w.o.k. wednesday: interstate elvis

So, here's the deal. You and a buddy are cruising into Vegas on I-515, both of you sweating it a bit because you got a later-than-anticipated start that morning, and you're worried that maybe you won't make it to the backstage area of the venue in time to get your special passes to the evening's hot ticket.

Traffic over Hoover Dam has set you back further, as have all the RV-hauling lookie-loos on the road - all of whom are apparently allergic to driving any faster than ten miles below the speed limit. Further heightening the tension is the fact that you'll still have to check into the hotel at some point, get dressed, get pretty, and then get back on the road by the time the Pussycat Dolls take to the stage.

But then you look out the window at all the neighboring traffic, and you see him:

And, suddenly, everything is A-okay. Because, suddenly, you're reminded that life isn't about stressing over the details: It's all about individuality and following your bliss. It's all about the Oh-I-Just-Gotta-Be-Me.

And this Interstate Elvis? He's doing it right.

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w.o.k wednesday: the girls

Last fall, while sitting in my kitchen shootin' the breeze, a good friend suggested that we start a cooking group. You know, one of those regular get-togethers where the people take turns planning a meal, hosting the group, cooking the main dish, etc.

I think my initial response at the time went something like this: "Uhhhhhhhhhh."

Because let's just say that the kitchen has never been the most comfy room in the house for me (when it come to creating something, that is; I'm more than happy to eat there). My mother was and is an amazing cook, and I have many fond memories of the awesome meals she served when I was growing up. Many of them were quite cosmopolitan and almost unheard of at the time, too: Oxtail soup, tripe, stuffed cabbage rolls, cow tongue with mustard sauce - you name it. And while I knew I always had an open invitation to help out in the kitchen as a girl, I rarely took her up on it.

So, I thought my friend's cooking group idea was a good one in theory. In practice I wasn't so sure. But it turns out I needn't have worried. We've been meeting regularly for several months now, and I can honestly say that the women I've met through the cooking group have become dear and trusted friends. There's something about the "No Men and No Kids Allowed" rule that has seemed to bring us all close together. Of course, it also helps that these ladies are all incredibly intelligent, funny and ambitious to boot. Makes me appreciate my half of the species all over again every time we meet, kind of like watching Sex and the City (the movie) did when I saw it a few weeks ago.

So, we started with a nummy pork dish back in 2008. There has also been an amazing squash lasagna that was to die for, a salmon dish that I enjoyed maybe a little too much (since I was all but rolling out of the hostess' house at the end of the night) and my Moroccan chicken tagine last month. And don't even get me STARTED on the desserts. Oy. This month it looks like we're going the beef route, and there's also some recent talk of mojitos and martinis to boot. No doubt there will also be available shoulders to cry on (should they be required by one or more of us), available ears to hear all the latest man/kid/mommying/marriage/skin care news and available lungs to laugh heartily at the newest jokes.

I. Can't. Wait.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

w.o.k. wednesday: three things

This is strictly off-the-cuff and has not been long deliberated since I'm down with a cold, but here are the three foods I'd want with me if I was stranded on an island somewhere or if Armageddon happened and I was the only one left (not the ideal scenario, obviously): dark chocolate, red wine (okay, technically a drink and not a food - and I'd need orange juice to put in it, since I'm pretty redneck that way (which maybe would count as a fourth thing)) and San Francisco sourdough.

Here are the three non e-books I'd want: Cold Mountain, Gilead and the Bible (NIV, annotated).

Here are the three movies (assuming, of course, that I had a portable DVD player and an endless batteries): The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Jerry McGuire and Gone with the Wind.

Here are the three toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, my homemade soap

Here are the three pieces of technology: a Kindle (with a good supply of books, obviously), my iPod, my laptop.

What are some of your three things?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

w.o.k. wednesday update

Here are the rink pictures I promised...just a few of the things I think of when I think of ice skating (other than the time I opened my knee up on a protruding nail when skating as a youngster...or the time my mother de-pantsed the guy skating in front of her while desperately reaching for something to grab onto for balance...).

Behold the feet of a teacher and her charges:

...and said charges flailing at a vain attempt to gain purchase on the ice:

...and the cuteness overload that is a single, pink monkey glove:

...and the sheer joy of ice lounging:



...and, finally, the awesome, manly power that can be known by one name and one name only:

ZAMBONI.

So, who can tell I've been working on taxes all day?

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w.o.k. wednesday: pit crews and hugs

When I was a teenager, my older brother built and raced a little stock Datsun. I went to Sears Point track a few times to watch him, and I remember two things vividly: 1) the absolutely insane decibel level of the engines at full throttle, and 2) the perfectly synchronized teams of men and women in the "pits" - worker bees who were ready to tune up, repair and/or patch the exhausted race cars when they pulled off the track between laps.

Now that I'm all growed up, I'm firmly convinced that the Man Upstairs knows when each of us needs a skilled team to keep our engines running and our tires inflated while traveling over the particularly rough/dangerous patches of life's highway. And while we still may get dinged and dented in the process, our pit crews are there to help see us through.

My current crew is top notch. It's made up of women and men who have "been there, done that" where my current circumstances are concerned and who aren't afraid to share the secrets of what got them through. They'll talk with me, laugh with me, cry with me, listen to me b*tch, tell me when to get over myself, cook with me - and, most importantly, tell clean jokes when appropriate and dirty jokes when required.

Then there are the young'uns, who may not know they're part of my pit crew but who inspire me and make me laugh every day regardless: Every once in a while I'll have lunch at my kids' school, and there will inevitably be half a dozen or so kids who will run up and give me hugs. Did I do this as a kid? And, if so, did I have any clue how much I probably boosted the visiting mom's day? It's a shame that society has gotten to the point where adults have to be so careful these days with hugging those kids back, lest it be deemed inappropriate. I remember an uncle who used to visit us from Hawaii when I was little. He always brought a box of chocolate-covered Macadamia nuts, and he always scooped me up in a major hug that squeezed the breath right out of me as soon as he walked in the front door. He was a bear of a man, and he gave true bear hugs.

Some folks don't know they're in my pit crew, but they are. They're in the car with me, like Shakira and Jill. And they're on the screen, like Rowan and Keira (Have you seen The Duchess? - it's awesome).

So, here's a shout-out to my crew. You know who you are, Ladies and Gents, and I hope you know how much I love and appreciate you. You're all definitely at the top of my Whiskers-on-Kittens list.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

w.o.k. wednesday: yoga humility (or, stopping the flow)

Humility is definitely one of my favorite things, which makes it a perfect candidate for Whiskers-on-Kittens Wednesday, when I hold forth on the things I love most. And, as I said before, I love humility.

But actually, wait. Let me rephrase that. I love the IDEA of humility, especially when it happens to other people who so clearly deserve a good dose of it. I can personally do without the experience quite nicely, thanks.

So, I’m sitting in a waiting room not too long ago, reading about Jennifer Aniston, who is about to be 40 and who maintains her 19-year-old A-list bod by practicing Yoga several times a week. Now, I was born just a few years after the Summer of Love, and I was raised just a few miles north of the Golden Gate. I went to school at UC Santa Cruz, for crying out loud. So, I’ve kinda been there done that where stuff like Yoga and Tai Chi – all those kinder and gentler forms of physical discipline - are concerned. Which made it a no-brainer to show up for a class called Flow Yoga at the athletic club this morning – a class that just happened to be starting a few minutes after I arrived for my workout. I recently took another Yoga class there – Pillow and Blanket Yoga, that one was called. And it was lovely: Dimmed lights, warm room, the soft, droning voice of the instructor. You could almost feel your chakras being given a colon cleanse, and afterward you felt so…At One with the Universe.

So, this morning I went ahead and removed my shoes and socks, unrolled my Yoga mat and began stretching while eagerly anticipating the arrival of Universal Oneness. It was a very small class compared to the Pillow and Blanket Yoga, a fact I chalked up to the time of day (late morning rather than lunchtime). Also, I noticed that the other people there just had that Yoga “look.” You know the one I’m talking about: Long, braided hair, no makeup, and SERENITY written all over their faces with indelible rainbow marker, which – now that I think about it – should have been a red flag. The Flow Yoga instructor turned out to be the same guy who taught the other class. He greeted some of the people in the room by name, and he soon had us all stretching and bending and assuming some of the more basic poses like Downward-Facing Dog and Chair pose. It was a breeze.

And then something went horribly, horribly wrong.

We had just come out of the Plank pose – breathing in as we looked up toward the ceiling and then breathing out as we assumed the butt-high DF Dog pose. “Raise your right leg up behind you,” the instructor cooed. So far so good. “Now bend it at the knee, so your right foot falls toward your left hip.” I had to look around at the other folks to see exactly what he meant by this, but I figured it out fairly quickly. Finding my balance thusly was a bit challenging, but in a peacefully exhilarating kind of way, the way I imagine Mahatma Gandhi felt taking a cold shower.

Then the instructor said, “Now grab your right ankle behind you with your left hand.”

I’m sorry?

Just turning my head to check what the Yoga goddess to my right was doing was hard enough, let alone removing one of my main pillars of balance from the floor. But she was doing just that – balancing on one foot and one hand while contortioning the rest of her body into a completely unnatural (and possibly unbiblical) shape. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I’ll just wait quietly until this pose passes, I thought to myself, not wanting to cause a scene by actually attempting the maneuver. I mean, how much worse could it get?

“Now back to Downward-Facing Dog and into Warrior Two pose,” the instructor said. Phew. THOSE I could do.

“Now into Airbus on the Hudson.”

Okay, so that’s not exactly what he said, but it may as well have been. I kid you not: My classmates were actually balancing on their hands alone, knees tucked under their armpits.

“Now Inverted Gorilla with Athletes Foot Lashed to a Hot-Air Balloon. Good, Maya.”

At which point I simply sat on my haunches and resigned myself to being the lone squatter in a room full of levitating pretzels. After a couple minutes of this, I realized that it was not going to get any better and that I had two options: I could either sit there wearing the Dunce Cap of Oneness Failure for the next twenty minutes until class was over, or I could excuse myself as discreetly as possible. Needless to say, I chose option 2, wincing as I hastily rolled up the Yoga mat, then grabbing my shoes and socks and heading toward the door.

Apparently, you’re supposed to bow to your instructor any time you leave a Yoga class having lost 95% of your dignity less than halfway through. Who knew? As he bowed at me with sorrowful eyes and went to hold the door open, my arms were so full of stuff that the most I could manage was a sort of cringing nod of my head. So, I figure my karma has officially been flushed down the toilet to boot.

Be sure to turn in next Wednesday, when you’ll hear Nicole say, “But I’m sure I wasn’t Ivan the Terrible in a past life!”Follow @nicole_mcinnes

w.o.k. wednesday (or, picasa had me at hello)

It's Whiskers-on-Kittens Wednesday again already, which means you get to be subjected to my expounding on one of my newest favorite things.

So, I've been having image anxiety lately. Not about my own image which is, as they say, what it is (i.e. sometimes meh, sometimes rather J. Garner-ish (if frequent, random comments by strangers are to be believed), and sometimes (to moi, at least) a little Krypt Keeper-ish - 5 a.m. mirror check after being up grading papers until midnight, anyone?).

Ah, January...

No, what's been making me lose little bytes of sleep here and there ever since my laptop started acting out a few months ago are those literally thousands of digital photos I have stored on the hard drive. Not a good idea, I know, especially since I'm shooting with a 10 mp D80, and most of those files are still in their original size. At least I don't have any RAW files on there, but still. I know they've been slowing down the Dell's performance significantly, and if the system ever had a major hotflash, all those precious images could be toast.

t. greenwood's premiere reading of Two Rivers in Flagstaff

Now, I'm not a total butthead. I have been backing up the files, to an extent: I've been a (mostly) happy Shutterfly customer for year, and I've found it to be an easy way to organize, share and print photos (I even made a leather-bound photobook for my dad's birthday a few years back, and it turned out really well). I also have a few jumpdrives that are packed to the gills. Still, I was fairly disorganized about backing stuff up, and most of the original files were still on my hard drive, because Shutterfly does not do high-resolution downloads (which means you can't pull the original files back off their site for editing in, say, Photoshop after you have uploaded them to Shutterfly). Result: Total virtual clutter (e-clutter? iclutter?) on the 'puter, and while I'm hardly FlyLady, I do grow less tolerant of unnecessary clutter as the offspring grow.

Happy 23rd Birthday to my guy, Zzari!

So, the hunt was on for an online storage site that would allow me to upload and store lots and lots of images and would also allow me to download the full-res, original files for frequent Photoshop playdates before re-uploading the revised files. I didn't care much about editing features of the prospective site, since these features are generally pretty limited and I'm a PS groupie at heart. So, I hunted and I gathered, checking out sites like Fotki (which looks pretty cool) and Carbonite (which has gotten great reviews, but is more like an entire system backup tool - and which I may end up using anyway).

Congrats on your new family, little Belle!

Enter Picasa. Not only is it free (unless you want a ton of storage space - which I do), but it automatically uploads images from your hard drive and organizes them in a logical way. Plus, you can pull those original files any time. Also, since it's Google's baby, chances are it's not going to go belly-up overnight (and I'm not going to wake up one morning to find that all my images have vanished into the ether). I still won't use it as my only backup, but I'm pretty secure with Google since I use it daily for email/browsing and since my employer has recently switched over to Gmail as well.

So, I'm sold, and I'm sleeping better at night, too. Which means I may start to resemble the Krypt Keeper a little a less and the female half of Bennifer a little more. (Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?)

What's not to love?

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