Thursday, May 21, 2015
Thursday, July 24, 2014
25 reasons why humans shouldn't populate the state of Arizona
Get out while you can (and yes, these are all personal experiences).
1) When it's 114 degrees outside, it doesn't matter if it's a dry heat
2) There is no such thing as scorpion bug spray, they love to come inside your home, at night,
3) and they run faster than Forrest Gump
4) A popular landscape rock color is beige and is used all over in front and read yards, which matches the exact color of baby rattlesnakes
5) Beige carpet is a popular color in homes, which exactly matches the color of scorpions
6) Spend enough time in the desert running your dogs, and you might be stalked/chased by an irritated coyote,
7) twice.
8) It is the number one retirement state in the U.S., so if you want to drive anywhere, you should plan on taking valium and an extra 10 minutes, because you are going to get stuck behind someone that can not see over the steering wheel, and there are no highways or freeways that run through town
9) The water in your hose is scalding hot, and burns everything for about the first minute it is on, there is never an appropriate time to check if it has cooled down
10) There are earthquakes
11) When you "kill" scorpions, and leave them in a bag, they play dead and can live for up to a week without oxygen. So you shouldn't keep the bag to teach your dogs (scent training) and children to stay away from scorpions. Because when you shake the bag, it's a really exciting time for everyone involved.
12) When you walk outside at night during monsoon season, you may find a tarantula at eye level under the front porch catching bugs
14) There are cactus that jump, called jumping cholla, and it lodges itself into your skin with a barbed hook at the front,
15) and because that isn't scary enough, the barbs are poisonous
16) If you forget anything in your car, it melts
17) If you have nail polish in your car, it swells open and could spill on your upholstery
18) iPhones screens overheat if left in the sun for five minutes in summer
19) During the rainy season, tarantulas live in your front and backyard, and are bold
20) Trees have thorns instead of flowers
21) Worms, lizards, and frogs are deadly poisonous (centipede, millipede, gila monster, colorado river toad)
22) Wild pigs chase you (javelina)
23) There are no amusement parks or large awesome water parks
24) Dairy Queen is a necessity, not a luxury
25) The lakes are not really lakes at all, and not fit for swimming, they are manmade are filled with chemicals, but people still fish in them
1) When it's 114 degrees outside, it doesn't matter if it's a dry heat
2) There is no such thing as scorpion bug spray, they love to come inside your home, at night,
3) and they run faster than Forrest Gump
4) A popular landscape rock color is beige and is used all over in front and read yards, which matches the exact color of baby rattlesnakes
5) Beige carpet is a popular color in homes, which exactly matches the color of scorpions
6) Spend enough time in the desert running your dogs, and you might be stalked/chased by an irritated coyote,
7) twice.
8) It is the number one retirement state in the U.S., so if you want to drive anywhere, you should plan on taking valium and an extra 10 minutes, because you are going to get stuck behind someone that can not see over the steering wheel, and there are no highways or freeways that run through town
9) The water in your hose is scalding hot, and burns everything for about the first minute it is on, there is never an appropriate time to check if it has cooled down
10) There are earthquakes
11) When you "kill" scorpions, and leave them in a bag, they play dead and can live for up to a week without oxygen. So you shouldn't keep the bag to teach your dogs (scent training) and children to stay away from scorpions. Because when you shake the bag, it's a really exciting time for everyone involved.
12) When you walk outside at night during monsoon season, you may find a tarantula at eye level under the front porch catching bugs
13) And along with beige carpet, beige tile is popular, which also camouflages scorpions
14) There are cactus that jump, called jumping cholla, and it lodges itself into your skin with a barbed hook at the front,
15) and because that isn't scary enough, the barbs are poisonous
16) If you forget anything in your car, it melts
17) If you have nail polish in your car, it swells open and could spill on your upholstery
18) iPhones screens overheat if left in the sun for five minutes in summer
19) During the rainy season, tarantulas live in your front and backyard, and are bold
20) Trees have thorns instead of flowers
21) Worms, lizards, and frogs are deadly poisonous (centipede, millipede, gila monster, colorado river toad)
22) Wild pigs chase you (javelina)
23) There are no amusement parks or large awesome water parks
24) Dairy Queen is a necessity, not a luxury
25) The lakes are not really lakes at all, and not fit for swimming, they are manmade are filled with chemicals, but people still fish in them
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
And through all that, my eyelashes stayed glued on.
A case of the Mondays.
My 15 year old daughter had her wisdom teeth removed on Friday, the same day I take my 12 year old to the doctor, because she is on day 4 of sore throat and on-and-off fever (which was diagnosed on Monday as strep). The weekend was filled with back and forth trips from the kitchen (and store) to the couch. Ice pack, warm compress, ibuprofen, narcotics, soup, smoothies and eegee's. My girls take it like a woman. Our new saying in the house, because if they "Take it like a man," there would have been more whining. Let's face it, women handle sickness and pain better than men. Silently suffering.
My hubby has found, in the last two days, four scorpions in the house. In between caring for the girls I buy and spray a deadly chemical at the permitter of the exterior of the house and yard, clean all of inside and our baseboards with orange oil. I also read lavender plants help, I buy a few and plant them by our doors.
By Sunday, probably due to the stress and exhaustion, I am feeling feverish and a sore throat coming on. I panic, because I cannot handle a week out of work. I am not able to sit still, and a week on the couch is like a week in prison to me. I am supposed to teach dog class, and do not feel I am well enough to go. I call my dog training mentor, and friend, to let her know I am not up to class. I explain my impending feeling of doom and that I'm certain I've gotten the plague. She recommends that I make a special tonic, to kick its butt before it takes me down.
I research the tonic and the necessary ingredients. Honestly, when I find it online, cannot believe it is safe for human consumption. 1 1/2 heads of garlic (not cloves, people. Heads.) onion, ginger, horseradish, peppers, and apple cider vinegar. Apparently this is the holistic approach to flu shots. The instructions says to blend everything together and let it steep for 4 weeks. My mentor mentioned ahead of time that I do not have the time to wait, she recommends that I blend it and chew it down.
I sit, restless, weighing the options of being sick for a week or consuming fire. I decide that braving the fire is a better option. I drive to the store and feel teeny panic attacks while I make my purchase.
I arrive back, and begin preparing for my own demise. I chop four serrano chiles, a full onion, about 15 cloves of garlic, ginger, horseradish and half a bottle of apple cider vinegar, and throw all the ingredients in the blender. And prepare to blend. As I stare down, psyching myself out, I begin to cry. It was the onion. I swear. I press the button, and everything mixes together. My head cannot even come within a few inches with the lid on without wanting to gag. The websites say to consume a few droplets to save yourself from flu, but if you are already sick, 6 tablespoons per day are recommended. I "chicken out" and commit to 3.
I stand for a solid minute, wondering how one goes about ingesting this concoction. It is too chunky for a shot glass and too runny for a bowl. I opt to load everything on a spoon and guzzle it down. I hold the spoon and muster up the guts (pun intended). Once it enters my mouth, I chew lightly and immediately swallow. I think that once it is past the lips that all will be right in my world. Wrong. My esophagus and stomach are now feeling exactly where the lump is traveling as it enters my unsuspecting body.
I do an amazing dance, surprising myself with new moves. Some sort of hopping and jiggling, to try and extinguish the fire. Half hour later my limbs are tingling and I can feel blood rushing around in my head. I begin sweating.
After all the excitement, I am tired but I wrestle with sleep.
The next day, I awake late. Now, I don't have a specific start time at work, but I try to be punctual. I rush around the house, shower, put my eyelashes on, and prepare my kale smoothie and lunch, and talk myself into consuming one tablespoon of the fire. Which has now begun fermenting overnight, and is waaaay worse on the second day.
As I am in process of feeding the dogs, before I go, I become aware that the two younger dogs, who happen to be litter mates, are in a mood. I have skipped our normal weekend outings because my girls are ill. My Catholic guilt takes over and I feel leaving the girls, who are mostly improved, but not 100%, all day with two rambunctious dogs, is unfair. I decide to take them outside for a quick game of flirt pole. This game is a gift. I stand still while using a horse whip with a dog toy tied to the end of it to make my dogs chase. Imagine, large cat toy. As the game progresses, Ava and Roo become more and more frantic, I see them becoming crazed instead of calm. Right as I am about to quit the game, Ava captures the toy and Roo lunges. I catch them both mid air, teeth bared, and haul Ava in the house, to sucessfuly prevent the dog fight. I am now quickly realizing they are really pent up, and I will need to take them out. I change into my jogging clothes, throw my hair up, and take them for a run.
At least, that is my intention. It is 8:00 a.m., and thus rapidly approaching 90 degrees. I take my crew into the wide open desert behind my house, but I realize I am not up to running. I have taken my dogs off leash for years in this desert. My two "new" dogs are only 2, but my senior dog is 15, and we have gone almost daily for the better part of 10 years now. The last time I went far into the desert, Ava and Roo decided to rustle up a coyote and take chase. Predators turn into prey, and to make really long story short, I was stalked by a coyote within 10 feet, a little under a mile back to civilization. This coyote was baying and circling, trying to decide if Roo was going to be breakfast. Well, after years of dog training, I have learned enough about dog body language and behavior. I hope domestic dog behavior is similar enough to kept the wild dog at a safe distance. I walked--even though ever fiber of my being was screaming for me to run-- back to the house yelling, keeping a " I mean business" body posture, and throwing rocks near him, when he got too close.
Since said nightmarish situation, I have decided that Ava and Roo cannot run free anymore, until they have a reliable recall, which means another round of training classes. But as I stand looking at the peaceful desert, I decide what are the odds, after 10 issue free years, that this is going to happen again? Slim to none. Since I am wicked close to the house, I unclip the leashes. With the speed and power of a greyhound, Ava takes off, and Roo, less muscular and agile, tries to keep up, lumbering behind her. I am standing still, and watch them, keep going. I frantically begin calling them back to me, while they dash back and forth, leaving only a dust trail in their wake. The pent up frustration is too much and distraction is too great, they are gone. Wild and free.
As I stand in the sun, leashes dangling, cursing myself for this stupid situation, I watched my two have the time of their life. I try to relax, until I hear a coyote to my left begin baying. I think that there is no way this is really happening, and I begin wildly laughing. Ava and Roo are somewhere that direction, and I cannot imagine they wouldn't have learned the lesson the first time.
After a few long seconds, I hear them pounding towards me, but I cannot see them. The last time this happened, and they ran back to me, the coyote was within feet of Roo, (Ava had a 5 foot lead) and she was wild eyed and running for all she was worth to hide behind me.
My dogs hit a clearing, and I brace myself for battle number two. But, there is no coyote. Maybe it's the intense smell of garlic pouring out of me? I will never know.
I leash my brats and head back toward the house, walking calmly with the coyote out of sight, but continuously calling. The sound is deafening at this close of a distance. Again. But my inability to see him this time spooks me worse than watching him stalk. At least I could watch his behavior and make corrections to my posture. This time, I a flying blind.
I reach the sidewalk after what seems like an hour, and am exhausted. I look down at Ava and Roo and they are more wound up now then when we left the house. Gah. So I run after all.
I get back to the house with sweat pouring down my face and chest. Garlic stinging my eyes. I shower, re-dress and spruce up my makeup before trying to start my Monday a second time. I am surprised to find, that through all that my eyelashes stayed glued on.
My 15 year old daughter had her wisdom teeth removed on Friday, the same day I take my 12 year old to the doctor, because she is on day 4 of sore throat and on-and-off fever (which was diagnosed on Monday as strep). The weekend was filled with back and forth trips from the kitchen (and store) to the couch. Ice pack, warm compress, ibuprofen, narcotics, soup, smoothies and eegee's. My girls take it like a woman. Our new saying in the house, because if they "Take it like a man," there would have been more whining. Let's face it, women handle sickness and pain better than men. Silently suffering.
My hubby has found, in the last two days, four scorpions in the house. In between caring for the girls I buy and spray a deadly chemical at the permitter of the exterior of the house and yard, clean all of inside and our baseboards with orange oil. I also read lavender plants help, I buy a few and plant them by our doors.
By Sunday, probably due to the stress and exhaustion, I am feeling feverish and a sore throat coming on. I panic, because I cannot handle a week out of work. I am not able to sit still, and a week on the couch is like a week in prison to me. I am supposed to teach dog class, and do not feel I am well enough to go. I call my dog training mentor, and friend, to let her know I am not up to class. I explain my impending feeling of doom and that I'm certain I've gotten the plague. She recommends that I make a special tonic, to kick its butt before it takes me down.
I research the tonic and the necessary ingredients. Honestly, when I find it online, cannot believe it is safe for human consumption. 1 1/2 heads of garlic (not cloves, people. Heads.) onion, ginger, horseradish, peppers, and apple cider vinegar. Apparently this is the holistic approach to flu shots. The instructions says to blend everything together and let it steep for 4 weeks. My mentor mentioned ahead of time that I do not have the time to wait, she recommends that I blend it and chew it down.
I sit, restless, weighing the options of being sick for a week or consuming fire. I decide that braving the fire is a better option. I drive to the store and feel teeny panic attacks while I make my purchase.
I arrive back, and begin preparing for my own demise. I chop four serrano chiles, a full onion, about 15 cloves of garlic, ginger, horseradish and half a bottle of apple cider vinegar, and throw all the ingredients in the blender. And prepare to blend. As I stare down, psyching myself out, I begin to cry. It was the onion. I swear. I press the button, and everything mixes together. My head cannot even come within a few inches with the lid on without wanting to gag. The websites say to consume a few droplets to save yourself from flu, but if you are already sick, 6 tablespoons per day are recommended. I "chicken out" and commit to 3.
I stand for a solid minute, wondering how one goes about ingesting this concoction. It is too chunky for a shot glass and too runny for a bowl. I opt to load everything on a spoon and guzzle it down. I hold the spoon and muster up the guts (pun intended). Once it enters my mouth, I chew lightly and immediately swallow. I think that once it is past the lips that all will be right in my world. Wrong. My esophagus and stomach are now feeling exactly where the lump is traveling as it enters my unsuspecting body.
I do an amazing dance, surprising myself with new moves. Some sort of hopping and jiggling, to try and extinguish the fire. Half hour later my limbs are tingling and I can feel blood rushing around in my head. I begin sweating.
After all the excitement, I am tired but I wrestle with sleep.
The next day, I awake late. Now, I don't have a specific start time at work, but I try to be punctual. I rush around the house, shower, put my eyelashes on, and prepare my kale smoothie and lunch, and talk myself into consuming one tablespoon of the fire. Which has now begun fermenting overnight, and is waaaay worse on the second day.
As I am in process of feeding the dogs, before I go, I become aware that the two younger dogs, who happen to be litter mates, are in a mood. I have skipped our normal weekend outings because my girls are ill. My Catholic guilt takes over and I feel leaving the girls, who are mostly improved, but not 100%, all day with two rambunctious dogs, is unfair. I decide to take them outside for a quick game of flirt pole. This game is a gift. I stand still while using a horse whip with a dog toy tied to the end of it to make my dogs chase. Imagine, large cat toy. As the game progresses, Ava and Roo become more and more frantic, I see them becoming crazed instead of calm. Right as I am about to quit the game, Ava captures the toy and Roo lunges. I catch them both mid air, teeth bared, and haul Ava in the house, to sucessfuly prevent the dog fight. I am now quickly realizing they are really pent up, and I will need to take them out. I change into my jogging clothes, throw my hair up, and take them for a run.
At least, that is my intention. It is 8:00 a.m., and thus rapidly approaching 90 degrees. I take my crew into the wide open desert behind my house, but I realize I am not up to running. I have taken my dogs off leash for years in this desert. My two "new" dogs are only 2, but my senior dog is 15, and we have gone almost daily for the better part of 10 years now. The last time I went far into the desert, Ava and Roo decided to rustle up a coyote and take chase. Predators turn into prey, and to make really long story short, I was stalked by a coyote within 10 feet, a little under a mile back to civilization. This coyote was baying and circling, trying to decide if Roo was going to be breakfast. Well, after years of dog training, I have learned enough about dog body language and behavior. I hope domestic dog behavior is similar enough to kept the wild dog at a safe distance. I walked--even though ever fiber of my being was screaming for me to run-- back to the house yelling, keeping a " I mean business" body posture, and throwing rocks near him, when he got too close.
Since said nightmarish situation, I have decided that Ava and Roo cannot run free anymore, until they have a reliable recall, which means another round of training classes. But as I stand looking at the peaceful desert, I decide what are the odds, after 10 issue free years, that this is going to happen again? Slim to none. Since I am wicked close to the house, I unclip the leashes. With the speed and power of a greyhound, Ava takes off, and Roo, less muscular and agile, tries to keep up, lumbering behind her. I am standing still, and watch them, keep going. I frantically begin calling them back to me, while they dash back and forth, leaving only a dust trail in their wake. The pent up frustration is too much and distraction is too great, they are gone. Wild and free.
As I stand in the sun, leashes dangling, cursing myself for this stupid situation, I watched my two have the time of their life. I try to relax, until I hear a coyote to my left begin baying. I think that there is no way this is really happening, and I begin wildly laughing. Ava and Roo are somewhere that direction, and I cannot imagine they wouldn't have learned the lesson the first time.
After a few long seconds, I hear them pounding towards me, but I cannot see them. The last time this happened, and they ran back to me, the coyote was within feet of Roo, (Ava had a 5 foot lead) and she was wild eyed and running for all she was worth to hide behind me.
My dogs hit a clearing, and I brace myself for battle number two. But, there is no coyote. Maybe it's the intense smell of garlic pouring out of me? I will never know.
I leash my brats and head back toward the house, walking calmly with the coyote out of sight, but continuously calling. The sound is deafening at this close of a distance. Again. But my inability to see him this time spooks me worse than watching him stalk. At least I could watch his behavior and make corrections to my posture. This time, I a flying blind.
I reach the sidewalk after what seems like an hour, and am exhausted. I look down at Ava and Roo and they are more wound up now then when we left the house. Gah. So I run after all.
I get back to the house with sweat pouring down my face and chest. Garlic stinging my eyes. I shower, re-dress and spruce up my makeup before trying to start my Monday a second time. I am surprised to find, that through all that my eyelashes stayed glued on.
Them lashes though. Through flood, sweat and tears, making girls feel fancy for years.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Chemical Free
In the process of becoming healthier, I have found chemicals around the house extremely harmful and a completely unnecessary expense. I am not one to turn my kitchen into a potion making scene, with mixing, stirring, and bubbling pots. My recipes are simple, and require a straight forward measure and mix together. I will share the recipe dry mix laundry soap and make a recommendation for a cheaper alternative to bleach cleaners below.
Just bleach alone is a danger to our homes and our earth. When we inhale the corrosive chemical, we cough and it burns. Exposure can lead to Reactive Airways Disfunction Syndrome (RADS). RADS is a chemically induced form of asthma that can last two to twelve years. That weird slippery feeling when it touches your skin? Unnatural! The lye is reacting with oils on our skin. And yet we soak our clothes, bed sheets, toilets, bathrooms and kitchens in it. Food we consume touches countertops we think are not clean and disinfected unless scrubbed with bleach.
Ever thought of cleaning a bathroom mirror with glass cleaner and using a cleaner with bleach on countertops? Ammonia and bleach were used in chemical warfare to poison people in World War I and by the Nazi's in World War II. The combination makes chlorine gas. When inhaled, the gas tears into your nasal passage, trachea, and lungs causing massive cellular damage. It can cause permanent lung damage and painful death. Bleach in the toilet is equally as harmful. Chlorine gas is made when the bleach mixes with ammonia in our urine. We are poisoning the air we breathe in our homes. Thus poisoning ourselves and our children, and paying out the nose to do it.
I have rid my home of all chemicals. I found once I educated myself and looked outside of what is considered the norm, I felt that spraying chemicals in the air (air freshener), sprinkling them on our carpets, washing our dishes (heating and cooling them in the microwave and dishwasher), and washing our laundry and sheets, and windows with them should not be normal.
One box of Borax, a bottle of vinegar, and baking soda have replaced everything in our home and we are breathing better for it. I have made the swap to Borax for cleaning. It is $3.50, and one box lasts me up to 4 months. I just sprinkle Borax around my sink and toilet and gently rub in with a wet sponge (toilet brush), let sit for 15 minutes and rinse! No scrubbing necessary. Borax is a mineral. It is listed as a health hazard 1 on the MSDS (material safety data sheet), but on the same level as salt and baking soda.
Just bleach alone is a danger to our homes and our earth. When we inhale the corrosive chemical, we cough and it burns. Exposure can lead to Reactive Airways Disfunction Syndrome (RADS). RADS is a chemically induced form of asthma that can last two to twelve years. That weird slippery feeling when it touches your skin? Unnatural! The lye is reacting with oils on our skin. And yet we soak our clothes, bed sheets, toilets, bathrooms and kitchens in it. Food we consume touches countertops we think are not clean and disinfected unless scrubbed with bleach.
Ever thought of cleaning a bathroom mirror with glass cleaner and using a cleaner with bleach on countertops? Ammonia and bleach were used in chemical warfare to poison people in World War I and by the Nazi's in World War II. The combination makes chlorine gas. When inhaled, the gas tears into your nasal passage, trachea, and lungs causing massive cellular damage. It can cause permanent lung damage and painful death. Bleach in the toilet is equally as harmful. Chlorine gas is made when the bleach mixes with ammonia in our urine. We are poisoning the air we breathe in our homes. Thus poisoning ourselves and our children, and paying out the nose to do it.
I have rid my home of all chemicals. I found once I educated myself and looked outside of what is considered the norm, I felt that spraying chemicals in the air (air freshener), sprinkling them on our carpets, washing our dishes (heating and cooling them in the microwave and dishwasher), and washing our laundry and sheets, and windows with them should not be normal.
One box of Borax, a bottle of vinegar, and baking soda have replaced everything in our home and we are breathing better for it. I have made the swap to Borax for cleaning. It is $3.50, and one box lasts me up to 4 months. I just sprinkle Borax around my sink and toilet and gently rub in with a wet sponge (toilet brush), let sit for 15 minutes and rinse! No scrubbing necessary. Borax is a mineral. It is listed as a health hazard 1 on the MSDS (material safety data sheet), but on the same level as salt and baking soda.
My clothes are softer and smell way better than ever. My laundry detergent recipe is as follows:
One cup Borax
One cup Washing Soda
One ounce grated Castille soap. I like mine scented with lavender.
Just use two tablespoons per load. I have found our detergent now costs $.50 per month.
If you have any homemade recipes you wish to share, please do so!
Friday, June 27, 2014
Where it all began
I had a kid at 18 and decided I wasn't doing that again. Now, I love my daughter. But being a single teen mom was a challenge. I didn't need to make it twice as hard. So, I got on depo provera, the fool (which I was) proof birth control. It is a once every three month shot, and it worked great.
I was a happy teen mom, but life was difficult. Making $4.25 an hour and trying to have school, work, and being a mom all fit into a 24 hour day. Add in one verbal and emotionally abusive baby daddy, and I began to gain weight. The first few pounds didn't bother me, and then it slid slowly out of control. I was a body builder in high school and know how to rock it out at the gym. I reluctantly joined, even though I really couldn't afford the extra $15.00 a month.
After several months of going at it -- I'm just going to be honest, maybe half at it and half a slice of cake. Hey-compromise ;) -- I couldn't get any of the weight off, and I had gained 70 debilitating pounds.
Trying to muster up the energy to go to the gym when that overweight is a killer. Tediously staring at a blank wall, sweating, lifting, and climbing to no immediately obvious goal. I went alone and what made it worse was the gym atmosphere. I take the back row (like in school) only to watch healthy people's non-jiggly butts. Amazing women with thighs that don't touch, in front of me. They seamlessly run, each step seems so light and fun for them. I was always looking around for other people my size. I would have given anything for one person, sweating to the oldies with me.
The gym is exhausting mentally and physically to me. Every time I go, I get on the treadmill and stare at nothing, going nowhere (I hate treadmills, can you tell?). This horrible method of "weight loss" gave me nothing to do but think, analyze my life. Every time the thoughts turned to how I had let myself go. I became hyper conscious on the stair master, watching and feeling every slow step I took in my oversized shoe. My sweatpants tearing in the center from the friction of thigh rubbing. Gah. Just gah.
Still no weight loss. On the contrary, continued weight gain. Now tipping the scale at 210 pounds, a total of a 90 pound gain. I hired a personal trainer. The devil himself. I worked out five times a week on Satan's "10-10-10" plan. 10 reps - 10 second break - repeat 10 times. BRUTAL I tell you. He thought wrapping cardio in light weight training was the way to go to have me shed pounds and tone up. He was worried with typical weight lifting that I would gain muscle and bulk up. I agreed to his sinister workout plan.
Around month three he was starting to notice my weight loss was less than satisfactory. We decided to ramp up the plan. Sometimes I couldn't lift my arms to brush my hair because my muscles were torn so severely. But I loved it because he cheered me on because I was working so hard.
Five months went by. I lost a total of five depressing pounds.
My trainer thought I was a closet cake and McDonald's eater, and actually shouted at me for lying to him about what I was eating. He was spending all this time helping me, but outside of the gym I couldn't help myself?
Working out this hard and only losing five pounds? What gives? After I told him that although I didn't have the best eating habits, I wasn't scarfing behind his back, he sent me to a nutrition specialist. They both really tore into my life, which was embarrassing. As a fat girl, my self esteem was already down the tubes. Now two skinny people were inspecting me with a microscope, which made me notice every workout, every calorie, every bite, every decision, every minute of every day. And still no weight loss.
Although they meant well, and were there to help, the combination of me being hyper aware, having them quiz me, and working so hard I was sore every day (and throw in a crappy ex who called me fat) sent me into depression.
My hired team could not figure out why I couldn't loose weight, so they advised I go to a doctor for a slew of tests. Thyroid was the obvious potential issue. The tests all came back fine. I was sobbing in my doctor's office, at the end of this humiliating experience. He says, "Aren't you on the birth control shot?" I say, "Yes?" and finally the truth comes out.
Doc advises me that the main side effect of depo provera is weight gain. The drug is effective in preventing pregnancy because it makes the human body think it is pregnant, and stops a woman's period altogether. Which means the body starts reserving fat for the non-existent baby.
Digest this. What a unbelievably unnatural way to mess with a woman's body. And the worst news? The drug stays active in my system for a year to year and a half after discontinued use.
Meaning- I was destined to a life stuck in this fat suit for an entire year, regardless of what I did.
I was a happy teen mom, but life was difficult. Making $4.25 an hour and trying to have school, work, and being a mom all fit into a 24 hour day. Add in one verbal and emotionally abusive baby daddy, and I began to gain weight. The first few pounds didn't bother me, and then it slid slowly out of control. I was a body builder in high school and know how to rock it out at the gym. I reluctantly joined, even though I really couldn't afford the extra $15.00 a month.
After several months of going at it -- I'm just going to be honest, maybe half at it and half a slice of cake. Hey-compromise ;) -- I couldn't get any of the weight off, and I had gained 70 debilitating pounds.
Trying to muster up the energy to go to the gym when that overweight is a killer. Tediously staring at a blank wall, sweating, lifting, and climbing to no immediately obvious goal. I went alone and what made it worse was the gym atmosphere. I take the back row (like in school) only to watch healthy people's non-jiggly butts. Amazing women with thighs that don't touch, in front of me. They seamlessly run, each step seems so light and fun for them. I was always looking around for other people my size. I would have given anything for one person, sweating to the oldies with me.
The gym is exhausting mentally and physically to me. Every time I go, I get on the treadmill and stare at nothing, going nowhere (I hate treadmills, can you tell?). This horrible method of "weight loss" gave me nothing to do but think, analyze my life. Every time the thoughts turned to how I had let myself go. I became hyper conscious on the stair master, watching and feeling every slow step I took in my oversized shoe. My sweatpants tearing in the center from the friction of thigh rubbing. Gah. Just gah.
Still no weight loss. On the contrary, continued weight gain. Now tipping the scale at 210 pounds, a total of a 90 pound gain. I hired a personal trainer. The devil himself. I worked out five times a week on Satan's "10-10-10" plan. 10 reps - 10 second break - repeat 10 times. BRUTAL I tell you. He thought wrapping cardio in light weight training was the way to go to have me shed pounds and tone up. He was worried with typical weight lifting that I would gain muscle and bulk up. I agreed to his sinister workout plan.
Around month three he was starting to notice my weight loss was less than satisfactory. We decided to ramp up the plan. Sometimes I couldn't lift my arms to brush my hair because my muscles were torn so severely. But I loved it because he cheered me on because I was working so hard.
Five months went by. I lost a total of five depressing pounds.
My trainer thought I was a closet cake and McDonald's eater, and actually shouted at me for lying to him about what I was eating. He was spending all this time helping me, but outside of the gym I couldn't help myself?
Working out this hard and only losing five pounds? What gives? After I told him that although I didn't have the best eating habits, I wasn't scarfing behind his back, he sent me to a nutrition specialist. They both really tore into my life, which was embarrassing. As a fat girl, my self esteem was already down the tubes. Now two skinny people were inspecting me with a microscope, which made me notice every workout, every calorie, every bite, every decision, every minute of every day. And still no weight loss.
Although they meant well, and were there to help, the combination of me being hyper aware, having them quiz me, and working so hard I was sore every day (and throw in a crappy ex who called me fat) sent me into depression.
My hired team could not figure out why I couldn't loose weight, so they advised I go to a doctor for a slew of tests. Thyroid was the obvious potential issue. The tests all came back fine. I was sobbing in my doctor's office, at the end of this humiliating experience. He says, "Aren't you on the birth control shot?" I say, "Yes?" and finally the truth comes out.
Doc advises me that the main side effect of depo provera is weight gain. The drug is effective in preventing pregnancy because it makes the human body think it is pregnant, and stops a woman's period altogether. Which means the body starts reserving fat for the non-existent baby.
Digest this. What a unbelievably unnatural way to mess with a woman's body. And the worst news? The drug stays active in my system for a year to year and a half after discontinued use.
Meaning- I was destined to a life stuck in this fat suit for an entire year, regardless of what I did.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
I'm baaaack (spooky voice inserted here)
Well, it's been awhile. Let's face it: working full time, training dogs part time, being a mom to three teenage daughters, and one hubby with chronic pain, can sometimes make a girl feel like throwing herself off a cliff. But alas, I have not enough time to find the mountain to climb to achieve such a feat. I haven't had the time to write, but have been encouraged to continue the laughs, so here I am.
I have done many radical things in the past few years. In the next few weeks I will touch on each topic, in hopes I will reach out to one person that needs the help and possibly save them the countless hours and endless amounts of research I have done. And hey, if I am lucky, maybe someone will post a comment or teach me something new.
I will open up about: battling severe anxiety, depression, cutting, restless leg syndrome (RLS), and chronic pain (not all from first person accounts, but as a supporting role which can be more daunting a task). I will write about my children turning: vegan (and my subsequent panic), vegetarian, pescetarian, gluten free, raw, and organic, and my harsh learning lessons on eating properly in each category. As a bonus (because me talking/writing more is a bonus?) maybe I'll throw in my secret on how to heal quickly from surgery.
But most of all I will write on my battle to keep my weight off. I have learned to loose weight easily--any ole diet pill, diet, and calorie counting trick/program works short term but isn't meant to keep you skinny. The company selling you these items stays profitable, and in business, by keeping you in or on their program. What is this I speak of?! Yes folks, they are meant to make you fail. I was a plus size girl at 210 pounds and a size 23. My first time I gruelingly lost 70 massive pounds. Only to gain most of it back. I realized at 190 I was almost pushing 200 pounds again, and ran (literally) scared. I hunkered down and lost the 40. Ballooned up, lost 30. Started to gain and checked myself in time to have to only loose 25. This last time around, I like to believe I finally learned my lesson and lost 15. I have kept it off, but it is a struggle I face every day.
I will write that the best way to diet, isn't to diet at all. There is no magic pill and calorie counting nonsense. It is simply a change to your lifestyle. And I will make it easy and just give you the recipe. It took me 10 years to discover the right combination, and hope it works for someone else. I wish I had future me to ask, 15 years ago when my self hating battle began.
But for tonight, I shall sign off. If there is something you wish for me to write or address first. Please comment! (Really, I'll just be excited to know I'm not talking to myself) :D
I have done many radical things in the past few years. In the next few weeks I will touch on each topic, in hopes I will reach out to one person that needs the help and possibly save them the countless hours and endless amounts of research I have done. And hey, if I am lucky, maybe someone will post a comment or teach me something new.
I will open up about: battling severe anxiety, depression, cutting, restless leg syndrome (RLS), and chronic pain (not all from first person accounts, but as a supporting role which can be more daunting a task). I will write about my children turning: vegan (and my subsequent panic), vegetarian, pescetarian, gluten free, raw, and organic, and my harsh learning lessons on eating properly in each category. As a bonus (because me talking/writing more is a bonus?) maybe I'll throw in my secret on how to heal quickly from surgery.
(Before. Damn, is that really me? That's a big girl.)
(During, because when is it really "after?" The battle really never ends.)
I will write that the best way to diet, isn't to diet at all. There is no magic pill and calorie counting nonsense. It is simply a change to your lifestyle. And I will make it easy and just give you the recipe. It took me 10 years to discover the right combination, and hope it works for someone else. I wish I had future me to ask, 15 years ago when my self hating battle began.
But for tonight, I shall sign off. If there is something you wish for me to write or address first. Please comment! (Really, I'll just be excited to know I'm not talking to myself) :D
Monday, September 12, 2011
Petrified! (Forest)
My best friend (and sister) and I went on a work/play holiday (new duck photos!) over the weekend. We drove up to northern Arizona. Somehow we get ourselves in the most random of situations, unintentionally.
She is a rock hound. I am not. She loves outdoors, hiking, anything mountainous. Eh. Not my favorite, but I will go along for entertainment purposes. They have hotels, why sleep in the dirt? I just don't get it.
We head out bright and early Saturday morning, our intention to stay close the car for frequent water, snacks and slathering more sunscreen. Unfortunately due to our A.D.D. this doesn't happen. We wander so far that 5 hours later I get concerned about the sunscreen wearing off and start to panic about water rationing. I got a little red and begin whining like a baby. Upon returning to the car, I change into a tank top due to the burning sensation on my chest, neck and arms. We leave said hiking destination and I immediately begin dreaming of a shower and some food.
On our long and mud filled expedition back out of our hiking spot, Suzanne spots a sign and says, "WOW! Petrified Forest National Park!" Gah. I know I am in for it. 93,533 acres of "wonder and beauty." It's 3:00, I haven't eaten anything since 7:30 but a banana with peanut butter and am edging on the side of hangry (angry hungry), my dream of a shower shattered. But, Suzanne looks like a kid in a candy store. I agree to take her through because I am a loving sister.
We pull into a "scenic view" for photo opportunities of more desert and rocks. I am standing trying to entertain myself (with duck photos) while she is decompressing and relishing the view. A Harley Davidson riding, leather and ripped shirt wearing, motorcycle couple approaches us, I admit to a minute of panic, but they simply ask if we would like our picture taken together. I am thrilled! No really, I am. We have been taking self portraits for two days and there is nothing cute about my chin in a self taken photo. I have recently gained 10 unwanted pounds that I am extremely self conscious about. I've lost 70, and am slowly inching back up to a plus size. I refuse to buy bigger clothes so I cram myself into my pants daily as a reminder to put the blessed Twinkie down (oh how I love that yellow spongy cake)!
I digress. (mmmm spongy cake) As we pose for the photo, I start the mental rant of "remember to suck in your belly, lift your neck slightly to reduce double chin, oh, and of course, smile".
I walk back to the biker couple to retrieve my camera, and thank them sincerely for the generosity. As I turn to walk back towards my sister the lady, Angie, says, "WOW! You have a beautiful tattoo!" (I have been working on a back piece for two grueling years that is almost, but not quite finished). "Thanks!" I reply, "It goes all the way down to here." and lift up the bottom edge of my shirt to show her the end, as she can only see the top 1/4 that is visible above my tank top.
This is my mistake.
"Holy sh%$!" She yells and comes running over. "Can I see?" "Sure." I say and lift my shirt up about 5 inches. This apparently would not sate her, and she realizes the magnitude of my tattoo and would like to see it all. She lifts my shirt up onto my neck and I am confused. My shirt is starting to cut off circulation and I begin to wonder what is going on back there. I guess Angie isn't satisfied with the 2" piece of cloth impeding her view. She kindly informs me, "Now hold your tits, honey, so they don't fall out". What?! Did I hear that right, or is lack of air making me hallucinate?! Nope, a quick snap and all of the sudden my girls are free. Angie has undone my bra, to get a perfect view of my work of art in it's entirety. I'm frozen in shock.
Angie then begins frantically snapping photos while talking a mile a minute, "This is the most beautiful tattoo I've ever seen! I've never seen a tattoo I wanted until this one. It's the best work ever!" As a biker chick, I really appreciate the meaning behind these gushings and really try to finagle a pose to minimize the look of back fat while trying to keep my boobs from flailing about, this is proving a difficult task. A few minutes pass, and I think I am about to put my shirt back on and end this embarrassment when to my horror I hear," Hey, come over and see this!" Huh?
I feel several hands now groping my back and I risk ruining the photos by craning my neck around to see what more trouble is ensuing (turning your neck around in photos can be dreaded maneuver as it gives a thousand odd looking chin wrinkles). To my surprise I see several hundred (five) tourists from Germany pulled over for the "scenic view". Me. Angie says, "No, it is real, not art or marker." Apparently the lack of air was getting to me as I didn't hear the German gentleman ask if my tattoo is a fake! A fake?! Hours of pain and not being able to rest against anything and having my shirt stick in my skin as I am healing for days. Pshhht. I think not!!
I realize at this point that my sister is somewhere in the melee, and begin frantically searching for her to yell for help. She is standing only a few short feet away, and laughing so hard she is crying. A professional photographer, ready at any moment with camera in hand for great photo opportunities, and her camera was still. She is standing, mouth agape. She awakens from her shock upon my panicked stare and rapidly begins snapping photos to forever capture this priceless moment.
Angie truly made my day and weekend. She was so kind as to give me several hugs and take a duck along with her for road shots (as well as ask which hook my bra goes back on, one two or three) and a story, with accompanying photos, I will never forget. I share with you because if I can make one person chuckle a day, even at my own expense, I feel like I have accomplished something. Thanks Jim Quinn, awarding winning artist of Istari Studios in Tucson, for the show stopping tattoo.
She is a rock hound. I am not. She loves outdoors, hiking, anything mountainous. Eh. Not my favorite, but I will go along for entertainment purposes. They have hotels, why sleep in the dirt? I just don't get it.
We head out bright and early Saturday morning, our intention to stay close the car for frequent water, snacks and slathering more sunscreen. Unfortunately due to our A.D.D. this doesn't happen. We wander so far that 5 hours later I get concerned about the sunscreen wearing off and start to panic about water rationing. I got a little red and begin whining like a baby. Upon returning to the car, I change into a tank top due to the burning sensation on my chest, neck and arms. We leave said hiking destination and I immediately begin dreaming of a shower and some food.
On our long and mud filled expedition back out of our hiking spot, Suzanne spots a sign and says, "WOW! Petrified Forest National Park!" Gah. I know I am in for it. 93,533 acres of "wonder and beauty." It's 3:00, I haven't eaten anything since 7:30 but a banana with peanut butter and am edging on the side of hangry (angry hungry), my dream of a shower shattered. But, Suzanne looks like a kid in a candy store. I agree to take her through because I am a loving sister.
We pull into a "scenic view" for photo opportunities of more desert and rocks. I am standing trying to entertain myself (with duck photos) while she is decompressing and relishing the view. A Harley Davidson riding, leather and ripped shirt wearing, motorcycle couple approaches us, I admit to a minute of panic, but they simply ask if we would like our picture taken together. I am thrilled! No really, I am. We have been taking self portraits for two days and there is nothing cute about my chin in a self taken photo. I have recently gained 10 unwanted pounds that I am extremely self conscious about. I've lost 70, and am slowly inching back up to a plus size. I refuse to buy bigger clothes so I cram myself into my pants daily as a reminder to put the blessed Twinkie down (oh how I love that yellow spongy cake)!
I digress. (mmmm spongy cake) As we pose for the photo, I start the mental rant of "remember to suck in your belly, lift your neck slightly to reduce double chin, oh, and of course, smile".
I walk back to the biker couple to retrieve my camera, and thank them sincerely for the generosity. As I turn to walk back towards my sister the lady, Angie, says, "WOW! You have a beautiful tattoo!" (I have been working on a back piece for two grueling years that is almost, but not quite finished). "Thanks!" I reply, "It goes all the way down to here." and lift up the bottom edge of my shirt to show her the end, as she can only see the top 1/4 that is visible above my tank top.
This is my mistake.
"Holy sh%$!" She yells and comes running over. "Can I see?" "Sure." I say and lift my shirt up about 5 inches. This apparently would not sate her, and she realizes the magnitude of my tattoo and would like to see it all. She lifts my shirt up onto my neck and I am confused. My shirt is starting to cut off circulation and I begin to wonder what is going on back there. I guess Angie isn't satisfied with the 2" piece of cloth impeding her view. She kindly informs me, "Now hold your tits, honey, so they don't fall out". What?! Did I hear that right, or is lack of air making me hallucinate?! Nope, a quick snap and all of the sudden my girls are free. Angie has undone my bra, to get a perfect view of my work of art in it's entirety. I'm frozen in shock.
Angie then begins frantically snapping photos while talking a mile a minute, "This is the most beautiful tattoo I've ever seen! I've never seen a tattoo I wanted until this one. It's the best work ever!" As a biker chick, I really appreciate the meaning behind these gushings and really try to finagle a pose to minimize the look of back fat while trying to keep my boobs from flailing about, this is proving a difficult task. A few minutes pass, and I think I am about to put my shirt back on and end this embarrassment when to my horror I hear," Hey, come over and see this!" Huh?
I feel several hands now groping my back and I risk ruining the photos by craning my neck around to see what more trouble is ensuing (turning your neck around in photos can be dreaded maneuver as it gives a thousand odd looking chin wrinkles). To my surprise I see several hundred (five) tourists from Germany pulled over for the "scenic view". Me. Angie says, "No, it is real, not art or marker." Apparently the lack of air was getting to me as I didn't hear the German gentleman ask if my tattoo is a fake! A fake?! Hours of pain and not being able to rest against anything and having my shirt stick in my skin as I am healing for days. Pshhht. I think not!!
I realize at this point that my sister is somewhere in the melee, and begin frantically searching for her to yell for help. She is standing only a few short feet away, and laughing so hard she is crying. A professional photographer, ready at any moment with camera in hand for great photo opportunities, and her camera was still. She is standing, mouth agape. She awakens from her shock upon my panicked stare and rapidly begins snapping photos to forever capture this priceless moment.
Angie truly made my day and weekend. She was so kind as to give me several hugs and take a duck along with her for road shots (as well as ask which hook my bra goes back on, one two or three) and a story, with accompanying photos, I will never forget. I share with you because if I can make one person chuckle a day, even at my own expense, I feel like I have accomplished something. Thanks Jim Quinn, awarding winning artist of Istari Studios in Tucson, for the show stopping tattoo.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Pass it along...
Just a quick blog post in hopes everyone will pass this message along to potentially prevent this devastation from happening to anyone else, as well as to keep Mike in their thoughts and prayers.
A friend of my husband's left food on the stove when he went to work in the morning (I know I do this). While he was gone, their dog jumped up to eat the food and somehow managed to turn the burners on.
The result? The house burned down. I can not believe this to be possible. What a tragedy and super loss. Our hearts go out to you Mike!
A friend of my husband's left food on the stove when he went to work in the morning (I know I do this). While he was gone, their dog jumped up to eat the food and somehow managed to turn the burners on.
The result? The house burned down. I can not believe this to be possible. What a tragedy and super loss. Our hearts go out to you Mike!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I love you, Bro
However, thanks to a divorce, I got my wish. My father and his new wife had my brother (Bro) when I was 13. When he was a baby, they had to work weekends, so my dad asked me if I wanted to babysit while they worked instead of putting him in daycare. I jumped at the opportunity, I love my new little brother. 9-10 hours of play time each Saturday and Sunday, and I got paid well? I was living the life.
My brother and I immediately formed a super strong bond. An unbreakable bond that exists this very day. We talk every week (every day?), even though we live in different cities. He drives to stay with me when he has a break from college and can take a few days off work. We always have a blast when we are together. Usually an hour or two after he arrives, my face hurts from laughing too much. I am sure you think in order to have this much fun we must be drunk or on drugs. This is not the case. We have pure kid fun. I revert to the age of 10 (instead of my usual 11) when he is around.
On a recent visit, I ask if he would like to play PickUp Sticks with me. "What is that?" he asks. I am shocked to find this is to be his very first game, and feel I failed him as his older sibling. We lay on our bellies in the middle of my living room in front of a pile of brightly colored plastic sticks. I explain the rules to the game. He cackles at the simplicity of it. I dump the pile on the floor using the dreaded "twisted drop" which makes them land all directly on top of each other, but also intertwined.
Being a nice, kind, fair minded sister, I let him go first. When I hand the white stick over to him, his face changes. It is as if I just passed the baton in a 4 x 100 yard relay race during the Olympics. The laughing dies down to a chuckle, and eventually to silence (we are extremely competitive). He keeps inching forward to the pile of plastic sticks, analyzing the right approach. He decides on his target, the blue stick, and hovers the white stick above it. I can tell the pressure is too much. He reaches a shaky hand out, and immediately bumps another stick.
"My turn!" I yell, in a sing songy voice. He jumps at the distraction, and reluctantly hands the stick over.
Heh, heh, heh. Little does he know you gotta rock it out at the beginning of the game when sticks are laying in positions where they are easy to manipulate to gain a strong head start, before the complicated end where they are all impossible to move as they are dog piled on top of one another.
In a few seconds, I have a pile of sticks lying next to me. I look up at him. He is looking at my pile, and back to the lack of his own.
"You are cheating." He accuses, pain and the fear of losing easily detectable in his voice and clearly written on his face.
"Bro, you are inches from the sticks, carefully watching me. I can't really cheat in two person PickUp Sticks."
"YES, somehow you are! Then how do you have that gigantic pile?"
"I have mad skills, young grasshopper. You have much to learn." and just to show off I grab a fly mid-flight using my pickup sticks as chop sticks (totally kidding).
I realize if I want to him to willingly play another game with me, I must at least make him feel is he doing well. So I bump a stick.
"Awww, darn."
"MY TURN!" He yells. I hand the stick over. I am smirking.
He army crawls the last centimeter toward the pile. Face mere inches from the stack. He reaches a shaky hand out, lets out a long breath, digs in and successfully pulls out a stick. I'm proud my baby bird just left the nest for his first flight. "YAY!" He cries out triumphantly. We go along like this, sighing, cheering, sighing, cheering, until we are nearing the end of the pile. It is a close race, our piles similar in size, only a true count will reveal the winner.
My Bro knows every move is important. He angles the white stick in. Beads of sweat begin forming on his forehead. He hesitates, and yells out, "The pressure is too much! It is making my butt clench!"
It's all over for me, I burst out laughing and roll around on the floor holding my stomach. He wins.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Umm, I think that will come out
I thought it time to post an unrelated kid story. My life revolves around my bundles of "joy", but this has to be shared, as it's the worst I've felt since the cursed event occurred several years ago.
I worked in Corporate America, and didn't belong (imagine that). My two older sisters and I went out on a limb and decided to remodel homes....ourselves. Now there are several stories that should be shared, and will be eventually. But this one takes the cake. (Suzanne, can you guess which one?) ;)
We literally taught ourselves by means of conversations with Home Depot employees and books that should have been titled, "Remodeling for Dummies", as in the beginning that is what we were. Self taught- and a big yikes to that. Imagine- tile, grout and thinset in hand all ready to go. Book laid on floor, Suzanne reading aloud, "Step one mix the thinset..." etc.
But we were, in the end, mostly successful. I am proud were not "flippers" but took time and care bringing love back to dilapidated homes and moving people in with a little to no down payment.
On our fourth remodel we decided to take on a gross second floor condo, to do a "quick" rehab. There are hundreds of hilarious stories with this home, like painting the kitchen THREE times because the first two came out horrible, but I digress.
Suzanne and I were exhausted. Hauling: flooring, tools, paint, tile, a toilet, up and down stairs in the middle of the Arizona summer. Day. After. Never. Ending. Day. Nearing the end of the remodel one particular bright and sun shiny afternoon we loaded the back of her newer, hatchback, spiffy red car with several five gallon buckets of paint as well as other miscellaneous remodeling tools. Her tools, her rules-they had to be fastidiously cleaned and packed in an orderly fashion at the end of every twelve hour day and hauled back up the next as to not risk overnight theft in the vacant properties.
We drove to the condo and commenced lugging heavy items out of the car, up the stairs, back down the stairs, up the stairs, until we were mind numblingly exhausted and I felt as if I had gotten lost in the Sahara Desert for five days with no water or camels to assist. Ya, it truly sucked that bad.
On trip number bazillion (in actuality number five), I leaned all the way in and grabbed the handle of the last of the five gallon paint buckets to drag it to the end of the hatch. It tipped as I dragged. The joke was on me, along with the paint. The lid wasn't fastened securely, probably my due to my carelessness and haste in packing up at the end of remodel three. A sea of gleaming white ceiling paint came splashing over the edge. I do not possess Ninja like reflexes similar to my sister (she got all those genes, and there was none to spare by the time I was born). All I could do was helplessly yell, "Noooooo" and watch this horror unfold before my very eyes. In slow motion even.
Latex paint sloshed all over the inside of her car, down her bumper, my legs, caught in the roll of my capri pants, on my flip flopped feet and finally onto the pavement. I didn't cry. Instead stared in awe and disbelief. A few seconds later I yell- in my little sister panic voice, "Suzzzzaaaannnnneeee!" That tone of voice has been used in our family only when she had to protect us from a bully or we were in danger or hurt. And true to her big sisterly nature, she came bounding down the stairs lightning fast- even evoking her Ninja skills.
She screeched to a halt and just looked. Her eyes large and nostrils flaring like a bull in a rage, for what seemed like an eternity. She didn't say a word. Silence is deadly with her, so I started devising a plan and settled on crying to evoke some sympathy. Unfortunately my body was too dehydrated to squeeze out a single tear. I immediately began working out plan two. Which direction to duck the blow that was surely to come. I know she can catch me, so running was out. Plus I had a shoe full of paint and it was wicked slippery.
She told me to go upstairs and rinse off. I hung my head and complied. At least that would give me some space so I wasn't in reaching distance. I slipped and slid my way up the stairs, leaving a trail of white flip flop paint marks in my wake.
Once I was cleaned and knew the initial anger had passed, I crept back down. "I'm sorry!" I say, "I'll clean it." "Damn right you will." she responded, and to my relief started laughing. The cursed cleaning took several hours and my arms stung all night from my torn bicep and forearm muscles burning.
If you look carefully, to this very day, you will see little white paint speckles in the locking mechanism of her trunk. My bad.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Acquiring the duck.
Little do they know....
I recently took her to cash her change into dollars at one of these high tech coin taking machines in a local grocery store. She shook the plastic green dinosaur for all it was worth. $42.55 later, my mouth dropped open. Apparently $.01 + $.05 eventually equals $42.55. A smart girl, this one (sniff, so proud).
We were in line with the cash ticket to change it for real money when I noticed a quarter machine. I automatically revert to the age of five. My eyes sparkle and I clasp my hands in anticipation. They typically are disappointing, with candy or stickers. But every so often they hold a true treasure. Like miniature plastic ducks. This was the case.
I start jumping up and down saying, "Oooooh, ducks!" And then I notice the gem. "Wow! A vampire duck! I wonder if I could win that!" I automatically reach for my shoulder, and realize I've left my purse in the truck. And longingly look at my kid.
She sees the look in my eyes and says, "Yes mom, you can have a quarter." I don't even have to ask! Oh joy! I put the quarter in and get a yellow duck. The disappointment was overwhelming. My face falls.
"Here mom, you can have another quarter." YAY me! I put the coin in and turn the knob while chanting, "Vampire duck, vampire duck." I get a smiley face duck. Gah. The horror.
My kid feels so bad she actually gets back in line to change her dollar for quarters, even though she just changed her dinosaur coins for the dollar. I hold the sparkly quarter like it is a handful of diamonds and put it in the machine. You would think it was a slot machine with a million dollar payoff, I was so excited. My adrenaline starts pumping as I carefully insert the coin. Cow duck. Really? My kid says, "Mom, I have good luck, let me try." And she wins. Vampire Duck is mine!!! I unintentionally let out a scream of joy and commence a happy dance with the duck raised triumphantly over my head. I stop dead still as I now realize there are a good ten people watching this entire scenario unfold and they are now laughing.
I assess the situation and realize how ridiculous it may seem to outsiders. I am the kid begging for a quarter for a plastic duck, and my kid is now the adult giving me quarters for the machine. Great. Well, at least I got the duck.
You can see my new collection of ducks and our adventures at my other blog- Duck Bob. Duck! "Fang" is pictured above.
Fang's photoshoot was done by my loving sister who always entertains my sillyness. Suzanne, I love you.
Monday, August 8, 2011
I'm not responsible for your boobs.
We had to get out. The desert has it's wonders and beauty but who ever came up with this "Meh, it's a dry heat" needs to go to rehab, because that is a serious drug they are smoking. It has been over 100 degrees for what seems like an eternity here in Arizona. California and the ocean were calling my name. Last minute, I hastily cooked and got road snacks for my vegan, vegetarian and meat eater. We took off Friday at 4 a.m. to go for a much needed road trip to the beach.
However, not before my horrific last minute bathing suit shopping experience, Thursday night. Yes, I do live in Arizona. Yes, we swim in pools here. No, everyone and their mom is not starting at my cottage cheese and back fat when we swim in our backyards- only family who appreciates seeing out of both eyes and know I used to be a much beefier girl than I am now. Who designs these bathing suits anyway? Do they ever take into consideration that other people besides older women and people with teen sized breasts wear them? I was embarrassed for me and I was just looking at myself alone in the dressing room. I didn't cry, talk/cuss to myself nor get mad at my current weight. I placed the blame where it rightfully should be, on the faulty designer. I am not huge (that's me in the photo above) but not fit. I have successfully lost 60 pounds, and fought hard to push out of the plus size arena (I earned every plus size joke I make). But am not at the "YEAH! I'm going to parade around in public in something that covers less than my own underwear." stage. I decided, after much deliberation, on men's trunks and a polka dot top in XXL. I'm a D cup and apparently that pushes me back into the "you are huge" size chart again. I had the extra material puckering where the "men parts" are suppose to go in the trunks, but that was the sacrifice for not sporting daisy dukes and giving those around me nightmares as I run past. I shudder at the thought.
I haven't seen the ocean in several months. The waves have such an impact on me. It's a cleansing experience and only takes 15 minutes before I am so relaxed, I have to concentrate on not drooling.
We went to bed early and woke up to set up our tent for a day at the beach, which was already getting crowded. I say to my teen, "Hey, can you grab that pole and help me set this beast up?" She mutters, "Great, we are the jerks with the tent." I look around and realize, oh crap- we are. So I ask the fellow beach goers around me if it will be a nuisance that their view will be blocked, and explain my youngest is fair skinned and goes from white to red and back to white again. Most laugh and say they understand. So, I set up the monster.
My kids are giggling and doing the "can we get in the water?" dance. Sure-I say. But put your sunscreen on. I immediately get the round of grunts of disappointment. Really?! They act as if I am asking them to take dog poop and smear it all over their bodies right before they give an oral dissertation on the economy in front of their peers. My kids have school photos on Monday and I don't want an 8 x 10 lifetime memory of the time I let them burn at the beach. So I slather their faces, backs, shoulders, and necks and remind them they are now at the age that they are responsible enough for arms, legs, stomachs and other girly parts now. I am so concerned about the burn and 9 hours in the water I annoyingly call them back every 30 minutes (no exaggeration) for sunscreen re-application. One of my kids is tanning, so she doesn't want 55 SPF on. She literally came back from vacation looking like a different race. The beach sand was everywhere and I was exfoliating their skin every time we reapplied. I was becoming more concerned about the all new layers I was exposing and how irritated their skin was becoming, than the old layers I was trying to protect from the burn. Next time, I will just use spray on sunscreen.
Alas, at the end of the day-success! Not one of my kids was burned! Except me. I was so concerned about them, I completely forgot my stomach, which is still a lovely shade of dark angry red.
That night back at the hotel, my daughter asks, "Am I sunburned? My skin feels hot." Seriously?! The "I'm the worst mom" thoughts start creeping in my mind. She slightly pulls down her tank top to reveal a mad, red line on her chest. I sigh and say, "Yes. You are sunburned. But in my defense, I'm not responsible for your boobs. That is your bad for not applying properly."
Thursday, August 4, 2011
YAY!
I am at work, and thus have to keep this short. But I am so excited to have my first official follower, I just couldn't resist posting. Suzanne, I love you but you are my sister, and thus don't count as official because you fall under the "obligated to show support" list.
I just happy danced around the office, raising the roof and scared my co-workers by shouting and hollering.
To you, my first follower, thank you for my bit of joy today. You rock!!
I just happy danced around the office, raising the roof and scared my co-workers by shouting and hollering.
To you, my first follower, thank you for my bit of joy today. You rock!!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Balancing Act
I feel with this delicate balancing act of being a good mom, self employed, and a wife- that the scale can tip easily. I carved a hard life, getting pregnant at 17. I fought to be self employed to make my own schedule. I really have issues with someone telling me I have to clock in at precisely at 8:00 am (what if someone wasn't a responsible puker that morning and I'm running "late"), when to leave, when to eat, and what I am allowed (not, in my case) to say. I spend summers playing with my kids, volunteer at school, and take most their days off school with them. This also means late nights of working, sometimes panicked bill paying time, but it is worth it to me. Life at 33 with a 15, 12 and 9 year old blended family can be crazy. And to add to the hysteria-toss in one vegan, one vegetarian and one meat eater (but not pork). I thank God every day my husband is the most patient and loving father/husband I know. This is seriously the like being told you are being forced to learn to tight wire walk, with no teacher or instruction manual, 60' above ground with no safety net. Throw in an ex-wife who really doesn't like me. Now I feel like just for shiz and gigs, somewhere along the way someone informed me they were changing the already skimpy 1/2" wide tight rope wire to barbed wire... just to "shake things up a bit".
When my two youngest let me know their other mom was going vegan and demanding they follow suit even at our house, I was left speechless. I was forced to take on the struggle of trying to learn to cook without use of milk, butter, sour cream, yogurt, eggs, honey, chicken, fish, meat, cheese, etc. Why not just cut off my hands to really make my cooking entertaining, while you are at it? (I'm a fighter, I'd learn to use my feet. I'm a remodeler, I'd build the chair to reach the stove or rip out the kitchen and rebuild to better suit my needs.) All while trying to support something I personally did not agree with, nor did my kids want to do. I thought, what is there left to eat? Carrots, salad and rice?
Surprisingly, there is a lot to eat, it just takes some creativity and an open mind. I am stubborn, extremely independent, hard headed and never wrong. This was definitely going to be a challenge. However, I am proud to say after a long and hard struggle, I have embraced my inner vegan. Vegan Lunch Box cook book saved my life. Sneaky Moma's tomato sauce is awesome. We meat eaters in the house have unintentionally changed our lifestyle and eating habits from the research I was doing to ensure we were supporting the nutritional needs of my one vegan as best as possible.
After a week of researching online we were shocked at what is really going into a fast food hamburger. (just cause it's "ground" beef folks, doesn't mean it was healthy or even alive before it was ground. Can I get a round of "ewwwww!") Did you know Gelatin is made of crushed up cow and pig bones? Me either!? It's in a lot of things, including Starburst! Did you know Carmine is boiled bugs and gives a great red hue to your yogurt? Check the container, it's really on there!
I recommend to anyone reading this post to watch the documentary "A Beautiful Truth". It is not disgusting nor a mistreatment of animals video. It's really enlightening, educating and is a documentary on a school project of a 15 year old. If you are daring, Youtube, "Meet your Meat". Stay far far away from PETA videos as you will never sleep the same again.
We have made a simple switch to organic meats and cage free eggs. I can afford these more expensive alternatives because I now have a simple garden that was really easy to plant even on a very tight budget. Packets of seeds are only 99 cents, plus two bags of organic potting soil and it is much cheaper in the long run than constant trips and the every rising prices at the grocery store. I simply went to the local landscaper and asked for their left over black plastic pots (free and saved from the landfill) bought a $4 can of made for plastic spray paint for a better looking exterior, and viola! Insta food that grows insanely fast for a whopping $20. Hard to tend? I think not. I rigged an irrigation tube (that isn't the prettiest, but does the job) and it is now hooked up to the auto drip system. Even if you do not have this luxury, watering is an every other day, every three day deal. Who knew? Empty a bag of soil into a pot, sprinkle some seeds, put one more inch of soil and water. That is really it, people! Food on your patio! Holler!!!
P.S-the dorky canvas shopping bags are really cheap and much easier to carry than plastic bags. I only need to own four canvas bags for my family of five. This is a $5 one time expense. Go get you some!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
You need to be a responsible puker.
It was a typical Monday morning and we were heading to my tae-kwon-do class. She wasn't feeling 100%, and that was my bad for taking her out for an hour. In my defense, I was close to testing for a new belt and desperately needed the practice. I made her a cozy spot on the foam mats with blankets and a slew of all that is Polly Pocket and gave her a RED tasty gatorade to drink.
After class, my mom carpooled us back to my vehicle. While I was switching the car seat into my truck, Lily waited patiently inside my mom's car. In the two minutes or less it took me to strap the contraption in correctly, Lily apparently decided she was in the Christmas spirit. She turned a neat shade of green and projectile vomited red all over the back of my mother's car. I stared dumbfounded. The car door was open. A simple 30 degree turn of her head to the left would have sent said mass of liquid and cheerios onto the ground. And not all over my mother's car and herself. Words couldn't express my horror.
After a slew of apologies, a mass of paper towels, and a promise for a steam clean- I take my naked child, bag of smelly clothes, and head home. Only to walk in the door and have a whole new puddle all over her and the floor...again. Only. Feet. From. The. Bathroom.
I'm amazed at my calm, cool, and collected new self. Something about unconditional love for a child will do that to a woman. I'd beat a normal person down for such irresponsible puking.
"Lily, honey." I say. "Do you know the feeling you get when you are going to get sick?"
Sheepishly, "Ya."
"Why don't you tell me when you get that funny feeling, run to the nearest sink, exterior floor, or toilet so that we don't have to do this again?"
"Um, I don't know where to puke."
"Well peanut, you have to be a responsible puker and go to any sink or toilet."
"Oh. Okay."
Later that evening, I am honored to say, my kid comes out of the bathroom and proudly announces to my confused husband, "I was just a responsible puker, dad!" I wish I could explain the look I was on the receiving end of at this particular moment.
"Responsible puker?"
"Nevermind," I say, and wink at my three year old.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Ode to my first little black chin hair, and thus (sigh) sign of aging.
As a child, I remember always wondering why my three Great Aunts couldn't take the simple millisecond to pluck the four to six, random, eyebrow length, jet black hairs from the forest of peach fuzz on their sagging chins. It wasn't like they blended in- shy and unnoticed. But rather stood out like a skyscraper comfortably nestled in the midst of a single-story residential neighborhood. And now, my own chin has been invaded. And to make matters worse?! It wasn't even me who noticed it first-but my teenage daughter. Why am I so shocked? I am the ripe age of thirty three... and a half.
We were in the mall parking lot (really, where else would I be with a 15 year old?) and she leans over to lovingly assist her Ma by brushing aside a stray "dog" hair that she wrongly assumed traveled on my face from my home, 30 minutes in the truck to the mall, and 4 hours of shopping and movie going. But alas, to her surprise, it was attached.
Oh, the horror. Did my aunts never notice the invasion? Is this to be my doom? I got my face closer to the rear view mirror than I thought humanly possible and stared in disbelief. I immediately scrunched my face and jutted out my chin. I vaguely remember someone sobbing and repeatedly murmuring "really?". Looking back, I hope it wasn't me.
So you, dear reader, ask what is the big deal? Ha-ha! I now know you ask that because chin hairs, so long you could braid them (maybe a french twist?), don't run in your family. This is larger than a first grey hair, crows feet, or when you realize when you wiggle your arm, the soft skin where your tricep used to be continues movement several seconds after you still your arm.
As this is my first official post, and I didn't really know where to start-moving across country at 4, getting pregnant at 17, starting my own company at 24, finally marrying the man I have been deeply in love with with since I was 12? Yes, they are all entertaining stories, but I didn't feel it just didn't sum it up like the new resident of my chiny chin chin. (p.s. the photo is knowingly shared by my fabulous sister and professional photographer www.backcountryphotosaz.com)
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
FIRST POST
Hi everyone. This is Beth's sister at the keyboard. She should never give me password permissions :) I hope you come back often for hilarious stories of her wonderful family.
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