Mary Bellamy

Yeah, I put some Neil Diamond in my post title. What are you going to do about it?

I promised last week that I would post again to explain my little-sleep weekend. Sadly, it's taken me a full week to do it. It all began back in February when I was hired by Cooperative Extension Service. One of my many duties was to help plan and coordinate a conference for foresters, which finally came to pass two weeks ago. While I tried to plan ahead and get all the details lined up so that the actual week of the conference would go smoothly, things rarely seem to work out as planned. The end result was Mary storming around campus for a few days, cell phone ringing, barking orders like: "Those sandwiches need to be ready for the break, which starts at noon!!" or "You'll just need to JV the funds from our account. I e-mailed you the numbers last week and we faxed over the signed contract yesterday." I mean, I don't even know what JV stands for, but there I was talking into my cell phone like a yuppie day trader, throwing around the acronyms.

By the time the 2-day conference was over, I was tired from putting in 10+ hour days. I thought that joining the foresters on the 3-day field trip to Toolik Lake Research Station would be a relaxing time, and moreover I would be on the clock. To top it off, I got to use a bullhorn. How could that go wrong?

DAY 1 dawned bright and early as I finished packing and headed to the hotel to meet our charter bus at 7:30 a.m. The bus didn't show until 8, but that's OK because I had my friend, Motorola Razr, to keep me company. I got to say bon mots such as: "No, I ordered five 6-foot sandwiches, and they need to be ready by 8. I need 30 feet of sandwich on this bus before we leave." Lunch dilemmas aside, the bus set off on a rainy day and headed for Coldfoot Camp. Coldfoot was fun, mostly because they don't seem to get many single women under the age of 60 there. I amused myself by sitting in the bar alone, drinking beer and reading a book while men circled me like sharks. When the foresters returned from their presentation, there may have been a dramatic reading of a Robert Service poem, but I'll never admit to it.

DAY 2 arrived and was decidedly sunnier.
I bundled the foresters out of the romantic ATCO units that had served as our quarters for the night, and we hit the road. We stopped in Wiseman for an hour to wander through the town and interact with the locals. We asked one gentleman if the trading company could be opened, but he said (and I quote) "Well, 8-Ball isn't here today, and he's the one with the keys." A man named 8-Ball. How charming! Either he's good at pool or has a serious cocaine addiction. The locals also had made some unique choices in yard decorations. And they never let pass a chance to truly shine. Back on the road again, we continued north on the Dalton Highway. Have I mentioned the Dalton? No? Well, imagine a dirt road. Yeah, that's about it. It's probably one of the few highways in this country where you can stop a tour bus, let foresters wander about in the road, and then gather them together for a picture - in the middle of the road, mind you - without ever seeing another vehicle on your 30-minute break. As we continued up the Dalton, I kept trying to steal a little sleep. The foresters kept trying to spot wildlife, and would awaken me with cries of "Moose!" "Wolf!" "Sheep!" The 'sheep' usually turned out to be snow on the side of a mountain, but they did get to see some moose and wolves. After we climbed Atigun Pass and were officially on the North Slope, the weather turned against us, and we proceeded to Toolik under the cover of clouds. What can a girl say about Toolik? Well, it has a sort of Mad Max, post-apocalyptic feel to it. A motley collection of wall tents, trailers and heavy machinery, perched on the edge of a lake above the Arctic Circle. As I stood on the boardwalk by the lake, chatting with some foresters, I half expected the bad guys, who would of course be wearing dusty leather with odd metal embellishments and sport some scruffy facial hair, to appear over the edge of the hill, racing toward us on ATVs. We would scramble for the safety of the camp, possibly losing one member of our party off the boardwalks as we ran for safety so we could protect our precious oil. Other people just saw it as an opportunity to fish. and of course we can't forget the opportunity to use those Arctic outhouses. The university plans to operate Toolik through the winter this year. And if they're serious, they'd better invest in some blue foam. Because plastic toilet seats weren't cutting it in August.

DAY 3 was still cloudy and a little rainy. The bus, not to mention the foresters, had taken quite a beating on the trip.

Some helpful souls decided to clean the windows. This effort lasted about 17 seconds once we were back on the dirt highway, but it was a glorious 17 seconds. The trip was cloudy and gloomy until we got to Atigun Pass, where we left the cloud cover behind as we climbed. The mountains had gotten more snow overnight, signaling the end of summer, but the sunny weather held for a good portion of our trip home. We lounged around Grayling Lake, enjoying our lunch in the sunshine. We continued on with the long trip back to Fairbanks, but we were making good time. As the made the transition from the Dalton to the Elliott (which means the transition from dirt road to paved), the skies darkened and the bad weather returned, but still we pressed on. We kept going all the way to a hill at about 30 Mile of the Elliott. And that's where the bus stopped. Stopped dead in the middle of the road. 45 miles from town. On a hill. On a blind curve. On a road that sees frequent truck traffic. Dead. Our driver used Bob's satellite phone to call for a replacement bus. That proceeded to look for us at 30 Mile. Of the Steese. Which is not the Elliott. Several of the foresters got out with walkie-talkies to try to signal vehicles on the highway and prevent our imminent death from the collision of two tractor-trailers trying to pass us. The replacement bus finally arrived, which is when the luggage chain formed as we tried to transition from one bus to the other as quickly as possible. At this point, I was a little tired of the foresters. Nice people, but I'd just had a little too much of them, you know? As we pulled into an area with cell phone reception, I scrolled through my phone book, searching for a friend - any friend - who drinks. I made a call, ran from the bus once it stopped, hit the store for liquor and personal supplies (because nature has a funny way of reminding you that you're female when you're stuck on a broken bus full of foresters) and high-tailed it to Dara's house, where I relaxed, resplendent in my Alaska-woman glory of cargo pants, Xtra Tuffs and a bullhorn, and guzzled red wine.

Much to say, but little sleep keeps me from being too eloquent. A picture is worth a thousand words, so let's just say that the trip to Toolik Lake went from this:


To this:


All will be explained later.....

Every time I think about getting another pet, I manage to talk myself out of it. And then I see something like this:

Why would you name a female dog Alfonso? And why do I keep thinking about getting a dog when I'm also trying to plan a trip that will take me out of the country for more than a month?

If you don't already know, I posess the recipe for the best brownies in the world. And no, I won't share it with you.

I whipped up a batch (a 4-hour process, mind you) as a way of thanking a friend who recently gave me an mp3 player. The Hillbillies cried foul that I was making them but wouldn't share any. My friend confided that they disappeared in two days, especially after she ate three of them on the second day. Since I had a few left from her batch, I gave some to a coworker who came into my office the next day to sigh about them.

Tonight is Russ's birthday, so I think I will spend my afternoon making another batch for dessert. Although it is not my night to cook, Jennie graciously offered to let me make them, which is quite sporting of her. Perhaps tomorrow I will parse out the leftovers to select people, much like a mafia don hands out favors.....

Joanna was right - real Melos are worth it. I found out yesterday when the package arrived. $70 worth of purple sash goodness. Now if only I could find the excuse to wear them, say, out to a bar....

When I decided back in January to run some triathlons, I was not exactly what the kids these days would call "in shape." Sure, dancing keeps me active, but I've always been on the voluptuous side (and I'm not complaining), so the thought of swimming, biking and running was a little intimidating. Running, especially, is hard on my knees and feet, and those first few winter runs along the ski trails left me in pain for days.

Yesterday afternoon, I was feeling frustrated about things, and found myself strapping on my running shoes and filling my mp3 player with fast songs. I turned out of the driveway and headed down Goldhill Road, planning on just doing a quick mile. I figured I needed a little exercise and some distraction. When I got to the turnaround point for a mile loop, I didn't want to stop. I kicked up my legs and kept going down the road. I reached the powerlines and didn't want to stop, so I kept going further. My one-mile run turned into something a bit longer, and I found myself pressing to run faster.

Today my legs are delightfully sore, and I'm looking forward to both a relaxing afternoon at Chena Lakes and signing up for the Northern Alaska Environmental Center's Run For the Refuge next weekend. Am I am fast runner? Well, no. And I never will be. Frankly, a 10-minute mile is my goal, not my starting point. But at least I'm getting out there and enjoying myself.

Every once in a while, I check out the latest results over at Googlism. And while today I yielded nothing but boring Googlisms, Tom was a different story.

The very first result:
tom moran is again crafting his own brand of rod magic

And they say this blog has sexual content.....

Tom, as you may know, is on a cross-country bike trip. He was recently in the heart of fly-over country (Monon, Indiana) where he tried to read my blog on the library computer. You know, to keep up with my busy life and all. When he tried to load the page, he got this message:

PureSight for WinGate: Access denied
PureSight for WinGate has determined that the requested URL (http://www.maryhaley.blogspot.com/) is at least 69 % likely to contain prohibited content.
The content has been blocked because it is of a sexual nature.
If you have any queries with regards to this, please contact your system administrator.
http://www.wingate.com

Is it ironic that my blog is 69% likely to be sexual in nature?

This reminds me of the time I discovered that the Eudora e-mail program would put chili peppers on my messages if I used certain words. In my defense, bitch is acceptable language when you are the managing editor of a magazine about dog-powered sports. Even better, Eudora would also send me a pop-up to remind me that I had used some choice language and make sure I really wanted to send the message. I had great fun playing with that program, although Tom probably wondered why he got e-mails that said "shit piss fuck bitch cocksucker damn." He probably thought I had Tourette's of the fingers.

I'll bet I'm up to 70% prohibited content by now. I won't rest until I reach 86%. Damn right. Damn. Right. Damn.

Several months ago, Pernon Ricard started marketing Soho, a lychee-flavored liqueur. I love lychee, and especially love lychee martinis, but have never been able to reproduce them well at home. Perhaps trying to puree vodka and lychees in a blender isn't the best plan, but you can't blame a girl for trying. Of course, when I heard that someone was distributing lychee liqueur in the United States, I was all over it. Well, I was all over it in a roundabout fashion.

The manufacturers decided to begin test marketing the beverage in Philadelphia in August 2005.. They then expanded to San Francisco, and that's where the lychee trail came to a grinding halt. Although the company promises a full national rollout by the end of 2006, I'm nothing if not impatient. And so, a plan was formed.

I convinced a friend [we'll call him "Jake"] who was going to the Philadelphia area to bring me back two bottles. When he arrived, he proceeded to the nearest state-run liquor store only to discover that Soho had to be special-ordered and would not arrive before his return to Fairbanks. Boo!

And then came the second plan. "Jake" would be traveling to the West Coast in June, along with another friend we’ll call "Stanley." Moreover, one of "Jake's" friends would be traveling out to meet them. ["Jake" has a friend named Cookie. No quotes because that is apparently her real name. That has nothing to do with the story.] And so it was decided that "Jake's" friend would smuggle out two bottles of Soho, and "Stanley" would become the mule who carried the bottles across the Canadian border and deliver them to me in Fairbanks. It is worth noting that there's nothing illegal about Soho, I just happen to like pretending that there is.

Several months after the plan was hatched - Sunday, to be precise - my doorbell rang. "Stanley" stood, there, bearing my contraband. Four months. $40 (I'll send you a check, "Jake"). Patience far beyond my natural capacity. It will all be worth it when I mix up a lychee martini tonight.

How did this happen? How did I allow a colleague to talk me into judging fair entries for 4-H? Maybe, maybe, on a good day when I was half-asleep or drunk I would be an adequate choice to judge livestock or something. But on a sober day? Not so much. And sadly, I'm not even going to judge livestock. (You got a real pretty mouth, pig...) No, I get to judge the creative entries. You know, photographs, poems, essays, etc.

You must bear in mind that I'm very familiar with these types of entries. When we go to the fair, Tom insists on reading each and every one. It's that same sort of sickness that forces him to read every interpretive plaque he encounters. Every. One. But back to me. Tom reads all of these entries, and I stand next to him and try to offer constructive criticism.

• "Using the same word twice doesn't count as a rhyme, Brianna."
• "Maybe when mommy was helping you pick out fonts for your essay, she should have been running the spellcheck, Dustin."
• "Iambic pentameter? I don't think so, Hailey."
• "Dear God in heaven, do you really think that looks anything like a dog, Khrystal? It looks more like Sloth in Goonies."
• "I find your use perspective quite interesting, Madison. Was this your view from the window in your short bus?"
• "Well, that's certainly one way to draw the trees, Aaron. But perhaps, as the saying goes, you couldn't see the forest for the crap you were scribbling on the paper."

And, occasionally,

• "NO! Just...NO!!!!"

Judging, of course, is horribly biased toward the kids. As I was informed, we use the Danish Method. This does not involve any sort of pastries, so I was already feeling cheated. Then I discovered that the Danish Method means, basically, everybody wins. "They should call it the Lame-ish Method," I muttered, sinking deeper into my chair. There are four levels of awards:
Blue: Given to those projects that most nearly meet the standards for the project. Please note that the highest award possible can be given to a project that doesn't even meet the standards. Social promotion, methinks.
Red: Given to projects that rank good in relation to the standards. Or, as the Web site says, "the general level of the accomplishment is less than excellent." Well, there's my answer. Bill and Ted are making these rules.
White: Given to projects that are found lacking. WTF? You get an award for this? In that case, I have known a lot of white-ribbon people in my days.
No ribbon: This may be given if an exhibit failed to produce a level of achievement. In all my days at the fair, I have never seen something without a ribbon. Every piece of crap gets a ribbon. Every child wins because the contest is rigged!

It should be an interesting Saturday....

Found two people so far who are willing to share a hotel room in Fort Worth....
Booked the hotel room....
Registered for 9 of the workshops and the two shows....
Will book flight/find out options for Vegas....
Will start perfecting choreography for performance....
Will add Fort Worth to the list for my world tour T-shirts....

I'm trying to figure out the best way to get from Fairbanks to Fort Worth for some workshops in January. Unfortunately, since they are in early January, it seems that I will be flying during a 'peak' time for the airlines. That means it will cost me 40,000 miles to fly there. I wonder if it's worth saving 20,000 miles to fly to Las Vegas, catch a connecting flight, then spend a night or two in Vegas on the way back? I can't get back-to-back flights back from Vegas, or I stray into the 40,000 mile territory again. Is an extra $350 worth the 20,000 miles? I think it might be...

OK, no actual babies or mommas, I just like the rhyminess (totally a word) of the title. There is plenty of drama, though.

Let's start with the greater drama, which came in the form of a string of vicious e-mails unleashed over the weekend. To be fair, everyone has their own side to the story, but this is my blog, so you're going to hear my opinion, got it? It all started innocently enough with a dancer sending out a mass e-mail asking what other dancers thought were the qualifications of a Middle Eastern dance teacher. That's it - it was literally one sentence. That might have stayed innocent if she hadn't forwarded another e-mail precisely two minutes later that named the teacher she had an issue with and called her "nasty and unprofessional." To be fair, that was said by someone else, but she chose to forward the inflammatory statements on. The e-mail cycle continued, mostly with anger towards this teacher. (Shall I add fuel to the fire and point out that this is an attractive young teacher, whereas some of the e-mailers are of a more mature stage of life? Yes, I shall.) They mostly seemed to be upset that she didn't have enough of a background in bellydance, not to mention that she *gasp* runs a go go troupe. [sarcasm] Surely go go dancing is nothing more than stripping, so how dare she teach bellydance as well and bring down the stature of our amazing, powerful dance that is Sacred and grounds us to Mother Earth, allowing a greater bond with our Dance Sisters (not to mention causes irrAtionaL CapiTalizAtion)? [/sarcasm]

So clearly this got me dander up. Got me in a tizzy, if you will. And I finally chose to fire off a response. Did I mention that I wasn't included in the original e-mail loop? Don't feel bad for me; lots of people weren't included. Plus, even though I've danced with a troupe in Alaska for over two years, most of the other dancers still regard me as a child and speak to me accordingly. (Awwww, you did vewy good in your solo! Yes you did! Yes you did!) In my response I chose to address their issues with the teacher, pausing occasionally to educate them about what go go dancing is and query whether or not any of them had actually taken a class from the teacher in question. I might have also likened our dance community to a lunch table in junior high.

Well, as soon as I sent my e-mail I got a response from the original e-mailer that the question was about the qualifications, not about my personal opinion on the teacher. Um, yeah. That's why you forwarded an e-mail calling her nasty and unprofessional. I have two points to make:
1. Libel. Look it up. In that thing called the dictionary.
2. Spellcheck. Actually that goes for almost everyone who replied to the e-mails. (Even I am not immune, as my trembling, angry fingers misspelled one word. Unless we can all agree to go with "attck" from now on.)

Some dancers have sent me private notes thanking me for having the courage to rudely say what they were trying to nicely say. I wasn't friendly with a lot of the dancers before, so it's no skin off my nose. Others have replied that those who defend this teacher are merely sheep, fawning over someone who is a liar and a fraud. Well, to you I say Baaa! I took the stance I did because it was childish and wrong to engage in sneak attacks behind someone's back, not because the teacher is a friend of mine. In fact, if she had been the one to start the e-mail chain, I would have said the same things. It's all about the action, not the target.

And on a lesser note - my personal drama. Ever have a friendship that died? Let's not point fingers, as both of us were to blame, but the friendship has been good and dead for a while. In fact, neither of us has spoken to each other since December, even though we occasionally attend the same functions. Therefore it struck me as a bit odd when she started talking to me at a party on Sunday night. It's not that I harbor bad feelings about her or wish her ill, but the entire experience left quite a bad taste in my mouth. As James has said, "That ship has sailed. To Antarctica." But there we were, on opposite sides of the kitchen. Taken aback, I replied with my usual sarcasm, which probably just came across as bitchy. That happens a lot. But if she's reading this: I wasn't trying to give you a bitchy reply, I was just surprised that you spoke to me after 8 months of silence. Let's let sleeping dogs lie. Lay? Lie? Damn, I can't remember how that saying goes....

Lesson 1: It is possible, if properly inspired, to create a new choreography in about four hours.

Lesson 2: If you borrow a camcorder from the UAF library to attempt to videotape yourself performing said choreography, it is likely that they will give you a camcorder with a dead battery, thus forcing you to instead videotape yourself at home after the performance.

Lesson 3: Final Cut Pro is not as easy as the For Dummies book makes it out to be. Seriously.

If there's one thing I truly love about Alaska, it's the summers. They make up for the cold dark winters, but all that daylight can set a pretty frantic pace. For example, today the sun rose around 3:30 a.m., and will set around midnight. This gives me plenty of time to get lots of things done, especially when I get to work by around 6:30. Skipping my lunch break means I'm free by around 2:30, leaving me plenty of free time in the afternoon.

Lately I've been trying to go running as soon as I come home from work, but yesterday I had an inexplicably crappy run. Not even my secret weapon (cheesy rap music - I'm currently loving "Shake that ass" by Eminem and Nate Dogg) could motivate me to continue running the gentle hills of the Doc John-Wecota loop. Instead of forcing the issue, I decided to just give up and walk. I'd try for another run today, but I've got a cooking class tonight. I'll try for another run tomorrow, but for today I'll just have to stick with yoga and dance.

Also topping my "to-do" list are choreographies and other dance business. This Sunday I'll be doing tribal fusion instead of cabaret at Pioneer Park, so I'm trying to whip out a quick new choreography. I got the new Maduro album "Shimmer Sustain" last week, and it has been rocking my world ever since. Spooky electronic rhythms interspersed with straight drumming - genius! My dance time will be cut short, however, as I'm headed down to Denali on Saturday to meet with Danielle and Amanda. We've got to work on two important things: the Anchorage/Fairbanks Haflaween showcases and planning next year's workshop. There goes my free time over the weekend. Oh well, maybe I'll get more free rafting out of it.

It has come to my attention that I need to get the hell out of Alaska. To be more specific, I need to travel Outside (Yes, that is supposed to be capitalized. We have our very own AP Stylebook up here.) for a dance workshop. Or weekend festival. Or maybe even a week-long intensive. While the Denali Belly Bash in June was fantastic (lovely time spent with tribal fusion dancers....see the photo of Riz, Amanda and me above), I crave more. I want more tribal instruction, which I frankly can't get here. So I'm starting to plan my next trip to the Lower 48 (Again, the capitalization is correct.) to coincide with a workshop or festival. The problem is, which one do I choose?

Tribal Fusion Faire
pro: December in California, Rachel Brice, Kami Liddle, Rachel Brice, DaVid, Rachel Brice, Boom Boom Bollywood
con: it's this December (which isn't a whole lot of time to plan), I may act like a screaming groupie around Rachel Brice
Tribal Fest
pro: the granddaddy of them all, rural northern California location
con: no instructor list yet, rural northern California location
3rd Coast
pro: Houston in January, organized by Sahira, Sharon Kihara, Sharon Kihara
con: I don't think I know any couches to crash on in Houston, I may also act like a screaming groupie around Sharon Kihara
Spirit of the Tribes
pro: Desert Sin performed there last year - yum!
con: April in Florida? really?, no teacher list yet
Tribal Quest Northwest
pro: Portland is closer than the rest, I should be able to score a free couch somewhere
con: it's in August (which means waiting more than a year), no teacher list for 2007 yet (though 2006 features Elizabeth Strong, Suhaila Salimpour, Sam of Boom Boom Bollywood and Urban Gypsy [organizers of 3rd Coast])
Northern Migration
pro: Niagra Falls isn't far from my parents (using the Alaska sense of distance)
con: June date means I'd have to wait a year, no teacher list for 2007 (2006 had Frederique, Jill Parker and Unmata)

Some of these are happening later this year or early next year. Others wouldn't be until almost or more than a year from now. My decision may very well come down to whether or not any of the Anchorage dancers can come along for any of these workshops.

Watch the Hoff. Why? Because I said so!

Sometimes when I clean up my Yahoo! e-mail, I find stuff that is too priceless to actually trash. I'd like to preserve the following e-mail exchange here on my blog. It's kind of an homage to my relationship with Tom.

From: Mary
To: Tom
Subject: don't freak out
OK, so Hope and I were just discussing weddings. And I was thinking, if we ever get married, can we rent out McDonald's and have Mayor McCheese officiate?
Love,
Mary

From: Tom
To: Mary
Sometimes "no" just isn't a strong enough word. Besides, I don't think Mayor McCheese actually has any legal authority, even in Playland.

From: Mary
To: Tom
It would be nice if you could be more supportive of the things that are important to me. It would help me feel that this partnership is a two-way street.

From: Tom
To: Mary
Fine, but Grimace will be my best man.

From: Mary
To: Tom
And Birdie shall be my maid of honor.

From: Tom
To: Mary
Grimace Crowe?

Grimace Crowe is a reference to our attempt to name Jen and Don's unborn baby.

The weather has, not surprisingly, been cold in Alaska this summer. Cold enough to make me wonder about entering the Chena Lakes Triathlon this weekend. Sure, I have a wetsuit, but a 2mm shorty is good for surfing and not much else. I just don't know if I'm up for a 500-yard open water swim (especially since I've been running more and swimming less lately. It has something to do with limited pool hours but unlimited daylight). In order to avoid the late entry fee, I need to decide in a few hours, because open registration is from 4-7 today.

I keep swinging back and forth. I could just go do it. I could post a bad time. I could enjoy the race. I've got no one to cheer me on from the sidelines. It's good practice for future triathlons. I could skip it and focus on my running and enter a few road races. I like multisports. I haven't been biking in a while. I had a good run yesterday. The water might be painfully cold. The weather might warm up before Sunday. It doesn't matter how fast I go. There could be lots of really competitive people there. So what's wrong with a little competition? I hate to lose.

You see what the voices in my head are saying?

Dear Sir or Madam Who Is Setting Off Fireworks Somewhere In The Swamp Behind My Cabin,

Hurrah! It is, indeed, the Fourth of July. And patriotic sentiments are everywhere (as evidenced by the clerk in Old Navy who kept trying to sell me a flag T-shirt "because they're only $3" or some such crap). Now don't get me wrong. I, too, am patriotic. For instance, I loved Team America. Especially the unrated version. But fireworks? In Fairbanks? For the Fourth of July?

a) Most of the people in the rest of the United States think we're part of Canada.
b) It's the Fourth of July. In Fairbanks. Alaska. Don't you think those fireworks might be better saved for some celebration that occurs when it actually gets dark at night?

Yours,
Mary

ps You're the person who's always firing his or her guns back there, aren't you?

Joey Chestnut, left, points to returning champion Takeru Kobayashi during the Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Competition Tuesday, July 4, 2006, in Coney Island, New York. Although Chestnut came close to beating the champion by eating 52 hot dogs, Kobayashi won his sixth straight title by beating his own record and eating 53 and 3/4 hot dogs.

Since my camera is currently riding around somewhere in North Dakota with Tom, I'll just have to make do with pictures of grown men gorging themselves silly in eating contests.

This weekend started off with a bang on Friday, when fellow indexer Hope rented a stretch Hummer limo (because who cares about mileage when gas is hovering near $3 a gallon?) and we hit the town for her bachelorette party. It may be the first time the Midnite Mine has ever had a limo parked out front. For some reason, three guys from the bar hopped into the limo with us, and we had trouble ditching them for a while. We finally shook them loose at Kodiak Jack's. Yes, it's true - I went to a country western bar. After an eventful ride home, I grabbed a few hours of sleep before heading off to dance rehearsal.

In the late afternoon, James called my cabin to see if I wanted to join him with some steaks at fellow blogger Super Smooth Andy-G's cabin. My parents didn't raise me to turn down a free rib eye, so I readily agreed. What followed next was several hours of orgiastic eating and, well, nothing. We met at the cabin, then decided to travel over to visit The Deekers and avail ourselves of his sauna. A mighty fine sauna it was, too, until someone threw a little too much eucalyptus on the rocks, and I had to run outside to breathe. Around that time we started firing up the grill, then stood around staring forlornly at it until we decided that rare was good enough because, dammit, we were hungry! Fully sated on steak, pie and ice cream, we went back to Andy-G's cabin. Around the same time, James and I realized that if stayed out any longer, we'd be sucked into an all-nighter. Since we're getting a little old for that, we high-tailed it out of there and back to the commune.

I awoke on Sunday and peered at my clock. It seemed to say 7:25, and I cursed getting only 6 hours of sleep. Then I realized it actually said 1:25, and spent some time trying to figure out if that was a.m. or p.m. until the realization dawned that I had just slept for 12 hours. I usually get by on about 6, so that was a good sign that the night before had wrecked me. A downpour forced the dance troupe to move our Sunday evening performance inside the Civic Center at Pioneer Park, where they had trouble figuring out the lights and sound system.

Monday was somewhat cloudy, but Amanda and I decided to brave it anyway, threw on our suits and headed for Chena Lakes. When faced with the beach full of kids or the alcohol-free but deserted beach, we made the smart choice: We took the empty beach but drank our beer regardless. The intermittent sun made me wish for a good warm day back in New England, lounging on a beach in Rhode Island. Instead, I listened to a little girl scream as she found a leech on her foot and got caught up on Amanda's life.

Today actually marks another day off for me, but I needed to catch up on some work at the office, so I popped in. I needed to get at a fast computer anyway. The new Johnny Cash album was begging to be downloaded.

Joanna is confused as to why I haven't been posting. Me? I'm just shocked.
Are you as shocked as I am that I've been so darn lazy in posting? To be fair, I was trying to hold off on writing about the Solstice Belly Bash until I got the pictures, but there has been a slight technical hitch, so the blog must go on!

On the weekend before Solstice, I packed up the car with food, clothes, a sleeping bag and Heather, and headed down to Healy for the first Solstice Belly Bash. This was the first tribal fusion dance event in Alaska, featuring talented instructors such as yours truly. Classes included Bollywood Combinations, Tribal Hip-Hop, Oriental Fan Dancing and Fire Dancing, featuring guest instructor Riz, who traveled all the way from Florida.


I had the immense pleasure of finally meeting Danielle, the host of the event, seen here teaching the Tribal Hip-Hop class. She went all out for the event, offering us free rafting, free lodging at the Boat Camp (AKA Testosterone Central) and providing the inspiration for future events. Moreover, I had the chance to bond with the tribal fusion girls from Anchorage. I do love me some tribal fusion girls! Joanna may be my soul mate (she appreciates AP style and font selection! Too bad she's married), Amanda is a driving force in the Anchorage dance scene, Kathryn is a quiet ball of fire, and Danielle is an inspiration to us all.


See? Joanna+Danielle=Yummy!

After that fun weekend, I returned to Fairbanks to prepare for the next weekend and the Amaya workshop in Eagle River. Amaya is an amazing dancer who just doesn't give up. She has a unique Spanish gypsy fusion style that I've never seen before, and an amazing stage presence.

Susan, Nicole, Teresa and I spent the weekend in Eagle River dancing, eating, relaxing, eating and eating. Well worth the trip. Amanda did not attend the workshop but met up with me in Anchorage on Monday for some quality time together.


Even more importantly, Maya brought a pair of Melodias to the Saturday night performance for me to try on. All hail the Melos! I think $70 is a bit high for a pair of pants, but when they make the entire room fall quiet and comment on your, um, assets, they might be worth it.

So there you go - a quick list of my recent activities. In reference to my recent post, Tom has chimed in against the idea of another cat. Apparently Nibbles is more than enough for him. SO now I'm thinking of a new tattoo. Is this some kind of midlife crisis?

So, I should probably address this in an e-mail to Tom first, but I've been thinking about starting a family lately. Not actually gestating one, and definitely not the human kind.

I started mulling the idea of getting a dog a while ago, probably because many of my friends started reproducing. But then Nancy mentioned that getting used to twin daughters was like getting used to anything, and that she had gotten used to scooping the dog yard. That reminded me that a dog will require an outside house, straw, a new form of food, daily exercise, self-control not to eat Nibbles, regular shit patrols, etc. That may be a little more commitment than I'm ready for.

However, Nibbles was raised with lots of other living things around her. She didn't get quite as bad as Pudge did, but she's still kind of needy. With Tom gone, there's no one but me to pay attention to her, and frankly it's getting kind of draining. She's all up in my face whenever I'm home, violating my 2-foot bubble of personal space while I sleep and licking me frantically. I'm starting to form a theory that if I got another cat, she would have company throughout the day (once she got over hissing, hiding, plotting and attacking, that is) and would be more manageable.



Am I completely wrong in this theory?

As I skimmed the Anchorage Daily News at work, I noticed an article on Alaska auditions for the next season of ABC's The Bachelor. It turns out that their new bachelor is Lorenzo Borghese, who I went to high school with back in Connecticut. Sadly, I'm wikkid happy with Tom and not keen to appear on reality television, so I will not be receiving my 15 minutes of fame by auditioning for a touching reunion.

Since I keep in touch with just one person from high school (who tracked me down on the Internet), I've really got no one else to tell this to except my hordes, nay legions, of readers.

Remember back when I started this blog? It was all cabin this and cabin that as I struggled to convince people that they should build me a new cabin, rather than kick me out for the QIRs. And even when they agreed to do it, I was still leery of the QIRs. Then they had the gall to show up early - early, mind you - and I was forced to move into a room in the main cabin and leave my cat behind. Keep in mind they're also vegans.

Things were not looking good for Mary and the QIRs. Except ... well, except for the fact that Jacob and Gretta are wonderful people. They took on the challenge of living with Nibbles, and they grew to love her (although I'm still convinced that Gretta shaved my cat). They took on the challenge of living with the Hillbillies, and they grew to love us! They helped us pick and fight our battles when we needed to promote the best interests of the community. They worked with Tom and I when we hit a rough patch. They threw themselves into living and Hidden Hill, and they helped make it a better place.

Today they left Hidden Hill, headed for parts unknown, and the main cabin will feel somewhat empty when I go home. While I know the commune will continue to change and grow as new members move in, I'll miss Jacob's joke (he only had one) and Gretta’s patience (no, really, he only had one joke), and I'll miss having them at meals, and I'll miss their unique take on Quakerism. Whether they end up back in Doylestown or they start a new life in Ben Lomond, they'll be sorely missed at Hidden Hill. And I hope they don't complain too much if we all come to visit at once. I hear they've got indoor plumbing.

Two of the library regulars are back and making their usual fuss. They're of the "the local media is corrupted and only we know about it" sort, and they're looking at old copies of the News-Miner on microfilm, raising a stink that a political ad appeared on the Faith page. "It makes my skin crawl to see that," one guy said. "Only guys like Jerry Falwell do stuff like that," the other replied. One of the guys seems to be running for an office in local government, and is trying to figure out how much advertising his opponent did in the last election.

Unfortunately, the printer attached to the microfilm machine has once again broken, prompting a long tirade about how the repair work is contracted out to a company in Anchorage that won't bother to come up here until several machines are broken.

Sigh. Just go upstairs to another machine. Please. No, please don't start in on the need to mobilize WalMart workers to unionize. Oh God, don't talk about how the military encourages families to have as many kids as possible since Uncle Sam will pay for it all.

I need to get away from people like this.

If you leave me now, you'll take away the biggest part of me.
Oooooh, no, baby please don't go!

After a small gathering last night, Tom and I woke up early this morning to head to the airport. We refrained from getting teary eyed, though I may have choked up a little bit after I left the terminal. He's now on an airplane headed for Seattle, then bound for Maine by bike.

So now I'm awake and raring to go, but with relatively little to do. What's a girl to do? Well, start work on a practice journal, blog a bit, go pick up supplies for a craft project, get flowers, work on the planters for our cabin, maybe patch the holes in the ceiling and touch up the paint .... sheesh, I need to stretch out my projects!!

If you're more interested in Tom's trip than in me, check out the links to the right. He's got his very own section for his travel blog! He'll be updating it from the road, and I even sent him along with my digital camera to post pictures. Since he wanted a mascot, I gave him my Ganesh finger puppet. Who says I mock religion?

Tom is such a sweet guy, that he decided to get me a present before abandoning me for months. Well, not quite....

Earlier this week, we were running errands when he said he needed to swing by Barnes and Noble. I was happy to go browse at Lowe's while he did so, but then I discovered that he was buying me a present. I'd be thrilled, except he has no intention of giving me said present until he returns from his bike trip!! You just don't do that to a girl, especially not to me.

Since I've never been one to let sleeping presents lie (or however the old saying goes), I've managed to determine the following:

• it is a book
• it cost $12
• it was purchased on Wednesday at around 6:15 p.m.
• the cashier was a female with a tattoo on her arm
• Tom's debit card was declined at first
• Tom gave the cashier a lengthy explanation for this, since his bank recently sent out new debit cards because of a security breach (which also means I no longer know his PIN - damn!!)
• it is nonfiction (OK, I don't know this one for sure, but it's a pretty good guess)
• it is not a cookbook (again, a good guess)
• it is not erotica (trust me, he ain't that kind of guy!)
  

So, should I return to Barnes and Noble next Wednesday with a photo of Tom and look for the cashier with a tattoo on her arm?

Blogger has been acting up, so I've been unable to post for the past few days.

Let me get right to the point:
It snowed on Sunday.
It. Snowed. On. Sunday.
It mother-f&#*ing snowed on Sunday!!!

Naturally, I didn't get a picture, and I'm too scared of The Mrs. to 'borrow' hers, so just take my word for it. However, it's finally getting back to normal summer weather here. By 'normal' I mean kind of warm with a heavy layer of smoke over everything. Looks like one of my fellow commies is not doing his job well. Oh, wait, he doesn't actually fight fires, he just cuts down trees and brush around historic cabins in the middle of nowhere to protect them from fires. Your tax dollars at work, folks.

Tom is, generally, a nice, conservative guy. Not conservative in the bad, Republican way, but in the good, don't-wear-a-wife-beater-in-public way. But for my birthday, he decided that rather than shave his head completely for the bike trip, he would leave a mohawk for a while.



Unfortunately, he ended up looking more military than punk. I think this could work to our advantage, though, as anonymous people might buy our dinners in restaurants as a way of thanking him for his service to the country. It would probably only work in crappy restaurants like Chili's, though, which just isn't worth it.

Just more of the swag from the triathlon: custom socks from Sock Guy.

My official time for the Gold Nugget Triathlon is in: 2:02:06. So, not quite the under-2-hours finish I had hoped for, but a good race nonetheless. And now, the story of the race....

The night before the race, Tom and I headed to Bartlett High School for the bike drop-off and bib pick-up. They were all out of swim caps but I picked up the rest of my swag: a race T-shirt and custom-made running socks. Nice! After making a nice pasta dinner for Kyle and Rebecca, we drifted off to sleep.

At 6 a.m., I was up and ready to go. Too bad the race wouldn't start for me for another few hours. The weather had been gray since we returned from the bike drop-off, so I decided to burn off some energy by driving out the check on my gear. With 1,150 women racing, the organizers keep people out of T1 after 8:30, so I wouldn't have another opportunity to check my stuff until I was racing. Sure enough, the rain had gotten some of it wet, so I brought it back to dry out.


While grocery shopping on Saturday, Tom and I had picked up fruit, yogurt, English muffins and cheese for a nice, healthy breakfast. On the way back Sunday morning, I stopped at Fred Meyer and picked up a tub of country bake and a diet Dr. Pepper. Healthy vs. junky: Which meal would win? In the end I ate them both. On a side note, if you've never visited a grocery store deli for breakfast, you should! Country bake is an oddly satisfying concoction of eggs, sausage, potatoes, cheese, biscuits and gravy, all cooked together and served by the pound.

Tom and Kyle dropped me off at 11:30, and I watched the swimmers a bit before heading down to the pool myself. After getting my number marked on both arms and a timing chip strapped on my ankle, I took a few warm-up laps, then joined the queue for a lane. After a quick countdown, I was off in what was arguably my best segment of the race. Despite my unorthodox backstroke/crawl combination, I passed other swimmers in my lane a few times and finished the 500-yard swim in 11:29. I crawled out of the pool and realized I should have used the men's locker room as I dodged bystanders on the pool deck trying to get to the women's locker room. I cursed wet spandex as I struggled to pull on my running tights, then trotted out to T1.


I wasted more precious seconds in T1 trying to fix my jersey zipper when I yanked on it wrong and it split from the bottom. With my shoes on and helmet firmly strapped, I grabbed my bike and ran for the chute. I had to dodge a young girl whose mother was helping her get her bike through the chute. I ran across the timing mat, hopped on my bike and got out of T1 in 5:08. I was cruising!


A couple of hard turns, and I was out on the bike course. I was eating goo. I was drinking water. I was unbeatable. And then that young girl from T1 passed me. And then other people started passing me. I ate more goo. I drank more water. I laughed at the moose on the side of the course. I cursed the sadist who designed a course that had all its hills right at the end. The T2 volunteers yelled their encouragement as I chugged up the final hill, then grabbed my bike, helmet and gloves and sent me on my way. Total bike time: 50:09.

I took a Powerade as I headed for the run course, and lived to regret it as that stuff apparently makes me nauseated. There was, to be frank, no way I was going to run right after that bike course, so I hit my stopwatch and walked for 3 minutes, at which point I was somehow on another hill. I grudgingly began to jog, passing walkers and feeling a little smug. After 8 minutes of that jogging nonsense, I stopped to walk for another 2 minutes and let a moose cross the trail. I decided to jog to the next water station, which was 1.5 miles from the beginning of the course. When I got there, I decided to grab a water and keep jogging for a bit.


After a few twists and turns, I realized something strange was happening. I was still running. My plan had been to run/walk this section, as running is definitely not my strong suit, but I was still going! I might look like I'm walking in the picture, but that's just the way my slow pace looks on camera, honest! When I hit the second water station at 3 miles, I told myself I might as well just run to the end of the course. And so down a road, through a tunnel, up a hill, over a bridge I went. When I turned the corner for the final stretch, a little voice said "Go for it!" and I kicked my heels up and pushed hard, racing for the finish line as Tom and Kyle yelled from the sidelines. Total run time: 55:20. And you know what? I could have kept going.


Since Snickers Marathon Energy Bars was one of the race sponsors, I expected one of those at the end, but a straight-up candy bar? Now that's not healthy! After a walk to cool down, we headed back to Kyle's so his ridiculous water pressure could beat me into submission, then Tom and I wrapped up the day with a trip to Peter's Sushi Spot.

The triathlon was an amazing experience. I went from no exercise in January to running a race in May, and managed to have some fun along the way, too. I've got my sights set on the Chena Lakes Triathlon in Fairbanks in July, but I'll be heading back to the Gold Nugget next year. My goal? Work on the bike and run, and aim for 1:40.

Just a quick update to let everyone know that I made it through the rain, I mean race... The official results are not up yet, nor do I have all the photos, but I am alive and well and made it to the finish line. Some people Jenna have sent Tom notes of condolence, assuming I must have expired along the course, since I haven't posted, but I am indeed alive. And now a triathlete, to boot!

I'm an adult. A grown woman. Mature, even. So why can't I stop giggling over the last name 'Furbush?'

Oh, and by the way, only four days until the triathlon....

OK, I'm officially out of brick jokes. That's right - I only had two. On Sunday I did my final brick for the triathlon: a 10-mile bike followed by a 5-mile run. It was supposed to be a 4-mile run, but I missed the turnaround point. I found out a few things, namely that I get really dehydrated and that said dehydration can result in a migraine so bad that I can't climb the ladder to our bedroom.

This week I am taking things easy and just swimming a few days. The race is on Sunday, and our friend Kyle has graciously offered up his floor again. I predict I will not actually start the race until after 11 a.m., and I think my goal is to complete the race in under 2 hours. Actually, my goal is just to complete the race, but I figure that 2 hours sounds about right for my (slow) speed.

I'm also looking forward to a return trip to Anchorage. Title Wave Books, Indian food and sushi are high on my list of priorities. Tom is pushing for Moose's Tooth pizza, Indian food and cheering me on. Not in that order, if he knows what's good for him.

It's now 10 days until the triathlon. Yeah that's right, 10 days. I have a bib number (635, hence the title of this post), I have plans to keep hitting the pool and I hope to do one more brick. At this point, training won't make me any faster, so I'll repeat my mantra: I just want to finish. I just want to finish. Hopefully adrenaline will kick in on race day and push me over the finish line.

Yesterday I did what is known in triathlon parlance as a 'brick.' Insert brick jokes here. A brick is two segments of the triathlon performed back-to-back. I opted to do my most challenging portion, the bike-run brick. That means a 10-mile bike ride followed by a 3-mile run. Don't even get me started on the fact that the race will be a 4-mile run.

Somewhere around mile 2.5, I started wondering why exactly I was doing this madness. No one needs to run a triathlon. Really. As I got closer to my car (because there was no way I was doing the brick on Goldhill Road - hills and all, y'know), I started simultaneously marveling at what my body was capable of and considering vomiting. Yeah, this is going to be fun....

While reading a 1986 issue of Intercom, the employee newsletter for Standard Alaska Production Company, I came across one of those little space filler "joke" lists. This one was titled "You'll know things are messed up when..." Two items caught my eye.

• Gas station operators across the country wear turbans and speak Arabic.
• Getting elected to positions like governor will require not only that the candidate is a millionaire, but also that he or she has an acting background.

Fortunately, neither of these have come true in the last 20 years.

I've been fiddling around with my computer, trying to create a logo for Cold Fusion, my new tribal fusion dance troupe. So far, I've come up with three possibilities.


Option 1



Option 2


Option 3

So, which ones do you like?

Consider this picture a tribute to the fine photography skills of The Boy. I spent a little time relaxing in my friend Amanda's hammock on Sunday. Sure, I could update you on a busy weekend with a big hafla and silent auction, but I think you'd rather just imagine that I spent the weekend in a hammock.

Welcome home, Jacob.
Spanakopita in fridge.
Reheat wisely, sir.

...think there's nothing wrong with going skiing when it's 55 degrees F. Tom, evidently, has lived in Alaska a bit too long.

Although I secretly hoped he'd fall down on the hill (and his screams from the cold snow would echo across the valley), he managed to stay upright. As he flew down the trail, he called over his shoulder, "The snow really sucks. I'll probably be back soon."

A few days ago we were running, yesterday I was enjoying a pleasant bike ride, and today Tom is skiing. Ah, Alaska....

One month to go until the Gold Nugget Triathlon. So far, 921 women have signed up to run, which means in all likelihood I won't finish last. Especially if I can arrange to have someone take out one of the 80-year-olds, Tonya Harding-style. So, where am I with training?

• Swimming: Ugh, I haven't been swimming lately. I'm getting back in the pool next week to work on my stamina.
• Running: My ankle has healed and I've been working my way up in distance. I have been running 3-4 times a week, though I'm still not going the full distance. I know that this will be the toughest leg for me. Even if it were first, it would be tough, but coming last will make it a killer.
• Bike: I got my new bike last week: a shiny Giant Cypress DX (with a girly frame, since I lack a penis). I rode it to work yesterday for National Ride Your Bike To Work Day, which helped me get a few kinks out of it (which means I adjusted the seat so that the hils were not so painful.

So, lots of work left to do in this month. I need to get back in the pool, and I need to do a bike-run brick. It's also worth noting that this is a sprint-distance triathlon, and my goal is just to finish it. Next year I can go back and kick some ass.

I always bemoan the lack of Indian food in Fairbanks. Sure, you could see if Pizza 4 Less is cooking some up on any given day, but they have a very limited menu and the cook is rarely there. Whenever I go to Anchorage, I make sure to visit Bombay Deluxe, and I usually stuff myself with as much food as possible, hoarding up the flavors like a squirrel stashing nuts for the winter.

So I was very pleased to hear last week that Sunil Sethi, owner of Bombay Deluxe, is considering opening an Indian restaurant in Fairbanks. But he needs some convincing that the good people of Fairbanks will turn out for his food, so I'm putting the pressure on you: Send Sunil Sethi an e-mail telling him you want Indian food in Fairbanks!

Send Sunil an e-mail

The Alaska Press Club awards are out (well, most of them anyway), and naturally I scrolled down the list to see who won what. Those of you otuside Alaska or who don't care about journalism may feel free to stop reading at any time.

Best use of a story and photo by a journalist:
First place: R.A. Dillon, Fairbanks Daily News-Miner
Second place: Margaret Friedenauer, Fairbanks Daily News-Miner (Margaret, a former roommate, wrote a series of stories from Iraq. The paper didn't offer to send her, she offered to go, and spent several weeks reporting on local troops.)

Best long feature:
First place: Lynne Snifka, Anchorage Press

Best business reporting:
Third place: Diana Campbell, Fairbanks Daily News-Miner

Best education reporting:
Second place: Kyle Hopkins, Anchorage Daily News (Kyle is a former editor and writer for the News-Miner. He left for the Anchorage Press, then made the jump to the big leagues over at the ADN. OK, he started out in the Mat-Su beat, but he got out of there fast!)

Best crime or courts reporting:
First place: Kyle Hopkins, Anchorage Press

Best health or science reporting:
First place: Lynne Snifka, Anchorage Press (Lynne won this for a great piece about emergency contraception. I may not need the stuff, but it was really well written.)

Best editorial cartoon:
Third place: Jamie Smith, The Ester Republic

Best page layout and design:
Third place: Jill Homer, The Homer Tribune (Not bad for someone who moved here recently. Plus, she's kind of crazy. No, really. Check out her blog. She does insane things like bike 24 hours straight.)

Best photography:
Many categories, but Sam Harrel of the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner had another excellent showing, including Best News Photo (first and third place) and Best Scenic Photo (first place). Eric Engman and John Hagen of the News-Miner also won awards for Best Portrait (first and second, respectively)

Clearly, I care most about newspapers, particularly newspapers that I write for (The Ester Republic, Anchorage Press) or used to work for. However, on the televisin side of things, Rebecca Palsha, Kyle's lovely wife, also brought home some awards, netting a second place in Best TV-Crime of Courts and Best TV Business.

So, there I was, painting a fake apple gold, as most people are wont to do on a Monday night. And since simple gold paint wasn't enough, I was gently tap-tap-tapping a shaker of gold glitter over the wet paint. But it seems the shaker top was not secure, as suddenly I found myelf with a counter and floor full of glitter. Of course, glitter is not easy to clean up, and will remain in the grout indefinitely, leading me to wonder: