Side Story: The Dell Goes Down

Laptop: En fuego. (courtesy of geekology.com)

My laptop is dead.

And when I say “dead,” I don’t mean it in the way my iPhone was dead last week. I really think it’s done this time. For real.

I was working nicely, minding my own business, when I got a black screen, a blue screen, and then nothing at all. With a frenzied, “No. No, no, no, nonononono!” I called my company’s technical support line and described what I was seeing. The guy on the other line didn’t say much. Just this: “It sounds like your Dell went down.”

…like I’d been manning a boat that had capsized, and I’d jumped ship.

I wanted to say to the guy that I’ve been down this road with my laptop before. Every once in a while, it waits until I’m crazy-busy at work, then kicks out and goes on vacation. So I hand it to the tech guys, and they wipe and rebuild it. When it comes back to me, it’s all relaxed and ready to go, like it just spent a few days at some lush resort for aging technology.

But this time? I think it just handed me its resignation and threw itself a retirement party.

So I’m typing on GB’s laptop. And I’m offering you two Roadside Shoes! while I look for a laptop replacement.

~*~

Columbus Roadside Shoe! This first shoe comes to us from my neighbor, Caryn. I like that she’s been tracking the progress of her Roadside Shoe since late summer, and sent me this picture a few days ago.

Courtesy of my friend Caryn

“It’s been fun to track the boot’s status over the past 2+ months,” she wrote. “Someone made the effort to move it off the road and someone cleaned up the political signs trapped under it earlier this month. Why didn’t they go ahead and just take the boot? Actually, I’m glad no one did before I got its picture. Enjoy!”

Caryn is awesome. A fabulous mom, and a truly good person. Not a bad photographer either.

~*~

London Roadside Shoe! My fabulous bloggy friend Sunshine of Sunshine in London is my London Roadside Shoe! correspondent. You may remember that Sunshine submitted the “Tawdry Roadside Shoe!” several weeks ago. And now, she’s gone above and beyond with this most excellent installment.

Courtesy of Sunshine in London

“I almost forgot about this:” she wrote. “On our way home from Ian Shaw’s concert on Saturday night, I spotted this Roadside Shoe! from the top deck of a double-decker bus! We were somewhere around Hoxton or Shoreditch in the east of London, and this was soon after midnight. The shoe is on TOP of a bus stop, along side what looks like a blanket. There was also a little doll on the far side of the bus stop, but I couldn’t focus my camera quickly enough through the bus window.

“So. A genuine, London, Roadside Shoe! Why one? And why on top of the bus stop?”

Sunshine has a knack for zooming in on the interesting and unusual—it’s one of the things I love most about her always witty, always interesting and well-written blog. That’s why I’m not at all surprised that her eagle eye was keen enough to spot such a Roadside Shoe! in such an excellent location. Nicely done, Sunshine. Top notch! (Do yourself a favor–visit Sunshine in London today.)

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Rule #1: You Do NOT Talk About Book Club

I had Book Club again last night. This means I came home happy and late, with an itch to write about all of it, but I stopped myself. That’s because Book Club is a lot like Fight Club: what happens there, stays there, and you respect the discussion.

In a way, that’s too bad, because I think you’d really like the women behind the greatness of The Club. They’re smart and funny and honest, and they’d make the perfect blog post—if it weren’t for my desire to support their privacy. But who knows—I’m hosting next month’s meeting, so maybe? You never know.

I still have a lot to tell you about our trip to Granville, including the accidental fire I set in the kitchen, the flirtatious giant goblin head, the house I’m going to buy, and some charming photos of a farmer’s market. And I will, tomorrow and Thursday. But for now…

Roadside Shoe!

Today, we have another Nashville installment, sent to you by my blackjack-loving friend, Kim. She said it was sitting sadly just outside the United States Post Office in Pleasant View, TN. 

And here’s another Columbus installment, this time sent to you from my brother SC’s lady friend, Kelli, who just added to her already high cool quotient by sending me this:

 

There’s also something important I need to say: There’s a Roadside Shoe on 315 South, and it’s taunting me. I’ve passed it in blazing sunshine and in the rain, in heavy traffic and on a nearly deserted road, in broad daylight and under the dark of night, and I can never. get. the. shot. It’s driving me crazy. Columbus readers/photographers? Anybody feel like living dangerously?

Back to the Granville posts tomorrow. Meanwhile, happy Tuesday, all.

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.    

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: 4th of July in the Country

Every child should have an aunt and uncle who live in the country.

This is my prevailing thought as we follow a tractor through the farm-smattered hills of Paris, Kentucky. I like the tidy, black roads, the tunnels of trees, the miles and miles of black wooden fences. The pastures are full of sleepy cows and sleek, gorgeous horses grazing in the thick July heat. If Heaven doesn’t look like a candy store/ice cream shop, then it looks like this.

We follow a new gravel road to Kim and Chuck’s house. When we park, there’s a big ole’ black dog there to greet us. I pat her head as I scan the surroundings: rolling hills, round barn, fully stocked ponds, pasture upon pasture of cattle. At the border of the sorghum fields, there’s a lone tree saddled with a tire swing.

My boys are like cannons shot straight from the 4-Runner. They laugh all the time at home, but they don’t laugh quite like this. When they see their cousin, C, they jump up and down, then follow her into the fields.

~*~

It’s July 3—my very first 4^th of July weekend spent away from home. If you think that’s strange, then you must not be Columbus-born. As any self-respecting Columbusite will tell you, this town knows how to celebrate the birth of a country. (We were named for one of the main guys who discovered the joint, after all.) That’s why you stay for the giant parades and over-the-top fireworks and annual picnics. You don’t just leave. Who would ever do that?

So I’ll admit: I felt a little “off” this morning as we packed the car. It was 9:00 AM, and our neighborhood parade was about to start. We’d turned down a few picnics with friends. Already, I missed my parents; 4th of July was always a big deal in our house growing up.

But I didn’t and don’t regret leaving, not for a moment. We’re southbound for a very important reason—we have a new niece to meet. Stay in town, indeed.

~*~

Chuck opens the door, sporting that groggy, dad-of-a-newborn look. We’re a little loud with our hellos, as usual, but he takes that in his usual good-natured stride. I immediately offer to “take the baby off his hands” which is really just mom-code for “why are you standing between me and this child?” He obliges. Smart man.

Kim looks over my shoulder as I peer at her daughter’s tiny, snoozing face. She points out how the baby looks like Chuck from the nose up and her from the nose down. I can’t help but compare her to my boys—she sleeps as soundly as H and as cozily as O. Oh, that wave of nostalgia again for my boys when they were babies!

So we spend the afternoon together, my new niece and me. Eventually, other guests arrive, and so I give up the goods and feel empty-armed for a while. I’m extra-huggy with my sons, who ask me to let go so they can play. I steal my niece again at my next opportunity.

~*~

When it’s dark, Chuck’s dad lights fireworks in the yard. I sit with my mother- and father-in-law on the porch, watching the colors explode one by one. H rests his chin in his hands and thoughtfully watches the sky. O has turned me into his chair, with my arms as his armrests.

I wonder what my boys will be like a year from now. It’s almost impossible to hold a baby and not think about your own children and how quickly they’re growing. I love how the personalities they brought to the world are exactly what they show me today. My quizzical, funny, energetic H. My laid-back, jolly Mama’s boy, O. Both have minds of their own. Both are full of surging independence. I’m so proud of that. I want to watch them turn into the people they’re meant to be.

At the same time, I wish I could somehow keep them small. Always small and by my side. I know now why we talk about “cutting” rather than “untying” apron strings—because it smarts. It really does. So maybe I’ll keep knitting new ties we’ll cut later. That’s my only solution.   

When the show is over, we load the boys into the car and drive toward Winchester. There’s another fireworks display in the west corner of the sky. We watch as we drive, and the boys fall asleep when we hit the highway.

This from the mouth of a Columbusite: 4th of July was meant to be spent in the country. Because what could be better than Horse Country in full summer, with a stocked pond and a sweet ole’ black dog and a big tire swing out back? That sounds like freedom to me.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37    

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#4: Maura and Cara Join the Race

Sabrina, Victoria, Darcy, Cara and me, pre-Race for the Cure.

A few months ago, I found myself eavesdropping in the baked goods aisle. I tried not to, honestly—it just kind of happened as I perused the vast selection of new! improved! extra creamy! frostings.  

The first woman was small and curly-haired and bubbly. “You look great, Adele,” she said reassuringly. “You really do.”  

Adele smoothed the blue silk scarf she’d wrapped around her head. “This gives me away,” she said. Her hand dropped to her little girl’s sleek brown hair. “The chemo isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, Annie. I’m just tired.”  

“Well if you need anything,” Annie said. “Please call. I’m happy to watch your girls. It’s no problem at all, and I mean that.” They hugged then, and Annie waved goodbye.  

Adele watched her go then pushed her cart forward. As she passed us, she smiled warmly at my boys, then knocked a box of jello off the shelf.  

“Oh wait I’ll get it…” I said. I grabbed the box and placed it securely in its spot.  

“Thanks so much,” She said.  

We looked at each other for a moment. I said, “Your scarf is lovely.”  

“Thanks.” She nodded at me and blinked.  

I had that moment to say: “I think you’re so brave. I don’t know how you do it. I hope you beat this thing and laugh in its face.” Instead, I said: “Here, let me get out of your way.”  

I don’t know why I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I’m 100% sure she would have thought I was craaaaazy. I’m also 100% sure she needed to hear it. Social convention: 1. Humanity: 0.  

There are seven women I’m racing for today. Adele is one of them.  

~*~  

“I’m thinking about joining the Race for the Cure this year,” I broadcast to my facebook friends. “Who’s with me?”  

“Sign me up,” Cara said. Cara’s one of the best people I know. We’ve been friends since we were children. I saw her through a massive Michael Damian crush (heh. sorry, Cara.) and let’s face it, those are ties that bind! What a great girl.  

Cara

(Side note: Cara has also agreed to help me carry out another 36×37 mission at the ATP Tennis Tournament this August. It’s going to involve meeting Roger Federer. Or Andy Roddick. Or—dream come true time!—Rafael Nadal. *low whistle, long sigh*)  

~*~  

I have a reason to join the Columbus leg of The Susan G Komen Race for the Cure this year. A dear family friend was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. She’s like an aunt to me, and my mother would definitely say she’s like a sister to her. She has just finished chemo, and her radiation treatments are about to begin. I’ve seen her only once since she was diagnosed, but I think of her and her family every day. She’s the reason I’m here in front of The Palace Theater with 50,000 of my fellow racers.  

Broad Street at the Race

 The Columbus Race for the Cure is a completely different animal than I expected it to be. I guess I’ve always envisioned a somber atmosphere—not much talking, lots of hugs and tears, the swapping of sad stories—and I’ll admit that’s probably why I’ve never participated before. 

But believe me, this race is no downer. It’s incredibly upbeat. We’re all here to race for people we love. And some of us race for ourselves. There’s a lot of laughter, and the overarching feeling is one of hope and support. It’s the most massive display of strength and determination I’ve ever seen. I’m just shocked by that.  

I’m also shocked by the free food:  

I've never seen so many bananas

The dogs in t-shirts:  

The ONLY time it's OK for dogs to wear clothing...

 The live music at every corner:  

Boxers, if you're wondering

 The entire city block of bikers and Harleys that came out to show support:  

You should have seen these bad@$$ bikes!

 The pirates:  

Three pirates and two saucy wenches

 But most of all, the masses and masses of people teeming through my beloved city:  

The Race on Nationwide Blvd

~*~  

If you think about this event—if you really let yourself think about what it means to pour 50,000 racers through your city, all of whom are there for their own very personal reasons—it will knock you to your knees. I think of the women and men who received their diagnoses—how it must have felt to digest the news, take it home to their families, and begin the battle. I also think of their families and friends—how it must have felt to receive the news and fight alongside their loved ones.  

It makes me angry and sad and hopeful and proud of the human spirit.  

We’re coming for you, cancer, you b@$t@rd. You’re living on borrowed time.  

~*~  

I’m racing in loving memory of: Pam, Josie, Vicki, Heather and Stefanie.  

I’m also racing in celebration of Marjorie and Adele. I think you’re so brave. I don’t know how you do it. I hope you beat this thing and laugh in its face and keep on laughing for years.  

Special thanks to Sabrina, Victoria, Darcy and Cara. It was a pleasure racing with such spectacular women. Next year, I think we should play our cards exactly the way we did this year, because sauntering across the finish line dead last is about the funniest thing I can think of. (For my other readers: It’s a long story, but a good one. Another time, perhaps.)  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37 

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#2: Compliments to the Chef!

You think this looks tasty? Keep scrolling...

In all the years G and I have been married, I have just one small regret: 11 years ago minus one week, we skipped out on The Gastronomic Menu.

To explain, I need to rewind this story to the last night of our honeymoon. We were staying in a gothic, beautifully restored castle just outside the city of Shannon in County Clare, Ireland. After a week of exploring the countryside, we didn’t feel like taking dinner in town. Instead, we dolled ourselves up and walked the marble corridors to the castle’s well-appointed restaurant.

When we entered the dining area, the maître d’ handed G a slip of heavy cardstock showcasing something called “The Gastronomic Menu”—a seven course meal at £125 a head. It sounded fabulous. Fabulous! But who were we kidding? We were two kids in our early 20s, skipping around the country on our parents’ dime. We didn’t have that kind of coin to toss down our throats. So we opted out.

Opted out. In a castle, in Ireland. I’ll never forgive myself. Even if the food had been bad (which it wouldn’t have been), it would have made for a truly great experience.

~*~

Now it’s our anniversary, and we’re seated at M. We’ve tried most of the other hot restaurants in town, but we’ve been saving this for a special occasion. I don’t think M has a gastronomic menu, but I do know this: After a week of eating light to do this little black dress some justice, I’m ready for something extraordinary. G has memorized the menu. Together, we’re mentally and physically prepared for whatever Executive Chef Erin Chittum has to offer.

Really, though, this is all just side-discussion. After all, I’m on a 36×37 mission tonight. Usually, I’m too self-conscious to be voracious in public, but not this time. Oh no, not tonight. Tonight, I send my compliments to the chef!

Before I do, just look at this place:

Don't let my iPhone's high quality resolution impress you too much.

Our server, J, is pleasant and down to earth. He approaches our table as I’m taking G’s picture, and so he smiles sheepishly.

“You caught us.” G says with a quick laugh.

“Oh, it’s no problem…people have been doing this a lot lately.” J says. “I guess it’s trendy to take pictures of your food and post them online. I read that on Yahoo.”

“So did I!” I say. (No, really I did!) “These pictures are for my blog.” J hands us the wine list and cocktail menu. “Well then, be sure to mention that our spring cocktail menu is coming soon. It includes a Bloody Mary that is completely clear. It’s amazing.”

I like J—he’s like a culinary tour guide—so I decide to oblige him. And really, isn’t a completely clear Bloody Mary worth mentioning? I order a glass of Verdejo because even though I’m a Sauvignon Blanc girl, I want to try something new. G requests a vanilla bean old fashioned: bourbon, orange peel and vanilla beans.

J takes us through tonight’s features. When he describes the halibut, G gets the look of love in his eyes. Halibut is in season, and at M, they’re serving it up on a plate of fresh spring peas and lobster.

And then, dear God, the truffle mac and cheese! Really, there are no words.

Halibut, snow peas, lobster. TRUFFLE MAC AND CHEESE!

I order what J calls “the most underrated dish on the menu” (see the pic at the top of the page): amish chicken breast and glazed root crop on a mound of smooth mashed potatoes. Underrated, indeed; it turns out to be a work of art.

For dessert, G orders the vanilla brulee, and I dig into the chocolate lava cake with housemade raspberry port and ice cream. (Hey, don’t take your jealousy out on me!)

(!!!)

When we’re finished, G and I look at each other and lean back in our chairs. Screw Smith & Wollensky, I think.

Then I start to get nervous.

I chose M for this assignment because I knew one thing: If I was going to give my very first compliments to the chef, I wanted to be sincere. Because here’s the thing: this is the first time I’ve let myself truly, guiltlessly enjoy food like this. Like every woman I know, I’ve seen food as an enemy of sorts for most of my life. I’m a 5’ 2” brunette who has wasted entirely too much energy scraping at the coattails of some impossible female ideal. Just believe me when I say I know from self denial.

I don’t want to be that way anymore. Just as importantly, I don’t want the women in my life—my family, my friends, my colleagues, my acquaintances—to be that way, either. Instead, I want us all to gaze at something delectable without thinking about working out tomorrow. I want us to close our eyes, take a bite, savor it, then take another bite and be kind to ourselves for once.

I’ll always be strict with myself; that’s just how I’m hardwired. But from now on, I give myself permission to indulge without apology whenever the mood may strike. In a way, I think I’ve earned it.

~*~

The manager approaches our table. “How was everything?” she asks.

G tries to hold a straight face because he knows what’s coming…

“Please,” I say calmly, “Send my compliments. This was just…it was just…outstanding.”

If I sound like a rube, it doesn’t matter. When she’s gone, G leans forward with a quiet fist-bump.

~*~

As it turns out, sometimes you get free stuff at M. Tonight, that free stuff comes in the shape of this fabulous ginger hibiscus cocktail, designed by the restaurant’s acclaimed bar chef, Kris.

Kris has a fun job, I think.

After all of this, I think it goes without saying: This isn’t the last M has seen of us.

Two assignments down, 34 to go. Check back next weekend–we’re going somewhere, I just don’t know where yet. And if the spirit moves you, check back before then, too; I’m enjoying this so much, I might just drop you a few lines to say hello…

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37

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#2 is Coming…

Reservations: Made
Babysitter: Secured
Slinky black dress: Dry cleaned

I’m thiiiiis close to crossing assignment #2—”Give My Compliments to the Chef”—off the 36×37 List of Things to Do. Check back Sunday, April 25, for the play-by-play.

Here’s a sneak peek at where we’re going.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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