Swim, Bike, Run ...

I started this campaign determined to continue my workout schedule.

It hasn't been easy. And I haven't been perfect. But one inspiration was our Santa Maria YMCA's annual triathlon. Once entered, I knew I couldn't stop swimming or running lest I completely embarass myself in the competition.

So it was last Saturday that I rolled out of bed, ate a banana and a bowl of oatmeal and competed in my second-ever triathlon.

And I'm happy to report that I finished!

Waiting for me at the finish line were my boys, all four of 'em. Dave took time from campaigning to snap a few photos, John helped dress the little boys in their baseball uniforms, and they all cheered me on.

Better than any medal was the sight of my family waiting.

Oh yes, and the free massage -- thanks to volunteers from the Santa Barbara Business College -- didn't hurt, either!

The Truth About My Car

In some ways, the world can be divided into two different types of people: those who have immaculate vehicles and, well, the rest of us.

And while I desperately want to be considered in the first category, the sad truth is the interior of my car borders on the chaotic.

To put it another way, if I were caught in a freak blizzard on the Central Coast and had to remain in a snowdrift for a week while authorities frantically launched rescue operations, I'd probably emerge from my car five pounds heavier.

And, judging from the books and magazines inside the car, better-read, too.

I've taken some time to think about why my sedan doesn't look pristene. And I've come up with a few -- shall we say -- excuses. Here they are for your perusal:

A large percentage of the time, when I pull into the driveway, someone inside the vehicle is desparate to hit the potty. It doesn't take much imagination to picture the ensuing madness. I jump out, unlatch seat belts, race to the door, unlock hastily and help with the scramble to the bathroom. In no short order, phones are ringing, kids are clamoring and the last thing I remember are the gum wrappers on the floor of the car.

If there's no bathroom crisis, chances are our Yorkshire Terrier will dash out of the house when the front door opens. Although the fiendish little fella has the pretense of greeting us, Nigel is smart enough to execute a quick about-face and run like the wind down the street. Did I mention the middle of the street? Of course, we all run after him like parade misfits, yelling, flailing our arms and even stopping traffic when necessary. By the time we catch him, we're all so flustered that no one even thinks about the car.

While that summarizes the emergency operations from our driveway, I have a few more reasons, too.

How about one child who refuses to keep shoes and socks on for more than several minutes at a time? In the interest of preparedness, I always have extras floating about the back seat.

And what of those long Little League practices where we must spend an hour or more watching from the vehicle? To pass the time, there's books, snacks, and the occasional crochet project.

When planning my daughter's wedding last summer, I drove around with samples of everything from fabric to rose petals. Just the other day, I found a few Jordan almonds in the crevice of the back seat. Just in case you wondered, those candies never really taste stale, and their pastel shade doesn't fade, regardless of how long they sit in the sun.

I was tempted to put a photo of the inside of my car with my blog. But remember the game "Truth or Dare" we used to play as teenagers at slumber parties? Let's put it this way: I choose dare. Even if the dare meant bungee jumping from L.A.'s Bridge to Nowhere. At night.

But even without a photo, my car should be pretty easy to spot these days. It's the one outside any number of Republican functions with the "Stockdale for Congress" bumper sticker on the rear.

Just look for the crayons and granola bar wrappers in the back seat.

Zhu-Zhus to You ...

So, I’ve succumbed.

No, I haven’t changed my mind about ObamaCare, or committed voter fraud. I haven’t even said anything unkind about Dave’s opponents.

But I have given in to Zhu-Zhu mania.

For anyone who might have been out of the country since last Christmas, Zhu-Zhus are those little furry pet hamsters that swept the toy scene and became the subject of more than one mom vs. mom brawl at Toys R Us. Imagine a fuzzy ball with a nose and a microchip, and you’ve pretty much described the biggest toy fad since the Pet Rock. (Oops, did I just date myself?)

I wasn’t paying much attention to the phenomenon until, of course, they became virtually impossible to find. Then -- like every other parent utterly determined to give the perfect gift -- I joined the Zhu-Zhu frenzy.

Yes, I called every retailer within a 50 mile radius everyday, hopefully awaiting Zhu-Zhu deliveries, only to be disappointed. I stood in lines that turned up empty when it was my turn. I even read internet blogs written by fellow shoppers who claimed to have a certain sixth sense when it came to finding Zhu-Zhus.

But I drew the line at Zhu-Zhu scalpers -- those, ahem, entrepreneurs lucky enough to find the little hamsters and then list them on E-Bay. God Bless America, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to pay $139 for something that retails for around $10.

Happily, there’s a new generation of Zhu-Zhus now. With names like Winkle, Scoodles and Num Nums, who can resist? They scoot around the floor, make tiny hamster chirps, and even reverse when they run into an object, like our Great Dane Arnold.

The best news, perhaps, is that they never poop. They don’t stink, either.

And the next best news is that I actually found two of them!

Now, you’re probably thinking that after all that effort, the boys weren’t terribly impressed. Like so many coveted toys, the thrill is often in the hunt, and once found, the gift is anti-climatic.

But not at our house. Those little hamsters have been all over the place. They’ve run down our hallway, skirted a maze of wooden blocks and puzzled our giant, 21-pound cat. Anthony even takes his to bed so that many mornings we are greeted with tiny hamster gurgles.

I wish I’d thought of Zhu-Zhus. But even more, I’m simply amazed that technology has come so far that for just one ten-dollar bill, one can own such a riot of motion and sounds.

Now, if they could just unload the dishwasher.