10th New Thing ~ Kim is Always Right

If I asked a variety of people to name their favorite professional sports team, I imagine I'd get a variety of answers.

What would your answer be?

Teams of all sports: football, soccer, basketball, hockey....
Teams here in the Pacific Northwest, geography-based loyalty.
Or perhaps a team from somewhere you've lived before: Indianapolis, Charlotte.
Or a team you loved growing up: Yankees, Spurs, Rams
Maybe the team of your favorite player: Lions, 49er's, Suns

Or perhaps your favorite team is your favorite because they are regularly the underdog team. For Seattle based teams, over the years, you can cover both the underdog and 'geography-based loyalty' angle.   (I've always tended to be the Cheer for the Underdog kind of fan.)
You're thinking of your favorite team right now, aren't you?

Whatever your choice, I'd hazard a guess that very few of you would name a professional women's team.

There are some people in my life of which I can’t precisely recall how the relationship came about. They appeared exactly when I needed them, in a magical, mystical way. I continued to believe…have faith and sure enough, the universe rallies on my behalf. Every time.

Kim is one of those people.
Kim, who is always right. (I need to remember to link this to Michelle or I won't get paid for that statement.)

When I first started compiling the list of 50 New Things, my mind was a flurry of ideas, my social conversations, a steady stream of suggestions and discussions about possibilities.

Consequently, one evening on the phone when Kim said she was going to 'the game' the following weekend, I asked....
"Game? What game?"
"The Storm."
"Oh, I've never been to a Storm game," I said. It was fast becoming a reflex. Shamelessly inviting myself. No pressure, Kim. In fact, I'd never been to any professional women's sports event. Not that our culture offers many choices this way.

Kim has a season ticket package. She gave me a few dates to choose from. The best day worked out to be the Storm's last home game of the regular season.

~

Fan Appreciation Night. 

San Antonia Silver Stars v. Seattle Storm 

Third and fourth in the Western Conference, respectively. 

Both teams having already secured playoff positions.

We arrived in plenty of time. Parked and walked a short distance to Key Arena. Well, Kim walked, I made choppy little scuttling steps, trying to keep up. Her legs are twice as long as mine.
She never actually said, “Keep up, Shorty.” But she kept looking around to make sure she could still see me.

We were handed free bright green Storm t-shirts on our way in the door. The first so many fans.

Kim let me accept my free t-shirt but absolutely forbade me from picking up a complimentary pair of bam bams.

"No bam bams."
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
"What?"
“If you’re going to sit with me, no bam bams.”
"What are bam bams?" I whispered to one of Kim's daughters.

"Nevermind, you'll see," she said.

Well, I don't know about you but if someone says to me "No bam bams for you," suddenly all I want is bam bams. Even though I had no idea what they were.

We shopped in the team store for a while and regardless of what bam bams are, I want credit for resisting the urge to buy a set of Seattle Storm tattoo sleeves.

When I walked into Key Arena, I only knew the name of two players. Not surprisingly, Lauren Jackson and Sue Bird. But as I watched the game I quickly developed favorites and non-favorites. At first I wasn't crazy about Katie Smith. One of the shorter Storm players at 5'11".

I thought she argued with the refs too much. I wanted to say, "Just play." But she grew on me. She had great energy and passion for each play. You gotta love someone who feels so strongly about something. She became my favorite.

My least favorite was, of course, the Stars player that seemed to give us the most trouble. I don't remember her name but she probably plays offensive lineman during the off-season. And I don't think she missed once at the free throw line.

In the first half, it looked like the Storm was not going to have any problem winning this game. But in the third quarter I began to worry a little bit. They chipped away at the gap and before we knew it, the game could have gone either way.

Helpful Storm Tip: At the beginning of a Storm game, you don't sit down until Seattle scores their first basket. Also at the start of second half.

In the weeks prior, I looked forward to the game, expecting to appreciate the superior athleticism of a professional basketball team. And I was not disappointed. I had always suspected that most of us Pacific Northwest residents were idiots, for not appreciating and giving these players due credit and patronage for their athletic excellence. I know that I was guilty.

What I didn't expect to find was that the crowd would be so fun. A great mix of young and old, moms and dads. couples on dates. I really had not expected there would be so many kids excited and cheering, running down on the court for the conga line during time-out periods.

The climate of energy in the arena was so much more friendly and light-hearted than my experience with other professional sports.

It's good math: more smiling families, face-painted children, less drunken, stumbling assholes.

Even the youngest kids that night were better behaved than most adult fans in my previous experience.

In fact, there was not a soul around us who was the least bit belligerent or intoxicated. There was plenty of screaming, cheering, whistling, thanks to the man a few row above us, trashcan-lid cymbal smashing. Much less booing and heckling than I've ever witnessed at such an event. And there was no one sitting there that was 'too cool' to participate. Why go at all if you're going to sit there grumbling, mocking your team?

And I'm probably not helping ticket sales, for certain demographics by pointing this out, but there were no pubescent girls, dressed like a skank and dancing like strippers during half time.
Talk about Fan Appreciation!!

Instead, the half-time show was a children's dance team. The Storm Dance Troupe. Boys and girls, from, I'd guess, ages 6 - 12. My face hurt from smiling, as I watched their pure enthusiasm and joy. It was a blast.

(I wonder, when he's old enough, if Connor would be interested in auditioning for the Storm Dance Troupe....hmmmmm, I'm short, maybe they'd take me??)

I love that all the kids in the crowd are seeing this team of professional athletes in an atmosphere of overwhelming respect and admiration. Full audience participation. Hopefully, they will be more likely to hold up these female athletes with the same 'ROCK STAR' reverence that most of our short-sighted society holds for (even mediocre) male athletes. I was grateful to every dad in the crowd sitting next to his son or daughter.

(Want to sponsor a kid to attend a Storm game? See the link at bottom of this post.)

I wish my name was Barbie Calabro, but sadly, it's not. (That voice melts me.) So you'll be getting no play-by-play from me.

I'll cut to the chase, the end of the game was exciting. Seattle won. Not with a last minute basket. But close enough for me. 84 - 75.

As exciting as the end of the game was, it was nothing compared to the end of the 'Catapulting of Fan Appreciation Memorabilia."

After celebrating the win then grabbing the microphone to thank the fans for a great season, the players positioned themselves around the perimeter of the court, Sharpies in hand, launching autographed t-shirts and shoes into the crowd of frenzied fanatics, waving their arms….. in the stands.

Here's something I've never done: I've never caught anything at a game.

Okay, and I didn't catch anything at this one either.
But that's not my fault. I'm five feet tall. Kim is like......more than five feet tall. So are her daughters. As are most people. We yelled and waved our arms hoping to draw some attention in our direction. Svetlana Abrosimova signed a rolled up t-shirt, handed it to her lovely assistant, who launched it into the crowd. The t-shirt came straight for us. But even the people in the row, just below us, dwarfed me. Kim wrestled it out of the grasp of some burly guy in front of us, then handed it to me. Okay, maybe it wasn't a burly guy, but an elderly nun...whatever... I walked out of Key Arena with that t-shirt. Signed by Svetlana Abrosimova. Score.

"Kim is always right."

The autographed t-shirt was enough for me. I was a happy fan. Then the shoes started flying.

Holy cow! Given the size of the shoes involved, this seemed like a dangerous thing to be vaulting into the mass of people. I promptly stopped waving my arms, preparing to duck and cover. This really felt like the prudent thing to do and I would have thought everyone else would duck too. But no.

This is where being short kept me safe. At one point a signed basketball shoe headed our direction. I managed to resist the instinct to dive under my seat. Kim’s arms flew into the air, the shoe spun end over end, threatening to give someone a concussion. It was like watching slow motion. The shoe hit the tip of her fingers, but the momentum sent it toppling into the hands of the guy behind us, who came down with the shoe clutched to this chest. Kim had to settle for the assist. She’d have preferred the rebound, but the guy was not parting with that shoe. Signed by Camille Little.

There was a lot of debate on the ride home about how close she’d been to snagging that shoe. Kim's daughters… engaging in family-friendly trash talk, mentioned if their fingers had touched the shoe, they wouldn't have let it get away. Kim was disappointed. So close.

I felt bad for her as I held my two Storm t-shirts in my lap all the way home.

I had a great time. Great seats. Great company. Great game. Two t-shirts. No signed shoes. But most importantly. No Seattle Storm Bam bams. (Go Google it.)

At the end of this post, it was my intention to mention that I want full credit for not yielding to the temptation to 'go off' on male dominated sports dynamic in our culture. That being said....

I do not begrudge any team their fan base. But it feels like something is a little off. When WNBA came to the Pacific Northwest, I remember thinking, “How cool is that?”
But I was raised in a culture where female athletes and girl teams were always second to the guys. I'm not happy to admit that I never acted on the "How cool is that?" feeling I had. I didn't follow the team at all. Not in the paper, not on TV (had they been in the paper and on TV at the same copious amounts as other former and current Seattle sports teams).

Makes me sad. We are such sheep sometimes.
Our tendency to fall for the mass media marketing every time.

(And this is kind of an insult to actual sheep. Which, as it turns out, are not as easily led as one might think. See New Thing #11.)

It might be time to rethink the favorite team thing. I mean, right here where I live, there is a professional sports team that makes it to the playoffs, as a rule instead of as the exception.
The Storm have made it to post-season play 10 out of their 13 seasons. And yet in societal sports entertainment terms they still seem to be underdogs. 

PostScript:
I wrestled briefly with how to get pictures. I’ve really enjoyed photographing the New Things. 

But I wasn’t interested in lugging the camera around for the evening. Stadium seats are not known for their wealth of leg or elbow room. And in my experience of past sports events, there’s a good chance of jumping up, cheering! 

Sitting down. 

Jumping up, CHEERING!! 

Sitting back down. 

Jumping. 

Cheering. 

Sitting. 

CHEEEEEERING. 

Sitting. 

You can see the problem.

I decided a few pictures on my phone would be the best thing. 

The Seattle Storm

2004 & 2010 WNBA Champions

Attending a professional women's sports event...

My 10th New Thing 

The Official Site of the Seattle Storm

Send a Kid to a Storm Game

2013 Tickets 

9th New Thing ~ Releasing the Outcome

For New Thing #9, I have no pictures to offer, at this point.

And very little story to include, at this point.

I've never entered a writing contest. 

Recently a friend sent me a link to a writing contest being held by a well-known magazine. This periodical displays, glossy, on the shelf of most of our library branches.

I linked to the periodical's site, clicking to Rules for Entry.

Contest Opened: May 12, 2012. 

Closed: September 13, 2012. 

Word Count: 1500 maximum.

Topic: Something you would go back and change 

First Prize: $3000 and a trip to NYC

I started working on my entry (or full-blown shitty first draft) on September 8th. Six days. Yikes!
Not much wiggle room for my standard writing workflow, which looks like this:

1. Let an idea sprout: Germination
2. Watch it take shape and grow in my head for a week or two: Cultivation
3. Chew on it a bit: Rumination
4. Get it out into the open to breathe fresh air: Exhumation
5. Then reshape and prune it painfully: Reconstruction
6. Repeat Step #5: Asphyxiation 
7. Repeat Step #6: Resuscitation
8. Reach the elusive decision that 'enough is enough: Revelation
9. Send it out on its own: Emancipation
10. Done: Celebration

You can imagine how long this flawed and ridiculous masturbatory process takes. Many of my pieces still waiting to get beyond Step 3. Weeks, months, years. 

(There is definitely something here to look at more closely. Honestly.)

I had only DAYS to draft, edit and submit. Plus I had regular real-life stuff to work around. (Including Happy Polaris Upgrade Day!) 

With the help of a last-minute Fairy God-Editor, I wrestled it under the 1500 word limit, formatted it according to the rules and submitted it with thirty-three minutes to spare. Eastern Standard Time   

WHEW! 

Of course, it doesn't feel like my best work because I had to spin it out so fast. BUT perhaps, it will be exactly what I needed to write. Without the self-indulgent luxury to overwork and pulverize my original words, maybe the true story will stand a chance. We will see.

The winners will be announced January 2013. The top three articles to be published in the magazine. 

I'm not at all sure what to hope for. 

Do I want to hear "We loved your story! You are the first place selection." 

YES!

Do I want to say "I won a Writing Contest in a national magazine? 

I do.

Do I want to win $3000 and a trip to New York City? 

Yes and Yes.

Do I want anyone reading that piece? 

Honestly? Maybe not. I might be counting on coming in fourth or lower. The piece is very personal. A bit raw and naked, when I look straight at it.

   

The 9th New Thing:
Enter a Writing Contest 

Done! 

1490 Words

First Line: For years, I've known the answer. 

Last Line: "What course was altered?"

Submitted: Thursday September 13, 2012 07:26 PM 

I did my part. The end result is out of my hands now. I will keep you informed here, either way.

Keep your fingers crossed...  

...I'm just not sure for which outcome.  

Scaredy-Cat Barbie

8th New Thing ~ September 11th Memorial

Each year since 2001, I've tried to find the best way to observe September 11th.
Each year, wondering how I could personally reflect on the events of that day, honor the memory of those who were killed:

Civilians

Police 

Port Authority

Pentagon Military Personnel

Firefighters & other First Responders

I had no direct connection to the attacks. I knew no one killed that day. I'd never been to New York, Pennsylvania or Washington D.C. I watched from the other side of the country. Yet, the attacks felt incredibly personal.

I spent the first anniversary reading back over the pages of journal entries I'd written in the days and weeks just after the attacks a year previous. Emotional, confused writing. About my children, my country, my life, my fury and shock. Writing, in a futile attempt to make some sense.
I watched one year anniversary coverage. Reading newspaper and magazine articles. I continued to write, my emotions from a year's distance. Saturating my day with remembrance.

In years two & three I checked out library books and documentaries. Spending a few days, absorbing and remembering. The networks were not airing as many shows. Media observance was lessening. I understood the temptation to push the difficult, painful memories away, into a mental dark corner but I found the lack of attention disturbing. And sad. I felt even more determined to set the day aside for my own healing. To honor the loss.

In 2005, I began a personal, yearly tradition of taking bouquets of flowers to local fire stations on September 11th. Armloads of dahlias. Fire stations in Tillicum, Graham, Lakewood.

Along with leaving flowers, each year I worked at the Tillicum library, I filled the display window with books and DVDs on the subject of September 11th. I needed such gestures. Trying to heal my heart. Determined to look at it directly. Let myself feel the pain. Remember fully.

In spite of my private determination to observe the anniversary over the past eleven years, I had never attended a public commemoration on September 11th, until this year.

A couple weeks prior to the anniversary this year, I searched online for local events.

I found two.

• A morning remembrance at the Fallen Firefighters Memorial on Ruston Way, Tacoma
• An evening dedication service at 9/11 Reflection Park in University Place  

The morning event was reverent and somber. The sky, clear blue overhead. A faint gray haze on the horizon over the water of Commencement Bay. The peacefully landscape of the

Fallen Firefighters Memorial.

The Tacoma Fire Department Honor Guard presenting colors, so moving in procedure and tradition. The silence heavy, when the flags were lowered to half staff.













The sorrow-filled sound of the bagpipes, as the Pierce County Firefighter's Pipes and Drums marched by, playing "Amazing Grace" and "Scottland the Brave."

A couple of local officials spoke. A choir sang. White doves, released. 

The understandable attitude and energy that I expected at a public memorial service. 

Then something I was not expecting....

New York Police Lieutenant Anne Verbil took the podium. I was startled to find myself listening to her first hand story of September 11th. This woman, this New York City first-responder standing before me, was in Tower 2 when it collapsed. In a stairwell with eight other people, all of whom got out alive. She said she has horrible survivor's guilt. She spoke of the countless funerals she's attended of those lost. Of the pain and grief in NYC. Tears rolled off my face, and the faces of those around me. She reminded us that the emergency workers of New York City responded no differently, no more heroically than our own local police and firefighters would respond under such crisis. I hope to never find out.

It was incredible, listening to her story. Looking into her eyes, as she and I spoke after. Shaking her hand. Telling her how sorry I was for the loss of her friends and co-workers. How glad I was that she survived, that she was here, eleven years later to share with us. To tell us the story. She gave me a long hug. And handed me a New York City Police Department patch. I handed her the white roses I'd brought with me to lay at the statue of the Fallen Firefighter. It was an honor and one of the most emotional and moving experiences of my life, meeting this woman.    

  

Following the ceremony at the Fallen Firefighters Memorial, everyone was invited to gather at The Ram Restaurant next door.

"In keeping with traditions, we will raise a glass and honor our fallen." 

I was not certain if this invitation was to the general public or if it was implied to be for those in the 'brotherhood' of first responders. I walked across the street to my car, hesitant and uncertain, not wanting to crash this memorial tradition. The hesitation looked a lot like fear, so I locked up my car, walked back across the street, down the sidewalk to The Ram. And into the bar.

It was a packed crowd, primarily men in various versions of uniform. A few people in 'street clothes.' Just as I walked in, someone that I could not see in the crowd, across the room, shouted over the noise, "So raise your glass and keep it raised through the playing of Amazing Grace."

It was clear that drinks had already been served in one form or another; everyone raised their glass.

I stood empty-handed, no glass to raise.

On the table of the booth next to me, there was a wallet, a cigar and a full mug of beer. Unattended.

Glancing around my immediate vicinity, I saw everyone in sight already had a drink in hand. I could see no one without a glass raised in the air.

So I picked up the mug and held it in the air, as the Pipes and Drums played Amazing Grace.

At the end of the moving musical tribute, I sat the mug back where I got it.

A moment later a uniformed fireman walked up to the table. Clearly, the beer's owner.
"Sorry," I said. "I borrowed your beer."
"No worries," he said.
"I didn't drink any, I just needed to raise a glass."
"You should have helped yourself," he said. Well, alright then.

The song of the bagpipes continued, in that enclosed area. The rhythm and momentum increased. It was intense. The room was wall-to-wall Alpha Males. The energy of courage and brotherhood: Impressive. The beer wasn't the only substance of intoxication in that room.

~

The dedication of 9/11 Reflection Park that evening was not quite as solemn as the morning.

Of course there were similarities: uniformed fire fighters, police officers, active military and veterans. Many familiar faces from the morning. Again, the Pierce County Firefighters Pipes & Drums. Lieutenant Verbil was there.





And, as with the morning, there was a speaker from New York. From FDNY Engine 42.

Eleven years ago, he was just a young firefighter. 2001. He said that he would not elaborate on the things he saw that day. Understandable. My heart broke for the pain he must have felt. Must still feel.








In spite of the commonalities, the evening event didn't hold the same serious quiet of the morning. It was a park dedication. There were many more civilians. Families, children and teens. A troop of young Boy Scouts. The social chatter was louder, more casual and free flowing. Like the reception at a gallery opening.

And like a gallery, there was art. The new concrete pathways and sidewalks were decorated with the chalk drawings and literary expressions of local elementary school students.

The service was concluded with one of the most engaging public speakers I have ever heard. An active duty Special Forces soldier from JBLM. The 4th Stryker Brigade. I wish I remembered his name. This man was a compelling presence. Physically imposing. Commanding. Charismatic  He carried himself with absolutely convincing authority. Simultaneous calm and power. Absolutely nothing to prove. Undeniable confidence. Not only do I not remember his name but also can't recall the details of his speech. Yet I was completely riveted. There was a microphone but he didn't need it. I shook his hand after. Thanked him for his service to our country.

This dedication ceremony was more lively and relaxed than the memorial that morning. Yet more lonely for me. This had nothing to do with who did or did not attend. Who I did or did not speak to.

But instead, it had everything to do with the centerpiece of the park. The focal point.

A piece of steel from The World Trade Center.

      I cannot wrap my mind around how first responders run straight into burning buildings, up flights of dark, smoky stairs while everyone else is running out.
But I am so very thankful. 

I reached out and touched the cold steel.

We remember 9.11

I set out the morning of September 11, 2012
to attend a public 9/11 memorial for the first time. 

To lay my hand upon a piece of steel i-beam from the World Trade Center. 

In addition, I got to shake the hand of Lt. Anne Verbil, NYPD. 

It was more than I'd thought to hope.

7th New Thing ~ Change is Messy

Have you noticed how your car seems to run better when it is freshly washed and has a full tank of gas. I love that feeling. If only it were that simple.

I find car trouble particularly stressful. Maybe it's just me.

It isn't the repairs themselves I find intimidating, but the mystery of tracking down what the actual repair needs to be (for real and for true) and then the cost to actually fix what needs repairing (for real and for true). A car mystery can become a bottomless money pit.

Aside from that, I am not afraid to get my hands under the hood, trying to understand how this piece of machinery works so I can best maintain it. Learning which parts are which, how they work, how long you can drive without some of them, what they sound like when they "break."

Two Barbie Car Facts:

I've never owned a new car.  (Now, there's a New Thing to aim for!)

I can rarely spend the money for a 'real' mechanic.

Consequently, I've been known to rely on kindness from my dad, dates, boyfriends, husband or occasionally, my best-friend's dad, dates, boyfriends or husbands. When someone was kind enough to work on my car, I enjoyed watching as they worked, asking questions, learning a few things. If felt good. I don't want to be one of those 'delicate' girls afraid to break a nail or mess up my hair.

Over the years, I've learned to do a few very basic things.
How to:

• Check the oil and add more when needed. 
• Check and top off the radiator. 
• Check the brake fluid. And the power steering fluid. 
• Jump a dead battery. (Except perhaps in my son's car, as his battery hides under the back seat. Those crazy car makers, playing Marco Polo with the battery.) 
• Check and maintain the air pressure in my tires. Hell, I can change a tire (but please PLEASE don't make me do that).
• Set the gap on a spark plug.
• Add air to air shocks. (Are those even a real thing any more?)
• Depending on the car, I can change the air filter. My old Mustang was easy. The Mazda? When did air filters stop being shaped like a doughnut? Car companies are just mean sometimes.

Plus, there's just stuff I know. Parts I can point to and identify. Helpful hints. For example:  V-8s have 8 plugs, 8 plug wires. And if you get the order of those plug wires screwed up, it will ruin your whole day. And you'll probably hear swearing.

Recently while driving, I realized I was turning up the volume of my audio book more than usual. Then it dawned on me to turn it down and listen: "What a minute!! What is that noise? Is that my car? Please let that noise be coming from that other car...Please!  I'll be a good girl."
But no. It was my car and coming from the front end. A hum. Tires? Brakes? Something in the suspension? No clunking noise when I turned corners, so probably not those acronym joints...CV...PVC...PCP..ARC? Trans-axle joint, I think. Oh, I hate when my car makes a new noise.

So I took it to a well-known 'tire' place that also does brakes, shocks and such. A chain of stores that I'm not necessarily recommending because their customer service quality reminds me a bit of Russian Roulette. Only not such good odds.

The Diagnosis:
Needed new front wheel bearings on driver's side.
"But we recommend you do both sides at the same time." 
Well, of course you do. For nearly $400 dollars, you should also vacuum my trunk and walk my dog.
"Okay, I'll check my calendar, then call and make an appointment to get that done."
I walked out the double glass doors, turned to the 'mechanical type' that I'd taken with me.
"Can you do it for less?" I asked.
He looked at me. "Do you want to do your own wheel bearings as one of your 50 New Things?"

Changing the bearings on my car was not on my early (or latter) list of 50, but I'm game.

One thing that was on my early list was Do My Own Oil Change.  It feels like a very basic and valuable thing to know. Nice not to have to depend on someone else for this.

Although wheel bearings is probably not a skill I'll need as often as changing my oil, it sounded like an adventure. So, I figured...kill two birds....

(No actual birds were harmed during the process, although I did flip a couple of by-standers the bird at least twice.)

The following Friday, I headed to my former house. My former husband's house. With some kids and grandkids in attendance, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was moral support and entertainment value.

Lynn supplied the supplies. Lynn. . . . .if I had money for every time he's uttered the words "I'm not a mechanic......" I could probably afford to take my car to the dealer every time. 

Under close supervision, I proceeded to:
Jack up the left front of my car.
Place wedges behind the back tires.
Loosen the lugs.
Jack it up more.
Remove the lugs
Remove the tire.
Okay, I had to recruit assistance....but I tried really hard to remove that tire. "Help!"

Once the tire was off, we inspected the brakes. (Looked good.) And then took them off. I kept following directions. Loosen this. Take off that. People were pointing and instructing. It became complicated enough, that after a bit I could no longer keep track of the names of every piece I was handling. I kept thinking how the 'not a mechanic' guy would have been moving a lot faster without having to walk me through it.

I'm not sure at what point it was, but eventually Lynn determined that we wouldn't be able to do this ourselves. Not going to happen. Something about not having some fancy tool and there not being enough beer in the world. So I started putting all those loose, small, unnamed parts back where they belonged, as directed.

It turns out, replacing the bearings on my car would not be one of my 50 New Things. Conceded.

I have to say I wasn't all that disappointed. It was worth a shot but probably not a 'skill' I'd be able to retain and use again.

On the upside, during the attempt to replace the bearings, I did make an important scientific discovery: Brake fluid removes nail polish WAY better than that stuff they sell as polish remover at beauty counters. While bleeding the brakes, slippery brake fluid flowed over my hands. When I looked down at my fingers, my polish was gone. Magic. They should bottle that stuff.

So, having failed to kill the first bird, we moved onto the second, less intimidating bird.....

7th New Thing: My Own Oil Change

I know this may not sound ground breaking but have you ever done it?

I slid under my car. It's dark and grimy.....the bottom-side of cars. I asked Ciara to hand me a rag so I could start cleaning the under belly of my Mazda. "No, Mom," she said.
I removed the oil drain plug. "Once you start unscrewing it, go fast or the oil will run down your arm," two people called from somewhere out in the fresh air and sunlight. "And the oil might be hot." The car had been sitting through out the bearing attempt, so the oil wasn't too hot. 
Lying under the car, I waited for the old oil to drain completely, muttering at Ciara because she wouldn't let me clean while I was under there.
I removed the old filter. Again I heard..."Once you start taking it off, go fast or there will be oil all over the place." Well, as it turns out....'fast' is relative. I got oil all over the place.
I smeared oil on the gasket of the new filter. Who knew?
I twisted the new filter into place. This wasn't as easy as it sounds. The threads didn't want to catch at first, but got it eventually.
I replaced the drain plug so that when I poured new oil in, it wouldn't simply run right back out again.

I'm surprised to report...it was great. I loved doing this New Thing. I thought it would just be a valuable chore to master. But instead it was actually fun. And satisfying. Messy as hell. I got warm, dirty oil on my sleeves, all down my arm, on my face, in my hair.

I crawled out from under the car, dusted off my ass. My hair. My elbows. It was futile. I headed top-side.
I poured in a few quarts of pretty, new oil.
I checked the dip stick.
I started the car to circulate the new oil into the new filter.
I checked the dip stick again.
I added a bit more oil.
I checked the dip stick.
Done. 

Clean oil. New filter. It felt great. Even better than a fresh car wash and a full gas tank.

One of the most satisfying aspects of this New Thing, is that it was basic and straight forward enough for me to do it again, without someone leaning against a nearby car, tipping back a cold one, calling out the next step, one at a time.

In fact, I could go outside and change my oil right now. Well, as soon as it's daylight. And I could do it unsupervised, Baby! I'd probably be slower than the professionals at Jiffy Pop or wherever. But I could oil-change your ass off.

Trying to position the jack, thinking I'd be able to do the bearings.

Does this jack really work? 

How much did that guy say they'd charge to do the bearings?

I'm not sure what I'm doing here; I just like the picture.

Fighting with the last lug.

"Uncle!"

If I remember right, loosening the caliper? 

Sequoia loved the suspense.
"Can she do it? Will BB have dominance over the wheel bearings?" 

No, as it turned out. Wheel bearing replacement was not to be. 

On to the Oil Change....

Wearing the standard Oil Change Protective Gear....

The warm, slippery oil felt kind of cool. 

I asked Ciara, the staff photographer, if she could get a shot from up under the hood, of me laying beneath the car. But all you can really tell from this picture is that I need a new valve cover gasket. 

Maybe another New Thing??

Thanks, Lynn, for your help with my car. Thanks to Colin, Ciara and the GrandKiddles for your support and levity.

A Word From Our Sponsors

I feel the need for some Bullet Points!!

• "50 New Things" is still on course, of course.
• The last post was #6: Jam
• The winner of a jar of the non-store bought, non-restaurant glop, home-made Plum Blackberry Jam......for being the first to comment on Jam Session is......Midge! (Is that jam I see on Black Jack's nose, Midge?) Although I don't think Connor is hiding behind the jam; I think he's looking at the world through Plum-colored goodness. 
• #7, #8 & #9 New Things have already taken place......but the writing/editing & posting awaits. 
• I am trying to breathe and be patient with the writing part. I want to take my time, soak it up and enjoy. But confess there is a voice in my head that is kind of nagging and whining about this. I HATE that voice.
• If the planets are aligned properly, #10, #11 & #12 may be complete in the next four days, by Monday Sept. 24th. 
• So if my math is correct and the gods smile down on me, that will be 12 of the 50 New Things in only 9 weeks. 

I am overwhelmed by people's support and suggestions. I appreciate all the personal participation.

This picture represents the last scoop of home-made vanilla bean ice cream, the last little drizzle of Plum Blackberry 'syrup' that wouldn't fit in the jars and a delicious sugar cookie made, sprinkled and sent to me by a three-year old angel child I've never even met. Life is good. 

Please stay tuned.

6th New Thing ~ Jam Session

As a young girl, I spent some hot Yakima afternoons watching my grandmother pickle, preserve, can, jam and "apple butter." (Is that a verb?) 


I should probably clarify. When I say "watching," I mean......

• playing Barbie Dolls under the kitchen table, 
• exploring the depleted chemistry set in Pat's old room, 
• setting up a board game without all its pieces in Mike's old room, 
• playing 'store' in the living room pretending that the little drawer under the coffee table was my cash register. The mismatched playing cards, my currency.

In other words, I was somewhere on the same property playing something, while she worked in the hot kitchen. So, for as much 'watching' as I've done, I've never actually pickled, preserved, canned, jammed or 'apple buttered.'

In my defense, I do remember frequently helping....

• Stemming strawberries 
• Peeling apples 
• Snapping beans 

But then she would ratchet it up to Big Girl Cooking. 
Cooking that included:

• Shiny, clinky gold metal rings
• Mason jars, worth their weight in real GOLD, 
• Industrial strength tongs, 
• Wooden spoons taller than I was
• Huge, speckled blue enamel pots of rolling, steaming, boiling water 

And that was my cue to wander off in search of flowers to pick, chestnuts to stomp open or a creek to wade in while Grandma was distracted with whether or not the lids all popped.



When I started listing things I'd never done, making jam was one of them. The original scribble read, "Make Freezer Jam."

Jam, by way of the freezer, felt less intimidating, less hot and less boiling water. Less sterilization and less strict rules regarding strictness. I had never made any jam, so making freezer jam felt like enough of a New Thing. Yet part of me knew I'd be taking the easy way. The lesser experience, for my purposes.

A couple of seriously supportive friends offered to help in the area of jamming. Excellent! Team Players. It was somewhere on the horizon but we set no firm date. Late summer into early fall felt like the season. I'd get to it eventually. No hurry. Something to look forward to.

But then just when I was having a particularly bad day, a friend who enjoys some canning expertise, who saw me struggling and who knew jam was on my list, sent me an email...

"I was thinking about the jam thing....I'd like to come out to your place...this Saturday..I'm happy to bring the supplies...some jars...I have some plums." 

It was exactly what I needed, and quite rare in my life...someone to say, "Okay, here's what we're going to do." 

It was so relaxing and reassuring. Someone else making, taking and owning a decision.

So the date was set and my good friend drove from Colorado to help me make jam. Okay. Not really. She was actually already most of the way here from Colorado but I'm hanging onto the 'traveled here for Barbie' story anyway.

My friendship with Lisa has grown to a new and unexpected level over the last few months. We found common energy, goals and faith just when we needed each other most. The universe and her perfect timing.

She drove out to my place the very next Saturday. A bright and calm morning. We walked down to the water. Stood at the rail. Together, we looked out on the shiny horizon and spoke of healing and hearts and blue herons.

Then after a bit, we got down to business. Big Girl Cooking. No freezer jam for us.

Lisa unpacked her contributions: 

• Plums and blackberries 
• Pots, jars, lids
• A wooden spoon you could hit a home-run with 
• Sugar and pectin.

Then I cracked open my contributions: 

• Champagne 
• Orange & pineapple juice
• Django Reinhardt

(That's even-steven, isn't it?)

Together we walked our way down the jam path. My house smelled AMAZING and soon we had beautiful, gem-like jars of deep, ruby-red jam. 

Plum Blackberry.

I know that some people pickle, preserve, can, jam or 'apple butter' as a soothing, healing, re-energizing process. 
Like some people garden. 
Or bake. 
Or play guitar. 
It nourishes their spirit. Centers them. 

It was a wonderful day and a wonderful New Thing, making jam. Under Lisa's supervision, my hands walking through this process, foreign to me but one that my grandmother knew so well. And I'm grateful for the jars of beautiful plum blackberry jam that I now have to give away as gifts. But what helped to calm and inspire me most this day was the company. The absolute acceptance of exactly where I was, where I am at any given moment. 
Lisa gently reminding me, "It's okay, Barbie." 

Blackberries and plums. Fruit Harmony

Isn't this the most beautiful red? 

The finished product....

And a week later, the first jam recipients? The Grandboys....

Nothing like a couple of small boys with 'Jam Hands'....

I see you, Connor! 

5th New Thing ~ B is for Balance

"Show me your tongue," Shuren says.
"What?"
"Show me your tongue." His English is rough.


I've been meaning to look into acupuncture for a few years now. But I kept not "getting around to it."

Although I know that medical insurance companies are now compelled to cover more alternative types of treatment and health care options than in years past, I still had a solid block in my head that it was going to be a battle getting it covered. Insurance speed bumps to maneuver, meant to discourage policy holders. I'm an insurance cynic. I just know they're out to get me.

But this long held intent to get acupuncture treatment and the year of 50 New Things came together and acupuncture was one of the first things to hit the early list.

"Show me your tongue," he repeats himself.

We are standing at the sign-in counter in his waiting room. Now, granted, there is no one else in the waiting room at the moment but it feels a bit odd to be starting the initial 'exam' at the front counter.

I stick out my tongue. So far I really like how this is going.
"Looks good," he says. "Why are you here?" he continues. His English is choppy; we maintain strict, concentrated eye contact to make sure that we understand each other. And we talk with our hands.

I explain that I go to the chiropractor periodically for pain in my right shoulder. Sometimes in my neck and right arm. And that my chiropractor also recommended acupuncture. BUT, instead of the shoulder pain, I would rather talk about energy and emotions. He nods his head.

"I think I hold a lot of tension in my body," I say. "And I'd like to get some help releasing that."
He asks how I'm eating. How I'm feeling. How I'm sleeping.
I hesitate a moment, then tell him the truth. Point blank. He nods his head.

He focuses on just one point: "You go to sleep fine but you wake in middle of the night and can't get back to sleep?"
"Yes," I say.
"Means that you are deeply disturbed." We are still standing at the front counter. Apparently that point blank thing goes both ways.

Now I'm sure this is just some sort of cultural translation-related misunderstanding.  What he really meant was deeply charming, right? Deeply enchanting?  Not disturbed. Not like the mad woman in Rochester's attic?

I picture the energy in me as a fluid substance that flows through my body. Life force that moves easily and unrestricted. Ideally speaking. Like the bloodstream, only unseen.

And like blood, the flow can sometimes slow and even stop. Become hindered. Creating trapped, stagnate pools that become toxic.

Maybe the moderate but chronic pain in my shoulder, pain that I've had for years, is about the need to release energy, get the flow moving better. The pain is my body trying to tell me something.

Shuren nods his head. He says we will work on balance overall.  As opposed to addressing the specific pain in my shoulder, which we agree is a symptom of something more fundamental.


He shows me to a small room and tells me to lie on the narrow, paper-covered table. Face up. I slip my shoes off, stash them under a chair and climb up. Adjust my skirt. He places a wedged pillow under my knees. My hands instinctively take a peaceful pose mid-chest.
"Is this your first time acupuncture?"
"Yes."
He goes on to ask me general health questions that I can't specifically remember now but that I think were a diversion. . . as he is busy doing something down at my feet. Feeling my pulse, maybe? I answer his questions as I realize I now have a needle inserted in each foot.
And then a needle in each ankle.
Each shin.
Each hand.
My forehead.
And the crown of my scalp.
Ten needles total.
I can't really feel the needles specifically but my right shins feels a faint, dull ache. Like an old bruise reminding me that it's still there. I wonder what this means.

"Listen to the music," Shuren says as he turns down the lights and leaves the room. My first thought is that he has forgotten to turn on the music. I can't hear it.
I can hear a jet far above the earth.
I can hear traffic from 512, though I'm a couple miles away.
Distant sirens, as we aren't far from a hospital.
I strain listening for music. After a few minutes I think, maybe there is a very, very quiet melody playing somewhere. Hard to tell.

I've never had much success at meditation. The phrase 'empty your mind.......'
What? Aren't thoughts a constant thing?
Daydreams, memories, planning, repetitive thoughts, spacing-out free-flowing thoughts, pre-writing, writing, editing.
Sometimes helpful, sometimes hurtful.
Truth and lies.
For good or for evil, that ceaseless mental chatter?

No thoughts??  Meditation, emptying my mind. How do you do that? When I've tried it in the past, I felt a lot of pressure. Which, I think is kind of the opposite purpose of meditation. I read somewhere that of course it's difficult to free one's mind of constant thought, but as you're meditating (or trying VERY HARD to meditate) when you find your mind wandering off, to acknowledge the wandering, then deliberately steer your thoughts back to an empty, quiet mind. Even with this sage advice, I struggled and then pretty much stopped trying. Years ago.

But laying on the table with my ten needles, it's easier. I wonder why. Shuren didn't tell me to meditate but it seems natural somehow. Meditation. Or something like it. For over an hour. I don't fall asleep, although I've heard it is not uncommon during acupuncture. My mind does drift off in unintended directions but I find it very peaceful to bring myself right back to a quiet, calm place. Repeating soothing words in my head. Watching the dark and light shadows behind my closed lids. Never once scolding myself for not being 'better' at this.

Soon I realize that I really can hear music. In fact, it was all I can hear. No traffic. Has it been here the whole time?

Shuren comes in a couple times to quietly ask how I'm doing.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
He touches my skin.
"Do you want heat?"
"No, I'm good."
He doesn't seem to believe me.

The fourth time he comes in, he asks me if I'm ready to be done. Yes, okay. He pulls each needle as he wipes each spot with a cool alcohol pad. The needles did not hurt going in and don't hurt coming out. I ask him what I can expect to feel after a treatment. He says I will see for myself. He then says, "Get up slowly," and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

I put my shoes back on and head out to the front counter. Not knowing what's next...paperwork? Schedule another appointment? Debrief?

"Is there anything else?" I ask.
"Don't drink cold water."
"No cold water?"
He nods.
"Warm water?" I ask.
"Yes, warm water. No cold water."
Yikes. Could he tell this about me? That I drink, not just cold, but ice water all the time.  Every day. Partially frozen water bottles. Cups of ice water at my desk.
Okay. I'll give this a try. No cold water.
"Do I need to come back?"
"Yes, probably a couple more times."

And that was my first appointment.

I don't know what I expected from acupuncture. Or maybe I did. I may have thought I'd feel something 'significant.' Like I'd spontaneously weep from all the releasing and flowing of energy. Or something. A more emotionally moving experience. That I'd feel overwhelmed. But instead it was very subtle and peaceful. I would never have thought of being pierced by needles as subtle or peaceful.

Through the rest of the day, I 'watched' for any differences in how I felt. Physically. Emotionally. The only thing I noticed was that I kept feeling warm and then chilled. Swinging between the two extremes all day. More chilled than not. Like my body was having a hard time maintaining an even temperature.

I return to Shuren's office three days later.
"How do you feel?" he asks me, as he leads me back to the same room as last time.
"I felt oddly hot and cold that first day. But otherwise, I feel about same."

As I'm slipping off my shoes and climbing up onto the table, he plugs in a heat lamp.
"This time we'll try heat too."
Seems that temperature is significant to this energy balance process.
I mention that I am drinking less cold water. Feeling kind of proud of myself. That I warm up mugs of water in the microwave and drink those.
"No microwave," he says.
"What?" I wilt inside.
"Microwave changes the molecules. Heat water on the stove."

No cold water? No microwaved water? Dehydration looms ahead. Okay. Really messing with my 'ways,' Shuren.

I'm up to my fourth appointment. And so far it turns out the needles are not at all the difficult part of this new experience. And temperature is way more important than I'd imagined.

I am not drinking cold water at all. Well, mostly. Drinking much more warm water.
Microwaved only about half the time now. Working on this. It's a process. Change might be good but it can also be difficult.



When Shuren left the room at my first appointment, I realized I would have no pictures of this new thing. There are all kinds of pictures on the Internet of acupuncture needles piercing flesh but I wouldn't have any of my experience. This felt a bit sad for a moment but it was easy to let go, as it was simply the nature of the first appointment.

At my second appointment, Shuren and I talked about the spiritual nature of acupuncture. I asked him if it would be disrespectful to take a picture of the needles in my skin. No, he says. Not at all. And even offered to take a shot himself as I needed to stay laying flat.

There are four needles in this shot. Take my word for it. The only one you can even kind of see is in my left upper shin.

The needle in my left hand.

And the one in my forehead. Lights down.

4th New Thing ~ I Scream

You should never let yourself run out of staples: bread, milk, butter, eggs, ice cream.

Ice cream.

I eat ice cream every night. Just before bed. Some nights with a brownie or chocolate cake or berry crumble or tart cherry pie. But always ice cream.

For me, ice cream is a staple. And it's easy enough to pick up on the way home. But it's better when it's homemade.

I never really thought about it until I started my list but ....I've never made homemade ice cream.

When I was a little girl, I'd help my grandma fill the wooden bucket of their ice cream maker with layers of ice chunks and rock salt. Waiting for what was 'forever' in Little Girl Land. Seriously, it seemed like days before that ice cream was done. But when it was done, I watched as she popped the lid and pulled the paddle out, covered in beautiful, soft, creamy, dreamy ice cream. I'd swipe a big finger full of ice cream off that paddle if I could get away with it. It was the best ice cream. I was really good at eating it but I've never made it.  We had it every summer when I was a kid in Yakima. Hot Yakima. Even so, it was a treat. Homemade ice cream. A luxury.

Until just recently, (Ciara made me Lavender Honey Ice Cream for my birthday) I haven't had homemade ice cream in years. In fact, strangely enough, the last memory I can pin down is from August 1977, staying in Davis, California, with my aunt & uncle. Kay made peach ice cream. It was incredible. Lounging by the pool, homemade peach ice cream and what is that I hear??.....Barry Manilow's "Looks Like We Made It" piped through the stereo speakers?
I think it is! Good times.

So, in the name of a quieter and creamier New Thing, and because of the 90-plus degree weather we'd had recently, I made home-made ice cream for the very first time.

I know this isn't a big huge New Thing, but I was oddly intimidated. Part of me wanted to just open my freezer door and pull out my Tillamook Vanilla Bean and skip the 'work.' I had to make a deliberate decision to look at it as a New Thing kitchen adventure.

First I procured two ice cream makers. (Thank you, Jill and Ciara.) Two completely different kinds of maker. I am not sure what each style is called but I liked them both:

• The sassy, shiny, 'newfangled' red one that looks like some sort of space shuttle sitting on my counter with a clear lid so you can watch the paddle spin and the liquid cream mixture get thicker and thicker. A modern wonder right out of the Star Wars saga. 
• The nostalgic, Old School model that allowed my hands to go through those childhood motions of layering ice, then salt, ice and then salt. Watching the metal drum collect frost, eager to see what it looks like inside. I spent a lot of time thinking about my Grandmother. Aluminum lawn chairs. The house I adored out in Cowiche. 

The two recipes I used were from a new book at the library:
Molly Moon's Homemade Ice Cream by Molly Moon Nietzel and Christina Spittler.

There was a wide variety of ice cream flavors to choose from.
Some were quite novel: Maple Bacon Ice Cream, Olive Oil and Toasted Pine Nut Ice Cream. Now I'm sure these are some tasty treats or they wouldn't be in the book, right? But on the surface and without having tried them, it just sounds like a mean thing to do to ice cream.

Which flavor should I try?  I debated: peach, cherry, blackberry? All good. But I really don't eat ice cream in those flavors. My favorite dessert is a Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae.
Brownie (no nuts), Vanilla Bean ice cream and hot fudge.


So the flavors I decided upon were vanilla and chocolate. You saw that one coming, I'm sure.
I chose, of course, the Vanilla Bean Ice Cream recipe (page 104).
And the Mexican Chocolate Ice Cream (page 84).
Although I altered this a bit, thinking I'd be all 'ice-cream-edgy,' right? Right.

Both ice cream makers worked great. Easy and a quick clean-up.

The vanilla was wonderful. With the traditional homemade texture that you can NOT get in store-bought ice cream. How is it that homemade ice cream seems colder than store bought? It may be as good a vanilla ice cream as I've ever had. And I've had my share.
I've done side-by-side store-bought vanilla ice cream taste tests. And this stuff is amazing. Perfect.

The chocolate was less wonderful but worth a shot. I should have stuck with the regular chocolate recipe. This one called for cinnamon. Plus after surfing recipes online, I thought I'd be so smart and modify it with just a pinch of chili pepper. You know, like the hot chocolate scene in the movie Chocolat. I don't know what I was thinking. It was homemade chocolate ice cream, for heaven's sake. Why did I find it necessary to mess with what is already a GREAT thing? The spicy chocolate end-result is fine but I'll not make it again. It's a novelty. I don't need novelty in my ice cream. You're welcome to some. There's a pretty big container in my freezer right now.


So not feeling all that adventurous about my choice of ice cream flavors, I decided to also make homemade hot fudge.  And I don't mean chocolate syrup warmed up. I mean goopy, thick, decadent hot fudge. (Page 98 - 99 Deep, Dark Hot Fudge.)

I'd never thought of making hot fudge at home before. It's so easy to just buy a jar. But, you know what....much better homemade. I've never looked at the list of ingredients on the jars of hot fudge from the store because I was afraid. Afraid that I wouldn't recognize most of the list as actual food products. And then I'd have had to decide if I continued to eat it. You know, sometimes maybe it's better not to know.

But now that I've made my own hot fudge, I know what I've been missing. The recipe made a large amount, it keeps for weeks in the fridge and it's so rich and thick that I don't need to use nearly as much as the store-bought stuff so it will last me a good long time.

One ice cream lesson I learned is quite practical. DO NOT buy vanilla beans without shopping around. Not thinking at all about comparing prices, I stopped for ingredients late at night on the way home. Last minute. The store I went to only had one brand of vanilla bean and to get enough for just one batch of Vanilla Bean Ice Cream cost me $26. It was easily the most expensive vanilla ice cream I've ever eaten. (Good thing it turned out so wonderful.) I later discovered that if I'd have picked up bulk vanilla bean in a different store it would have been only $11 for the same amount. Vanilla Bean Lesson, learned.

Another lesson I learned is "Don't mess with a good thing." Homemade chocolate ice cream is probably the picture you see in the dictionary next to the words "Good Thing." Okay, I know the dictionary doesn't work this way but you get my point. There was absolutely no reason to get screwy and clever with homemade chocolate ice cream.

To be completely honest, I have to keep fighting the urge to defend here in the blog, the making of homemade ice cream as a New Thing. Especially when compared to the ride on the Harley or the afternoon of Autocross. They are such completely different things. I'm hoping that admitting this to you is enough to fend off my need to defend. I want to breathe and honor whatever New Things speak to my heart and feels like the best thing for me. Even if they do not all seem 'impressive' or surprising. But the internal struggle I'm having turns out to be rough. Intellectually I know I want all ends of the spectrum with these New Things, but still feeling the need to explain myself here.
I'll stop now. Show you pictures, instead...

Seriously, doesn't this look like something that would have been sitting on Aunt Beru's counter? You can add ingredients through that star-shaped opening, while the ice cream is still churning near the end of the process...

Rock salt & ice chunk nostalgia, truly missing my grandma...

One of two crazy-expensive vanilla beans....

Me, having my ritual fantasy about finding a Golden Ticket each time I unwrap a chocolate bar...

One scoop Vanilla Bean & one scoop Mexican Chocolate........naked...

...then dressed in glorious Deep Dark Hot Fudge....

Last bite of vanilla and hot fudge that day.....

My 4th New Thing ~ Making Homemade Ice Cream