When we moved from the amazing-wonderful-incredible-beautiful-perfect-except-for-the-earthquakes Seattle to Connecticut, Ted's best friend laughed out loud (literally) for five minutes. Ted, who grew up in Arizona, said he'd never live in the Northeast. His rationalization became that we would be living in the "tropics" of New England -- so close to the Southwestern border of the Southwestern-most New England state that it was really more like a part of New York. And there was some truth to that concept. Yes, we got snow, but were never as hard-hit as the interior of Connecticut and certainly everything above it.
Saturday's storm made for mad plow-scrambling on Sunday, and a crazy accumulation of the white stuff overtaking every corner of the city. By Monday, what was visible of the road was passable, but the snowbanks has crept into the lanes and obliterated the sidewalks. Snow emergencies and parking bans were implemented, and by Monday night, dozens of plows, front-end loaders, and massive dump trucks were in full snow removal mode. I heard that the city of Manchester was trucking theirs to a facility in Bedford where it was dumped into a giant melter, and the resulting water was simply "poured" into the sewer system. I don't know where they're taking it here.
It started right about sunset last night, and has already left a couple inches of snow, topped with a layer of freezing rain, now being covered with more snow. They say we could end up with as much as additional 9" before Friday morning rolls around.
It's the Christmas season, which means I'm revelling in the spirit. Thanks to my friend, Rina, who's let me use her house as my Christmas Central, and five trips to that house later, all of our wrapping was completed a few weeks ago. That leaves me stress-free, so I can be chipper to watch sentimental old movies, enjoy all the lights and decorations, and listen to my insanely huge holiday music playlist. I love Christmas!
My friend, Chris, invited me to her Facebook community today. When I looked at her profile, I found she'd created an avatar of herself a la South Park. How freakin' cool is that? So, naturally, I had to go find the website and make one for myself. Knowing my proclivity toward certain characteristics in previous avatars, I made two versions. One that I'll show at a later date when I'm feeling particularly kooky. The other fits my standard (look right). Bonus that I got to add an iPod and a computer!
Anyhoo, MeMe has taken it upon herself to attack Santa Claus because he sets a bad example ('cuz he's fat, doncha' know). Seriously. I mean... SERIOUSLY. The woman is shameless. Thankfully, there's DVA Advertising and Public Relations -- a company who decided to create a campaign encouraging the integrity of Santa's image. Check it out! My favorite part is the "graphic standards manual" for Santa. And the best part is the petition, where every signature translates to a pound of food for America's Second Harvest. Take THAT, Ms. Roth.
Why I found this article from April today, I can't say. But it made me chuckle, and in some weird way, relate (weird because I don't have kids, and Ms. Kogan's child is a major player in this story). The story is below.A friend once told me about the Buddhist concept of pain without suffering; it's a notion that fascinates me. I mean, is it really possible to say, "Yep, my stomach aches, all right, but I don't have to add insult to injury by letting that pain run amok: I can decide to skip the part where I moan, 'Now I can't meet my friends at the movie and I'll probably miss work tomorrow, which means I'll blow my deadline, lose my job and die penniless and alone, never having seen "Dreamgirls.'"
Calming a frantic brain in the face of high anxiety is a pretty tall order, especially for a woman like me who tends to operate on two basic emotions: panic and barely suppressed panic.
But assuming one can actually achieve pain without suffering, where else might this dynamic be applied? Is there such a thing as anger without brooding? Sex without strings? And the real question --my current obsession -- can a person feel unbelievably busy without feeling unbelievably overwhelmed?
Lately, I seem to have this constant sense that I'm just keeping my head above water. I'm forever trying to catch up, stay in touch and be where I'm supposed to be when I'm supposed to be there.
I bought a new pair of jeans in November, but I've never worn them because I've never had a chance to get them hemmed. The last novel I remember curling up with is "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" -- and that was in sixth grade. I floss while sorting mail, while defrosting lamb chops, while searching for Mrs. Weinstein, my 3-year-old daughter's stuffed platypus.
But this is not just about being a single mother (though I do spend an ungodly amount of time wondering why my daughter is not on a first-name basis with her stuffed platypus).
Almost everybody I know -- whether they're wealthy or struggling to make ends meet, whether they're bachelor girls or celebrating their 25th anniversary, whether their kids are grown or toddlers or nonexistent --everyone seems to be suffering from some sort of culturally induced ADD. Our brains are swamped and our bodies are tired. Blood pressures are up, serotonin levels are down, tempers are short, to-do lists are long, and nerves are shot.
Here's how I spent last Saturday ... see if any of it rings a bell:
3:17 a.m. I am awakened by the sound of Julia's voice. "Mommy, Giovanni picked his nose and it bleeded," she informs me. "Good to know," I murmur. "Now go back to sleep before Mommy kills you." Somewhere in England, the Super-nanny is appalled.
4:26 a.m. I have to pee. My bladder used to be legendary. As God is my witness, I could go three, maybe four months without ever needing the ladies' room; I could drive from the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters sans bathroom break. But I'm 46 now, and believe me, it's a whole new ball game.
4:27 a.m. I live in mortal fear that the slightest movement anywhere in the apartment will wake Princess Bunny Pie. I will not move. I will not move. I will not move.
4:33 a.m. I will move, but I will move in stealthy, gazelle-like silence.
4:34 a.m. Here's the thing about stealthy, gazelle-like silence -- it's doable only if you don't step barefoot on a Lego.
5:19 a.m. Miss Cuckoo Pants insists it's time to rise and shine. I offer her a check for $260,000 if she will sleep for just one more hour. But the kid sees through me like a bar of used Neutrogena and reminds me that I still owe her 85 grand from the time she tasted a parsnip.
5:30 a.m. On goes the TV. The rule at this time of day is simple: She can watch anything she wants as long as it doesn't star Harvey Keitel ... no "Bad Lieutenant," no "Reservoir Dogs," no "Taxi Driver." You have to draw the line somewhere.
6:15 a.m. My little Goof Noodle is contemplative during her bath: "What are you thinking about, Jules?" "Mommy," she asks, "is Big Bird a boy or a girl?" I explain that we used to wonder the same thing about cousin Dale and that some answers are simply unknowable.
7:45 a.m. We have painted, we have Play-Dohed, we have read "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus" nine times in a row.
8:00 a.m. One of us is now wearing my lipstick, my jewelry, my sunglasses, my shoes, and two oven mitts.
8:30 a.m. I used to read the Arts & Leisure section and meet friends for scrambled eggs and a Bloody Mary. Now I skim the Week in Review, toast a slice of low-glycemic Ezekiel bread, and follow it up with 15 milligrams of Lipitor. Time is a thief.
10:00 a.m. The babysitter has arrived! I fully intend to have Lidra Basha babysit Captain Monkey Toes until the day she leaves for college, at which point she can babysit me. For the record, I am well aware that there are women with more than one child and nobody to help them out, and if I could, I'd buy each and every one of them a single-malt scotch and a ridiculously expensive pedicure.
10:30 a.m. The trainer has arrived ... or as I've come to think of him, Hitler in Nikes. After approximately 15 minutes, I feel compelled to remind him that he has to marry me before he can actually collect on any life insurance policy. He ignores my plea for leniency, hands me two 15 pound weights, and tells me to "tighten my core." Where's Amnesty International when I need it? And, for that matter, where is my core and when did it get saggy? One minute you and your boyfriend are finishing off a mushroom pizza with extra mozzarella, and the next minute you're realizing he didn't actually eat any.
12:00 p.m. I shower, change, and head for the supermarket, the dry cleaner, and the pharmacy, where I run smack into my evil neighbor. We are currently having a huge fight, but because I am not good at confrontation, she doesn't realize that we are having a huge fight and regales me with stories of her upcoming trip to Nepal.
I glare at her and say in the iciest tone imaginable, "You, madame, are a gravy-sucking weasel, and I hope that you're forced to fly coach with an Ebola-riddled gibbon monkey stuck in your lap for 16 straight hours." But because I am not good at intentional bitchiness, it comes out, "Great! Have a safe trip and let me know if you need someone to water your plants."
Somewhere on the Upper West Side, a psychiatrist is cringing.
1:30 to 2:00 p.m. I miss my friends, so I try to hop off the hamster wheel and return a few calls.
But Valerie has her daughter visiting from college, Brenda has her parents visiting from Detroit, Francesca is buried in paperwork, Mark is seeing clients, Jack and Sarah have four couples coming for dinner, Steffi has three weeks to find a new apartment, Peter is finishing his book proposal, Michael is in rehearsals, and Tori has set the day aside to "have a complete nervous breakdown." She assures me she'll be fine by 7:00, as she's got to get to Jack and Sarah's for dinner.
2:00 to 2:01 p.m. I take a minute to wonder why I wasn't invited to the dinner party ... and decide to be deeply relieved.
2:02 to 3:30 p.m. I pay bills, fold laundry, write two thank-you notes for gifts I received last January, throw away everything that's gone furry or blue in my refrigerator, and wait for the nice man from Bloomingdale's to come and clean my filthy, horrible sofa.
4:00 p.m The nice man from Bloomingdale's actually turns out to be a nice man. He tells me not to waste my money -- cotton velvet isn't cleanable. The news hits me hard. I can roll with Iraq and global warming, but somehow the thought that cotton velvet doesn't clean well makes me want to crawl under the throw on my filthy, horrible sofa and never get up again.
4:02 p.m. I get up again. I am ghostwriting a book, and four chapters are due by Wednesday morning. Clinical depression is a luxury I can't afford.
6:20 p.m. Suppertime. I cook wild salmon and broccoli for Colonel Cranky ... of course, that's only if you define the word cook as "go to the little gourmet shop on First Avenue, buy and reheat." In any case, she will end up having spaghetti with butter and ketchup.
7:00 p.m. Before leaving, Lidra changes her clothes to go to a party. Did I mention that she's stunning? Did I mention that she's a size 0? Did I mention that I pulled a strand of ketchup-coated spaghetti out of my bra?
8:00 to 10:30 p.m. Sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." One of us is exhausted (it's that special kind of exhaustion that can only be achieved by singing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" for two and a half hours) and would very much like to go to bed.
10:51 p.m. The three-book limit is imposed, and to my great relief, Senorita Knobby Knees dozes off without much protest. It's absurdly late, but because I don't get home from work until 7:00 each night, she doesn't want to go to bed at 8:15. Do I feel guilty? You bet I do.
11:00 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. A little more ghostwriting.
12:31 to 12:35 a.m. This is my time. I opt to spend it getting an MBA, locating those weapons of mass destruction (turns out they've been on the upper shelf of my linen closet -- to the left of the washcloths), force North Korea to stand down, cure cancer, and eat a small piece of cold chicken. Anyway, that's my plan, but knowing I have to water my evil neighbor's ficus tree tomorrow makes me skip straight to the barbecued chicken thigh and call it a night.
Sometimes I think pain without suffering, anger without brooding, being a parent, earning a living, maintaining friendships (hell, maintaining hair color), connecting with the universe, and dancing as fast as you can without screaming, "Stop the music; I want to sit this one out," just isn't an option for anybody anymore.
We shoulder-roll out of bed in the morning and gulp coffee from Styrofoam cups on the way to wherever we're trying to go. We catch the sound bite, not the speech. We send the e-mail, not the love letter. We wait our entire lives to exhale.
But I don't want to wait my whole life away. Nor do I want to wait until I retire 18 years and 11 months from now ... though I'm secretly hoping to develop one of those bubbly personalities that get you picked for "Deal or No Deal," where I will win $400,000 dollars from Howie Mandel. We'll save for another column what it means that even in my fantasies I don't win the million ...
My point is this: Spring is here! So this Saturday, I'm taking back my life or, at the very least taking a nap. If something's gotta give, it's not going to be me. I'm confining my work to regular business hours, forcing a friend out for coffee, reading for pleasure, bringing home daffodils, and eating a neon pink marshmallow Peep with Miss Julia Claire Labusch. It's far from a solution, but it's a start.
By Lisa Kogan from "O, The Oprah Magazine," April 2007.
TM & © 2007 Harpo Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved
It's not easy to see, but it's Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Yeah, it's a show-stopper. Anyway, I learned about it in high school, and always thought it was fascinating (and spot on). In the evolution of my personal size acceptance, I always came back to Maslow. Every person on the planet has a physiological need to eat. And breathe, and sleep, and a whole bunch of other things. Verbatim:
* oxygen
* water
* protein
* salt
* sugar
* calcium
* other minerals and vitamins
* maintain a pH balance (getting too acidic or base will kill you)
* maintain temperature (98.6 or near to it)
* be active
* rest
* sleep
* get rid of wastes (CO2, sweat, urine, and feces)
* avoid pain
* have sex
So, why is that -- somewhere along the line -- society decided to demonize so many physical necessities?
Anyway, I'm going to stop that discussion now because it's far less alluring than watching Ms. Nash tear it up in style! Go watch it again. And check out her blog, too.
OK, so I only got out one chapter of my story, and already I'm changing subjects! Actually, I've starting writing chapter two, but I just haven't had the time to finish. I could finish it now, but a few shiny objects flickered, and my attention has been caught! Is it because I already dread the drudgery of writing what will undoubtedly be a gazillion chapter explanation of what's new in our lives and what got us to this point? Perhaps. Is it mere instinctual behavior to be more interested in something new (and shiny) than something middle-aged and simmering? Hmm. Maybe it's just a complete lack of mental structure. Whatever. My eye is now on the shiny ball.
Two! Dearingest, darlingest niece, Caitlin, has posted a unique meme on her MySpace in which I feel compelled to engage. It's music-based (natch), so of course I'm in. Here goes:
Three! I don't remember what else I was going to put in here tonight. Um, I mean, this morning. Oh well! I have to go to bed. It's almost time for Ted to wake up and get to work. I may or may not get some blogging in this weekend. I doubt it. Shopping, wrapping, etc. to do. And we're going out to dinner for our anniversary. And there's other stuff to do. Yeah, I'll blog again sometime in 2009 -- the year my nephew, Andrew, is getting married. Hey, Four! Andrew and Peg are engaged! He was funny. He called me and said gloomily, "Hi Aunt Kelly. I just wanted to let you know that things changed over the weekend, and Peg is no longer my girlfriend." But I was on to him. ;-)
Usually, I think I'm pretty accepting. At a very basic, golden rule level, if I want people to accept me as I am, then it is an absolute must that I accept people as they are. That said, people can be amazingly stupid.
The Teddy bear I received from, ahem, Ted -- Christmas before last. He came with a box of Godiva chocolate (hence the "Godiva 2005" embroidered on his foot). He is holding the pink paper umbrella that was in the Mai Tai I drank with my Cheeseburger in Paradise on Waikiki Beach in Honolulu in January 2004. I'm still debating whether or not to get rid of the window fan behind them.
Sadie, of course. Her favorite pink afghan (which has moved off her favorite hammock and onto the desk last week when the vent was blowing particularly cold air), although I may try to remove its coat of fur. The speakerphone we got when we lived in Seattle. 
Just busily preparing for and dealing with multiple major life changes which are occurring simultaneously and requiring my complete attention without cease. The mere notion of creating even a very high level list to explain my blog absence brings on the sensation of fainting. I can't do it.
I've found a few interesting (not perfect, but interesting) and moderately empowering things promoting size acceptance lately. Let me tell you, this is no easy feat in a world flooded with the likes of Fat March, Shaq's Big Challenge, The Biggest Loser, Big Medicine, Inside Brookhaven Obesity Clinic, and on and on and on."This isn't simple. This is not a simple balance of energy in and energy out. If it were, we would have solved the problem a long time ago. We have a very, very rich and accurate physiological system that keeps our energy in balance. And all that system has to do is get disrupted by a tiny percent -- just a 1% mismatch in that system -- can lead to a 130-140 pound weight gain over your adult life.
"...The subtleties of what's going on (with obesity) in the brain that can lead to massive obesity are such that it's going to take a lot of very, very careful analysis to figure out what's going on. We know that there are 20 or 30 thousand genes in the human genome. At least 400 of them are involved in energy regulation and weight regulation. So right there, you've got 400 genes, and that doesn't even take into account all of the environmental factors. So, when you put all those things together, you have a very complex system."
- Lee Kaplan, MD, PhD; Massachusetts General Hospital, Harvard Medical School
"A study of people who entered weight loss programs done in 1958 concluded:
* Of those who enter obesity treatment, most will drop out.
* Of those who stay in treatment, most will not lose weight.
* Of those who do lose weight, most will regain it.
"Fifty years later, the picture remains the same. Despite the millions and millions of dollars in scientific research, fifty years of hard work, thousands of failed weight loss schemes, no one has been able to improve those odds."
I contend that even this doctor (who seems to be less of a fatphobe) undermines his explanation of the subconscious brain being in total control by calling fat both a "problem" and a "disease." Harumph. I don't consider my fat a problem, and it certainly is not a disease."When the brain wants to control weight, which it wants to do almost all the time, it exerts extraordinarily powerful influences. It decides that we ought to have a certain amount of body fat so we have energy in reserve. And if we don't have that much body fat, it will do everything in its power to cause us to behave to get more energy.
"At the same time, it will put into place a program that conserves energy, so that we don't waste a lot of energy, so we don't burn off our calories, so that our body cools down just a little bit, so that everything is done to conserve energy on the output side and to get more energy on the input side. And of course, then we gain a little bit of weight.
"And so our typical response is to 'well, ok, if that's the case, we'll just eat less.' And we exercise more and our body loses some weight because that's what naturally is going to occur. But what ends up happening is that you create, in that situation, a fight between your willful brain and your subconscious brain. And when you create that kind of battle between willpower and your subconscious brain, what you end up doing is you end up creating an unwinnable situation. It's an unwinnable situation. If you have that conflict, your subconscious brain will always win.
"And an example of that is, try running up six flights of stairs and breathing slow. You can do it for a few seconds. You can force yourself to breathe at whatever rate you want to breathe at. But when your body decides it needs more oxygen, within a few seconds, it will force you to breathe faster. And there's no amount of willpower that anyone has that will slow that process down."
Emphasis mine
When I first heard that there was going to be a "Simpsons" movie, I was fairly indifferent about it. I'd watched the show once in a while in its early days and would occasionally run across it thereafter, but I never made it a point to watch it regularly. Oddly enough, one of my favorite quotes is from the show (whenever I'm impatient with slow technology, I conjure up Homer heating up a hot dog in a microwave and loudly bemoaning, "Isn't there anything faster than a microwave?").
I posted something a couple days ago, but for some reason, I can't see it on the blog. So, I'm adding a little, informationless post to see if it urges the other one out into the light. Let's see what happens. 
I'm still struggling with the mess that is almost eight years of accumulation that needs to be sorted and, uh, managed one way or another. Time is running short, so I must hop to it. In today's New York Times, my favorite writer tackles a similar problem in his "Rural Life" column. I can relate... kind of.Barn Cleaning
by Verlyn Klinkenborg
I begin with the premise that the barn will never be clean. It has a dirt floor, and hay is always sifting down from the loft. Swallows have nested over the light fixtures, the chipmunks are everywhere and someone has dug a very proud hole under the wall near the horse tank. I can’t make it clean, but I can recover some territory. I’m not a real farmer, but I have a real farmer’s hoarding instinct — the belief that the thing I’m about to throw out will be just the thing I need down the road. Right now I’m trying to keep myself from throwing out a rubber feed pan that one of the horses has pawed a hole in. I have no idea what I would ever use it for, but that isn’t really the point. It isn’t a matter of knowing, looking forward. It’s a matter of not regretting, looking back.
But what I regret right now is all this junk, and so I’m cleaning the barn. This means allowing myself to feel a sudden hatred for objects I’ve been moving around for years. I spend the day muttering. I tear apart an old tool bench I have loathed all this time. I throw out the previous owner’s electric waterers and the 8-foot yard hydrant with the bend in the middle and the plastic tarps that are full of holes. I see with some clarity the limits of my character and, in a sense, the limits of my life. I love the gratification of fixing what is broken, but it takes a certain kind of breaking for me to be able to do any good. I am never going to be able to weld in a hay barn.
I stop sometimes to watch the swallows fly through the barn or to admire the fact that all the sockets are now in one place. I pretend that I will know in a week where I put everything today. I spend a moment or two admiring the dried up litter of immature mice I found in a drawer. And I finally admit to myself that a half-decomposed box of books that has lived in the barn for a decade has lost its place in civilization. So I load the books one by one — Derrida’s “Of Grammatology,” Frye’s “The Great Code,” even my old copy of Heidegger’s “Being and Time” — into the tractor bucket with a great wad of used baling twine. The burn pile or the Dumpster? That is an easy question. The books flutter down from the bucket on high onto an old hayrack on the floor of the Dumpster. I try to decide if I will have to answer for this someday.
I don't want to give any credence to the mad ramblings of MeMe Roth, which is why I haven't thus blogged about her at all (even in the midst of the whole Jordin Sparks flare-up). But I can't not give props to The Mike & Juliet Show for sandwiching MeMe between Joy Nash and Kelly Bliss.
The site meter I use on this blog gives me some details about my visitors. What city and country they're in. What time of day they visit. How many pages they read. Sometimes, they link from another blog that has me on the blogroll. Sometimes, the details are generic (AOL North America).
And while it was sad to know that people out there are actually doing research online to find information that might embolden their fat hatred, it came as a complete stunner that the origin of this search was University Medical Center in St. Louis, Missouri. How frustrating it is to know that someone who theoretically cares for human beings could even think of such a thing. It drives home the ongoing problem of anyone with a BMI over 24.9 getting unprejudiced medical attention.
I'm not even going to go into my personal opinion on the immigration debate, but did you catch that? He almost completely avoided giving a serious answer about global warming by deflecting the issue to immigration. Give me a freakin' break. I can't take anyone seriously who gives an answer like that.Q: What evidence would convince you that global warming is a serious threat to the planet?
A: I have no doubt that global warming exists. I just question the cause and what we can do to ameliorate it. But I wonder why the Sierra Club isn't going crazy about the environmental aspects of massive immigration into the U.S. The fact is, Americans consume more energy than anyone else, so if a person moves here from another country, they automatically become bigger polluters.
~~~
Song: "Falling" by Jamiroquai
Other: Costco trip today!
While I like to think myself moderately creative, I'm no artist. So when I find a fun way to pretend that I am, I go to town. Hence, the Jackson Pollock website. No fancy instructions. Not even any idea what to do. Just go there and start moving your mouse around. Hover in one area for a couple seconds. Click to change colors. Splatter away. What a blast!
Spurts. It's a weird word, but seemingly the most appropriate to describe the method in which I currently blog. My life is most decidedly an uneven mixture of productivity and rollick. Neither are quite so concentrated as I'd imagined, but as long as I don't get hung up on it, I'm fine. So, until I take the time to write my next post (subject matter already established), here is a new picture of Sadie. If you've ever seen a picture of her before, the setting is very familiar. I take countless pictures of her in her favorite hammock on her favorite afghan because [A] she's just so darned cute, and [B] it is located right next to my desk (and so is she) every time I sit here. This one's moderately different in that I got down to eye level with her, plus she's covering her nose. Terribly cute! >^,,^<
Another beautiful day, another lunch with a friend, and a new twist on playing. Ted only had to work three hours this morning. We scheduled a last minute brunch with our friend, Sarah, whose friend from Atlanta was in town for a long weekend. When they headed out for the airport, we headed to White Plains, New York to go to the Container Store in search of a 48" airtight box in which to store a sword collection (it's a long story). We didn't find it, but we did find a few other things, making up for what I didn't spend at Christmas Tree Shoppe yesterday. We then headed up the Merritt Parkway back to Connecticut.
While enjoying the tree-lined drive, we were inspired to do something spontaneous that would, once again, allow us to enjoy the outdoors on such a wonderful day. I suggested the zoo, and Ted, once again, eagerly agreed. I have been to this zoo several times, as it is a regular activity any time a niece or nephew visits us. Any time I'd gone with the kids, however, Ted always had to work. So, he'd never been!
We saw boy peacocks in various states of showiness, startled into full plumage when a girl peacock ran noisily by. A California condor was walking in the old bald eagle enclosure (a seriously big bird). It's been a couple years since I was here. I wonder where the eagle went. Timber and red wolves. A family of Siberian tigers, with Papa in one enclosure, and Mama with two one-year old (basically full-size) cubs in the other. An Andean bear. A Canada lynx. Lots of turtles, piling up traffic jam style on a couple logs. Alligators sitting very still. Herons and wood ducks and egrets and all sorts of other birds flying around and preening in a walk-through aviary. River otters whose river wasn't running, so they frolicked in a water-filled basin at the top of the hill. A red fox. A white-tailed deer. You know, zoo residents.
In all, we were there for a little over two hours. I stopped at the gift store on the way out and procured a few more stocking stuffers. We got cold beverages from the vending machine before walking out the entrance just as they were closing it up for the day. It really worked out just right. We loaded ourselves back into the car, adding one more bag of goodies to the Container Store bag, and headed home. The fresh air, sunshine, and exercise conspired to lure us asleep. I napped so deeply (and for about 90 minutes) that I was a bit confused when Ted woke me up with dinner! He'd made chicken Parmesan and broccoli. Yum.
