listen to them talk about all of the fun they had while I was struggling. But what am I supposed to do, not let them ski? (And by the way -- what the hell Sesame Street? What a depressing song. How would you like to be the rotten tomato in a pile of fresh fruit?)

A few miles outside of Vancouver, B.C., it started to pour. It rained buckets all the way back to Seattle. During this awful car ride, I remembered why we started to ski. In the Pacific Northwest, it rains from November through May. Given the choice between rain and snow, I'll take snow.

This afternoon, Jack and I went to the grocery store. Walking around QFC, my legs felt strange. They missed my ski boots. They wanted to be back on the mountain.

More Skiing

Today was day four of skiing at Whistler, and I survived. A few observations in no particular order.

• My feet are cold. Tonight we watched a Big Air slope style competition while standing on the sidelines instead of in the plaza on a big screen. Standing on the sidelines means standing in the snow.

View of the plaza from the sidelines where people stand and their feet don't get as cold, but their view isn't as awesome.

A skier gets pulled up to the jump via snowmobile.

The landing for the Big Air competition

• Weather can change on a dime on a big mountain.

View from a run yesterday

View from the top of the run two runs later

View from the gondola as I downloaded yesterday

View without raindrops

Today, two inches of powder accumulated...during lunch.

• I wish Jack had taken more vacation when I wasn't working. Now that I am working and am not free to travel at will, his interest in traveling with the family has gone up. I am not complaining, just wish he would have thouht of this before I returned to the 9-to-5. My company has a reasonably generous vacation plan, so I am not complaining about that. I just wished he used more of his vacation time when I was around. As much as I like my job, breaks are necessary.
• If I lost some weight, I'd have less mass, and then I'd ski slower without having to work at skiing slower. I am the only person in the world who thinks skiing slower is better than skiing all out in a straight line.
• I feel like an old lady when I ski sometimes. Skiing is a time for weird thoughts. I realized that with this next birthday, I will be the same as my grandma when she became a grandmother. Oy.  Fucking. Vey. I could ask my dad to confirm, but I think I am right. Actually, I don't really want to know. And my mother was not an old grandma. She was a regular age grandma for the time.
• Just when I feel like a grandma and think I am too old for this shit, I go in the lodge and see a bunch of seventy year old men covered in snow who have just gotten off some gnarly run. (Note: I will not be seventy on my next birthday, in case that might be confusing.) How do I know they are doing gnarly runs if they are the in lodge with me? I don't see them on the green runs I am on. There are women that age out there skiing, but far fewer. Why? Are women that age too smart to ski?
• The Boy is sending it. His sports medicine physician night not be too happy, but whatev. He's happy.