The Goods are Odd

Bad Hair (Every)Day

2012-01-26T19:16:00.000-08:00

Yah. I have a really bad haircut. Like really bad. Like Courteney-Cox-playing-Monica-on-"Friends"-in-1998 haircut. It's so bad.

I never intended to go down this path, but here I am. It almost makes getting up in the morning the worst idea ever, because no matter what I do, it just doesn't look good.

I've always been one to be whimsical with my hair, knowing full well that it will grow back. I had it long, up until first grade when I wanted it cut short like a boy. I have no idea why my mom thought it would be okay for a 7-year-old to make such drastic decisions, but I think I was the third child and at that point, she knew it wasn't going to hurt anything. So that was an awesome period in my life that no one ever brings up or makes fun of me for. Ever. Not once. Not even the time when we found an old figure skating picture of me and my sister wearing these really fru-fru costumes and basically it looked like someone dressed up a little boy in drag. Nope, everyone was very complimentary and extremely poised when reminiscing about that skating number. It was also the one where they paired me up with the only other little boy in our group. Yes, super supportive they all were.

I've had it long, short, medium, brown, blonde, brown with blonde, blonde with brown, bangs, no bangs, layers, and bobs. It's like I'm 7-years-old again when I go to the salon, I have this great idea in my head, because I saw it on someone that looked nothing like me and was somehow able to see myself rocking that same look. Sometimes I nail it, other times it bites the dust.

This time it bit dust. Hard.

I decided that I was going to save a little money and hold off on a haircut when I got back to Minnesota for Christmas and go to a girl I had gone to several years ago. I am also trying to grow my hair out for Casey's brother's wedding in June. My latest style was extremely cute, but I couldn't put it up in a ponytail and that's a deal breaker. I thought, a little trim to even out the inverted bob and a refresher brown color did not seem complicated, not even that inspiring, either.

I will say that I just love the girl who did my hair. We are the same age, we both have kids, she dresses so stylishly, and we have so much to talk about when I get my hair done. The experience in her self-owned hipster salon is awesome, and I think that's why I keep coming back. I forget that her haircuts are not that great.

After cutting for what seemed like seven-too-many minutes, she blow-dryed my hair, but stopped before it was completely dry. I know that it's better for your hair if you don't dry it completely, but if I allow just a little moisture to hang out, something from 1987 springs to life and I all of a sudden have a body wave. To finish the look, she only halfway straightened it and did no bumping, teasing, and spraying, which is essential in my hair-doing. When it was all over, I was still laughing from our conversation about TOMS that I was smiled and said, "Oh, great. Thanks so much." I paid her and left.

When I got home, I realized that it wasn't that great. The ends were not blended well and the layers were very obvious. I thought that perhaps the next day, I would do it myself and it would look better. It did not and again, I looked like seventh roommate on "Friends". When we got back to Phoenix, I himmed and hawed over the style and have been using bobby pins and lots of hairspray to try and make it look cute. Just recently, I decided to buy a new flat iron because my other one wasn't straightening that well, anyway, and it was my last hope. It helped somewhat, but something was still amiss.

So now I am contemplating. Do I ride this haircut out, feeling like a frumpy mom that's stuck in her high school years or do I bite the bullet and make an appointment at my regular salon to pay $50 for my snotty stylist just to blend and contour? Part of me is saying, yes, of course it's worth it. But the other part of me is saying, maybe in a couple months it will grow out and my next haircut will be done right.

Ugh! Decisions, decisions! Until I do make that final decision, you can find me sipping a coffee at Central Perk.

Fo' Sale Fo' Sure

2012-01-19T19:24:00.000-08:00

Ever sold a house? I'm a FTHS (a first time house seller). After living in this "starter" house for almost five years, we have terribly outgrown its walls and need to find a place where I can have a desk, not a converted dining room closet that we made into an office. Which is actually really charming, I'm not going to lie.

To be frank, this house was a POS when we bought it. A single guy, that we are sure had some hoarding tendencies, was the previous owner. There was ugly wallpaper hung all over, brown 1984 tile, outdated brass lighting, and dirty carpeting. And we paid entirely too much for it in 2007, before "it" happened. You know, the economy. It was either this very unloved, tiny home or a glorified apartment they were selling as "condos". We opted for an actual house that needed a lot of TLC.

"It has good bones." We reassured eachother. And it was fun to look through magazines and envision a similar look in a room 5 times smaller. But those things cost a lot of money to change, so we did what we could, when we could afford it, while working full-time and paying a huge mortgage to boot. I can't even tell you how many Christmases and birthdays we asked for fans, mirrors, lights, and appliances. Bonuses were for the big ticket items like curbing and replacing the patio.

I often wondered, "What were we thinking?" as we repainted every wall and cabinet, replaced all the lighting, installed new floors and an air conditioner, and carefully planned the backyard. I apologize, I did none of this. Casey did it all, but I was an excellent pointer outer of the things that needed to be changed. When the house was finally looking good, I just couldn't be satisfied. The bathroom and kitchen cabinets, the master bathtub, the windows, the sliding glass doors all needed to be replaced and the list continued to grow and grow.

Enter baby. All of a sudden the house's walls got smaller and it felt like we were packed in like sardines. A 2-bedroom home should be enough space for 3 people, but it's not. If you have kids, you especially know what I mean. Kids have lots and lots and lots of crap. And they have lots of clothes. I'm talking a change of clothes for 2 months straight without repeating. Not only that, they get a new wardrobe every 3 months. Clothes, toys, and baby items were being shoved in corners, in closets, in gargage shelves, and under beds.

Needless to say, we realized that our cute little fixer-upper was not meant to raise a family and we never really intended to stay in this house for very long. But, you know, with the economy and all, we didn't really know if it was the right decision to go through the scariness that our parents would never dream of doing...like short selling or even FORECLOSING on a home! However, it's 2012 and what more can I say?

After recieving some very sound advice from an expert in the field, we have taken the plunge. We are giving the next buyer a 50% discount from what we paid! Aren't we so kind? I haven't been a home buyer in the new real estate situation, so I don't know what people are looking for or what they see out there. All I know is my little house and all the blood, sweat, and tears that [Casey] did to make it our home.

It's a process of vulnerability. We want to let people know how good this house has it now. How far this little lady has come from five years ago and the steal they are getting with her current price tag. But people are ten times more critical than I am to her. They, too, see all her flaws, like there isn't tile in the master shower and the windows need to be updated. I want to tell people about the chapter we have written in this home. We want them to see the good qualities that we really tried to emphasize with the little bit of money that we had. It's the first home we bought and came home to after we got married. It's where we brought home our first baby and gave him his first bath in the kitchen sink. We want this home to be nurtured and loved the way we have in the last five years.

But it isn't like that. It's stressful as we try to keep the house immaculate, putting its best foot forward, just in case people want to look at it. It's terribly difficult with a toddler running around specifically removing those items that I have placed just so. I am rearranging nap times to accomodate their schedules. And I can tell when shower curtains have been moved and closet doors have been opened after a showing. Let's hope none of them assume the dresser is included in the home, no one needs to be rummaging through my undies! You never know, though.

I want to ask them what they think and tell them the story about how we made the house better. I also don't want to know what they think, because seriously, whatever, they can suck it. I hope the house gets sold quickly to a person who will continue to make the house look warm, cozy, and inviting.

However, this is the nature of the beast and we are at the mercy of these fine folks who might perhaps want to buy it so we can move on in our lives, too. If you, or anyone you know is looking for a great, affordable 2-bedroom home in the Southeast Valley of Phoenix, AZ, please come on through!

A Recipe to Share

2010-08-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

I have another recipe for everyone and by everyone I mean even my vegetarian friends, that's how aware I am of my readers, all four of you.

I am stealing it from Clean Eating Magazine. If you don't have a subscription, I highly recommend it. Ask for it for your next birthday or Christmas present. Our meals are usually cooked from those magazines. The only downfall is when you make something really good from it, then you can't remember which magazine it was in or what page it was on. I'm sure that could be easily remedied by simply writing them down in a little booklet. That would be too easy, right?

This recipe is perfect for everyone because we had it for dinner, but you can make it and keep it for lunches, and it's contents can be completely altered to your liking! I loved it, Casey did not, but I know how I would change it so he would like it.

Quinoa Bowl

3 c. dry quinoa
1 c. cilantro, chopped
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
1 can of black beans, drained
2 avacados, diced
4 limes, juiced (this may be a little less depending on if you like citrus)
zest of 1 lime

Dressing:
1/4 c. olive oil
1/4 c. white vinegar or rice vinegar (I used rice.)
2 or 3 cloves of garlic, minced
sea salt and pepper to taste

Here's how you make it:

1. Cook the quinoa so it's nice and fluffy...I cook it in about 2 c. water, bring to a boil, put a lid on it, turn down the heat and let it cook through. Then I fluff it with a fork.

2. While quinoa is cooking, dump beans, tomatoes, and cilantro into the bowl you are going to use to serve/store it in.

3. Chop avacados, put in a small bowl and squeeze a little lime juice over them so they don't brown.

4. Make the dressing by putting olive oil, vinegar, garlic, salt and pepper into a food processor or a mini chopper until it gets all blended and creamy looking. Keep it to the side.

5. When the quinoa is done cooking, squeeze the limes and put in the zest and stir. HERE IS WHERE I LOST CASEY. He doesn't like lemon or lime to take over a dish. I like it. I squeezed 'em all, but next time I make it, I'll probably just squeeze one or two. Add a little salt and pepper to it.

6. Dump quinoa into the tomato/bean mixture and stir. Pour the dressing on and stir it up again. Top with avacados.

I loved it. Casey would have liked less lime and some chicken diced up in it. You could add green beans or asparagus or whatever else you think would make you love it.

There are lots of leftovers, the magazine said it's 12 servings, but in our house, that translates to about 6...we aren't trying to lose weight or anything, we like being a little thick, you know. Casey is going out of town for the next 4 days, so Shannon and I will eat it happily as lunch!

Bon appetit!

School's in for the Summer

2010-07-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

School is starting in a week and a half. Can you believe it? Where did the summer go? In Minnesota, I bet you are quizzically furrowing your eyebrows and thinking that there is another month of summer to enjoy. I was once a believer that summer was June, July, and August. However, in Arizona, summer is May, June, July, August, and September. These poor kids are stuck inside their summer break because it's too hot to even breathe! There are no kids riding their bikes around the neighborhood, no mamas pushing their strollers to the park, and no kids running drills on soccer fields. Since we have such dormant summers, they start school EXTRA early.

I don't have to go back to work. Ha! Not until September 5th, when the rest of the country starts the day after Labor Day. You are probably excited and smiling for me that I get to have time with Tommy at home. And goodness knows I deserve the time off because I hoarded my sick days and didn't take any personal days for the last two years so I could have a full pay maternity leave. I accomplished that, plus another six weeks, just in case.

Unfortunately, this job doesn't just start itself. I accepted a fifth grade position for this year and had to move rooms down a different hallway. I also knew that I wasn't going to start the school year either, which adds some extra stress to this big mess. The end of last year, I was one week away from giving birth (technically 3 days) and I was hauling boxes, books, and binders down the hall with my students dragging the really big items. I dumped it in the hallway outside the door where the teacher whose classroom I was taking had not even started packing up her room. When I left on May 26th, I was relieved to be done, but anticipating the mess I would walk into come the end of July with a small baby.

As much as I never want the end of my break to come, there is some excitement to setting up my classroom. Have you ever moved and packed up your things over a period of time and then when you unpacked your boxes in your new place, you are always surprised by a few items? That's what it's kind of like when I set up my classroom each year. Oh, I had forgotten about you, I say to some hot pink fabric. And this new Eric Carle border will compliment you so well. I buy new punch out letters that have a great pattern on them. How super fun will you look on my walls? I spend long hours and late nights painstakingly stapling up all my bulletin boards, borders, lettering, posters, and pocket charts. I use my best creative handwriting to write "Mrs. Huberty" on my welcome poster. I can't wait to get my hands on my class list so I can finally write out nameplates for their desks. I put together their supply buckets neatly and make sure all their Crayola crayons have pointy tips and none of their scissors have glue or tape stuck to the metal. The room is always colorful, inviting, a little overwhelming at first, but totally awesome.

This year didn't have the same excitement and attention to detail that I always try and improve upon each year. Trips to Target were late this season because I can't take Tommy in public. The Lakeshore trip was uneventful as I grabbed my usual supplies, but nothing extra to save a little money. I was given two small windows of time that my sister would be able to watch Tommy during the day last week. I would drive 40 minutes down to Casa Grande and run into my room--literally, I was jogging with the flatbed cart down the hallway so I wouldn't waste any time. I locked my door and turned up Glee Volume 1.

The first day I scrubbed, wiped and dusted all my shelving and organizers (those things get dusty in a year!). I threw things in piles and pushed all my desks and chairs to the center of the room. It has been quite liberating to not be pregnant, I've gone back to my old obnoxious carrying-and-pushing-things-that-I-really-shouldn't ways. When I left that first day, I felt a bit defeated and my muscles ached. There was no way I could revive this classroom in the little time that I had. The next day I again ran to my classroom and I started unpacking boxes. I didn't marvel at their old newness or attempt to conjure up old memories. They were put into a pile in a general location where they would be later. I hauled things out, I tossed out anything that looked like crap, I sorted books and all of my curriculum and when I left, it still looked like a tornado had passed through it. How did four hours go by like five minutes? Again, I left feeling tired, but at least my mess was an organized one.

This week I knew I only had two days to whip my classroom together. It was a big day yesterday. I'm no spring chicken and this is my sixth year putting together a classroom. I ran and I was literally out of breath stapling with such haste. Fabrics were flying up at lightning speed, borders were quickly disguising my poor cutting jobs. Lettering was signifying all of my focus walls for all subjects. I organized my desk into neat purple plastic boxes. I had things in cubbies and my teacher manuals lined up in order. I left again four hours later with a sweaty brow and somewhat of a classroom.

Oh, but today....today was huge! My sister came with me and we brought the little monster. We didn't really know how it would go, but alas, with a constant parade of visitors in the room, the two of us finished the room. One would feed Tommy while the other put together supply buckets. One would cuddle Tommy while the other cut folders. Both of us would staple while Tommy was in his swing sleeping. Tommy watched from his bouncy seat as I arranged the desks and stacked chairs.

As we were just packing up to leave (with carrier, stroller, bouncy chair, travel swing, diaper bag, breast pump and two purses in tow) my principal and our school's reading coach walked into my room. It was the true test. I took a deep breath as they surveyed my room. I crossed my fingers as they took in each wall and corner.

"Oh, my gosh!" they said with shocked voices. Was it good or was it bad? Smiles spread across their faces. They couldn't believe that I had taken four walls, piled up furniture, and my mess shoved into a corner and created my masterpiece. They said it was perfect. It was ready for my substitute to come in and start the year. It was bright, it was inviting, it was a little overwhelming at first, and it was TOTALLY AWESOME.

What a relief to have it done. And just before I left, I put in my final touch and hung up a picture. Casey and Tommy sitting together and smiling pleasantly back at me. Now it was the perfect classroom.

WHEW!

I Scream, You Scream and it isn't for Ice Cream

2010-07-27T20:33:00.000-07:00

I may go nuts. Literally, I may have to check myself into the nearest mental health facility very soon. It's probably really quiet there. They will probably have drugs stronger than Tylenol that will make me very sleepy and I will take them without reservation. I will be their best patient as I tell the psychiatrist EVERYTHING from my extremely uneventful childhood to what brought me to my current state. Screaming.

Why does my baby scream? When I gave birth (a different story all together), Tommy came out with one eye open, like he was winking at me. It was like he knew. He didn't cry and it made the delivery nurses a little nervous. There was a little whimpering, but after a close examination, he checked out as a very healthy baby boy.

"Oh, you are so lucky he doesn't cry that much! I hope this is a sign of what's to come!" one nurse exclaimed as he lay contently in my arms.

And he didn't really cry that much the first week we brought him home. We even went to church that first week--to church! Tommy really was the perfect baby. I praised the heavens for this good karma, I knew opening doors for people and always returning my cart to the cart corral was going to pay off. Here it was, my perfect baby.

He's still perfect, buuuuuut, there are a few minor adjustments I would suggest if he could understand me. After a couple of weeks, we had ourselves a squealer. Is that even a word? I don't know, but his ear piercing screeches can sometimes only be heard by the barking dogs next door. We would cringe after feeding him, not knowing what to expect after dispensing liquids down his throat. Will he burp and go to sleep? Will he cry inconsolably? Will he just plain scream?

It was usually the last one. As new parents, we will do ANYTHING to make the crying/screaming/screeching stop. We gave each other tips on how to possibly tame the beast. I suggested to Casey to hold him at a 45 degree angle not quite directly under the fan, but more at a three o'clock stance and to put his pinkie into the hole of the pacifier and gently bounce, but not too aggressively because one time it worked for me. Later on that evening, or maybe it was early the next morning, when Tommy was testing out his pipes again, Casey recommended that I hold him like Simba from the "Lion King" and move him in a swooshing motion, while saying "heeeeeeey" in a really deep voice.

We were desperate for him to stop screaming. I called the pediatrician and I think they just humored me and gave him a prescription for heartburn and said to put a little rice cereal in his breast milk. It was awesome the first day. He was actually pleasant to be around and we played in his Boppy. Then he stopped pooping. Besides our world revolving around his screaming, it is also very much affected by his poop. Which there was none. For three days. After reading the information packet, it turned out constipation was a side effect of the medicine and the rice cereal. We asked ourselves what's worse--a screaming baby with heartburn or a screaming baby with painful constipation? We loaded Tommy back up again to the pediatrician to get an expert answer and she recommended to stop the rice cereal and continue the medication. Righty-o, we obediently responded.

I wish I could say that it's been smooth sailing ever since. I am a stay-at-home mom that literally stays at home. We can't leave the house. Tommy has taken it upon himself to scream everywhere and anywhere that does not have a My Little Lamb Cradle 'n Swing. No shopping trips to the grocery store or Target--he screams. No quick errands to the post office--straight up screaming. No indoor walking track--cry/scream combo. No visiting homes that don't have his swing--you guessed it. As of now, we have three locations where minimal screaming takes place: our house, his Uncle Ryan and Aunt Trena's house (only because they have all the luxuries of home plus more), and the pediatrician's office. I am dreading a playdate I agreed to this Friday where we are going to walk at the mall and have lunch...ha! In my dreams this will have a pleasant ending!

It's difficult to feel happy when the walls of your little house feel like they are closing in at a rapid pace. I have had so many suggestions and advice given to me which I graciously accept, but until experiencing the screaming first-hand, it's difficult to understand the magnitude of it all. I can mostly read his screams and when we are at home, I can tend to the scream immediately. While in the grocery store, my resources are limited and my arm count is still only at two, which makes it almost impossible to hold him and push the cart...trust me, I've tried!

I want to enjoy him when he is so little, as everyone has also told me to do, but how do you enjoy a screaming baby? I feel more like I'm doing damage control and praying that he will just go to sleep, so then at least he won't scream. I get angry with Casey for being even 15 minutes late. I am losing my mind a little bit and wondering if I really was ready for all of this. How come other mom bloggers have really awesome kids that only sometimes act up and always pose perfectly for pictures? Where is my "mom gene" hiding that I can't lovingly and patiently accept my healthy baby with a screaming problem? I think it's lodged in some of this belly fat I'm still trying to lose.

It's My Duty to Rock this Booty!

2010-01-10T18:27:00.000-08:00

I think this title may have some sexual connotations, however, that isn't why I wrote it. The truth of the matter is my booty is getting big. My thighs are rubbing a little too quickly and often times are excusing each other as they "brush" past.

I need to face some facts. This is not how I envisioned my pregnancy to be. I'm pretty upset with myself right now and can't believe that I've let myself go. I may just become a regular Kate Hudson, with a 70 pound pregnancy weight gain, which isn't a fair comparison because my starting weight wasn't 90 pounds.

I forgive myself for October and most of November. I couldn't move and anything unrelated to the couch or my bed was too much to handle. But I feel SOOO much better these days. There is no excuse!

I was a work-out gal before this baby thing happened. Four to five times a week I had my little routines. Monday was running 2-3 miles and an hour long yoga class, Tuesday was my weight lifting class with either the elliptical or a yoga class before it, Wednesday was my running and yoga again, and Thursday was elliptical and weightlifting class. Don't even touch my Saturday mornings. It was a hardcore run or weightlifting class followed by the most intense power yoga class ever. I was in heaven everytime I left the gym at 12:00.

One would think that I weighed 120 pounds with this much exercise, but I'm an eater. I love food and ate enough to maintain a healthy weight around 133 pounds. Good enough, I thought!

Since feeling much better, I'm back to my lovely eating ways sans exercise. Whoops. I don't have that kind of metabolism to eat that much without some physical counteraction. I am mad at myself. I don't know what has been keeping me from walking through the doors of LA Fitness, but I have been terrified to go. It was like I had this new body. It wasn't as tone or strong. I couldn't get on the treadmill and start running at 6.0 like I used to, I couldn't walk into my weightlifting class and push myself as hard as before, and seriously, would a yoga class be that beneficial? I can't lay on my stomach or bend as well. Can I even do a push-up anymore? I didn't even want to find out!

Shame on me!! I know better than that! I was making up stinkin' excuses! I fell off the wagon. Even if there wasn't a baby in my belly, I would still have a thousand other excuses why I'm not going. I hate when this happens.

So I've worked out two days in a row today and they weren't filled with hardcore runs or weightlifting, but the elliptical machine and those dainty weightlifting machines I used to scoff at. I'm so proud of myself. It isn't about my thighs rubbing together or my butt getting big, it's about having a more successful labor and delivery and a more content baby. It's about not getting gestational diabetes and making it so much easier to take the weight off after the baby comes.

The reasons for working out before were probably a lot more vanity-driven. Now I need to shift paradigms and create new exercise routines for new goals these next few months. I bought a prenatal yoga video that I feel more comfortable doing that keeps those goals in mind. If you have any ideas that helped with your pregnancy, labor, delivery, or post-partum, leave me a comment. I need a new kind of help with my routine!

You Can't Make These Things Up

2010-01-07T20:31:00.000-08:00

This class makes me laugh. I can't say that enough. I will give my 2 favorite examples. This little boy below, we'll call him "Chris", was waiting for me outside on Monday morning wearing these glasses. After taking off his coat, he went into full Steve Urkel mode with the voice and the walk. You can't not take a picture of it. I had tears in my eyes.

Another day before a long weekend, I let the kids clean out their desks right before the end of the day. I gave them a Lysol wipe to clean the inside and top of their dirty little desks. I also have a feather duster that I brought out and told them they could use it. The girls love using the duster, there's something sort of domestic about a feather duster that attracts young girls, I don't know why. The kids finished cleaning their desks, picking up the floor, and stacking their chairs. They were ready to go home and I sent them on their merry ways. I went to do outside duty and when I returned this was left on my desk:

It says "Baby come back" from the Swiffer commercial. I died.

I believe that laughing is a must in teaching. It's hard to pinpoint what humor does for children, but I just love their sarcasm sometimes! It's not malicious or rude, just funny and....experimental.

One of my students came back from the bathroom yesterday told me that another young boy put up his middle finger by the water fountain. Now, I know that I could hunt down that first grader and let him have it, but I just nodded my head. One of my fifth graders supplied us with the punchline we were in need of: "He sounds pleasant." All the kids started laughing and I couldn't help but join them.

What else could I do? We all got over it in .2 seconds and went on with our afternoon. So much easier.

Really? A Decade?

2010-01-03T14:08:00.000-08:00

It's amazing to think that ten years has passed. Well, my ten-year class reunion was a reminder that a decade had truly passed as a legal adult. I am going to copy a great idea from a friend of mine, www.mamanash.blogspot.com, and ponder my last ten years.

2000: I was making horrible decisions and "getting things out of my system" with a fake ID my second semester of freshman year at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. (Hey, I'm just being honest!) My sophomore year, I moved off campus to an awful dilapidated house with three other girls. OMG. How am I still alive?

2001: Moved into a big, beautiful, charismatic house my junior year with 6 other girls. It was quite the experience, but filled with some wonderful memories. I also decided that I did not want to go into journalism anymore and officially changed my major to elementary education.

2002: Met Casey and knew I was going to marry him. I worked at Holiday Home Camp on Lake Geneva, WI that summer. I decided that I liked the inner-city children, it was all so new to me!

2003: Had to transfer to St. Cloud State University in January to finish my degree. I was terribly depressed to leave halfway through my senior year. I had no friends and completely submersed myself in school. The long-distance relationship with Casey was never easy.

2004: Continued to work very hard in school, did several classroom experiences, and was accepted into the Urban Block program for that fall. I moved down to Minneapolis and was so happy to be closer to my friends and Casey. My student teaching in northeast Minneapolis was a wonderful learning experience.

2005: I finished my student teaching and graduated Summa Cum Laude. I was offered a 5th grade position at Evergreen Elementary School in Casa Grande, AZ. It was a whirlwind moving down to Phoenix with Carla, putting together my classroom, and starting my first year of teaching.

2006: I successfully finished my first year of teaching and soon after Casey and I were engaged. That fall they moved the fifth grade team over to a brand new school, Desert Willow, while they renovated Evergreen. I loved my new school and my class! I also started doing yoga and taking my health a little more seriously, thankfully!

2007: Before the school year ended I accepted a second grade position to stay at Desert Willow. Casey and I were married on July 21st, but bought our first house just three weeks before. It reminded me of that first house I lived in my sophomore year! We spent much of our time fixing it up. I also had an awful class that year and swore I never wanted to teach again. This was a tough second half of the year.

2008: Casey's brother, Tim, and got married to Steph. Now I wasn't alone with the Huberty last name! I finished that year of school and spent a lot of time that summer studying better ways to teach second graders. It paid off and I had a wonderful class that fall and I was much more prepared! BTW, we were still fixing up our house. The best part of that year came at the end when my niece, Colbie, was born.

2009: I finished that year of school floating on a little cloud. I was getting the hang of second grade! I had a great time being home that summer two different times. Then the phone call from my principal came offering me a position to teach a multi-age ELL classroom. I accepted the position with a lot of uncertainty, but it ended up being a blessing. Casey and I had our prayers answered in September when we found out we were pregnant! It was a tough couple months that I have literally blacked out, but now we are so excited.

2010: The first three days have already been perfect. As I sit here writing this entry, my wonderful husband is sleeping on the couch next to me, with our cat curled up at his feet. We have a cute little house to call our own, two jobs to go to tomorrow (as much as we sometimes don't want to go), food in our fridge, and a little baby in my belly.

I know that this year will probably be one of the most memorable years for us. It will probably come with its share of joys and heartaches. We know that our gift is not certain and anything can happen between now and June 1st. Each year that has passed we have become closer with our families, realized that our parents are our heroes, and decided that we need God for most everything. These things make life a bit more manageable.

Happy New Year!

Don't Worry, Be Happy

2009-12-20T17:43:00.000-08:00

Ha! No Sunday night blues for me tonight! On Friday afternoon I finished school and was able to leave almost immediately and enjoy my two week break.

Don't get me wrong, this didn't just fall upon my lap because I am so awesome. I had to stay late almost every day this week frantically correcting papers, entering grades, and putting together my report cards. On Thursday night at 6:45, I let out a loud "Whoo-hoo!!" to announce to the janitors that I was finished with my report cards. Too bad they were busily vaccuuming to relish in my great accomplishment. Oh, well, I would rub it in everyone's face the next morning at school.

Second quarter is thankfully one of the best quarters, littered with a week long fall break in the beginning, Veterens' Day, Thanksgiving break, and Christmas break. It's glorious! However, I felt like I was hardly at school this quarter. It was the start of my first trimester from you-know-where: I had a few doctor appointments, a three-day ELL conference, and I took a mini-vacation to San Diego with Casey. My students would ask me if I was going to be at school for the whole week and would groan when I would start my sentence with, "Wellll...."

Poor babies. Really, I felt terrible for not being there. I've always prided myself with being present at my job. It's far more annoying to put together sub plans than to just tough out a sick day, which I hardly ever was...although, I am guilty of a rare "mental health day," but who isn't?

From my out-of-character absenteeism and no energy after coming home, my stack of papers kept creeping higher and higher. Again, it wasn't like me to let this happen. I felt like a hoarder. My stack of papers was my embarassement and humiliation, but when I looked at it, it was almost too much. Where do I even start? Spelling tests? Vocabulary assessments? Writing was totally out of the question, way to overwhelming to pour over each paper. So there they sat, hidden in the corner of my room.

Then the email came from Ms. Sandy, the school's secretary. "School Master is open to enter your grades for report cards. Report cards are due to me on Monday, January 4th." OMG. I couldn't believe it, had I slacked the entire quarter only to find out the day we return from winter break I have to have everything properly graded and entered into the system? I never want to be the one that authority has to tsk, so I told Casey the last week of school not to expect me home until late each night. There was no way I was going to come in over my break and do this like so many other teachers were planning to do.

And I just did it. I sat there with my stack that started over mid-calf, I pulled out the easy things to grade and enter, then the things that take more time, then the writing, and finally reading centers. It took ten hours over a three-day period. But that Thursday night I was extremely proud of myself. I corrected things thoroughly, I entered them properly, and I even wrote very specific, positive, and constructive comments for each of my students. (This is actually a really big deal, there are some teachers that only write one or two sentences that are very generic. I always think about each child and their home..."How do I put this delicately?" is my ultimate question for those tough cases.)

Now I am happy. I am not worried. Bobby Ferron and I will sing his song together and I will have a huge smile on my face the entire time. I will listen to the Vikings as I type this, I will stay up late to watch some trashy shows on E!, and I will wait patiently for those sweet little kicks from Baby H. That's the only thing I want to worry about.

Did I learn my lesson? Maybe...sometimes these things happen and at least I know that I have a little fire in me to get the job done right, just not the way it probably should have been done!

I Remember When...

2009-12-15T19:25:00.000-08:00

..exactly one year ago I received a text from my brother at one in the morning, telling me that Trena was in labor and was going to have the baby around five. I quickly called my mom and dad and sister so we could pray, pray, pray for a healthy delivery. We were so excited for our "first" to be born. Not even an hour later a picture message came through on my phone and the most beautiful image of sweet Colbie swaddled in her little bassonette filled my tiny phone screen. I screamed and woke up Casey (who let's be honest, was possibly still drunk from going to the Vikings/Cardinals game). I was officially an aunt!

I love that I was one of the first people to hold her, that I got to see her second diaper changed, and that from the start I knew she was perfect! Colbie has brought so much joy to our family and we love her!

Happy first birthday to a precious little doll!

My First Sorority: Baby Baby Baby

2009-12-13T16:20:00.000-08:00

Look, I'm writing again! I just needed to give myself that pat on the back! Now that I can openly talk about the belly that I was once hiding like a celebrity, I feel like I have so much to say but I can't think of it all!

Life has been good. Creating life has not been so easy. From week 6 until week 11, I don't even know the person that I was. I was taken over by an alien. Seriously. I don't even know how I got through the day. Let's be honest, some days I didn't without a long nap and a good cry. Despite the fact that I could sleep on command, every type of food made my skin crawl and I constantly felt like throwing up, but awesomely enough, I couldn't do it! There I would sit with that feeling always sitting in my stomach every day and every night. Then I would wake up every once in a while feeling normal and get really scared that something was wrong and pray that I would feel like poo, so at least I knew I was still pregnant. I didn't even know if that was normal, but apparently it is.

Which leads me into my next thought. Pregnancy probably has not changed since the beginning of time: most women feel icky, some do not, some babies survive, sadly, others do not. However, since my mother gave birth to me, she had to rely on faith that her little baby was okay and that God was in charge, she just had to do her best staying healthy. She had no ultrasound, no Downs Syndrome tests or Trisomy tests, and she certainly did not have the latest edition of What to Expect When You're Expecting to check to make sure it was normal when changes were taking place.

However, one thing is for certain when someone new is having a baby: you are invited into a sorority of women who have shared the same experience.

I. Am. Profoundly. Lucky.

I am surrounded and supported by the most beautiful people, and it's really not limited to those who have had children, either. Before getting pregnant, I had heard stories of other women having all sorts of issues with unsolicited advice being given, jealousy amongst family members and friends, or scary stories of pregnancy.

I can say that none of that has been true. Despite the fact that I felt super icky, which was no one's fault, just normal hormonal changes, I have had the most positive pregnancy. To start, the grandmas couldn't be more excited. To feel like we are giving a gift to two women who do so much for me and Casey is a wonderful feeling. My sister-in-law Trena and I are a month apart with our due dates. One would think that there may be animosity and spotlight stealing (as read and heard about before), however, there couldn't have been more joy. We are a support system for each other and I rely on her to answer those weird questions for me.

During this time, I have found out that a few other close friends are due with babies around the same time. Too cool. Again, another group of women to talk and laugh about those funny things going on "down there."

I have wonderful friends that have had children and are another place that I find new advice, baby items, and maternity clothes (thank you, Jenny, Heather and Trena!). Even my friends with no babies are so excited and will do anything to help. My sister-in-law, Steph, loves to talk about all the parts of pregnancy and babies and I couldn't love her more for her excitement to be an auntie!

My mom certainly did not have the internet when she was having her babies. It seems like I can google anything and someone has felt it, questioned it or experienced it. One place that was surprisingly not-so-supportive, yet set up to be the ultimate source of support for pregnant women, was the Baby Center website. It was the site that was recommended to me by a few formerly pregger ladies. It is great for getting the week-by-week information and little newsletter posts about how to eat, why we need to brush our teeth, etc. Then one day I looked at the posts that people write or ask questions about their pregnancy or raising their children. Some comments and questions were the same things that I thought about, too. I didn't leave comments, but I would read other people's opinions. Today I decided to look at my next week's baby information and looked at the current postings that others left. I was horrified to read the entries and comments that these mothers left about any subject. Many were very confrontational and accusational in their tone. It was horrifying to read! I even read some of them to Casey, who just shook his head. Yikes!

I decided that I was too lucky of a girl to get myself wrapped up in that drama. One of the first pieces of advice that was given to me was to avoid stress and stay positive. You know my sensitivity issues, so that did not seem like a place for me to get involved. I would take the important information that the site gave me and call up the women in my life, who I knew would give me a loving and supportive answer to my question when I had one. Some answers a book or a website can't give me, sometimes I just need a good friend, a sister, or a mother to reassure me that everything will be okay and if it's not, they will still be there, too. I wouldn't call that place a support system, what I have is a support system...the most rock solid, loving, supportive system a girl could have. You all make me say, "Yay for babies!"

A Dinner so Easy, a Caveman Could Do It

2009-07-14T18:38:00.001-07:00

Up until about a year and half ago, I was not into cooking. But my mom told me a little piece of advice and it's stuck with me. I will let you in on her golden nugget because it obviously worked well for her: If you always have a good dinner waiting for your husband when he comes home from work, maybe he'll agree to let you stay at home all the time! In January, my mom just retired from working at Alexandria Technical College for about thirty years, so we can see how well this theory really worked.

However, I think cooking takes a little push from a few directions. My mom is an awesome cook, we had a family every dinner every night and still continue to have them when I am home. She made us eat all kinds of food and was definitely not a short order cook. If it was in front of us, we ate it. I thank her for making me open to all kinds of food, I am definitely NOT a picky eater. That is one thing I love about myself; have me over for dinner and I'll eat whatever you cook. I may not always like everything, but I'll always eat it. I can say the same for my sister and brother, there's not much we won't eat or at least try.

My other push came from my sister-in-law, Trena. Talk about an awesome cook! I love visiting their house; she has containers filled with yummy food that I gorge myself on. Trena loves cooking and baking and I love enjoying the things that she creates. She has always wanted me to get into cooking, too, but for many years I just couldn't get excited about it.

The final influence came from my other sister-in-law, Steph. When this girl got married and received all her kitchen gadgets and beautiful serving ware, she was pumping out the most amazing three-course meals! Her husband commented to us when she was busy making dinner that he thought she was such a good cook and everything she made was awesome. (I don't know if he relayed that information to you, Steph!)

After seeing the starry look in Tim's eyes talking about Steph's cooking, I decided that perhaps I needed to step up my game if I was going to keep Casey happy. I can't even remember what we ate before I started really cooking...turkey burgers? Spaghetti? Toast? Cereal? Salad? I'm seriously drawing a blank.

Last summer is when I really started cooking. I took down the 6 cookbooks that were given to me by Trena and my mom and made my list. I planned out 5 meals for the week and had a lot of crazy things that I needed to buy. $90 later, I was walking out a little stunned with the cost of some of these items. The spices, the fresh produce, the oils, the vinegars, etc. However, after being a "pro cooker" as I like to call myself, I found out that many of those things are only bought a few times during the year, not all at once!

It became a fun thing to surprise Casey with a new recipe each night he came home from work. He looked forward to coming home and would call me every time he left and asked what I was making. It would be waiting, piping hot when he walked through the door. Stuffed peppers, portobello mushroom burgers, baked ziti, and maybe a turkey burger (some food is always so good!).

At Christmas 2007, Trena gave me the Eat Clean Diet and the cookbook to go with it. Very enlightening book with lots of information on food and the kinds of food we should be eating. It made me re-think the way I was cooking and although I don't follow the book religiously, I am a lot more conscientious about the foods that I do eat. Tosca Reno would probably tsk, tsk some of my eating habits, but what's the fun in food, then?! Then this year at Christmas, my mom bought me a subscription to the Clean Eating Magazine (with a little push from Trena). It is awesome! It is filled with tons of recipes and every one is healthy and has lots of nutrients, fiber, and protein. It's food for all kinds of eaters. I have made meat and potatoes, pizza, potato and egg salads, pasta, desserts, and all kinds of interesting concoctions of food. The best part is that the recipes are pretty easy, fairly inexpensive, and totally delicious and nutritious. I highly recommend the magazine to anyone that enjoys healthy cooking.

Tonight I made something VERY yummy and it was really easy and there are lots of leftovers--wait, I just looked in the fridge, Casey must have dipped into it for another helping--I mean some leftovers! It's from the Eat Clean Diet Cookbook and it's called Wild Rice Summer Salad.

Here's how you make it:

In a sauce pan cook 1 cup of wild rice. (Basically boil 2 c. of water, then add wild rice, cover and simmer for about a half an hour or until cooked, drain)

Cube 2 chicken or turkey breasts and cook in a little olive oil, salt and pepper in a pan.

Mix in a big bowl:

1 bunch of green onions chopped

1/2 c. cooked endamame (I just heated up the frozen kind.)

2/3 c. no salt added sweet corn

2 or 3 Roma tomatoes chopped and seeded

Then add the chicken and wild rice. Add either fresh or dried tarragon and basil--I do a few shakes of each and mix.

For the dressing mix and whisk in a separate container:

1/4 c. or so of light rice vinegar

1 Tbsp. or so of toasted or regular sesame oil

1 garlic clove pressed

Add the dressing and some sea salt and fresh cracked pepper. I added a little more rice vinegar bc I like mine a little more acidic, but that's just me.

Here is a picture of the leftovers:

It was so easy, in fact I talked on the phone with Stacy the entire time I was cooking it! It serves 6 and has only 202 calories per serving...so of course I had a little more. I am very full and satisfied. I just hate feeling like I want to eat more when I get done with dinner. It also gave Casey that starry look, which is always the goal! (No work, no work!)

I hope you enjoy it!

Taking the Ass out of Assertive

2009-07-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

I just did something assertive, but it didn't make me feel empowered, I felt like the first three letters of that word. It was something that really needed to be addressed, but it didn't make it any easier.

So, glass half full side of me says, "Yea! I just got my oven fixed and now I can bake and cook things! No one's hurt or dead and I am still on summer vacation!"

The glass half empty person says, "That shouldn't have been a big mess like it was. It was a simple thing to get fixed and it wasted way too much of my time and energy."

I will back up a month, if you remember a previous post, my poor oven wasn't working and after my exploding grill, I put my foot down to get the darn thing fixed! I went on the internet and Googled appliance repair+Chandler, AZ. I found several companies in the area that seemed legit and called them all the next day. I found one that I thought would be a good deal and they were very friendly on the phone. I forgave them when they lost my appointment and was able to get over it when the repairman came the last fifteen minutes of the four hour window they gave me. It wasn't their fault when the cost of the repair was much more than we anticipated.

But when I was scheduling the appointment to get my oven fixed, this is where I felt I was getting jerked around. I called them and was told they would call me back, which they never did. When I called them the next day, they apologized for not calling, but said they would call me back in fifteen minutes. I'm sure it comes to no surprise when they didn't call. Six hours later, I called them, and they informed me they lost my invoice so they didn't know what I needed fixed. It was quite frustrating, because I felt roped into using their business, I had invested $89 for the repairman to come out, which would also go towards the cost of the repair. I let the owner know that I what I had been through, and he quickly put my appointment through and found a part close by so they could get their sooner. I appreciated the haste in which they were working, but had a feeling that it wasn't going to end well.

The repairman was supposed to come today between 1 and 4. I got up really early to work out, I quickly ran my errands, and came home to clean my house, especially the kitchen. I quickly took a shower and got ready and at 1:05 I was ready for him to come. I waited, and waited...and waited. Finally, at 3:45, I gave the company a call, because maybe I had written down the wrong date. But it was the right date and the repairman was running 30 minutes behind. I said that it would have been nice to get a phone call letting me know, since I had been waiting for three hours. He responded in a sarcastic way, saying, "Yeah, I guess he shoulda."

I hung up the phone frustrated and upset. Casey said that I should call back and let them know I was disappointed with their business and maybe get some sort of discount. I completely agreed and hung up the phone with him ready to give them a call.

My assertive paralysis set in right away. What do I say? How do I say it? How would I want someone to talk to me with the same complaint? How do I let them know I'm frustrated? How do get my point across without coming across as being a you-know-what? Is my argument valid? What could they say to me that would cancel out my complaint?

As a teacher, calling parents for negative reasons invokes the same paralysis. Most of the time, it works out fine and parents are very supportive, but sometimes it can turn into a heated conversation, where I end up putting out the flames with my submissive and nonconfrontational personality. Sometimes, it's just not worth an argument or a bad rapport with a parent, because then for sure we will go nowhere with their child.

This situation seemed like I should be able to make a valid point. I rehearsed what I was going to say (which is what I often do when I am going to call a parent) and dialed. The owner was unavailable at the time, but he called me back a few minutes later. I was friendly and asked him how we was doing. Then I let him know my disapointment with the service that we had been receiving from his company and explained my reasoning. I must have been so friendly, because he went into great detail about changing ownership and how the old manager is going through a brutal divorce, etc. Did I really need to know this information? This wasn't the direction that I needed to be going in. I'm letting him make up excuses for the way he is running his business (I felt those same emotions from making parent phone calls, many excuses...), but I needed to stand my ground. I told him that it must be a very difficult thing to go through a divorce, but his personal issues shouldn't be affecting the way he runs his business and into my home. I also let him know that I felt that paying full price would be agreeing to the service they provided. I told him I thought that after all issues we had, a discount would seem appropriate. He immediately became defensive because now we were talking money. Yet another set of hoops he would have to jump through and things he would have to review in order to give a discount.

To end all of this madness, I let him know that I was going to put a poor review on the internet, so when people are looking up his business, they will read about the things that happened to me. "Do what you need to do, I guess" is what he responded, in a very snarky way. Then I told him, that people should know about the experience I had, and as a business trying to maintain new customers, they need to re-evaluate the way they ran their company. He agreed, but I guess it was in a way to shut me up. We ended with him reviewing the issues that I had and talking it over with the other owner to decide if they can give a discount.

It's sitting funny. I felt like my arguments were valid, I wasn't mad about the price, just disappointed with the service and felt that paying full price didn't seem right. I know you are hearing it from my point of view, and in my mind it seems right, but why am I feeling so crappy? I don't like when people talk like that to me, and I know I'm hypersensitive, but should I have called? Do you think he is still thinking about it, too? Did he go home and tell his wife about the crazy woman who is practically harassing him at work? I told him about 3 times that I'm not the type of person that complains, but....

Have you ever had these same emotions? How do I get over it?

Home Again, Home Again!

2009-06-23T15:19:00.001-07:00

You may or may not have noticed that I haven't been writing the last two weeks. This also may or may not have made your day. The first week of hiatus I have no excuse, I was just plain lazy bones magoo. However, the second week I have been traveling all over state interstates and county roads of Minnesota. And so with great excitement, I will do my Minnesota call:

She's baaaaaaaack!

Every year I like to escape the heat of Arizona and spend time with my family back in Minnesota. Sometimes it is a couple of weeks, other times it is over a month. This time it is exactly three weeks. Before I came home, Minnesota was in a bad drought, however, since my plane took off last Tuesday afternoon, the weather forecast has had rain almost every day. (The kind that the farmers like, as said by numerous people in Alexandria.)

No bother, I like the rain. These are the highlights that I have enjoyed thus far on my vacation to Minnesota:

Staying with my in-laws, Jim and Mary.

Driving down to the St. James/New Ulm area for my friend, Kylee's wedding with my sister.

Spending the night in Shannon's apartment in St. Louis Park.

Waking up early and meeting Stacy and Julie at Lake of the Isles for yoga in the park.

Trying to convice a mentally ill, possibly drunk, homeless man named Thomas, to move from the middle of our semi-circle right when the class started.

Moving the class a little further down from Thomas when it was clear he wasn't moving, and practicing the most rejuvinating yoga on a gorgeous non-raining Saturday morning.

Having brunch with Stacy, Shannon and Julie at Common Roots in Uptown.

Visiting my 89-year-old grandmother and 91-year-old grandfather at Knute Nelson Nursing Home.

Sleeping in "the cave" of a basement for many hours in a row without waking up.

Spending time with my mom, dad, and sister, since we are all home. I don't feel nearly as lonesome!

Visiting the Perinos in their new house.

Playing with the next-door-neighbor kids.

This brings me to my next item, my neighbor kids. They are some of the sweetest children to have living next door. After playing for about an hour with them yesterday, I went inside to start dinner. We heard a knock on our door (actually it was several consecutive doorbell rings, a few knocks on the front door, then some on the garage door, followed by some yelling through the door). They were so excited to give us invitations to a picnic they were planning for the next day. It was going to be from 2:10-2:55 in their front yard, there was going to be lemonade, frozen Kool-Aid freezies and some other snacks, followed by games.

After visiting our grandparents today, Shannon and I pulled into the driveway at exactly 2:10. It was just as they planned. A blanket was spread on the ground, there were Oreos, lemonade, fruit salad, chips, Fruit Roll-Ups, and the highly anticipated Kool-Aid freezies (we were informed that there was enough for everyone to have two). We sat down with the kiddos and feasted on our delicious snacks.

We cleaned up the picnic area and played the following games in the following order: Everyone's It tag, Four-Corners, Annie Annie Over, and DuckDuck Gray Duck. It was a hot, muggy, super sticky day. We were all sweating profusely, but it was a wonderful time. It's interesting that as a teacher, I can't enjoy my students like I do my neighbor kids. For one thing, I have 25 to look after, they don't always play by the rules, and it seems that some sort of drama will always play itself out, no matter how structured you make a game. I just love being able to say to my neighbor kids, Well, that was a lot of fun! I'm going to go inside now, but I'll see you tomorrow! They can play as long as they want on the front lawn, ride their bikes a million times on our driveway, and I feel happy as a clam...they make me love kids again!

I hope the rest of my vacation continues to be as peaceful as it has been so far!

A New Set of Tea-th

2009-06-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

At the end of December, I read an article in my Clean Eating magazine that recommended drinking tea to get extra antioxidants, etc. and in general be a way better person than I was currently being. Of course, I completely bought into this theory, this comes a week after I just got done bragging to the dental hygienist that I never smoke or drink coffee and very rarely would I dream of drinking tea or pop. Everyone in the office stopped what they were doing and all clapped for me and I stood up and took a bow for being so awesome. Or they just thought I was another Mormon. Either way, my dentist calls me one of his favorite patients. What a great set of teeth! he exclaims every time I open my mouth for him to admire.

After reading the article, I must have blanked out my conviction of "rare tea consumption" and wondered what I was missing out on. I could be a way healthier person if I drank tea--what does a dentist and a hygienist know anyway? The very next morning, I filled my electric tea kettle a little higher for the usual oatmeal and the rest into a giant mug with a bag of green pomegranate tea (it just sounds so healthy, doesn't it?). After the water temperature was low enough to not scald my tongue, I sipped this tea, already feeling more alive and excited for life.

I think this feeling was not so much health, but a shot of caffeine zipping through my system. Since I don't drink pop very often, caffeine will kick me right up a notch and I can't be stopped. I decided that I would start drinking tea every morning at school, because it would wake me up a little and I would have an amazing amount of pep--as if I needed any more.

That Monday we returned to school, I filled up my travel mug and headed down the highway to Casa Grande. I figured out that I couldn't drink the tea until I got to school, it stayed very hot in that mug for a long time! It was exciting to start on a new health adventure.

These are the side effects that occurred when I started drinking tea:

My appetite was suppressed enough to last until 11:00 without starving (This usually started around 10:00--what can I say? I eat breakfast at 6!)

I had to go the bathroom 3 times before 9:30.

I had numerous stains on my jacket from constantly spilling walking from my car to school.

My students were convinced that I was hiding something in that mug, because I was a lot more smiley.

And to my deepest horror, I developed (even with the use of straws) brown stains in between the crevices of my front teeth that were pretty noticeable and I was pretty sure my teeth had a new tinge of yellow.

Here's the deal, my parents spent thousands of dollars to put braces on my teeth, replace a gazillion retainers accidentally thrown away, and fill cavities with the porcelain, not metal, fillings. I really try to hold up my end of the bargain by going to the dentist twice a year and brushing and flossing each day, and smiling the biggest smile in every picture. This seemed to be working out well, until I started my new habit.

My vanity got the best of me, and I decided that I could not drink tea anymore. It was not worth these so-called health benefits that I was clearly not feeling. So I quit, but my stains still remained. My smiles were not as smiley as they once were, I was feeling a tad more self-conscious about this little issue.

Yesterday, I had my 6-month teeth cleaning. I was so embarrassed to tell the hygienist about my problem and had to eat the words that I had proclaimed so adamantly to everyone six months prior. The hygienist happened to be very cool and went through and cleaned the heck out of my teeth. 30 minutes later, I was looking into the hand held mirror at perfectly white(ish) teeth with no stains! It was amazing! I gave her a hug and a promise to never to drink tea again! Again, everyone stopped what they were doing and clapped for me, I took my usual bow and exited the office stage right.

Reader's Block

2009-06-06T15:05:00.000-07:00

This is what I call my reading ailment. I have about a 20 or so books in my nightstand drawers, lined up on shelves, or tucked away in boxes. I'm about three quarters of the way through each one, then I either find another book that I want to read and start reading that or just decide that I don't want to finish the other book. It's quite a bizarre habit I have found myself in!

I don't know if it's because I don't want a book to end, I'm scared to find out what will happen to the protagonist in the story, or if it's just not that great of a story, but there is something that compells me to put the book down and walk away.

A perfect example of this is currently I have two books that I am reading. I was almost finished with The Bookseller of Kabul and decided to take a trip to the library. Knowing that I am almost done with this book, I decided to see if another book I was interested in reading was available to be checked out. This book, of course, is The Book Thief. Wouldn't you know, Sunset Public Library had two of them ready for me to choose from.

The "back-up" book on the nightstand.

I immediately kicked The Bookseller of Kabul to the side and started in on the new goods. My new book has over 500 pages and is roughly 2 1/2 inches thick. I have about 1/16 of an inch left of the book (or 20 pages) and immediately put it down. I just can't finish it. There is no other new book waiting in the wings. The Book Thief is an awesome story and I have stayed up until 1 in the morning 3 times this week to keep reading it. I have given myself reader's elbow (like tennis elbow, but a little smarter) and my eyes are a bit bloodshot from flashlight reading so I don't wake up Casey. I have learned so much from the characters, I have cried about 3 times, and now want to go visit Germany. But I don't want to finish the book. This would mean it's over. This beautiful book will end and I have no hope that I'll find another book just as good as this one.

I felt the same way with A Thousand Splendid Suns. I didn't want it to end, either. I was completely swept off my feet with the story, it was so despairing. I had roughly 20 pages left and didn't touch the book for 2 weeks until I could separate myself from the story and not have that feeling of anguish when it ended. Sometimes, during really good movies, when I'm weeping my eyes out, I have to remind myself that it's only a movie because I am empathizing way too much with the characters. I am a producer's dream!

This "hyper-sensitivity" is not always why I can't finish a book. Sometimes the book is just not that interesting. I read most of it and feel Yawn-fest 2009 coming on, so I chuck it to the side and say it will be my "can't fall asleep" book. I will only read it when I need to fall asleep fast. Three pages, (flash)lights out.

I really like The Bookseller of Kabul. It's an interesting story. I've learned a lot about the Afghani culture, but my empathy has turned into anger with how people in war torn countries must live and of course the way women are treated. I often shut the book because it's almost too much too handle. It was the same feeling I had with Three Cups of Tea. It was a hard read, but very empowering. I always need a book to read and if I finished these books, then what would I read? I'm like the very hungry catepillar, eating through everything! It's comforting to have these books waiting for me when I finish the others.

I do have an update to report! In the middle of writing this post, I made myself go finish The Book Thief. It was so good and my eyes hurt from crying. I knew that would happen! I kind of did it selfishly because tomorrow I want to go to the library and get a new one and again, chuck my "other book" to the side!

The finished book is ready to be returned!

A Mistake and Something New!

2009-06-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

I realized that I accidently left out the first part of the first paragraph on the previous post. As a teacher, I ram into the children's brains that they need to have a good "hook" to keep their audience interested. It probably seemed as though I dropped the ball, however, it was a technical error by yours truly. I have since then corrected the error and added new photos to better accompany my story. I love my new camera and it sure does help illustrate my point!

Anyway, on the topic of taking pictures, being home during the day I got to witness something really cool! Back in October when we were home for a wedding and my fall break, Casey's mother gave us a little pod. It was the size of a walnut and was filled with little seeds inside. We were to put it in the windowsill and let it dry out. Then we were supposed to plant it in a pot until it started to sprout and soon plant it in the soil of our yard.

I was quite skeptical that we would actually be able to do this, but Casey must have his mother's green thumb (she is an amazing gardener!) because that little pod sprouted quite quickly in the pot. Soon after, we put in new curbing, grass seed and baby plants in the backyard. Casey also took the little plant and dug a hole for it to hopefully continue to grow.

At first it got a little brown, but Casey kept feeding and watering that little plant. He made that little plant thrive! Yesterday,we noticed that the plant had a huge bud on it. We had no idea that it was going to sprout flowers and were curious as to what it would look like. Today, while I was outside with the cat, that bud opened up into this:

Good job, Casey! Unfortunately, when he came home from work, it was already closed up. I definitely appreciated it and now you can, too!

Girl Meets Grill

2009-06-03T17:45:00.000-07:00

Lovely! It's summer outside and in many parts of the country people are making the most of the warmer temperatures. One of the lovely activities of a normal American summer is that people start grilling. They dust off their old Webers and begin to grill burgers, chicken, hot dogs and other lovely grill-able meats.

I am a hater. I hate the grill.

No, I'm not anti-American. The grill and I are very sick of each other. Perhaps I should explain. Roughly two months ago, we were entertaining Casey's parents at our house for a couple days during Easter break. I wanted to show off my newfound domestic skills, because just recently I had learned to cook. Please don't laugh, it's a really big deal.

I decided that I was going to make my favorite vegetarian chili. It was a stove top type of recipe, but does call for a head of roasted garlic. (If you've never had roasted garlic, you are missing out on the best addition to any meal!) The garlic does need to be cooked in the oven for about 40 minutes until it's cooked through and soft, then I squirt the little garlic cloves into the chili, the very best part of the dish!

While waiting for my garlic to finish cooking and for my in-laws to arrive, a loud BOOM! came from the oven. Casey's parents were right on time as I was pulling out the garlic, checking for damages, and cursing the oven to you-know-where. After a few attempts to heat the oven back up, we concluded that the oven was indeed not working and the little raw Pillsbury croissants would need to be tossed.

Our oven is fairly new, we just bought it last Christmas of 2007. It was my little buddy. It was there when I made my blessed sweet potato fries for the first time and when I made soggy Panko-flaked chicken (it wasn't its fault, I had made it wrong). I love the oven and the memories we have shared in my cooking journey.

Casey was quite positive that he would be able to fix the oven himself. He ordered the part from Sears and spent a Saturday afternoon trying to put it in. When I came home later that day, he was angry at the oven and said that it was such a tedious process and he couldn't figure it out. I can't blame him, I would have no idea how to fix/replace any part of an oven.

I have now had to go to our second form of cooking: the grill. We have a really nice grill that Casey's parents gave us as a Christmas gift last year. It is stainless steel and has a big propane tank. We love our grill and use it often throughout the year. Since the oven incident, I have now grilled chicken, turkey burgers, turkey sausage, steak, and portabella mushrooms. I have roasted vegetables, garlic, and sweet potatoes. I have warmed quesadillas and bread on that grill. There is nothing that I wouldn't try at least once.

And frankly, I'm getting sick of it. As I said before, many areas of the country would absolutely love grilling all these things because they would have the opportunity to be outside. In Phoenix, it is 5 degrees shy of hell in June. I don't want to go out on the patio anymore, I don't want to continuously burn things because I can't smell the food with the all doors shut, and I don't want a dusty trail of footprints from the sliding glass door to the kitchen!

Today...today...today...this was the last straw. I almost met Jesus today and I think he would have been just as surprised to see me as I would to see him. I went outside on my usual jaunt to the grill, with Ruby hot on my heels. I turned the crank on the propane and twisted two of the knobs to let the gas flow in, I bent down to pet the cat for about a minute and realized that I had not ignited the grill. Without even thinking, I pressed the rubber button and BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM! Fortunately, the grill cover was down and shielded the majority of a huge blast of fire. The force of the explosion pushed me back and sent Ruby running for the door. I quickly turned off the propane and turned the knobs. I opened the cover to let it air out. I was so scared! Many thoughts went racing through my head. I could have burned myself badly or burned the house down! I couldn't believe how dumb I was and what a crazy lesson I just learned.

Most people would have been a little leery to start the grill back up again. I chose to face my fear head on and kept my little lesson in the front of my brain. Besides that, I was hungry, Casey was going to be home soon and my food wasn't going to cook itself. After today, I put my foot down and said that we needed to get the oven fixed because I wanted to live to see 2010. It was agreed upon and I'm so excited to call a repairman to fix my little oven. Besides that, I think we just ran out of propane today.

Cereal Killers

2009-06-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

In this tight economy, I can imagine many households having discussions about their financial situations. Tension usually arises when couples have to come to the tough reality of a budget. In fact, many marriages dissipate because of the disagreements about how to spend money. Casey and I have both kept our jobs and are very thankful that we do not have that extra stress of figuring out how we are going to pay our mortgage each month. This does not mean that I'm not immune to the weekly interrogation of "What Did You Buy at Target?" or any other odd fill-in-the-blank store. These conversations can get me pretty heated, because of course I needed the newest lash enhancing, super pumping mascara from Maybelline and also, tank tops were $7. I don't make any huge purchases, but enough where a $30 bill soon turns to $50 one and enough where Casey is a bit frustrated with me and I hear the old, "Just take it easy with your spending this week."

However, my trips to Target don't ruffle feathers like this one other thing in our household does. We have this bone that we pick each week, same issue, roughly same time of week. One opens the cupboard excited and hoping to find the Crunchy Raisin Bran box for a morning bowl or a late night snack, but soon discovers that the box has been killed. What?? We just bought the box not even a day ago and all the cereal is gone! How can two people eat an entire box of cereal in a matter of 24 hours?

Accusations start being hurled between the two of us: How many bowls did you eat? Not nearly as much as you do when you sit with the entire box while you watch TV! Oh, well, that's funny, your so-called-bowls are about 3 serving sizes when you fill the entire thing up! I can't believe you ate the whole box! I can't believe that YOU ate the whole box! Great, now we're stuck with plain Cheerios until we go shopping next week, because I'm not buying any more. Awesome. Yeah, real awesome. Don't talk to me right now, I'm still really mad about not having good cereal.

Many of you may be wondering what the big deal is about Crunchy Raisin Bran. Isn't raisin bran in general gross? Yes, you would be correct. This is why I buy plain Cheerios and plain raisin bran each time I go to the store. We will not gorge ourselves on those cereals because they are boring, healthy and have no taste. As your may or may not know, I don't buy treats anymore because I will eat an entire half gallon of ice cream in one sitting if given the opportunity (see previous post) and certain cereals have proven to be a little bit of a problem in our household.

It started when I bought Kashi Go Lean! cereals in many different flavors because they were tasty as well as healthy and high in fiber. Did I mention that they were REALLY high in fiber? As in, I thought my stomach was going to explode from the inside out after one week of eating it. I couldn't pin point why my belly was turning itself over and I was in the most extreme pain of my life from the hours of 2-9 at night. After finally putting 10 grams of fiber + one already regular digestive system together, I subtracted the culprit and I finally could return to yoga or any other public place.

With the exit of this awesome cereal, I needed something to fill the void--healthy and tasty. I've always been a lover of cereal from the time I was a child. However, we had some rules when it came to picking out our cereal in the aisles of Pete's County Market. We could never choose a cereal that was over 10 grams of sugar, which terribly limited our selection of the cereals that we really wanted to eat. Cinnamon Toast Crunch was an all-time favorite, Frosted Mini-Wheats was always right up there, too. I would always beg my mom to buy Frosted Flakes or Count Chocula but I would get the inevitable "No." It seemed like everyone else was enjoying the likes of Cap'n Crunch and Fruity Pebbles, and the closest thing that we came to sugar cereals was Froot Loops at my grandparent's house. Finally in high school as the only child left at home, my mom let me choose whichever cereal I wanted and I went directly for the most sacred cow of cereals...Lucky Charms. It was my morning breakfast and late night snack from September of 1998 until April of 1999. I stopped eating it in April because one morning I accidentally poured orange juice on my cereal without realizing it and totally ruined my love and affection for Lucky Charms.

However, I did not lose this love and affection for other cereals throughout the years. As pretty health-conscious adult, I can't bring myself to buy those untouchable sugar cereals now, it's very Freudian and psychological. So, Casey and I have tried to fool ourselves into thinking, if it has a healthy sounding title, then really, how bad can it be for you? I would never dream of touching the Sugar Smacks, but Crunchy Raisin Bran sounds soooo much healthier. If we were to compare the nutrition labels on the aforementioned cereals, I wouldn't be surprised to find out that they have an equal amount of sugar and both really have no nutritional value.

Since I do the majority of the shopping, I will get to pick the coveted "Special Cereal" for us. For a while it was Crunchy Raisin Brain, sometimes Frosted Mini-Wheats, and a couple of times Honey Bunches of Oats. See? They all sound really healthy, however, they have something that our boring cereals do not: a light coating of sweetener somewhere. This is enough for me and Casey. This would be the one and only item in our house with an artificial sweetener, besides the peanut butter, which is a whole other blog in itself. It has become the most desired product in our kitchen. A person needs to strike while the iron is hot! If it's in there, you better eat it, because you have roughly 24 hours before the goods are gone.

Yesterday, while at the grocery store, Albertson's was running a special where their generic Cheerios, which are actually way better than the original, were a dollar per box! So, of course I bought 2 boxes, but to top that off, the generic apple cinnamon Cheerios were also a dollar. Oooh, a healthy sounding name, but I know that this is very deceiving and will become THE cereal to eat in our house. Surprisingly, it's been 24 hours since I bought it and more than half of it is left. A miracle! Casey told me today that he felt sick this morning and could barely stomach toast. I think that's the only reason I was able to sit in front of the TV tonight for my late night snack! I give it until tomorrow night until we have the next victim of the Cereal Killers!

Mean Jeans

2009-01-13T10:50:00.000-08:00

Trying to find a good pair of jeans is one of the hardest tasks that I have put myself through in the past few weeks. I don't know what it is about jeans and why it so hard to find a pair that does exactly what it is supposed to do.

The perfect pair of jeans for me needs to be dark, because Stacy and Clinton from "What Not to Wear" say frequently that dark denim camouflages a wide thigh and I definitely do not need my thighs to look any wider. They also need to have a straight leg, nothing flared and definitely no tapering which is very self-explanatory.

There can be no rhinestones or random buckles and chains. There should be no sign of glitter anywhere, although my second grade little girls make it look so cute!

They need to come up high enough so my "pencil holder" won't show when I bend over, but not too high to make the dreaded muffin top. They need to be long enough to skim over the tops of my shoes, but not too long where they drag on the floor. The pockets need to be normal and a classy stitched design is always welcomed.

They need to make my legs look long and my derriere look small, yet round. They need to go with every shirt in my closet, too.

They can't stretch out too much when I wear them 8 times in a row without a wash. And they need to bounce right back when I do finally break down and do it.

Is this too much to ask of a pair of jeans? The poor sales clerk at the Gap took out 12 pairs of jeans from my dressing room until I finally found a pair that met most of my needs. They were a little long, but following the advice of my dear TV friends, I took them in to my tailor and they are getting altered as I write this.

I wonder if I will ever find the PERFECT pair of jeans right from the rack. I don't wish for world peace; I wish for a lovely pair of jeans for all women to enjoy each time they put them on! Amen!

2009-01-10T11:58:00.000-08:00

The dishwasher drives me absolutely nuts! I love it, because it is a temporary place to put my dirty dishes so I don't have to think about them for a couple of days. And when I have rearranged the top and bottom rack to fit as many dishes as possible, it is awfully convenient to put in some Cascade and turn the dial and go to bed.

The next morning when it's time for work, Casey needs his bowl of cereal and toast. I need multiple pieces of tupperware and spoons for my breakfast and lunch. We open the dishwasher, take what we need and move on with our days.

However, getting home after being gone for 12 hours we transport our dirty dishes from lunches and breakfasts and place them in the sink, as the clean dishes are still sitting in the dishwasher. We cook dinner and one of us has the daunting task of doing the dishes.

Casey dislikes taking the dishes out of the dishwasher so much that he will wash all dishes by hand to avoid having to unload. But at some point we NEED to get that thing unloaded and I silently think that I was the last one to do it and Casey really needs to start carrying his weight around here.

I wander into the kitchen later on at night, wanting to get my spoonful of peanut butter, no spoons, so I open the dishwasher, grab the spoon and of course nothing else. I come back a little later to pack my lunch, no tupperware the right size, go into the dishwasher, grab what I need and carry on.

Finally, one of us breaks down and decides to be the martyr and unloads the darn thing. All the while non-verbally displaying our discontent to the other by loud bangs of the plates, throwing of the silverware, and shuffling of the tupperware cupboard. You can't unload a dishwasher without another person there to feel sorry for you, right?

So it's Saturday, the dishes are sitting nice and clean in their little racks, ready to be put back home in their special spots in the cupboards or drawers. A sink full of breakfast dishes is waiting patiently to be placed in the dishwasher. Casey has gone to play softball, so what is a girl to do??

Friday!

2009-01-09T11:12:00.000-08:00

I have been on a hiatus from my blog for a few months...as my brother told me, he can tell when I am back at school. I think I was putting too much pressure to write amazing tales. So now I'll keep them short and sweet and more like a journal of things that are happening!

I'm so glad it's Friday. This was the first week back from vacation. I had a great week with my students. They were lovely and wonderful. I love my new reading class, so bright and eager to please. I get to give out awards this afternoon to students who worked extra hard for good grades and I can't wait to make their weekends. But I am looking forward to MY weekend. It makes the hard work I put in this week balance with the time I get to see Casey, friends and family. I also love my yoga class on Saturday mornings and the five dollar footlong from Subway that I split with Casey for lunch.

I wish to you all great and balancing weekends! What makes your weekend good? Is there something that you look forward to? I would love to hear your thoughts!

Baby Bumps

2008-09-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

I'm not claiming to be rail thin here, but pregnant? Come on. This happens to me every year around the time of August, September, or October. I have the very personal and inappropriate question asking if I'm pregnant. I don't know what it is about the changing seasons that makes people socially inept to have the audacity to ask the question.

Two years ago I was sitting in the doctor's office waiting to get my blood drawn for my cholesterol check. A woman walked in and kept smiling and staring at me. I smiled back and she decided this was an open invitation to ask me when I was due. This marks a very critical point to a socially awkward question. I am really down to a couple of options and both of them will not flatter either one of us. For some reason I always choose the response of: "No, I guess I'm just fat." Laugh, laugh, laugh. I throw myself under the bus and hope that the other person doesn't feel uncomfortable.

What? Yes, ridiculous as it sounds, I somehow feel like I need to be the one who will take the beating to a new level. However, the other side to the coin is to tell the person that you are not pregnant and that it is rude to ask someone such a personal question. I'm not assertive enough to do the latter and find that when I'm blindsided by the question, the automatic response is to rag on myself, then fall into a pool of tears after leaving the conversation.

It happened again last year from a PTSO mom who thought that she was being very clever figuring out that I was pregnant. I still responded with the old no, I'm just fat, but the laugh was taken out of that response and I walked away with her calling, "No, I didn't mean it like that. Sorry!!!" Oh, I guess I wasn't sure what you meant by it, no, completely my fault.

But this fall has landed me a couple of doozies. The first was from a woman I used to work with at my old school. After a long meeting and sharing a table with this fellow teacher, I got up and gathered my things to leave. She immediately put her hand on my belly and very loudly exclaimed, "I didn't know you were pregnant!!" Again, my response came out, but this time I got angry. I told her she couldn't ask that to women and it is super rude. She responded with a hearty laugh and said that she knew that. I walked away with tears flowing out of my eyes and my colleagues watching my brisk exit. She knew that?! SHE KNEW THAT??!! No, I don't think that she did or she wouldn't have asked it! Grrrrr.

Today was the latest of my pregnancy rumors. In the parent loop at my elementary school, a parent of one of my former students was picking up her son. She called my name frantically as I put him in the back seat. "You're pregnant!" she exclaimed. No, I assured her. This was just a roll of fat, no baby was a brewing. "No, no! Look!" she pointed the roll of fat around my stomach, "You ARE pregnant!" Now this puts me in even more of an awkward position, she is a nice woman and I will see her everyday in the parent loop. However, I want to punch her or really give her a piece of my mind about keeping those comments to herself. I did the only thing I could do, "No, I'm just fat." Clenched teeth, chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. I turned away to a gaped mouth kindergarten teacher asking me if that just happened. Oh, yes. That was not a figment of your imagination. This is what I deal with--people with zero class and social cues.

I have pondered why I get so many pregnancy questions. My first thought is that I have a roll of fat around my middle that will be there until the day I die (just in case of famine). I also have an extraordinarily large chest, which I keep under tight wraps. These are signs of early pregnancy, perhaps, but I don't think my shape is any more unusual than the average woman. I've also thought that people ask me because I'm newly married and in the city where I work, the women have babies at the age of 16. I'm a very late bloomer according to their timeline. A very kind friend told me I have a natural glow that some may mistake as a pregnancy glow. I think it's just Eye Bright from Benefit I use religiously.

I feel for these celebs dealing with paparazzi accusations of baby rumors. How many of us have pictures where we are in an unflattering pose? Sometimes I have a big dinner and my stomach is feeling bloated, sorry no baby. I am a huge fan of the gossip magazines, but I think it's given some sort of permission for people to make accusations (as I'll so gently put it) about the personal and private things going on in others' lives. I admit that I have my doubts about Eva Longoria, but I know what she's going through, on a much smaller scale of course, if she really isn't preggers.

So here's my rule of thumb to asking about pregnancy, as many of you know: Only ask a woman if she's pregnant when a baby's head is crowning out of a vagina.
That's all. Pretty simple. Keep it forever and use it.

Out to Send the Very Best

2008-09-17T15:40:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like in your job someone is going to knock on your door or cubicle wall to gently escort you to your car? They might let you know that it would be wise not to return to work in the morning because you've been found out. They realize you have no idea what you are doing and are basically wasting their money and time.

I felt that way often in my first years of teaching. There were times after looking at test scores or class work that tears where brimming on my eyes. Did they really not understand this? What more should I have done? Could I have stayed later and put together a 3-act play to show what a possessive pronoun looks like? Would creating a 10-part group project make a difference? Someone is going to find out that I just taught what was in the book because I couldn't think of another brilliant way to teach it.

I could truly live at my job. I could stay there all day and night and still find things that I need to do to be absolutely ready for the next day or upcoming week. I should really have my lesson plans all ready for next week, but I don't. I should really have all my copies ready for morning work for the next two weeks, but I don't. I should have all my reading centers sorted out to the exact time frame I need for completion, but I don't. Is someone going to find out that I don't have these things finished? And if so, what will they do--gently escort me out?

These are things that loom over my head at night, mostly on my Sunday nights. On Sunday nights I try to go to bed early. I lay in my bed and read, and read, and read, until finally my husband says I need to go into the living room to read. The clock that once said 9:16 now reads 12:07. Did I just read for 3 hours and not get tired? I try laying back down in bed, I close my eyes and visions of Monday dance through my head. I think about my lesson plans I need to finish, I think about those copies I need to make (and change my clock for 15 minutes earlier so I can get to the copy machine early), and I think about the centers that need to be organized. It puts me in a panic mode with a nervous stomach and I go back out to the living room and read until I FINALLY fall asleep.

Just recently, my mom sent me a link. She said to type in spastic colon Sunday + Hallmark into the Google search engine. I died. You need to do it, too. Please turn on your speakers quietly. Hallmark has a greeting card for everything including the nervous stomach, panicky, Sunday night blues.

A Little Piece of Heaven in my Pocket

2008-09-17T06:46:00.000-07:00

Day 9. Yes, day 9 of the rest of my life. I have officially shown the door to a huge part of my life. I really thought that this break-up would make me sad, but I've been getting on pretty well. It's not my husband with the break-up in question. I have officially said good-bye to sweets and treats. Even the low-fat, no carb, Splenda sugar treats. They have done me wrong more than once leaving me still hungry and hugely depressed after our sick binge sessions together.

Last Sunday, after two days of eating like crap (I won't sugar coat it), I was feeling bloated, icky, and terribly guilty. I sang my little song to myself and danced my little dance about how I already knew the outcome and I went and did it anyway. I cried to my mom and she said, well just stop eating it! Huh! Yeah, if it was that easy, don't you think I would have done it by now?

No, she said. You have a very bad and addictive relationship with sweets and snacks. Treat it like any addiction and don't eat any of it ever! Give it a try for 3 weeks and maybe that will help break some of those bad habits. You may not ever miss them.

I agreed and starting from that point at 8:30 pm on September 7th, 2008, I have not eaten sweets or treats. Surprisingly, things are going well. I even had a potluck at school filled with very tasty comfort food including many things on my "no" list and I opted for the healthy chili, fruit, and veggies. Pat on the back for myself.

Nutritionists everywhere would be gasping...you can eat anything as long as it's in moderation. No, it will truly not work for me.

So here I'm sitting after leaving the lunchroom. A sweet little girl placed a tiny yellow Starburst in my hand. I said I would put it away in my pocket and have it as a treat after lunch. One little Starburst. It's quite a predicament to be in. I put it in the hand of a colleague and have been thinking about it ever since.

Seriously, Jesus!

2008-08-24T18:31:00.000-07:00

"Dear Lord, I'm so very thankful for your blessings"--RING! RING!--"and I ask that you watch over my family"--BEEP!! BEEPETY BEEP BEEP!!--"especially for my baby niece that hasn't been born"--"Take me out to the ballgame!!"--"okay, seriously God, what's up with these old people and their cell phones? Please send me a sign that you will take care of this." ALLELUIA!!!!!!! ALLELUIA!!!! "Yeah, that's not the sign I was thinking of, okay? In your name I pray, Amen."

Old people. I love 'em. Some of my favorite people in the world are old people--self-proclaimed, I did not give them the label. Their manners can be impeccable. Doors open, pleases and thank yous, great listeners, and the list could go on and on. But there is one piece of etiquette that hasn't caught up with these traditionalists and baby boomers: the use of their cell phones!

Several years ago there was a big to do with young people and their cell phones. They were bringing them to school, they were talking on them in public places, they were letting them ring with loud, obnoxious ring tones, and of course they were interrupting any face-to-face conversation to take a call. They were a rude nuisance to all those around the impolite cell phone user.

Since then, I'm not saying that young people have gotten better, but we've made some changes to squelch the aforementioned rude behaviors. We walk to quieter places to take a call, we put our phones on vibrate or silent, we have been using text messaging to avoid the very public conversations, and perhaps we have replaced face-to-face talks for ones over the phone.

New cell phone etiquette rules are well-known among those 40 and younger, but I was very much enlightened by old people this past weekend. In case you haven't noticed, they all have cell phones now. Oh, wait you probably have.

I was at a conference this weekend with roughly 1200 other individuals. This was a Catholic conference I was invited to by a good friend of mine. I was excited to spend time in prayer and give myself a fighting chance to make it to heaven. Walking in, I was surrounded by older people--as in 60+ years! This would be a great place to nurture my need for peace!

One would think that you had a perfect audience to speak about Jesus, God, and the Virgin Mary. We were good listeners, we sat quietly, we said please and thank you, but we had a problem. THE CELL PHONE. During one particular part of this conference, we participated in something called the Adoration of Christ. It is a very sacred time of awe, prayer, and meditation. It is supposed to be silent, with the exception of the priest leading us in prayer. I was excited to be alone in my prayer and go through my laundry list of people I wanted God to watch over and bless and those I wanted him to zap with a bolt of lightning.

But no, my quiet thoughts were interrupted several times, and by several I mean roughly 10-15, with cell phones blaring the trumpet voluntary, Fleur Elise, the salsa, and I think ringtone #5 was thrown in there at some point. But when I quickly looked up to give the cell phone culprit a dirty look--I threw all Christ-like forgiveness to the wind--a white haired lady would be rummaging through her gunney sack of a purse to quiet it.

My friends and I would exchange our judgemental and horrified glances. Don't they know the new rules? Don't they know that their phones come with different sound settings? Didn't they remember to do something about their phone before they were going to start praying really hard to Jesus?

A personal favorite of ours was when the classic Verizon ringtone went off, starting quietly, then progressing to an extremely loud jingle. I turned around to see a man roughly 80 years old struggling to get his phone out of his hip holster. His cane kept falling every time he tried to grab his phone, creating quite the scene. When he finally won the struggle with the holster, I thought he would quiet the phone and put it away, but I guess he figured it took so long to get the darn thing out that he may as well take the call.

While the priest prayed for all those in failing health, my man behind me let the confused caller know he was not happy with her timing.

"Well, where do you think I am?!....Okay, I'm sitting on the side part...Well, they've already started so you better get here soon...Yes, I have a seat for you....ya...bye."

Did that just happen? At first it made me annoyed, but then I think the Virgin Mary gave me some divine intervention. My annoyance turned to laughter. She reminded me that old women were still finding ways to nag their husbands. No matter where this guy was, he knew he better answer that phone because he would get it ten times worse if he didn't answer it. I agreed with the Blessed Mary and chose not to judge--well, kind of chose not to judge.

The old people will come around soon. They will learn to fiddle around with their phone long enough to find all the neat things it does besides take and make calls. But I can't wait until I'm 87 years old to cyber-poke my husband and ask him to repeat what the priest just said.

Can 60 Get Me Over the Hill?

2008-08-20T11:39:00.000-07:00

Ugh! Gas prices are killing me! I'm not lying, they are really going to kill me one of these days when I pull up to the gas pump and have a heart attack as the counter hits some ungodly number. My drive to and from a city 35 miles south of the valley did not used to render such hatred until this year. The 70 mile round trip was always shared by at least one other person up until this year when all of my carpool friends have gone to bigger and better things.

Besides the fact that I am forced to go to the pump every 5 days to fill up, the actual drive has seemed to be getting longer. Don't get me wrong, I love being by myself in my car tootling around town or on long car rides. I've got my new best friend, books on CD, as well as my back up friend, NPR. We could get lost for hours on deserted desert roads. Now our romance has a third wheel, making the drive more uncomfortable.

This intruder is my mileage counter, or as I like to call it, my money counter. Every mile dollar signs flash before me. It's disgusting to visualize. I try to focus my attention on the road, but will occasionally look down at my gas gauge with resistance. I can't believe a needle that was once pointing to a half a tank minutes ago has crept to a quarter of a tank. How could that be???

I've read all the myths about how to get the best mileage gas, however, they are just that, myths. Buying gas in the morning is really no different than buying it in the afternoon, besides the fact that I don't have to stand in 110 degree heat. Or the fact that Chevron has much better gas than Shell, it's all the same at the rate I blow through it. I have, however, been driving 67, instead of 75ish. This just makes me feel better, but I'm quite certain I'm going to get mauled by a big Chevy truck.

Gas station attendants that previously knew me from my candy addiction, now see my car pull up to pump #3 and shake their heads in the same manner. Gas addicts, candy addicts, we've been lumped in the same category...greedy SOBs.

This is why one late Friday night I was face-to-face with my problem of gas. I actually went out with some work friends in my city of employment. I wasn't used to doing this and the dinner we had didn't come until late in the evening. When I got into my car around 11 pm, I was tired. I turned my car on and saw the needle just a tiny bit above the red line. The closest gas station from the restaurant would cause me to cross over the interstate and pay almost ten cents more. I decided that I've driven on a low tank of gas before and this will be one of those times I can fill up at the station by my house as soon as I get home.

My decision of course was accompanied by little twinges of regret. I wondered if I should have pulled off at the last exit. This is the point of no return, since an Indian reservation separates the two cities from each other and there is only desolate highway on this journey. I decided, no, I would keep going, and I would be alright.

My next course of action was to take the speed down even further than my already grandma pace. 60 seemed like a decent number and I stayed at it. I also decided to turn off the AC. That was painful all in itself. Only in AZ does one still sweat after 11...yes, it's that hot! I was getting to the first exits into the valley and my gas light would have been blowing whistles and bullhorns to tell me to get some gas. I knew that there was a station right off the interstate with decent prices and I was going to pull in there.

Approximately 1/3 of a mile from this gas station, my car shut down. Oh, yes, I had run out of gas on a very busy interstate in Phoenix. I had no one to blame but my sorry self. The humiliating phone call to my almost asleep husband was too much to handle, but he is a good man and came with some gas to fill my tank up a little bit. I laughed as he approached and said I was baffled as to how this could have happened. He looked at me very doubtfully and said nothing. The cold shoulder was enough to know that this wasn't funny, so I shut my mouth.

I don't want to do that again, but I also still loathe filling up my car with gas. I think I'm going to find out where Maria Vazquez's Mexican Catering van loads and hitch a ride. She does the same route I do and I would get to eat tomales!

Sweet Sweaty Goodness!

2008-07-25T01:24:00.000-07:00

So, I've come to the conclusion that I'm the sweatiest person I've ever met, well, at least the sweatiest girl I've ever met. I'm not just saying that because I have to put a towel down on leather furniture during the summertime so I don't leave drip marks. This really has been an issue since I was young.

I've always been a "hot" person. Of course I'm talking about my temperature not my looks--let's be clear about that. When I was young, my hair would curl up on the ends into some to-die-for blonde cuteness in the summertime. The heat and the humidity took a hold of my hair and it was all over. As I got older and the heat would have a different effect on my body. My face would get redder, then my neck started heating up a little bit more, and sure enough beads of sweat would run down my face when the temperature started rising. The cuteness was replaced by a little bit of an "ewwww" factor.

It wasn't until I went to junior high did underarm sweat rear its ugly head. In seventh grade I borrowed my sister's long-sleeved turquoise t-shirt. It was so cute with the hot pink and black lettering of B.U.M. Equipment on the front. I was so excited to wear it that morning and show off this very chic piece of clothing for 1993. I found my good friend at her locker and we made our rounds around the school chatting it up with all sorts of cute boys and girls. When the homeroom bell rang, we raced up to our classroom, battling the hundreds of students milling the hallways.

We made it just in time for the tardy bell to ring. Sitting down at my desk I realized that I WAS HOT! It was then that I made the biggest mistake that I would come to regret for the next 7 years. I happened to lift up my arm to re-adjust my barrett. If I could take back that innocent gesture, I would in a heartbeat, because I believe it was at this moment I hit puberty with an audience. A very nasty, popular girl called out to the rest of the students, "Oh, my gosh! Is that sweat in your armpit?"

Horrified, I quickly put my arm down and stammered, "Uh, I don't know, I guess so. I'm just really hot." This was followed by several students gathering around me to see this freak of a girl who was able to produce sweat in such a disgusting place. They asked me questions like if I wore deoderant or if I took a shower. Little did they know that I had been using Secret since I was in third grade and of course I took a shower! I was mortified! And to top it off, when we were taking lunch count, I told the teacher I would be having hot lunch. The same icky girl piped up to the whole class, "Oh, are you SURE?" as she raised her hands over her head showing off her bone dry underarms. I have truly hated her since that day and have hated anyone who had the same dry armpit affliction.

The next day, I took great care in choosing an outfit to camouflage my sweat. This also set off my new wardrobe selection which would carry me through both junior high and high school. I was only going to wear clothing that hid those horrid armpit stains, because the more I would think about them, the bigger the stain got. I wore black, I wore layers, I wore plaid, and I wore white like it was nobody's business. I couldn't borrow anyone's clothes for fear that I would leave a sweat stain. I hated shopping because my mom would pick out pinks, blues, reds, and yellows on the cutest of clothing. I would scoff at them and tell her she had no taste, but deep inside I would have given anything to comfortably wear a green cardigan set. The times that I would buy those pastels, I would end up having the worst day ever trying to cover up the deep coloring under my arms. I would never raise my hand in class, I only used long strapped bookbags--there was no way I could wear a backpack, it's a deathwish for sweaty armpits, and I would leave class to find the restroom with the hand dryers to blow away a sweat stain. White t-shirts had a drawer life of roughly 2 months before they turned yellow. I was ultra-sensitive to those that didn't sweat. The lucky bastards leading their carefree lives.

In high school I wanted a boyfriend so badly. I just knew it would never work because I could never hold his hand or snuggle closely to him. I would surely drive him away or maybe he would just slip out of my slimy grip. I kept a distance with boys, for fear they would find out about my baloney-sized sweat problem. It literally paralyzed me in many parts of my life and created a mountain of laundry at the end of each week.

By the time I went to college, I had learned many tricks of the trade to hide this embarrassing secret. We were still wearing plaid shirts under sweatshirts and layering was a really big deal. I lucked out in some ways that first year of college. After my freshman year, I came home and I finally came to grips with this issue. 7 years of shame and embarrassment needed to end. I told my mom that I was going to see the doctor and tell her that I sweat a lot. She looked at me quizically and asked what they could do about it. I told her I didn't know, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. Much to my surprise there was a treatment. I was not alone and there was help to be had! I was given a prescription liquid that was to be rubbed in my armpits at night and then washed off in the morning.

Not quite believing that this would actually work, I filled the prescription, went home and waited for bedtime. I rubbed the liquid on my underarms and it burned like nothing else. Did that mean it was working? I wasn't sure but I had a restless night's sleep as the stinging raged on. That morning, I woke up and was ready to start my day. In the afternoon a friend and I were going to babysit my cousin's children. When we arrived, the temperature was hot and the house had no AC. I started playing with the kids and my face was getting red, my neck was starting to overheat, and soon enough I had beads of sweat on my brow. This was going to be a true test to see if this really worked, was it worth the pain? I rubbed my armpit with my finger and it slid across the skin. Sweat? Hmmmm.... It didn't feel like sweat and I immediately identified it as my deoderant. I rubbed that off as fast as I could and touched my armpit several times to truly capture what it felt like to have dry armpits in a hot house. It was beautiful. I nearly cried.

This was the beginning of the end for me. I continued using the medication. I arrived back at school a new woman. On one of the first nights back, I was with some girlfriends in a hot dorm room with no AC and of course super dry armpits. One of them said, "I'm sweating terribly right now." I rolled my eyes, because I've heard that before from girls who will lift up their arms only to show a dot the size of a pencil eraser. Puh-lease. Only this time, my friend lifted up her arm to show a rather large stain the size of a peanut butter jar top. I stared in amazement. Another friend chimed in and notified us that she, too, was very hot and sweaty. She lifted up her arm to show us a likewise stain. Again, I was shocked. Kindred spirits of sweaty armpits!

I almost couldn't get my words out to express my understanding and empathy with sweat stains. I told them of my gift of prescription medication to alleviate such embarrassment. We swapped stories of volleyball jerseys ruined, of a friend's gymnastics leotard that had a sweat stain from elbow to hip, and other stories of home remedies that have failed miserably to cure such a vanity ailment.

Since that year of college, I have become immune to the medication, but I no longer keep this problem a secret. I embrace it with love as part of who I am. I love reading articles about people who sweat a lot and are healthier than others. It makes me proud to do any sort of exercise and have the sweatiest back, stomach, neck and of course armpits. It makes me look like I've worked a little harder than the rest.

Don't get me wrong, life isn't perfect, I still sweat, but not nearly as much only because I don't worry about it anymore. I still use the blow dryer in public bathrooms to dry up big stains, I still never wear blue button-down shirts (don't trick yourself that you can, Stacy), and I still loathe holding hands during the "Our Father" in mass. So icky junior high girl, I'm SURE that you suck! (And yes I did use deoderant, it's just really hot in here!)

Yum-Yum in my Tum-Tum

2008-07-16T20:37:00.000-07:00

So I think I've been on a diet since I was 13. I've never been obese or incredibly overweight, but there were a few shaky moments in college that could have gone either way. I have a very sturdy body that was built thicker than some. I will never be 100 pounds and if I ever was, I would surely have an intervention done on me because I would look sick. Stick thin or lean have never been words to describe my silhouette.

My legs have been described as "muscular" and one time "stumpy" by a person who knows who he is and never made that mistake again. I can't wear super short shorts or skirts which I'm mostly okay with, but it would be nice in 111 degrees to wear shorts to the gym. I also have this pouch around my tummy, I guess it's known as a spare tire, since it looks like I swallowed a bike tire that won't deflate. No amount of crunches, pilates, or ab rollers will get rid of that thing. I think I would be sad if it ever left me since we've been together so long. I wouldn't know what to do...maybe comfortably wear a bikini or run in my sports bra?

I work out enough and eat healthy food to maintain a body size that isn't small, but isn't big, it's very medium. But I know what is in the way of my knock-out body. It's a little obsession I like to call the "treat." Some people like to have something sweet in their mouth after they have dinner, hence the after dinner mint. That small piece of hard candy will not even come close to suppressing the lion that lives in my belly.

I could eat an entire bag of M&M's, and I'm not talking about the impulse buy when checking out groceries. That's just a warm-up to the main event. I could take down a large bag of peanut M&M's in one night. Easily. I love the sour tasting treats, I love ones with peanut butter, I love ones with chocolate, I love them rolled in sugar, I love them dipped in caramel, and I especially love them smothered in ice cream (with caramel, peanut butter, and dipped in chocolate).

If you were to bag my groceries, you would see tons of fruit, vegetables, lean meat, and many nutritious things. But under the non-fat yogurt, you will see the struggle of a treataholic. I don't want to buy the tub of ice cream, so I'm going to get these sugar-free fruit bars at 72 calories each. I can't bring myself to put the bag of chocolate in the cart, but I'm sure these sugar-free chocolate pudding packs will do the trick when I'm really craving a bag of bite-sized Snickers.

When you've been on the treat for as long as I have, these are just items to tie me over so I don't get in my car and drive to the local gas station and get a large bag of Hershey Kisses. I can tell you that one time a gas station attendant asked me why I wasn't getting any sour gummy worms with my Reese's Pieces like I usually do. After I awkwardly laughed and hurried out, I made sure to start mixing up my gas stations. I binge on these items and leave not one iota of candy left. My stomach hurts, I feel like puking, and yet the candy keeps going in my mouth.

This isn't something that happens everyday, but it happens enough, let's just put it that way. After I have my crazy, psychotic episode with the candy, I swear that I'll never eat treats again. I also promise that I'm going to eat healthy from now on. This inevitably happens, because I'm too sick to eat until the next day. I go back to eating my fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and my fake sugar-free treats.

After a week, something builds up in my system and those red warning signs start to flash while blaring a loud horn. "You've gone too long without a good treat!!" it screams in my ear. I try to ignore it as long as I can, but after a few days of ignoring the piercing sounds, no amount of sugar-free Jello will hit the spot and I cave.

I stand in front of the candy aisle, having a hard time deciding what to get. Sometimes I have a little will power and just get the Sweettarts that come in the long tin foil cylinder, but other times I go for the hard core chocolate treats. I sit in my car on the ride home and fire them in without breathing. I'm a drug addict that's scored cheap crack, just something to calm the craving.

The cycle repeats itself again and I go through the same song and dance. If I'm stressed out at work or if someone said something to hurt my feelings, then it's an automatic stop for candy and I feel better instantly. Then I have an upset stomach on top of the stress or sadness, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

I wish I knew the magic solution that would help me overcome those treat demons in my brain. When I have conquered them, I will let you know via email with an attached picture of me in a string bikini while running.

Francophile, Mais Oui Say that Again?

2008-07-13T22:31:00.000-07:00

So, I've mentioned in the previous blog that I read a book called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. I guess I didn't read it, I listened to it on CD, but that's beside the point. It's an awesome book and I completely recommend it, however, when I read the back cover, I was baffled by a word that I was very unfamiliar with.

It described the main character, a nine-year-old boy who lost his dad in the World Trade Center attacks, as a "francophile." He was a precocious child and a collector of many things, but what was a "francophile"? Disillusioned by what I thought it might mean, since the only word I could think of that resembled it is "pedophile" and I didn't think they were the same thing, or at least I hoped not, I did a little research.

I grabbed my husband's Blackberry, too lazy to go to the computer, and typed "francophile" into the Google search engine. Wikipedia came to my rescue and answered some questions about this very peculiar word. Apparently, a francophile is a person who has a deep love and appreciation for France and the French culture. I can appreciate a person like that and I think they would have a deep love and appreciation for me.

I'm not an egophile, a person who has a deep love and appreciation for oneself--I just made that word up--but I do have a lineage of French in my system, in fact, half of me is French. I think it's all the smelly parts and the parts that love high fat and carb-infested foods and I'm pretty sure the mysterious parts of me that don't like Americans. My dad came from two parents that had pure French blood flowing through their veins and passed no love and appreciation for the French culture down to my dad and his 11 siblings. They were not francophiles, therefore leaving their descendants to fight for their Frenchness on their own.

They did leave behind their complete devotion to the Catholic religion and apparently my grandmother also had difficulty with the NFP concept and planned or unplanned she produced 12 children like a good Catholic woman should. Child #8 was my dad. These children went on to have children, too, and by 1981, out came me, grandchild #32, the final one to round out this modest sized extended family--cough, cough.

Knowing that my birth would probably be the last among his siblings, he had a duty to fulfill. I was a cousin born into a family of Ryans, Patricks, Michaels, Marys, Michelles, and Shannons. These were nice names and all but none of them carried with them a French flair. In fact, it seemed as though the family was leaning towards a bit of Irish. The nerve! What happened to cultural pride and loving our heritage? We had an exhaustive French last name that was consistently mispronounced and frankly, my aunts and uncles spared their children a first name that was equally as confusing.

Enter me. I took the hit. I was given a name that had a beautiful French sound that would roll off the tongue of any Parisian and was chosen carefully by my very fickle father. However, in small town Minnesota, the Scandinavians we were surrounded by butchered not only the complicated, yet exotic sounding last name, but my first name went down in the massacre, too.

I went through childhood pronouncing, re-pronouncing, then writing and pronouncing again my name. As the youngest of three children, I thankfully had two siblings that sorted out the last name for all the teachers before I came, but I was truly on my own when it came to my first name. I resented them for having names from the "Popular Boy/Girl" name list printed each year in the paper or being able to find their names on key chains when on vacation at Mt. Rushmore. I didn't even try to look for mine...only reassured by my mom that we would find one with my name on it if we were vacationing in Bordeaux, France. Big whoop! Our Ford Aerostar wasn't crossing the Atlantic Ocean any time soon. Pouty face.

Another assurance from my mother was that if I got married to a person with a popular last name (Anderson, Johnson, Peterson) that my first name would set me apart from the rest. She was right, how many Kelly Andersons are there? It makes me sick to think about it. I prayed that I would find a husband that would provide a name that I could blend in with, something that I don't have to clarify when pronouncing. Ha! That DID NOT happen and I am back to square one with another confusing last name.

But, I think I have found it, the people that I have been waiting for all my life. The francophiles! People who will not ask for a re-pronunciation, but a mere questioning on the the accent aigu. The "J" sound won't have the harshness in the word "jar" but the sophistication of "zsa." There is even a website completely devoted to people who are completely devoted to France and the French culture cleverly addressed http://www.francophilia.com/. I have been actively searching for a support group on their site who caters to those whose French names have been wrongfully abused in pronunciation for a large portion of their lives.

Je suis si heureux avoir trouvé les francophiles! Au revoir!

My Infidelity to NPR

2008-07-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

So, last year I went from being a casual National Public Radio listener to an extreme enthusiast of such shows as "A Prairie Home Companion" with Garrison Keillor, "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me" because I can't say no to a witty trivia show, and of course the affable Bostonians, Click and Clack, on "Car Talk" who solve automobile problems just by listening to people make weird car noises.

I don't just stop there, I love listening to local, national, and international news so when I listen to "Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me" I can accurately guess the right answers or start somewhat intelligent conversation not having to do with People magazine. In general, I just like to listen to people talk and not have to talk back when I drive in the car. My long car rides to and from work can be lonely, but listening to "All Things Considered" or "Talk of the Nation," makes me feel like I have a companion riding in the passenger seat.

Recently while in the library, after trying to find another Jodi Picoult book that they never have, something new caught my eye. They were bright, shiny, colorful, and they were made for me, my car, and my listening pleasure. I touched my fingers against the plastic spines. They were books on CD and they looked mighty fun to have in my car.

I stood there gazing at the different titles mesmerized by all the books that I have yet to read--it's what I love most about the library--and here someone would do the reading for me! This would help immensely in my almighty task of reading every awesome book that anyone has ever recommended. But I thought of my old friend, NPR, and all the good times we have in the car together. Could I borrow a book on CD and still listen to the radio? I've never had 2 boyfriends at once, again, not by choice, but I think this would still have the same juggling effect. I would really have to manage my time and make sure not to miss the important parts of NPR, but also listen often enough to the book to keep up with the storyline. I was torn, but before I knew it, I was sliding the plastic casing under the automatic check-out laser.

The first book I selected in my CD affair was Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I thought I might listen to this first part of the book and get bored or realize how overrated it was and come crawling back to my beloved radio. This wasn't the case. I had a new puppy love to the book and I couldn't get enough of it. There was no balancing of time; I devoted all of it to listening to this enrapturing book. The multiple characters, especially the protagonist, his grandmother and grandfather and their struggles with his father dying in the World Trade Center. I was laughing, crying, and thinking how much I loved books on CD. Did I love them more than "All Things Considered"? Hmm...I can tell you that I dropped NPR like a bad habit and didn't look back.

After finishing all 12 CD's, I told myself that I should take a break and get back into radio again. At least listen to the Saturday fun shows to remember why I really love tuning in. Instead, as soon as I dropped those CD's off, I was right back to the shelf like a fat kid to a cookie jar.

"Just one more...." I was dreamily thinking as I scanned the titles, "...oh, they have a Jodi Picoult book I haven't read yet. Let's see, Memoirs of a Geisha I've read before, but would I love it even more listening to it with a Japanese accent? Yes! I've found it. This is the perfect book to listen to in my car."

I grabbed Marley and Me from the shelf and couldn't wait to turn over the engine and place the first CD in the player. I honestly can tell you that listening to these books have made me a better and safer driver. How can that be? Wouldn't I be more distracted listening to the book? Absolutely not! I am more cautious not to pull out in front of cars if I can just listen a minute longer, I am relaxed in bumper-to-bumper traffic because it means more time with my new best friend, and I'm not against the euphoric state it puts me in. This could possibly be a cure to road rage.

I hate when guests come in my car and I'm forced to tune the radio to something with music; there's no way I can catch them up on my book and NPR is only for a particular type of person. Perhaps my books on CD have furthered me into an introverted state, but I can't say I don't like it.

I feel bad for dropping 91.5 for now, but I know this CD relationship won't last forever and I'll come crawling back on hands and knees on a Saturday morning like a cheatin' wife to her forgiving husband. For now, I think I'll enjoy this new found love and try to keep it a secret from my longtime companion, a prairie home companion, if you will.

Accessories Not Included

2008-07-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

So, I was just thinking about some things the other night. I am going to be an aunt in about 5 months and when I got the news, I screamed into the phone. Babies make me excited, especially those that aren't mine. Oh, your baby started crying...you can have it back now.

There is also a new TV show on NBC called "The Baby Borrowers" where teenage couples are supposed to take care of babies for three days. After those exhaustive days, they must take care of toddlers, then 'tweeners, then teenagers, and then old people. It's an interesting concept and one that I think more teenagers need to experience before deciding to have a baby with their high school sweetheart while still in high school. I did not have a high school sweetheart, not by choice, I just wasn't that cute, but I did babysit and I'm Catholic so from both ends I knew that having a baby would ruin my life.

Fast forward ten years. I finally found someone who did think I was cute and decided to marry me a year ago. I wanted that beautiful, traditional Catholic wedding. In order to make that dream come true, we had many hoops to jump through. We met with a deacon of our church nearly 6 or 7 times. It was there we discussed the meaning of the vows, what things we found to be important in a marriage and of course our willingness to reproduce. This was half the reason why you get married in a Catholic church. I'm not quite sure what would happen if we said no to that option, but we said "Yes!" quickly, maybe a little too quickly.

In the next session, we had the most uncomfortable moment in all my existence. Our 75-year-old deacon was going into the delicate subject of sex and reproduction. He told us that there were a lot of people and media telling us to do weird things in our bedroom, but "doing it" the normal way with no accessories was going to produce the same result in conceiving. We sat there with vacuum tight filters (as my mom calls them). However, if we were sitting in a comic strip, a conjoined thought bubble would have formed over our heads. The Beavis and Butthead giggles followed by, "He said doing it." We nodded our heads, pretending we had never been exposed to such filth.

This set us up for another 6 sessions of something called "Natural Family Planning" or NFP as we called it. These sessions lasted 2 hours on Monday nights, as well as follow-up sessions with our teachers. I just couldn't understand why anyone would want to try this method when it takes nearly 12 hours to understand, well, kind of understand. It requires the WOMAN to take her temperature each day, the WOMAN to observe and document each time she pees, and the WOMAN to let the man know the 30 minute window as the primetime to conceive before 11 o'clock in the morning.

I've never been one to pay close attention to detail and it really bothered me that Casey was understanding it well and I was still stuck at the 3 spiked temperature marks.

"I don't get it," I would whisper to him during the whole 2 hours. He would roll his eyes, as if telling me that he knew the secret to conceiving with all of the rest of the women in the room. How did he figure it out? I despised him for understanding something that he didn't even have to understand; it was my job to let him know when it was time. I could barely read the digital thermometer; this was truly hopeless. Thank goodness there wasn't a test at the end and they still let us get married.

Perhaps this is just another way to weed out those of us who are not ready to have kids right away and remind us to enjoy these quiet years. It is rather nice to just have the two of us, a cat, and a soon-to-be niece or nephew to practice on. I think we just have to remember that it doesn't take weird things with lots of accessories to be good parents, just doing it the normal way will suffice...as in parenting styles...get your minds out of the gutter!

Gentle Cycle with Like Colors, No Wife

2008-07-03T19:35:00.000-07:00

So, I like to think that I'm the perfect wife. I've only been one for a tiny bit under a year, but after a few bumps in the road, I really think that I'm quite good. I eat all of the meals my husband cooks without complaint, I pull up rugs for him so he can sweep and point out each crumb he happens to miss, and if I'm at Target, I'm sure to pick up a cute top so I can look nice for him. It's really a win-win situation for both of us and has taken a little under year to perfect this arrangement.

One of the bumps early on in our marriage was the laundry. I had volunteered to do our laundry, rather unwillingly, but I would rather not have my husband try to fold my underwear. I'm also really specific about the socks that go together based on there level of elasticity. It's one of the very few things that I am persnickety about, but he agreed.

One of the first times I had done our laundry, he was watching as I pulled out clothes from the hamper that we shared. I put them in my own little piles of clothes that I thought went together and would be washed in the same water temperature. This was NOT the way that he would have sorted the laundry, he informed me. I told him tough, get over it, this is the new way that it was going to be done. He reluctantly backed off and let me finish the laundry in peace.

About a month later, I decided that I wanted to wash rugs and just put them all together in the washing machine. I threw the red kitchen rug in with the sky blue bathroom rugs. Perhaps you might have flashbacks to kindergarten finger painting and realize this may not be the best idea. I personally like the "new" purple rugs. Whoops. A shake of his head, I had another mistrust in my laundry skills. It could happen to anyone that forgot the basics of color combining!

To top that off, the following laundry cycle, I was watching TV, waiting to change the wash into the dryer. My husband came in wondering if I had seen his cell phone. Hmmm...couldn't recall seeing it on the kitchen counter. Would I please call it, he sweetly asked. After 4 phone calls to no vibration, we realized that he had left his phone in a pair of jeans that happen to be finishing the rinse and spin cycle.

"Are you kidding me?!?!" he bellowed when he realized that no amount of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would bring his phone back to life. I offered my old phone to him, since I had just gotten a brand new one very recently. He took the phone and told me not to touch his clothes and he would do his own laundry from here on out. He found his old hamper and made a nice little set up in his closet to only put his clothes in. "OMG, c u l8tr, I think my bf thinks I'm of child brain level when it comes to laundry," I texted a friend on my new phone.

Everything has been hunky-dory and I have made no real mistakes besides the occasional piece of paper inside a pocket washed in a dark load. But that happens to everyone, I think.

After a vacation a few weeks ago, we had so much laundry to get done that I offered to do his and I promised to be very careful. He agreed only because he wanted his favorite dress socks clean to wear that week. The first 3 loads were great. Then I put a gray/green load in and let the good times roll, feeling pretty proud of myself. After it was time to take out the clothes, I opened the lid to the sickest smell. I thought it might have been the garbage, but when I brought the hanging clothes in to air dry, the smell was still there. How could these clothes smell so much like fish?

And then I saw it, a green shirt of mine that has two small pockets in the front. During the vacation I had put my usual artillery of vitamins and supplements in my pocket to eat with breakfast, but I had forgotten to take them...including the 2 fish oil tablets! I washed those clothes several times until I was sure the smell was gone, but seriously?? What kind of black cloud follows me around where something like that happens EVERYTIME I do my husband's laundry??

Or is it all part of my master perfect wife plan?

Competitive Yoga

2008-07-03T18:01:00.000-07:00

So, about two years ago, I was back in Minnesota for a little stay. My good friend had driven up from St. Paul to spend time with me over the weekend. She looked absolutely phenomenal! She had started practicing yoga and said that it had really made a difference in her life. It was very apparent that I needed to bring in some yoga to my work-out rut.

When I got back to Arizona I quickly drove the 2 blocks to L.A. Fitness (it was 115 degrees outside, I wasn't going to walk anywhere!) and picked up the class schedules. Since I was still on summer break, I was able to start the very next morning with my new favorite activity. It was off to a great start!

The first class went pretty well, besides the fact that I made the mistake of wearing a baseball cap and couldn't properly lay my head down, and that I didn't bring a towel with, so the downward facing dogs were straining my shoulders under the slipping of my sweaty palms. I kept the image of my friend and remembered how beautiful she looked and wanted that so badly for myself that I knew I couldn't give up so easily.

My next class I didn't make those rookie mistakes. I was sure to wear my hair in a high ponytail, bring a towel, and for extra measure I painted my chipped toenails, because it seemed like we were staring at them pretty often.

Over the next several months, I became a yoga practitioner. I gave myself that label, because I read it in the Yoga magazine that I was now recieving in the mail from my fellow yoga practicing sister. I could hold my tree pose against my inner thigh, I had great form with my triangle pose, and a full plow was nothing to be scared of anymore. I was getting good.

At that time, I started a new sport within my yoga class. No one knew they were playing, yet all of them were players. I was going to compete with the other people in the class to see if I had the best pose, especially those really skinny girls that always seemed to be good at everything. Our teacher would remind us continually that we were only to focus on our own bodies and stop when it started to hurt. I couldn't stop myself from squatting a little lower, holding the Sphynx pose a little higher, and curling my body backwards the best I could for the wheel pose. I pretended to close my eyes, but couldn't help to peek an eye open and compare myself to the brunette in the front. "How is she keeping her heels down while bent over like that?" I would think to myself. "Must push harder to win this pose."

I would leave class dripping with sweat, while others would still be wearing the hooded sweatshirt that they came in. How could that be? Didn't they even try?! Pfft, mere peons in my attempt to master the yoga circuit.

My friend was very excited for my newfound love with yoga and we discussed it often. I kept my game to myself because it totally erased the truly wonderful reasons why people practice. For a wedding gift, she found an amazing yoga studio for me to try out. I was overjoyed to start at this place and quickly put myself into the medium level class. The class was filled with mostly middle-aged to older women. Ha! This was going to be easy. Are you kidding me? I eat women like them for breakfast.

The very first part of the class was breathing...simple enough until we started having to breathe out for a really long time. I could barely make it halfway as the rest of them just kept blowing. How did they have that much air to blow out? They also were able to recite a mantra that I had never heard, but sounded very similar to "The Circle of Life" from the Lion King. I was completely lost. Thankfully, everyone really did keep their eyes shut in this class or they would have seen my lips make the motion of "doo-dee, doo-dee." We started with some poses that I was familiar and comfortable with and then she said we were going to stand on our heads. "Ha!" I loudly shreiked.

Wouldn't you know, it wasn't a joke, nor were any of the other women as appalled as I was at this crazy proposition. Sure enough, a woman in her sixties was on her head in a matter of seconds and the rest of the class followed. I sat in confusion and humbly asked the instructor for help. She gladly pushed my legs to the sky where I was able to stay for a few seconds before tumbling down. The sixty-year-old lady was still standing on her head.

Game over. Nomaste.

An Intervention from Intervention

2008-07-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

So, I have a new love. It's our DVR. The DVR is the recording device, similar to TiVo, that records TV shows when you are not able to be there to watch them live. This was a wonderful piece of technology during the school year. I thought I was missing many shows during the day and since I needed to be in bed by 9, I slept in peace knowing that the adult shows that come on during those prime TV hours was being digitally recorded. The Hills, Dirt, Real World Hollywood, you know all the REALLY important adult shows were now ready and waiting for me to view when I came home from work.

During the summer there has been a TV show that I just can't get enough of and I record it non-stop, even when I am watching it live. I had watched the program on A&E called "Intervention" just a couple of times the last couple of years, but now I've become a bit of an expert on the show.

Let me give you an synopsis of this show. A television crew follows around a person who has agreed to be in a documentary about their addiction. These people have had addictions to drugs, alcohol, gambling, sex, shopping or prescription pills. At the end of the show, the family and friends come together with an interventionist and ask the person to accept the gift of sobriety and go to rehabilitation to get better. At this point during the show, I am usually bawling as they accept this gift and can't wait to find out if they have remained sober after getting help. I'm truly disappointed when I find out that they have relapsed, but am overjoyed when they have seen the error of their ways and joined the rest of us as we soberly face the misery of real life.

After pressing "Stop" on the DVR remote, I turn to my poor husband who has patiently watched the entire show with me. I start on with my wonderful armchair psychobabble, because I've seen the show so many times, I've begun to think that I could do Jeff VanVonderan's job, even WITHOUT a pyschology degree. He, by the way, is the most popular interventionist the show uses with his no-nonsense approach to the person.

"Oh, you know that he turned to methamphetamines because of the childhood trauma he suffered from his abusive father. This is a very cyclical cycle he has put himself into--wait, was I being redundant? Anyway, having an addiction is a very selfish disease because everyone around you suffers while you are able to drown it in whatever vice you choose."

Blah, blah, blah...judge, judge, judge. I hardly notice when the channel is changed to ESPN Sports Center. The previous, "Whoa," was probably not for my insight on the enabler's role, but for the Twins win over the D'backs.

The problem is, I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF INTERVENTION!!! I look furiously for the next episode to play, frustrated when I press the Info button, only to find out that it's one that I've already seen. "Come on! Whatever! This is crap! I need to watch this show, like right now!" Previously viewed shows will not put me on the same level of empathy as watching a brand new episode. I'm disappointed when the storyline isn't as strong as others that I have seen; it just doesn't get me fired up like usual---

Hey! It sounds like I might have an addiction to Intervention. Huh. What would rehab from a television show about rehab be like? Would we be doing yoga, eating healthy foods, and would someone have to listen to all my problems as I weep into a tissue? Would they ween me off of the show or would they take me off of TV altogether? I don't know if I would be able to accept that gift of sobriety and I would be certain to relapse, if not on "Intervention," then definitely on "What Not to Wear." I'm going to have to keep my recordings a secret from my husband who doesn't know how to use the DVR anyway and all talk of it must be kept to myself.

Excuse me while I browse the lineup of A&E for uh, er, a good Biography.

Up after 9pm

2008-06-30T23:29:00.001-07:00

So, I'm on summer vacation...it's what I work 10 months out of the year for and really truly why I became a teacher. Oh, that last part was a lie, sometimes.

From August 1st to May 23rd it is what my husband calls "Groundhog's Day" in our home. My alarm blares some random classic rock station at 5:07 (my clock is 7 minutes fast, to give me some sort of comfort in my time frame) and I hit snooze 2 times, swearing that I can get ready really, super fast, which I never can. I catch up with my local and national news with Tram Mai and Scott Light in the early morning hours. I meet my carpool friend at 6:10ish, which usually ends up being 6:07, in the Albertson's parking lot. I am armed with my breakfast balancing in my lap, since I wasn't up early enough to eat it like a normal person. We drive to work and get there at 6:47, one of the first to arrive so we can do our copying right away and not have to wait in ridiculous lines that form at 7:32.

I work at frantic speeds all day long and get in the car at 4:48 with my carpool friend and we pull back into the Albertson's parking lot at 5:28. When I arrive home at 5:33, Casey is already there and we can barely speak more than 5 words to each other as we pull dinner out of the fridge.

Gym? Oooh, depends how I'm feeling. But be certain that I need to be brushing my teeth at 8:45, ready in my pj's at 9:05 reading my book and preparing to sleep at 9:30.

It's a ridiculous lifestyle for those 10 months, but oh, the summer time is where I let loose! People don't think that teachers let loose, but let me be exhibit A as I work you through the secret life of teachers in the summer. A typical morning I don't even get out of bed until 8:40. And one time I slept in until 10:00...I didn't tell anybody, it's not something that working people want to hear about, which I completely understand.

11:40 is when I usually eat lunch in my other life, but sometimes I SKIP IT or don't eat until 1 in the summer, because I've just finished breakfast an hour ago. A messy house is most certain during my teacher life, but now I make the bed everyday and pick up all our clothes off the floor, if they aren't already in the washing machine...that's right, we actually have clean underwear at our disposal, since the laundry gets done at a super speedy rate. The house actually looks presentable. Eating off the kitchen floor never sounded so appealing.

I have also become a bit of an animal enthusiast. Our poor cat, Ruby, is left alone for 12 hours at a time. Now she has come up with several secret hiding places from me, which I believe to be a fun game to play during the day. She, however, has different sort of tagging method that can only be described as a bat away with the paw followed by a hard bite. Maybe she's not so keen on this game like I am.

To round off a crazy day in my secret summer teacher life, I say good night to my husband shut the door to our room, and tiptoe into the family room to watch the Tonight Show, which comes on after the 10 pm news, a new set of people that I have yet to acquaint myself with. I've also been known not to crawl into bed until the early morning hours (I'm talking midnight!) on a Tuesday.

Gym? Oooh, if I feel like it. That never seems appealing in any life I lead.