in my Own Little Corner.....

Bush's war in Iraq has done untold damage to the United States. It has impaired our military power and undermined the morale of our armed forces. Our troops were trained to project overwhelming power. They were not trained for occupation duties.

George Soros

I am the farthest thing from a political activist. Now, my Jeremy—he gets into causes. He writes his Congressman, pens letters to the editor, even goes to the occasional rally. He gets involved. Sometimes when he gets going on something, I feel my eyes glaze over as I try valiantly to look interested. I can’t help it—I’m more of a “take care of my own self and what I’ve been given” kind of gal. Not that I am disconnected from the rest of the world, nor am I uncaring. I just feel that “out there” can be too overwhelming and there’s so little difference I can make. Some power (be it Mother Nature, the Universe, God or simply darn good fortune) has handed me my own little corner of the world to tend, so I do. I love my family and nurture my friendships; exercise my body and pay my bills, give my clients excellent service, ask for forgiveness when I make a mistake and plant flowers to beautify my yard in the summer. I wear sunscreen, floss, buy organic and shop locally. I avoid toxic people and situations so that I can keep an optimistic outlook, give to charity and encourage others—offering a hand and good thoughts if someone is struggling. I appreciate what I have, use my talents as best I can to benefit others and expand my mind to the best of my ability. I give discounts to servicemen and women and encourage everyone to follow their dreams and live with passion.. Everyone is always welcome at my table; I don’t litter this beautiful planet that I call home and on my best days, I even exfoliate and remember to call my mother.

I take care of my small piece of the world and figure if everyone else did the same, the world would be a lot better place. Come on—don’t you think we’d all be a whole lot better off if Osama bin Laden spent time planting a garden around the front entrance to his cave than in plotting to obliterate the Western World? And where would Ted Haggard be today if he had spent more time…say…..well doing almost anything other than telling people what they should and shouldn’t be doing behind closed doors and then being hypocritical about it? I mean, if you’re going to be homophobic, at least be genuine about it!

Funny thing about self-righteousness (mine, not Ted Haggard’s). Sometimes you’re applauding yourself for taking such darn good care of business and feeling like you’re truly contributing until someone or something hits you in between the eyes and you realize…well…maybe it isn’t so.

Have you seen the movie Ground Truth? If you want a good date movie or a chick flick, then pass. But if you want to open your eyes about the real situation in Iraq and you don’t mind feeling helpless and angry, then go for it. The film is a documentary about the men and women who have fought, lived and died while fighting “for our country” in Iraq. It details the human cost of this atrocity—not in the number of troops killed as we see on the nightly news, but the human toll it extracts. The 19 year olds enticed by a military recruiter who offer to pay full scholarship to college in return for a few weekends a year. Oh, the travel, the skills, opportunities galore! And don’t forget the maturation process! Deployed to a war zone?? Not likely! Sign the boy (or the girl) up!

Fast forward to the desert. Mama’s little boy is being brain-washed to kill. Last year’s high school graduate is reciting chants that extol the virtues of killing the “rag heads and the Hodgies.” You are hot, scared and exhausted. You want to go back home and see your girlfriend? Then you need to take this rifle and go out there and blast away. This is not an enemy you can easily spot. Sometimes it is disguised in the body of a grieving mother concealing a bomb or a brown-eyed child ready to hurl a grenade. As one soldier put it, “you don’t know where to focus your aggression.”

And the worst thing? You don’t know why you are here. Is this a war for oil or George’s personal vendetta? Is the freedom of Americans at stake? No one seems to think so. Is this all from 9/11? Ummm…dunno. Over and over in this film you see soldiers being interviewed--soldiers who will never be the same. Some have lost limbs, many are disfigured. Emotionally they are wrecked. Fathers of small children have seen Iraqi children slaughtered in the streets; small town regular guys are struggling to fit back into communities that try to be supportive but can’t fathom why giving a hero’s welcome only makes things worse. The bureaucratic red tape surrounding the process of getting help from the VA causes many of these soldiers to abandon hope—sometimes at the expense of their lives. And to a man, they couldn’t tell you why it was of benefit for them to have gone over there.

Think about the hardest thing you ever had to endure in your life. What was it--a divorce, the death of a loved one, a job termination, having to deliver devastating news? Perhaps you fought in Vietnam or you’ve struggled with addiction. Perhaps your greatest cross to bear has been being stuck in a dead-end job for a while, financial difficulties, or a crummy marriage. Whatever it was, think about what got you through it. Wasn’t it believing? Believing that things would get better, a belief that your suffering would serve some good in the long run; conviction that someone might be inspired by your strength, hope that at the very least, you’d learn and grow from this experience. In spite of the struggle, if you got quiet and thought about it, you could hopefully pull out some benefit or purpose for your difficulty. Everyone needs hope and a reason for being, especially when going through a difficult time. If not for the conviction that we serve a purpose, that we’re making a difference somewhere, somehow, then why bother?

That’s what is the most chilling about this film. Over and over they admit they don’t know what good they did; don’t understand why they as an individual or the United States as a country is over there. They did what they were told was their duty and they paid the ultimate price. But they don’t know why, or what good it did.

Today I heard that anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan has called it quits. She says,"Good-bye America ... you are not the country that I love and I finally realized no matter how much I sacrifice, I can't make you be that country unless you want it.” I think she just got tired. Tired of trying, tired of the obstacles; tired of feeling like she couldn’t effect change in spite of her monumental efforts. She says she wants to go back home and “be normal”. No one will fault her. She’s paid her dues.

As have our young men and women in Iraq, yet they can never go back to their version of “normal”. Maybe we need to think beyond our own little corner of the world. Maybe tending our own garden isn’t enough, after all. Perhaps our world is too complicated for such a naïve view. I still don’t know how to activate a change across the world. I’m terrified of the consequences if people like me don’t step up to the plate; yet I don’t know what to do. I went to the Ground Truth website (www.thegroundtruth.net ) so I could get and share some ideas with my readers. Do you know what they advise? Making a contribution to Operation Helmet. Apparently, this government of ours that pays $400 for a military toilet seat does not always provide our fighters (those would be the same kids who’ve given up their own lives to shoot and bomb people for no reason that is apparent to anyone) with padded helmets to protect them. Once again, I was appalled….and saddened…and very, very afraid…

…perhaps my corner of the world is bigger than I thought.

Itch This!

When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

Robert Penn Warren

Okay--I admit it. I have a particular sensitivity to the "B" word. Well, let me clarify that; I actually like the "B" word as a verb or an adjective. For illustrative purposes, I will use it in some sentences; but being a PG-rated column even on my worst day (unless you count my occasional rants about the DMV), I will substitute another word that also serves well in both a noun, verb and adjective format. Oh...let's see...something suitable and not too far-fetched. Let's substitute the word "itchy". Yes, I'm sure it's close enough to drive the point home.

It is perfectly acceptable, you see, for you tell me I am "acting itchy" about something. As in, "being at the DMV makes Maureen itchy." Another great use? "That is an itchin' wedding ceremony, you just put together there, Maureen." (True--and a compliment to boot.) "Maureen gets itchy when people are chronically late, use bad grammar and are unkind to children." Yep--just roll me in the sumac and turn the mosquitoes loose--I own it!

You get my point. What I can't stand is the "B" word used as noun, as in "You are an itch!" At that point, the word is more than descriptive--it becomes a label--a categorization of who I am in the (deranged or at the very least highly uninformed!) mind of the speaker. An itch? I think not! Granted, that may be because my ex used that term as his favorite "pet name" for me at least once per week during the last two years we were together (but I'm not bitter.) More likely, it's because of its over-use--especially by men--to describe any chore, personality attribute or task that is unpleasant to them, or at which they have no aptitude. Hence, we hear, "You are an itch." when really what they mean is "you just made a valid point and I am intimidated by you and can't think of anything to say that is equally as clever, so I will throw out the "B" word in the hope that it will so inflame and insult you that you will rendered speechless." SCORE!!!!

Then there is the ever-ubiquitous, "What an itch!"generally said with an accompanying eye roll and exasperated sigh when the woman in question is not acting according to "good girl" standards of being seen and not heard, or (GASP!) daring to be assertive in the face of a controversial situation. While we forgive this betrayal of our own when it is perpetrated by pubescent females referring to mothers, teachers, and any other female authority figure over the age of 21, it is appalling to admit the number of adult members of my own gender who are also all-too-frequent utterers of this phrase. This occurs, most notably when the woman being referenced is one's mother-in-law, or perhaps towards a female who politely asks another to please refrain from talking loudly into her cell phone expounding on her latest blowup with the beau, or a stylist who gave one a bad haircut and refused to apologize!

Yet it was a most enlightened man (and for those of you who know me, no...it was NOT Jeremy; that is a word I rarely hear him use--whether it's because of his gentle nature or because I put the fear of God into him about that word on our first date, I will never know!) who told me the other day that the "bad part" about running my own business is that I have to "be the itch" and take care of the business end of things (i.e communicate the price for the service rendered, negotiate the terms of the contract and collect the funds).

Wow! I was pretty surprised. I'm one of those people who has the "fun" (at least I always thought it was fun) of being able to engage the imaginative and emotive aspects of my right brain (in performing ceremonies as well as bonding with couples) in harmony with the mathematical, logical and written word skills of my left brain. Naive me! I thought that was an asset that set me apart and made me unique. I pride myself on being able to market the business, pay the bills, and keep all the i's dotted and the t's crossed while getting to engage the creative and interpersonal aspects of my personality as well. I love all aspects of what I do and can't imagine that the touchy feely aspects of the wedding business are any more desirable or socially-acceptable than the more logical, detailed portions.

Have we made so little progress that savvy businesswomen tolerate (even expect) the label of the B word when they successfully harmonize right-brain functions with those of the left? Believe me when I told you that the person who spoke these words to me is truly an open-minded individual whom I greatly admire. This is not about him and I have no intention of shooting the messenger. He just happened to be the one who said it last. In fact, I didn't even pick up on the impact of the statement until much later. The fact that I was not immediately stunned is indicative of a societal pathos that perpetuates the "B-word" stereotype, when in reality a woman might be simply a fair, articulate, shrewd, savvy, big-picture oriented leader! I resolve to be careful to my own over-usage of that word--of which I admit guilt, both in describing myself (inappropriately and incorrectly, I might add) as well as other women (ditto). What was I thinking?

Granted, I might never desensitize myself to the B word as noun, but if the definition I outlined in the last paragraph is what it really means, then....welll...just call me itchy!

Joy to the World

As many people have had a low success rate in keeping the ten commandments, here is all you need to remember.

1. Do what is nourishing to your spirit.

2. Do not do what is loathsome to your spirit.

Alan Cohen

You know, it's funny how the Universe sends you the exact message you're supposed to receive at the exact moment(s) that you need to receive it. Also funny how different people need (and heed) different messages. My friend Corey, a personal and professional coach, keeps getting the message of "balance". It comes to her in everything she reads, the people she talks to and she hears it over and over when she meditates and is still. Now Dixie, on the other hand, has been hearing the message of "creativity" (amazing how succinct God can be, isn't it? The spirit within us is one of few, yet powerful words). If you read Dixie's blog (on this site), you will see the theme of creativity repeated over and over. it is her current calling.


The current message I have been receiving over and over the past few months is (again!) simply one word-- "joy". Of course this is the message I need to here. My wedding officiating business is in its 7th year and I still love what I do, love meeting fascinating new people and love helping them put together unique and creative ways to express their love on their big day. Yes, all of that is still there, but of late I confess to feeling a bit mechanical in the behind-the-scenes-process of bookings, contracts, billing and endless ceremony scripts to write.

While I can't envision myself doing anything else, it's clear that the Universe is telling me to infuse more joy into that which I am doing so that I avoid boredom and burnout. (I'm pretty sure no one wants a less-than-enthusiastic officiant at their wedding celebration!). Since my natural tendency is to focus on the nuts and bolts of marketing, outreach, accounting and generating creative ceremony ideas, this rather ambiguous focus on "joy" is a bit out of my comfort zone. At first a challenge, I do find that it's now becoming a fun game to figure out ways to infuse more joy into my day. This past Wednesday after performing the wedding for Jeff and Ashley at the Botanic Gardens I actually stayed to tour the gardens for an hour or two, then headed off with Jeremy to a scrumptious dinner at Thai Cafe in Edgewater. Ah yes! Joy at its best. I've also developed some new and creative ways to add more joy to the experience that my couple shave in working with me. More on that in future blog entries.

Think about it....what message is the Universe sending you? If you pay attention, you shouldn't have to look (or listen) very hard to find it. It may be as simple as one word! When you hear it, heed it, for it is more than likely the path of your greatest potential for the moment.

I wish you joy!!!!!!

Of Benefit

Do not try to dictate or force the avenue through which your paycheck comes. Spirit has ingenious ways to pay your due salary.

Alan Cohen

I was waiting for Jeremy at the Market Street Station bus terminal downtown last week and I had some time to people-watch while waiting for his bus from Boulder to arrive. Since it was a nice day, I plopped myself on a nearby bench and prepared to be entertained. The first thing that caught my eye was a large banner for a local company extolling the joys of working for them, proclaiming in large letters, "We have great benefits!"

As I sat pondering on exactly what that statement meant, I noticed the people hurrying to and from their various buses. All I can suppose is that no one I watched (and I saw many, many folks during my 20-minute rush hour sit) had the "benefit" of good benefits, for they certainly didn't seem very happy. Men trudged, women tottered on their office high heels, avoiding cobblestones, bricks and any miscellaneous crack in the sidewalk. Nobody smiled. Everyone looked kind of drained.

As I've matured (sounds better than "gotten older") I've learned that there are many different types of benefits and currencies. Some are more precious than others and their values change with time. Other than the obvious currency (money) and the typical benefits (health insurance, paid vacation) there are the currencies and benefits of my time, the people I love, my creativity, the people I hang with, my spirituality, my home, freedom and my peace of mind, among others. I've learned, for example, that no amount of money is worth giving up an hour with my granddaughter; no amount of paid vacation will compensate for doing a job about which I am not passionate; no business transaction worth the price if I am not the best fit for my client. No amount of joy can come from spending any part of my day around toxic people, or those who drain my energy, no matter what my hourly wage.

I looked up "benefit" in the dictionary and it was defined as "something that enhances someones well-being". Ah! Now THAT I can relate to. If I was to list my own personal "well-being enhancements"of living a fulfilled entrepreneurial life, it would look like this:

No set hours for "work," "home," leisure," "personal time". It all flows into one wonderfully holistic day of "me-ness".
No need to request a pay raise--ever!
Ability to choose my own daily peer group (employees call them "co-workers") thereby avoiding the need to associate with the office bore, the stinky excessive--perfume wearer, the irritating-laugh bozo in the next cubicle, the drama queen, the whiner, etc.
Pick whatever radio station I like--even if it's Donny and Marie crooning
No dress code
Commute of approximately 10 giant steps
I am never asked to compromise my integrity by a boss who puts company values over my personal ones
Well-stocked employee lunchroom
Private washroom--no need to bend down and look under stalls for feet before entering
Built-in soul rejuvenation breaks in the form of periodic calls and spontaneous daytime visits from spouse and children, walks around the neighborhood at one's own discretion, meetings with kindred entrepreneurial spirits, and periodic long soaks in the claw foot tub during business hours
License to pee while on the phone with a client (just remember to flush after I hang up)
The smell of bread baking in the kitchen (oops..."employee cafeteria") while working
An office painted light purple.....with a door...and walls...and a window
Never a need to call in sick or ask to leave early
Time off for happy hour
Never having to wait in line because I must save all my errands for the weekends
Reserved parking space
No one borrows things they don't return
A candy stash that no one but me ever dips into
"Work" that is stimulating, ever-changing and fascinating
Spontaneous "staff" meetings in the mountains
Ability to drop everything for a sale at Neimen Marcus
Starting each day with passion joy and the certainty that "all is as it should be"

Think about your own personal currencies. What do you most value? What "costs" the most? What benefits in your day to day life are truly "enhancing your well being"? The answer may surprise you!

We ARE Virginia Tech

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother, and to become fully independent.

Erich Fromm

Yesterday, 32 families experienced a loss of incomprehensible magnitude, and as a nation and fellow members of the planet earth, we grieve with them and for them.

When the massacre at Columbine occurred, my Bethany was in high school, so the chill of fear was most palpable to me. We send our children off to school and entrust their care to others as we feverishly hope that we've taught them the skills they need in order to handle anything that gets thrown at them. I admit I was remiss in teaching my girls the intricacies of "duck and cover", "door barricading 101", and "creative ways to spend your time when your classroom is in lockdown". Call me irresponsible--I just never imagined that these were skills my kids would need to know!

As students were being slaughtered at Virginia Tech yesterday, my Alyssa, a senior at the University of Colorado, was attending classes in Boulder. Like the female students at Virginia Tech, she stumbled out of bed, brushed her hair into a pony tale, threw on jeans and a college-insignia sweatshirt, tossed her knapsack over her shoulder, popped her cell phone into her pocket and went to class. Like them, she is beautiful and brilliant and innocent, even if she does let her laundry pile up and can't return a piece of Tupperware to save her life. My fear is overwhelming. I want to call her right now and tell her to drop out, to blow off the last 5 weeks of school and come home where she will be out of harm's way. I want to call Bethany and tell her that she must commit to home-schooling baby Kaydi when she is old enough, for if the Amish children are not safe in their own schools, how will she be? Of course,, I cannot do that, for to do so would be to live a life ruled by fear, as opposed to one ruled by love. The logical unafraid piece of me knows that; the mother in me cannot fathom the unspeakable horror of knowing that one of my children would be slaughtered that way. I want them right in my sight, right now, so I can insure their safety.

Ever since my girls have been old enough to use the telephone, we have implemented the policy (oh hell--it's a requirement) of the "not dead" phone call. Only marginally tongue in cheek, this is known to my girls (and now to my Jeremy as well) as the 1. first thing one must do if one is going to be more than 10 minutes late 2. something they do every 12-24 hours if they are on an out-of-town trip, 3. something they must perform if they are doing anything--regardless of proximity to the mother ship (that would be me)--that involves them driving about in snowy weather conditions, or 4. something they must intuitively know is obligatory to perform on their part anytime I might be getting vaguely worried about their whereabouts. The "not dead phone call" is the check-in call they give so that I will rest easy, knowing that my world is intact, at least for the moment. My family knows they can get away with damn near anything as long as they don't lie to me and fervently practice the "not dead phone call" policy. As morbid as it sounds, it has alleviated many a sleepless night and it's one of the few things upon which I will not negotiate. Or, to paraphrase what my girls would say, "You'd better call and let Mom know you're okay, or she'll kill you!" Damn straight.

I heard today that as the emergency workers were removing the bodies of students from Norris Hall, that even as they did so, the students' cell phones, tucked into the pockets of their jeans and Virginia Tech hoodies, were ringing incessantly as anxious parents tried desperately to reach their kids, futilely waiting for the "hello, I'm okay" on the other end of the line. Those parents won't have the safe haven of having their kids answer the phone, and for them, their lives are irrevocably shattered.

When dear friends of mine lost their 18 year old daughter in a car crash a couple of years ago, her grieving father told me he "wasn't done". I knew immediately what he meant. Just because we send our children off to school and then to college, and after they marry and start families of their own, it doesn't mean we are "done". There is always more. More graduations, more hugs, more laughter, more grandbabies, more advice to give, more milestones, more chocolate cake, more experiences to share. No, we are not done......unless the Universe (or some crazed man with a gun) makes it so.

And then the icy grip of fear finds us...and we worry....and we imagine....and we grieve...

Oh! How far We've Come!

I roller skate. I ride my bike, don't drive no car. Don't go too fast, but I go pretty far. For somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world. Some people say I've done all right for a girl.

Janis Joplin

Jump ahead one week. (Note: if you haven't read yesterday's entry, this one will make no sense, so go get caught up...we'll wait!) Hop on my bike with panniers firmly anchored and seat correctly adjusted. Water bottle (check), wallet (check), phone (check), sunscreen (double check), and helmet (check). Off I go. Out the door in under five minutes. A new record!

Piece of cake. My first stop was Seafood Landing at 20th & Wadsworth, where I picked up the freshest piece of halibut and the proprietor offered to pack it in ice for me for the safe bike trip home. No need--although the gesture was above and beyond what I would have expected. I swung back by the house and dropped the fish into the fridge and took off again--this time to St. Kilian's Cheese Shop, where I confidently wheeled my bike right up to the counter (like the well-prepared biker dudette that I am, I had my lock, but there was no one else in the shop and the door was wide enough, so why not?) This prompted not only my usual in-depth discussion of cheese, but lead to a chat about Lufthansa Airlines, which apparently is allowing fliers to take their bikes on board without any excess baggage fees. (if someone can verify this, email me or post a comment--what a great deal if it's true!). Nonchalantly tossing my Gouda into my panniers like I've done this for years as opposed to one week, I left the shop, decided I wanted some wine, so pedaled like an old pro over to the new Highlands Pedestrian Bridge (also suitable for bikes) and down to Platte St. to visit the folks over at Corks where I picked up a delightful bottle (okay--two bottles) of white to compliment my fish entree and then a quick saunter over to Savory Spice Shop --the obvious choice to pick up the embellishments for Mr. Hal E Butt.

Flipping my bike lock into my pannier with an attitude of great insouciance, I headed off. After stopping to catch my breath on the hill at the bottom of 29th Ave. (Hey--I said I was new at this!) I popped over to Denver Bread Company to fetch the bread I'd blown off in frustration the week before (who was that frazzled woman anyway?). Cut up to Simple Foods for the vegies and home again, warbling "I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key" at the top of my lungs. Yes, neighbors, that was me.

Home! Done in less than an hour and a half. Now I am an old pro. Moral of the story? Barbara is right--you do have to be prepared to really suck at something (I'm paraphrasing--Barbara would never say "suck", I'm quite certain!) in order to get good at it! It's kind of fun, actually (at least now it is--wasn't so great when I was in the "sucking" stage). My new goal is to suck at something at least once a month and see where it leads me!

If it's not one thing, it's another!

Okay, so I'm on this new kick (actually, I hope it's more of a permanent lifestyle change than a "kick"--some things are too important to be merely a fad) of leaving my car in the garage and shopping locally. I've always been an avid walker, but last year's addition of a cruiser bike (translation by my kid's "old lady bike") to my household, widened my traveling horizons extensively. I hadn't used it much, having no way to transport items with it, but the gift of some perfect panniers (from my children and their significant others) for my birthday last month gave me the perfect opportunity to put my new local habits into action.

On Day 1, I eagerly plotted my first trip. Hannibal's journey across the Alps had less planning. I'd offered to make a deposit at Jeremy's bank, had books to drop off at the library, had my own banking to do and wanted to pick up a loaf of bread. It didn't sound particularly ambitious, but the prep time was a bit discouraging. Wallet, check book, cell phone, keys, helmet, air in tires--I figured I had it covered. I triumphantly trundled my bike complete with sparkling new panniers, out of the garage and out to 26th Ave, adjusted my mirror and hopped on.

As I rounded the corner, I realized that in my bicycle's recent trip to Wheat Ridge Cyclery for a tune up, the seat had been lowered to be just a tad too short. Stopping the bike on Yates--a mere two blocks from my starting point, I hopped off, flipped the lever to raise the seat, only to find that I couldn't press the level back into position as it was hitting the bracket of my newly installed panniers. Now, I have many talents, but bike mechanics is not one of them. I fiddled and pushed, and did manage to get the lever pushed over to a position that tightened the seat, if not locking it in all the way. I tested the seat--it held. Okay, I'll ride it this way until Jeremy can look at it. Off I went....about 10 feet before the right pannier fell off with a dull thump to the street. Back off the bike, causing the seat to twist so that the horn was facing two o'clock instead of high noon. Reapply pannier (more bike mechanics) and tie it down with bungy cords which I happened to have. Okay, this looks awful , but it's secure, at least and I can have Jeremy fix it when he gets home. (Jeremy's list was getting quite extensive and I was less than three blocks from the house!)

Wrenching the seat back into position, I took off again for approximately three blocks of pleasant riding, after which I realized I'd forgotten to bring my bike lock (how on earth was I going to go into all the local shops to run my errands if I didn't have the lock???) and had left my water bottle sitting on the kitchen table. With the seat twisting madly from side to side every time I stood up on the pedals (or dared turn my head for that matter) and the bungy-anchored pannier bag brushing up against the back of my heel with each rotation of the pedals, the car and the mall were starting to look pretty appealing.

Arrived at the library, where I was able to dump my books in the book return bin and avoid leaving the bike unlocked and unattended. Then, off to Jeremy's bank--scootching my butt every half block or so to straighten out the seat I got pretty good at it--although several motorists shot me some quizzical looks.

Now, keep in mind, that I am used to banking at my small neighborhood bank. I haven't set foot in a large banking institution in probably five years. The banking that Jeremy usually does is via the ATM, but I didn't have his card, so I had to go in and actually (gasp!) deal with a a human!I'd forgotten that large banks are very different from what I'm used to--very outside of my comfort zone. Very crowded! When I arrived, there were at least 15 people in line. I knew Jeremy was counting on me to make the deposit (and given the list of honey-do's I was accumulating for him, it seemed only fair that I complete the task) so with no other options, I ignored the bike rack conveniently placed outside the door and trucked into the branch--bike, bungied panniers and all. My plan was to leave the bike between the sets of double doors, which I could do, except for the fact that the counter for people to fill out deposit slips, etc. was right there. With options dwindling, I pushed the bike off to one side as best I could and prayed the customers ahead of me would move through quickly. They didn't. I stood in the line clutching my bike helmet (which ratted me out as the offensive boob who'd left her bike smack dab in the middle of the bank's entrance) and watched as people virtually straddled the bike in an attempt to fill out their forms. It would have been pretty funny actually, if I hadn't been so mortified. I made the deposit, murmured one final apology to the crowd (who were being mercifully kind and patient with me) and fled!

On the road again, where I developed a powerful thirst and had no water with which to quench it. Twist, twist, twist, went the seat, Plop, plop, plop went my heel brushing against the pannier. I blew off the bread shop and headed for my bank, where leaving the bike by the door and running in and out to do my own banking took all of 20 seconds, I finally headed for home, witnessing a near-miss that involved much squealing of tires and brakes along with verbal insults and finger-pointing (and you know which finger), that fortunately was between two cars and had nothing to do with me. Nonetheless it left me shaken and edgy.

Phew! Safe at last! When Jeremy came home, I proclaimed to him that it had been a "bad pannier day" (mostly because I like saying the word "pannier") He showed me what I was doing wrong with the seat and he tightened it up, modified the pannier to make it stay on and stop the heel-slapping business, and gave me appropriate spousal clucking and moral support. I put my lock in said pannier to keep it there for all times and Jeremy added a water bottle holder to my spiffy bike.

I'll post another blog that tells of my future bicycling adventures. Things have gotten much better. My friend and colleague Barbara Winter says if you want to learn to do something well, you need to be willing to do it badly at first. If that's true--and I believe it is--then I should be the best darn pannier-totin' bike rider Northwest Denver has ever seen!