View from Nussbaum

Well summer 2010 in Oregon has come to a close, replaced so swiftly by an autumnal season on the eastern seaboard that it's hard to believe it's already here. Not only have our living conditions been drastically downsized from a spacious mad-house with fully stocked kitchen to a humble walk-through double containing little more than my clothes and L's cliff bars, but the climate has skyrocketed as well. A heat advisory warning is in effect for New York City, which is an official way of announcing that only the strong will survive our workouts this week. The cross country team has been reduced to running, eating, and napping machines, stripped of most personality due to other activities' effects on precious fluid retention. Conversations are slowed, social gatherings are limited (except in air-conditioned suites) and plans exist only to the extent of where am I going to get water/Gatorade/coconut water and how can I avoid going outside.

But I'm not here to write about the weather. With the new school year comes plenty of developments, including new teammates, new neighbors, and...God, it's so hot I can't even think.

To update on the summer: Ducati left the country for Spain the day after L left for New York. He told his dad there was no point to stay any longer now that she was gone. Will they meet again? From my informed, yet un-emotionally swayed position, the question isn't will, but when. I got sucked in by one of those annoying, overly-friendly and ridiculously persistent promoters today and have now committed to getting my hair cut, conditioned and "glazed" downtown sometime before March. I honestly don't know how he got me so cornered that I forked over my debit card and signed the paper but I've been regretting it ever since. L has agreed to come with me though, as it also comes with color and highlights (transferrable to a friend) and I refuse to let dye anywhere near my head. I suppose I'll update on that stressful experience when the time comes. I hate putting my trust in a grinning stranger with scissors.

Tomorrow morning's workout will be a challenging one, but should be rivaled by the evening workout (a.k.a. grindfest) that will come to be known as Freshman Party 2010. The freshman girls exude anxiousness and curiosity, as well as an obvious love for getting down that promises to keep things very interesting, not only for Friday night, but for the reunion Sunday morning. Freshman boys are in ample supply and most of the team that was not in yet arrives today or tomorrow, so conditions are lining up perfectly.

Considering the characters in this years crew, I can that guarantee that hilarity shall ensue.

Smooth As Velvet

We already knew Ducati's moves worked on L (read: "strikingly handsome guy of 6'2, with piercing blue eyes and a suave demeanor"), but it appears he knows how to put the moves on the rest of her circle as well. I was about to take a shower the other day when I hear what I recognize to be his silky voice and sophisticated vocabulary. Tiptoeing onto the porch so as not to be exposed as the curious creeper, I encounter a humorous yet pleasing scene on the deck below. L and Ducati are seated side by side on the bench; the distance between them is small enough to confirm them as a unit in the picture but large enough to assert the appropriateness necessary when a high school couple meet the girl's parents for the first time. Ducati engages both my parents fully in conversation--my dad laughs from his position leaning against the railing and my mom glows from the table with her Mirror Pond Ale. "Charming, just charming," she later reflected to me about her first impressions. He even talked to my 13-year-old sister for a significant amount of time.

His game suggests substantial practice pleasing parents and it worked no differently with my family. Of course I'm always reserved, skeptical, and difficult to convince...

He brought me a multigrain bagel this morning after he took L out to breakfast...obviously he's bomb.

Valuable Lessons...life's weird so don't Judge a book by it's cover.

Ok so I've come to the conclusion that the longer I live,and admittedly I haven't lived very long, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a team... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes. Ok don't worry... hah I'm off my soap box now.

Lately though, my life has been challenging in more than one dimension( and unfortunately, it has taken a toll on my time and energy for blog postings...I apologize guys.)Anyway, although it's been rather crappy and I found myself in a place so lonely and dark I thought I'd never feel strong again. I just kept living every moment like a gift and seizing the day, even if it was a pain in the ass. Ultimately though, right when I thought I'd lost all faith in humanity, and come to the conclusion that all people are selfish, ruthless assholes with piss for brains, God smiled down and was like, hey, L, snap out of it, look at this freaking gorgeous wilderness, look at your friends, look at your school, look at your awesome life. Ha ok, so maybe I wasn't done on my soap box, but I'm done now I promise..

So...you're probably wondering, where is all this going? Well, in the midst of all this drama, I was working one day taking care of kids at the local park when Ducati rides by on his um..Ducati. He rides by me, not once, not twice, but FOUR times.Alrtight, at this point, we need to rewind and give ya some background..remember one of N's first posts regarding bad boys and Ducatis and what-not? Well, at that point Ducati and I were texting, but nothing else. We both hadn't seen, met, or heard each others actual voices . We tried on three separate occasions to meet up and "kick it", but alas, it never worked out. Eventually, we both just stopped texting each other and we both sorta forgot about the whole thing. Until....(fast-forwarding back to that fateful day at the park...)he decided to pass by , because he got word that I was there and wanted to see what I looked like...and apparently he came to the conclusion that I was pretty damn awesome. So, anyway, when it's time for me to leave the park and drive the kids home, my phone is blowing up with texts. (side-note: In oregon it is illegal to deal with any type of phone call, text, or etc while operating an automotive vehicle.)So naturally, I don't check my phone till I get back to the kids house and start making them dinner. Casually, I glance at my phone and see a very verbose text from Ducati explaining that he just saw me in the park and wanted to hang out that night. At this point, I'm like f*%# all boys. I'm sick of men. I don't give a damn. I get home and tell Noelle about the texts and invitations I had gotten from Ducati, and nonchalantly brush them aside, all the while complaining that I don't feel like hanging out. She's like, L, snap out of it, GO GET CUTEEE. Reluctantly, I take a quick shower(which is extremely out of character for me) and throw on some non-running clothes. At this point, I'm like, "This whole thing is going to be extremely humorous. Our personalities are going to clash horribly and it's just gonna be a funny disaster that I can write about later." N, sick of my negativity,( I swear I was just being a realist.) says L, come here, DRINK THIS. Suspiciously, I take this shot glass of pulpy weirdness and swallow it in one gulp. Immediately after swallowing, I take a sharp intake of breath, and scream profanities. N just juiced a freaking lime and gave me the straight juice. It's nasty shit, but it does the job.

So anyway, Ducati finally gets here. I walk down the front steps down from the street and, waiting to greet me, holding the door open, is a strikingly handsome guy of 6'2, with piercing blue eyes and a suave demeanor. WOW. So anyway, long story short, we get along perfectly. He wasn't at all what I expected. He's smart, bilingual, on a swedish reality t.v. show, humble, and has awesome theories about life and stuff just like I do. HUGE PLUS. As of late, we have become pretty much inseparable and exchange cheesy texts daily. Wow, life is unpredictable.Basically, moral of the story, NEVER EVER think you know what's coming up next, good or bad. Life's gonna prove ya wrong every time. (P.S. tons more stories to come that coincide with my soapbox rant at the beginning of the post...will be put up very shortly. But right now I have to go eat, I'm starving ha.)

A Verbose Late-Night Rant

Five days ago I started a post about a new summer fling, including expectations for our first date, and didn't quite have time to finish it. Four days ago I actually went on the date and then elected to combine two entries comparing expectations and first impressions. Now I find myself in an awkward situation after date number two, when I have decided the fling is actually over. That was quick wasn't it? Embarrassingly quick, in fact. Do I really get bored that easily? I don't think I can honestly chalk it up to bad luck given the fact that this is standard operating procedure for me. I meet a guy when I'm not expecting to, we hit it off, (or at least seem to because I am completely caught off guard) and then exchange info along with vows to "hang out". I am thrilled by the new possible love interest (a.k.a. fresh meat) and flattered by the fact that I gave a decent enough first impression that someone would want to see me again, as opposed to just giving them a temporary chuckle with some ridiculously odd facet of my personality. Assuming we do meet up, one of three things happens, all with the same result. I might discover that they're a douchebag, rude to others and generally not someone I want to associate with. Alternatively, I discover they're kind and shy and by definition awkward, meaning I have to play the role of the male and make all the moves, not something I enjoy doing and am very easily fed up with. The third possibility is that they're nice and sweet and must have been around the block a few times so they expect girls to just fall for that kind of shit. I think those are the worst kind of all.

What's wrong with nice and sweet? I'll tell you what's wrong: A sense of entitlement. I hate when a guy thinks that just because he got your number and hasn't done anything outright wrong, you're going to be head over heels for him. I'd been on one date with this particular boy before tonight (he needs a nickname but is by no means a bro...I'm gonna go with Panda because according to L, his spirit animal is a red panda) and tonight Panda was acting as if we were a freaking item. I was on the phone with my mom receiving some infuriating news about the charades of a family member and panda comes up to me, strokes my hand, and says, in a genuine-sounding, but genuinely fake concerned voice, "Are you stressed? You look stressed."

First of all, if I was stressed, you would not be able to understand, nor know what to do because you don't know me. Our first date was a movie; we've barely even talked before. Don't pretend to offer emotional support when we're practically strangers. Second of all, if you did know me, you would know that when I say "What the hell is wrong with that person?" I am not in need of any emotional support. I don't want a hug--I want to slap somebody. Which brings me to my third point, why are you touching me? Usually when you put your arm around me, it's entertaining for me to debate in my head whether you're serious or not, because if you are serious, then your touch affords nothing more than a humorous reminder of your delusions. Do other girls actually appreciate that? In this situation, I'm already pissed, so it just makes me want to smack you for being so belittling.

Occurrences like these kept me in a constant state of disgust towards Panda this evening, as we went on a double date with L and her new boy toy. Thank God Ducati was so engaging because the more time I was forced to converse with Panda and his delusions, the harder it was to resist being a cold-hearted bitch. L and Ducati continued to hit it off quite perfectly, however, which made it even more obvious how Panda and I did not get along. I tried to walk the fine line between honesty and manners--I was not interested in him anymore but he was supposed to be my date.

Finally, when Ducati professed a late night burger craving and announced that he had called a cab to take him and L there, I took the opportunity to exaggerate my fatigue and send Panda on his way. He wanted to know what day I want to get together next and I told him I didn't have my work schedule yet. Any guy would tell me I should just be up front and say I don't want to hang out again, but I elected to wait until I was a little less annoyed with him and could thus say so in as nice a way as possible. I suppose it was my fault anyway for not figuring out earlier that he gets on my nerves.

I'm fully aware of how harsh I sound, but I can't help it. Today my brother told me I'm going to die alone because I can't stand if boys call too much. Panda called me four times while I was working the day after we went to a movie...said he just wanted to say hi. That kind of stuff freaks me out. Summer flings are difficult because I'm not comfortable with the idea that someone could own you after a very short period of time so the idea of even trying to move towards that feels incredibly artificial. Panda tried to finish my sentences today and I just found it embarrassing. Let me speak for myself already and stop pretending to be associated with me. I want to speak for myself. I want to be responsible for myself. Very special people I hold near and dear in my inner circle and everyone else just feels like dead weight.

It's 2:28 AM. I've been back at my house for almost 2 hours. L and Ducati are still out on the town. Glad someone's having fun.

V

I want to apologize about the extreme lack of posts lately. I realized today that a solid ten days have passed since the last NLSynergy update, an issue which I am sincerely embarrassed to admit. The ten days have been packed with happenings which I am stoked to write about, including but not limited to an awkward lunch date, fugitive shenanigans, the exploits of my future husband, and L's and my heroic party first-aid, which resulted in the resuscitation of a social gathering under cardiac arrest. If it is meant to be, these stories will come out in due time. Meanwhile, V-blog is approaching (or perhaps has just eclipsed...it's unclear) it's one month anniversary of creation. In honor of this momentous occasion, I would like to at least partially address the question that is on all of our new reader's minds (assuming that freshman and upperclassmen take the bait we dangle in our perpetually soon-to-be-written introductory e-mail): WHY V?

The only inkling of an explanation came in our first post: as you will soon see, V stands for a lot of things...

Something intangible appealed to us about the letter V. Not only does it take after my favorite core exercise (the V-sit DUH), but L was convinced it had something to do with being feminine. From Venus the goddess of love to the universal sign for peace, the open bloom of the letter V offers unbounded potential and virtue. The Roman numeral for five invites logic and a penta-layer explanation. Then again, why stop at five? This summer, V has been a means of commemorating our ventures and vacations. It has been an outlet for our vices, vendettas, and even vapors. And at the end of the day, it is my goal that it stands for voice, vision, and virtuosity. As the fall season begins and our living quarters shift approximately 3,000 miles east and 9 stories up, the view will vary, the tempo will pick up along with the pace of life, and the voice will likely assume an increased sense of urgency. We'll continue to project weird humor, random wisdom and strong opinions, but hopefully for the collective benefit of our track sisters. In what ways, I'm not exactly sure, but in the same way that I didn't know everything that V would stand for, I'm sure we will figure it out. Whatever the team needs, V can be that.

To all of our new readers--welcome. Thanks for taking the two seconds to check us out. Peruse, become a follower, give feedback...I don't know where V-blog is going but I'm getting some very good vibes.

Victory on the Robust Summer 2010 front...

Over the past couple of days, N and I have traveled more than most people do in a couple years. Ok, so we didn't exactly drive across the country, but we saw some pretty amazing things here in Oregon. This place is freakin awesome.(Kudos to Gigi by the way, who funded the operation.) Also, (surprise, surprise) I got lost in the woods yesterday.(However, I would like to add that I found my way back home with nothing guiding me other than my WAYYY outta whack directional intuition...which seems to be operating on surprising new levels!)Go figure. We also plan to be going to an Animal Themed Birthday party tomorrow night. Get excited for the update. This is going to be the party of the summer.We plan on busting out our highly perfected dance moves made possible by our new hard- ass core routine. That's right, we can pop,lock, AND drop with perfection all the while, showing off our freshly chiseled abs that even the most highly defined roman statue would be jealous of. ( I still can't jerk though...some things never change.)Also, there's costumes involved. It's going to be epic. I would write more about the sheer awesomeness of our show-stopping threads, but I'm going to be late for hot yoga....

Vendettas

L and I have just returned from an all-around disappointing double date with a pair of soccer bros we met Tuesday at a pizza parlor. There's no clear explanation as to why we agreed to this--the confidence with which they rolled slowly up by where we were enjoying our dinner and asked for our numbers through the open car window certainly caught me off guard and the fact that this happened less than two minutes after L was complaining about how hard it is to find a good summer fling in Portland made us wonder how this could not be meant to be. A text conversation followed and Bro 1's "not real" vernacular (to quote T) combined with his atrocious spelling made it obvious that he probably struggled to remember his own name. In any case, people with such little intelligence can be very entertaining if you're in the right mood and his Jersey Shore-esque physique made him an attractive summer fling candidate.

The first date was decent. We met at a Starbucks to make sure they weren't sketchy and migrated to their house for a showing of What Happens in Vegas. They were hotter than we remembered and at least more interesting than the texts had let on (later, L will post excerpts of that conversation that are quite hilarious). So we were excited today when we made plans to go hot tubbing (or hot tubing as Bro 1 likes to spell it) and fully launch operation Summer Fling.

How does this post relate to vendetas? It does, I promise, but I have suddenly gotten extremely tired. So stay tuned and I'll update tomorrow. Peace, love and V.

Verifications

I just signed on to check out L's "awesome" blogpost that she finally completed last night before falling asleep on my bed, my laptop clutched in her arms. I was too busy pouring her into bed (not to mention I was exhausted myself) to notice anything about the post last night. I was then too preoccupied to examine it today...until now.

My first reaction was to smack L for posting that ridiculous photo of me asleep on the car ride back from Manzanita, but the fact that my nail polish is still drying prevented me from giving her the adequate beating that she deserved. I suppose I should have taken a picture of her last night, or the night before, or the night before, or the afternoon before (as she routinely--and MUCH more often than me--falls asleep in hilarious postures) and wielded it over her for blackmail purposes. But of course, I am not as malicious in my everyday intentions as L is.

Anyhoo, in the event that people have already seen this picture, I'll assume the forgiving attitude that it is all in good fun and rather than sheepishly removing it, I'll leave it up for your viewing pleasure. Just know that L has got one coming for her. It will not be difficult for me to return the minor humiliation ten-fold. Also, Leila, regardless of the clever, though not necessarily fitting "Berg" pun with the world "burglary," I would like to remind you that the word still would not contain the letter U. And you go to an Ivy League....

Ventures...BERGulary,escapades, and proclamations.

It's been awhile since either N or I have really had any time to post anything about our latest misadventures. Luckily, that means we actually have quite a few to fill ya'll in on. I guess a good place to start from where N left off, after the Pre-invite.

Immediately, after soaking up enough inspiration and pumped-ness to last us for the rest of our running careers in Eugene, we road-tripped to Manzanita beach for the fourth. It's still up in the air if our night was robust, but it was definitely epic. Let's just say that if an airplane pilot were to fly over the shoreline of the Oregon coast that evening, it would have been literally and utterly, a sensory overload. The plane would have had to dodge fireworks as it hurdled through the velvety black sky that was smothered in clouds of curling smoke.The only thing keeping the pilot from ramming the jet into the heaving surf was the beach that was writhing with teeming masses of adolescents congregated around bonfires like moths clustered around streetlamps. Let's just say, it was a good thing there were no planes flying around that night.

Over the course of the evening , we walked around a nearby town called Gearheart for many hours, witnessed one of N's ex-classmates suffer from alcohol poisoning (all the while arguing with some blubbering buffoon "friends" of his that he needed immediate medical attention.)Afterwards,proceeding into a ridiculously sloppy party, where we were hoping there was going to be dancing going on. Unfortunately, we just got stuck with some guy trying to hit on us. Over the course of the night, he offered us low-carb foods, chicken salad, and vodka while at the same time, bragging about his recent cocaine usage and weight lifting. My guess is, he thought that after hearing this, we would undoubtedly wanna make out with him. Umm, no, nice try buddy. Anyways, we ended the night locked out of our friend A-town's house for quite some time. We ended up sneaking outside of her house, trying to seem as unsketchy and burglar-esque as possible, banging on windows and doors, attempting to awaken A-town(while simultaneously being mindful that her grandmother might be sleeping within one of the very rooms we were bombarding with raucous knocking. Luckily, she wasn't wearing her hearing aids at the time...)Finally, after scaring the living daylights out of a slumbering A-town, and brushing our teeth, we headed off to bed, but not before thoughtfully chewing whole grain blueberry pancakes and climbing sluggishly into our respective bunks (which were illuminated by multi-colored glow sticks.)

Fortunately, not the entire weekend was compromised. We had put in a solid run the previous day, which contained hills that made the ones in VCP look like pimples. And before the all-too-familiar, scenic, jam-sesh back to Manzanita, we had the opportunity to have a much- needed blow-out run on the beach (which was now filled with horses and lovers instead of bonfires and bimbos.) Eerily, there was zero evidence on the shore that last night had even happened. Soon, we reached a little inlet that marked the halfway point of our run (which Pierre claims is five miles....well, Pierre, I certainly would be thrilled if it was actually five miles, because we just smashed it in 26 freakin' minutes. ) Upon arriving at the halfway mark, we took a little siesta and climbed the tall pile of boulders that made up the protrusion of the inlet wall, and gazed across the ocean to the other side of the beach. The sight was so majestic and our poses atop the summit, so cliche, that N and I locked eyes; and after proclaiming that our lives were freakin' awesome, I announced that, "This would be the perfect triathlon workout. You could run on the beach, then climb this wall, then swim across the canal-thingy, and then have your bike waiting on the other side, and you could just ride on that road right there." Ignoring the sheer randomness of my comment in response to the breath-taking view, N rationally pointed out that the waves would most likely kill me against the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.I quickly pointeded out that the tide was high and that the surf was rough. "Well, maybe when the water's calmer, it would be more feasible...", she said. The run back was pleasant enough, but the car-ride back was even more so. N pretty much slept the entire time, while Pierre, M and I had some quality bonding time.

Victories: We love Lauren Fleshman!

Update: After two years on the sideline, former Stanford standout (15 time All-American) Lauren Fleshman won the 5k at USAs last weekend with a super gutsy 600 meter kick. If her post race comments don't make you a fan (watch the video, it's only 16 seconds), maybe her blog will.

Being raised in Nike country, I had the uncommon luxury of seeing Lauren up close and personal a couple times a year at Nike-sponsored events. An outgoing blonde, she radiates fun. I've always been a fan of her silly dance moves, her wide smile, her glittery collection of bright Nike graphic tees, not to mention her down-to-earth advice and glowing passion for running and competing.

I'll pretend not to be offended when most of you haven't heard of her.

To be honest, there are a ton of professional runners out there. Races are constantly being contested and people are always fading and coming on, so to stay up to date requires a level of dedication that seems worthless unless you're trying to impress some cute track junkie. I can assure you that's not my reason for ranting about Lauren Fleshman. Just as we all keep tabs on our high school teams and Mal will continue to check up on the Schellberg Monster, having a personal connection makes us that much more excited about a certain meet or stellar performance.

If you're bored at work this summer or if you're ever looking for a little inspiration, I recommend you check this chick out. This video is from this time last year, a year after failing to make the Olympic team and just beginning to get fit again after an injury to her navicular bone which threatened to end her running career for good. I can't rave enough about her refreshing perspective on life and how easy she is to relate to. The last 3 minutes (from 8:10 to the end) capture the gist of her spirit if you don't want to watch the whole thing.

If you like what you hear, bookmark her blog and check it out when you want to procrastinate online. The link in the first paragraph of this post is to her journal, but the home page of her site is "Question of the Day," a forum in which nothing is out of bounds. She usually only updates a couple times a week but her responses are always very thorough. You can submit questions and vote for which ones you want her to answer. Previous responses are categorized under mentality, nutrition, core, pre-race, shoes, recovery, competing, workouts, injuries, rehab, pilates, weight loss, pregnancy...you name it. I've genuinely learned a lot from reading it.

Oh and by the way, L and I saw her at the grocery store in Eugene this past weekend after the Prefontaine Classic...just another reason why my teammates should come visit!

**Bonus Video: Lauren's goals and "best year"

Virtuosity in the Bread Business

Virtuosity \-ˈä-sə-tē\ According to my ex-Navy seal high school strength coach and owner of Crossfit Human Evolution Lab, it means: "doing the common uncommonly well."

For those of you who haven't heard of Dave's Killer Bread, I am about to enlighten you about the a massive void in your life, which, upon discovery, will ache with increasing intensity until you satiate it with a piece of Good Seed, 21 Grain, the soon-to-be-released Robust Raisin, or, better yet, a thick slice of a Sin Dawg. Camillionaire has yet to try her first piece, but already pines for it due to her online research (It was at her recommendation that I tried my first sin dawg, even though her long clutching fingers are nearly 3,000 miles away from it's holy presence in a two pack on my local COSTCO shelf.) Anyway, it's the absolute best bread in the whole wide world. Dave makes 12 varieties of incredible bread: Blues Bread (an extra chewy bread with a bold sweet flavor and crisp, grain-rolled crust), Good Seed, Powerseed, 21 Whole Grains, Flourless/Sprouted Wheat, Good Seed Spelt, Peace Bomb (same dough as sprouted/flourless in baguette form), Cracked Wheat, Nuts and Grains, Blues Buns, Rockin' Rye and the infamous Sin Dawg, a whole-grain, 100% organic, extra seedy cinnamon-sugar bread, which can be sliced up into little swirls of the most wonderful, orgasmic, explosion of flavor I have ever experienced. You have to try it for yourself because it's superior quality defies description. L has been addicted ever since she came here. She eats 4 pieces of Good Seed plain (not even toasted) on a regular basis and today, we were sitting by the fire roasting marshmallows when she exclaimed, "Wait! I have an idea!!" and ran back into the house, returning shortly with two slices of bread, which she proceeded to toast over the open fire. Crazy? Perhaps, but Dave's Killer Bread could make anyone crazy.

Dave's Killer Bread is in and of itself, the most delicious bread ever. However, Dave's inspiring story, which is printed on the back of every package, is, in my opinion, just as awesome as the bread. I highly recommend that you watch at least part of the video to get a sense for how one goes from being a meth addict and multiple-time convicted felon who has racked up nearly 15 years in prison and seems content to spend his whole life there, depressed and hopeless, into an honest man, a phenomenal baker, and the mastermind behind a small company that is now doing its best to "make the world a better place, one loaf of bread at a time." It's a cool story.

Yesterday we had the fine pleasure of meeting Dave himself and I interviewed him for our blog. The interview went something like this:

Dave: Hey, those look good!

Me (in my head): Ohmigod he looks just like the caricature on the front of the package!

Me (to Dave): Ummm...yes!! They're a country pate in puff pastry with rose jelly! Would you like one?!? Here! Take a napkin!!

Dave: Mmm! Thanks!

Ok, so I didn't exactly interview him for the blog. I have to admit I was a little too starstruck and was not expecting to see him at the the tent at the Portland Blues Festival where L and I were catering the dinner for musicians and vendors. I later confirmed that it was him though and L and I made up for our lack of photograph with him by sampling EVERY SINGLE BREAD THAT HE MAKES at the Dave's Killer Bread tent. We even got to try the Robust Raisin, which has yet to reach stores but is going to make y'all go craaaaazzy! We also got to sample Lara Bars, Sabra Hummus with mix-your-own toppings, wild salmon, mango-avocado-walnut-arugula salad, almond cake, carrot cake, Oregon berries and more, we listened to sweet music, and we got paid. Needless to say, it was a very good day.

Venus Fly Trap (themountain.me.com)

So.. the fourth of July is quickly approaching, and I'm on the lookout for some new threads to attract the boys at bonfires. Luckily, I have found the perfect solution. The apparel at the The Mountain clothing website is epic, and sure to attract the finest specimens of the male species. Get ready to see me rockin' this apparel, not only during the month of July, but all freaking year.(Website referral courtesy of Colby

Vapors.

Picture this: Me, N, and T in a Subaru Outback,(affectionately named "Fatboy"), blasting beats, having deep (and not so deep) conversations. I'm sitting in the back seat, sprawled out, windows down, basking in the sorely missed warmth of the sun while admiring my breathtaking, majestic surroundings. Suddenly, ohhh mann, I felt my insides gurgle and moan, not from hunger, but from a bodily reaction of a more sinister nature. Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. Now normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, I would just go to the bathroom, laugh it off while grossing people out, or discreetly let it slide. However, we happened to be in a moving vehicle that seemed to absorb every single stinking odor it encountered, most likely due to it's long and sinewy frame.Unable to withstand the discomfort any longer, I decided to try and discretely unleash this silent- but- deadly amorphous monster unto unsuspecting comrades, with hopes that the fresh mountain air would aid my in concealment. Unfortunately, since my window was the only one rolled down, my attempts to direct the fresh air current in my direction and back out the window were unsuccessful.My concentrated air- stream simply blasted straight to the front of the car, flooding the cabin with stale air. It was almost scary how quickly the car changed from a place of carefree wild abandon to a deathly gas chamber from hell. The bowels of "Fat Boy" were writhing in fits of wide-spread panic that quickly turned into pandemonium, as every orifice of the poor car was opened in attempts to abandon the smell. Much to T's dismay, similar outbursts were repeated several more times during the expedition, and due to N's vast knowledge of my tendencies, were more effectively dealt with. However, my incidents were not without repercussions. That night I was delegated to the lumpy,lofty top bunk in the beach house, on account of the well known bit of knowledge , taught to many of us by Bill Nye the Science Guy... "gas rises".

Vacations!

This past weekend, L, T and I road-tripped to Manzanita, Oregon for a change of pace, people and scenery. The adventure began with superburgers in PDX, melded into a 94 mile dance party from which my ears may still be recovering, and overall led into a fabulous weekend. Weather conditions attracted a throng of surfers to Short Sands Beach just a mile up 101 from us. This local hotspot, which couldn’t be more than a half mile long, is nestled between two cliffs of Neah-Kah-Nie Mountain and can only be reached by a single track trail through the old-growth forest of Oswald Park. On Saturday, my sister tagged along, diluting our surfer-watching and sun-bathing aspirations with her desire for company in the waves, in the tide pools and in a rock climbing expedition. We found that we identify well with the surfer community, despite our inexperience with a long board, because of their athletic lifestyle, appreciation for natural beauty, and embodiment of the laid back attitude that we try to get in touch with over the summer. We returned to Short Sands on Sunday, as a colleague of mine was graciously able to cover my afternoon shift at the pool. This was not before an aggressive run up an ancient logging road in Wheeler, another small beach town about two miles from Manzanita. T’s apprehensions about training with L and I reached an all-time high as her first long run of college training began with an excessively steep climb that would have gone on forever had we not peeled off to a more rolling route to admire the spectacular ocean views.

Other discoveries of the weekend including coining the phrase “food orgasm,” which was applied several times daily to describe salmon omelets, just-baked cinnamon bread, organic fig bars, and a delicious red lentil spread atop fresh multi-grain bread. We returned to Portland fully rejuvenated for a week of work, and determined to return at least the next two weekends. We’ll take a break for Grat-a-Tat’s animal-themed birthday dance-party the weekend after that and then hopefully return at least once more before L departs for the East Coast.

Future plans for the week include a Portland Timbers game, a rodeo and/or another festival called “First Thursday” in the Pearl district, the legendary Prefontaine Classic in Eugene on Saturday, and 4^th of July festivities at the Coast on Sunday.

Villains: The Pen-Island Predator

My 13 week old blue weimaraner puppy has been satiating her drive to chew on just about anything: magazines, yoga mats, human flesh, siding from the house and, just recently, my driver’s license (I now have holes in my face). Fortunately, there exists a spectacular god-send of a product with the ability to halt the chaos for a good hour. This miracle product was patented under the name “Bully Stick” and I’ve always been slightly unclear on what exactly it is. Regardless, the little fiend finds them overwhelmingly pleasing, ignoring all outside distractions while her tiny dagger-like teeth grind away at its tasty redwood-brown exterior. Each one is about 12 inches long and has the texture of rawhide or a pig ear. My dad summed it up perfectly when he said “it’s just a long hard stick!” I capitalized on the opportunity to make several other observations. Read: Wow she really likes that stick!...You wanna play with the stick, baby girl?...Look at her go on that thing…Oh man! She dropped the stick!!!...One at a time honey, don’t be slutty-er-greedy…

My dog literally goes ape-shiz for this thing, so after a couple days I decided it was time to find out what they actually are. Google took .0048 seconds to reveal an enlightening, ironic, but most of all disturbing answer. According to wikipedia, Bully Stick is a brand name for generic pizzle, a word “used today to signify the penis of a nonhuman animal.” A shriek of laughter escaped my gaping mouth and L came sprinting to see what was up. We read aloud in unison, our voices rising to scream level as our horror escalated: “‘Pizzles are almost exclusively used/produced today as chewing treats for dogs. They are a fibrous muscle, and are prepared by cleaning, stretching, twisting and then drying…’ Oh. My. GOD!!”

Little did we know, the most horrifying discovery was lurking several lines below: “‘In addition to being used as a dog treat, pizzles are also eaten by humans for their health benefits such as being low cholestrol and high in protein, hormones, vitamins…’ EW, EW, EW, EW EEEEWWWW!!”

“Of course it’s high in hormones, it’s a freaking penis for gosh sakes!” I screamed. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!”

The article was wrought with further evidence for the human race’s diminishing palate and lacking moral compass. I’ll let you continue research on your own, though I can’t say I recommend using all five senses on this one. In the meantime, I’ll continue giving my dog Bully Sticks because it keeps her occupied and I kind of like the way she devours some bull bro’s most prized possession. If any guys read this post, I hope they wince. My dog eats testicles. Girl power.

Visions of the Past and Future

The other night, me, N, and T went to The Last Thursday Festival deep in the bowels of Portland. The streets were decorated with exotic vendors , food carts, vittles and other various oddities that would be much more difficult to describe. We had numerous awkward/very weird encounters with the locals, which included fireaters,pot-junkies,dancing randos, and people I'm not quite sure how to classify. We were also lucky enough to stumble upon the next Justin Bieber who was busy exhibiting mad game on the dance flo. (as shown in exhibit A)

However, aside from the absolutely outstanding wheat-free/vegan treats we consumed at a cafe that was sporting Camille's spirit-animal, the most memorable event of the night happened to be a spur of the moment thing. Attempting to give my overwhelmed brain a brief respite from the tidal wave of sensory distractions, I gazed into a lonely corner of the street and my eyes fell upon a ominous looking woman ,shrouded in black, and adorned with piercing hazel eyes that seemed to fracture the very framework of the chaotic atmosphere. Although aware of the obvious danger of approaching such a foreboding creature, we were inexplicably

drawn towards her. As we approached her humble table, we quickly learned she was a Tarot card reader. Eager to satiate our burning curiosity, we eagerly sat down and asked if she could demonstrate her trade. I was taken aback to hear a sweet and melodious voice flow from such a calloused looking individual, as she kindly asked T to shuffle and separate the cards herself as T was concentrating on the events or people she wanted insight on. After T was done receiving her reading, she practically glowed with excitement her from newly acquired knowledge concerning the events of her past and future. Encouraged by T's positive experience, I hesitantly edged up to her table and took a tentative seat in the moth eaten sport's chair. As I separated the cards into five piles, I was trying to follow her instructions and focus on the one issue preoccupying my consciousness. However, with each pile of cards i put down, a different face of a new person surfaced in my mind's eye. Immediately after finishing my separation, the woman gasped and said, "my goodness, I'm getting multiple people in these cards..It seems that you act as high priestess over three people in your life that hold great influence in your life. it is thereby your job to just let them be and to exist as they are. Let it be what it is and nothing more...hmmm this first person is foremost in your mind... very immature,insensitive, and self-centered... no, no not good for you at all... though he shows some promising traits he is very different from you. Let him be himself and you be you. This second person is more of an authority figure, he is very wise because he has seen much hardship and suffering in his life and you look up to him, not so much as an idol, but a friend. Interesting. This third person is also slightly immature but is more sound in his beliefs and very solid. He's willing to work at the relationship he has with you but he's still very immature, but again, more sound and creative than the first person. It is your job as high priestess to let them be who they are, accept them, but you really just need to focus on you and let these people work themselves in your life as they wish.Wow. Very Deep, very introspective. I still don't really know who is who... but I'll just let ya'll ponder that on your own. Mainly, what I took away from this enlightenment, was that apparently, I am a High Priestess with lots of issues.

(EXHIBIT A):

Vernacular: Kids say the darndest things

So I nanny 4 boys ages 7 and 8 three days a week and some of the things that come out of their mouth reward a little further consideration. I'm going to start posting selected quotes here for your entertainment/enlightenment/food for thought/whatever. Enjoy.

Today's insight:

"To have no teeth is the best because then you don't have to brush them!"

-A 7 year old with many missing teeth

Vices: Bad Boyz cont...

“My son’s a flirt, and in the worst way, girls. Not only is he cute—he’s a charmer. And, no, I will not let you go home with him after this!” ranted the head operator of a certain catering gig N and I took on. Eyes rolling at the sheer frequency of such comments, I placed a vicariously tilted pastry next to a fruit tart. Ideas started swirling around in my head that all of this hype concerning my boss’s irresistibly attractive son was partly induced by the long-awaited main course to be delivered, and mainly, nothing more than the disillusioned ravings of an aging mother.

Just as soon as these thoughts had begun to settle comfortably in my brain, they were ruthlessly uprooted by the refreshing hotness and game that just glided through the doorway balancing a perfectly seared platter of salmon and vegetables. My already awkward face must haves appeared utterly upsurd; openly gawking and drooling like a starved animal.( In my defense, I HAVE been starved of studly, lusty material for quite some time.) Never before had a seen a human being crafted with such perfection. Well, except for maybe..wait..N!! My eyes whipped around to where she was standing, hoping to exchange a meaningful, “go-for-it girlll” glance in her direction. However, I found her bottomless mahogany eyes already absorbed and sparkling with passion. Sure enough, the gaze of a certain spiky green pair of dangerously seductive peepers were holding her captive. Figures. As usual, my mind made a sporatic, and possibly meaningless analogy to explain the logic (or lack-there-of) in this situation. ‘This must be what a piece of paper must feel like when it’s between two attracting magnets in those experiments we did in 3^rd grade science labs…”

Anyway, long story short, this twilight vampire-esc specimen had the hots for N. As it turns out, our green eyed god happened to be a hard core soccer bro with a talent for turning even my blue eyes green with envy for his affection. But more importantly, N and I are contemplating the question: why bros and bad boys?? Why do they captivate the majority of our fantasies and enchant our wildest dreams? Most everyone knows -- or at least knows of -- a stereotypical "bad boy" like soccer bro. The guy with such high self-esteem he could aptly be called a narcissist. The guy who wins women over with deceit, callousness and impulsive behavior. Basically, the type of guy who resembles a real-life version of Hugh Grant's character in "Bridget Jones' Diary." I've heard a lot of theories as to why so many women seem to find bad boys so appealing and, as usual, I have created my own theory as to why this is so. In fact, none of it is really all that difficult to understand when you consider basic biology. I'm not going to get too in-depth here, I'm just going to tell ya what I think are the Main 5 Reasons Women Like Bad Boys.

Bad Boys are Broken.

When most people see a bad boy, they see a guy they might class as a loser, thug, bro, etc. etc. Or, maybe he's a perfect citizen who just look/acts similarly. Whatever the case, when certain women look at him, all they see is broken. And broken is really, really appealing to some of us. It's not that we want to be with someone who acts like a pathetic limp vegetable, but more that we want to make him better. To add spice to his life and be the only person who could fix him. It's a little bit altruistic, partly twisted, and 100% addictive.

Bad boys are intense.

I like my men to be intense on some level, and bad boys always deliver. They are passionate ( for the most part anyway…)

Bad boys are jealous.

Most non-bad-boy types will pretend that they are not jealous, even if they are. Women don't like men who act like a jerk when jealous, but if you say a little jealously isn't highly flattering, you’re either lying, or not really attracted to the person in question. Men don't need to act like cavemen for heaven’s sake, but a little jealously can make a woman feel quite sexy.

Bad boys are animalistic.

Whether the silent type or the brawling biker, bad boys live in the moment. They don't worry about what other people think, they just act on instinct. Obviously, some men are too animalistic and no one likes a man who has zero boundaries or self control.

Bad boys are taboo.

The more daddy told you to stay away from the boy down the street, the more you wanted to know why, and the more you wanted to find out for yourself. And the more your learned, the more you liked him. That's just the way it works. Meh.

Vices: Bad Boys

L is going on a hot date. And when I say hot, I mean hott. This guy is 6’ 2”, short blond hair, and he rides a ducati. Raised in Portland, goes to school in L.A.. Best of all, he’s got a reputation for being a bad boy. Damn. I’m mad jealous. It’s kind of a blind set-up and I think that’s why I wish even more that I could trade places with her for the night. Bad boys are, in NLSynergy’s collective opinion, like a deliciously sketchy mixed drink that tastes incredible, not simply from the sweet flavor, but from the intoxicating rush of having no idea what strong shit you’re putting into your body, and of accepting that for tonight, there’s no room for rationality.

There’s something so intangibly attractive about a bad boy. No matter how many times I tell myself that he’s nothing but trouble, that forbidden quality only makes him that much more tempting of an indulgence. He flirts so well that you feel as if you’re being hunted, slipping into his traps, you can honestly try to be hard to get (instead of just pretending) but it’s too late, and you’re hooked. For some, there’s something addictive about feeling out of control. For others, bad boys offer otherwise good girls the thrill of being someone else.

I used to be driven by the near impossibility of a bad boy ever sacrificing his freedom. Who doesn’t like to pursue what she’s been told she cannot have? Now it’s not about taming the rebel so much as it is about untaming ourselves. L and I are wild by nature, focused by trade. Lately we’ve been going to bed early and eating our vegetables, our wildest adventures relating to our honest jobs, animals, or the outdoors. Our need to take risks is building up like boiling water in a steam engine. And that’s why, given the first opportunity, L will be climbing on the back of some bad ass’s motorcycle and I’ll be texting her asking if he has a brother. A month from now, we may have been parts of something dangerous or we may have just had random summer flings. We may have found our soul mates, had our hearts broken, or both, but either way, whether we end up right back where we started or our life paths are changed forever, we hope to have an awesome story that we’ll tell again and again.

We’ll keep you posted…

Behind the Voice

Fooled by my own desires

I twist my fate

Just to feel you

But you, turn me toward the light

And you’re one with me

Will you run with me?

I’ll stay with you

The walls will fall before we do

Take my hand now

We’ll run forever

--"Stay With You," The Goo Goo Dolls

We are two girls whose relationship is difficult to describe. A metaphysics book deep in the red room of Portland’s Powell's book store described the energy between our corresponding astrological signs and birth years as “Palpable Magnetism”—a relationship ideal for marriage, but so saturated with chemistry that we should beware of addiction to each other (intense, huh?). Until that night, we referred to our unusually strong friendship simply as “The Synergy.” We bring out the best in each other and we accomplish more together—on the track, on the trail, in the kitchen—than we do when we’re apart.

This summer, we’re living, training, and working together in the great land of Portland, Oregon. Our adventures have quickly accumulated to the point where we can longer keep our community updated via text messages, phone calls and facebook threads. Thus, after much dreaming and anticipation, the V-Blog was born. So why V? Well we don’t want to give it all away at once, but let’s just say V stands for a lot of things…