When you follow your bliss. The Aloha edition.

My baby brother, Zachary, is affectionately known as Uncle Crush to my kids. This nickname came to be one day when my husband was impersonating voices from their favorite movies. He would say a popular line and they would guess the character. When he got to Finding Nemo, he chose the ever-popular sea turtle, Crush: "Dude, dude, focus. Dude?" Immediately, they yelled in unison, "Uncle Zak!" And so, Uncle Zak became Uncle Crush.

This nickname fits him perfectly. His laid back personality is both calming and endearing. While the rest of us are caught up in the maelstrom of life's chaos, Crush maintains an even demeanor, making roadblocks appear manageable and speed bumps insignificant. It is almost impossible to set him off, which is a bit of an anomaly in our family. You won't find him jumping into a conversation about religion or politics, although he does have strong opinions. He'd just rather keep them to himself.

Poor Crush has always had 4 mothers: his biological mom (and mine) and his 3 older sisters. We've been telling him how to live his life, in varying degrees of annoyance, since he was old enough to understand our rants. As the oldest, I've probably been on the 'extreme annoyance' end of the spectrum more times than not. Because his personality is the polar opposite of mine, it has been my mission to motivate him, inspire him and generally light a fire under his derriere. Turns out, he needs none of that.

After graduating from Arizona State, Crush held various jobs in Arizona and So Cal, but never found his bliss. Always the consummate beach-lover, we all knew he could not fight the gravitational pull to the ocean (and why would he want to?). So, this past summer, Crush up and moved...to Kauai, Hawaii. He originally went to work on some sort of organic farm. He'd work in exchange for room and board (I use those terms very loosely). He was only suppose to be gone for a few weeks, a few months at most. He has yet to return.

He now has a room in a house in Kilauea, a job and a new network of friends. He followed his bliss, not letting logic, a lack of money, or his opinionated sisters sway him. It makes no sense that this entire situation worked out for him. He had no connections, no money, no real plan. And yet, here he is, living the proverbial dream. Now, we all live vicariously through him, keeping up with his adventures, begging for more pictures, wondering if we'll ever join him (if only for a week) to explore Kalalau, Hanakapia Beach and other mystical places.

When I think about following my bliss, the first things that pops into my mind are all of the obstacles that prevent me from doing so. And then, I think of my baby brother enjoying mimosas on Kauai's North Shore and the possibilities seem a bit more tangible. How do you define your bliss? Are you following it?

When my 86-year-old grandmother is put on the wrong flight...

My 86-year-old grandmother (affectionately known as YoYo) has the enviable ability to complete tune out the world...and I mean that in the absolute literal sense. Without her hearing aid, we're all better off saving our collective breath because she.can't.hear.anything. The thing is, she hardly ever wears it.

At first I thought it may be uncomfortable or make her feel old, but these days, I'm realizing that she just doesn't want to hear us. I can't blame her really, as each and every member of her family operates from a place of chaos. As the matriarch of this brood, I suppose she does have the right to tune us out if she so chooses. But, this elderly super power recently back-fired on her while traveling from Philadelphia to Phoenix. My dad just shared this brief but hilarious story on his blog, so check it out. It's one of the funniest things my family has experienced...and that's saying ALOT.

Bottom line, if you're 86 and heading to Phoenix, turn on your hearing aid or you'll end up in Tampa. On a side note, we are now HUGE fans of Southwest Airlines...not just because they let you cancel your flight without losing your money (unlike CONTINENTAL, which I will never fly again) but they now take small dogs, check bags for free....and drive deaf old ladies to WalMart when the occasion calls. Luv.

Can a vegetarian work at In-in-Out?

I've become a vegetarian twice in my life. The first was a 6-month stint in 8th grade. I was embracing my new-found liberal/nouveau hippie persona and felt like being a vegetarian was the next logical step behind resurrecting Janice Joplin, bell-bottoms and tie-dye. Growing up in an Italian family, it was pretty hard to avoid meat altogether, so I defined 'vegetarian' as a RED meat eater. It made the whole process a bit easier and still allowed me to devour my mom's chicken Parmesan and my dad's stuffed squid.

Although I wasn't very diligent in the practice of true vegetarian eating, I relished the opportunity to point out the socially irresponsible and repulsive behavior in which my sisters and parents choose to partake (my brother was off the hook because he was too young to know better). I even had a brief stint as a PETA supporter. Of course, all of the bloody propaganda in the world wouldn't keep me away from my need for leather products (being an avid equestrian) or my new-found adoration of lip gloss.

During my junior year in high school, I hopped on the vegetarian bandwagon for a second time. Ironically, I was working at In-n-Out Burger in Arcadia, CA at the time. By day, I was a budding feminist grappling with my inherited love of Osso Bucco, by night I was flipping the very burgers I swore off. It was an impossible situation.

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I vividly remember my decision to throw in the towel and permanently embrace my carnivorous ways. It was 8pm and my shift was just ending. I worked the "walk up window" that night, which meant I was inches away from a big bucket of 'rejected burgers' for about 4 hours. The unmistakable aroma circled like sweet, smokey tendrils around my head throughout my shift.

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About 15 minutes before it was time to remove the giant safety pin from my red apron, I realized that if I were a true vegetarian, I would not be so powerfully drawn to this bucket of burger rejects. Right then and there, I decided that my love of braised veal shank and double-triples with extra grilled onions would forever rule my palette. Faster than you can say 'animal style,' I snapped up a burger from a co-worker and ran to the back to devour my treasure. Ahhhh...home again.

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No matter how many times I flirt with the idea of living off of barley and broccoli, I just can't seem to follow through....and so, my love affair continues.

The bigger parenting challenge? My girls or my boy?

A recent article about the differences in raising boys and girls on Parenting.com shed some interesting light on the topic. As a mom of two girls (5 and 2) and a boy (4), I am simultaneously travelling down two distinct parenting highways, proving you can, in fact, be in two places at one time. This discrepancy in parenting techniques can cause a bit of child-induced schizophrenia, but, overall, I would say that my girls are much more difficult than my son. I've heard that boys are harder when they're young (2-10) and girls are harder when they're older (10-forever). So far, I have not found that to be true.

The aforementioned article touches on 5 main points: Discipline, Physical Safety, Communication, Self-Esteem and School. Read my blog at RealMomsGuide.com to find out which of my kids present the biggest challenge in each of these areas. Then, tell me what you think.

When you follow your bliss...

I have a dear friend who is genuine, fearless and determined. Her name is Lindsay and, like many of us, she has a heart for children. Unlike many of us, she does something about it. Not long ago, she started a non-profit organization called Blankets for Babies. This organization "exists to give babies living in poverty and distress the opportunity to be filled with hope, warmth, love, joy and peace through the gifts of blankets." I quote directly from her web site here because I could not say it better myself.

You may wonder if a blanket can really make a difference in a child's life. Let me assure you, the answer is YES! The children touched by her efforts have very little. Little food. Little shelter. Little security. Little love. I've seen it first hand. When these children receive their very own Boh-Boh blankets (as they are affectionately nicknamed), they aren't sure what to think at first. Many of them are a bit shocked by the fact that someone is giving them anything, much less a beautiful, plush blanket that they can call their own. But, they walk away knowing that someone cares, that they matter and that there is hope.

Lindsay gives blankets out all over the world and, of course, here in the United States. Blankets for Babies has touched children in Afghanistan, India, Argentina, South Africa, Rwanda and Vietnam just to name a few countries. Recently, one of her Boh-Boh blankets was spotted in a CNN story about Haitian orphans after the earthquake. You can see in this picture that these children have very little. Little clothing. Little comfort. Little warmth. Some are lying on bare mattresses. But, the one little girl with the frilly bottom is sleeping soundly atop of a blanket (the pretty one with the checkered border) that came from Lindsay.

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Lindsay has been brave enough to follow her bliss. While some saw a blanket, she saw hope...and acted on her vision. If this one little girl was the only child touched by her efforts, I know that Lindsay would rejoice. But, there are soooo many more little girls and boys who are wrapping their Boh-Bohs around their tiny shoulders as you read this. What is your bliss? Imagine what would happen if you followed it?

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I can't forget...one of best parts about Blankets for Babies is that when you buy a blanket, a blanket is given to a child in need. How cool is that? I am so honored to call Lindsay and friend and am inspired by her efforts every day.

Why I love religion and politics

We've all been warned, at one time or another, to avoid discussions of religion and politics unless you want the conversation to end badly. I disagree. Sure, the conversations tend to get a little animated, but what's really wrong with that? Here are the top 6 reasons I love discussing religion (by that way, this is a word that I really dislike) and politics:

1. I admire when people can articulate their points of view. I have absolutely no problem with you supporting a complete government takeover of absolutely every privately-held industry in the country, as long as you can tell me why...and you're not making stuff up...and you're using accurate information to support your views...and you haven't been brainwashed by the media.


2. The amount of time it takes you to reach complete meltdown status usually correlates with your general patience level on matters outside of religion and politics. Armed with this information, I know whether I can trust you with my children or not.


3. If you are too easily offended by something I say that you do not agree with, I know to keep my mouth shut if you have a piece of salad stuck between your teeth or if you're wearing your shirt inside-out.


4. The conversation helps me narrow down gift selections for birthdays and holidays. If you get red-faced and agitated over my support the 2nd Amendment, I know not to buy you an NRA T-shirt for Christmas. How convenient, right?


5. If your arguments walk a stern partisan line, I know to casually bow out of the conversation because you aren't thinking for yourself. I'm not condemning you. It's too easy to do these days. Original thought takes much more effort than most of us can give.


6. I almost always walk away more sure of my convictions. I appreciate the unintentional confirmation.

The battle with my curls.

I've been denying an undeniable fact for quite a while now. I've been avoiding reality, trying to alter nature and running from the truth. It's time I come clean and embrace the hand I've been dealt.

I. Have. Curly. Hair.

There. It's out in the universe and I can't bring it back. This may not come as a shock to some of you, but I've been not quite ready to fully admit this to myself since I was about 12. It was around that time that I realized how difficult it was to find someone to cut my curly hair without turning it into an afro...ok, more of an afro than it already was. My mom will attest to the fact that every haircut was a bad haircut between the years of 1987 and 1994. And I'm not referring to the insanity of popular hair styles during that time. It was just my hair.

Looking back, I realize that some of the fault is mine. I browsed magazines like any other teenager looking for a new 'do but all of the pictures smiled back with their perfectly straight, shiny, smooth hair. Lacking options, I'd cut one out and pray for a miracle. I can only imagine what the poor stylist thought when I handed her the picture, and she proceeded to look at the mop of curls protruding in every direction. Clearly, I was a nightmare client.

Most stylist will go on and on about how great my curls are, how lucky I am to have them, how women pay a ton of money to get curls like mine...blah blah blah. The thing is, they cut my hair and then proceed to straighten it so that they can "check the cut for accuracy." Yeah right! While I appreciate the gesture and realize you were only trying to protect me, the craziness bounced right back as soon as I stepped outside or washed my hair for the first time. I get it though...by that time I was far enough away from the salon that I couldn't reach out and grab you. Touche'.

Then there's the stylist who insists that I will love my curls by the time she's done. "Great!" I think. "I would love to love my curls." After 45 minutes of washing and cutting, another 30 minutes blow drying my lovely curls flat, and yet another 30 minutes re-curling my hair with a curling iron...voila! "Perfect curls!" Yes, they are perfect, but they are definitely NOT mine. Nice try though.

Trying to straighten or otherwise mask my curls has been exhausting and fruitless. I'm throwing in the towel. I've always loved super short hair and chopped mine all off a few years ago in an effort to liberate myself from my curly persona. Well, that courageous move resulted in countless hours in front of the mirror blow drying and flat ironing until my tresses screamed for a truce. I loved my short hair but it was so incredibly high maintenance. I just can't do it.

While I do harbor a bit of envy towards women who can pull off the super short look with minimal effort (I'm working on it), I've had my day. It's time to move on. My name is Tiernan. I have curly hair. I will fight it no longer.

You love Chuck E. Cheese? You're Hired.

My husband and I are in the process of interviewing for a receptionist position at our store. We've done everything we can to avoid this process, but I am working way too many hours and we need some reinforcements. After placing an ad on Craigslist, our inbox was immediately flooded with 100+ résumés. If only those 100+ applicants were all perfectly suited for the position, I could just pick one at random and be done with it! Unfortunately, nothing in the small business world is so simple.

Cody and I shared the banal responsibility of sorting through these résumés and immediately eliminating the applicants who are in no way going to work for us. Usually, these cast-offs fall into one of the following categories:

a) They live in Broomfield, Thornton or Boulder - Hello!? Please pull out a map and see where Highlands Ranch is compared to any of these places. Even if you are the most punctual, responsible and friendly human on the face of the planet, we're pretty sure we won't see you when the snow is falling (even if you do live in Colorado), when we have to open early/close late or when we need you in a pinch.

b) Their "objective" is a variation on the following: "to secure a decent job and hold onto it." Seriously? Shoot for the moon why don't you. Even if your employment history is checkered, maybe you should keep that to yourself, at least until the interview.

c) You just graduated from high school and have ten employers listed but all of your references are "personal." I can see it now: We're booked solid on a Saturday afternoon and you decide that you'd rather hang out with your boyfriend than show up for work. On top of that, you won't feel it necessary to call and let us know that you're flaking...you just won't show up. No thank you.

So, the flood of interested applicants was quickly whittled down to a manageable number of...six. I sat down at our desk eager to call these six people to set up interviews. The first call I made was to a woman named Darlene. Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Hello," a sweet voice says amidst the clamour of kids in the background. "Hi," I said. "My name is Tiernan McKay and I'm calling about a résumé you sent me for our recept..um, hello? Can you hear me?" I was sure she had no idea what I just said because I could barely hear myself over the commotion. At first, I was a little annoyed. If you are job-hunting and see a strange number call, and you're in the middle of a Mardi Gras-equivalent, why are you answering the phone? But, Darlene quickly pacified me by saying, "I'm so sorry. We're celebrating my three-year-old-grandson's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese and I can't hear anything over all of the giggles."

Just stop. You're hired. I didn't say it, but I thought it. I wanted so badly to avoid this hiring process that I felt immediately inclined to hire this Chuck E. Cheese-loving grandmother, simply because she was at Chuck E. Cheese. I thought, "She must be friendly. She likes to laugh and have a good time. I'm sure she's making friends and charming the entire crowd. She's probably the nicest person I'll ever hope to meet and if we don't hire her, for sure someone else will! Besides, grumpy irresponsible people don't hang out at C.E.C., do they?" This is how small business-ownership is driving me to think.

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Always the voice of reason, Cody calmly explained that answering the phone while at Chuck E. Cheese is hardly grounds for employment (if only!). And, the search goes on.

Respect the Traffic Zipper

I don't remember formally learning this technique in driver's training, but soon after I started driving, the 210 FWY in Pasadena introduced me to the zipper merge. You know what I'm talking about, don't you? When two lanes of traffic meet, one car from each lane takes turns entering whichever lane being formed. My little white convertible 1974 Bug relished the opportunity to ting-ting-ting its way into traffic as I graciously waved my thanks on countless occasions. Those were the days.

These days, it seems aggressive drivers are resisting the zipper at all costs. It's not uncommon to see one of these bitter pilots sneak up on the car in front of them until they are practically on top of its bumper. Perhaps if they eliminate all daylight between them and the car in front of them, the car to their right attempting the zipper will be discouraged and try another point of entry. Of course, this maneuver must be executed while casually gazing out of the left window, so the zippering driver thinks you don't see them.

Well, WE DO SEE YOU! I cannot count the number of times I've been blocked from the zipper just this week alone. Does nobody respect the unwritten traffic rules anymore? The zipper works perfectly. If every driver on the road would simply respect its effectiveness, 75% of all bottlenecks and traffic jams would be eliminated. No, this is not scientific, but I'm pretty sure of it.

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My kids are getting an early driving education. Anticipating the upcoming bumper block, I have been known to chant "zipper, Zipper, ZIPPER!" Often to no avail. The inevitable, "Why are you shouting 'zipper'?" question has followed in the past. But now, they are well-versed and educated enough to join my effort. Again, to no avail. They have even been seen rolling down the window to politely express their disappointment in the lack of zippering ability. "You aren't zippering," Eden has explained on more than one occasion.

Yet, we continue to search for this elusive driving technique in hope that logic, respect and decency will be restored to the freeways. Dream on, right?

The poser liberal

Back in 8th grade, my friends and I would chat about our plan to join the Peace Corps and save the world. Every text book I used was covered in plain brown paper but decorated with colorful peace signs and anti-George Bush symbols. I was listening to U2, supporting the end of apartheid, learning about Saddam Hussein and crying over the Exxon Valdez oil spill. In an effort to resurrect the Hippie movement, at least via fashion, I spent afternoons rummaging through racks of clothes at the Pasadena Salvation Army and on special occasions traveled to Aaardvark's on Melrose for that perfect pair of bell-bottoms. I could not be more proud of the fact that my parents were at Woodstock.

In high school, I was all about free speech and women's rights. My rudimentary understanding of the women's lib movement was breeding an underlying distrust of men and a slightly angry exterior that was quick to snap when provoked. I dabbled in vegetarianism (while working at In-n-Out Burger) and read Simone de Beauvoir.

During my freshman year of college at UC Santa Cruz, I was introduced to drum circles, solidarity marches, the secret meaning to the numbers 4/20, the power of the pamphlet and the science of dread locks. It was here that I began to feel as if I had been herded down this path of perceived social consciousness. One night, while walking through campus on my way home from class, I heard a faint clamour of marching students. Nothing odd, really. The uber-liberal student body was always gathering to protest one issue or another.

As the earth crunched under my feet, the ruckus was getting louder, and less friendly. I could see the College Eight dorm on the horizon and my pace quickened. Finally, I reached the front doors, flung them open and booked it up to my room. Glancing out the window, I see the source of the commotion: a group of topless women screaming about their right to conquer the world if they so choose, waving signs, bras and flashlights.

At the end of the semester, I put away the bell bottoms, removed the nose-ring (although I'm sort of wanting it back now) and transferred to Arizona State, where I developed an understanding of the power of the individual to create his/her circumstances and rise above them if needed. I realized the inability of government to solve pretty much any social dilemma and the danger in expecting them to do so. I decided that morality could not be dictated by elected officials, but rather taught by loving parents and a like-minded support system. I delved deeper into the intent of our wise Founding Fathers and was in awe at the mess we've created for ourselves. I rediscovered the beauty and perfection of the Constitution and the importance of protecting it.

And so goes my arch from poser liberal to Conservative. Of course, this is a simplified version, but ultimately, I decided that the power of the people lies in the unique talents and skills that we each bring to the table. Throwing government bureaucracy into the mix only brings social chaos, a sense of helplessness and a lack of self-confidence. The beauty of all this is that we are each free to subscribe to whichever school of thought we choose. But shouldn't we be equally prepared to reap the fruit of that belief system? More government? More legislation? Less Freedom? Fewer opportunities? That is not the country I want for my children.

Little Boys with Long Hair

I just finished blogging about my son's long hair on RealMomsGuide.com (read my blog entry here) when I heard about this little boy in Texas (Taylor Pugh, left) who has been suspended because of his hair. I had to blog about that too, here.

I've heard people say that Conservatives don't like long hair on boys and so, the Texas School Board is simply reflecting the thoughts of the general population of the state. Ridiculous. I am a Conservative and I believe in the freedom of choice. He attends a public school, which should serve the educational needs of the people, not dictate fashion trends. A private school can require students to wear pink polka dots and dye their hair blue while riding a goat to school every Tuesday. Go ahead and make it mandatory. Parents can say, "no thank you" and be done with it. But, a public school? Come on people!

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So, should I cut my son's hair?

Am I a Boat-Potato?

I didn't want to hear what our Pastor told us today at church. I've been trying to put it out of my head since I walked out the door. But, the harder I try to ignore what he said, the hotter the branding iron gets. The sound of his message being singed upon my heart is painful and sweet at the same time.

He talked to us today about Peter getting out of the boat and walking towards Jesus on the water, but he didn't focus on Peter. Rather, he explored what it may have been like for the others who stayed in the boat. Sure, they were safe. Peter was the only idiot who dared leave the comfort and safety of their vessel...and right in the midst of a raging storm! What was he thinking? True, Peter's journey was cut short by doubt and he went sinking into the violent, black water (only to be saved by Jesus). But, the others never left their seats. "Boat-potatoes," he called them.

While the boat-potatoes surely had a great story to tell, only Peter walked on water (albeit briefly). He took the biggest risk and, therefore, reaped the greatest reward. Since the words leaped from our Pastor's mouth, I've been thinking about my inability to risk in my life. I say 'inability' rather than 'unwillingness' because, while I'm willing to take a leap, I'm not sure which way to jump. It's my fault, I know. Rarely do I take the time to listen. Life has a pesky habit of getting in the way.

So, am I a boat-potato? As of right now, I'd painfully have to answer 'yes.' I'm not proud of it, but I've surely learned to love the comfort of my boat. Yes, it's rocking violently and on the verge of falling apart, but it's my boat. Today's message forced me to step back and take an honest look at the rickety, old dinghy that I've been clinging to. When I'm sitting in it, it's the safest, most secure place I can think of. When I'm looking at it from the outside, it's just a boat, and an ugly one at that.

Armed with a new perspective on my pathetic little raft, I'm eager to leave my boat-potato days behind me so that I may know what it feels like to walk on water. Stay tuned.

World's Worst Teacher

I have a confession to make. I am absolutely the most horrible teacher on the face of the planet. My oldest, Eden, is five and learning to read in Kindergarten. I had a meeting with her teacher yesterday to talk about whether or not she is prepared to move on to 1st grade. There are some concerns with her ability to grasp reading and math concepts. I knew this, but I wasn't sure how she compared to the rest of her class, until yesterday.

I immediately took her home, pulled out one of our 'emergent reader' books and started drilling her. She, of course, shut down explaining to me that she is trying but just can't remember. Do I comfort her? Slow down? Abandon my "world's most intense teacher" persona? No. I keep pushing her. When our hour-long session was over, she was frustrated with me and I was absolutely at the end of my rope, left in a literal heap of defeat. The whole "nun with a ruler" concept suddenly made sense to me. That's awful, right?

Clearly, I am not trained to teach reading skills and, although I read to my kids constantly, there is a necessary component of patience and understanding that I do not possess. I am so humbled by teachers of young children, especially K-5th grade. I just could not do it, even if my life depended on it.

We've decided a tutor is the best option for Eden because if left to our own devices, my husband and I would turn her completely off to education (because it obviously leads to obsessive, controlling, irrational behavior, as we so aptly demonstrate).

Kudos to all the saintly teachers out there. I do not know how you do it. But I do know that I cannot.

The Songbirds Need Our Help!?!?!?

I was driving to yoga this morning just as a dull sun started oozing through the blackness. It was Fa-ra-EEZING last night (-10) and still really cold this morning. It snowed yesterday into the night, so the roads were icy and I was sliding a bit, even in my husband's Jeep. I almost didn't get up with the alarm, using the road conditions as an excuse, but then I thought how horrible I'd feel later in the day if I didn't get up and sweat for an hour. Off I went, intent on driving safely, largely in part because my husband doubted my ability to do so this morning. Two hands on the wheel, easing onto the brake as I approached the red light...I was focused, determined and cautious.

"The songbirds need our help this winter," says a voice on the radio. "As our winter storms approach, you can provide our local songbirds with some much-needed nutrition." Immediately, my eye-of-the-tiger resolve flees and I turn up the volume. "The songbirds?" I think to myself. "They need MY help!?!? How selfish of me to never consider the songbirds, especially when it's so cold outside. What will they eat? Where will they go? How will they survive?? WHAT CAN I DO?"

The commercial for a songbird birdseed blend continues to pull on the heartstrings of aviary lovers throughout the Rocky Mountain state (and really, who doesn't love a cute little bird?). Images of shivering and starving birds flash in my mind, their frozen windpipes unable to project the melodious songs for which they are so well known. I picture them flying over my home in search of scraps of food, only to be driven into delirium at the lack of edible forage. Their graceful flight pattern turns to crazy, random darts that pierce the sky...until they ultimately plunge to the ground. And to think, I could prevent this terrible fate!

Rather than navigate the Jeep towards my yoga studio, I thought, "Divert! I must do my part to save the songbirds...pronto!" I almost expected to see brake lights all around me set aglow by the panicked drivers hearing about the plight of these precious birds just as I was. Shouldn't the entire flow of traffic be brought to a sharp halt as we all try to figure out where to purchase this life-saving seed? But, no. The flow of cars on Lincoln St. continued, uninterrupted by anything other than ice patches.

Refusing to be desensitized by the ignorant masses, I quickly swerved into the nearest parking lot, turned the car around and spun off in the direction of my nearest seed retailer. As I was stopped at a red light, a little bird landed on the bus stop bench next to me and began chirping a tune. Well, I thought it was a tune, but then I realized it was a subtle, smug aviary giggle. Slapped back into reality by this surprisingly healthy looking songbird, I turned the Jeep back around and headed straight for yoga, where I spent the next hour mentally slapping myself for falling for the songbird hype.

REWIND <<<<<<
"The songbirds need our help this winter," the voice on the radio says. Seriously? I'm pretty sure the songbirds (along with the non-singing birds) can take care of themselves. And...off I went to yoga.
Note: This was an actual commerical. No kidding. :-)

On Marathons and Mimosas

I am in the midst of training for my first half-marathon...well, two half-marathons really (which basically means I get credit for a full marathon, right?). The first will take place in Orange County on May 2 and the second in Denver on May 16. Am I a glutton for punishment? Perhaps. Running these two races so close together is either brilliant (I only have to train once) or idiotic (for obvious reasons).

I am running the OC 1/2 with two girlfriends, Candice and Lauren. This was planned during a recent "girls trip" to Arizona. I'm pretty sure the idea surfaced after a few cocktails in the parking lot at the ASU/USC football game. Why else would we think this is a good idea? Don't get me wrong. I love running. But, this is also "girls trip," which typically involves any combination of the following: mimosas, manicures, shopping, late breakfasts, poolside lounging, cupcake eating, people watching. I have a feeling, this upcoming trip is more likely to include a combination of: pacing, stretching, sweating, crying, begging, sleeping. Which would you prefer? This will definitely be more of a goal-oriented trip.

I'm running the second 1/2 with my friend Lisa here in Denver. Basically, we are running so we don't feel guilty indulging in a celebrated post-race champagne brunch. True, we could probably attend the brunch if we skip the race. Realistically, we could even wear our running clothes, run around the block and show up exhausted. It would have the same effect, but there is a bit of shame in that strategy, no? For now, Bellinis and eggs Benedict are indirectly fueling our training.

Speaking of training, I've developed a closer relationship with my knees in the past month than I have over my entire lifetime. Back in high school, a misguided attempt at playing soccer resulted in two things: entry into La Salle High School's Sports Hall of Fame (which isn't really as cool as it sounds because I was the ONLY senior on the team and, therefore, the only player eligible) and a surgery-scarred left knee.

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I don't even remember what happened specifically but it probably involved me hurling myself towards an opposing player in an attempt to either distract them, trip them or make them laugh so hard they'd abandon the ball. Whatever my intent, it failed and I ended up a contorted mess on the ground. After surgery, I recovered well but my knee has never felt the same. It's not really painful, but more uncomfortable. During the process of figuring out "why?" I've discovered that my left leg is significantly shorter than my right. Nothing like stumbling upon a surprise physical deformity in your 25th year of life. So, now I wear a lift in my shoe, which really does help make my runs more comfortable.

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I never know which knees are going to join me on my training runs. Some days, they are my best friends. Like, to the point of me talking to them: "Thank you so much for feeling so good today. You've made my run so much easier. Let's keep going." Other days, I hit a wall around the 4-mile mark and my body shuts down. Perhaps I will crack the code before my races so that my happy knees show up when I need them. If not, I will most definitely be limping across the finish line (or permanently stopping at a cantina along the way).

A Girl Named 'Tiernan' - What's in a name?

Had my parents known I'd marry a McKay, they probaby would have named me Concetta, Lucia or Gianna. Tiernan McKay is pretty much the quintessential Irish name, though I don’t have a drop of Irish blood in me (or Welsh blood, which is really where my McKay originates).

On the contrary, my heritage is 100% Italian. My grandparents had a tough enough time pronouncing my name and my great-grandparents gave up altogether. 'Tiernan' is not an easy word for native Italian speakers to pronounce and so, I became 'Terry' to them (come to think of it, they could hardly pronounce Terry...it was more like "Telli."). I would pretty much respond to anything that remotely resembled a "T" sound.

My dad stumbled upon Tiernan in a Dublin phonebook while in Ireland. He thought it was unique, strong and memorable. My mom agreed and so it was. I've spent my entire life s-l-o-w-l-y spelling my name and coming up with witty memory triggers so that people don't have to ask me to repeat it again and again, even though I've met them 10 times before. I can't tell you how many times I've said the following words:

"Think of a tear, like you're crying, and a nun, like you're praying." Although this isn't an entirely accurate description of the phonetics of 'Tiernan,' it gets you close enough, especially if you say it fast. Perhaps my Catholic roots have something to do with this image of a person crying while praying in front of a nun (or maybe the tears came after praying with a nun?). Even though I no longer consider myself Catholic, this explanation has served me well, so I've stuck with it over the years.

The first day of school was always fun when the teachers didn't already know me. During the obligatory roll call, an uncomfortable silence would fall as the teacher's eyes settled on an unfamiliar odd name. Most of the time, I would interrupt their mental wrestling with a quick "Here. Tiernan. Carsia. Here." And then they'd move on.

On the phone, most people think I'm saying Shannon, or Karen or even Helen. I rarely correct them. Doing so would just prolong a conversation that I probably don't want to have in the first place.

I've never considered my name a burden and have often considered how odd it would feel to have a common name like Jennifer or Katie. Not that there is anything wrong with common names. They are popular for a reason, right? In school, kids with more common names were members of a sort of name club, in which you were able to keep the first initial of your last name (Jenny R, Jenny H, Jenny L). It just would have felt strange to me to have a bunch of Tiernans around. I was never Tiernan C...just Tiernan (or "T" to my family).

Today, I know of a few other Tiernans. Mainly from friends of mine who chose the name for their children. I can't get used to seeing updates on their "Tiernans" in cards, on Facebook or even in conversation. I always do a double-take as if saying, "I don't recall attending my first ballet recital in 2009" or "How sweet of so-and-so to adore me so much when I haven't seen them in 15 years."

Alas, the name is not just mine. A pub in San Francisco, a comedian named Tommy, an Irish dancing troop in Idaho, even an international datacasting corporation (whatever that means) all share my moniker. I'm glad to share it, as long as I'll never have to be "Tiernan M." I think I'm safe.

The Middle Place - A Review

I have a new best friend in Kelly Corrigan, even though I've never met her (and, from what I can deduce from the book, our politics are radically different). In her memoir, The Middle Place, Corrigan perfectly describes the awkward space in which adults exist, between the family they knew growing up and the family they are raising. Her witty and honest writing creates a portrait of home...a portrait so clear that I can almost smell the fresh-cut grass on Wooded Lane and feel the energy of the Corrigan household buzzing in the air.

Although I've never had to endure cancer personally, I expect that Corrigan and I would handle the experience similarly. This wasn't a story about bravely overcoming the disease. She invites us in to share her pain, her doubt and her anger with a pure and genuine candor. The way in which she intertwines her past as a Corrigan and her present as a wife and mother to two young girls helped me understand the complexity of her reality while identifying that same complexity in my own life.

How do we bridge the gap between the comfortable bosom of our childhood and the uncertain existence of adulthood? There's no question that time marches on, but sometimes we are reluctant to join it for fear of losing that connection with the past. Is it possible to merge the two worlds without ostracizing loved ones who did not share the journey? These are just some of the questions that percolated in my mind while I turned the pages.

What better way to proclaim victory over a debilitating disease like cancer than to harness the emotional spectrum it forces you to experience and shape the end product through words. Ultimately, Corrigan asserted her control over the situation simply by sharing her story. I'm on a literary roll because I would definitely recommend this memoir. Enjoy!