pseudostoops

Day 2!  I love this time of year.  For those who are new, I’m featuring a different charitable organization every day this week, and giving them $25 plus 50 cents for each comment I receive on that post.  Plus, I’m asking you to tell me about some of your favorite charitable organizations- which will be in the running for an end-of-week $50 donation!  Full details here.

Today, I want to tell you about a cool little Chicago-based social enterprise called Sweet Miss Giving’s.

I know, I know, I was skeptical about the name, too, but this organization does amazing things.  It’s a social enterprise, which means that it’s a for-profit organization with a social mission.  Their mission is two-fold: two provide job training and skills to the homeless, and to provide financial support to men, women, and children living with HIV/AIDS.

From their website:

Sweet Miss Giving’s is a premier bakery and jobs program that offers rich, decadent baked goods while providing a new reason to feel good about sweet indulgences: over 50% of all profits go to help the formerly homeless and HIV/AIDS-affected men, women, and children of Chicago House.

So the way it works is this: they make, sell, and deliver delicious baked goods.  They do this by training and employing homeless folks who need job skills.  The super-cool thing about their choice to start a jobs-training program in the food service industry is that it helps people get marketable skills and necessary certifications that will make them employable lots of places, not just at Sweet Miss Giving’s.  Participants in the program get certified in things like food safety and kitchen management, which makes them strong candidates for positions in other commercial kitchens when they’re ready to move on.  Smart. Very Smart.

More from their website:

Sweet Miss Giving’s was founded by Rev. Stan Sloan, an Episcopal priest and long-time CEO of Chicago House, the first provider of AIDS housing in the Midwest.  Sweet Miss Giving’s is Stan’s vision for how to create a pathway to jobs for the homeless – while also helping to fund Chicago House’s support services… We are driven by our social mission. Over 50% of our profits go directly to Chicago House.  What’s more: our bakery doubles as a comprehensive jobs program.  At any given time, more than a dozen disabled adults are getting real-world training and experience in our kitchen – as bakers, delivery assistants, and packaging specialists.

So today you can support Sweet Miss Giving’s and its mission by commenting on this post.  (I’ll be sending the donations to Chicago House, SMG’s non-profit partner.)

But that’s not the only way you can help this super-cool organization.  Are you in the Chicago area?  Does your office ever order in from Corner Bakery or Starbucks?  Wouldn’t it be awesome if, for the same amount of money, you got treats that helped give people job training and also provided support for people living with HIV/AIDS?  Why don’t you suggest to your office manager that next time you order in, you do it from Sweet Miss Giving’s?  If you would like some of our materials to pass along to a colleague, you can contact Stephen at ssmith@sweetmissgivings.com or 312.255.8470.

Social enterprise is cool, isn’t it?  So let’s get commenting!

Thank you.

After running my first 5K, I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment.  Running 3.1 miles in a row, without stopping, was definitely not something I could have done a year ago.  It’s not even something I could have imagined doing a year ago: my whole life I have been plagued by breathing problems, and running outside led to painful wheezing, which led to me avoiding running or anything requiring running, which led to me being a total no-confidence wimp about my athletic abilities.  True story.

Getting an inhaler again, for the first time since I “outgrew” my childhood asthma, has made a huge difference.  (BIG shout out to my allergy doctor who recommended it.  She was kind of nonchalant about the whole thing, actually:  “You wheeze when you run outdoors? Let’s put you on an inhaler to use before you run outside.” Me: “Does this mean I have asthma again?”Her: *shrug* “Does it matter? If it works, it works.”  Me: *mind: blown*)  Running outside is now, while not exactly pleasurable, a nice way to get in a workout outdoors, instead of stuck in a dank gym.

So: first 5K. I ran it, I ran it pretty fast, I felt like a superhero.  I immediately started looking for other 5Ks to register for.  Having a goal, a race, to prepare for is a REALLY GOOD motivator for me.  (I fear embarrassment, so I am motivated to train to prevent being embarrassed during the race.  If that’s not a window into my effed-up psyche, I don’t know what else I can give you people.)

As I was shopping for 5Ks, my friend Tribecca suggested that I start training for a half marathon.

My actual reaction?  “Hahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha (gasp gasp) hhahahaahahahahahahaha.”

Tribecca: Please?  I’m coming to Chicago to run the half in September.  Run it with me! Please?

Me: I’ll think about it.

So I’ve been kind of, tentatively, noncommittally training for a half marathon.  It still feels a little ridiculous to say out loud.  I am not a runner.  I am a wheezer.  Runners run half marathons.  Wheezers WATCH half marathons.

According to my “novice half marathon training program” schedule, I was supposed to run 6 miles this weekend, my longest run yet. (And yet still less than half of the half marathon distance!  WHAT AM I THINKING?)  You know what 6 miles is?  It’s 10K.  So I got this idea in my head that I would be more likely to actually DO the 6 mile training run if I registered for a 10K.  I did a quick search of local runs, found one called the “Fleet Feet Women’s 5K and 10K Festival,” and signed up.

Then I panicked.  See the title of that race?  See what it says in there about “women’s”?  Um, that means I can’t force John to do it with me.  This is my main strategy for training: I make John do things with me, so when I want to wimp out, he talks me into sticking with it.

So! I was running at 10K…by myself.

Sunday morning we got up at approximately dawn and made our way to the race site.  The airhorn went of and I started running….and running….and running…and dear god is this ever going to be over?….and oh! there is the woman in first place, doubling back towards the finish line while I’m still at mile 2! she is fit! and tan! ….still running….This Common song seemed like a good idea at the time but is insufficiently peppy to take my mind off this torture…still running….oh my god we just ran by that woman’s FOUR CHILDREN cheering her on, she has four children and is definitely running even faster than me, I have got to step it up…still running…..hi John! Thanks for riding your bike all over the course to cheer for me at various points!….still running…..oh my god make it end….

Etcetera.

I had to take a little walking break in mile 5, which made me disappointed in myself, but I finished, in under an hour, which was my goal.  Unlike the 5K, though, where I felt a joyful rush IMMEDIATELY and was like “when can I do that again?” my feelings after the 10K tended towards “I might barf”, followed by “and people expect me to run twice this far in a month and a half?  Not bloody likely!”

In fact, it’s taken me almost two whole days to start feeling like actually, maybe that wasn’t so bad.  Maybe I could do another one of those.  Maybe I should start surreptitiously checking the schedule of upcoming races in the area.  So yeah, I guess I get “runner’s high,” I just get it on a 48 hour delay.

******

Unrelated note: a bunch of people are coming into Chicago this weekend for BlogHer.  I have put together a little food and insider tips mini-guide for the area around the hotel where it’s being held.  I really would be delighted if BlogHer folks were spared the mediocre chain stuff that’s unfortunately the easiest to find in the area around the hotel.  Anyway, if you’re coming to town this weekend, or know someone who is, feel free to check it out, and forward it widely.

One of the loveliest places we went on our vacation was Hvar.  Hvar is an island off the coast of Croatia, and it fancies itself something of an Adriatic Sea version of Ibiza, with beach resorts, fancy yachts in the harbor, and a main square lined with bars and cafes.

Hvar

There are several smaller islands off of Hvar, there are dozens of boats that offer water taxi service to beaches on of those islands.  But at the suggestion of our guesthouse operator we opted instead to rent our own boat, so we could control when we went/came back, and so we could go to more isolated coves and not be limited to the water taxi routes.

(Side note: “guesthouse” = Croatian for “hostel, complete with 20 year old Aussie backpackers and shared bathrooms and no towels or bedding provided and an extra 5 euro fee for using the air conditioning.” We were traveling with our friend Will and his girlfriend Sara, and when the four of us walked in and saw the dorm-style beds and the floor littered with other people’s backpacks, we just laughed. Hey, at least it was cheap!)

On the morning we decided to rent the boat, John and Will strode confidently down to the shore, negotiated briefly with the 15-year-old boat-renting dude, and secured us our craft for the day.

“We sprung for the powerful motor,” John said.

I looked at the boat, which strongly resembled a rowboat with a toy motor attached.

“This one has six horsepower,” John said.  “The standard model has only five.”

Power Boat

We piled in and putt-putted our way across the channel to the island of Palmizana,  After about 45 minutes of putt-putting (Will “okay, man, we’re clear of the harbor and can speed up.  Open it up!”  John: “It’s as open as she goes, dude.”  Will: “alrighty then, we should definitely get there by nightfall.”) we arrived at a cove on the back side of Palmizana:

Ooh. Pretty.

The afternoon was gorgeous, and we spent it swimming, playing water Frisbee, reading our books, and napping on the rocks.  Heaven.

In the late afternoon, we decided we should probably head back, so we loaded up our stuff, got back in the boat, I pulled on the line to raise the anchor and…..nothing.

John tried yanking on the anchor.  Nothing.

Will gave it a go.  Still nothing.

John pointed the boat so it angled away from the anchor and gunned the engine.  You could practically hear the motor weeping as it started to shudder and smoke from the effort.  Six horsepower: not enough to dislodge an anchor.  Duly noted.

We were stuck.

Sara donned a snorkel mask and leaned over into the water to see what we were stuck on.  As she leaned over, her center of balance shifted and she flipped over the side of the boat, catching her chin on the side.  She came up with a bloody chin and bad news:  “it’s stuck between two rocks,” she said.  Then, “does anyone have a bandaid?”

Will put on the mask and took a look.  “She’s right,” he said.  “We’re stuck.  I’m going to go down there to try to get it.”

I looked down.  It looked deep.  Like, 30 feet deep.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” I said.

“I know how to clear my ears to balance the pressure,” said Will.  “I’m good.”

He dove in and followed the rope down.  The rope jerked around as he tried to dislodge the anchor.  Then he stopped suddenly, and came up quickly.  He broke the surface yelling, clearly in pain.

He flipped himself into the boat, still yelling, face all twisted with pain.  He was holding his ear.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Vertigo,” was all he could say before he leaned over and looked like he was going to barf on the floor of the boat.  Instead, he spit on Sara’s foot.  “I think I popped an eardrum.”

Well crap.

It became really clear that we could not continue to dick around with the anchor, and that in fact we needed to get Will back to land.  We untied the anchor from the boat, tied the line to an empty water bottle so it would float (apparently boat ropes and anchors are really expensive; this was a super-smart move as it saved us 50 bucks the boat company would have charged us for a lost anchor and line) and headed back to shore.

We got back to the hotel and Will did that thing where you hold your breath and plug your nose and breathe out to try to clear your ears?  You know? And the sound that came out of his ears was, I swear to god, like BIRDS CHIRPING.  Things were all manner of effed up in there.  Oh, and it caused him lots of searing pain.  There was no blood coming out of it, but the pressure was clearly a disaster.  One day before we were supposed to get on a plane back to Italy. Swell.

We went to the Croatian pharmacy and engaged in a comical exercise of trying to explain Will’s symptoms using a mixture of English, Italian, and elaborate pantomime.  She gave him some eardrops.  John tried to put the drops in, and the application of one single tiny drop caused enough pain that Will yelped out in pain and punched John in the gut to get him to stop.  We then read the (hilariously mis-translated) instructions on the drops, which said quite clearly: do not use if the eardrum might be perforated.  Oops!

Out of options, we pumped Will full of Sudafed and Afrin and Advil and all got on the plane saying quiet prayers that his head did not explode.  Miraculously, he made it through the flight all right, and as we bid him farewell to continue on our trip, he promised he would go to the doctor.

A week later, we saw Will again as we all met up in Venice.

“How did the doctor go?” we asked.

“I went to an ear specialist,” he said “and he used this pressure-measuring device in my ear, and where it’s supposed to have this nice sinusoidal curve, instead it was a jagged, unpredictable, all over the place reading.  The doctor told me that in 30 years of practice, he’d never seen anything like it.  He also said I’m lucky not to be deaf.”

“Well, that’s something,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.  “He also said I should hope that my ear clears someday, but he can make no promises.”

“So it might be like this forever?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I expect I’ll get used to it.”

And that, my friends, is my cautionary tale about Why You Should Not Dive In Water Ten Meters Deep To Try To Retrieve An Anchor Because You May Not DIE, But You May End Up Deaf Or At The Very Least With Seriously Messed Up Ear Pressure.

The End

(Will, if you’re reading: any updates?)

Inspired by Maggie, and turning 30, I started working on a life list a few weeks back.   I’m traveling for a couple of weeks, but thought I’d post this while I’m gone to keep things interesting.  Wrapping it up: numbers 41-50 on the list of things I’d like to do with my next 30 years.

41. Learn to apply a smoky eye and actually wear it out of the house. Once.
42. Win an unpopular case
43. Eat vegan for a month
44. Try 10 new kinds of meat/fish/game
45. Get a sweet extended bike, kit it out with cargo pouches, and go car free for a month
46. Buy a share of a dairy cow
47. Stay up all night and watch the sun rise over the lake, like we used to in high school
48. Subscribe to a season at Steppenwolf
49. Buy the nice pens and the sumptious stationary
50. Throw myself a blowout 60th birthday party

Inspired by Maggie, and turning 30, I started working on a life list a few weeks back.   I’m traveling for a couple of weeks, but thought I’d post this while I’m gone to keep things interesting.  Here it is: numbers 31-40 on the list of things I’d like to do with my next 30 years.

31. Sew my kids a custom Halloween costume
32. Visit New Zealand
33. Plan and host an amazing 50th anniversary party for my parents
34. Tango
35. Travel above the Arctic Circle
36. Make pickles
37. Invite 15 kids over for a crazy cookie making party, without caring about the mess
38. Learn about scotch
39. Live in a foreign country with our kids
40. Buy a house with a rec room, and decorate it with framed maps of the cool places we’ve been

Inspired by Maggie, and turning 30, I started working on a life list a few weeks back.   I’m traveling for a couple of weeks, but thought I’d post this while I’m gone to keep things interesting.  Our latest installment: 21-30 on the list of things I’d like to do with my next 30 years.

21. Launch a side business doing dessert catering.
22. Skydive
23. Represent an asylum client
24. Publish something I’ve written in a professional journal
25. Donate more than $1000 to a cause in one fell swoop
26. Tip a waitress 100%
27. Meet the band
28. Do a yoga headstand
29. Finish the Sunday NYTimes crossword, in ink
30. Run a mile in under 7 minutes

Inspired by Maggie, and turning 30, I started working on a life list a few weeks back.   I’m traveling for a couple of weeks, but thought I’d post this while I’m gone to keep things interesting.  Here I give you 11-20 on the list of things I’d like to do with my next 30 years.

11. Host a party with a live band
12. Wear a little black dress with seamed silk stockings
13. Read the Bible
14. Sing Karaoke
15. Brush up my piano skills until they’re good enough that I can play something my family can sing along with
16. Eat at French Laundry
17. Grow my own herbs
18. Publish a children’s book
19. Cultivate a signature recipe that people best me to share; then share it with anyone who asks
20. Travel to a country where I don’t speak a word of the language

Inspired by Maggie, and turning 30, I started working on a life list a few weeks back.   I’m traveling for a couple of weeks, but thought I’d post this while I’m gone to keep things interesting.  Here it is: 1-10 on the list of things I’d like to do with my next 30 years.

1. Travel to Croatia (as we speak!)
2. Order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu
3. Sell something I’ve made on etsy
4. Take my kids on a family camping trip in the Sierra Nevada
5. Learn Spanish for real
6. Eat at Alinea
7. Ride an elephant, camel, or other non-horse animal  (horse allergy)
8. Host an outdoor dinner party using all our fanciest dishes
9. Go to the Olympics (as a spectator)
10. Bake a perfect pound cake

The following is pretty much a verbatim account of my thoughts this week:

“We’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip when can we leave oh my god why haven’t we left yet we’re going on a trip gelato I’m coming for youuuuuuuuuuu”

Needless to say, I’ve been a model employee.

This will not be the first time John and I have been to Europe together. Eight years ago or so, we scored tickets from San Francisco to London at an absolute steal of a price, so we took a very low-budget trip to England and Paris for ten days.

This was a mistake. Not the trip itself- we had a lovely time, (except for a harrowing moment where John launched a champagne cork directly at some priceless antique vases at our friend’s house after pretending he was a champagne-opening expert). But it was a mistake to take my first international trip with John when he was but a wee college lad and we were on a crazy shoestring budget.

Why?

Because on that trip, John packed everything he needed into his regular-sized Jansport daypack. Much like this one:

And now he has these laughably unrealistic expectations about packing, and the amount of luggage one brings on a two-week international trip.

Specifically, his view is: one carry-on sized duffel. For both of us. To share.

Now look, I am all for traveling light. The idea of schlepping a 50-lb wheeled suitcase over the narrow cobblestone streets of a charming European city as I search for my hotel gives me hives.

But seriously: one bag? Two people?

I agreed to give it a shot and see if all our stuff could fit comfortably. We each made a list of what we needed to bring, and sat down to compare lists.

Pseudo: I’ll start. I need 5 pairs of underwear, four tshirts,….

John: FIVE pairs of underwear? No. You get two.

Pseudo: Seriously? Fine. Two pairs of underwear. I’ll wash one every night. You’d just better hope I don’t have a repeat of the horrible, inexplicable butt sweat incident of aught-six, or you’ll wish you’d let me bring five. Moving on: four tshirts.

John: Four? Sheesh. Fine. For me, six pairs of socks.

Pseudo: I only get two pairs of underpants, yet you get six pairs of socks?

John: It’s going to be hot as balls. I am a boy. My feet sweat. Socks don’t wash and dry as fast in the sink as underpants. I need six.

Pseudo: Fine, I’ll concede. Sweaty feet are gross. I’ll let you have six pairs of socks. But if you get six pairs of socks, I get three pairs of shoes.

John: THREE PAIRS OF SHOES?

Pseudo: Two are sandals! Which are small!

John: Couldn’t you just bring one pair of sandals?

Pseudo: I need a backup. You know people in Europe don’t pick up after their dogs. What if I step in a pile of dog poop? I need backup sandals.

John: Show me the sandals.

(Pseudo demonstrates their foldable, smooshable properties)

John: Fine.

And so on.

We laid it all out, and it turns out it does all fit in one carry-on size duffel bag. Except that duffel bag weighs approximately one million pounds, and is full to the top, leaving inadequate room for me to purchase Italian tchotchkes.

So we compromised, and decided to bring two small duffel bags. I even persuaded John to check them, since we’ll be held up at passport control anyway so it’s not like we’re saving huge amounts of time by not checking like you would on a domestic flight.

I haven’t yet told him that to celebrate the increased space, I’ve purchased a new sundress at Target, bringing my total number of dresses to two. I expect we will have words.

Actual contents of birthday card just received from godparents, who live far away in California:

1. Check for $100

2. Note saying (direct quote) “With love, [Your Godparents]  P.S. We would love to have more than just a ‘check writing’ relationship. Please call us when you are nearby.”

I’m not going to lie: part (2) left me feeling a little defensive.  While I appreciate their generosity, I hardly expect, or need, a check in my birthday cards anymore.  I think I’d rather have just the card, minus both the check and the guilt trip.

I’m a little torn as to how to respond, so I’m doing the obvious thing: asking the internet.  If received such a card, what would you do?

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