All Fennel, All The Time

We found wild fennel at the beach this weekend and decided to plan Iron (Internet) Chef.

According to the California Invasive Plant Council, fennel flourishes in coastal areas because it originated in the Mediterranean. It grows so rapidly that CIPC considers it a nuisance.

Well, one man’s nuisance is another girl’s nosh: After my third ocean-swimming attempt turned into an ocean-walking anticlimax in Malibu, I decided to bag aquatic activities altogether and forage for fennel. It grows up and down the steps leading to the beach, so I literally pass it every time I decide to go for a swim (and then change my mind).

Armed with Val’s trusty kitchen shears, I took off down the steps and came back with an armful of fennel stalks, shoots and leaves. So fragrant was the fennel that Val and Pat could smell me coming up the steps – and they were a good 30-40 feet away.

According to our friends that the Google culinary academy, the stuff that grows beside the steps (and on the side of the road and all over the mountains) is edible and will not kill you. (We didn’t want any mushroom-trips with our yard-trimmings). As opposed to store-bought fennel, wild fennel does not produce bulbs that you can throw on the grill. You can eat the small shoots of wild fennel and all of the leaves. According to the results delivered by the Google culinary academy, you can roast salmon on a bed of the thicker stalks – though you can’t eat the stalks. We didn’t want to drive to the store, so we skipped the roasted salmon and foraged in the fridge for fennel furnishings.

Shoots and leaves

With what we had on-hand in the kitchen: Olive oil, kosher salt, a package of bratwurst (!), pasta shells, vodka and an armload of fennel, we feasted!

Here’s the recipe for simple fennel and sausage pasta. I think the key is cooking the pasta in the water you used to boil the fennel.

The water is green... like fennel

We had so much fennel left over from the cooking process that I decided to throw it in a jar with some cheap vodka and see how that turned out.

Fennel-infused vodka

Interestingly, when you make limoncello or other infused-liqueurs, it takes days to weeks to get the flavor melded with the alcohol. Not so with wild fennel. We combined fresh fennel, with some fronds that had been boiled for 10 minutes per the pasta recipe… and after about an hour, we had a jarful of licorice deliciousness. Unfortunately, it was so redolent with fennel fantasticalness that we couldn’t drink it alone… so we looked for fennel cocktail recipes.

By that time, we’d had our fill of fennel – the house stunk of licorice – and with fennel, as with alcohol, cheese, pizza, french fries and pretty much anything that tastes awesome, there is a such thing as too much of a good thing.

Fennel Fest - Sausage and Pasta

Ugly but tasty

Sometimes, someone gives you the perfect gift: For Patrick, it was a Louisiana-shaped chile-roasting rack for his grill, courtesy of my Mom and Dad. Never again would we consider eating frozen, flash-fried jalapeño poppers from a box.

Because we could now make our own. Which means, it’s time to bring the pain!

Warning: The actual cooking of these peppers involves knife-handling skills, open flames and spicy substances. Don’t put an eye out, don’t rub your eyes and don’t let your kids make them unsupervised. According to Pat, I’m not allowed to make them unsupervised either – for all of the above reasons.

TOOLS, PART 1: Things You Likely Have Around the House

• Non-stick cooking spray
• Skillet
• Spatula or wooden spoon
• Paper towels
• Thin-bladed knife or fillet knife
• Grapefruit spoon – these are usually small enough to core the chile and are less likely to result in a trip to the emergency room
• Cutting board
• Mixing bowl
• Measuring spoon
• Kitchen scale
• Grill
• Oven mitt or tongs
• Cookie sheet

TOOLS, Part 2: Stuff You Might Have to MacGyver (but will still need)

• Chile Pepper Roasting Rack (You should be able to find these at big box retailers like Wal-Mart, Target or Bed, Bath and Beyond; you’d better be able to find them at specialty kitchen stores like Williams-Sonoma or Sur La Table – and I really, really hope you can find them at a locally owned joint nearby, as that’s where Mom and Dad got Pat’s. They cost anywhere from $10-$25)
• Grill Rack / Heavy Gauge Wire / Pliers (if you can create a grid with one-inch square spaces, you’re golden)

TOOLS, Part 3: Optional but handy

• Surgical gloves – you may or may not feel the need to protect your hands. You will be handling pepper membranes and seeds which can sting if they touch an open cut. Some folks have more sensitive skin than others. Even if you are wearing gloves, remember: DON’T RUB YOUR EYES.
• Chile-coring device – some pepper-roasting racks come with these, we’re not crazy about them as they tend to damage the peppers, but they seem to be a safer option than knives in the hands of some people (me)

INGREDIENTS: This recipe makes a lot of poppers because we figure if you’re going to the effort, you might as well feed a few people. (See gumbo, grits, red beans and rice, ribs of awesomeness and muffalettas). Go big or go home. Truth be told, math is not our strongest suit, so reducing this recipe down into normal proportions required long-division and measurement conversions that cut into our drinking time. It’s a pretty easy recipe to halve and that will make about four servings. One serving is 3 stuffed peppers. What follows is the low-calorie recipe – and following the end of this culinary excursion, we’ll show you how to make a Jalapeño Pop-an-artery:

• One 20-ounce package of extra-lean ground turkey (We like Jennie-O Extra Lean)
• 2 cups of FINELY shredded 2% reduced-fat cheddar or 2% reduced-fat Mexican mix cheese
• One package of your favorite taco seasoning (or the Pat Bertinelli Special Sprinkle of Doom – see below)
• 20-24 big jalapeño peppers – aim for 1-inch in diameter at the widest point and 3-4 inches long. Get the biggest ones you can find.
• Salt and pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS:

Coat your skillet with nonstick cooking spray and pre-heat over medium-high heat. Brown the ground turkey, per package instructions. As you’re cooking, mix in the taco seasoning and break up the turkey meat into small pieces using your spatula or wooden spoon. The pieces should be about the size of small pebbles or kernels of corn (she said ‘corn’). Small and crumbly wins the day. Once the meat is browned and cooked thoroughly (usually about 10 minutes), drain it onto a paper towel to get rid of any excess fat, spread the meat out in a thin layer and allow it to cool. While the meat is cooling, you can start coring the peppers.

These are the big fatties of the pepper family

Here comes the first of our obligatory safety tips: Rinse the jalapeño peppers thoroughly – we don’t want your dining companions to get e.Coli from your sloppy hygiene and blame it on us. Put on your (optional) surgical gloves. The seeds and membranes of the peppers are what makes them hot, so take care as you handle these parts of the pepper. Don’t rub your eyes. Be careful if you have open cuts – and please, don’t stab yourself in the process of cutting the jalapeño because a) we don’t want you to have to go to the emergency room and b) it burns! IT BURNS!

Lay the peppers on their sides on your cutting board, and at the thickest point of each pepper, slice the stem or “top” off the jalapeño. Discard the stems.

CAREFULLY insert your knife into the pepper in the space between the center membrane and the pepper wall. Inserted about one inch into the pepper body, the knife blade will be laying against the pepper wall so you can GENTLY carve a circle around the inside to loosen the membrane. Slowly slice through the portions of membrane that still cling to the pepper wall. Now you’re ready to remove the core: You can insert a grapefruit spoon between the pepper wall and membrane and gently dig the membrane and seeds out, being careful not to puncture the pepper wall. If you’re confident with your knife-handling skills, you can gently press the side of the knife-blade into the side of the membrane to pry the membrane away from the wall. You will hear and feel it separate. Work your way around the pepper separating the membrane in this fashion and slowly prying the it out. BE CAREFUL! DON’T STAB YOURSELF. It doesn’t take a lot of pressure to get the membrane to come out of the pepper. After the membrane is loosened and jutting out slightly, you should be able to pull it out with your fingers and discard it – BUT DON’T RUB YOUR EYES! Tap the open end of each pepper on the cutting board to dislodge and dump out any leftover seeds. This will help keep the heat in check. Brush the seeds into the trash, but DON’T RUB YOUR EYES!

Be very, very careful

Once the peppers are cored, pull out the chile-pepper roasting device of your choosing – either an official, store-bought rack or a jury-rigged grill-rack. Stand the peppers pointy-side-down into the rack. If they are too thin and look like they might slip through the holes, be at the ready with your toothpicks.

The meat should be cool by now, so dump it into your mixing bowl with the two cups of FINELY shredded low-fat cheese. We cannot emphasize the FINELY SHREDDED nature of the cheese. You want it to melt consistently, and that’s easier to do if it’s FINELY SHREDDED cheese. Mix the meat and cheese thoroughly.

Preheat your grill to medium heat.

Now you’re ready to start stuffing: Use a tablespoon to scoop up a level amount of the meaty-cheesy goodness and set it aside. Conversely, you can also measure out one ounce of meaty-cheesy happiness on your kitchen scale (I call this the drug-dealer method). This is roughly the amount of stuffing that will fit into a large pepper – one level tablespoon or one ounce. Pick a pepper, any pepper, and remove it from the rack. Sprinkle a small pinch of the meaty-cheesy goodness inside and gently tap the tip of the pepper on your cutting board to get the mixture to settle into the bottom. Then take a healthier pinch off the top of that tablespoon / ounce  and shove it into the pepper. No need to be delicate at this point. Pat likes to use his pinkie finger to push the mixture down in there. You’re stuffing peppers and you can stuff them pretty densely as the meat-cheese mixture is going to have a lot of air in it. When you start to cook the peppers, the cheese will melt and the skins will loosen up, so it’ll make more room. Once you finish one pepper, place it back on the rack. If the pepper sinks more than halfway down into the rack, insert a toothpick through the center of the pepper and perpendicular to the rack surface to keep it sliding through when you’re cooking. Repeat this process for all of your peppers.

Just shove it on in there, good and snug

WARNING: This is where Pat goes off the rails. We all agree that through his years of intense training and self-abnegation, his mouth has evolved to sustain temperatures that are damaging to normal human tastebuds. I don’t think that justifies making habanero poppers that feature the spiciest seasoning known to mankind: Blair’s Nitro Death Rain. Jalapeños have plenty of heat – and even more, our friends can still enjoy them. You’re not missing anything by making poppers out of the HOTTEST WIDELY AVAILABLE PEPPERS KNOWN TO MAN – and really, you’re not proving anything by eating the newly named, Habanero Hellfire – or as I like to call them, The Weapons of Ass Destruction. Suffice it to say, don’t think you’re kissing me with that mouth after you just ate that habanero popper… and you might also want to sit down to pee and use fresh surgical gloves to complete any necessary toileting. Moving on…

Is it a coincidence that the habanero hellfire peppers are in South Louisiana?

Using the tongs that came with the chile-pepper device of your choosing (or your trusty oven mitts), place the pepper-packed rack on your grill. It will take 10-20 minutes to roast the peppers, depending on your grill, so keep a close eye on them. The skins will start to loosen and wrinkle, going from a true green color to an olive drab. The cheese on top will bubble and brown. Don’t be alarmed when the bottom of the peppers turn black beneath the grill rack. Using your tongs or oven mitt, remove the rack and place it on your cookie sheet to carry it back to the kitchen. This will protect your feet and floors in case any of the peppers may have ruptured and are leaking cheesy goodness that now has an internal temperature of lava.

Allow your poppers to cool slightly and serve while still warm. They will not be overwhelmingly spicy, especially if you were careful to remove as much of the membranes and seeds as you could. Though we normally think of poppers as an appetizer, if you start with big enough jalapeños, you can eat one serving of three poppers with a side of black beans and rice for a very tasty – and filling – meal!

And now for the Popper Redemption Smack-down, wherein we compare the original store-bought jalapeño poppers with our new-and-improved homemade version. (Spoiler alert – WE WIN):

Serving Size:

• Theirs: 3 poppers (fried and waiting for your oven)
• Ours: 3 poppers (but our peppers are physically larger – so you get more popper per serving)

Calories:

• Theirs: 280 per serving
• Ours: 150 per serving

Total Fat:

• Theirs: 19 grams / 7 grams of saturated fat
• Ours: 8 grams / 4 grams of saturated fat

Total Carbohydrates:

• Theirs: 24 grams
• Ours: 5 grams

Total Protein:

• Theirs: 4 grams
• Ours: 19 grams

Mmm, tasty!

The view from the cliff

INTRODUCTION

As an official one-sixth Ironman, I decided to test my mad swimming skills in the Pacific Ocean – the site of my first-ever open-water journey.

Pat and I were visiting with friends in Malibu. I figured I should try to get some exercise in before I started enjoying adult beverages (again), so I pulled on my Vibram five-fingers, shoe-horned myself into the Vortex 3, slapped on my favorite pink skull-and-crossbones swim cap and headed for the surf.

“Now, Pat, you have to watch me – you can’t just sit around and drink, you have to watch – because my Dad doesn’t like me swimming in the ocean – especially without a lifeguard.”

Yes, I realize I am a 40-year-old woman. Your parents worry too when you do stupid things like cross the Grand Canyon, race your motorcycle, jump out of an airplane twice or get a tattoo. They’re parents. It’s what they do.

My friend Candice agreed to observe from the beach, while Pat and Candice’s fiancé Mike watched from 51 steps above, on the cliff. I wasn’t sure that Pat would be able to do much for me from the cliff, but at least we would have a photographic record of my being swept away.

And here is the story of my close encounter with a sea lion, told from four perspectives…

1. I, SWIMMER

The cold water licked my toes, crawling up my legs like an icy stalagmite, but I was not afraid. Using the SINGLE. BEST. TRIATHLON. SWIMMING. TIP. EVER. I plunged my face into the surf and forced the air from my lungs. Surface, inhale, repeat. Surface, inhale, repeat.

Here comes a wave! DIVE! DIVE! DIVE! It crashed over my back, dark clouds of sand swirling up from the ocean floor like a furious cyclone. The field went black in my goggles, darker than night, louder than a jet engine. Cool. I wasn’t dead. I was remembering my lessons: Never turn your back on the ocean. Dolphin under the waves to get through them.

I surveyed the watery landscape of well-musseled rocks and drifting kelp, settling on a relatively calm spot, just beyond the shore break about 25 meters from the beach. This would do: My feet could touch the sand below, the water coming up chest high on the wave-troughs. I could see Candice sitting on her blue blanket. From this vantage point, I should be able to swim without being tumbled through the violence of the crashing waves.

I put my head down and kicked. Running parallel to the shore, the waves rolled gently through my body en route to their foamy demise on the rocks. Beneath the surface, the water glowed bluish and brackish. What light I had in the water was a welcome relief from the grainy, black violence of the waves at the surf break. Now, heading up the shore, it was more or less peaceful as I fell into my slow, but steady cadence: Right-left-right BREATHE left-right-left BREATHE. Out ahead of me I knew I’d be coming up on a rock so I stopped short and turned to swim the 20-or-so meters back to the other rocks that would serve as my lane markers.

Stroking back to the rocks, I turned my head oceanward – a black shape coming into view beneath the surface, looming. Must be another rock. Damn, I need to be careful. I don’t want to get swept into that. Man, it would suck if I came upon a manta-ray or a shark or something. But there aren’t sharks out here, but how would I know? I wonder how they keep the sharks away from the Ironman ocean-swims – all those wet-suit clad people flopping around like seals. I popped my head out of the water – the rocks just in front of me now. I looked to the shore. Candice waved at me – her arm exaggerated in its sweeping to and fro. Several people stood around her on the sand, watching. I waved gaily – one arm. We’d agreed that two arms would mean I was in distress. Here, my feet could touch the bottom. I thought about trying to climb up on the rocks, but a big wave was coming and it seemed like they were getting bigger. Sure, I’d only been swimming about 10 minutes for a combined 50 meters, but I decided to swim back in, rest a little and then come back out. I turned to shore and started to paddle – panicking when I popped up and realized I wasn’t making any progress. Undertow? Riptide? Remember your  lessons: Swim perpendicular to riptide. Oh wait! My feet can touch bottom – I’m cool. Remember: Don’t turn your back on the ocean.

Oh fuck. I turned to see a giant wave and tried to dive, but ended up doing a black cartwheel through the surf. Sputtering saltwater from my nose and mouth, I jumped up in thigh-high water. Time for a break. A wary eye on the waves rolling in from infinity, I walked sideways to Candice on the beach.

Lane markers, from the beach

2. CANDICE, ON THE BEACH

“Did you see the sea lion? Did you see it? I was waving at you! It was following you!”

“What? What sea lion?”

“It was following you when you were swimming! We were all out here watching it! I called the guys and asked them, “Are you watching this? Did you see that?” They could see it from the cliff. I tried to get a picture, but I couldn’t find my camera – and then this Mexican guy came over! He kept saying, “They’re bonding! They’re bonding!” I think he was trying to help me find my camera but I couldn’t understand what he was saying, except that you were bonding with the sea lion!” It couldn’t have been more than 10 feet away from you. It was huge!”

I was sitting on a beach towel looking out on the ocean, toward the black rocks where I’d been swimming.

“Wow. A sea lion. Not 10 feet from me? How crazy is that?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t see it. It was huge. I tried to get a picture – it followed you for a while. The Mexican guy just kept saying, “They’re bonding! They’re bonding!” I hope the guys got a picture. It was incredible!”

This view of destruction goes well with cocktails

3. PAT AND MIKE, ON THE CLIFF

Candice and I bundled the blanket and towels back into the beach bag and climbed the 51 steps to the cliff. My heart pounded in my wetsuit as I opened the gate.

“Did you see it?” they asked.

“No – I had no idea. Candice said it was a sea lion – swimming close to me. Did you get a picture?”

“My damn phone wasn’t working,” Mike said. “It was huge!”

“It had to have been 10-feet long. Right when you turned around, its head just came out of the water – and when you started swimming away, it came out higher to take a look – like up to its belly. It was HUGE. It was twice as long as you. When it came out for a better look, we thought it was going to come up next to you, but it went under the water and it was gone. We didn’t see it again. It was so fast. It couldn’t have been 15 feet away from you. You didn’t see it?”

“No – I’m glad I didn’t see it. I probably would have shit my wetsuit! I can’t believe it was that close to me – when I was swimming back to the rock, I saw something black nearby, but I thought it was another rock – and then I had a creepy feeling that I was going to run up on a manta-ray or a shark. Maybe that was it?”

“We were hoping to get a picture if it threw you up in the air like Jaws. We’d have that on YouTube in a heartbeat,” Pat said.

“Thank you, Pat. I’m about to be eaten by a sea lion and you are gonna put it on YouTube.”

“It probably wouldn’t have eaten you. They eat smaller fish. It probably wanted to mate with you.”

“Thanks, Pat.”

4. SEA LION, IN THE OCEAN

Food. Food. Food. Mate. Food. Mate. Mate. Food. Squirrel! WTF? Black and round like me. Food? Too big. Smells funny. Not food. New member of my mating harem of 11 or more females? Pink head. Blue flippers. Not a mate. Poacher on my mating territory? Too slow. Oh well. Later, dude. Food. Food. Food. Mate. Mate. Mate. Food. Mate. Food. Food. Mate.

Terror on the High Seas

2,000 meters is a long-assed way to swim – especially outside the comforting lane ropes of a swimming pool, especially at the Marquee Triathlon Half-Ironman with a couple hundred real-live athletes who will swim over anything that gets in their way, and especially in the murky, 65-degree waters of Tempe Town Lake.

Yes, it was 65 degrees – and in a fascinating lesson in relativity, it was warmer in the water than it was on dry land (57 degrees). I just hand to convince myself of that fact before I took the plunge: Because what I really wanted to do was scream: IT’S 65 FREAKIN’ FREEZING DEGREES IN THE WATER! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE – OR AT LEAST WE’RE ALL GONNA PROVE THAT WE’RE ALL CERTIFIABLY CRAZY!!!

Instead, what the Hot Chicks with Douchebag Triathlon Relay proved is that we’re one-sixth Ironmen – and we really are bad asses – finishing in the Top 20 among Half-Ironman relays in 6 hours, 57 minutes, 30.98 seconds!

My Half-Ironman day began at 2:30 AM – lying awake in bed after having gotten up to pee for the umpteenth time because I was so studious in my pre-hydration. I really need to go back to sleep. I really need to get Party Rock Anthem out of the repeat-loop in my head. I have to wake up in two hours. Correction: I have to get up in two hours. I’m already awake. I have to swim 2,000 meters in four hours, 36 minutes. Make that four hours, 33 minutes. Now it’s four hours, 27 minutes. Actually if it takes me four hours to swim 2,000 meters, they will probably be undertaking a recovery operation to find my body. I really want to swim 2,000 meters in under one hour – they will haul me out involuntarily after 1 hour, 30 minutes because they have to clear the lake for the next wave of Olympic-distance triathletes. It’s 2:42. Splash down in four hours, 24 minutes. I really need to go back to sleep. Deep breaths. Slow deep breaths.

At 2:48 AM, I tried to visualize my race so that I would not panic when I hit the cold, dark confines of my Waterloo – TempE.coli Town Lake. I remembered what the drill instructor / swim director had said at the athletes’ meeting  just 12 hours earlier:

The 2,000-meter / 1.2-mile Half-Ironman swim will be marked by giant yellow tetrahedron buoys. We would be swimming eastbound under the light-rail bridge, under the train-trestle, past the boat dock (PLEASE, KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR THE BOAT DOCK – we don’t want anyone swimming into the boat dock and hurting themselves!) under the southbound and northbound lanes of the Mill Avenue Bridges, past the KPMG building, past the ORANGE spherical buoy that marks the Sprint triathlon turn-off, past the second office building, past the large yellow CYLINDRICAL buoy that marks the Olympic triathlon turn-off (1,500 meters), past the condo tower, past A-Mountain, to the GIANT YELLOW TETRAHEDRON BUOY.

“A tetrahedron is a four-sided pyramid,” he explained. Duh, I thought to myself, Who doesn’t know what a tetrahedron is – hello, chemistry?

Half-Ironman swimmers will turn north at the giant yellow tetrahedron buoy, swim 50 meters to the next giant yellow tetrahedron buoy and then turn back and head for home (woo-hoo!) where you will make your final turn southward to the shore at the final giant yellow tetrahedron buoy just past the light-rail bridge.

The drill sergeant then got serious: “We want to keep everyone safe. There is a 3-foot ledge on the south wall of the lake. If you need to rest, you can sit on that ledge – or you can hang on the front or back of a safety kayak. You cannot walk the length of the ledge to complete your swim – you can only rest there. You cannot hang on the side of the kayak because you will tip it over. If you feel you cannot continue, we’ll bring you back. We need everyone to make reasonable decisions. If you appear to be in distress, we will come to you in the water and ask you to make a reasonable decision on whether it is safe for you to continue.”

Lying awake at 2:51 in the morning, I did not want him to ask me to make a reasonable decision.

Instead, feeling sleep-deprived and terrified, I took my place in the lemming-line of white swim caps for the Half-Ironman relay at 6:55 AM. There, I found a friendly face in my friend Trisha – who did the FULL Ironman just last fall. Trisha explained that she was doing a relay as well – but she really hadn’t trained for this swim, so she was just going to relax, take her time and have fun. I, on the other hand, had been training for the past four months and could not see the fun in what we were about to undertake, nor could I conceivably consider relaxing, given that I was about to plunge into 65-degree water!

And then, I jumped. Remembering what the drill instructor had said the day before, I blew out a huge exhalation as soon as I hit the water. Clad in my warm cocoon of Neopreen, I popped back up to the surface where I gulped in the fresh, bracing air and plunged back below the surface to blow out more air.

SINGLE. BEST. TRIATHLON. SWIM. ADVICE. EVER: To avoid panicking when you hit the cold water, force your head underwater and exhale with all you’ve got. Blow that air out. Surface, inhale, repeat.

I’m not sure how or why it works, but I was not dead. I was not hyperventilating. I was breathing. Hooray!

Hot Chick 1: Easily identified by the star on her head.

Predictably, the gun went off. Unpredictably, I did not panic. I just started swimming. Careful not to swim into the boat dock or the bridge piers, I began marking my progress by crossing landmarks off my list: The trestle bridge, the Mill Avenue bridges, the KPMG building, the ORANGE spherical buoy that marked the sprint triathlon turn off (750 meters), the second office building, and then I came upon a large yellow object! Damn! I’m swimming like a madwoman!

“Is this it? Is this where I turn?”

“That’s not it! Keep going! That’s a cylinder - look for the pyramid!”

It was my husband, Team Hot Chicks with Douchebag sherpa Patrick Bertinelli. He was watching my progress from the wall above the 3-foot ledge of reasonable decisions. Apparently, he can walk faster than I can swim.

The yellow cylinder and some random orange pyramid as seen from the giant yellow tetrahedron

Shell-shocked and water-logged

Cheetos and Vodka - Breakfast of Champions

From the Command Center at the Party Pavilion™, we tracked Kristi via GPS – marveling as she crushed the course, averaging 16.7 miles per hour and beating her goal of 16 mph. Two hours after I emerged from the icy depths, team Douchebag / runner David rolled out of bed and decided to join the fun. He texted his progress:

The Douchebag Arrives

At the 10:25 message that the Douchebag was in the building (actually in the parking garage about four buildings over), I responded thusly:

She’s about 4 minutes out. You better hurry!

Pat, Kristi’s husband / Team photographer Chris and I laughed evilly, sipped our adult beverages and waited.

Shit! Come meet me!! 

Pat, Chris and I managed to ROTGLOAOWSOD (roll on the grass, laughing our asses off without spilling our drinks) when I finally decided to let the DB in on the joke.

Oh wait! Chris said 40. 40 minutes. Stupid autocorrect!

By the time David reached the Team Hot Chicks with Douchebag Party Pavilion, he was suitably warmed up and ready to run. He may have been in a lather. Either way, he was about to run 13.1 miles at 11:30 AM on a sunny, Sunday afternoon… and I was not.

Kristi rolled into the transition in 3:21:09.94, tagging David just moments after one of our relay competitors. The battle for Not-Last-Place had been joined! Game on!

It was at this point that the serious drinking commenced. After all, it was officially noon Pacific Time – we had just spotted David walking through the water-stop on the other side of the lake. For a moment, I wished that I had a shock collar so we could have given him a little jolt to keep him running through the water stops so as not to cost us precious time, but his eventual time of 2:41:19.72 was just shy of my personal best for a half-marathon (and he hadn’t been training), and frankly, I knew I couldn’t have done any better in his shoes (running under the noonday sun, whilst we enjoyed cold adult beverages beneath the protective shade of the Party Pavilion.)

Hot Chicks with Douchebag Party Pavilion

And truly, there would be no Team Hot Chicks with Douchebag without the Douchebag, since neither I nor Kristi had any intention of running a half-marathon after 1) swimming 1.2 miles and 2) riding 56 miles. And so, as David crossed the finish line, we cheered vigorously and ran with him, managing not to spill our drinks and presenting him with an adult sippy-cup of cold beer in a bicycle bottle.

For the Douchebag, good enough was good enough. Team Hot Chicks with Douchebag triumphed! We did not finish last. Instead, a penultimate,¹ Top 20 finish was ours!

Hot Chicks with Douchebag - We got medals!

 

Thank you, Laurie, for coming up with this appropriate euphemism for NEXT TO LAST.

 

 

1. Why exactly did I think it was a good idea to test my newly rehabbed shoulder by swimming the relay leg for a half-Ironman triathlon?
2. In what world would sushi be optimal race-fuel for my first 1,000-meter training race in said wetsuit?
3. Why did I wait until the week before the race to test-drive the wetsuit?
4. What was I thinking when I signed up for a 90-minute yoga class two hours prior to said training race?

Exercise of course teaches us important lessons about ourselves, and the answers came during my 26-minute, 59.5-second sojourn:

1. A Half-Ironman – Really? The folks at Spooner Physical Therapy attributed my shoulder pain to hyper-mobility. How did they know it was hyper-mobility without taking an x-ray or doing thousands of dollars worth of magnetic resonance imaging? During my initial exam, my therapist Kevin was being shadowed by a trainee. He said, “Stacy has a classic case of hyper-mobility in both of her shoulders. Watch this!” At which point, Kevin proceeded to put my arms behind my head, the trainee gasped and I didn’t faint. Apparently this exaggerated range of motion is why I’m a pretty decent (though not fast) swimmer. So after six weeks of  training with Kevin and Steven, my shoulders felt great. They’d made me better… stronger… faster… (but apparently not smarter). I had a coupon for half-off the half-Ironman race and that’s 70.2 miles of awesomeness. My triathlon teammate Kristi thought a 50-something mile bike ride sounded challenging, and we were able to persuade our friend David to run the half-marathon leg because he wanted to hear “Crossing the finish line for Team Hot Chicks with Douchebag – David P!” I figured if I swam 1,500 meters last year before rehab, I might as well go another 500, right?
2. Sushi for a Pre-Race Meal? Less filling… Tastes great! It’d been a year since I wedged myself into my fat suit wetsuit. I’d eaten at Lo-Lo’s Chicken and Waffles since then. And I like sushi. It goes well with champagne… and Chardonnay… and Absolut Pears and club soda.
3. Procrastination or Preparation? Actually I have a good reason for this. I took my first open-water swimming lesson in the Pacific Ocean the day after the Japanese tsunami. This little adventure almost caused my Dad to suffer a massive heart attack because a) I was swimming in the Pacific Ocean the day after the tsunami and b) my Mom let me do this and even watched me (yes, at the time, I was a 39-year-old adult). To extend his life-expectancy, I promised my Dad that I would not swim outside the presence of a lifeguard ever again. The Arizona Open-Water Swim at Tempe Town Lake on Saturday afternoon met that criteria – but it just happened to be one week before my big half-Ironman. Yes, there were other, organized open-water swims earlier in the season, but they were scheduled for 5 AM at Bartlett Lake. I prefer to swim after work because it is a) daylight and b) not 5 AM.
4. But You Hate Yoga! I got nothing. When I signed up for the class, I thought that yoga would put me in a calm mental state so I would not panic when I hit the 64-degree confines of Tempe Town Lake in my shrink-wrapped, sushi-stuffed wetsuit. I thought it might be a gentle way to warm up the rehabbed shoulder before the big swim, except that this yoga class involved nonstop, shoulder-punishing push-ups and downward-facing dogs.

So about that calm mental state when I hit the water? Yeah… here’s a recap:

WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE!!! I’M SWIMMING IN AN E.COLI-INFESTED DENIZEN OF DISEASE AND VERMIN! I CAN’T SEE MY HANDS! I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET! I JUST SWAM THROUGH A HOT-POCKET OF SWIMMER-URINE… AND IT GOT IN MY MOUTH!!! WHY DID I WATCH THAT SHOW LAST NIGHT ABOUT THE PARASITES AND WORMS THAT LIVE ON OUR BODIES (even though it starred my TV crush Mike Rowe)!!!! OH MY GOD, WAS THAT A PINWORM THAT JUST CRAWLED OUT MY BUTT OR DID I JUST LOSE ALL BOWEL CONTROL?  I’M TIRED OF THESE MOTHER-EFFING SNAKES IN THIS MOTHER-EFFING LAKE!!!

SNAKES CAN SWIM! THEY SWIM WHEN THEY ARE CHASING FOOD - OH THE HUMANITY! WAS THAT JUST A MANATEE? THIS DUDE JUST TRIED TO SWIM OVER ME – DUDE! WATCH YOUR LINE! THE MAIN POD OF SWIMMERS IS MILES PAST US! THERE ARE ONLY ABOUT 10 OF US STRAGGLERS BACK HERE - YOU HAVE 910,000 SQUARE METERS OF OPEN WATER AND YET YOU WANT TO SWIM OVER ME???

IF I SURVIVE THIS SWIM, I’LL NEVER LEAVE DRY LAND AGAIN! MUST… PUT… HEAD… DOWN… AND GET OUT OF THIS GUY’S WAY! DON’T PANIC! DON’T PANIC! WHAT’S THAT STRANGE CLICKING IN MY RIGHT SHOULDER? WHAT’S THAT SHOOTING PAIN IN MY LOWER BACK? THIS SWIM IS ONLY HALF OF WHAT I HAVE TO DO AT THE HALF-IRONMAN – HOW AM I GONNA SURVIVE THAT SWIM WITH REALLY FIT PEOPLE WHO KNOW HOW TO DO YOGA AND DON’T EAT SUSHI! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!

DO NOT PANIC! DO NOT PANIC! JUST KEEP SWIMMING. JUST KEEP SWIMMING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING. DUDE, SERIOUSLY, BACK THE FUCK¹ OFF OF ME! THAT DOES NOT MEAN CRAWL OVER MY BACK! I’VE WARNED YOU TWICE – DON’T JUST SAY YOU’RE SORRY, STOP SWIMMING OVER ME! LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING! YOU SWIM OVER ME AGAIN AND I WILL CLUB YOU LIKE A BABY SEAL – WE’RE IN A FREAKIN’ LAKE – IT’S NOT LIKE WE’RE SHARING A LANE AT PHOENIX MUNI. I’LL KICK YOU IN THE HEAD NEXT TIME AND I WON’T REGRET IT!

I AM PUTTING MY HEAD DOWN AND PUTTING IT IN GEAR!  EAT MY WORM-INFESTED FOAM, ASSHOLE!² LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT-BREATHE-RIGHT-LEFT-RIGHT-BREATHE-Left-right-left-breathe-right-left-right-breathe-left: HOLY SHIT!³ I’VE JUST COLLIDED WITH THE GIANT INFLATABLE TURN BUOY! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

WAIT! THE TURN-BUOY! THIS MEANS I HAVE ONLY 200 METERS TO GO! THANK YOU JESUS! THANK YOU JESUS! THANK YOU JESUS! I PROMISE NEVER TO SAY ANOTHER BAD WORD AS LONG AS I MAKE IT BACK TO THE SHORE! LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT-BREATHE-RIGHT-LEFT-RIGHT-BREATHE-LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT – WHAT’S THAT UNDER MY FEET?  IT’S SAND! IT’S BEACH! IT MIGHT EVEN BE A BROKEN BEER BOTTLE, BUT I DON’T CARE! MY FEET CAN TOUCH THE BOTTOM AND I’VE HAD MY TETANUS BOOSTERS! I’M SAVED! I MADE IT! I’M ALIVE!

Staggering up the shore, I finished my 1,000 meter odyssey in 26:59.5. Starving and delusional, I stumbled to the post-race feed stand to stuff my maw with non-sushi nourishment while they called out the names of the age-group winners. 

“First place in the women’s 40-to-49 age group for 1,000-meter wetsuit division: Stacey -” 

Wha? I started bounding toward the awards podium.

“… Jarriel. Of Fountain Hills. Age 47. Stacey Jarriel. She finished in 16 minutes, 46.7 seconds!”

WTF? I applauded boisterously and slithered back into the crowd. Like I said, starving and delusional. I finished 18th of 20 women in the 1,000-meter wetsuit division – 36th of 40 total wetsuit-clad swimmers – and ninth of 11 in my age-group. The other Stacey also won the women’s overall 1,000-meter race. Of course, had I ditched the wetsuit, I would have finished third… of three people… and I would have frozen to death.

Discouraged, I slunk home and sent a facebook message to my Hot Chicks with Douchebag teammates: “So how married are y’all to the half-Ironman distance?” I whined about my shoulder. I suggested we switch to the Olympic distance event since I wouldn’t have to swim as far. I complained that I would be the anchor around the ankles of our half-Ironman team. And this is why I’m glad triathlon is a team sport: Kristi told me how hard she’d been training for the half-Ironman distance (David, not so much). I couldn’t very well let them down, so I steeled my resolve, iced the shoulder, gobbled down some Aleve and decided to sleep on it.

When I woke up this morning, I decided to indulge my curiosity and see how Saturday’s little open-water adventure compared to my races last year. Lo and behold: In my very first 1,000-meter open-water race one year ago in Tempe Town Lake, I finished in 36:30.7 – almost 10 minutes slower than Saturday. At my last 1,000-meter open-water swim in April 2011, I finished in 32:10.9. So maybe I really am better… stronger… faster… just still not a whole lot smarter.

 ¹²³ Yes, I gave up cursing again for Lent this year. I’m obviously writing this AFTER Easter, but I said these words BEFORE Easter, so I’m happy to say that A New Leaf will receive $107 from me ($1 per curse word). It actually was an improvement over 2011.

(Aside to Ross: Having a Y chromosome means you’re a dude – FYI.)

The Arizona Senate is scheduling a re-vote on HB2625 – the bill that would allow any employer to opt out of covering contraception through their insurance plan for “moral or religious” reasons, requiring an employee (or their spouse) to approach the insurer directly with an affidavit showing the woman needs hormonal birth control for reasons other than pregnancy prevention, because the insurer of the morally objecting employer won’t have to cover contraception for pregnancy prevention.

Please note, Arizona already has a law on the books that allows religious institutions such as churches to opt out of contraception coverage when it is in direct opposition to their religious teachings. HB2625 would expand this exemption to any employer for any moral reason.

The bill was defeated 17-13 in the Senate on March 28 when seven Republicans joined Democrats in voting it down – but it’s not dead yet. Those seven Republicans need your help – and so do the ladies.

If you are a virgin guy and you have aspirations of some day having sex with a lady friend – without having to worry about whether or not this exciting (and likely short-lived) encounter may or may not turn that pee-stick pink – those Republicans need to hear from you.

If you are a single guy, and you are not having to pay child support on an unwanted child because your intimate partner was / is on the Pill, those Republicans need to hear from you.

If you are a guy in a long-term relationship, and you and your girlfriend haven’t decided whether you are getting married, let alone whether you want children, those Republicans need to hear from you.

If you are a married guy, and you and your wife have decided X-number of children is enough (or zero is a number) and you’ve had a vasectomy, those Republicans need to hear from you.

If you are a gay guy and you think that what happens in anybody’s bedroom is nobody’s business, those Republicans need to hear from you.

Contraception is not a woman’s issue: It’s a societal issue – which means it’s a man’s issue. Unplanned pregnancies result in children that we all have to pay for through increased insurance premiums, more welfare benefits, larger classrooms in our schools and greater strains on our societal safety net. Interestingly, increased access to contraception does result in decreased abortions, because you can’t abort a fetus if you can’t get pregnant. Duh!

You may have heard that this debate is about religious freedom, fellas, but I’m here to tell you: THIS DEBATE IS ABOUT FREEDOM FROM HAVING TO PRAY THAT SHE GETS HER PERIOD WHEN THE CONDOM BREAKS. And you’ve all been there (well, except for the gay guys).

You benefit (or you may have benefited at some point in your sexual history) from having your lady friend take those pills at the same time, every day, week in and week out, so you can get some sweet lovin’ without having to worry about making babies. You may not be footing the bill at the pharmacy today, but you would definitely be footing the bill through child support tomorrow if she weren’t taking those pills or getting those shots and something unplanned happened (oops!) .

So it’s time to Man Up for Your Lady Friends – because your deep voices are not being heard at the state capitol and we can’t fight this alone. Here’s what I need you to do: Write an email in your own words and send it to those seven Republicans, and do it before the close of business on Monday, April 2.

And because I don’t have a Y chromosome, I’m going to do most of the work for you – so pay attention:

1. Open your email program: You will be writing seven separate emails to the following senators: Rich Crandall of Mesa; Adam Driggs of Phoenix; Jerry Lewis of Mesa; John McComish of Phoenix; John Nelson of Litchfield Park; Steve Pierce of Prescott; and Michele Reagan of Scottsdale. Here’s the link to the Senate email contacts page. You can write one email and copy it seven times if you want, but make sure you change the names.
2. Identify yourself as a voter: I’m a married Republican man… I’m a single guy… I’m a young voting man… I am a male voter who lives in your district – and yes, it helps that you live in their district, but you don’t HAVE to live there, but it does matter that you are a guy. (It doesn’t matter if you haven’t voted in Arizona yet, I’ll make sure you get registered so we don’t have to go through this again, Ross. It really doesn’t even matter if you’re from Canada, Jason, what matters is that our elected officials are making decisions that will impact your personal life while you live in our state).
3. RESPECTFULLY thank these seven Republicans for voting AGAINST HB2625. This is important because they went against their party dogma by voting against this harebrained bill. They are under INCREDIBLE pressure to change their votes on the re-vote. By sending this email (and I already sent mine – and Patrick’s going to send his this afternoon), you as a DUDE are basically saying, “Dude, thanks for representing for us guys who like to have sex with the ladies. I appreciate your putting your wedding tackle on the line. Fight the good fight.” (But please don’t say that exactly). Did I mention that six of these seven Republicans were men? This is why it’s imperative for them to hear from men. They need political cover to say, “I’m hearing from women AND MEN from across the state who are opposed to this bill.”
4. Explain your position on the issue – and this is where your words are important. Do you believe that freedom of religion means freedom from religion? That as a Jewish man, David, you do not want Catholic beliefs being legislated to you? Do you believe that our state has more important priorities to address like rebuilding our economy and balancing our state budget and that shenanigans like this are distracting from real work, Phil? Do you believe that this is a personal issue between you and your girlfriend and that limited government has no place in your bedroom, Chris? Do you believe that this is poorly written legislation that will likely invite lengthy and expensive court challenges on what the definition of “moral objection” is – or that this law could easily morph from a moral objection against contraception to a moral objection against childhood vaccines or blood transfusions, Tom? Do you want to live out your retirement in peace without having to take in a (surprise!) grandchild, John? Is your wife covered on your health insurance, and if so, do you believe it is an intrusion into her privacy to have to go before strangers at an insurance company to plead her case to be covered, Mike? Well, do you, punks?
5. Tell them you hope they will exercise the same courage and vote against this bill when it comes up again. Yes, you have to say this, even if you are a Democrat. Remember, it was easy for the Democrats to vote against this bill.
6. Thank them for their service to our state. Hey, they ran for office so you don’t have to. They deserve credit for that.
7. Hit send and then encourage your other male friends to Man Up for THEIR Lady Friends.

Actually, she married her fiancé, about 3 years and 3 months after I introduced them, set them up on their first date and then took them on their first date. On Friday, I just closed the deal – officiating their wedding ceremony in my new role as a licensed minister.

The Pastor of Disaster. The Sinister Minister. The Right Reverend of Wrong – I answer to them all, because I am – as of October 11, 2011 – a fully ordained, licensed minister, authorized under Title 25, Article 3, Section 125 of the Arizona Revised Statutes to perform a marriage ceremony in the Grand Canyon State.

The happy couple preferred to call me the Minister of Love and Awesomeness, and that suits me just fine – because the title doesn’t matter, what matters to the state of Arizona is that I filled out a form online, received my free ordination from The Universal Life Church Monastery, downloaded my free ordination certification, and then ordered the Monastery Credential Package for $49.99, which includes the “classic” gold and black official wallet card, a parking pass, a pen, 11 marriage, baptism and house-blessing certificates, and a bumper sticker that says “MINISTER” (a $75 value).

I didn’t have to order the Credential Package – because just downloading the ordination certificate met the criteria outlined by the state – but the parking pass was worth the price of admission, and Pat indulged me by hanging the hang-tag on his rearview mirror while we drove the groom to the site of the ceremony on Friday afternoon. I just wish that everyone else stuck in traffic with us could have gotten a better view of its awesome power.

And with awesome power comes awesome responsibility: I was overwhelmed and humbled by the honor of being asked to marry this couple. In fact, it was all I could do to keep from bawling my eyes out during the service – my hands trembled but my voice stayed strong (as long as I didn’t look at her). Neither the bride, nor the groom, has what we in the South would call a “church home,” but they wanted something more for their ceremony, beyond the dry recitations of a justice of the peace, and I was happy to oblige. As the one who started this snowball rolling, I was thrilled to bring it full circle. I spent two weeks writing the ceremony, weaving in the story of how they met, incorporating the wedding theme of Frogs and Dogs (a deft touch, I might add) and including Biblical scripture and poems that were meaningful to the couple.

It was my first marriage as a minister, and I hope it won’t be my last.

I believe anyone above the age of consent should have the opportunity to get married: Agnostics, Catholics, Britney Spears, schizophrenics, Jews, non-citizens, Evangelicals, interracials, inter-faiths, liberals, Nazis, the Kardashians, atheists, Newt Gingrich, satanists, tea-party activists, straights and gays. In fact, any of those people can get married anywhere in the United States of America – anyone except the gays.

Knowing the laws of the state of Arizona – and researching the laws of other states – any consenting adult of any race or any faith or any sexual orientation in our country SHOULD be able to get married. Like Arizona, the majority of states will allow any judge, ship’s captain or licensed clergy member to marry a couple – they just happen to require that the couple be a man and a woman, except in six states, the District of Columbia and on two Indian reservations.

So states decide who can get married but none require that the couple be married in a religious ceremony. That would be crossing the line between church and state. As far as I can tell, no state requires a religious test for anyone to get married – they don’t ask whether you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior when you walk up the courthouse steps. They don’t prohibit atheists from getting married, and they don’t ask whether this union will fulfill the goal of procreation as dictated in the Bible.

So why is it that some states are adhering to the principles of some religious sects by prohibiting two people in love – two gay people – from getting married in a civil ceremony? And why is it that some members of our legislative branch want to amend our Constitution to adopt a religious principle as the foundation for the civil code of marriage – in violation of the First Amendment of said Constitution?

The gloves are coming off because this is where, I, as an ordained minister, give the what-for to my companions of the cloth:

Lame Argument No. 1: Marriage should be between a man and a woman because marriage is for the purpose of procreation.

Oh really? I guess that means that Pat and I have to get a divorce because we have no plans to have his vasectomy reversed. I’m sure that means that good Christian women who can’t have children should never fall in love. I guess that means that widowers who court post-menopausal women should just “shack up” them instead (in violation of that whole Biblical anti-fornication thing). And speaking of adulterers, I guess that means Newt Gingrich should throw Callista to the curb since she has not borne him any babies. Next!

Lame Argument No. 2: Gay marriage will undermine straight marriage.

Divorce rates have not skyrocketed in the states that allow gay marriage. In fact, they have gone DOWN. Every time a straight marriage ends in divorce… it undermines straight marriage (Newt Gingrich, for the hat trick!). You’re not taking marriageable material out of the wedding market by removing gay men from the equation. They don’t want to marry your daughters – and you don’t want them to marry your daughters, so why do you care if they marry each other? If you’re that worried about them, just pray for them. It’s not like you’ll see those sinners in heaven… unless of course, you’re wrong. Next!

Lame Argument No. 3: If you allow gay marriage, what about pedophiles and bestiality and polygamy? What’s to stop a pedophile from marrying a child! What’s to stop a man from marrying a goat! It’s a slippery slope! You’re leaving the barn door open to Gomorrah!

Our laws are designed to protect those who cannot speak for themselves. It’s called “consent.” An animal cannot consent to being raped. A child cannot consent to being molested. Laws are in place to prevent this from happening and prosecute the ugly people who do so. Sadly, these laws don’t always work as well as they should (hello, Catholic Church!) but we’re trying. In the Arizona Strip, where the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is brainwashing and forcing teen-aged girls into plural marriage in the name of their religion, government officials in Arizona and Utah are working to provide safe havens for those young women, and they have prosecuted, convicted and imprisoned the leader of the sect. If you are concerned about welfare fraud achieved through polygamous unions, we already have laws on the books to prevent fraudulent abuse of benefits. If consenting adults want to be polyamorous in their bedrooms, I don’t care – it doesn’t undermine my relationship with my husband. They are consenting adults - and I am not a peeping Tom. The numbers of polygamous people are infinitesimally small compared to the numbers of loving gay couples who want the same legal protections as straight couples – oh, and they happen to love each other just as much as their straight counterparts.

Lame Argument No. 4: Gay marriage will undermine our religious freedoms.

No, it won’t. As it stands, our states have incorporated religious activity into our civil code by saying that a licensed minister can legally marry a couple… but STATES DON’T REQUIRE THAT A CLERGY MEMBER PERFORM THE CEREMONY. Allowing any couple to get married while sky-diving or driving through a Vegas chapel or standing in line at the courthouse or reciting their vows in a courtyard before their family and friends does not undermine the sanctity of a church marriage. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t impact a church marriage, beyond possibly taking rental fees off the table for certain Saturdays. With gay marriage, you can still have your straight religious ceremonies, and you will not be required to marry gay people – just like Pentecostal churches aren’t required to marry Jews and synagogs aren’t required to marry Muslims and none of them are required to marry non-believers. There is NO RELIGIOUS TEST to get a marriage license in this country – so why are people who are committed and in love required to conform to religious beliefs (gays are evil) that they may not share?

I performed my first wedding ceremony on Friday, and I hope it won’t be my last. The State of Arizona has conferred upon my free online certification a power that is commensurate with that of a preacher who serves a congregation of thousands and that of an elected municipal court judge and that of a Supreme Court Justice of the United States. It is a mighty power – the power of love – and it will overcome fear and prejudice and stupidity, I know it will.

I look forward to the day I can marry my gay friends, because it’s coming – it’s coming soon. Love will conquer. Love conquers all.

The victim appeared to be a 110-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback

If you ever have to dispose of a body, do yourself a favor and don’t chop it up and transport it in the back of you car. Just ditch the car – wipe the prints and roll it off a mountaintop.

I can assure you: The trunk of your car will never be the same after it’s housed a dead body. The clean-up is long, loud and ultimately impossible. There will be blood – lots of it – and some day far in the future when you’re thinking you’ve managed to escape the long arm of justice, some crafty crime scene investigator or blood-spatter analyst will come along and bust your ass¹ for busting a cap in someone else’s ass.

I know this because Pat and I spent $354.31 and two hours last night cleaning up the aftermath of Coolidge Carnage™.

Those of you who are faint of heart may not want to read on or access our Gallery of Gore™.

Our mystery begins on Friday, October 21, 2011: The suspects – Patrick and Stacy Bertinelli – departed their house for an evening at a charitable wine-tasting event where they established an air-tight alibi. At least six witnesses submitted sworn statements that Stacy was seen at the crab-legs bar on four (4) separate occasions that night, and the Deschutes Brewery representative testified that Patrick Bertinelli “begged” him for extra samples of his special Stoic Belgian Brew.

Hungover, but not in violation of driving-while-intoxicated statutes, the couple returned home the following morning to find blood smeared all over the door-stoop leading from the garage to the side yard. This is the exit their canine companions – Coolidge, age 8, and Winslow, age 7 – use to access the backyard where they bark for no reason, dig holes and deposit copious quantities of poo-based evidence. Examining the blood that covered the 3-foot-by-5-foot concrete pad, our suspects posited three theories as to its provenance:

1. Coolidge and Winslow must have killed a medium-sized animal (likely suspects: a spectacularly fat pigeon, a dim but well-fed rat, or that surly cat from next door) and they ate or buried every last part of it – claws, paws, beaks, tails and all – since there was no evidence of fur or feather in the yard.
2. An interloper scaled the block wall and tried to break-and-enter into the house through the extra-large dog door (Coolidge is 110 pounds, after all), and the miscreant was intercepted by the dogs who attacked and sent him scurrying away to other nefarious deeds.
3. Either Coolidge or Winslow must have suffered a serious cut or scrape, but a thorough investigation of both dogs turned up no puncture wounds or lacerations.

Fast forward to the night of Monday, February 27, 2012: Our suspects were enjoying a peaceful evening at home, resting comfortably on the couch and watching TV. At or around 7:30 PM, the aforementioned Coolidge roused himself from his position of repose on the floor at their feet. He wandered to the kitchen – a trail of bright red blood dripping behind him.

“HOLY SHIT!² HE’S BLEEDING!”

Chaos ensued as Patrick retrieved the first-aid kit. They could see that the victim had some form of wound on his left front leg near the elbow, but there was so much blood they could not determine what kind of cut it was. They wrestled Coolidge to the floor, doused the cut with hydrogen peroxide, applied an extra-large gauze pad and wrapped the site in athletic tape – at which point the blood started dripping through the bandage. The suspects called their veterinarian, Dr. Jeff Brown.

“Dr. Brown! Sorry to call you at home at night on your cell phone! Coolidge cut himself and he’s bleeding all over the place! We can’t stop it! Should we go to the emergency vet! It’s a lot of blood!”

Dr. Brown reassured the suspects that the dog would not in fact bleed to death before their very eyes and that hydrogen peroxide interferes with clotting (Important Safety Tip). Application of firm pressure for an extended period stanched the flow. A new bandage was applied and plans were made to follow up with a visit to Dr. Brown’s office on Wednesday, as he does not work on Tuesdays. Patrick agreed it would be prudent to work from home on Tuesday to observe Coolidge. The couple then set about cleaning the palm-sized puddle of blood from under the couch and the spatter evidence scattered across the kitchen and family room. A can-and-a-half of Spot Shot later, and the blood was gone.

On Tuesday, Coolidge licked the carpet, pooped in the yard, lifted his leg and generally appeared to be free from pain or aftereffects of the injury. Neither Pat nor Stacy removed the bandage to examine the wound site closely because they feared re-starting the gusher. They would leave that to Dr. Brown on Wednesday.

Having managed a day without bloodspurt, Patrick and Stacy secured Coolidge in the laundry room with access to the backyard on Wednesday morning. Around 3:30 PM that afternoon, Patrick returned home to retrieve Coolidge for the follow-up visit to Dr. Brown. Running late, Patrick rushed into the house, dropped his wallet on the counter*, grabbed Coolidge’s leash and had to force his way past Winslow who was whining and barking and trying to either join Coolidge on a trip to the vet or prevent both Coolidge and Patrick from taking said trip…

(Clue: Does this behavior seem a little too much like Lassie trying to save Timmy from the well?)

With Coolidge safely ensconced in the back of Patrick’s 2008 Chevrolet TrailBlazer SS, Patrick departed the Pinnacle Reserve neighborhood, heading south on Scottsdale Road and observing all posted speed limits (shocking, we know, but he testified that he didn’t want to jostle Coolidge). Arriving at the Loop 101 and preparing to head east, the suspect looked over his shoulder to check on the victim, and instead found Exhibit A:

It looks like paint... but it's evidence.

At this point, Patrick decided to ignore all posted speed limits and HOV lane restrictions and proceeded at a controlled rate of roughly 100 miles per hour down Loop 101 to the Scottsdale Ranch Animal Hospital. He was not intercepted by law enforcement, but if he had been, we can imagine three (3) outcomes:

1. The arresting officer asks for the suspect’s license and registration, sees the carnage and gives the suspect a lights-and-sirens escort to the animal hospital.
2. The arresting officer asks for the suspect’s license and registration, sees the carnage and arrests the suspect on suspicion of animal cruelty.
3. The arresting officer asks for the suspect’s license and registration, completely ignores the carnage and arrests the suspect for felony speeding, driving alone in the High Occupancy Vehicle Lane, and driving without a license*.

Fortunately, the suspect and victim arrived at Scottsdale Ranch Animal Hospital without incident, wherein they sloshed into the reception area, announcing: “We need some towels!” Upon seeing the victim, the staff gave Patrick and Coolidge the red-carpet treatment – bypassing the waiting area, the mandatory weigh-in, the rectal thermometer, and going directly to Dr. Brown: “We’ve got a bleeding dog in here!”

At which point, Dr. Brown observed: “That’s a lot of blood.”

And later: “This won’t stop bleeding.”

To which the suspect replied, “Now you know why we called you at home on Monday night.”

Dr. Brown then asked, “Do you have any errands you can run? This might take a while.”

The suspect called his accomplice at roughly 4:20 PM to relay the circumstances that brought him to the Animal Hospital and to corroborate their stories. He then proceeded to Target to buy supplies to cover up the crime: Two cans of Spot Shot, a carpet steam-cleaner, carpet cleaning solution… and while at the Target, he realized he had in fact left his wallet at the house. Just go ahead and add attempted robbery to the rap sheet.

Saving Patrick further embarrassment, Dr. Brown then called the suspect to retrieve Coolidge. The diagnosis: A skin tag on his left front leg had been torn off, the bleeding so profuse that Dr. Brown’s vet tech had to hold her finger on the wound so Dr. Brown could shave the site. Cauterized and stitched up, Coolidge was ready to end this adventure, crawl back into the bloody SUV and head home.

Patched up and headed for home

If only that were the end of the story. Instead, arriving at the scene of the crime, the suspect encountered the Gallery of Gore™.

Back Porch Blood Sport

Deck Disaster - Part 1

Deck Disaster - Part 2: The Carnage Continues

It was this bloody nightmare that Winslow had tried to warn Patrick about when he stopped by the house to pick Coolidge up. It was here that we learned the limits of Crime Scene Clean-Up: Two-and-a-half cans of Spot Shot, a quarter-jug of Bissel Pet and Odor remover and an hour’s worth of loving from the Bissel Lift-Off Carpet Cleaner, and we were still pulling blood spatter out of the truck’s interior. It’s not like we could take the truck to the Classic Car Auto Spa – they would have called the cops as soon as they opened up the gate to shampoo the floor mats.

Disposing of the evidence - blood and carpet cleaner

Suffice it to say, it was then that we realized a few crime-scene truths:

1. We can’t let anyone in our backyard until we either a) put down tape outlines of the bodies or b) resurface the deck.
2. We probably shouldn’t ever try to sell that truck because a quick dousing of Luminol would result in some cold-case re-openings
3. If you ever decide to murder someone, you shouldn’t just chop up the body and throw it in the trunk of the car. Take the extra time to purchase some contractor bags to keep the blood off the upholstery.
4. Pay attention when Lassie tries to tell you that Timmy has fallen down the well.
5. Coolidge may not be a blood hound, but damn³, that dog can bleed – though he did not bleed anywhere on the carpet on Wednesday. He kept it all outside, and that my friends, is a good dog.

¹ ² ³ I gave up cursing again for Lent, so that’ll be a $3 donation to charity.

Symptoms of MAWS include repeated, illogical refrains of “as long as we’re _____, we might as well _____.” The resulting complications from this debilitating affliction include inability to set boundaries with hardware store employees, inflated credit card debt, paint-stained clothing, compulsive list-making, marital discord and weekend-long blackout periods not brought on by excessive drinking.

If you find yourself bleary-eyed on a Monday morning, wondering where your weekend went while crossing “touch-up baseboard paint” off a list written on the back of an envelope, you might as well ask your doctor about Might-As-Well Syndrome.

Like the prickle of rash that foreshadows full-blown shingles, you might recognize MAWS in its nascent form: As long as you’re up, could you get me another beer? Or perhaps you’ve succumbed to the traveling contagion: As long as we’re in Europe, we might as well go to Prague, and Paris, and Berlin, and Rome, and Florence, and Athens… and spend the majority of our two weeks of vacation experiencing the interiors of trains, planes and automobiles rather than soaking up the culture and history of just one interesting place.

The idea behind MAWS is to reduce workload by applying momentum to a new and different task, but you will soon learn that sustained momentum is only more work. As long as I’m enjoying my inertia, I might as well forgo momentum and keep my ass parked comfortably on the couch with my cold beer.

Here’s what momentum looks like – printed out from Patrick’s master list, version 3.2, and updated as we cross off items in an inexorable march toward “progress.”

Notice how Pat likes to use 8-point font to fit it on one page.

It started out – 19 days ago – with granite countertops. The laminate in our kitchen had actually started coming up in some areas, and the seam near the coffee pot had begun to split. We had a little money set aside, and Pat had test-driven the Home Depot estimator before contacting a contractor friend for a quote.

For the cost to do just the kitchen at Home Depot, we could do the kitchen and both bathroom countertops with the contractor… oh, and as long as they’re installing the kitchen countertop, they might as well extend it out so we can have a bar, too.

And since we now have a counter-height bar in our kitchen, we might as well saw the legs off the kitchen-table bar stools so they will fit under it, instead of buying new barstools… which meant Pat now needed to buy a miter box and saw.

And since we’re getting a granite counter and new sinks for the master bath, we might as well get rid of that ugly brass vanity light and put a decorative frame around the bare mirror so we can match the new faucets that match the new oil-rubbed bronze hardware… and maybe we can get a quote from the contractor on replacing the rattletrap shower and ripping out the plastic bathtub and installing a new tile backsplash and oh wait, that won’t fit in the budget.

But the vanity light definitely needs to go. It’s brass. It came with the house (built 13 years ago – in the 90s, eesh!) It looks like something out of a movie about a Broadway musical… and three of the light bulbs have burned out (though I could easily replace them with a trip to the supermarket and a $10 bill). And as long as we’re getting rid of that hideous vanity light in the bathroom, we might as well pull down the dated can-lights in the kitchen and install a sleek, new monorail system that matches the sleek new stainless appliances that we replaced last year when the microwave and refrigerator and dishwasher all went out in the same week.

And as long as we’re getting new overhead lights in the kitchen, we might as well install the under-cabinet lights we’ve been talking about for the past six years – oh, and we could make pendant lights out of wine bottles like we saw in that restaurant, which means Pat needs to get a new grinder and blade for his Dremel tool.

It also means Stacy has a new justification for drinking heavily.

Back to that hideous vanity bar-light: What do you mean it wasn’t centered? And the new six-fixture light won’t cover the hole? Fortunately, Pat is handy with a drywall saw… and it’s good thing we decided to paint the master bath because it’ll look as good as new once he’s done patching that hole, and priming the drywall, and painting the patch.

And as long as we’re painting the master bath, we might as well go ahead and knock out the whole bedroom. It’s only two more gallons of Valspar Timber Dust matte finish- and with the new primer-paint mixture, it’ll cover up that blue glaze in just one coat.

Yeah, about that blue glaze: When we first moved to the desert (in August 1999), our eyes had trouble adjusting to a sun-blasted horizon of bleak brown, bleached tan, burned ocher and dead grass. So we decided to faux finish the bedroom with a pretty blue that sort-of looked like watercolors and sort-of looked like the sky (if you live in a bad Van Gogh painting). Yeah, it was easy on the eyes… for about five years.

But now our master bedroom is coated in the soothing tones of Timber Dust, which looks an awful lot like the bleak, brown, dirt-hued colors we’d been trying to avoid.

I don’t pretend to be handy. That’s Pat’s domain: He installed all of the faucets (no leaks!) after the contractor finished with the granite and sinks. He wired the lights. He used the miter saw. He wields a mean roll of painter’s tape. I basically have a strong back, I don’t normally fall off ladders, and I can parry a roller-brush with minimal whining… for about three hours as long as you give me clear instructions on what you want me to do. I can’t intuit what task is coming next – in fact, if home improvement has taught me anything, it’s that I now understand how men feel when asked, “Does this make me look fat?”

There’s no right answer. They can’t read minds.

Which is why it’s best for me never to ask, “Am I doing this right?” because it opens an hour-long dissertation on how to tape or why we try to pick up the end of the roller at the completion of each stroke and why eggshell is better than satin, but honestly matte is the best, and my eyes are glazing over… and “You’re not paying attention!”

No, I’m not… that’s why there’s paint on the ceiling.

In fact, you can normally tell how I progress around a room with the paint can based on how many times the ceiling and trim are nicked. (I move counterclockwise). And as long as I’m wearing out every three hours and painting the ceiling as well as the walls, we might as well touch up the ceiling (not that I care – who looks at a ceiling?), and as long as we’re touching up the ceiling, Pat might as well just spend a Saturday morning on his back on the floor re-painting the floorboards… and as long as he’s in the bedroom doing that, he might as well move onto the hallway floorboards since they no longer match the bedroom, and as long as he’s in the hallway, I might as well get the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser on that weird swath of brown that seems to track the exact shoulder-height of our dogs.

Do they scratch themselves on our hallway walls when we’re not around?

Why yes, yes they do. We learned that after running through two Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.

And yes, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser really works.

Now where was I? Countertops. Check. Barstools. Check. Vanity light. Check. Master bath paint. Check. Master bedroom paint. Check. (Might as well do the water closet while we’re at it). (Check). Kitchen lights. Check. Under cabinet lights. Check.

We’ve abandoned the fancy wine-bottle pendants, at least for now (though I have not abandoned drinking heavily). Still, we have not cancelled the “Record Series” command on the DVR for “all of the above” on HGTV and DIY Network… because as long as those under-cabinet lights are working, we might as well put the easy-close hinges on all the cabinets… and as long as we’re…

Well, that’s why they call it a syndrome and not an acute illness. It can’t be cured – and it can barely be managed. The first step is admitting you have a problem. The second step is turning off HGTV. The third step is telling your spouse to put a sock in it next time she starts a sentence with “As long as we’re…”

As long as we’re droning on about home improvement, we might as well finish up now.

Google Translation:

We found them!

Katarina and Hrvoje’s wedding album is on its way to its rightful owners. The better news is that I didn’t have to send the 9.4-pound package to Croatia, which would have been $86.80 via the U.S. Postal Service (3-5 business days) or $395 on the UPS Worldwide Saver Plan… though the happy couple would have been guaranteed to receive it by close of business on Monday, January 30 – if they actually lived in Croatia, which they do not.

Instead, they will receive their prodigal photo album no later than Tuesday, January 31 at an undisclosed location on this side of the Atlantic – and Katarina and Hrvoje have a tracking number to boot, since we (that is, all of us) are no longer tracking them.

Yeah, about that… the terms of the restraining order have not been finalized yet, so I have a little time to explain:

Katarina and Hrvoje – or as I like to call them, Mr. and Mrs. Blissfully Anonymous Newlywed Couple That Unwittingly Became the Focus of an International Social Media Manhunt – are private people. Like a younger, less angry version of myself, they avoid the social media sites that gum up the internet with sclerotic free-ticket offers from Southwest and “Post This If You Like Me” chain-mail appeals for charity. In fact, Katarina intended to make her wedding video private, but she didn’t set the proper permissions on Vimeo, which enabled the diaspora of my 264 Facebook friends and 123 Twitter followers (now with 0.8% more Croatians!) to ooh and ogle at their happy day.

Which is probably why Katarina made the video private within about 20 minutes of my friend Kelly B, ace detective, stumbling upon it and posting the link to my Facebook page (I think we have a winner!).

D’oh!

I actually never got to see Katarina and Hrvoje’s wedding video, which is appropriate because my fingerprints are all over their wedding album, which is not as creepy as it sounds… but it sounds pretty damn creepy, come to think of it.

Imagine yourself as a recent newlywed, checking your mailbox every day for the wedding albums that you’ve ordered as gifts for your respective parents to commemorate this once-in-a-lifetime day in a once-in-a-lifetime place!

Then you check your inbox and find an email from a stranger, delivered via the hosting site for your wedding video:

Hi Katarina,

My friend Stacy Bertinelli is trying to find Katarina and Hrvoje as she received their wedding photo album by mistake from the photo company. See her blog here at StacyB-Log.

Can you help?

Kelly B

(At this point, Kelly and I didn’t even know if Katarina spoke English. Recall: The two pages with the clues to Katarina and Hvroje’s whereabouts were in Croatian. The second clue was an address, and not even I am dumb enough to include something like that in a Facebook post to the universe – but if you must know, it’s the address of the villa where they got married in Livade, Croatia… and if you’re ever in the neighborhood, it looks like it’s  worth a visit.)

Back to the story: You click on the link to a blog post in which the author fancies herself to be at your wedding, creating a narrative about how you looked and how you felt and how you celebrated, lo those many miles from her sad little desk in Scottsdale, Arizona.

You call to your husband in the next room to make sure he locked the doors when he came back from the gym.

From your own investigations, you discover that this cyber-stalker very determined photo-book-returner has a righteous hatred toward Tim Tebow,  Sarah Palin and pretty much anyone under the age of 21. She appears to be a sado-masochist – regularly subjecting herself to various means of physical punishment. She recently suffered bouts of serious illness, which she shamelessly enjoys discussing in intimate detail in a very public forum. She is no stranger to gluttony – partaking in (and often abusing) at least five of the seven cardinal forms of vice (even though she’s 40 years old).

It’s clear this person has an active imagination (at best) or is seriously troubled with ready access to intercontinental transportation (at worst) and that she’s been pawing through your memories in an attempt to locate you in some kind of Mission Impossible / Social Media Spy Game.

You take a deep breath, look over both shoulders and quietly, carefully push away from the computer. You ask your husband to get the phone and call your attorney (NOW!) even though it’s a Saturday.

And you realize … as you’re reading Part 2 of the Epic Saga of the International Social Media Manhunt… that she’s doing it AGAIN!

Oh wait, that’s me – sorry!

So here’s the rest of the story: You don’t need to know the rest of their story. So you’ll get the explanation I’m giving to the judge at the hearing:

Within 20 hours of my posting the initial Find Katarina and Hvroje story on my blog, Facebook page and Twitter feed, we found them through the magic of the Internet.

Going into this, I believed that with 800 million Facebook users and … a lot … of stars in the Twitterverse, we would be able to link hands across the ocean – friend-to-comrade-to-acquaintance-to-colleague – to find these crazy kids and deliver their memories safely. Yes, I could have Googled them – and apparently many of my friends did just that, because my blog became the top search result on Google for “Katarina and Hvroje,” which was not the intended result. (But, before you click on that spam email that says, “Guarant33d SEO results,” give me a call).

Instead, through one degree of separation – Kelly B – and her very early Google search, we found Katarina and Hrvoje, and the wedding album is on its way to happily every after, once more over.

MyPublisher - the company that started this whole adventure by mistakenly mailing me their photo album – has already reissued the errant book, so the happy couple will have more copies to give to family and friends.

And the whereabouts of my account of my birthday celebration in Germany – where Mom, Dad, Patrick and I went to the town I was born, lo those 40 years ago?

I have no idea who eventually ended up with it (not Katarina and Hrvoje), but if you see an appeal on the Internets looking for the rightful owner of a collection of pictures of some lady throwing up on an airplane… well, send me a tweet, post something on my timeline, or just give me a shout.

And call of the search for Katarina and Hrvoje – they don’t want to be found anymore.