On Tap for Today

A fun loving, inspired living blog


Today: A touchy subject.

[tweetmeme source=”elizabethev” only_single=false]I am a boundaries person.  I think I always have been.  If I could walk around life with a hula hoop about my body, keeping people out of my personal space bubble without being hauled off to some sort of facility, I would.  Few things make me more uncomfortable than space invasion.  I’m not talking about Martians, I’m talking about the people in line at the bank that inch up so closely behind you that their breath assaults your ear lobes.  Or the people who,  feeling like they’ve seen a glimmer of your soul or something, are compelled to hug you when a simple handshake would suffice.

And speaking of handshakes, space invaders are the ones whose handshakes of peace last longer than the second collection.  Have I ever told you about the woman who works at Target and always reaches over the debit card swiper thing to touch my hand and “bless” me?  I am sure her intentions are good, but I am convinced that people like her were sent to Earth to terrorize people like me.

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Just last week, I was hanging up little arrow signs to direct people to a work event (because I know the directions I wrote out in French were correct, but the ones I wrote out in Spanish…. probablemente no), when someone coming down the hallway complimented me on my coat.  Before I could turn to thank the woman, she was completely up in my grill, touching the collar as if to carefully inspect the stitching.  If she saw the color drain from my face and noticed my hyperventilating, she didn’t let on.  Space invaders rarely pick up on the behavioral cues of the socially awkward.  They just go about their days, confident and comfortable.

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Besides my loved ones, obviously, there are a very few people who are allowed in my hula hoop without the threat of being snap kicked.  I just learned about that move today.  Sounds both dangerous and awesome, right?  Very Michael Jackson.  Anyway, I make exceptions for a select few.  Namely: the women at Gaelic Day Spa (there’s nothing Gaelic about it, but they give some of the best pedicures in town), most children (surprise hugs are best, that way I don’t have time to work up a defense strategy), and people who are falling, fainting, or otherwise incapacitated (and therefore, don’t mean to touch me… they sort of can’t help it).

Last night, while enjoying savasana at the end of class, I felt my yoga teacher approach the person next to me.  Not because I peeked, or because I am psychic, but because I have an acute sense of hearing.  Sort of.  Before I knew it, she had moved the blocks at my feet to the side, knelt down, and very gently massaged my feet.  For several seconds, I dwelled in what can only be described as a personal hell.  And then I got a grip.  This is the same woman who helped me to try my first wheel.  If I can trust her to not let me crack a skull, surely I can trust her to not be some sort of weird creeper, right?  Besides, it sort of felt nice.  Like, very nice, actually.  Especially when I started breathing again.

Maybe it’s time I widen the proverbial hula hoop?  Also, for the record, I would never actually snap kick anyone.  I come in peace.

Also On Tap for Today:

Where do you fall on the touchiness spectrum?


Today: What a ham.

[tweetmeme source=”elizabethev” only_single=false] From turkeys to hams (and if you scroll down, a video of a mini pig courtesy of Nick)…  For those of you keeping score, I am still a vegetarian.  There’s really no meat to this post, just a photo booth gem I couldn’t keep to myself.


This is what happens when you give me nerd glasses, some sort of furry hat, and precisely two thirds of a vodka and soda water mere hours after I’ve run nearly 14 miles.

I am such a hotdog cocktail wienie.

Also On Tap for Today:

What’s your go-to photo pose? Fish face?  Deer in headlights?


Today: Step one is acceptance.

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Before you get too involved in this post, I need to warn you that I am about to reveal just how much of a dope I am.  And you may never want to hear from me again.  So quickly peek at a few videos of Clark, grab a book recommendation, check out my guest post for Real Fit Mama… read this post, and prepare to be horrified.  And thennnn, delete On Tap for Today from your Google Reader.

If you make it the end of this post, however, there’s a giveaway with your name on it, so-and-so! Isn’t bribery fun?

The Trouble with Pedometers

There are some many days when I don’t make it to the gym, there’s no race on the schedule, and I can’t find my yoga mat.  To be sure I am not being a lazy donkey, I make sure I get some extra walking in.  Studies have suggested that 10,000 steps a day is a reasonable target for staying active.  More often than not, my end-of-the-day count is closer to 20,000, thanks to the puppy and living in such a walkable city as Boston.  And the fact that our office mailbox is located a mile away.

Having a pedometer in my pocket keeps me on track.  If I leave the office with only 3,000 steps logged, I know I need to take the long way to the garage.  Or chase  Clark around the condo with a squeaking hippopotamus.  Or go for a run.  Or take a long walk along the beach.  Or all of the above.  You get the point.

I’ve tried a few different models, including the clip on kind.  For some reason, the battery rattled around and the clip was absurdly large.  Who wants to walk 10 steps, let alone 10,000 steps, looking and sounding like you’ve got an econo-size package of Tac-Tacs hot glue gunned to your waist?  Not me.

Wanna go for a swim?

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Two pedometers later, I stumbled upon this little beauty.  Slim, well designed, and easy to use.  It’s perfect, and relatively inexpensive.  Unless you’ve bought nine of them.  Yes, nine.  And yes, this is where you become horrified with me.

I like to think that I have my act together.  I work extremely hard, I am mature and responsible, and I take life rather seriously.  I try to watch my spending and avoid being wasteful.  My misadventures with pedometers, however, have revealed a character flaw I was previously altogether unaware of:  I am a complete boob.

  • Pedometer 1: Gave it away, hated the bulky Tic-Taciness.
  • Pedometer 2: Apparently I forgot that I hated the bulky Tic-Taciness, may have thrown this one out in a fit of rage (just kidding, I don’t have fits of rage).
  • Pedometers 3-6: Rejoice!  A thin, silent model! But…the thing about pocket pedometers is that you have to take it out of your pocket at some point.  That point being before you start the washing machine.  All four, in succession, fell victim to the spin cycle.
  • Pedometer 7: Um.  It went swimming.  In the Atlantic Ocean.  Yesterday.  I’m a creature of habit and usually stick my pedometer in my bra (TMI? Probably.)  if I don’t have pockets.  Most non-horrendous bathing suits don’t have pockets.  And there you have it.
  • Pedometer 8: ..has been ordered and is en route to Boston.  I am hoping 8 will last.  The odds are not looking good, however.
  • Pedometer 9: Could be yours!

If habitual irresponsible handling of pedometers (and then immediately replacing them) were a crime, I’d be locked up right now.  Pacing in my cell.  With no way to track those paces.

To win a pedometer of your very own, please leave a comment below before midnight on Thursday. If you win, you can break it, or use it like a normal person– the choice is yours alone!  For an extra entry, please feel free to tweet or blog about this giveaway and then leave a comment indicating you’ve done so. I will announce the winning hot stepper on Friday.

Also On Tap for Today:

What is your most out-of-character characteristic?  Where do you like to stroll?  Or, how do you sneak in exercise?

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Today: You might say this is ludacris.

Sorry, 'tweens! I had to decapitate your beloved Justin Bieber in order to make this magical photo possible.

…And you’d be justified.  Here are a few Ludacris ideas I’ve dreamed up as of late:

Getting a second dog

Not some day when we have a big yard, or when I move to Alaska to become a competitive musher and need something with a bit more power than a Frenchie to move my sleigh thing.  Like, immediately.  I tried to trick Nick into getting a girl French bulldog, just in case “Clark needed his own pet.”  Demented and crazy? Yes, I am aware.  And don’t get me started on the bunk beds I’ve imagined them sharing.

Giving up caffeine

I went over two weeks without sippin’ on a single Diet Coke.  Concurrently, I went over two weeks without being a normal human being.  I assumed the headaches and irritability would dissipate after a few days.  They did not.  I’ve scaled back to less than 1 can a day (most days I just have a few cups of green tea), so I suppose that’s worth celebrating.  (Cue my Price is Right announcer voice) …With an ice coooold Dieeeet Coke!

Climbing a tree that has no low-lying branches

I am barely 5’4″.  This was an idea destined for failure and disappointment.  Plus it smelled sort of weird over by the tree.  And it was nighttime.  Did I mention I had consumed a glass of sangria or two?

Writing a book

This is something I’ve daydreamed about since I learned how to read.  The only things stopping me from executing? Lack of subject, patience, ability, and time.  All very minor issues.  (I find sentence fragments to be very alluring to prospective agents and publishers.)

Sometimes, our most luda’ ideas become our most proud accomplishments.   I don’t think this is one of those times.

Also On Tap for Today:

What’s the wildest idea you’ve dreamed up lately?


Today: The Swan Lake mistake.

Make way for Clarklings.

Before I get in over my proverbial head, I should probably ask that– if you are any sort of law enforcement agent, PETA member, park ranger, or run-of-the-mill concerned citizen– kindly stop reading now.  If you insist on continuing, I beg you to show mercy on my soul.  And on my dog.

This is probably when Clark hatched his fur-brained plan.

Nick’s brother gave us a professional photo session for Clark for Christmas.  We met Maria*, of White Whiskers Photography, at the George Washington statue at the Arlington St. entrance of the Public Garden, promptly at 9 o’clock yesterday morning.  The light was gorgeous, the lawn and flowers freshly watered, and the heat had not yet peaked.  Clark took to Maria quickly; within minutes he was eating from the palm of her hand.  Literally.  That’s how most dogs eat.

I am not certain how things took a such a turn,  but I know it was fast and I know it was noisy.  One minute Clark was posed regally by the edge of the Swan Pond, and the next, he was swan diving into the Swan Pond, presumably in an effort to catch and eat… a swan.  There were ducks and swans and geese quacking and dogs barking and people screaming and Nick emptying his pockets and removing his shoes, poised to jump in after Clark.  It was complete chaos.

Swan: the other, other white meat.

Fortunately the chaos was short lived.  Clark turned around and frantically doggie-paddled back to the edge, looking both shocked and proud of himself for executing such a bold sequence.  Without having had an EKG, I am fairly certain my heart stopped, and that the Swan Pond incident shaved months, if not years off my life, but the dog is fine and the swans are fine and Maria had the wherewithal to stop taking pictures until Clark was safely ashore.  Could you imagine if that ended differently?  Oh look, here’s a picture of your dog drowning.  Oh and what’s this?  A mutilated swan!  Lovely.

Impromptu swims are exhausting.

All parties bounced back surprisingly well.  Perhaps we should be cutting back on swimming lessons, though.  And I am rethinking the duck treats we regularly give him.

*If you, or a friend with a furry friend, are looking for a talented photographer, we highly recommend you contact Maria at White Whiskers Photography.

Also On Tap for Today:

  • Pick up my Fast Lane transponder (Can I get an Amen for Southie resident discounts?)
  • I’ll be out of town for this Tomato Festival, but doesn’t it look great?
  • On the hunt for pewter bridesmaid shoes 🙂

How was your weekend?  Break any rules?


Today: What the helmet?!

I sent a special delivery to the Bruins this week.  A secret weapon, if you will.  If you watched last night’s game, you know as well as I do that the secret weapon did not reach the B’s in time.  As time wound down in the third period, friends and family members wondered where I was.  And I wondered why I will still inside a hockey bag in the back of a Fed Ex truck.  I specifically  checked off priority overnight, not standard overnight.

It's gettin' hot in herre.

Signed, sealed, delivered. I'm a dingbat.

The grizzly hat: an accessory for all seasons.

Do these shoulder pads make me look... never mind.

I'm an animal. And/or something smells.

If you like it, then you shoulda pinned a flower on it. Sorry that I'm not sorry for disgracing the uniform.

Aaaaand, the grand finale:  Imagine our carpeted hallway is actually the Garden.  Rene Rancourt and his awkward confetti vest have just left the ice.  With the fury of a thousand suns, I come flying out of the locker room ready to rumble.  Or, whatever.

I have a newfound respect for hockey players.  Putting that stuff on is not easy.  Fortunately, I had Nick’s help.  I understand from him, however, that teammates usually do not help one anther in and out of their gear.  And yes, I did remove the pink flower before returning the jersey to its rightful owner.

Also On Tap for Today:

  • It’s opening weekend at the SOWA Open Market
  • I’m thrilled to read this article about Mr. Audy and the outpouring of community support
  • Nick’s brother graduates today (again) 🙂

Who would you mail yourself to, if that was a. possible and b. acceptable and c. legal?


Today: Sherlock Homey reports for duty.

When I was younger I wanted to be a detective.  In  middle school, a friend and I ran an imaginary detective agency.  Our breakout case involved the (imaginary) kidnapping of Joey McIntyre.  Yes, the New Kid.  We had notebooks, laminated ID cards and referred to each other by our backwards names.  Htebazile is a pretty amazing detective name.  Amazing and suspicious, which is good, because suspicion is a very important component of detective work.

We stopped playing detective agency after a brown kidnapper van started lurking in the cul-de-sac between our neighborhoods.  I don’t mean to, quite literally, give box vans a bad name, but they’re extremely creepy.  Especially when you’re ten.

My fascination with true crime dramas and an overactive imagination are not the healthiest combination, but old habits die hard.  Speaking of dying, the serial killer marathon Meg and I watched on the Cape, the summer after graduating college, illustrates perfectly what a dingbat I am… and why I’d be the worst real detective in the history of the universe.

After watching hours and hours of History Channel and Court TV documentaries on John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy and assorted others, I drove a half mile down the road to the cottage, which was empty, as my parents were driving down early the next morning.  I propped chairs under every single doorknob, placed a wiffleball bat (bam! lethal!) next to my bed and lay awake until I heard my parents pull down the driveway eight hours later.

I then had to spring from my bed and unbooby trap the cottage, greet my mom and dad and pretend that I wasn’t psychologically profiling our neighbor, who happened to be unloading groceries next door.

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