The story of the broken dryer: An oldie, but a goodie.

God Bless my roommate Erica. To live with me, one must be extremely patient and yet, informative.

Erica comes home to see all my clothes hanging in various places around the townhome we share in Uptown.  T-shirts draped over dining room chairs, bras swung over the staircase and even socks placed strategically on top of our kitchen table. (Don’t know why I decided to place the socks on the kitchen table; hey at least they were clean.

 “Ashleigh, what are you doing?”  Remember when you’re little and your parents would call you by your first and middle name if you really crossed the line; Erica calling me Ashleigh is equivalent to that.  I’m usually Ash.

Before she’s able to say another word, I shout, “Our dryer is broken. I’m over it. Err.” Those that know me well know that I say, “I’m over it,” on a daily basis. Those who have ever attempted an argument with me may be familiar with what I would call an endearing, “Errr,” sound.  Yes, I chose the correct word, endearing. This sound is prevalent when I’m either a. arguing why the Astros are not the worst team in baseball or b. just plain frustrated.

“Ash, I used the dryer the other day and it worked fine. Did you clean out the vent?” Erica questions without any trace of anger. If there was a sarcastic text, I would insert it here.

 “Yes, I cleaned the vent.” Have never done that, nope, not once. (This will cause issues later on.)

“Then how is it broken,” she asks.

“Erica, it just never works when I want it to. Seriously our dryer is possessed; it has a mind of its own. And its stubborn mind never wants to dry my clothes. Sometimes it will work, but most of the time it chooses not to.”

“Well are you putting too many clothes in there,” she replies logically.

‘No, that’s not it,” I stammer.  “Also, the little knob thing is broken. After you turn it; it won’t lift up. It broke.”

“What do you mean it broke? Did you break it? Also, you don’t lift up the knob.  You turn it in order to choose your dryer setting.”

 (Honestly, does anyone change their setting? That is almost as complicated as choosing between darks and lights. What do you do with strips? And also, on that note, how can you tell if something is delicate?  My A&M shirt needs to be handled with care, but apparently there isn’t a setting for favorite college t’s.)

Erica continues, “You should be pressing a button.”

Now I’m frustrated. “Erica, we don’t have a button. It’s the knob thing on the dyer; you turn it and then lift up.  If our dryer wasn’t the devil reincarnated, it would start.”

Erica rushes into the laundry room. The knob to choose which setting you would like to heat has been disabled by me. Furthermore, the front of the dryer looks like it was caught in a hail storm. The hail storm being the bottom of my foot!

Picking up the broken knob and examining the damage, Erica says, “Ashleigh, you don’t lift up the knob, you turn it. We have a button that you must press to start the machine. Oh that’s right, you probably can’t see the button because your clothes, which I dried have been covering it for months.”

 “We have a start button? When did this happen? I have never pressed it, not once. Are you sure? I mean how come my clothes would sometimes dry and other times they won’t. That just isn’t logical.”

“Because, I pressed it! I would wonder why you would leave the house and just put wet clothes in the dryer and not start the machine, so I PUSHED the start button for you,” she explained.

Giggling nervously, “Now it all makes sense because every time I left the house the dryer would work and when I planned my day to stay home and clean, it wouldn’t.”

Erica shakes her head and goes upstairs.  I’m not sure if she is shaking her head at this minor incident or the bogus statement of me actually planning a day to solely clean.  

“Can you believe I did that?” I say laughing.

“Honestly, Ash, at this point nothing surprises me.”

“Well, at least I didn’t burn the house down,” I joke.

Editor’s note: A month later, I almost burnt down our house. Our “broken” dryer caught on fire. A little incident with lent.  The firemen asked if my parents were home. No, Erica was not home yet.

Running won't kill you, it just will really hurt

Most of my blogs have a comedic tone, unfortunately, this will not. I take that back. I guess humor describes my failed attempt to train for a marathon when I was told not to run. Another word I would use for this humor, stupidity.

After months of pain and attempting to take it easy, I received the news that I will once again have knee surgery. Unfortunately this isn’t my first rodeo going under the knife, hell; it isn’t even my second rodeo. I have what the doctor’s like to describe as a type A personality also known as no off switch. I hate admitting defeat to others and especially to myself.  So when in pain, I keep going, especially, in competition.

After my second knee surgery, my doctor told me I shouldn’t run.

“So how am I going to work out?” I asked.

“Swim and Bike.”

“ Hmm….I’ve never  done a triathlon. You’re saying I can do that?

“No Ashleigh. I’m saying you can do a dual –a- thon.”

“Well why? We already know I can run, so that will be the easy part. “

“Get out of my office.”

This may seem like an easy task for many. Majority of my friends hate running. After my first knee surgery prevented my dream of playing college tennis, it became the thing I treasured most.

 I crave running.  Runners will describe it as an itch. Feet contact with the pavement cures this hankering. If they don’t, we get extremely antsy. Ask anyone that has lived with me?

When I got in a horrendous car wreck in college, the doctor ordered me to bed rest and absolutely no running.  One day of rest and I was out the door. The next day, my roommate Lindsay hid my running shoes – which began my very brief encounter with barefoot running.

If I ever think I’m too busy for a run, I remember Sarah Condor’s quote, “Remember the feeling you get from a good run is far better than the feeling you get from sitting around wishing you were running."

I sacrificed sleep, toenails, vodka-waters and even a relationship for running. True.  My ex-boyfriend didn’t understand the appeal of training for a marathon and therefore I lost my appeal for him. It's an activity where the only adversary that matters is the competition you have with yourself.

Stressful day. I run. Can’t sleep. Run. Writer’s block. Run. Frustrated with that guy and trying not to text him, again. Run. Drunk ate that entire pizza from Zinis. Run.

It’s been said hours of clear-headedness follow a long run.

So what do I do after being told not to run? Train for a marathon. It’s been a dream of mine; I have completed half-marathons and this was the next obvious step in the equation. Obviously, clear-headedness is not what I would label this choice.

My roommate, Erica, and I promised one another that we would run the White Rock Marathon together. She kept that vow and I did not.

Honestly, I knew something was wrong months previous to the final 20 mile run around White Rock Lake.  In attempting to fix the situation, I slowed down my pace and even took some time off.  After going out and having my knee collapse on me, my friends carried out an intervention.  At a Sting concert, (Yes STING, don’t act like you don’t jam out to old-school Police), my most logical lawyer friend Lauren said, “Ash, how are you going to run 26.2 miles, if you can’t even walk downstairs.”

This lawyer argued her case well.  After months of training, I couldn’t go on.  One day you run 20 miles and the next going downstairs required extreme effort. My friends were right and even worse so were the doctors.

I say doctors because I saw many. I hesitated visiting the surgeon who has known me since I was 13 years old.  I knew what he would say and frankly my heart wasn’t prepared for that diagnosis. Well, until this week.

So after months of training together, Erica crossed the finish line on December 4th. I cheered her on at mile 5, 11, 16 and 26.2. Was it one of the hardest things I’ve ever done? Yes. Did I cry? Oh you bet.  But, it was amazing to see her fulfill this accomplishment, what we both trained for and I’m happy that one of us can say they did it. Being a morning person, at least I can say that I helped keep her entertained on those 5am runs with my useless knowledge, especially during shark week.

 In 2012, the glass will be half-full. In turning a negative into a positive, I will take this challenge head on.

I’m looking forward to a forced rest and catching up on those episodes of Dexter and Modern Family. The Game of Thrones series, always wanted to read them.  Of course, my newfound love of blogging.

Hell, I’ll even get stronger in CrossFit. The coaches always told me that running burns muscles – here’s to keeping my strength.

And you know what; at least I’ll get some free drinks when I go out to the bars. It worked the last time I had surgery and my friends enjoyed the sympathy shots as well.  Jocelyn, one of my best friends, and I were reminiscing about it today – men love a woman in crutches.

Church may save you, but not from a ticket.

Oh Cops…. I know we need you, but man you know how to ruin a girl’s day.

This past weekend, a Highland Park policeman blessed me with an over $300 ticket. (You’ll understand why I chose the word “blessed.”)

Stopping at the sign at Knox and Abbot, I see the blue and white SUV in front of me. No big deal. I exaggerate my stop, two hands on the wheel and go. What? The familiar noise of sirens, flashing lights and a U-turn; he’s behind me. What did I do? Speeding? No, that can’t be it.

Walking up to my window, the policeman says, “Do you know why I stopped you?”

I answer with, “No, I don’t.”

“Did you know your registration and inspection stickers were expired?”

Honestly, this is the dumbest question. If I say yes, then why haven’t I done something about it? If I say, no, which I did, you’re still going to ticket me anyway.

“Oh that’s what those are. No, I didn’t. But, now I do. Thank you for letting me know; I’ll get that taken care of right away,” I say in the most sincere voice I can muster.

He’s not amused, “Can I have your id?”

Can you? I think in my head.  Should I correct him? I opted for not and handed over my driver’s license.

‘Where do you live?”

“Dallas.”

“Is this the correct address on your id?”

“I hope so or I’m going back to the DMV.” No laugh. No smirk, Man, tough crowd.  

“Do you work?”

“Yes. I do.”

"What do you do?"

“I work for the Katy Trail.”

"The what?"

I point. We are parallel to the trail. “See that concrete path over there with all the people running and biking. I work for the non—profit behind it.” (Glad, I threw in non-profit. Also, known as poor. Poor equaling can’t afford that ticket you are about to write me.)

He looks perplexed. “I don’t understand. What do you do for the Trail? Is this a full-time job?”

Now I’m annoyed. Yes, it’s a FULL-TIME job.  “I raise funds for the Katy Trail and work with the city of Dallas to expand our trail systems.  I’m also a Capricorn," I say.

“Excuse me?

“I figured, I would give you my astrological sign, so you wouldn’t have to ask another question."

“I’ll be right back."

Damnit….You know that line that you shouldn’t cross. I didn’t just cross it; I destroyed it - the line is unrecognizable.

As the cop returned to his vehicle; I thought back on my previous experience with these men in uniform. I always had a good relationship with cops, meaning I had NO relationship. Well that is until my years at SMU.

I encountered my first breath with the law during my freshman year of college at the Fiji House.  From what I recall, we were enjoying a lovely evening of dancing, trashcan punch and whatever other shenanigans naïve freshman get into.

Suddenly, in the midst of me breaking down into my signature dance move (basically a whole lot of spinning, one arm in the air, and hair twirling) a sophomore Fiji shouts, “Cops! Everyone get in the room and lock your door.”

Whoever came up with the law that cops can’t open locked doors unless doable cause is a genius. Unfortunately, genius is not the same word I would describe my 18-year-old self. Why? Who got locked out of the rooms with these two cops? I’ll give you one guess, but I’m sure you won’t need it.

Crap…my first month in college and I’m going to jail. This will be a fun phone call home or to my brother, Todd, in Houston. I get a phone call…right?

Down the hall, two policemen headed towards me. Do I run? Jump out of a window? Cry? I can cry! Crying always works…think of something sad. What’s sad? Bambi, that’s sad.

“Excuse me miss, please come here."

Crap. I thought to myself, act sober. “Me?” I ask innocently.  

“Yes, you’re the only miss here.”

I hear the whisperings on the other side of the door. “Shit, Ash is out there.”(Yeah, I KNOW I’m out here, thanks “friends.”)

Eyeing me up and down, he says, “Mam, you don’t look 21. Have you been drinking?”

Do I lie? Have I ever had alcohol? Today? In the last hour? Um does that punch count? Do I know what’s in the punch? It’s called trashcan for a reason, can I be arrested with not knowing I’m consuming huge amounts of Gatorade that’s possibly watered down with Everclear?

Realizing, I have not spoke for quite some time, I blurted out, “Um no sir – how dare you? I don’t drink alcohol. I am ONLY 18 years old and a christian. I do not drink underage.”

Did it work? Why is he staring at me? Why won’t he say anything? Plan B. Run. I’m fast. He didn’t look fast. I’m going to run. Will he track me down? He knows what I look like. Blonde hair. Who am I kidding? He won’t find me; everyone has blonde hair at SMU. I’m running.  

As I’m contemplating my next move, laugher breaks his silence. “Honey, if you didn’t look like you were two days shy of your sweet 16, I would arrest you. Go home. Also, christian? I haven’t heard that one. Think of me as your savior, tomorrow is Sunday and you probably should go to church and following that note, pray.

Pray…yes. Christian, church and Christ. The three C’s…works every time. How could I forget?

Back to present time.  Maybe the three C’s will work for this whole not registering and inspecting my car on time.

My bible? Where is it? It’s in my car. Maybe after this Highland Park policeman returns my id, he’ll see the bible and let me free. Perfect plan.

“Where the hell is my bible,” I say to myself. Shit, Ash don’t say hell and bible in the same sentence. Ughh…don’t say shit when looking for said bible! Knock at the window. It’s too late. He’s back and what’s in his hand, a ticket.

Cop says in a much sterner tone, “ Miss, here is your ticket. You have until February 14^th to contest this. Do you have any questions?”

Defeated…I’m not getting out of this. Man, that’s one expensive ticket. This bites. Hmm, if he’s giving me a ticket, I’m at least having the last word.

Looking him straight into his eyes, I respond, “No. I don’t have any questions, but I’m surprised you don’t.”

That line must be invisible for me because I crossed it. Don’t you think? Oh well…I’ll learn one day. 

How to lose a guy in 10 seconds? Tell him you can’t eat sushi because it’s not Paleo.

Let me start off this post with saying - I’m an odd bird. A guy once told me that he was kind of like that 8 sided puzzle piece that only fits in one specific spot. I laughed at this logic because I have used this exact analogy in explaining myself, except I said 7 sided puzzle piece. (Side note: I always use 7. If I have to wake up at 8, my alarm is set at 7:57. Why? That's my favorite baseball player's number. Odd bird. Yes. Told you.)

Being a unique individual, intriguing my interest can be difficult. I'm extremely picky and have gotten more so lately. I'll blame my old ripe age of 25.

However, a few phrases always spark my interest– (CrossFit, Astros, Craig Biggio is the most underrated second basemen in history, vizslas, I ran my last marathon in under 3 hours, Mitt Romney, “I’ll have what she’s having,” Harry Potter, and “I’m a history major.”)

A guy (we’ll call him Al) has wanted to take me out again for some time. Al is a perfectly nice person, but kind of lacked that luster or spark (well for me.) The thing is Al and I don't have the greatest of conversations. You're going to marry your best friend, and sadly Al wasn't it.

Furthermore, Al doesn’t know anything about sports. Watching sports is one of my favorite pastimes. Arguing and comparing college sport teams is my favorite pastime. I do it well and OFTEN.

Anyways, I decided to give Al a second chance. Everyone deserves a second shot and frankly sometimes I need it more than others. Following my friend's advice of, “it matters how they treat you and not how much they can argue (I call it banter) with you,” I didn’t completely write him off.  This may be the problem in my dating life. I relish in people that can rally back and forth with me, kind of like a tennis match. If they're able to get a clean winner off of me, I admire that. I’m quick so that seldom happens.

Did Al blow his second chance? Oh Yes. He went down faster than Kim Kardashian’s marriage.  

It played out like this: We chatted on the phone on my way back from spending Thanksgiving in Houston with my family. We exchanged the normal pleasantries one does after such a holiday, “How was your Thanksgiving?” “Great! Yours?” Except, my response was a little different; “It would have been wonderful, if A&M didn’t blow that game.”

Pause. Recapping this loss puts my heart once again in agonizing pain. Seriously Ags, you were the favorite.

Moving on... After concluding my rant about the arrogance of the Longhorn Network and the collapse of my favorite rivalry, Al says, “Oh that’s too bad, but I don’t really follow college football.”

I’m sorry...what? You don’t follow college football? Why? Is it difficult? Not interesting? How? Are you a male? Are you American? Did you play sports?  For once, I was speechless.

Not only could I not talk, but I lost any interest I once had. That’s a bigger turn-off than having a date check out a girl in front of you and saying she has big jugs. Actually, that did happen to me on a date. True story.  Did I go out with that guy again? Hell yeah, he used to play for Georgia and our waitress was well equipped. I even looked!

Anyways, I realized poor Al and I weren’t going to work. Maybe we could just be friends. Pondering this thought, I remembered my favorite movie, “When Harry Met Sally” and that “men and women cannot be just friends, the sex thing always gets in the way.” 

Lucky for me, Al had a crazy work travel schedule and then home for the holidays, so I had a few weeks of dodging dates. 

I spoke to soon. His first week back in town and I receive a text Monday morning, “Hey Ash, would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow?”

Hmmm… my response. “Thanks, but I’m busy!” (Hence, I didn't say I would like to another time. Context clues!)

Thursday afternoon text, “Hey Ash, I heard of this new sushi restaurant. Would you like to go Friday?”

New tactic: Paleo diet. Works like a charm.

My response: “Al, I would like to go, but I can’t eat sushi. I only eat things hunted and gathered. I could eat the fish, but I would feel more comfortable if I caught it.”

Haven’t heard back….

I’m eating sushi tonight. If you can’t banter college football with me, don’t bother. I do have standards. 

I cooked Paleo last night. You read that right.

Y’all - I cooked last night. Now this is not some minor feat. The only items kept in my fridge are ice cream and whatever meal my roommate cooks. So if food is the way to a man’s heart, I sure hope he likes take-out or I will be single for a while.

Last night, I decided to cook a healthy, Paleo meal. For those of you who don’t know what Paleo is let me enlighten you. Basically, you eat like a caveman.  In other words, you eat whole, unprocessed foods: meat, eggs, seafood, non-starchy vegetables, fruit, nuts and seeds. They say you can eat ANYTHING that can be hunted or gathered.  If you do Crossfit, you have heard of Paleo.

After work, I headed to my favorite place in Dallas, Central Market. Audrey Hepburn can have Tiffany’s but at least when I get the “mean reds,” I won’t be hungry. (If you haven’t seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you won’t get this. Also, if you haven’t seen it, rent it. It’s a classic)

I decided to make a healthy fish dish with salad and vegetables. Ingredients needed: acorn squash, onions, tilapia, spinach, coconut oil, pecans, garlic, and asparagus. Out of all these items, I came home with four.

One: I love Central Market, but trouble happened with their many produce options. I was at a loss with the 12 varieties of squash. So, I decided that squash would be off the menu.

Two: Coconut Oil. Really? There are so many different kinds. Virgin. Slutty. What’s the difference? Apparently, no one in my phonebook knew either, so I decided to go with the wholesome kind. (Better safe than sorry.)

Three: Tilapia. They didn’t have it! It’s out of season. Who knew? I settled on a light white fish from Japan. I picked Japan because they eat their fish raw. It had to be good. When I told the guy at the counter this logic, he asked if I ever cooked before.

Four: I lost my car. No joke. I blame it on the stress of grocery shopping. Twenty minutes and a phone call to Erica later, I found it.

On my way home from the store, I called my buddy Mark in a panic. I listed all the ingredients I had and basically he came up with a make-shift recipe over the phone. Mark is used to frantic calls from me, but usually they deal with men and not food.

We decided on this recipe: salad, baked asparagus, and fish sautéed with onions. Pressure was on tonight – I was cooking for Erica, my roommate and most domestic person in the city, and Devonee, a phenomenal chef that cooks better than most 5 star restaurants.

Here goes nothing!                                                          

Asparagus: I preheated the oven to 375° F. Then I lightly greased a baking sheet with olive oil. I rolled the asparagus in the leftover coconut oil and seasoned it with salt, pepper and balsamic vinaigrette. I’m not sure why I added that, but it was pretty damn good. Put in the oven and bake for 15 to 18 minutes, or until the house seems smoky.

Fish: I sautéed garlic, onions and spinach in coconut oil, added lemon and set aside. Then I spread the coconut oil over the skillet and seasoned my filets with sea salt and pepper. I grilled each fillet for about 4-5 minutes on each side on med-high heat until it was flakey white. Then I poured my sautéed garlic, onion and spinach mixture on top. The fillets improved as I cooked. It’s kind of like making  pancakes. The first one, you always flip too soon and it’s just not as good as the rest.

 

Salad: Easy. I added spinach, dried cranberries, walnuts and tomatoes and mixed it with a balsamic raspberry dressing. (That may not have been Paleo!)

That was it. A pretty simple recipe and my group ate everything off of their plate or they were just being nice!

I celebrated this achievement with a bowl of ice cream that Erica made. Told you she was domestic. And no the ice cream was not Paleo, haven’t jumped on that bandwagon completely.

 

Changes!

So here it is again, a brand new year, a year to be healthy. This is what everyone says. Right?

You see it on the news, Matt Lauer interviews the Today Show’s fitness guru about the 2012 fitness trends. Should being healthy and more importantly, “staying healthy,” change throughout the years? I would think not.

If your problem is weight loss, it seems simple; eat less junk and move a little more. What if your problem is something a little more? I’m 25 years old and  have had multiple knee surgeries. But, in addition to this, I also have a heart condition. My heart condition was something I did to myself– pushing my body too hard when I was younger and obviously I was not ready for the stress it endured. (Don’t worry, I’m completely fine. I just feel more pressure in my chest when I work out.)

So here it is - to making some changes this year - to be healthy. As an ex-tennis player, my coach always told me to write down my goals. This way you are accountable. We all make goals especially this time of year. I actually get annoyed with many of y’all on your goals – the gym was always packed in the month of January.

Let us all be honest. How many of you can "honestly" say you have done what you said you were going to do? I know I haven’t. So here it goes –a public declaration of change.  This blog, which was once private and used as entertainment with my close friends, has become my source of accountability.

I hope y’all will support me in this endeavor.