So Long

and thanks for all the fish.

Feedback? Please.

I'm finished, right? I have my MBA. The grades are in. I achieved the GPA I was targeting. New job. New location. Everything is peachy, right? No, everything is not alright. And let me tell you why, I have not yet received any feedback on the cleverest group project I've ever been a part of. When I say clever, I mean, wow, I wish I would have thought of that clever and just so you know, I didn't think of it. I usually am not the one with the clever idea. I'm the one that takes the clever idea and teases it out, asks the tough questions, and finds a way to fit everything together. I'm also pretty witty (and humble), as evidenced by my paper on the death of globalization vis-a-vis Rod Stewart, but hey, I'm not here to sing my own praises. I'm here looking for feedback on an idea that wasn't mine, but that still has my name somewhat associated with it.

The class: Game Theory with Adam Brandenburger (the brilliant strategist that co-wrote Co-opetition).

The assignment (55% of our grade): group project defining a situation and how to use game theory to solve it.

Our specific project: a paper on how game theory is used in group projects (I'm giggling right now as I write this. I mean, is that clever or what??)

Our base approach: Usage of a decision tree to show that when a group project is assigned, it should never be completed.

Our solution: Usage of added value to calculate the willingness to pay and opportunity costs of each participant in the project.

I won't bore you with all of the details, but I must say, that was an entertaining project. We're not going to bore the professor with nuclear arms races or what should Google do next. Nope. We're going to talk about how group projects suck, nobody likes doing them, and how they eventually are completed.

Yes, there is a small part of me that will miss this.

Delivered to the Curb

Who knew that buying a washer and dryer could be so thrilling? Not just one of those hook me up to the sink washers or a dryer that takes five hours to dry one towel or worse, going to the laundromat, which we did for years in Brooklyn, but a real washer and dryer. Just take a look at this beauty. I won't even need to go to the garage or put in quarters.



And the corresponding dryer.



Maybe I'm confusing my excitement for these appliances with my overall excitement at our new adventure, but whatever it is, what a rush.

The Irony

Nothing like reading an article like this on the train two days after graduating. If only I'd known. Well, at least I was able to wear sweet purple robes for a day.

It Is Finished

CA

Mission accomplished, thanks to our friends the Wheelers. I neglected to take a picture of the most important part of my house finding trip, but I will leave this with you instead. Stop wasting your time with blizzards. Cherry Mr. Misty Float please.



Our new home. Well, not exactly, but close enough.



A new friend?



Pt. Reyes



Marin County has cheese factories. The deal was sealed.

Legs of Steel

My legs have the beginnings of that iron feel to them. Richard, there is no way in hell you'll ever beat me in a race. Maybe if you go Tonya Harding on me. Otherwise, keep looking at my back, 'cause that's all you're ever going to see. BTW, I'm officially challenging you to the Olympic distance of the St. George Triathalon, 2007. I know, I know, I don't have a bike and haven't ridden one in over 10 years, so what. Let's race. My friends, who organize the race, have already been told that we will be racing to the death. The death. I should probably start swimming again too. Wait, can we make it just a run?

JP, you can join in the fun as well. May, 2007.

St. George Tri

Whoa Nelly!

I couldn't let a whole month go by without entertaining you. That just wouldn't be neighborly and it appears that where we are going (sshh, don't tell my current employer. I'm going to surprise them in a couple of weeks. Probably right after I get the welcome package. I hope it includes balloons and a clown.) ahem, ok, it appears that where we are going, being neighborly is very important. In Bronxville, neighborliness - not so important. Aside from our next door neighbors, who happen to own a dry cleaning business. I am going to miss the neighbor discount and my clothes magically appearing on my doorstep. Having to drive to pick up my clothes doesn't sound like fun. Wait, who am I kidding. It'll be Liz picking up my 25 shirts, including the three new pink ones. Yes, I feel like a beautiful butterfly.

In Brooklyn, being neighborly was also not very important, especially in our first Brooklyn apartment. Did I ever tell you about the time I left my building in South South Park Slope just in time to witness the SWAT team, battering ram in tow, crash through the building three buildings down? How about the mariachi band and their 50 cousins that lived upstairs from us for the first six months? Or what about the time they had the hugest party, then unexpectedly left the place, but left their trash, all 20 bags of it, sitting on their landing, thus stinking up the entire building? Or the time that someone's female products clogged up the pipes in the basement, thus causing the basement to flood with raw sewage? Or the hallway being under construction for the first six months? Or the fact that I could place a ball at one end of the apartment and watch it roll across four rooms and two doors to the other end of the apartment due to the funhouse-like tilt? How about the said neighbors banging on my door at 2am because they couldn't get to sleep because my ceiling fan was too loud (hello, mariachi band)? And my personal favorite, the time the entire kitchen ceiling collapsed due to a pipe in the kitchen upstairs breaking. Oh, yes, we had visitors due in town a day later.

Good times. I'm going to miss this place.

No More Numbers

I've grown lazy. I admit it. I've begun using numbers as post titles. I'll slap myself twice on Tuesday if I do that again. Now, I'm no writer, but if I was and I began using numbers as the titles of my articles, I'd fully expect to be fired. Not numbers combined with actual nouns and verbs, but just numbers. Like say, 488 or 160. I really don't know how I got into Stern. It must have been that interview where I told them that I was born in Sonora. (And yes, I know I've said something like this before. It shows again my lack of creativity and overall limitedness of my brain power. If I could only remember.)

Even if I'm not using a number for a title, I still have numbers on the brain. 11.5 and 13.5. The past two Saturdays, I went on runs of these distances. The 11.5 was an accident. Well, not really. I was just tricked into it by someone with superior intellect. Again, not surprising. The 13.5 was deliberate. Now I know, you're thinking, "11.5 and 13.5? You could run that in your sleep." Well guess what? I haven't run that far since last September. The closest I've come is 6. Did it hurt? Oh yea. Was it worth it? Yep. I'm back in the saddle. Or is it Liz who is back in the saddle. Whatever. I'm a runner again. I even ran with this super smart guy who tricked me the first time past the reservoir. It was beautiful and I felt fast. My last mile was 6:40 and I was raring for more. Kind of. Once I stopped running I could barely walk.

Single Digits

This morning's weather for my run along the East River was in the single digits. At one point, I was wishing that I was a duck. There they were just floating on the river. No clothes. No thermal gear, no beanie with a tassle. Just them and their feathers. I wasn't sure what kind of ducks they were as I wasn't able to get a good look at them due to needing to continually look straight ahead. Turning your head when you're that cold requires the whole body turning, Freinkenstein-like, and that was something that I was not prepared to do. Not when a gust could suddenly go down my shirt.

My East River running partner told me yesterday that he is changing offices and will no longer be coming to the City. Instead, he will be staying in Jersey. Have I told you about my ability to avoid Jersey? Maybe another time, but those jug handles irk me and you don't want to see me irked. I kind of resemble a pigeon when I'm irked. Well, it looks as if my morning Manhattan runs are over. No way I can do those by myself. I'd rather be running on a treadmill watching Sportscenter.

Anyways, I'm not feeling it. This hasn't been an amusing session.

488

12 miles to go before I hit the magic 500 mile marker on my shoe odometer. For those not familiar with running, 500 miles is when the internal components of a shoe begin to break down. In other words, I have 12 more miles and then these shoes are going to the Boys and Girls Club bin on Central Ave. Now I've had many, many shoes and I've hit 500 miles on all of them. It doesn't take that long as I'm running between 100 and 200 miles a month. Although I did have that phase where I had this strange compulsion to go to the running store every other weekend and I ended up with five pairs of running shoes, each with under 100 miles. I still have four pairs of those. It's tough to hit 500 miles when you're rotating shoes every day.

Anyways, this pair is special. As a matter of fact, as I sit here thinking about these shoes (Asics Gel Kayano Xs), I'm a bit melancholy. I might even have an Interpol song going through my head. Usually, any of you could call me a girl if I spouted off about some song that meant something special to me (something that has never happened btw), but in this case you cannot. I don't pay attention to lyrics. None. It's all about the beat and the sound. I could care less what some dude is crying about. If he's singing about his pet rock that he used to bash his girlfriend's head in or about how some guy broke his heart, it's all the same. The only differentiator is the sound. Anyways, as I'm thinking about the impending retirement of my AGKXs, the 2nd song on Antics is going through my head. Good beat.

So let's talk about this particular pair of AGKXs, as I've had more than one pair. They are orange, which strangely, is one of my more favorite colors. For having no soul, I seem to like bright things. Very odd. Maybe I'm hoping that the shoes will rub off on me. This pair is the pair that I Boston Qualified in two years ago. I didn't run Boston in them as I was seduced by this hot pair of Mizunos. I shouldn't have given in. They were just eye candy and gave me blisters. So, they have a special place in my, wherever my heart would have been. Should I save them in remembrance of the fastest marathon I've ever run? Will that be the pinnacle of my marathoning career?

Forget it, they're going in the mice infested trash can under the stoop.

Pow Pow

I can't wait for the first time I catch my son doing something really wrong. I've waited my entire life to say, "Son, go cut yourself a switch." Parents are still allowed to whip their kids, right?

SF Bound

But don't tell my present employer. I'm waiting for just the right moment to spring that one on them. They'll be devastated I'm sure. And totally surprised. Now to figure out this logistical nightmare. Anyone have a huge truck? Free flights for L & Z? I'm begging at this point. I'll even paint myself blue and ride through downtown naked on a horse.

I Am

not VTOL. I am PTC, as in PassTheChips (which will be my new gamertag whenever I get another Xbox - damn Microsoft not wanting to fix my current Xbox. So what if I had opened it up? Your lousy 90 day warranty had expired about 45 months ago. The only reason I will be getting a 360 is because I have a hell of a lot of original Xbox games that I still want to play.). Where I got this moniker, is a long and boring story, kind of like how I was going to nickname Zane JJ. D Y N O M I T E!! Needless to say, I like chips, I don't put a lot of thought into nicknames, and my mind wanders. A lot. Now, go off and continue to be bored reading something else.

And Just To Be Fair

If I were president, I wouldn't illegally spy on Americans, wouldn't trash the constitution, wouldn't condone torture, would clean up corruption, would curb spending, would stop borrowing, would ditch most of the religious right's nutty social agenda, would fire Rumsfeld, would actually show an interest in things other than clearing brush in my desolate part of Texas, and would answer honest questions and provide honest answers without spin rehearsing for two weeks prior. Worst president ever, quite possible. This coming from someone who voted for him twice and is as far to the Goldwater right as Kos is to the left.

"If I were president...

I'd disband the military entirely." Never has such drivel from such a wannabe intellectual who wants nothing more than to be taken seriously and to make a difference made me laugh louder at work. That's a lot of caveats, but I like to cma. It's a nice sentiment and maybe that's where that person was going with his comment, but think about the consequences before you spout off nonsense. Another reason I cannot take the far left seriously. I still read them. The things they aspire to are noblesque and the ways they want to reach them leave me in stitches.

PXVZP

I won't be needing Prozac, Xanax, Valium, Zoloft, or Paxil after all. My anxiety/panic attack about my running capabilities appears to be much ado about nothing. I can run after all. It just appears that I actually need to run in order to build up my muscles. Very wierd concept. You'd figure that if you ran comfortably fast at one point, you'd be able to run comfortably fast forever regardless of training. Ah, the young and deluded. We just don't learn. And if anyone comments about how I'm not so young any more, give me a call because I have a special gesture and phrase just for you. I'm not sure it's even found here, but it could be. (By the way, I've never been more excited about a book in my life. Even Liz likes it. It belongs in all personal libraries. It's that cool.)

Too Much Too Soon?

I've run three times over the past 10 days for a total of 10 miles and my ITBs are already sore??? I'm breaking down more quickly than I thought. Good thing I have those amazing metabolism genes.

What's Wrong with Foie Gras?

Absolutely nothing and yet when a plate of foie gras terrine came to the table last night, no one would eat it except for myself and one other. Let them have their hummus, their lobster, their chorizo. I'll take the buttery, engorged duck liver goodness. I can still taste it. Mmmmmmm. Terrine is good, but what I wouldn't do for seared foie gras. Now that is heaven. Looks like I need to drop some hints to the next vendor. Just kidding. I wouldn't do that. Pass the envelope please.

On the Road Again

Well, not exactly. It was more like the treadmill. Three miles. First time in three or four months that I've run. It felt good to stretch my legs doing something other than trying to reach for the remote with my toes. I could bore you all with how my chest felt (bad) or how slow I was going (9:15 pace) or even how the multiple signs posted in the locker room banning the use of cell phones due to men taking pictures of naked men for their after-gym viewing pleasure kind of skeeved me out, but I won't. Let's talk about genetics.

I've been the first to complain about how screwed I've been due to my parents choosing that particular moment to mix their genes together to form me. If they'd have waited an hour or two, I'm sure that I'd be 6'3, 190, with the ability to jump, a genius, and better looking than I already am. Seriously, where did these eyebrows come from. It's like I have a giant fuzzy caterpillar on my forehead. Well, if I'm going to complain about the things I've been batsued with, I might as well do the noble thing and brag about those things I've been blessed with. Actually, it's not things, just a thing and before you think that I'm just a dirty little 32 year old, it's not that thing. You guys are seriously ill. I wouldn't talk about Wilbur on a family site like this.

So my blessing is my metabolism. Before I ran the other day, I stepped on the scale, like I always do, but hadn't done in 3.5 months. I was nervous. What had the holidays done to me? What had my inactivity done to me? My pants were definitely snug. Please, not 160. Please not 160. I was at 151 the last time I ran. My ideal racing weight is 148. So what did all of those tamales, menudo, gravy (I drink it straight from the boat sometimes it's so delicious), and more candy than I care to think about at the moment do to me? Three pounds. I weighed in at 154 and this was after lunch. I almost started to cry. I was so happy. So thank you mom and dad for this magical gift. I seriously appreciate it.