Iron Strength

Eleanor Roosevelt was once quoted as saying, "A woman is like a teabag—you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water."

I don't know what the right metaphor is (An oceanliner? Alaskan fishing boat?), but I think you never know how strong a woman is until she gets into tumultuous water.

Today one of my dear friends, Southern Belle, completed an Ironman race in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the Ironman, it includes a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride and a 26.2-mile run. That last one is a full marathon. It is a race made only for the fittest people who walk among us. It is astounding to me that I know a woman who completed it.

What's most amazing, though, isn't that Southern Belle has such tremendous physical strength. What is truly incredible is that she completed this race after life knocked her to her knees on April 19th.

See, Southern Belle is the girlfriend of Mr. W and my friend Sweet Pete who passed away two months ago. More than his girlfriend, she was the woman who would become his wife. Unbeknownst to any of us, he had purchased a ring for her before he died.

The fact that this Ironwoman can pull herself up out of the depths of sorrow to walk across a room is a feat in itself. The fact that she can swim, bike and run her way across 140.6 miles of a race course is nothing short of a miracle in my eyes.

That is strength like I've never known. A display of resolve and passion like I've never seen. A way to honor someone's memory that surpasses what most of us will ever be capable of.

That is love.

"Congratulations" isn't a strong enough word for my friend Southern Belle. Instead I will just tell her that she is my hero.

She is the epitome of strength.

50 Shades of Embarrassment: Naiveté in the Local Bookstore

My older sister, bless her heart, is a very devout (although liberal and equality-championing) Christian who is extremely active in all things related to her church. She is the girl who has never smoked a cigarette (although she did dress her husband in a thong and take pictures of him when he drank too much and passed out on their honeymoon). She is the woman who channels her nursing background into a Diabetes support group every Thursday night (and one time when I was little, she tried to shove my face in the cat litter box). The point being, she's a very upstanding citizen with great intentions (who is sometimes too innocent for her own good).

Case in point: Yesterday she shared a story with me and some other family members about how she went to our cute small-town bookstore to ask for a donation for her church's upcoming charity auction and, after the owner happily obliged, she decided to pay the store back by purchasing a book of her own.

Naturally, she asked if they had that "Fifty something" book.

The owner's teenage daughters looked at her funny and tried to recommend something else.

"No, I know my cousin and all her friends are reading that 'Fifty shades' book—or whatever it is," my sister insisted.

Suddenly the owner appeared and asked, "You mean 'Fifty Shades of Grey'?"

"Yes! That's it!" she exclaimed. Victory.

"Do you know that's an adult book?" the owner asked in a lowered voice.

Sister, horrified replied in a hushed voice, too—"Like pornography?"

"Yes, we don't even keep it out on the floor. It's back behind the counter."

Then my sister proceeded to turn fifty shades of purple and try to explain that she had no idea what the book was about—just that everyone was talking about it so it must be interesting.

I'm sure the bookstore owners thought it was unsettling and unfortunate that the nice donation-seeking church lady was actually a full-fledged pervert porn addict.

I hadn't shared this story with Mr. W yet, but today he came home from Costco with a copy of the book for me to read. I wasn't planning on buying it myself, but if my husband wants to try to make me all randy, I guess I have to obey, lest he bust out a ski mask and a whip.

Like the bookstore in Montrose, we'll be storing our copy somewhere out of sight.  

Bull Sheets

Nearly two years ago when Mr. W and I were creating our wedding registry, we took stock of the sheet supply in his closet and decided to forgo adding any new sets to our wish list. As you can see in the picture above, it appears that there are at least a half dozen luxurious sets in Mr. W's arsenal.

Wrong.

There are about a dozen halvsie randomly matched sets. Or at least that's how it feels every freaking time I have to change the sheets.

I once read that white sheets are supposed to create the greatest state of mental comfort. I can't remember why now...maybe because they conjure up ideas of the Bee Gees in their white suits. Love those boys. Anyway, I tend to gravitate toward the lighter sets. However, I also enjoy the blue set (which is comprised of one set for the bed and yet another for the pillows...) because it sort of matches our bedroom.

Well, today when I changed the sheets for Mr. W's homecoming from a weekend visiting friends in Vancouver, I got none of the sheetery I enjoy. Somehow between the mismatches on the guest bed and whatever is in Mr. W's laundry hamper, the only (almost) complete set was this:

Upon first glance they look fine, right? Oh no...THEY'RE PEACH.

Yup, I'm pretty certain Sonny Crocket had the exact same set on Miami Vice in 1986.

Why Mr. W ever purchased these, I don't know. I'm sure the words "Sale" and "Egyptian cotton" or the like were involved.

I'm just glad I'll be turning the lights off after I climb under these puppies so I don't have to look at them tonight.