Lena Goes Undercover

I had a rather spicy day, assuming variety is still the spice of life. Studio 5 interview in the morning, a visit to the Super Colon in the afternoon, followed by a pub crawl—all in the name of work.

Here’s the super colon, if you’re curious:




Yes, it’s a big model of a colon. The gut kind, not the typographical kind. It’s to educate people about colon cancer. It wasn’t my idea.

Also for work, we’ve been preparing for a media event relating to secondhand smoke. We flew in a researcher(from your alma mater, Tim and Jess), who studies the effects of smoke on air quality, and we decided to make the most of his presence by doing a little bar hopping so he could do what he does.

Our ivy league professor, N, turned out to be quite young and fun and in a band, etc, and after a few drinks shared some excellent stories about his mildly misspent youth.
A few of us went out to dinner, then to a series of increasingly smoky bars, with an air monitor stashed in N’s bag, and me writing notes on our progress.

“I feel so subversive,” I said, taking notes surreptitiously.
“Really?” He said, a little dubiously.
“Well, I WANT to feel subversive. It makes my life seem more exciting.”

We went to increasingly smoky bars, with only one slight hitch, when one bouncer wanted to keep our prof’s bag. “Er, we’ll go and put that in the car...” we then went out and put the equipment in our purses (N noted that bouncers appear a lot less suspicious of we innocent-looking women than of him) and came back.

We stank of smoke by the end of the evening, and I’m a little worried that our prof will be a bit hungover for our event, but it was a good evening of data collection. N. was impressed with our conscientious scientific method (although he noted that it probably helped that I wasn’t drinking). And we ended up with satisfyingly shocking results.

Smoky bars=bad for you.

Rumours: Not just a 70s album any more

Today, at a work event, I tore into one of my co-workers because of some little mistake she made. She was really upset and came back to the office distraught—I think there were even tears. I feel so terrible about being such a witch... or I WOULD, if I had actually BEEN there and IF that had HAPPENED TO ANY DEGREE WHATSOEVER.

Fortunately, none of the people that heard the rumour actually believed it, primarily because I am British and they couldn't imagine a Briton acting so improperly. I won’t tell them about Naomi Campbell if you don’t.

Instead, a couple of us plan to add to the rumour. One friend says I kicked her. In the next version I plan to key her car.

Mere days...

...after whining about how BUSY I am and how I don't have a SECOND to relax, pictures are posted on the internets suggesting that is not precisely the case.

I'm the one with my derriere in the air. Don't I have amusing co-workers?

"Damme cinque" is one Italian phrase I do remember

This morn I saw a couple out running. They high fived each other as they stopped at a light. I could practically hear chariots of fire music in the background. I've decided that whenever I'm running with a friend, we will high five each other at every light. There is no better way to give the impression of having run 17 miles before breakfast and found it delightfully energizing.

Bene, migliore,, il la cosa migliore*

My nephew loves movies. He often sees situations as a director would – for instance, I was saying recently that I didn’t think I’d ever sky dive. He said, “if this were a movie, the next scene would be of you jumping out of a plane.”

This time last year, I was in Italy, living la dolce vita very literally. Life was sweet. Temporarily, I had no real responsibilities other than a bit of work, no social or church obligations, but lots of time to do exactly what I wanted. It was wonderful, and all the better because it was temporary. I like having obligations in my real life. But, one thing I did take from Italy was the knowledge that it is good to take some time to slow down and enjoy the moment. I had lost that for a while, as I rushed from work to gym to party to church. I decided I would avoid over-scheduling myself in the future.

So, as my 11-year old nephew could have predicted, one year later, I’ve been running myself a bit ragged. There are lots of good things going on– new job, great church job, social things, gym, yoga, book group, choir, etc, etc. Please know that I am NOT looking for pity. I am well aware that “too many fun things to do” is not among the Top Ten Great Trials of Life. But, as a wise friend reminded me last night, there are good things, better things, and the best things, and I need to do a little choosing between them. I was telling her about my week, and she asked if I’d actually taken time to shower (I had, for the record). We were talking about which things add to and enrich my life and which things are just more stuff. Not that anything’s bad – as she says, I’m not considering dealing crack – there really aren’t any activities that are no-brainer I-should-probably-stop-that-immediately. But sometimes sleep and a real meal should probably trump some of the other things.

As an effort to step back a bit, I deleted a few things from my agenda on Saturday. Instead of brunch, church educational conference, family barbecue, Living Traditions, and party, I went to the park with my friend Juli who’s visiting from out of town, and we sat by the lake and watched the geese and their little goslings. I got to enjoy the beautiful weather, catch up with a good friend, and remember what it felt like to do exactly what I want. Which is the best thing to do, once in a while.


* bad translation of good, better, best. Ugh, I’m forgetting all my Italian. Maybe I should sign up for a community cla…oh wait.

Me Mam

I think I heard this in a movie: “Everyone loves their mother. Even people who hate their mothers love their mother.” Fortunately, I love my mother without the hate, but the statement does illustrate how hard it is to write about your mother without sounding like everyone else who writes about their mother.

However:

People love my mum. She used to have a flower shop, and people would come in and tell her their life stories all day long. When I was in my teens, sometimes my friends would spend more time on the phone with her than with me, telling her about their boyfriend issues.

She is a really dreadful liar.

She taught me to read. It’s been useful.

She taught me not to care a lot about what other people think of me.

I was going to say that she taught me that I could do anything I wanted to, but I feel like she didn’t teach me that. She just believed it, so I believed it too.

She can’t wink one eye at a time. She just sort of squints.

She taught me that you have to learn to say no when you are overwhelmed, because other people aren’t going to say no for you.

I weighed over 10 lbs when I was born (no epidural), and my mum is 5’4” (well, more like 5’3” but she lies (see second item above)) and used to have a 23” waist. Thanks, mum!

She can make anything. Not just knit sweaters. She used to buy the wool, spin it on her wheel, and THEN knit the sweaters. I’m surprised she didn’t shear the sheep.

Also, I swear we ate kind of ordinary food growing up (no complaints, it just wasn’t haute cuisine) but if ever I’m making anything special, I know that I can call her up and she’ll give me three ways to do it and some tips on garnishes. I don’t know who got to eat her salmon en croute and oeufs a la neige, but I’m glad she knows.

She taught me that when a guy invites you to his apartment to get his coat, he doesn’t ALWAYS want to get his coat. Yes, I know sometimes the guy is just cold. I’m just saying. It was a good thing for a naïve girl to learn.

She taught me to chew with my mouth closed. And which fork to use.

It’s not just that she loves me. My mum thinks I am WONDERFUL. I mean, really outstandingly terrifically great. She thinks I’m much better than all of you. It’s ok. Your mums think you’re much better than me.

Call it Soccer if You Want to. Just Don’t Call it Boring.

I went to see David Beckham LA Galaxy play Real SL tonight. What a terrific match! RSL began strong, and were leading 2 nil for a while. Then LA’s skilz kicked in and it ended up a draw -- 2 all. Who says football is a low scoring game?

I went with Tricia and her dad, Dennis. I think all our neighbours loved Dennis, as he kept shouting scottishly at the ref and players. At one free kick, the man in front was yelling at the goalie to break his nerve; “Not only are you the worst goalie in the world, you’re ugly!”
Dennis added “AND YOU SMELL!”

It was a bit confusing who to cheer for. I mean, there’s the home team of course, but lust patriotism made me feel obliged also to cheer on Beckham. Oh, and then we also had to cheer for Kenny (number 16) who is Scottish. So basically, I was delighted when anyone did anything good, which made for a very cheery evening.

Trish took better pics than I, but I think even in these you can see how sexy talented Beckham’s legs are. (Number 23).