I'm Blessed

I've been in a bit of a why/how/what next sort of funk and was reminded today by Ken, my stupendous acupuncturist, that gratitude is always the best place to begin a journey.

He is, of course, BANG ON - and I'll begin this list by saying I'm grateful to him for pointing this out, when I had lost course. In no particular order...




I AM GRATEFUL:

for my loving husband
for my pets
for my friend Clistacole, who knows when to laugh with me, and when to laugh at me
for my 'row girls'
for my health
for my trainer, Erik
for my job
for my gift of clairvoyance and the ability to help people through this gift
for my home
for the promise of a new home in 2008
for Phil and his patience
for the promise of a family of my own
for a full fridge and a stocked pantry
for the Rangers tickets which were gifted to us
for mighty women who blog
for my 'online pals'
for a safe running car
for my parents
for my grandparents
for my brother
for my nephews
for the privilege of a gym membership
for the time to exercise
for the power to forgive
for the gift of forgiveness

For the million other blessings I've forgotten to list out, but will remember as soon as I post this page, I am grateful. I am honored and I am humbled.

Happy 2008 to you all.

Who am I?

After a few nights of disturbing dreams, migraines and some deep conversations with the Alpha Buck and Clistacole... I am still wrestling with this tidy little question.

Who am I? Equally important is the tandem question - what is my purpose?

Truth is, I'm not sure. About either answer.
AB cautions I'm dieting strictly and just finished a healthy 'bout w/ PMS, so... rethink in a couple of days.

I am a woman.
I am a wife.
I am a partner.
I am a chinchilla mom.
I am a friend.
(I'd like to think I'm a good friend)
I am a writer.
I am a marketing manager.
I am a weight lifter.
(Per my trainer, I'm a bodybuilder having a recomp, not a dieter.)
I am a smart cookie.
I am a photographer.
I am creative.
I am funny.
I am sarcastic.
I am clairvoyant.
I am a fighter.
I am all of this and I am more.

I embrace change.
I welcome new experiences.
I am yearning to grow.

That is all, for now.

Things you shoulda said... but bit your tongue instead.

Ever really want to make a biting, sarcastic, cutting, caustic remark but bite your tongue instead? Did you bite your tongue in order to keep family peace? Prevent starting a bigger-than-necessary tiff at the Christmas dinner table?

Are you starting to think this post might be a vent?

Are you thinking, maybe, just maybe this post is a vent about the frowny faced sister who spoiled all the wedding fun?

YEP!

During the part of the Christmas feast known as holly jollyday cookies and coffee I asked my brother about a certain townhouse complex in a town near his home. He replied it's a huge complex and depending which side of the development the townhouse is on makes all the difference, since one end straddles a very urban environment and the opposite end boarders up against a very posh suburb. He was quick to point out the urban area was showing since of reinventing itself, and buying there now could be a gamble that pays off in property value increase later. I replied I didn't know which end this unit was on, since the online listing didn't point it out. I mused I might just shoot the listing agent an email and ask. He replies with a nod that he agrees this is a good idea and really, it will save time and makes sense. He goes onto comment about a couple of other nice townhouse complexes in the general area and he can pass on the name of a colleague's wife who's a real estate agent in the area.

Brother mentions he's surprised we're looking in this area. I point out it's a lot closer to the Alpha Buck's office, thereby cutting out a long, and with the current price of gas, expensive commute. There is a train station in town so I can get to my current job with no problem.
Sounds resonable, right?

Mom pipes in to ask why we are leaving the ultra posh suburb we now rent our apt in. Fact of the matter is unless I trip over a very large bag of money in the next week, we can't afford to buy a house in our current town. I don't offer that we've been talking about the complexities of having a baby and I'm not comfortable with both of us working 45-75 minutes from home, pending traffic and train schedules. What if there is an emergency? I don't want to be 45 minutes away from my baby as a 'best case scenario' - and being a SAHM is an unrealistic dream.

Next up is Dad, who doesn't understand why we'd let commuting dictate where we live. Gas won't always be $3+ a gallon. I reply we aren't letting commute dominate the decision, but my opinion is that gas won't be going down any time soon. Plus, why spend all your time commuting? Some general small talk about the price of gas and the economy in general ensure. Nothing out of the ordinary, just general chatter about current events.

Out of the blue my sister, who can only be described as miserable and deranged says "why the hell would you buy a house there - it's a shitty place". Brother (who is a police officer) and I point out it's a pretty good town with good schools, tight sense of community, etc. etc.

Our twisted sister replies " well, sometimes you have to suck it up and live where you don't want to live for a while, do you think I want to stay in my apt?". My even tempered reply is "We're taking the time to research towns because we are ready to buy a home of our own." Her acidic reply "It must be nice to be ready to buy." My cold and measured reply " It takes work and sacrifice, but it is very nice."

What I wanted to say:
"It must be nice to have everyone shell out money for diapers, formula and groceries when you cry about how broke your ass is, because your husband thinks competitive poker is a productive way of life. Maybe if you held down a full time job for more than 2 months you'd be able to open a savings account and provide for your own child, rather than rely on the grace of others. Then, maybe, just maybe you'd know what earning a buck and saving half is like and you'd cut out the stupidity that takes precedence is your life. If you want to buy a home, maybe you should cut back your cable service to something less than $150 a month or stop buying over the top gifts for your 14 month old and cook a meal at home once in a while. Those small steps might make you ready to buy a home too."

She is such a miserable person she spent 15 minutes bashing her sister in law (her husband's sister) for being preggo with baby #3. I (stupidly) commented how great that was (it is, I like her sister in law and am fairly confident as a mom of 2 boys she is pulling for #3 to be a girl) and t.s. replies: "don't get too excited, fertile myrtle gets knocked up once a year, it's not new anymore". Uhm... to be fair my sister has had fertility issues, but she has a healthy, adorable son. Isn't it time to give up the grudge?

Boun Natale!

Mele Kalikimaka

Shinnen omedeto

Boas Festas e um feliz Ano Novo

Feliz Navidad

Glædelig Jul og godt nytår

Joyeux Noël

Care to guess which language is which? It doesn't matter... it's the same wish and my wish for you this year.

Merry Christmas.

Family Motto

Every Family has a motto - and ours is Sieze the Hay.

This motto is a homage to our commitment to live life in a rich, full manner and a nod to the our furry, fluffy sons who remind us what's important. The Hay. It's all about the Hay.

It's been said the Asian staple is rice, the American Staple is corn, the Hawaiian staple is poi; the Chinchilla staple is hay.

On our last morning on the North Shore I indulged in some sand writing... leaving my mark and living fully, my first phrase, was well, you guessed it... and you can see it above.

Live fully, live richly, live well.

Sunset on the North Shore, Oahu

Time flies

Ouch - 6 weeks since last post.

There have been so many posts in my head, and many made it to the draft folder. I promise to go back and flesh them out; so many wonderful memories to chronicle. A wonderful tea reminiscent of Old New York; an otherworldly honeymoon (nearly 3 weeks in Hawaii) and more business trips than you can shake a stick at.

I finally uploaded all 1,452 photos I took while honeymooning. So many stunning sunsets - I still can't decide on a favorite, but I leave you with one to dream on above this post. The color is natural I didn't retouch a thing (in case you were wondering).

Route 101

My dear friend has doomed me.

Perhaps that is a bit mellow dramatic – but the mood suits the pentameter of my day. Early morning flight stuck on runway for over an hour, now the pilot, in his slow southern drawl advises us the flight maybe bumpy. Bumpy?! That description always gets me; a bumpy ride conjures images of pot holes, loose gravel and the desecration of blacktop from too many winters of road salt and rough plowing.

I digress. Clistecole, in an offhand remark a few weeks back tossed out how glad she was my autumn was filled with travel. A new destination every week it seemed; she thinks of me as a “…damn fine travel writer…” High praise indeed from a gal that keeps up two blogs (check sidebar for Leatitia and Sacred Foods), I promised to blog the journey from SFO to Monterey, the nuances of the South Bay’s fine vintages and the never ending search for a gym, plan friendly eats and a new trail to walk.

These are the statements that shape us; the offhand comments from those who know us best- and who dare to state our truths. Those truths that stir our souls deep despite how we may try to quiet them.

So, en route to Charleston, SC, I shall recount, for my dear friend and any of you who care to brew up another pot of coffee (or tea) the last journey. Writing for my daily bread is about snippets of jargon, convincing people they need to buy. Writing to recount, to meditate, to share, to dream is the privilege of time.

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I am not a patient woman; those who know me casually scoff at this. “You, impatient?” they shriek and comment on my zen attitude and my perennial profession “it will be what it needs to be”. That last phrase is borrowed from another great friend never afraid to hold the mirror at a stark angle and say LOOK! She is a Caribe gal transplanted to the wilds of NYC some 20 odd years ago; she’s still on Island time and is the best hand with the spice jar I’ve ever know. I am her humble student when it comes to Zen, and with this in mind I decide to rent a car upon arrival at SFO. I’ll drive the 2 hours to Monterey. After all, I reason, I love a grand drive; it’s relaxing, rejuvenating and gives one time to think deeply.

I also decide on this course because I will surely HURT someone while sticking in an airport for 3 hours waiting to connect. Besides, it’s even money and this is a work trip, so off to the Hertz Counter I go. With ruthless efficiency I’m on Route 101 South headed to San Jose a mere 25 minutes after landing. Having tossed my bright orange carry-on into the trunk with the laptop case, I’m cruising in a Ford Focus with tight rack and pinion steering. Immediately, it brings back memories of my first car, a black Ford Escort. Bought 3rd or maybe 4th hand the steering was still tight; my current Honda’s steering is loosey goosey: it promises to be a good ride.

The lyric cities and towns jump out from the green road signs: San Mateo, Santa Clara, San Juan Batista… the lullaby caresses memories of itchy wool school uniforms and the marvels of St. John the Baptist. Funny, if St. John had his say, I don’t think he’d agree with his lauded place in the Catholic Cannon. I think he’d shrug and shake his head and nod a curt, ‘I was just doing what was asked of me’. Even his name JOHN denotes a practical nature. He’d be at home in these rolling hills, brown and scraggly; are they burned from the heat or is the scraggle a protector?

California, from Californox, hot as an oven, Senora Maria’s Cuban accent washes into my conscience mind – four years of high school Spanish in those wool skirts and this is what I recall. Californox – the conquistadors gave the area this name, later California, because the Earth here was hot and parched and reminded someone of his Momma’s oven back in Spain.

The hills continue to roll past, undulating and causing me to feel grounded; even ensconced in the tiny car. If my Mother knew this is what I was driving she’d lambaste me – “You should have gotten a bigger car. That looks like a roller skate for a giant”. The scragglier hills remind me of buffalo, the lighter hide giving way to thicker natty brown fur. Though fur to keep the animal warm through a frigid plains winter; do the dense brown patches serve the same purpose here? Do they protect the farmland below from burning in this oven? Maybe it’s the reverse, and the rich dark brown ensures the tender roots don’t freeze in a sudden cold snap.

Further south now, past the exits for Stanford and the fabled university, I see new, unexpected signs, Garlic. Yes, garlic the kitchen staple of my mother, my grandmother, my great grandmother and undoubtedly every matriarch in the line. I open the windows expecting the air to be pungent, astonished that this miracle of my Italian heritage grows on trees… but the air is slightly sweet and tangy. Not at all what’s expected, but bright in its own way. I don’t put the a/c back on for the rest of the drive. `

Somewhere between garlic and cherry trees my husband calls. He dozed off upon returning from the airport and didn’t hear the phone ring. He is pleased to know I’m more than half-way there and sans hands free kit, I cut the call short and muse on the nature of post 9-11 travel. I texted: “landed SFO, w call from car” the moment we were cleared to use portable electronic devices such as two way pagers and cellular telephones. Passengers crowded the aisles, jostling for space to get their bags down. A controlled sense of panic; the unspoken rule of flight, GET ME OFF THIS BIRD, lest we tempt fate by remaining a moment longer and the whole thing blows to kingdom come.

We live in an age of ‘call me the moment you land’ and this trip was fraught with a different rhythm than previous forays to bring widgets forth to those who don’t suspect they need them. Marriage has done that to us; made the Alpha Buck and me more aware of our responsibilities to and for each other. In sickness, in health and during endless disastrous gatherings with extended family. I chuckle recalling how I chided him curbside when he hauled my wheelie bag from the trunk, telling me to travel safe. Me laughing that if something goes awry he’d be doomed to attend gatherings of my family without me for at least a year. After all, he should properly mourn me for a year and every other week it seems my own Mother admonishes me to be a good wife. After all he gave up his family for me.

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I’m struck by the Military presence in Monterey. A postgraduate Navel College and a still in use Presidio are joined by a Coast Guard Post. I muse at least I’ll be safe and journey from the hotel to find lunch.

To be continued….

A Day in the Country

This past weekend AlphaBuck and I took a looong ride into the hills of North West New Jersey to admire the brilliant color show known as Autumn in the Northeast.
I brought along the camera - AB's getting used to it - enjoy the highlights.

View from the Dashboard

Leafy Panorama

Pumpkin Line Up at the Farm Stand

Quite possibly my most brilliant idea yet...

Another post-wedding milestone has been passed: the first engagement after your own wedding.

A colleague has become engaged. She, and her fiance, are over the moon with joy and excitement. She has the bride-to-be glow and to be truthful, I'm overjoyed for them.

This afternoon I asked how the hunt for the wedding location was going, and the bride-to-be's glowing face got a bit cloudy. I was surprised at how concerned I became. She has hit her first snag in planning, there were negative comments about choices she and her affianced were making; and I could see the hurt. And, I was hurt, too. Maybe a bit for her, maybe a bit more for me?

I gave her my opinion, prefaced with "... for what it's worth..." and cautioned her to not make any decisions a) under duress b) to please others. I flatly told her, while struggling to hold back my own hot, stinging, tears - there is nothing worse than regretting part of your wedding day.

I know there is nothing worse, because I have wedding day regrets.

But, I've hit on the perfect engagement gift. I can make a collage entitled: the many faces of my scowling matron of honor. That way brides-to-be everywhere can be reminded that no matter how bad their mother(s)-in-law behave, no matter how bitterly the bridesmaids dislike the color of their dresses, no matter how fast the budget escalates, it can always get worse.

They, too, could have a scowling matron of honor and the painful regret that accompanies her.

First foods

Between my own struggles with excess bodyfat and all the wee ones in my life, this article caught my attention.

Based on this, our food preferences are set by age two - and your finicky toddler will never starve, so don't chase 'em with the spoon.

Rethinking First Foods

It's not a diet it's a lifestyle...

One of the reasons I began this blog was to chronicle my journey to a healthier incarnation of myself. Done a damn good job avoiding those types of posts, dontcha think? Why, you ask?

Well, because it's not a diet. It's my life, now and forever.

Why, you ask?

Because I know diets too well. I'm good at diets by the way - restrict calories for a predicted amount of time, scale number goes down, get compliments, buy new clothes, stop diet, gain weight back. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I ROCK that formula. And, it's all good, till we hit the weight gain portion of the festivities. Even though I ROCK that part of the formula too, it S-U-C-K-S.

It's very boring life really. Very tiring, to be on this treadmill (no pun intended) and every time you start the cycle, well the comments suck; they sting. But, you know what stings even more... the comments that roll in when you start to succeed on this new diet, er, lifestyle.

I started working with a trainer at my gym in November 2005, but had to take a four month break for medical reasons from December '05 to March '06. The start back was slow going and I didn't say a word about being on a diet. I just dedicated myself to eating well, consistent gym time and learning - - frustrating this new lifestyle is, because well, the scale stays put most of the time. Improvements were made and commented on - and like most fat (formerly fat, once again fat, perma fat, and reformed fat) girls - I was too hurt and bedraggled to comment on the comments one way or another.

This past July, irony of ironies just before my wedding, I made the move to an online trainer, who does diet and training. The guy knows his stuff cold and vast improvements have been made, culminating in my brother telling me I looked like a hobo and asking if he should call my husband and get me some money to buy new clothes?

This was actually a rare 'good' comment. My brother is so lean you can bounce loose change off various parts of his body 365 days a year; and he's my brother so you know he's a wise ass. "Oh Sister, you've lost body fat and your pants are positively falling off your svelte new frame" will never pass his lips. Plus, the truth is, I had been feeling silly about my shaggy new look.

Today's shopping trip saw me leaving the store with clothes in smaller sizes than have been in my closet for a long while. Now, I feel like I should be rejoicing but I am not able to, because the styles out today are pretty fitted and wearing fitted clothing freaks me out a bit. I bought some pretty ribbed, knit tops (size medium); ignoring the sales woman (ok, she was kind and helpful and pointed out some styles I wouldn't have tried, but looked pretty good on) and my husband who both felt the shirts fit better in size small. Why... well, I thought they might be a bit too fitted for work. My wardrobe has to pull double duty people.

Truthfully, I'm a pear shaped, so my torso shrunk first (so much even I can't deny this anymore) but I've still got plenty o'junk in my budunkadunk. I was in the outlet store of a designer who makes her name designing clothes for 'real women's bodies' meaning pants and skirts are cut for a woman who has hips and some junk in ye ole budunkadunk. Trust me, she is my new hero. And, the pants are in size that's new territory, too.

So, I didn't look like a hobo in the dressing room mirror, but I'm weary of wearing any of these new threads to work on Monday. Why?

It's those damn comments - and that cycle is as predictable as the diet cycle. I don't want to hear it. The comments are rude and they hurt and I'm not a wussy kind of girl, but that hurt is real. Very real.

The most cunning saboteurs are those who mean well, your friends who comment on how great you look and push you to cheat... "try a bite, you'll love it" they say, or the invites for lunch, dinner, drinks and the pissed off, snide comments when you decline. My favorite - heard many times, in many incarnations, from many, many people... "well, when will you be able to (enter category here) drink again, eat pizza again, shovel back a 4,000 calorie dinner again" that hurts because the implication is that we can't be friends if food/drinks aren't involved and the friendship is on hiatus until said time. Maybe the hiatus is permanent?

My favorite - though I've not gotten it yet this trip - is YOU'RE TOO SKINNY. OMG, have a sandwich, you're anorexic. Trust me, I will never be confused with Nicole Ritchie. E-V-E-R.

These comments hurt as much as when someone calls you fat, but our society condones them. In fact, I think they hurt more. These comments imply you were really really fat before but now you look really good, which means you looked like shit and no one told you 20 pounds ago.

They hurt because the people making them are the people you call friends and now you're unsure if you are still friends. You don't know if you belong with this crowd anymore. If this is where you belonged and you don't belong anymore, where do you belong? It's scary that a better, healthier you isn't embraced.

You don't mean to threaten anyone, but you do, and you know when people start asking for advice and whine about how they need to lose weight and they shouldn't be eating this or that but they eat it anyway (while you drool) and complain the whole time; that's when you know the friendship is on the wane. I'm not talking about a random comment, I'm talking about when every conversation centers on their need to lose weight for some event and they just don't shut up about it. The memories come back in a rush of pain and they still don't shut up, even as your eyes glaze over and you think, please, please, shut up. You have flashbacks of all your diet failures and they still whine endlessly. Why is this an issue, because this new lifestyle is about you, not them. Yet, you realize you're a threat, you're no longer on their side, on their team (in their minds) and well, you're fucked because you no longer belong and it's not safe anymore.

What should I do? What will I do? Don't know, really I don't. This time the course is uncharted because when you get to the rebound gain, you mend the broken friendships and start the cycle all over. This time I am not dieting so I hope there will be a new balance and a mending will occur, but it's not guaranteed.

Challah

Have you ever watched The Shawshank Redemption?

I love that movie. It's one of a half dozen films I watch over and over - if I am flipping channels and it's on, I'll sit and watch through to completion, no matter what else I was supposed to do.

For the last couple of weeks I've been taunted by a scene in the movie. Andy Dufrense has escaped Shawshank Prison and Red is pensive and distracted as the other inmates joke and recall Andy's antics. Red starts to ponder the brightness of some birds and how they shouldn't be caged.

The exact line Red narrates is: I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

It's that last line that's been getting to me lately, because, well, I just miss my friend.

In August she moved a couple of hours away. I wish that meant we were visiting, and chatting and emailing. I work six days a week, so a four hour round-trip drive gets relegated to Saturday; the day all my other chores, cooking shopping and todo's are relegated to. She needed to move and in the past month I've only been able to visit once. She still hasn't had her internet connection hooked up; she's finally straightened out her mail delivery. I sent her sugar-free peppermint candies this afternoon.

Tonight, I made challah for Rosh Hashanah. My husband is Jewish, and every year after the challah was made, I'd slip over to her house for warm bread and a cup of tea. I wish she was here. She is regaining her health and I'm happy and grateful for that, because as a friend she is stellar.

She is a genuine friend - has only rejoiced when fortune has smiled on me, she's never made snide remarks to deride my successes. Never pooh-pooh'd my affirmation that I still have weight to lose; and if I call and admit a binge or a missed workout, well, she knows when to ride my ass and when to listen. She doesn't sneak or fib, she's never put me down to feel better.

Lately, I've been running into some weirdness from other friends. Pushy comments about my diet - which I haven't shared the details with many about - but declining invitations for drinks, dinners and nights out have gotten snarky comments. It gets tiring and it makes me sad.

I know I'm not unique in this and I know some friends will fall by the wayside; especially as things progress. I just miss my friend. I miss talking through these strange things with her. I miss hearing her sassy mouth spout: Screw 'em, there really not friends if you bettering you is a problem.

I am delivering her challah on Saturday.

APPLES

Rites of Autumn

Alright, so it's not 'officially' Autumn yet, but today the Alpha Buck and I embarked on what I consider the most sacred rite of Autumn: Apple Picking!!!

The first time I went to pick apples, I was a wee pixie of 5 years - and it was a wonderful day with Mom and Dad (and no siblings - too young, left with Grandma) in the fresh air. We drove the 90+ minutes from our city home to the country and plucked ripe juicy apples off the trees. This family tradition kept going until I left for college nearly some twelve years later. I really loved this tradition, the same orchard year after year - noticing what was different, added or deleted. I loved this so much I went apple picking on my own every year after we stopped going as a family bringing various roommates, boyfriends, friends and even going it alone one year.

The second week in September is the earliest I've ever gone to pick - but - a postcard announcing THE APPLES ARE READY FOR PICKING came in the mail last week, and with a hectic schedule for us newlyweds it was this weekend - or not at all this season.

We hit the orchard shortly after opening and had a wonderfully serene walk through the fields. The trees were so laden with fruit, they were lush and fragrant; a sweet, slightly tangy smell, enhanced by the apples littering the thick grass, sampled by deer, raccoons and who-knows-what-else that roams the deserted fields at night. I don't remember ever being the only person in the orchard, but today that's just what happened - it was me, AB and a few of the farmers, each offering a friendly Hello as we happened to meet. One gent tipped his cap at me, another stopped and chatted with us - and pointed out apples he promised would make the best applesauce. He let me in on a few sauce making 'secrets' too.

There was something so idyllic in that early hour (ok, just to clarify, early for us, I suspect the folks working the farm were ready for lunch). The air was still cool - even though the sun was strong - and there was a calm, quiet over the landscape. No cries or whines or giggles from wee folks beginning family traditions; no young couple's smooching or old couple's bantering. Just some bees buzzing, hovering close to the layer of partially eaten fruit on the ground and us and the farmers.

OUCH!

I broke my toe Tuesday.

Happy Birthday to me - while jumping up from a nap to answer the doorbell, I slammed my left pinky toe into the corner of the chinchilla cage. My poor pinky toe was already upset with me - and sporting a huge blister, which popped when my toe and the chin cage met.
Let me say folks, toe wounds really, really hurt. Three days later I'm finally limping less and I must say I think the blister which ended up getting infected was/is a bigger problem than the break.

I sensed that my coach was amused from the tone of his email. Seriously, I don't blame him and if he had a good laugh, well he's in good company. Everyone I have told this tale of woe has had a side splitting laugh. I'm chalking that up to my good deed for the day(s). I gave everyone a laugh.
I've only gotten cardio in if limping has become a recognized sport. The strangest part is that I'm upset at having missed four days of quality gym time.

I remember a time when a four day gym break would have been a welcome relief. I'm wondering where along the lines this change happened? I can also say, I haven't been sleeping well at all - despite the Tylenol PM. I miss the daily sweat and it's true, it really does a) get addicting and b) affect more than your waist.

I am cleared by my Doctor, yes, I went to a Doctor over this. I got slightly freaked while checking self-treatment methods online when I read about a 54 year old man in the UK who was killed by an infected blister. He ended up with blood poisoning and had a heart attack. So I went to a Podiatrist, who complimented the Alpha Buck on his ability to tape a broken toe (he's a martial artist and has gnarly looking hobbit feet) and his assessment that neosporin and a band aid would be fine for the blister. I coughed up a $30 copay (a Podiatrist is a specialist and therefore twice the copay price of a non-specialist) to have my husband complimented, hear that advil would be fine for the pain (uh, NO, NOT REALLY STILL HURTS) and that I could return to the gym next in a week. Dr. Funnybone even cracked himself up making a joke about how a broken toe will ensure my squat form is proper since I will have no choice but to push through the heels - and stick to the bike for cardio for a while. Like I said, giving everyone around me a good laugh seems to be my random act of kindess for a while.

Vanilla

Two weeks ago I was at my mother's house flipping through an issue of Gourmet Magazine.

I stumble across a recipe for a fancy mint chocolate chip ice cream dessert and think about my husband who enjoys a good bowl of mint chip. Now, as previously stated, I'm new to wifedom and working hard to excel at the job (see, I'm not so new I don't realize it's a job). Two seconds later I hear myself asking Mom if I can borrow her ice cream machine and two-point-five seconds later I'm getting a lesson in the finer points of using said ice cream machine.

I skip off happily home, stopping at my local Trader Joe's for heavy cream, whole milk, fresh mint and some good chocolate chips. My game plan is to follow the recipe for the ice cream and add chocolate chips instead of making a chocolate covered terrine. The first obstacle shows itself right in TJ's - no fresh mint. I hit no less than six grocery/specialty/gourmet shops (the joy of the suburbs) between TJ's and home, still no mint. It would be 5 days until mint was located. Odd, since I never have trouble finding fresh mint. I should have paid attention to my intuition, but glossed over it. I'm an excellent wife and I was making my husband mint chip ice cream.

On day 5, having located the mint, I decide to improve on the recipe, I steep the mint in the heavy cream overnight - I like my mint foods extra minty.

On day 6 I came home from the gym ready to launch my small batch ice cream empire. I feel extra virtuous because I hit the weights hard at the gym and I'm an excellent wife who can work, workout and make fresh ice cream.

The recipe, which I'd read 4 or 5 times seemed a bit convoluted so I called Mom to check in on the finer points. We're busy wives, Mom and I, and no one can cut the extraneous crap out of a recipe like her. Following a 9 minute chat I have a simplified version and am ready to roll.

It's 7:30 pm and my husband wants to know how soon he can expect dessert. I throw him out of my kitchen.

By 8 pm I am cooking the custard and everything has turned a very pretty shade of mint green. But something is off, my custard isn't as thick as custard should be. I re-read recipe and decide against calling Mom. Gourmet knows their stuff and I'm sure this will thicken when we hit 170 degrees on my trusty Alton Brown approved instant read thermometer.

The custard, which is still too milky for my comfort reaches 170 degrees at 8:05 pm and I fight off the urge to let it cook a bit longer. I reason that Gourmet knows their stuff and Alton Brown has approved of my instant read thermometer, so this is all going to be ok - though I have my doubts.

The custard gets put into an ice bath at 8:07 pm and following Gourmet's recipe would be ready to churn in 20 minutes. I keep my Alton Brown approved thermometer in the cream mixture, just as Gourmet tells me to do. At 8:27 pm on-the-dot my custard has cooled to a pleasant 102 degrees and I remember Mom's parting words from our earlier conversation " blah, blah something... let the custard cool before you churn it, you'll have an easier time the colder it is...blah, blah something... call me if you need help... blah, blah something... love you...'bye"

It will churn easier the colder it is...the colder it is...THE COLDER IT IS! This statement would prove to haunt me for the next two days.

I debated calling Mom back to ask if 102 degrees was cold enough, BUT, I had Gourmet and Alton Brown's thermometer on my side. So, I pour the custard into the ice cream machine and get ready to churn for 30 minutes as prescribed. At 9:06 pm the ice cream should be done churning and I pour the runny, gloopy, mess which doesn't resemble the "...consistency of soft serve, but colder..." Mom described and determined that this will work out because I followed Gourmet's recipe, even though I never follow recipes because I don't use them, ever. But, I reason, I am a very good wife and this dessert will WOW my husband.

8 pm the next night the mint chocolate chip has frozen and my husband, about to be WOWED, eats his ice cream. The (brave) Alpha Buck eats, nods his head in approval and offers me a spoonful, as he chokes out "it's good". I eat this offered spoonful and blurt out "this sucks" well, because it did. It wasn't minty enough, not enough chocolate and the worst part - I knew it was doomed 7 days ago when I couldn't find the mint.

At 8:08 pm I learn that my husband likes mint chocolate chip, but his favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla. The following conversation ensues:

Me: "Vanilla? Vanilla is your favorite? I thought mint chip was your favorite?"
Him: "Sweetie, Vanilla is my favorite ice cream. I even voted for it when Haagen Daas had that contest a few years ago. And I won."
Me; "Really? What did you win?"
Him: "Vanilla won - it was the best flavor."

Later, Mom happened to call. I told her the tale and ended, feeling sad like a wifely failure with the factoid that he loves vanilla best.

She perked right up and told me she had the best recipe for vanilla ice cream - cream, milk, couple eggs and vanilla. Of course, she never measures (and neither do I, except when following Gourmet magazine) so she couldn't tell me how much of anything because she wasn't sure. She tells me to keep the cream to milk ratio at roughly 2:1, but ended with the standard line of all cooks in my family "... just use what you've got..." I asked how long to churn and she replied "Oh, when it looks like a half-gallon of Breyer's that you left on the counter too long, stop."

Since I still had milk and cream and always have eggs and vanilla, I whipped up a batch. I didn't measure anything. I added more vanilla when I couldn't smell it when the custard came to a boil. I sat it in an ice bath for a few hours - because 50 degrees is cold enough (NOT 102). For the record, it took custard cooled to 50 degrees 70 minutes to look like good ice cream that had melted.

I can't tell you how it tasted, the alpha buck got home early from work last night and ate it all for dinner.

I'm just a girl.

You may want to brew a fresh pot of coffee or tea; this particular post may take a while. As they would say in Spamalot, there comes a time in every blog when the blogger makes their mission statement known. Of course, in Spamalot, they’d sing it and it’d be much funnier and, ah well, you get my point.

I first started reading blogs (and quickly became hooked) back in late 2005 after finding myself in the midst of a personal crisis. After righting myself (it took a couple days) I did what I always do in a crisis: research.

Since my particular crisis was related to fertility, I quickly began research on three topics: infertility and IVF, adoption and what I like to call holistic whole self health care (think organic produce, prevention, balance and for reclaiming your power as a woman, no one beats a midwife).

The funny part was, as I began the long and arduous task of learning all I could about three topics I previously knew nothing about, I soon realized most links on these topics led to blogs. Much to my own shock, I quickly became enthralled with the sheer honesty of the posts. I have quite the list of favorites, not all of which have been installed to the left, yet. Quickly, I developed this wonderful circle of friends: women struggling with infertility (the if blogs I read are all written in first person by women), wives and husbands waiting for their international adoption dossiers to be matched to their precious baby(ies) (these blogs are largely written by the moms-to-be, but the feelings and experiences of the dads-to-be are related, too), and learning from midwives, nurses and a doc or two how to make myself as healthy and strong as possible, inside and out – and to embrace the power of a woman’s body.

I am not at all ashamed to say I’ve wept big, fat tears of joy and sorrow through countless posts and I no longer travel without a laptop – staying connected matters. I feel I’ve met incredible women, none of whom has ever portrayed herself as ‘an expert’ or ‘better than someone else’. Ordinary people who aren’t afraid to be real and share their stories; educating others in the process. I learned a huge amount (and still continue to learn) from these honest posts and associated links; that knowledge is priceless.

So we come to the tipping point of why I began this blog. I owe a debt and have been feeling like my time has come to start to repay, by paying forward. So I offer up my honest observations and share my own knowledge. Anyone who knows me in ‘real life’ would likely be shocked at this blog, I’m exceptionally private and don’t blab my business. But I don’t feel this is blabbing it’s sharing what I know with those who seek to listen.

So, you’re asking what I’m sharing, I imagine, and that’s a fair point. I’m sharing the parts of myself that struggle with being overweight and redefining my sense of self. I’m sharing the part of myself that is a corporate success (got anything you'd like to market?), the part of myself that is a new wife wondering how to be good in this new role, when so many of my reference points (Mom, Grandma) never had to work 60 hours a week and travel across the globe. I’m sharing the part of me who is learning not to give a shit what the bathroom scale says – and learning to care about how much weight I can squat or dead lift.

It’s a true challenge to strive to be the best incarnation of you, and the roadmaps are few and far between. I’m going to chart a map and narrate the tale and I welcome you to join.

So, when are you going to have a baby?

This weekend I am attending a family BBQ / birthday party. I will invariably be asked the following question(s):

When are you two lovebirds going to have a baby?
Have you thought about kids?
So, when are you newlyweds starting a family?
And on, and on, and on, and on... including sneaky versions of that question such as:
Oh, the Alpha Buck has such wonderful blue eyes, it would great if the kids got his eyes.
Oh, you two will make such beautiful babies.
And on, and on, and on, and on... until I consider wandering through the house praying to stumble across a shot gun so I can put myself (or better yet some nosy relatives) out of my misery.

This is my first family function 'post wedding' so my usual retort of "Ohhh, well my Mom will kill me if I get pregnant out of wedlock" is now moot and invalid. Not to mention, it was a pretty lame excuse in the first place.

(Drumroll)
So, for your amusement I submit my top ten replies to nosy maiden aunts and in-laws everywhere who ask the baby question:

• Hey, you have to give me $50 before I'll talk about my sex life.
• Well, Alpha Buck had a long dry spell before he met me, so we have a case of condoms to use up first.
• Can you spot us $250K for college?
• OH MY GOD -you'd really quit your job to babysit our child 14 hours a day so we don't have to pay for daycare. How freakin' wonderful!
  
• Did you know the world is scheduled to end in 2012? Seems senseless not to party and run up credit card debt for the next 5 years.
• We haven't consummated our marriage yet, I'm saving myself for a special occasion.
• Alpha Buck is moonlighting as a porn star, and he's gotta save it for the cameras - if you know what I mean.
• Well, I was abducted by aliens and they took all my eggs...
• We want to start trying to get pregnant - but my diaphragm is stuck and my fingers are short - think you can help me pull it out?
• I'm sorry, I missed the part where my life was your f@ckin' business.

Feel free to use as needed at your next family gathering.

ETA: The Alpha Buck and I would like to be parents someday in the future and hope that we are blessed with healthy baby(ies). However, pressure & prying from nosey relatives is the bane of my existence.

Paint Swatches....

Yesterday the Alpha Buck and I were married four weeks.

I loved my wedding. Every bride loves her wedding and says so at every opportunity and unless you've ever spent a year (more or less) of your life planning one fuckin' event you're not allowed to comment.

Just wanted to make that clear.

I concentrated on the details because the details count. I interviewed: florists, bakers, photographers, chefs. I searched for and found people who were artists. I hired these artists and honored their talents; I gave them free reign.

Yes, you read that correctly, free reign. I allowed myself to be surprised but was awestruck and humbled by the remarkable results.

Take our florist for example, a woman who is a poet with a pruning sheer. Our planning meeting was a simple, spectacular affair -I brought her some paint swatches and asked about color harmony, depth and what she thought would serve to create a festive mood. We talked at length and I was educated about color spectrum, highlights, a grounding color and the language of flowers. She quickly deduced that I was "...mostly a classic bride with a penchant for funky..." and I replied to that astute assessment in the only way that made sense. I hired her and told her to "have at it and get wild"

She wanted to seem shocked, but the devilish gleam in her eye told me the choice was inspired. I skipped out of that meeting knowing the bouquets and centerpieces would be perfect.

What happens when your kid can afford therapy?

I once heard a joke about parenting. The punchline was "When your kid can pay for their own therapy"... the question was "How do you know you were a successful parent?"

I'm not telling it properly, which is a shame, because it's quite funny. Don't you think?

If you're inclined to join the merriment, pour a fresh cup of coffee and hang around for a bit.

8-)
Gwen