The art of . . . art.

A few months ago, an artist friend of mine invited me to an art show in which one of her pieces was going to be on display.  It was really a big deal because the show was showcasing pieces from the rising artists in Texas.  So, understandably, she was SUPER excited that her piece had been chosen.  And I was honored to be invited.  I asked if my mom and sisters wanted to go but my mom was the only one who was able to.  So I got dressed in my best I'm-going-to-an-art-show-and-I-don't-really-know-how-to-dress-for-it" attire, picked up my mom, and headed downtown for the art show.

You know, I never go to art shows.  They're just not on my list of activities that I enjoy.  I think the main reason is that I'm just not deep enough.  I mean, people who enjoy art shows can stand around and stare at a painting for hours, analyzing and re-analyzing, discussing minute details, and hypothesizing about the artist's intent and relationship with his mother.  I walk up to the painting, say "Oh! Cute dog!" and then walk on to the next.

Art show people would roll their eyes at me.

As I walked into my friend's art show, I took a deep breath and hoped that I would "get it."  That I would see a painting and be able to say something like "Isn't it amazing how the artist captures the essence of truth here?"  You know - so that I would fit in.

Instead, I walked in and saw this:

I thought for a second that someone had hung a couple of over-sized paint chips up on the wall to help them determine if the room should be painted pink or blue. Perhaps the gallery was going to be turned into a nursery.  I thought it an odd time for a remodel, what with the art show going on and all.  But then I noticed three people standing in front of these paintings, tilting their heads to the right and then to the left, and discussing the paintings in detail.  I got behind them and tilted my head to the right, thinking that maybe the painting would make sense to me if all the blood rushed to one side of my head.  No such luck.  So I just nodded along with what the others were saying and mumbled something art-showesque like "I've never seen breath captured on canvas quite so exquisitely."  Then I moved on to the next one, hoping I'd have better luck.

Excuse me.  Are those t-shirt and jeans tags turned inside out and glued onto black construction paper?  That's what I thought.  That.  Is what.  I. Thought.  I don't . . . can someone . . . is it just me or . . . I'll just move on.  Show me something deep, people.  Show me something deep.
  

Bathroom keys?  Okaaaaaaaaay.  I can do this.  I can do this.  [pop fingers, roll neck, get game face on] Okay.  [Ahem]  This is clearly a manifestation of the artist's desire to . . . ummmm . . . portray the gender roles . . . ummmm . . . in an ironic yet . . . ummmm . . . egalitarian manner and it is . . . ummmm . . . a statement on the current political . . . ummmm . . . I suddenly have to pee. 

Some paintings are kind of cool to look at but I don't really get the names of them.  For instance, this really cool-looking one was called something like "Richard Nixon Abroad."

I get the "Richard Nixon" part but not the "abroad" part.  Just kidding - I don't get either part.  I just didn't want the art show people to roll their eyes at me.

Then there was this one.

 I really liked the colors and the patterns created by the strokes.  But it was called something like "Travels through China" and I didn't get it.  I studied it closely to try to figure out why the artist called it that.  But I just got a headache.  And a hankering for Kung Pao Chicken.

Weird.

Despite my confusion over some of the pieces, there was some really cool art in that gallery.  I discovered that I like "mixed media" pieces - paintings that combine different art media like ink, paint, and collage.  My friend's painting was a mixed media painting and it was really interesting - interesting in a good way.  And I discovered that night in that gallery that I enjoy an art show - it's a fun way to spend an evening.

On our way out, I saw a collection of trash that people had left on a block.

And I thought for a moment that I should stand by it and say that it was my entry into the art show.  And tell everyone that it's called "Frisbee in the Park."

I'll get this art thing yet . . .

Rolling with the punches

I remember a time in my life when I thought that I wasn't athletic.  This belief was no doubt fueled by my complete inability to climb the tree in our front yard.  It had a low limb and all the other kids could jump up and grab it, wrap their legs around it, and then swing themselves up onto the limb.  Me?  I brought a kitchen chair out and cheated.  I'm just not much of a climber, you see.

Then there was the Presidential Fitness Test in elementary school.  This annual week of P.E. hell was the source of many a nightmare for me.  You could just SAY the words "chin-up" to me and I would break out into a cold sweat.  I daresay that the bar exam was a lesser cause of consternation for me.  I wanted so badly to ace that dang fitness test and make President Reagan proud but, alas, the chin-up always got me.  They would tell me to do as many as I could and I would just hang there, grunting awkwardly and kicking my feet as if they could somehow propel me upward.  Then they would give me a lift to see if I could do it if I had a little help getting started.  Not so much.  Finally, they would give me a chair, let me get into "chin-up" position and see if I could just hold it.  It was remedial Presidential Fitness and I still couldn't do it.  As soon as they took the chair away, my arms would shake and then straighten and I'd be hanging there again, bringing shame upon the President.  I'm just not much of a chin-upper, I guess.

But then I started playing sports.  I found softball and discovered that, when a sport didn't involve climbing or chin-upping, I was pretty good at it.  I mean, I don't want to brag but I WAS the MVP for the Green Goddesses in 6th grade and still have the trophy to prove it.  So when I say "pretty good" I, of course mean, amazing.  Softball led to volleyball and then basketball and I was decent at those - I was an average player on the 7th grade B teams so, you know, I was sort of a big deal as you can imagine.  ANYWAY, I finally discovered tennis and that was my real love.  I loved being out on the court and I was actually good at it.  I played on the JV and Varsity teams in high school and finally realized that the chin-up bar and that dang tree limb had psyched me out - I actually WAS athletic. And I've gone on thinking of myself as an athlete ever since then.

Theeeeeeeen I joined a boxing club.

Stop laughing.

See, my sister Tammy and my friend Jo Ann each independently decided to buy a groupon for a boxing club in our town.  Jo Ann asked me to buy the groupon and do it with her so I did.  We went to a few classes and I liked it so I decided to sign up and join the club.  Partly because I liked it and partly because I'm apparently a gutless follower who does whatever Tammy and Jo Ann do.  

So let me explain how this class works.  You have your hands wrapped and then you take your gloves to a bag in a room full of hanging boxing bags that looks like this:

Then, before you put your gloves on, there is a 15 minute warm-up that you have to do.  This usually consists of things like squats, running, jumping jacks, high knees, and other exercises that leave me panting like a 400-pound man.  I frequently have to take a break or two during the warm-up and I try to do it discretely so as not to bring shame upon the President or anybody else.  Unfortunately, my 9-year-old nephew Ben has a drill sergeant living inside him that comes out when I take breaks.  I'll do a few jumping jacks and lean down to get a drink of water and I'll hear "Caaaaaaaaaaatchyyyyyyyyy!  You're already stoppiiiiiiiiing???"  And that continues throughout the class.  After we put on our gloves and start doing punch and kick combinations, my nephew keeps a close eye on me.  If I decide to take a breather during one of the combinations, I'll hear "Caaaaaaatchyyyyyy!  He didn't say stop yet."  There's no hiding from him.

There's also no looking "put together" and that's a problem for me.  You see, tennis is a sport where you can play a great, hard-won game and look graceful the whole time.  That's impossible for me with boxing - I just cannot box and look good at the same time.  My hair inevitably gets in my face while I'm punching and, because I'm sweating, it sticks to my forehead and hangs in front of my eyes.  So I find myself pawing at my face with my boxing glove, trying to get it out of my eyes and tucked back behind my ear.  But I can never get the hair to cooperate so I just keep pawing, looking like a cat cleaning itself.  It's super cute.  And when it's all said and done, I still have strings of sweaty hair stuck to my face.  Plus, I'm throwing punches and every ounce of fat on me is jiggling - and I mean EVERY ounce.  It takes a good 30 seconds to stop shaking when I stop punching.  It's awesome - a real confidence-booster.  I look around hoping that there aren't any potential suitors in there.  And, if there are, I try to keep my distance, lest they be knocked out cold from a post-right-hook backlash of my upper-arm flab.  

My proudest moment to date, though, came during a class I attended with Jo Ann.  I was really in a groove on my punching and had worked up a good sweat.  I was out of breath so I decided to take a quick breather.  Since Ben wasn't around, I figured I'd be able to do it discretely.  As I caught my breath, I took a few steps back from the bag to admire my handiwork - did I actually see a dent in the bag from my mad boxing skillz?  As I was about to pat myself on the back, my heel caught the bottom of the bag behind me as I was stepping back and I fell.  Not a cute little graceful fall - this was an arms-flying-up, hair-flying-up kind of fall.  I jumped up as quickly as one can when one temporarily has clubs for hands and hoped no one noticed.  Aaaaaaand then I began trying to paw the hair out of my face.

But, despite my utter and complete lack of talent or grace when it comes to boxing, I am enjoying the classes and am getting a great workout.  So I will keep going, will keep getting called out by my nephew, and will keep pawing the hair out of my face in vain. I may leave there feeling like I'm all thumbs but at least I leave there feeling like I got a good workout.

And I always have my 6th grade MVP trophy to comfort me when I get home.

Catherine Goes Skiing - Part II

So the last time we talked, I told you about Day 1 of my harrowing skiing adventure.  If you haven't had a chance to read it, go ahead and click here to read it first.  Don't worry we'll wait for you . . .

Oh good - you're back!  Let's continue!

My last post left off with me swearing that I would never ski again but then Hannah convincing me to try it again.  She was just POSITIVE that she could teach me to love skiing.

Silly Hannah.

So, against my better judgment, we headed out to the slopes for Day 2 of my skiing adventure.  Hannah decided to take me up in the gondola to the top of a green slope that she thought would be manageable for me.  On the way up, I marveled at the beauty of the mountains around me.  And how high we were going.  And how we weren't stopping.  And how there is no way that a green slope could be up this high without being a sheer drop.  AndhowohmygoshholycowI'mnotreadyforthisandhowdareHannahbetraymebytakingmeupthishigh!!

[breathe]

I looked at Hannah and smiled, putting on my sunglasses so she wouldn't see the terror in my eyes.  And I did what I always do - I threw out a joke to ease my nerves: "Will you let me take crying breaks on the green slope."  We laughed and laughed and laughed.

Fast forward 15 minutes and I'm crying at the top of a green slope.

Actually.  Crying.

Poor Hannah did her best to hide the terror in HER eyes.  She tried to teach me how to stop so that I could stop when I wanted to.  But I wasn't great at it.  She wanted me to ski toward her so that I could practice it.  But I was afraid of careening out of control, flying off the side of the mountain, and plummeting to my bloody death.  She wanted me to have confidence in myself.  But I was a 37-year-old woman crying at the top of a dang green slope.

I was a hopeless case.

Eventually, I was able to "ski" toward her.  And by "ski" I mean, move 3 feet and then fall down.  Now you need to understand that it is absolutely impossible for me to stand up in skis.  Some people can do it.  I can't.  I try to contort my body around so that I can get my feet underneath me.  But the skis invariably get tangled up or stuck in the snow.  When people see that I can't do it on my own, they offer me a hand.  "Here, grab my hand.  I'll help you up," they say.  But I can't do this, either.  Because I still can't get my feet under me.  And, on the odd chance that I do, my skis start trying to ski away and suddenly I'm on my back again wondering why the HECK people enjoy this stupid sport.  So when I fall, I just take my skis off and stand up.  Like a pro.  So when I skied toward Hannah and fell, she helped me get my skis off and stand up.  Then I got my skis on again and Hannah tried to encourage me to ski toward her again.  This time, there was an older man who was a few feet behind Hannah waiting on someone.  He watched the pitiful scene in front of him and, I guess, took an interest because he started coaching me, too.  So I skied toward Hannah and my new coach.  And fell.

This time when I fell, I fell with my knees up so that I was laying on my skis.  This is the WORST position because you can't sit up or stand up to get off your skis and you can't get your skis out from under you to take them off.  Normally in this situation, I would depend on other people helping me to roll over like a slug so that they could help me get my skis off.  But, unfortunately, in some strange turn of events, I had ended up on top of Hannah's skis and my new coach's skis.  So they tried to wiggle their skis out from under me while I laid their helplessly, praying for an avalanche to end my misery.

Eventually, they both got their skis freed, got mine out from under me, and helped me get my skis off so that I could stand up.  Then my new coach bailed, wishing me luck.

But poor Hannah was stuck.

But something had happened in that last fall.  Perhaps it had knocked some confidence into me.  I don't know how but somehow I finally understood the snow plow/wedge/pizza wedge that my ski instructor had been trying to teach me.  You know - where you put your skis into a wedge shape to control your speed as you learn.  I hadn't mastered it yet but, suddenly, at the top of that green slope, it clicked.  So I skied a few feet in the wedge and DIDN'T FALL!  It was so exciting!!  I asked Hannah if I could just do that for a while until I got comfortable with it.  So that's what I did.

And sweet, patient Hannah skied right along side me.  While I did the snow plow.

FOR TWO AND A HALF HOURS.

Luckily, Hannah was there with her video camera to capture some of this action-packed, fast-paced afternoon.  Notice how the trees just fly by . . .

Look - laugh all you want.  This was my own personal X-games. 

But eventually, my knees had had enough and the bottom of the green slope was just far enough away that I began to fear that my knee caps and my ACL would give me the finger and jump ship.  So I made the decision to throw in the towel, take my skis off, and walk to the bottom of the slope.  Hannah was really sweet about it but I knew it must have been a disappointment to her - she really wanted me to like skiing and thought she could help me accomplish that.  But I was done.

So I took my skis off and began walking.  For about 2 minutes.  That's when a Steamboat Ambassador skied up next to me and we had this conversation:

Ambassador: Hey!  You're doing it wrong!  You're supposed to put those on your feet and slide!
Me: [courtesy laugh] Oh is THAT how you do it?  [pause for laugh]
Ambassador: [smile, no laugh]
Me: [okay - tough crowd!] Well, I'm terrible at this and my knee is hurting me so I figured I'd just walk the rest of the way.
Ambassador: Oh!  [confused look] So are you INJURED?
Me: [is he being sarcastic?] No - not injured.  It's just hurting and I'm uncomfortable so I'm gonna walk.
Ambassador: Because if you're injured, I could get you a ride . . .
Me: [No!  I'm not injured, okay?  I'm just a quitter!  A BLOODY BLOODY QUITTER!!] Oh no - that's okay.  I think I can walk.
[Ski rescue guy skis up, pulling a stretcher-like apparatus behind him]
Ski rescue guy: Need a ride to the bottom?
Me: No - it's -
Ambassador: Yeah.  She's injured.  Knee.
Ski rescue guy: Okay!  Well, let's get you down the slope and to the lift!
Ambassador: Yeah.  He's gonna take you down to the lift and then when you get to the top of the lift, we'll have a snow mobile waiting for you.  [to Hannah] You can just meet her at the lift.

So I climbed onto the little stretcher-thingy and the guy belted me in.  I bid adieu to Hannah and what was left of my pride and I took off with my new ski rescue boyfriend:

And HO.  LY.  COW.  That was the most terrifying part of my entire skiing experience.  That guy skied FAST and if he had an option between a steep slope and a gradual slope, he picked the steep slope every time.  I prepared for death and thought it was only fitting that my ski trip should end with me flying off the side of a mountain strapped onto a stretcher. 

But, fortunately, we did NOT die.  Instead, I got to the lift and met Hannah there.  We got in line and then got on the lift and began our journey back to the top of the mountain.  But the lift posed a problem.  You see - to get OFF the lift, you actually have to SKI.  So, as we approached the top, Hannah tried to coach me through it: "When your skis hit the snow, just stand up and ski forward.  It's super easy.  You can do it!"

Silly Hannah.

As soon as I stood up, my arms began flailing, I grunted inexplicably, my skis went up in the air, and the rest of me went backward.  My head hit the ice so hard that I was sure I had lost some brain matter.  Or, at the very least, had a concussion.  I heard the lift stop - a sound I had become all too familiar with.  And then I heard the lift operator come up behind me and say "I'm going to lift you up."  Yet another person who didn't understand my inability to pull myself up with skis on.  I began my usual protestations, trying to explain to him that I wasn't talented enough to stand up in my skis, but before I could explain anything, he lifted me completely up off the snow and onto my skis.  Like a stinkin' rag doll.  All I was able to get out from the moment he said he was going to lift me was: "No, that's okay.  I can't - Oh my GOSH you're strong!  You are STRONG!  No, seriously - you are STROOOOOOONG."  He smiled and said "It's the called the Marines, ma'am."  And then he went back to start the lift up.  Meanwhile, I stood staring at him, mouthing "Call me" and wondering what the protocol is for proposing to a lift operator while in a concussed state. 

Then the snow mobile driver interrupted my wedding fantasy (which, of course, involved my Marine lifting me gratuitously) and introduced herself:

Andy: Hi!  I'm Andy!
Me: Hi!  Thank you so much for -
Andy: Are you injured?
Me: [Oh, for the LOVE OF -] No - my knee is hurting me so I'm walking and sooooooo . . .
Andy: [confused] So you're NOT injured.
Me: Nope. [awkward smile]
Andy: [shrugging shoulders] Okay!  Well, climb on!

I ignored the judgment in her voice and waved goodbye to my Marine fiancee, blowing him a kiss.  At least I think I blew him a kiss.  But, again, I'm pretty sure I had a concussion so I may have just drooled and grunted in his general direction.

Finally, after a terrifying snow mobile ride to the gondola, my ski experience came to an end.  Hannah and I relaxed, grabbed something warm for lunch, and, for some reason, she began quizzing me on what year it was and who the President was.

Silly Hannah.

Everyone knows Ronald W. Obama is President . . .

Sucker Punch Parking

Well, I haven't had time to sit down and write about the second part of my skiing trip - describing my incredible skiing skills takes time, people.  It takes some reeeeeeeal time.  (If you haven't read Part 1, you can read it here!)

So, in the meantime, I thought I'd show you this picture that my mom took the other day.  She and our friend Vicki went to get lunch at a Mexican restaurant called La Palma.   After they parked and started walking inside, they noticed this puzzling sign . . .

So . . . wait . . . what?

I'm so confused . . .

Catherine Goes Skiing - Part I

At the beginning of this month, I went to Colorado with some friends of mine.  We went to Steamboat Springs for the Music Fest and some skiing.  I have only skied once in my life and I was horrible at it so I wasn't really sure about partaking of the skiing on this trip - I really would have been happy to be the girl in the lodge, drinking hot chocolate and reading a book.  But my friends are all good skiers and I didn't want to be the only one not doing it.

Peer pressure STINKS.

So, our first full day there, I decided to go skiing with them.  When I woke up that morning, instead of getting psyched up for all the fun skiing that lay ahead, like my friends were doing, I was mulling over more important issues.  Like shaving my legs - I wanted to make sure that, in the event I broke one or both of my legs, I would be able to focus on the excruciating pain and not the fact that someone was holding my unshaven leg.  So I went ahead and shaved my legs and then began the long process of getting the ski gear on.  I put on my long underwear, my wool socks, my SUPER flattering ski pants, my undershirt, my shirt, my overshirt, my ski jacket, my scarf, my ear and neck warmer, and my hat.  And then we headed out the door to the mountain for our big day of skiing.

That first day, I decided to sign up for ski school.  The only other time I had skied, I did not take the class first and it was a disaster.  So I decided to NOT make the same mistake again - I signed myself up for the all-day clinic for first-timers.  My big plan was to be in ski school while my friend Hannah was off skiing the slopes.  I would finish just in time to meet up with her for a run down a green slope.  She would be so impressed with my skiing skills, she would declare me her best ski friend and then everyone would ask me for tips on how to negotiate a green slope with such perfection.

I believe in dreaming big.

As I was heading off to my ski school and Hannah was off to meet her husband to ski some blue and black slopes, I was feeling pretty good!  I had my lift ticket, my skis, my poles, my ski boots . . . I TOTALLY looked the part.  And if I looked the part, I was bound to be a good skier, right?  

My confidence was high.  I had chosen my super cute black and white hat and my black and white scarf for the occasion.  And such cute accessories are the key to success.  As long as I looked cute, there was nothing that little ol' mountain could do to stop me!  Cute Catherine was on her way to ski school!

Aaaaaaaaaand then I started walking in those ski boots.  With the skis.  And my poles.  Uphill.  And the cute got sucked out of me along with every ounce of breath I had.  Suddenly, I was panting like a 400 pound man trying run a marathon.  And, on top of that, I had to stop at least 28 times to pick up a ski or a pole that had slipped out of my grip.  So my ridiculously long trek to ski school ended up going like this: step, step, gasp, wheeze, adjust skis, step, step, gasp, wheeze, adjust poles, step, step, pass cute guy and pretend I'm not out of breath, look back to make sure cute guy is gone, gasp, gasp, gasp, adjust skis.  It was awesome.

I met my instructor (who shall forever be known to me as Sweet Josh because he was so sweet and patient) and he took us to what appeared to be a bump in the snow.  He had us put our skis on and practice side-stepping up the little bump and then skiing down it to get used to being on our skis.  I was a natural.  Sweet Josh said turn to the right - I'd turn to the right.  He said turn to the left - I turned to the left.  He said do a triple sow cow - I . . . no, that's figure skating, isn't it?  Whatever.  You get my point - I was skiing and I liked it!!  So Sweet Josh decided to take us over to an actual hill.  Not an official "slope," but a steeper practice hill.  With a lift that looked like a conveyor belt.

Now, let me explain this lift.  It's called the "magic carpet" and it really does look like a conveyor belt that runs up this hill.  The idea behind it is that you step on the "magic carpet" and it carts you up the hill so that you can practice skiing down it over and over and over without having to walk up the hill or take a chair lift.  Super easy, right?

Enter Catherine Palmore.

Now you have to understand that walking with skis on is very difficult.  At least for me.  I thought I'd be good at it since I've been a size 10 shoe since I was like 3 years old.  But it turns out that I am actually NOT good at walking in skis.  So as I tried to step onto the magic carpet bad things happened.  The conveyor started trying to take one of my legs up the hill without the the rest of me.  In a panic, I tried to quickly swing my other foot forward to get it on the conveyor belt.  But, instead of moving forward like my brain told it to, my foot swung wide with the unwieldy ski and got caught on the fence next to the conveyor belt.  So then I had one foot moving up the hill, the other foot caught in a stationary fence, and I'm being forced into the most awkward split ever done.  My inner thigh muscles were being stretched in ways they were not meant to be stretched.  I actually heard them shouting curse words at me and mocking me by saying things like "Knock it off, Mary Lou Retton!"  In that moment, I wanted so badly to maintain my composure.  To look up with a laugh and say something clever like "Well, I'm gonna need that leg!" or "Seems like a bad place for a fence!"  But, instead, I began shouting "Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh Nononononononononononono!!!" Luckily, the attractive guy operating the lift saw the problem and stopped it so that I could extract my leg from the fence, get myself situated, and perhaps rub some Bengay on my inner thighs.  And then he started the lift again with me safely on board.  Sans fence.

When I got to the top, the attractive lift operator held my hand to help me off.  He managed to only have a small smirk on his face and I appreciated his restraint.  Adding to my attractiveness and coolness, I slowly side stepped over to a spot at the top of the hill for my first trip downhill and/or my quick and terrifying death.  My instructor told me to ski toward him and then turn right.  I said "Sure!"

And then stood there.

He told me again to ski toward him and turn right to stop.  "Sure, Josh! Be right there!"

Nothing.

My knees started shaking and my fear paralyzed me.  I couldn't move a muscle for fear that I would begin careening downhill, take out a few small children, and end up on youtube.  I would have curled up into the fetal position and began sucking my thumb if I could have figured out how to do it without my skis sliding forward.  But somewhere inside me, Motivational Speaker Catherine emerged.  She grabbed me by the shirt and said "Snap out of it!  You know how to do this!  So just do it!"  And Motivational Speaker Catherine was right - I DID know how to do it!  I just needed to have confidence.  I had left most of it at the foot of the magic carpet lift but I had JUST enough left to give this a shot.  So I looked at Sweet Josh, gritted my teeth, and skied toward him just like he asked.  Then I turned right . . . and actually stopped!  I was so proud of myself!!  And Sweet Josh was proud of me, too.  So he gave me my next task: ski toward him and turn left to stop.  So I did that.  Then he wanted me to ski down a bit more and turn right to stop.  So I did.  I was on a roll.  I was on top of the world.  I was ready for a black slope - moguls even!

Then Sweet Josh told me to ski down to the bottom and turn left to stop.  No problem, Josh.  Watch and learn, my friend.  So I took off and skied to the bottom, gaining quite a bit of momentum along the way.  And when I say "quite a bit," I mean "HO. LY. CRAP."  But I stayed calm because I knew how to stop.  I had done this.  I just had to turn left to turn and stop like Sweet Josh told me.  So, as I got toward the bottom, I tried to do just that.  I turned left.  But couldn't stop.  I remained calm and tried to turn right to stop.  So I turned right.  But couldn't stop.  Suddenly, I found myself careening out of control, turning left and right, arms flailing, yelling super-cool things like "I'M GONNA HIT SOMEBODY!!" and "IT'SNOTWORKINGIT'SNOTWORKINGIT'SNOTWORKIIIIIIIIIIING!!"  Mercifully, I fell and that stopped me.  Before I killed anyone.

Sweet Josh came running over to me to make sure I was okay.  He got me back on my feet and let me recover for a few minutes before making my next trip up the magic carpet lift.  When I was ready, he coached me on how to properly get on the magic carpet.  He said you line your skis up in front of the lift and you inch forward bit by bit until the conveyor belt just naturally takes your skis forward and then you just go along for the ride.  Seems like this would have been helpful information to have the first time around but I'm no ski school teacher so what do I know?  So I followed his advice: I lined up my skis, I inched forward, ignoring the long line of people behind me, and waited for the lift to pull my skis forward.  And it did!  When enough of my skis were on the lift, it pulled me forward and I was on my way.  For about 1.3 seconds.  And that's when the lift pulling my skis forward caused me to lose my balance and fall backward.  And that caused the attractive lift operator to stop the lift for me.  Again.

This is when I began to truly loathe skiing.

So Sweet Josh and another instructor helped me up and took me to the bottom of the lift again.  This time the attractive lift operator just stopped the lift altogether to let me get on fully and just enjoy the ride.  When I arrived at the top of the hill, I gave him my best "sorry I'm a bad skier but call me!" smile.  But before he could smile back, I lost my balance on the snow and lurched backwards.  Happily I caught my balance and didn't fall but the damage was done.  I was never going to make eye contact with him again.

That's when I vowed to not make eye contact with any person while wearing skis.

I tried going down the hill again but this time I was too scared.  I would ski a few feet and fall.  I would ski a little more and my skis would cross.  And I'd fall.  I'd tell myself I was going to make it all the way down.  And then I'd fall.  It was miserable.  I had completely lost my confidence.  Motivational Speaker Catherine turned in her resignation.  And poor Josh was at a loss.  He wanted to take me up on a chair lift to teach me how to negotiate that whole thing but I was too scared.  He tried to tell me that I was doing really well and that I was totally ready for the chair lift but I didn't believe him.  So I lamely stood and watched the others in my class go up on the chair lift and ski down the bunny slope with ease.  Sweet Josh came back to me a few more times to see if I wanted to try it but I said no and apologized for my fears over and over again.  I felt so LAME.  And then the class was over and my ordeal had finally come to an end.

PRAISE.  THE.  LORD.

I was embarrassed to report my experience to Hannah and the rest of the gang.  They're such good skiers/snow boarders and they just simply don't let silly fears like plummeting to your bloody and untimely death stop them.  So I knew that they probably wouldn't really understand my fear.  Or my loathing of skiing.  Or my decision to never put a ski on again.

Never ever ever ever.

Uuuuuuuuuntil Hannah convinced me to try going down a green slope with her the next day.

But THAT, my friends, is another story for another day . . .

Snow glub glub glub . . .

I think Christmas decorations must be the happiest things in the world.  I mean, they are so bright and cheerful - can you name any other type of decoration that brings so much joy?  I can't!  But, you know - it must be hard to be a manufacturer of Christmas decorations.  I mean, you can't just make the same thing every year.  You have to constantly be re-thinking things and trying to come up with new and creative ways to make a candy cane or a snowman or a nativity scene.  It really must be exhausting.

And sometimes, the effort at thinking outside the box just doesn't really work.  Sometimes, you just have to go with the age-old, tried and true design.  Case in point: the snow globe.

Snow globes have been around FOREVER.  They've been done and done again.  Is there really anything you can do change it up?  I mean, it's a pretty standard formula.  You take a winter scene, maybe a bird:

Or a city scene:

And voila!  You have a snow globe!  Nothing to it.  And the important thing is that this is what people expect.  They aren't looking for creativity with a snow globe.  They aren't waiting to see what you come up with next.  They just want a pretty scene, maybe throw in their favorite sports team - nothing too out of the box. 

And definitely NOT a child with her head stuck in a globe filled with water.

Seriously.  This is disturbing.  First she gets cursed with a ball for a hand so that she can't play with her new nutcracker.  And then BAM! she gets her head stuck in a freaking snow globe.  Worst.  Christmas. EVER.

This is by far the worst idea for a snow globe to date. No way it can get worse than this sweet little girl staring back at me through the water . . .

I'm sorry - is that . . . JESUS?  Did they trap the head of our LORD AND SAVIOR in a freakin' snow globe??

[gasp!]  Saaaaaaaanta?? [tap, tap]  Stay with me, Santa.  Stay with me.  Do NOT walk toward the light!  Someone get me a hammer!!

I'm sure they meant to make Mary look peaceful in this one.  But, instead, she looks as if she has finally lost consciousness and is slipping away.  It brings a whole new meaning to Silent Night . . . 

So, while I tip my hat to the companies that make the Christmas decorations that brighten up our lives from Thanksgiving to New Year, I beg them to think about their new, creative spins on things.  And to remember that, as a general rule, trapping people's heads in a snow globe is tragic.  And typically does not say "Peace on Earth, good will to men . . ."

Seriously.  Where's that freakin' hammer??

PALMORE FOR PRESIDENT!!

As we begin this Election Day 2012, there are three things I know for sure:

1.  No matter who wins this election, it appears that we have 4 years of the same facial expression to look forward to:

2.  Whoever loses this election can blame his fans on facebook.  Good Lord . . . some of those people are their candidate's WORST marketing tool.

3.  We need one candidate that we can ALL feel comfortable with.  Someone who makes us feel good inside.  Someone who will work for everyone.  Someone who has a bunch of really cute purses.

And friends, that someone is ME.

So I'd like to ask for your vote on this Election Day.  If you've already cast your vote, it's okay - just go to your local poll and tell them you've changed your mind.  They get that AAAAAALLLLL the time.  If they won't let you change your vote, then just yell things like "voter suppression" and "voter intimidation" and they'll figure something out.  Trust me.  I know these things.  I'm a lawyer.

"Why should we vote for you, Catherine?" you ask.  "What can you do for our country?" you want to know.  Well, I'm glad you asked.  Let me tell you just a few of my BRILLIANT plans for my Presidency . . .

1.  I would name Jack Bauer as my Vice President.  Granted, he's a fictional character.  And, yes - he's excessively intense.  BUT he could win a vice-presidential debate by strangling the other candidate with his thighs.  And there's a lot of merit in that.

2.  I would solve the nation's fiscal problems by levying a "skinny tax" against all skinny people.  I know I know - we all have skinny friends who are precious to us and none of us want to see them singled out.  But, let's face it, they kind of deserve it, what with all their strutting around in jeans that fit and shirts that don't cling to their muffin tops.  If conventional politics tells us that we can ask the wealthiest Americans to pay a little more in taxes, then why can't ask the skinniest Americans to pay a little more?  I'm pretty sure there's a clause about this in the Constitution.  Again, I'm a lawyer so I know these things.  No need to fact-check.  So I propose taxing anyone who wears pants sizes in the single digits, anyone who has ever said "I'm not really a 'sweets' person," or anyone who has ever asked for the dressing on the side.  Are you with me? 

3.  I have some good ideas for creating new jobs.  For instance, I think every grocery store should hire at least one person whose job is to walk around with a shopping cart for anyone who incorrectly chose the handheld basket when coming into the store.  You know what I'm talking about - you walk in thinking that you are just getting a few small items and you just need the little basket.  Then before you know it, you're having to lug it around with both hands, leaned back to counter the weight that you're holding, and you're struggling to find any room for the carton of milk that you decided to get after all.  Wouldn't it be nice if someone were patrolling the store for that very problem, ready to help you upgrade to the shopping cart?  Just think, if every grocery store added just one person who did that job, that would add like . . . well, probably more than . . . it would HAVE to be somewhere around . . . well, suffice it to say it would create a LOT of jobs.  I would be a hero.  And that's really what I'd be going for.

4.  I would require military personnel to wink when they salute me.  This does nothing to advance the state of our country.  But it would make things like getting off a plane A LOT more fun.

5.  Forget e-harmony.  Forget match.com.  If I were President, the whole WORLD would be trying to find me a man.  I'd have my pick of nationalities.  The French might want to arrange a marriage to create an alliance but I would say "No zank you."  Russia might see it as an opportunity to get one of their own into the White House.  But I would say "Niet."  The Italians might send over some gorgeous Italian to try to secure American allegiance but I would say - well, let's be honest.  I'd totally say yes to that one.   

So there you have it - some of my best plans for my Presidency.  Hopefully you agree that I have much to offer my country and my fellow Americans.  But, hey - if you still need convincing, just remember that, at the very least, I can offer exactly what these other guys are offering you right now:

 
HAPPY VOTING, AMERICA!!