Tonight was the Mischief End of Year Extravaganza, our end of year par-tay. The event was a potluck, with Shirley winning in the food category, providing the most amazing guacamole. I think I ate an avocado's worth of tasty guac.

That, and three brownies. Curse the teammate who brought those.

Doyle put together a great video / slide show, which was totally awesome. Though it was great to see everyone, I'd rather be playing ultimate.

As usual, we went to Velocity Sports tonight for our Friday night date, er, workout. We warmed up as usual with the rollers, followed by various warmup exercises including jumping jacks of various forms, 50% sprints, and walking, dynamic stretches.

The bulk of the workout consisted of sprints. With eleven people in the class, the instructor, "the short white dude," had to compensate by having us do shuttle relays. Two groups of four offset one group of three, as we did alternating shuttles. I was matched up with another regular, one who regularly matches up with another regular, so I wasn't sure how I matched with him.

When we started the sprints, he was consistently finishing the 20 yards sprints 2 yards in front of me. Sure, it was less than two steps in front of me, but that distance frustrated me, partially because I knew one of those steps was from the start: he started before the returning sprinter crossed the line. The other step was because he was faster than I. So, I kept trying to run faster and faster and faster.

The third set we did was my closest step. The continual sprinting was wearing him down, but helping me out. Yay, ultimate.

Fifteen yards into the sprint, I felt my left upper hamstring pull. I immediately started slowing, but the next step caused a full POP! as my hamstring gave way. I stumbled the last three steps to the end of the sprint, and hobbled off the track as I tried not to vomit, nausea overwhelming me.

The pull/strain/tear was right at my sit bone, much higher than my usual hamstring injuries, so it's going to take some time to figure out which muscle this is, if it is even the hamstring.

All I'm thinking about at this moment is how do I heal and recover to rock at the tryouts this next season?

Today was my first Master Gardener class. The class was orientation, so we didn't actually learn any gardening, but more about the program and what to expect in the program. The class was well organized, and, based on the the horror stories I've heard from previous classes, well worth the four hours spent listening to everything.

Janis picked me up from my house, because it was raining (hence, walking to the rendevous point would have soaked me). I carpooled with Janis and Linda from my mentor group. It's nice to drive down with a group, and I'm glad the program has thought through the "group bonding" part of the program, and organized small, localized groups.

In a sharp contrast to yesterday, I took very few notes. The only time I really stopped and acknowledged what was up was when I noticed the Friends of Santa Clara Master Gardeners Board of Directors was 90% male, when the whole program was barely 15% male. I thought the percentage odd, but Karen (also in my mentor group) commented people volunteer what they know, and the men were probably used to management, finances and the like, i.e. what a board does, and therefore volunteered for that work. I reluctantly agreed she was right.

The weekly class is a serious commitment. This week I was able to put in enough hours at work. Here's hoping I can keep this up.

Today marks the start of my Master Gardener training, with my mentor group meeting together at one of our mentor's houses and meeting everyone. Roberta and Susan are our mentors, and we comprise of Karen, Kathy, Kathleen, Kitt, Vera, Janis and Linda (ye ole Number 5 on the phone keypad, as Vera's last name begins with a K also).

We toured Roberta's back yard and gardens for a while, waiting for everyone to arrive. She had only relatively recently started incorporating edibles into her (preferred) ornamental gardens, and had a "meadow" as she termed the native grass back yard. She used the term meadow to convince her husband that, yes, it really was okay to rip up all the grass from the back yard and plant interesting, water-wise plants instead, it would still look good.

And it did.

After everyone arrived, we sat down and learned what to expect in the upcoming classes, that run every week until the beginning of June. I chose not to bring in paper or a pencil, so wrote all my notes on my Sidekick. I did a better job of note taking than normal, because I was limited to how fast I could type on the unfamiliar keyboard. Because of unfamiliarity with the keyboard, I types more slowly than I would on the Treo (around 20-25 words a minute instead of my 35-40 words a minnute I can manage on the Treo), and so had to pick out the important point of the conversations instead of transcribing every word.

Near the end of the mentor group meeting, after we had planned carpools for tomorrow's class, Janis, who was sitting next to me, asked what I was doing. The click-click-click of my keys reminded her of the sound her parakeet made when eating, "tick, tick, tick." When I said I was taking notes, her immediate response was, "Why?"

I flubbed some vague answer like, I like to remember what was said, or something equally inane, but honestly, the right question to answer was, "Why?"

I don't know why I typed all that information in. Maybe to make order with my thoughts? Maybe to keep me aware of the conversation: if I have to transcribe it, I have to be listening and paying attention. I don't know. Not taking is so default in my behaviour, I'm almost unable to stop it even when the task is completely unnecessary.

I think I'm the youngest in my mentor group. There are seven of us in the group, all women, with, I'd say, three of them in their forties, three in their sixties. One could be in her mid to late thirties, but I'm not completely sure. Two of the women in their forties are prime candidates to become my gardening buddies: they were friendly, outgoing, and near enough my age to have interests (besides gardening) in common, I suspect. On the casual meeting of the mentor group, I suspect only one of the women would annoy me after a bit, the rest I could easily become good friends with.

The mentor group was formed by sorting everyone's zip code, and divvying the groups into close locales, presumably to facilitate carpooling and social events. My mailing zip code doesn't sort properly and I was placed in the Los Altos group. Now, part of me is excited about this: Los Altos yards are generally bigger than yards in my neighborhood (exceptions being for behemoth houses on tiny lots), which means bigger gardens. However, the flip side is that my group comrades are also, well, significantly more well off financially than I am. Tragically, this difference has the potential to intimidate me, and I hate that in me.

When I think of it, it makes me want to find the nearest book, start reading and disappear into it, losing myself in the words. Or start developing, programming, lose myself in the code of my applications, to drown out the internal struggles and frustrations of where I am, and how it differs so much from where I want to be, or thought I would be in this part of my life.

It may be similar to how people ten years my junior feel when they compare their lives to mine: that decade means a a lot when discussing financial gain and accumulation. Frustration I'm not there yet, yet always the hope I'll get there eventually.

After I plant my garden.

Even the suburbs has entertainment on some days.

Doyle and I were talking about something at work, when he perked up, pointed at me and said, "Hey! Look at that!" I took a moment's pause before I realized he was pointing over my shoulder and out the office window. That pause was longer than the one I took to grab my camera and start taking photos.