Nurse Nelson

Nelson was the first one sick. For three days. On the fourth day, mother nurse was down for the count. Another three days and Kendall took the hit.

But there was a one-day period in which Kendall was not sick, Nelson was in recovery and I was sicker than a dog. Nelson stayed home from school on a Monday… and in a surprising turnabout, became the nurse.

Nurse Nelson was reluctant. He was, after all, home sick and wanted to have the TV remote and the toast brought to him. Some brownies and cookies too — after all he was feeling better. The only problem was that his mother was too sick to leave her bed, much less care.

“Nelson,” I called weakly, “can you try bringing me Vernors?” I am not kidding. I was that weak. I had to be to ask a child to open and pour a brand new 2-liter of pop. It was sure to be a 1.5-liter disaster.

But it was nearly noon. I had had nothing to eat or drink for 24 hours. I was going downhill and fast. The puking had stopped and my survival instinct had kicked in. If I was going to make it and feed my own child a lunch eventually, I needed help. And help stood at the end of my bed in a pair of track pants, a running shirt, and, no doubt, yesterday’s underwear.

He carried the very full glass of Vernors in and stopped at the end of my bed.

“Sorry, Mom, I might catch it,” he said, reaching a very short arm out a very long ways.

I stared at him. He stared at me.

Finally, I spoke. “You gave this to me.”

“Oh, I did? That’s right.”

“Give me that,” I seethed. But my indignation was working in my favor — my verve and vigor returning with it. “Now get me some toast.”

This turned out to be the biggest challenge in his 9 years.

“How?” he bellowed from the kitchen. Soon I was screaming instructions that took more energy than actually making the toast. When I caught sight of him ransacking the utensil drawer for tools, I knew the show was about to begin.

“Where’s the bread?”

“You’re leaning on it.”

“Oh, that's right.”

Some twist-tie untwisting, the sound loud in the quiet house. I resist further instructions, sip my Vernors and wait.

“Where’s the jam?”

“Top shelf of the fridge.”

“The top?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no top shelf.”

“Yes there is, keep looking.”

“Oh, you're right.”

I watch him fumble the jar down. It’s as big as his head. He would have dropped it if not for the grip of jam drip dried down the side of it.

“So I just, uh, put it in the toaster?” he asks.

“Just stick it in and press the lever.”

I see then he is poking the electronic death machine with a long, shiny stick.

“Put the knife down!” I yell. I am sicker than I was before this all started.

With more coaching, he wrangles a piece of bread in and out of the toaster. I hear the jam jar open, the lid clatter to a stop on the floor. Some sawing and pushing and shoving. He’s going to town on it. I say nothing.

“So, I spread it like this?”

He presents me with the cutest piece of barely toasted toast ever made. On his Star Wars plate. With a blob of jam high and mighty in the middle. A few edges pulled at with a knife. It’s clear he gave up before he started.

At this point my wrath disappears and I am overcome with love.

“Oh my God,” I cry, “get the camera!”

“WHAT?” He’s the indignant one now.

I sit up in bed, using my last ounce of strength to take his picture. He poses reluctantly but I don’t care. He doesn’t know it, but this is the bestest, sweetest, perfectest slice of toast I will ever eat in my life.

Networking Tips

Networking at its best:
A GTWoman Wine Tour - next one is April 25th!

In honor of our career issue, we thought we would rehash the landmines known as networking events.

We host monthly women’s events and we always walk away with a multitude of stories… both good and bad. Here, we talk about the blunders and missteps (ours and others!) of any good social event.

The Talker
We’ve all done this: started to tell someone about your business and the next thing you know, it’s taken an unseemly path into your third-grader’s hygiene habits. You are thinking: “Why can’t I shut the front door?” and yet you rattle on.

If this thought crosses your mind, you can rest assured it has crossed the mind of the woman you are talking to. Pull up the reigns and look into her eyes. Exactly, she has no eyes. They are glassy marbles set in her sockets at this point.

Don’t panic. You can still save this. You’ve put this woman into a talking coma and it’s your responsibility to resuscitate her. Do so by leaving. Run, exit the scene, excuse yourself immediately. She will not wonder why you made a hasty exit, only be happy you did so.

Takeaway: It’s not the story you’re telling that is the death of a conversation. What’s usually the problem is the dead-on roar of 100-plus wine-fueled women in the room with you. There’s chaos, good chaos, but to talk too long to any one person leaves the woman wondering what she’s missing behind her?

The Closer
God, no, do not go for the close on your first meeting with someone. This will turn off any and every woman within a mile. Sure, it’s a good time to let people know what you do, but don’t ask for an appointment the moment your hand hits hers. Why not? you ask, The point of networking is to network.

Alas, if this is your take, write any meetings you land in pencil. Appointments made under duress will surely be canceled later: grandmothers and pets dying left and right as ironclad excuses. The woman will agree to see you when you are face to face, but back at the office she’ll come to her senses and maim her dog herself to get out of meeting you.

Takeaway: Take it slow. This is First Base. If you go too fast, someone’s gonna die (Granny).

The Non Follow-Upper
You have a great idea. You told people all about it at the last networking event. You were going to change the world! You met someone who was going to help you change the world! But she never called you about it… You can’t help yourself: You are a wee bit indignant the next time you cross paths again.

But leave your hurt feelings for another day. Here’s what really happened: The woman went home with your business card in her pocket, washed it with Tide and then, later, picked it in tiny bits out of her dryer. She had great intentions of calling you, but even greater intentions of doing the laundry.

This happens after meetings all over the world. But do they go crazy trying to read your card, piecing together lint and letters to do so? Not likely. Instead, they let themselves off the hook with one thought: if she wants to talk, she’ll find me.
 
Takeaway: Make the follow-up call yourself… because most people don’t. If you do, you are ahead of others competing for her time and interest. Your idea might not be the best or the brightest, but hurray for laundered business cards that level the playing field.

Takeaway No. 2: Don’t become a stalker. Following up once or twice is fine. If someone evades you vaguely, good news: She’s told you “no” without having to come right out and insist that she is, in fact, booked through 2017.

Instead, set sail for a new shore and part on good terms. Heck, you might connect at another event down the road. Where you can regale her with a story about your third-grader’s “incident” at recess.

So, ladies, with our career issue, we advise you to heed our warnings and enjoy networking drama-free!

First Spring Bike Ride - yeowza

Notice snowmobile parked behind me.

I just went for my first bike ride since Peak2Peak. Last fall, I finished the 22 miles of P2P, got off my bike and didn’t look at it again for THREE MONTHS. Very unlike me. I'm not sure what happened, but I think it was one of those “let’s end things on a high note since I didn't die in that hellacious race” kind of excuses. 

But today it was sunny, 36 degrees and for some reason, it was time. A thrill raced through me. I ran through the house, gathering loads of long underwear and bike helmets, trying to find my garb before I lost my nerve.

Then I hauled my bike up the stairs out of the basement, shifted it about 3 times accidentally in doing so, applied the brakes once as it almost backed over me and finally rolled it out into the fresh air. Welcome back to the light, my friend.

Bonus: I had to roll it past the snowmobile Nelson parked in the garage last night. The irony was not lost on moi, who did a little jig to defy mother nature and her snow today as I headed out.

Mile 1. Golden. MY god, I felt manic, pedaling like a fool, wind in my face, Under Armor top and bottom, little charcoal packets in my shoes and mittens, shaking away.

Mile 2. Shitola. Reality set in and I quietly, without debating it with anyone at all, shortened my route from a hilly 16-mile loop to an easygoing scenic 11-mile loop around Lake Ann.

Things that soon unfolded:

My fan base: In the course of 11 miles, I got a honk & appreciative wave, a “Woo Hoo!” hollered from a man in his driveway… and a fluffy white Shih Tsu that kept pace with me much longer than I’d like to admit.

My pants: I don’t remember my spandex bike shorts having a steel band in the waist last time I wore them. I also developed a weird side ache that wasn't in my side but more in the middle, where my belly was being sliced in two.

My tire pressure: I have these fancy bike valves that require me to learn how to use them, which I refuse to do as a boycott against why they have to make them so fancy anyway? So, I checked the pressure with the all-knowing thumb-press. And found it to be spot-on (as usual when using this method). This, of course, meant I proceeded to check my tires three different times on the road, as, despite the thumb press, my speed indicated I was traveling on a flat.

My foot warmers: Due to the weird purple marks on my toes, it appears I used the foot warmers incorrectly. Afterward, I read the directions - they are not for use in shoes with air circulation (you might consider the mesh in my bike shoe this very thing). Why would this matter? I scoffed. Because oxygen activates them to a temp of approx. 109 degrees. (Sidenote: The only thing worse than really hot feet is being in skin-tight, sweat-soaked Under Armor that you can't possibly peel off on the side of the road, or maybe ever.)

My doctors: About 30 minutes in, I started thinking a lot about my chiropractor, like what her hours are and if my back was going to need a brace. 45 minutes in and I was thinking pretty heavily about my ob/gyn too.

My speed: I was held hostage to guessing my speed for a full hour. I couldn't reach in my pocket and check my Garmin because I was wearing mittens the size of Michigan. At first, I was a galloping horse and I felt no need to know my speed, for it was amazing and I needed no proof of otherwise. Five minutes later, I was wondering about the pavement, was it slower when it was cold? Was my perception off because the trees were bare, no leaves to gauge the passing of a biker? Was that the wind at my face, the same wind that only moments ago that I swore was at my back? Later, when I checked my Garmin speed at home, it was shockingly accurate. I was going slow.

So this was my first ride back in the saddle. Oh how I've missed biking!!!!