Were it not for that damn laminated poster......

I just returned home from yet another trip to Puerto Rico, my second in 2010. When T and I decided we wanted to migrate south for some Vitamin D therapy over the holiday season, we interviewed several other candidates. Grenada (do you know how much flights to Grenada cost? Think mortgage payments. That’s with an “s”, as in plural, more than one payment.), Florida (unpredictable temperatures this time of year), Mexico (meh....), to name a few.

Puerto Rico kept winning out, despite my reluctance. After all, I’d just been there this past spring, not to mention there is (apparently) a case of wine floating around somewhere down there for which I never received so much as a “Thanks, see you in hell, jerk.” However, my previous life as a business traveler has left me with scores of airline miles and hotel points that worked well with a Vieques/San Juan itinerary, and we found other suitable accommodations that kept the destination within our post-pharmaceutical-industry-heyday- double-dip-recession- hey-we-really-should-pay-our-teachers-more budget. Plus, we’re both avid* swimmers, and one of the highlights of my first trip to Vieques was all the glorious open water swimming I was able to do. Every day brought a different beach, each ideal for long swims in calm, clear, warm, mostly relatively shallow water. Perfect for a closeted open water wimp like me, who were it not for the funds already invested and the people waiting at the other end would likely chicken out of every open water race I’ve ever put myself through. And so because this was a known entity about Vieques, and because this is something we both sought as a major priority in our final destination, the deal was sealed. Tickets were booked, arrangements made. Puerto Rico or bust.

Meanwhile, and in fact long before all this vacation planning ever took place, I had kinda gotten a little hooked on this motivational program at the pool. Last January some non-swimmer gym employee had launched a “Swim 100 Miles in 100 Days” thing with the intent of luring folks into a social contract to essentially swim from Baltimore to Philadelphia in a pretty tight time frame in exchange for a t-shirt. The program was super legit with a binder that held everyone’s records and a laminated poster where you could mark your milage for all to see. Good times!

I think three, maybe four, people actually made it to Philly by Day 100. T may have been one of them. Gym Motivational Program Original Intention: Fail.

After the 100 days passed, however, many people, myself included, continued to track their milage. And as the year started to round third base, Thanksgiving coming and going, I, Khop, lover of round numbers, neat edges and right angles, realized that while I came nowhere close to 100 miles in 100 days, I just might be able to finish 2010 with 200 miles.

Oh my was the thought intoxicating. Two hundred. Such a lovely round number, so full of zeros and divisibles. How satisfying would it be to see the entire second row next to my name on the laminated poster filled with marker?

Sigh.

At this juncture I was near the 180-mile mark and thus would have to pick it up quite a bit. The only point in the year when my monthly milage was at or above twenty was whilst training for this, and I am currently in love with and putting significant time into this. But with some effort and motivation, I felt it was well within my grasp. Especially as yet again, I have found myself in December with plenty of time on my hands.

In thinking this through, counting how many days in December I would be in town and assessing how attainable this round number actually was, I came to one distinct conclusion, which was that I did not want to leave a significant portion of this milage to do during my much-awaited trip to paradise. Sure, I wanted to swim while I was there, but I didn’t want to have to swim, to feel obligated to some internal, unimportant-to-every-other-person-and-thing-on-the-planet goal. After all, the words “obligated” and “vacation” are completely irrelevant to one another, and should rarely, if ever, find themselves in the same sentence. No problem, as I am older, I am wiser, and I have found it possible, on occasion, to make a deadline without bringing it right down to the very last nanosecond.

I’ve totally got this.

Or so I thought, until over the next 24 days the angel of motivation and the devil of my TV remote waged a war, and I found myself boarding the plane to Vieques with only twelve miles swam and eight yet to go.

Weak, khop. So pitifully weak.

Well, I reasoned, I am spending four days in Vieques with Mr. Swim, himself. This is exactly what I did not want to do to myself, but two miles per day isn’t entirely out of the question. We’ll see what happens; all is not lost.

Unfortunately, over the course of those four days daylight, weather, a touch of vacation laziness and a healthy dose of the aforementioned open water wimpiness mixed up a cocktail that led to a pathetic performance. Allow me to recount:

Day One: Mosquito Pier - gorgeous two mile round trip swim full of starfish, sea turtles and easy sighting on the pier on one side, land on the other. We left it too late in the day and only had time to clock 1.5 miles. No problem, three days left.

Day Two: Blue Beach. Utter vacation laziness. Zero energy due to a bender someone had with a few locals the night before. Moderate depression upon getting tricked into reading The Worst Vacation Book, no scratch that, Generally Speaking The Worst Book Ever Written. Zero miles clocked. Uh oh.

Day Three: Horrific rainy weather. Just terrible. Investigated Mosquito Pier, surf deemed rough. Sun Bay, sand churned up, water gross. Green beach, 0.5 nervous miles clocked. Crap.

Day Four: Beautiful weather. Awoke with insane ambitions of nonstop swimming - 6 miles, no problemo! Except, problem. Sand and seaweed still churned up and unpleasant at Mosquito Pier. Underwater visibility, nil. T officially declares avid hatred for the words “Mosquito” and Pier”. It is dead to him, he mutters. Similar findings in Sun Bay. Cannot be bothered to trudge around rest of island to inspect other beaches in pursuit of now unattainable, bullshit goal. Full mental release from said goal and accompanying euphoria. Sunset swim to and from the island off the coast of Esperanza, 0.5 miles clocked.

Overall, four days in paradise, 2.5 dismal miles swam.

Meh.... whatcha gonna do?

T, also disappointed with the odometer reading, got to clicking away on the interwebs to see what possibilities, if any, existed for our time in San Juan. I don’t think either of us expected to find much, and sure enough, the surf’s too rough for anything open water. But a viable option surfaced - the world-class, internationally renowned San Juan Natatorium.

Ooh la la!

Luckily my travel companion was one who also gets pretty geeked at the thought of taking a lap or two in what the folks over at Wikipedia site as "the most advanced natatorium in the Caribbean and 4th in the entire world", and I was suddenly back in business with a chance at hitting the big two - oh - oh.

And thus, over the next two days, whilst sharing the pool with these fine gentlemen, I got several hours of my Puerto Rican vitamin D whilst ticking off the remaining 5.5 miles. 195.... 196.....197..... and finally, with roughly 13 hours left in the year.... 200!

Hit that goal with time to spare. Time to spare I tell you!

Truthfully, besides keeping count, many of those laps were spent wondering why I do these things to myself. After all, this scenario is not new. How many times have I set a goal and then neglected to steadily work on it while the stakes are low? When time is plentiful, motivation is not. Love of TV and sleep and the creation of fake Facebook accounts take much higher priority, and instead of being the Little Engine That Could, chugging steadily up the mountain, I take inspiration from my obese cat.

That is, until the deadline is eminent. Suddenly, attaining said goal has everything to do with my own self-worth, and the thought of missing the mark fills my head with terms like "washed up", "failure", "post-peek" and similar. I recall past achievements and worry that the drive and resolve that did it for me then is forever gone. No matter how insignificant the goal at hand, suddenly failure to achieve it symbolizes a permanent slide into mediocrity.

And your 30's is just too damn early to suck, you know?

Here's how this typically turns out: a herculean push, a flood of activity, a veritable fire drill - and more often then not, a goal attained. Happy ending, hit-me-in-the-face-with-a-frying-pan-ugly process.

January 2nd is a perfect time for goal-setting. I have to think that in 2011 I can do a little better. Not by taking the 200 up to 300, but by needlessly stressing fewer years of my life away. For once. Over the course of the next 365 days, I promise myself and my loved ones at least one less fire drill. Now that is daunting.

Crossing my fingers and diving in,

khop

* allow me to clarify the term “avid”. I love it, but am slow as the day is long. T loves it and is good at it.

Reason #26 Why Dating is Rough: "I've come all this way....."

Parking in my neighborhood is a tricky thing, because like most cities there are more cars than spots to hold them. As such I try to avoid using my car after 8PM like nobody’s business. If I can’t scam a ride off someone, my attendance is questionable. Seriously, it’s just kind of the way it is. I think most people I know have grown to accept this, and if there are those out there who at all troubled by the fact that I am essentially choosing an eight foot section of gravel over their company, they hide it fabulously.

Sometimes, though, circumstances of life demand that I fire up the ole Mariner after the sun has set and take her for a spin. The other night was one of those nights, and I must say it was well worth it.

A friend needed a ride home from the airport after arriving from what was supposed to have been one big out of town booty call of a weekend. A few days prior I had left him at the terminal in full supply of optimism and prophylactics, and now I was picking him up ready to hear all the sordid details. Unfortunately, though, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan, and what got into my car that evening was one unopened box of family planning aids and one frustrated hot mess of a grouch.

Oooo, snap.

What happened?? It had seemed like a slam dunk!

Turns out the weekend had been ripe with weather delays, hangovers, a car accident, you name it, it happened. However, these were not the things that stopped our hero. No, no, these were mere details that certainly poured salt in the wound, but fender benders alone would not have proven a strong enough deterrent. What did? Well, as my weary traveler explained, it had been several years since he’d last seen this girl in person, and, well, the Facebook photos in retrospect had clearly been strategically chosen. In short, she was not nearly as asthetically pleasing as he recalled her being. Not even close. As a matter of fact, kind of the opposite. To make matters worse apparently there was quite a bit of baby talking to the four, count 'em, four cats going on. And all that with a three-pack-a-day voice.

Verdict? No bueno. No bueno, indeed. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a finger on her.

When I asked our protagonist if he couldn’t have pressed forward, if he couldn’t have just closed his eyes, strapped on some beer goggles, made a wish and gone for it, he responded, with deep regret, no. No, he could not. He’d thought about it quite a bit, and the conclusion he’d come to was that if circumstances were different, if he’d been able to do the 3AM dash, he could have powered through. But being that he was a two night houseguest with hockey games, museum visits and all kinds of other activities planned for the cold, harsh light of day, there was just no way.

To hear him relay the tale with all the details was hilarious, but I must admit, I was a little depressed for him. After all, the whole thing seemed like such a waste - of time, of energy, of money and anticipation. He’d traveled all that way for nothing. It must have really been, how shall I put this, a nightmare of a bad scene. (Ok, programming note: You know what? I’ve tried desperately hard to not use the word ugly or any synonym thereof for fear of karmic retribution. But, quite frankly I just cannot muster the energy to word-smith this anymore. You get the jist – according to my friend, our girl was ugly. There. I’ve said it.) But it begged a question – much like Barney Stinson’s famed “Hot/Crazy Scale”, wherein a girl must be at least as hot as she is crazy in order to be a viable prospect, is there an Ugly/Distance Scale? As in, “I’ve traveled X far, I don’t care that she’s Y ugly, I’m gonna hit this”? There’s a term for this in psychology called Escalation of Commitment, which is defined as “increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.” It’s sometimes what’s going on when a long term couple persists in staying together, despite obvious incompatibilities. They aren’t ready to admit that the time invested may have been a mistake, and as more time passes, they become more determined to prove themselves correct. Clearly in this case, the distance traveled was not far enough warrant, ah-hem, increased investment, but suppose my friend had hopped on a plane and flown to Chicago? Denver? L.A.? At what point might he have said, “Aw hell. I might as well get my airfare’s worth….”

I posed this question to a neighbor who without even thinking debunked my theory by denying such a scale would exist. “Under no set of circumstances,” he firmly stated, “would I allow that to happen. I’d leave, find some other girl, then get on the plane to come home.”

Fair enough.

Desperately hoping I’m on the right side of both scales,

khop

Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta - Subtitle, “Hey buddy, I’m lofting a softball right over home plate.”

Note: Since I've been slacking a bit on the writing and am a bit desperate for content, I'm going to be selfish and post this here, instead of guesting over here.

We all have a repertoire of “go to” moves. Moves we whip out when we’re aiming to woo, impress, or make the sexy time. They might be smooth lines, a specific pair of booty-enhancing jeans, or just the raise of one eyebrow. Whatever they are, they’re there in our pockets, ready at a moment’s notice to stop the object of our affection in his or her tracks.

I am, I’m afraid, one of very few moves. In fact, historically speaking, the more I consciously try to impress the opposite sex, the less successful I am. My smooth lines will be awkward and mildly offensive. I can’t rock the jeans-in-boots trend, so I’m horribly out of fashion. And if I try to raise just one eyebrow at you, you’ll probably think I have some sort of neurological tic. I am bitter about this. I wish slow, embarrassing deaths on the women who can purposefully spin webs that men actually compete to dive into, because I just cannot do it. It is only when I’m not really trying at all that I have any luck with the menfolk. For someone who has spent a lifetime seeing her efforts in academic and professional arenas translate directly into positive results, this is frustrating, to put it mildly. But it is what it is.

One move I do feel I have is in the culinary arts. Simply put, I know my way round a stove. This comes into play when I’m trying to woo a man with my womanly vibes, swaggering around my kitchen with my gingham apron and my skull ‘n crossbones spatula. (kidding about the apron, not about the spatula). I send out evolutionary pheromones that make him go all cave man and subconsciously link me with warm, delicious food, my hope being that he will keep coming back for more.

Of the food. Of course.

The very fact that I need to keep pulling this move out as relationships end and new ones begin, indicates that there may be some flaw in my logic. But that’s really neither here nor there. Back to the kitchen!

Over time Booty Call Shrimp has become one of my signature dishes. To be clear, it is not reserved exclusively for romantic evenings (I have made this dish for my parents), but certainly it is one of the dishes I think of first when there is a man on my radar screen. It has come out as early as Date 2 (shockingly slutty, I know), and it has been held back until later in the game. But it almost always makes an appearance. In fact, I wonder how many Men I’ve Tried To Impress are reading this now, feeling slightly cheap and thinking, “Really? That was a move? I thought I was special.....” Of course you were are. But for all women everywhere who they themselves have fallen victim to a move (perhaps one of your own), consider this as one small drop in the bucket towards evening that shit out.

Booty Call Shrimp is terrific because it’s seafood, thereby slightly fancy, and almost fool proof. The original recipe came from an issue of Cooking Light, but I’ve long-since lost it, and now I just cook to taste.

One last programing note before forking over the recipe. I must give a shout out to my swoop, who had never seen this move show up on his plate until an impromptu dinner party for six last weekend and who also was not phased by the angle I planned to take with this post. I had bounced this idea around with Wise Cassie quite awhile ago, but I have not had a taste for Booty Call Shrimp until this past weekend. Way to roll with it.

And now, I give to you Booty Call Shrimp with Tomato, Basil and White Wine over Pasta

Subtitle, “I shaved my legs today.”

1/2 lbs uncooked shrimp per person. I’m persnickety about springing for larger, fresh water shrimp, but do whatever your budget will accommodate.

1/4 cup kosher salt

lots of tomatoes, I like a mixture of plum, vine ripened and cherry

green onions

lots of basil

a few cloves of garlic

salt

pepper

olive oil

a hunk of butter

white wine (cooking or drinking)

pasta

parma cheese

optional additions: spinach, lump crab meat (although i find this to be a low ROI addition)

• Peel and devein the shrimp. Make an ice bath with kosher salt and brine the shrimp for 30 minutes.

• Meanwhile, quarter and seed the big tomatoes. Discard the seeds and juice. Dice the flesh

• Chop the green onions, garlic and basil.

• In large saute pan, heat olive oil and butter to medium high. Saute garlic for a minute or so. Don’t let it burn! Add shrimp and green onions. Saute for 4 - 5 minutes, until you can see that the shrimp are fully cooked. If you don’t know what fully cooked shrimp look like, google it. Turn the heat down to medium. Add spinach here, if you’re doing it. Saute until it’s wilted and reduced. Add the diced tomatoes, basil and the white wine, about a quarter of a cup if you’re cooking for two, then splashes as needed. Not too runny! Add salt and pepper to taste. Add cherry tomatoes and cook until they are still intact but the skins look like they’re gonna break. At the last minute gently fold in lump crab meat (if doing), just enough to warm it, but not enough that it breaks up and is lost in the slush.

• Serve over cooked pasta. Top with parmesan cheese and crushed up roofies. Fluff your hair, touch up your make up, and enjoy!

Workin' it,

khop

Pants 1, Khop 1. Final Score: Push.....

I am not going to lie to you.

Internet dating is rough. There are bad dates followed by worse dates followed by dates that leave you wondering just what kind puppy holocaust you spearheaded in your last life. Dates with the guys you hope never call (they do) followed by the rare dates with the ones you hope do call (they don't).

Serenity now!

Most of the time I find it pretty easy to stay upbeat about the hilarity of it all. After all, in what other venue would I have wound up dining with LifeIsShort443, who shared with me a detailed account of his self-diagnosed "abandonment issues" before the first round of drinks hit the table? And I ask you, how else would I have ever crossed paths with HeyItsMe, who's foolproof wooing techniques include referring to the city I openly love as "Filth-adelphia" a record three times in less than five minutes? And dear, blessed reader. Please, oh please, don't get me started about what happens when a good friend in the same metropolitan area who happens to share a pretty good physical resemblance with me also hops on match.com during the same time period. Truly, truly, that topic alone breeds enough material for a series of posts and perhaps an episode or two of "Facts of Life". Of course I would be remiss in not mentioning the fact that I have also met some very cool people, people whom fate chose to bring into my life via a good old fashioned "wink".

However, my heart is not made from tin, and when I am cut, I do actually bleed. Therefore, it is impossible to be immune from the lows that come with online dating. And those lows, boy are they low. On the walk home from dinner with LifeIsShort, my mind was assaulted with visions of married ex-boyfriends, a future with fifty cats and holiday after holiday after holiday of being A-L-O-N-E. Not surprisingly, I wound up working myself into quite a state. It's a good thing the path home didn't include walking across a bridge, because I can see the headline now: "Online Dating Drives Local Girl to Jump: One Meal with "LifeIsShort" Caused Life to be Long Enough".

If this does, in fact, happen, will somebody please take in my fifty cats?

Anywho, aside from the mental trauma, the other morning I discovered another side effect of my online search for love. On Thanksgiving morning I was preparing to head over to my parents' house for a day of American-style gluttony when it happened. Simply put, my pants betrayed me.

And it’s all the internet’s fault.

I don’t know about you, but I hate it when that happens.

Guys, you’re undoubtedly confused right now, but ladies, you know how this rolls. Life is good, not a care in the world, perhaps you’re even singing a little Debbie Gibson throwback number in your head. One leg goes in, followed by the other, pull ‘em up, go to button - wait. Uh oh. What’s going on here? What should be lose is obscenely tight. Lemme see if some squats will help stretch ‘em out. Crap. It’s wearable, but it’s certainly not comfortable, OH DEAR GOD WHY? [Cut to several moments of uncontrollable weeping.]

Such was the scene in my bedroom Thanksgiving morning, of all mornings, and when I finally peeled myself off the floor, I confirmed via measuring tape my worst suspicions: my ass had undergone a secret expansion of epic proportions, coming in at a full quarter inch above what I term acceptable for ass circumference. (Yes, yes, I do have a predetermined measurement of what’s an acceptable ass circumference. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody? Hel-LO???) This news would send me into a tailspin on any day of the year, but that day was so much worse. Goodbye, pumpkin pie. Adios, stuffing and sweet potato casserole. Farewell, second meal two hours later. Perhaps next year we will be on better terms.

How did this happen? At first I was stumped. I've been swimming just as much as always and have even been throwing some running in. What was going on here? Pardon my language, mom, but what the fuck?!?!

Then it dawned on me. My week used to go like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Stay in, cook healthy meal.

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Stay in, eat healthy left overs. Rejoice in health.

Friday: Perhaps some happy hour, followed by dinner out

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Whatever. Hey Steve, care to go running?

Lately, though, my week has gone like this:

Monday: Swim

Tuesday: Date

Wednesday: Swim

Thursday: Date (sigh.)

Friday: Crap. Another date.

Saturday: Swim. Think smug thoughts about the ridiculously good shape I’m in. Perhaps go out

Sunday: Really? Another *&%$ing date?

What, perchance, would you think the caloric difference would be between those two schedules? I can’t even begin to guess, but you know the result: a quarter inch above acceptable.

At this realization, I stomped into my office and shook an angry fist at my computer.

GOD DAMN YOU, INTERNET, GOD DAMN YOU!

Knowing that Thanksgiving Day serves as the starter’s pistol on the beginning of a month-long marathon of holiday over-indulging, I decided damage control needed to begin that very moment. I’m a firm believer in putting into place conditions that prevent bad behavior and setting up consequences for if it happens anyway. So what did I do? I took out my tightest, most constrictive pair of jeans, defied a few laws of physics and jammed my rear into them before heading off to a day of No Carb Left Behind at my parents‘ house. I wore those horrific things all day as a reminder of that quarter inch and as a pledge to not allow that quarter become a half. I’m proud to say that I made it until 8PM in those jeans, until I couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed a pair of my mom’s sweatpants and collapsed on the sofa. Moreover, I became the first person in the history of my family to actually have some salad with my Thanksgiving dinner, every bite of which was eyed with suspicion and contempt by my loving clan.

This month is going to be a constant two steps forward, one step back situation, a balancing act between enjoying the holidays and getting rid of that quarter inch. You know what the real kick in the crotch irony of it all is? What do you think is the Number One, Never Fail, Reliable as the Sun Rising Each Day method for Khop dropping a few pounds?

Going through a bad break up. Yep, yep, the pounds slide off my rear like water off a duck’s back.

Seriously????

Off to fat camp,

khop