The Skinny on Chocolate: It's a Health Food

"Forget love, I'd rather fall in chocolate." Deanna Troi, Star Trek: The Next Generation

I have to agree with Deanna Troi--forget love. Let me fall in chocolate.

Actually, as a child, that was my daydream--to get a Hershey bar as big as my bedroom and not have to share.

Why am I, like so many Americans (read on to see that I don't lie), obsessed with this delectable seed?

1. The very smell of chocolate increases theta waves in your brain. That makes you relax. Can you imagine me without my chocolate?
2. It's a great, natural anti-depressant. (Imagine what I would be like without chocolate!) It contains tryptophan which helps create serotonin. Forget the turkey. I want chocolate for Thanksgiving.
3. The inventor of the chocolate chip cookie was a brilliant individual. The recipe was sold to Nestle in return for a lifetime supply of chocolate. Who got the better end of the deal? Uh duh. It's obvious.
4.  A single chocolate chip can provide enough energy for an adult human to walk 150 feet. Thirty-five chips enables the adult to walk one mile. For 875,000 you can walk around the world.
5. It takes about 400 cacao beans to make one pound of chocolate.(See the illustration of the beans above).
6. And every second, Americans (collectively) eat 100 pounds of chocolate. That's a lot of beans.
7. Each person consumes 12 pounds of chocolate a year. (I personally make-up for the few who eat no chocolate.) 
8. Americans spend $7 billion dollars a year on chocolate. (I thought my budget was bad.)
9. Hershey produces 20-25 million kisses a day. Pucker up. It's like love.
10. Eating dark chocolate every day reduces your risk of heart disease by one-third. However, I don't think that extends to the quantities I consume them.
11. Chocolate has an anti-bacterial element that protects your teeth from decay.
12. Be careful. Good things need to be used in small doses. A lethal dose of chocolate (heavens, how could there be such a thing) is 22 pounds--about 40 Hershey bars.
13. The average chocolate bar has about 8 insect parts.
14. There's a pill that makes your fart smell like chocolate.
15. The original name for hot chocolate was cacahuatl. Translated it was cocoa water. The Europeans did not like drinking anything named caca water. Would you? 

Which is your favorite chocolate fact? Currently #14 is my favorite. What can you expect from caca water?

Chocolate: The Perfect Valentine's Gift

"Forget love, I'd rather fall in chocolate." Deanna Troi, Star Trek: The Next Generation

Valentine's Day approaches and I have to agree with Deanna Troi--forget love. Let me fall in chocolate.

Actually, as a child, that was my daydream--to get a Hershey bar as big as my bedroom and not have to share--or to swim in a pool of chocolate.

Why am I, like so many Americans (read on to see that I don't lie) obsessed with this delectable seed?

Look how tiny the seeds are!

1. The very smell of chocolate increases theta waves in your brain. That makes you relax. Can you imagine me without my chocolate?
2. It's a great, natural anti-depressant. (Imagine what I would be like without chocolate!) It contains tryptophan which helps create serotonin. Forget the turkey. I want chocolate for Thanksgiving.
3. The inventor of the chocolate chip cookie was a brilliant individual. The recipe was sold to Nestle in return for a lifetime supply of chocolate. Who got the better end of the deal? Uh duh. It's obvious.
4.  A single chocolate chip can provide enough energy for an adult human to walk 150 feet. Thirty-five chips enables the adult to walk one mile. For 875,000 you can walk around the world.
5. It takes about 400 cacao beans to make one pound of chocolate.
6. And every second, Americans (collectively) eat 100 pounds of chocolate. That's a lot of beans. (See the picture above, right).
7. Each person consumes 12 pounds of chocolate a year. (I personally make-up for the few who eat no chocolate.) 
8. Americans spend $7 billion dollars a year on chocolate. (I thought my budget was bad.)
9. Hershey produces 20-25 million kisses a day.
10. Eating dark chocolate every day reduces your risk of heart disease by one-third. However, I don't think that extends to the quantities I consume them.
11. Chocolate has an anti-bacterial element that protects your teeth from decay.
12. Be careful. Good things need to be used in small doses. A lethal dose of chocolate (heavens, how could there be such a thing) is 22 pounds--about 40 Hershey bars.
13. The average chocolate bar has about 8 insect parts.
14. There's a pill that makes your fart smell like chocolate.
15. The original name for hot chocolate was cacahuatl. Translated it was cocoa water. The Europeans did not like drinking anything named caca water. Would you? 

Which is your favorite chocolate fact? Currently #14 is my favorite. What can you expect from caca water?

Kidney Quest: 24 Hour Urine Collection

Alan and family today

After the phlebotomist took vial after vial after vial of blood, I returned to my siblings in the waiting room, Here I discovered the problems of leaving my brothers and sisters unattended while the vampire (aka phlebotomist) emptied my blood. They read the information about organ donation that Mt. Sinai thought its donors should know.

"Hey," brother Bob called out. "Did you know that they could transplant portions of a pancreas?"

Fig. 2 The pancreas. 1. pancreatic head. 4. pancreatic body. 11. pancreatic tail. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He demonstrated the fact that he could read by pointing out the details. In 2003 the procedure was still experimental (only two to five living transplants a year according to UNOS data and only 160 to date). The best results came from whole pancreas which would come from a "deceased donor" (obviously).

We discovered during this time that most living donations came from:

1. liver
2. lung
3. kidney

Which of course resulted in sick DeFord humor as we considered ransacking our body parts for a brother we adored.

"Bob," Art said, "you can afford to live the wild life and not worry about getting the organs you need."

Bob gave him a blank stare.

"You've got five donors ripening at home." He referred to his five sons.

"Then Janine got me beat," Bob said. Janine couldn't come to the screening because she was expecting her sixth baby in February.

"Yeah," Alan said. "But none of them are ripe yet. You've, though, Bob has three ready to harvest."

We assumed the donors had to be over eighteen-years-old in order to donate. Bob's three oldest boys met that criteria.

We laughed at our sick jokes, and I'm sure we offended others sitting in the office. But the only way we knew to relieve our tension was to laugh.

Then the mood turned somber.

After reading another pamphlet, my sister Marianne discovered another test we'd have to endure: The Twenty-Four Hour Urine Collection.

"What?" We gasped in unison.

"Where does it say that?" I asked.

She pointed it out.

This fact horrified us.

• ask us embarrassing questions
• test every part of our bodies
• take out a kidney

But collect pee for twenty-four hours and then lug it to the hospital?
That nearly transcended our love for Alan.

Related articles

• Kidney Quest: Initial Screening for Donors
• Kidney Quest: The Story of Organ Donation

The Woes of Peter Pumpkin Eater's Wife

Image via Wikipedia

     I married Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. Unbeknownst to me, my husband stuck me in a pumpkin shell. Now all my summer clothes stretch around a rotund tummy (barely), and I'm not sure if I should walk or roll down the road.
     As I waddle, my proboscis heralds my approach with the bright red wounds the dermatologist made. As my nose protrudes, it becomes a UV magnet, is frequently sunburned and thus the need to remove precancerous damage. Oh to only have the tiny nose of a starlet--or at least put some of its size on my lips.
     And the only time anyone ever asks to borrow my shoes is when he or she wants to water-ski. I'm not a pretty picture.
     However...
     This morning in worship we sang a line that told of us casting our crowns before the Lord. I closed my eyes and saw myself before the throne of God. Next to me stood Queen Elizabeth. To the other side Angelina Jolie. In back of me worshiped President Obama. Each of us was loved by the great God Almighty, the Maker of the universe. He didn't care that I wasn't pretty, that my poor blog can't get fifty followers, that my life was humble and lowly and ordinary. I was no different to Him than these luminaries, and no less precious. I could cast my crown and it would be as accepted as Queen Elizabeth's crown jewels. I opened my eyes to my own beauty and the grace of God.
   It's divine to be loved so indiscriminately.
   

How To Please Your Man

Ideally, these should be in a heart shaped box

     Valentine's day. Ah, every woman wants a box of chocolates and a dozen long-stemmed roses. But we must remember there is another side to our love life. The man. How can we please him? I've got 5 fail-proof plans.

1. Men like to save money. They budget everything. Therefore, hit the sales. Often you can dove-tail a sale with a clearance item and really make him happy.
2. Men are visual beings. Therefore it is essential you look your best. Contact your Arbonne or Mary Kay representative and get a make-over.
3. And speaking of a make over, what good is the make-up and clothes with ragged nails. Manicure time.
4. If you're like me, hubby is your foot warmer at night. We do not want to scratch him with our jagged, winter-dried heels. Pedicures will cure that problem.
5. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Make your dinner reservations early.

     Do you have any ideas you'd like to share?

Florida Fandango: Okefenokee

     Okefenokee--what a way to start my Florida vacation. In size, it's bigger than 300,000 football fields. (Even the Pats would find touchdowns difficult in a field that size). This last summer, much of it burned up--but like God refining us in the fire, this will restore the swamp. If fire didn't kill the growth, the vegetation would suck up all the water and we'd be hunting gators on a freeway.
     As a matter of fact, engineers did try to drain the swamp, but they ran out of money and never connected it to the St. Mary's River and the outlet malls went elsewhere.

Getting up close and personal with the gators

Sandhill Crane

     And that was a good thing. The swamp is home to myriad species: Sandhill cranes, alligators, great blue herons and bunches more.
     The water looks like tea, and like tea, is dark because of tannic acid. But don't drink it! The temp is only 68 degrees and tepid tea is not tasty.
      One critter that is not as well known is the swamp monkey. Out in the midst of the swamp where methane rises like the bubbles in a lava lamp you can find this creature. One must lean over the sides of the boat and stare into the depths of the water. Inevitably, you will see the swamp monkeys. I was lucky enough to capture photos of six of them.

Swamp Monkeys Neil, Zach, Will

Kaitlin Swamp Monkey

rare picture of mamma & baby

 

Whom Do You Trust?

The ILT

     I love my GPS--or as I've called her once before, my ILT (I'm Lost Too). With faith I program her and believe wholeheartedly she will get me where I'm going. But...

1. In Madrid, she told me my hotel resided under a four mile tunnel.
2. In Wilmington, NY she believed my route followed EVERY cemetery in the area, and she took me to Malone via Plattsburgh (50 miles east of my destination)
3. She told me Target lay in the middle of a four lane highway.
4. She thought a side trip through Washington D.C. would be a nice diversion forgetting I've already seen the Washington and Jefferson Monuments and my destination was Charlotte, NC not D.C.
5. She had no idea that South Tryon Street existed. It's a major thoroughfare through Charlotte.

     Still, every time I travel, I turn ILT on and with faith follow her lead. So why don't I do this with my Lord and Savior? Who best can direct my steps? God never leads me astray, never loses satellite connection and knows every twist and turn of my being. If I trust the fickle ILT, I certainly can believe my Creator.

2 Thessalonians 3:5 May the Lord direct your hearts into God's love and Christ's perseverance.

Little Known Bassoon Facts

     My annual Christmas cantata has ended to thunderous applause and requests for us to return in the spring. Before I, personally perform, I want to clarify some little known facts about the most wonderful instrument in the band.
     Did you know?

1.  The bassoon is indeed the prototype of a bazooka. If you wet tissues, roll them into the size of a golf ball and shove it down the bell joint, when the bassoonist hits a high C, it will easily shoot one thousand feet. I have heard that the designers of the game "Angry Birds" use a bassoon at its highest level.

2.  The bassoon also is the forerunner of an IED. Watch a bassoonist roaming around before a concert and see how many innocent attendees she bops with the horn. Few survive.

Bassoon

3.  The bocal is not a hookah.

4.  The bocal is a good substitute for a water balloon. Innocently look ahead as you blow the condensation out of it at the end of the concert. Your neighbor will be saturated.

5. It does not make the same noise as a dying cow or a moose in heat.

6. When someone points at a bassoonist and says, "das faggott," they are NOT insulting her. That's the German name for it and it means those sticks.

7. No ships are ever lost at sea when a bassoon yields its low notes.

8.  The bassoon is not an oboe.

Lose Weight--Eat Dessert

Image by escuelahosteleriabenahavis via Flickr     I set out on my annual pilgrimage with my daughter. Over Veterans day we hunker down in Burlington, Vermont, scrapbook and eat at the Olive Garden. Ah, the Olive Garden--home of the Tour of Italy and breadsticks and Tiramisu. Except the food police hit. Now in Vermont, restaurants carry three--make that four--little digits at the bottom of each selection. Calories!
    
     1450 was the huge digit at the bottom of the Tour. That was one thousand four hundred and fifty calories. As my daily budget is 1290 calories (which I thought was what the poor, starving people in Africa ate per day), this meal, minus breadsticks (150 per stick) and Tiramisu (510) would have me porking on the pounds.
     
     To work off the calories from the Tour alone, I'd have to run MORE than a half-marathon (that's 13.2 miles) or ride my bike for eight hours or walk for ten. That's HOURS! And I still hadn't extras to eat.

     So instead of taking the Tour, I opted for strawberry mousse with white chocolate cream cake--210 calories complete.

     Life should be sweet!

Do We Have Any Volunteers in the Audience?

Picture stolen from Kimberly Connel

     I peeled my eyes opened. Eight a.m. on a Saturday. Forget the fact that my weeks have six Saturdays and one Sunday, my brain had been trained and  Saturday is sleep-in, lazy sacrosanct. However every Saturday we members of North Country Habitat for Humanity banded together to work on the restoration of a house for a needy and deserving family..
      I didn't want to go. Jimminy Crickets, it was Saturday. But James 2:14-17 might as well be engraved on my forehead. "Dear friends, do you think you'll get anywhere in this if you learn all the right words but never do anything? Does merely talking about faith indicate that a person really has it? ... Isn't it obvious that God-talk without God-acts is outrageous nonsense?"(from THE MESSAGE)
     So I rose and within the hour I shined. Once again I discovered joy in giving. I hammered nails, chatted with friends, learned skills, watched our family work for the home they'd soon inhabit and ate a fabulous lunch prepared by Joanna, a dear friend on our local board. I couldn't imagine any greater way to spend a Saturday.
     And I learned some valuable lessons to boot:

1. toenailing has nothing to do with a pedicure
2. a shank isn't something prisoners use nor something you braise in an oven
3. a stud is not a virile man
4. strapping is not used in S & M
5. a dike is not a gay woman nor something that holds back water

     So tell me what you think these mean?

Tyranny of the Quick Fix

Image by jimmywayne via Flickr

     Malone, NY, I do love thee...but have you learned the tyranny of the quick fix? We look for easy ways out of problems and so we bring in prisons. Oh the economy will revive.
     Nope. Just brought in prison families and lots of convicts who clog the judicial system.
     We hope the casino will have a trickle down effect and build more hotels.
     Nope. Didn't work either.
     But we're not to blame--it's in our DNA. From the town's inception we've looked for the get rich quick schemes. Last week we explored the wolf head scandal...oh those dastardly dogs look so much like wolves. However, that scandal had a forerunner--espionage and fraudulent land claims.

Image by dougtone via Flickr

1. During the War of 1812 many county residents favored the British. And they discovered a benefit to that favoritism. They traded military secrets for the filthy lucre. Being a border town wasn't much different than as it is now--only today our barter is with the drug and alien trade.
2. During this time period, we had fraudulent land claims. People would state that property had been confiscated or destroyed or goods consumed. Then they received payments. Oddly, once the investigation proved the fraud, the claimants claimed they didn't know the claims were made. Oh, my bad.
3. Hops didn't do it either.

    So, you ask, this is an itty-bitty, inconsequential village in the frozen tundra, what does it have to do with me especially as it happed over 200 years ago?
     There is nothing new under the sun. How else do we try to skim the cream?
     

P is for Pompeii

                           Image via Wikipedia     Pompeii existed over two thousand years ago as a prosperous town. People loved and fought, bought and bartered, reared their families and planned for the future. Until Mount Vesuvius had other things to say. Within twenty-four hours the angry volcano annihilated their world.
     Ash preserved the torment of the humans who had lived there. The ash shells were filled with plaster, and the exhibit made me cry as though this disaster just happened.
     The image to the left haunts me the most. The man looks as though he's crying and well he could be. In reality he's covering his face trying to protect it from the choking ash and noxious fumes.
     A world of sermons and lessons and contemplations exist in the exhibit I saw. However, one stands out the most:
     To get their clothes clean, these people used pee! Having no clorox or bubbling suds or whatever, they resorted to ammonia. Ammonia is a primary component of urine. Not only did people pee on their clothes, they collected it from total strangers.
     Large urns (old-fashioned urinals) lined the street. When the urge hit, the populace used it. These urns were brought to the laundromat and launderers stomped on the laundry in their bare feet!
     In case I haven't mentioned it: YUCK.
     Since then I've learned, from my pastor no less, that this is an age-old remedy for many things.

1. Rome believed urine to be theraputic. Thus these troughs could be accessed by anyone to imbibe. Giant urine fountains for their health!
2. Gypsies used cow urine to cure Bright's disease. Maybe that's why the Romanians aren't found of this ethnic group.
3. Yogis and Lamas from Tibet extended their lives by drinking their own pee.
4. A book titled One Thousand Notable Things describes the use of urine to cure scurvy, relieve skin itching, cleanse wounds, and many other treatments. 
5. An 18th century French dentist praised urine as a valuable mouthwash.
6. In England during the 1860-70s, the drinking of one's own urine was a common cure for jaundice.
7. In more modern times, the Alaskan Eskimos have used urine as an antiseptic to treat wounds

     Say what you will about the lessons from Pompeii. This is one I don't want learned in the modern world.   

My Pear Butter is Equal to My Singing

     Blessed with more pears than anyone has the right to own, I decided to make pear butter. Never having done something before has never been a deterrent to me. So I began:

1. I ran off a recipe. Of course when googling information, the first item the search turns up is the most reliable, right? This one ran 36 pages. Unfortunately, I walked away from my computer after I hit print.
2. It took me three hours to chop and seed all those pears, mash them down and food mill them into puree. I added spices and let it cook. My house smelled like heaven. Page thirteen had the details on about this portion--I should have taken the hint from the number of the page.
3. I plopped the glop into my slow cooker. Page 24 said this process would take a long time and a slow cooker would guarantee my results. (They didn't tell me what the results would be--it might have been page 33 where my printer ran out of ink and I thought I'd wing it.)
4. Two days later, the butter was burnt--inedible. It glued the removable pot of my slow cooker to the base. I attempted to pry it off and the base separated from the guts, all the wires fell out and my house didn't smell so hot.

     Hint: If a recipe is more than ten lines long, go to the store and buy it or go to search result # 2 on google. If you persevered to the end of this article, you know exactly how well I sing.

God’s Abundance: e.g. Mud baths

Callie's Corner

            We often miss God’s abundance, even if it’s as clear as mud between our toes. Take Carol, for example. The other day I was taking her for a walk when she stepped into a mud puddle. I could understand her revulsion had she been wearing shoes, but she wore her Tevas. She screamed, changed direction and made me take her back to the cabin. She missed God’s abundance in a free mud bath. Think about it:

           

1. People pay a lot of money for this beauty treatment, and God gave it away.
2. True to His nature He gave the best. The mud had been aged. Formed by tropical storms Irene and Lee, He added leaf and other plant matter and allowed it to age to a divine consistency.
3. Carol pays money for perfume. This ripened debris was given with a profligate hand. To get an idea of its pleasant aroma, imagine the dozen roses your hubby gave you. Allow it to sit in a vase on the table for a week. Now empty it. The scent wafting from your sink? Heaven!
4. She’s always pestering Neil for silky clothes—loves the sliding, slick texture against her skin. Yet with mud slathered liberally between her toes in the slickest of textures, all she did was squeal. (And not in delight I might add).Image by Rev Stan via Flickr

Next time you complain—think about it. It’s probably a blessing in disguise.

The Pumpkin Muffin Diet

Image by kmevans via Flickr            I discovered this fantastic diet quite by accident. Once more relying on my Garmin while visiting Paul’s Paradise near Albany, I got lost. A twenty minute drive took an hour and the grocery store I searched for had been washed away by Hurricane Irene. I ended up twenty minutes later in Cobleskill. My hunger threatened to kill me until I made an emergency stop at a Dunkin Donuts.

            I got a latte. Staring at me from the shelves of delicacies, white sugar glaze topped a burnt-orange offering and said, “You’re hungry, Carol, and look at me.”

(You should have heard the voice—you would have succumbed as well.)

            I bought it, and the pumpkin flavor of the moist cake exploded in my mouth. Each crumb satisfied in a way that a celery stalk could never. I nibbled. I licked my fingers and sucked every crumb from my finger and the napkin strewn across my lap as the lady inside my Garmin directed me home.

            Before I even finished my latte, my appetite vanished as though I left it in Cobleskill. No need to devour the half of sub sitting in the fridge once I got home. I didn’t even desire apples or cheese or veggies. My belly swelled in delight in a manner that no salad slathered with non-fat dressing on the side could do. One little muffin satisfied.

            So my advice to you—stock up at Dunkin Donuts (these muffins are seasonal after all), and eat one muffin for breakfast, one for lunch and one for dinner. You’ll be satisfied until your stash vanishes.

            Share your diet results here. I’d love to learn new techniques.

Mark Twain: Writing Tips

All Things Literary

(sorry NPR--If the paraphrase works--use it)

Want to be a great writer? Follow these tips. Mark Twain is back by popular demand.

• Don't say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream.

• Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn't.

• Ideally a book would have no order to it, and the reader would have to discover his own.

• It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

• Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.

Image via Wikipedia
• The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them.

• What a good thing Adam had. When he said a good thing he knew nobody had said it before.

God Created the World for Women: The Proof

     God must be crying over the irony of the patriarchally driven world when the very opening of the Bible shows us the world was created for us--the women. I do not expect you to take this thought in blind faith, so I will demonstrate it exegetically. (Go to the source, and see that I don't err).

Image via Wikipedia
•  Day 1--Every woman knows she looks best with a sun-kissed tan, thus day 1, God created the sun.
• Day 2--What better place to get a tan than on the beach? Day 2,  God separated the water from the land and thus gave us beaches.
• Day 3--I covered this in depth yesterday. Coffee, chocolate, wine and golden Oreos all come from plant life.
• Day 4--(Do notice how creation gets more complex as it goes along--this is an important point). We now have moonlight and starlight for a little romance in which to enjoy our chocolate.
• Day 5--What good is a red wine without the red steak? Or an excellent book without a kitty cat purring on our laps?      On Day 5, God created the animals.
• Day 6--the complexity builds--and here I'll separate two components. God creates man who all alone cannot deal with life. But he is necessary to provide for God's crowning achievement--the beach house and fine foods and romance. Once man is finished--along comes woman, His crowning achievement. With the creation of woman, what else can the good Lord do? He's done it all.
• Day 7--He can finally rest.

Therefore, woman was the sole reason the world was created. I am so glad I am a Bible scholar! No one can refute this.

LOST (Part 2)

            …So we unloaded the few little things we had in our Hobbit room (except it was up and not down). It had to be no more that 15’x15’ with a king sized bed. I felt like Alice when she grew too big. We then began our search for our car.

            Neil swore he’d find it. Remember, it was buried in a garage somewhere in Madrid—but we really only had about a kilometer radius to search. I’m not sure who was the silliest—Neil for saying he could find the car when he gets lost in Plattsburgh, or me—for believing him. I guess desperate minds believe anything.

            We crossed the bridge with no problems. But then—all the roads here fan out from traffic circles. I think we had four choices. I followed Neil up one. About a quarter of a mile up he said, “This isn’t right. I think it’s the other.”

            We walked up that one—again a quarter mile. This road had wrought iron fences like the one where we parked the car. But again—the wrong road. Back we trudged and then up a third, then back, then peaked down the fourth—obviously wrong.

            We started the process all over. Finally we took a little road along the “river.’ (They appear to be not much more than evaporating creeks). Little things began to look familiar—a bench, the park along the river, we turned up a side road because of obstructions and what did I spy? The wrought iron fences.

Image via Wikipedia            Two more streets and the cervasaceria we stopped at came into view. We turned back down the road and there stood our garage. We scurried in, found our itty-bitty Clio and drove to the hotel.

            Our twenty-five minute trip lasted over three hours.

            Now all we had to do was figure out how to turn the lights on in our room. (Or how to use a bidet—what use are they?)

Gridlock--Part 2

So I ran 9.3 miles along a beautiful course with bands playing, crowds cheering, boom boxes booming and water everywhere. The Boilermaker had the best supply of water stops.

I came to the end. Thought I saw Neil, smiled and waved to a gray haired, gray bearded man who never saw me before.

Then I funneled through the finish line. One hour, thirty-eight minutes and fifty-five seconds. Not great, but still considered locally competitive for my age and gender.

They funneled me into the biggest gridlock of my life—bigger than the NYC marathon, bigger than Patterson’s government. (And Patterson was part of the problem here, as well.)

I walked along streets crowded with finishers and discovered plenty of water, but the Sobe vitamin water was gone, the good soda—gone, the Greek yogurt—gone. Boxes of quartered oranges still lay—many of them with the eaten oranges tossed in with the uneaten. Oh—to be at the end of the pack is not a pretty thing.

My hip buzzed.

Neil called. He may not have been the lovely gent I waved to, but he was somewhere near him. He saw me cross the finish line, and a picture he snapped would show me looking his way, grinning at some handsome man.

He had a dilemma (aside from not being able to hear me over the din). The cops and race marshals wouldn’t let him pass the barriers. He couldn’t get to me.

I yelled into my phone. He yelled into his. Somehow I understood only that he couldn’t get to me. I’d just get my lunch and find him.

Finding lunch proved hard as throngs swarmed the Price Chopper truck for our lunches. I grabbed one, found a tree, sat under it and munched a banana.

My hip beeped.

The phone never rang.

My husband still couldn’t find me.

“I’ll find you,” I yelled.

“What?”

“I’LL FIND YOU!!!!!”

“WHAT?”

I hung up the phone.

As I backtracked I discovered the rest of the food. With my arms pinned to my sides and shoulder to shoulder with about a billion other runners (and non-runners grubbing the food), I gathered a few more munitions, found a quiet road and rejoiced. No crowds. I turned a corner. Fewer people on this residential street. Porta Potties lay ahead and the Celtic Minstrel. Two landmarks. I’d call Neil. We’d meet there.

Of course he didn’t hear me.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE. I’LL FIND YOU!!!!!!”

I lied.

As I approached orange fence blocking the entrance to the finish line, a cop stopped me.

“You can’t go through. Governor Patterson’s leaving.”

A couple behind me became incredulous. “I’ve got to find my daughter.”

“Sorry. The governor’s coming.”

“You mean I can’t get my daughter?”

“That’s right.”

I didn’t try to argue. I turned around and headed back to the mob. Before I reached it, Neil called.

“I’m behind the Price Chopper truck.”

“I know where that is. Stay there.” I flipped my cell shut. I’d find my husband. The right husband.

I got to the truck, but had one dilemma. I didn’t know where “behind” was. It all looked the same. Was it at the back, where the long side bordered the trees near the empty street I now backtracked on? Was it in front where all the other food courts lay, was it facing the family reunion or the street that funneled the runners in.

Only one solution since Neil couldn’t hear me. I walked around and around and around. Then, I caught sight of a good-looking, gray haired, gray bearded man with a cell phone stuck to his ear. Mine began buzzing once more. I trotted over, tapped Neil on the shoulder, startled him. He grabbed my hand and we attempted our escape.

The rest of our trip. Just ordinary.

It was a great run—but a lousy party. I’m glad I ran the Boilermaker, sorry I never met any of my training buddies there. Never even had the chance to get tempted with the free beer—if trying to get a sample of Greek yogurt had been a contortionist’s nightmare, can you picture the beer tent?

Thanks Governor Patterson. You even gridlock family reunions.

Gridlock

It doesn’t pay to be kind. Believe me. I tried it and it gave me an ulcer.

I trained for the Boilermaker—an elite race of 13,000 crazies who run the streets of Utica for 9.3 miles (that’s 15K in runners’ speak). Neil, as obligated for a dutiful spouse, drove me the four hours to Utica and would drive the subsequent return. (I wasn’t going to stay in Utica, believe me).

Morning came. The wake-up call beckoned me at 5:30 a.m. I arose, washed, drank coffee and had my devotion time and let Neil sleep. He’d have to stand around in the heat and try to find me in the running throngs and snap attractive pictures of me as I past—all sweaty and exhausted. At 6:45 I woke him. He showered. Chatted with the hotel personnel about a Corvette museum. I should have realized trouble brewed because the parking lot of our sold-out motel was empty.

The start line lay only five miles away, and I had fifteen minutes to get there. No sweat. I hit the Garmin GPS and settled back. We’d drive the backstreets because the course would be closing to vehicles for the race.

Little did I know, they closed ALL the roads. The implacable cops wouldn’t let us pass a major artery and drive down the road that cut across to the start line. We had to backtrack. Found Highway 5. Headed north.

On our way to the start at last, I couldn’t settle. Ms Garmin told me I’d arrive at 7:47. I was supposed to be there by 7:45. And by nature, if I’m not fifteen minutes early—I’m late.

We hit traffic backups because cars c navigate couldn’t get on to the closed streets. I contemplated hopping out and jogging—but still we were five miles away. I had barely trained for the nine mile course—fourteen would kill me.

At last we crawled to our exit. Ms Garmin tried to navigate us back onto roads closed to vehicles. We shut her off.

At last, with five minutes to race time, we arrived near the starting area. Of course, no cars could get closer. Before Neil stopped our Sebring, I hopped out, asked directions and jogged down the short street.

At last, I turned the corner and there stood 13,000 people—headed by scrawny, young African elite runners waiting for the starting gun.

I jogged on.

I made it!.

“You can’t go there.” A guard stopped me.

“But how do I get to my race start?”

She pointed down a side road. “Go that way, turn right.”

She minced no words.

Two minutes to go. And another detour.

I ran. As did other latecomers. I turned the corner. Ahead of me lay a field. Beyond the field a fence and a line-up of runners with numbered black bibs attached to their shirts. My corral.

Over hummocks, through weeds, I wended my way. I nudged into line. Wiggled my way that warm morning between hot bodies. Stood shoulder to shoulder (almost haunch to paunch as Tom Wolfe would say.)

Final instructions reverberated. Wave to Governor Patterson as you cross the start line.

Governor Patterson.

Not only did he gridlock our government—but the start of the Boilermaker as well.

I thought all was well. But time would tell.

To be continued.