The Write Way Home

Friday, June 30, 2006

The Numbers Are In!

This book changed my life.

No, I wasn't "fat." No one who knows me would ever call me "fat." But I was ten pounds over my ideal weight, and my clothing was tight. Not a huge problem, to be sure, but definitely enough to spur me on to buying The Fat Fallacy.

I was immediately convinced of the wisdom in this book's pages: Eat real food, not faux food (bye-bye preservatives and artificial flavorings). Eat full-fat dairy, not low-fat and non-fat garbage dairy (it really is garbage, I promise). Eat slowly, for goodness' sake, to allow your stomach time to tell your brain, "I'm full already!" And eat less -- much less. Enjoy mealtime as a social activity, not as a feeding trough. Eat less sugar. Oh, and take the stairs, not the elevator. Walking is good for you.

This is the conventional wisdom of the French, who boast a national obesity rate of about eight percent. It's not rocket science; it's common sense.

I'm not going to preach about it. I am simply striving to live it, daily. And yes, I've lost the ten pounds.

I enjoy butter on my toast, dark chocolate with my wine. I eat full-fat, all-natural dressing on my salads and eat whole-milk, organic yogurt.

And it took me two years, but, dad-gummit, I've broken my Coke-a-day habit. For good.

Now, the numbers are in. I just had my annual physical examination, and today the little "test results" card came in the mail. Want to read the results of all that full-fat cheese and chocolate and ice cream in my life?

Total cholesterol: 199
HDL (that's the good stuff): 74 (Needs to be higher than 35)
LDL (that's the bad stuff): 102 (Needs to be lower than 130)
Triglycerides (I have no idea what they are): 117 (Needs to be 150 or lower)

Blood work (Iron, thyroid, you name it): All normal
Urine (sugar, etc.): Normal

My weight is normal for my height and my Body Fat Index is 19.9 (the normal range is 15 to 24.9).

All I can say is: Yippee, and thank you, Lord! I am passionate about the French eating lifestyle; passionate about sharing the message that a low-fat diet IS NOT HEALTHY, folks! We've been misled for several decades. The data is flawed. The results are unmistakable.

Are you ready for a change? Are you ready to lose weight and be healthy?

Read the book. Seriously, with all my heart -- read the book.

Then, if you want more good advice (particular if you're a woman), read French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano.

This isn't a "diet." This isn't a "quick fix so that I can look good at my twentieth reunion." This is a LIFESTYLE CHANGE. And it's absolutely wonderful.

One thing I still have to work on is my propensity to nag my husband (oops). He loves that we're eating all natural foods now, but he hasn't fully embraced the Fat Fallacy's wisdom for himself. So he still tends to eat a little -- fast. And a little -- much.

But I would do well to remember that a gentle prod is more effective than a shrill exclamation.

(Not that my exclamations are shrill. Well, maybe a little shrill. Sometimes...)

And he does buy me delicious, organic truffles from time to time. So I'd better be nice to him.

Pick up the book on your way home today. You've got all weekend to get started. Read it slowly, underline things, absorb the simple wisdom of Dr. Clower's words. Give yourself grace to start making changes, tiny bit by tiny bit. And when the pounds start melting off and your energy level soars, send me an email so that I can say, "Yahoooooo!" along with you.

Bon appetit!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

So Proud of My Sweetie

Last weekend, Eric's article, Find Your Opportunity, was chosen as the Number One Post on David Lorenzo's blog, Career Intensity.

David Lorenzo is a successful entrepreneur, strategist, author, and speaker. His having chosen Eric's article for the top spot in his "carnival" is an honor.

Yes, I'm proud of my sweetie. Pop over to his blog and take a peek at his words of wisdom.

(Surely lots of chocolate, champagne, and foot massages with warm, aromatic oil will be mine after this plug...don't you think?)

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Interruption Number 2,437

I'm sitting at my computer fighting Blank Mind Syndrome (the bane of any writer). There's a knock at the door.

I fight the sudden urge to scream and throw things. Instead, I grit my teeth and say oh-so-sweetly, "YES????"

It's Spencer. The Child Who Cannot Leave Mommy Alone For More Than Fifteen Minutes This Summer.

"Mommy, I've got to show you something!"

"What?"

"Well, it's not something I can really bring up. You've got to come see it."

I stifle a dramatic sigh and rise from my seat to follow Spencer down the stairs.

"This is REALLY AMAZING! Wait till you see this!"

I try to contain my excitement as Spencer leads me into the upstairs hallway, stops, and points down to the carpet beneath his feet.

"If I punched a hole in the floor RIGHT HERE, you would be able to see into the living room!!"

He looks at me expectantly, and I realize that...this is it. This is the really amazing something that warranted an interruption to my writing.

I gaze into his sparkling eyes and say, "You're right! Did you just figure that out?"

"Yes!" His smile is like a sunrise.

"You've got a great mind," I say, tapping him gently on the temple.

I return to my office feeling like a Pretty Good Mom. And I know that my day has been enriched beyond measure.

Suddenly, Blank Mind Syndrome melts away, and I blog about my precious son.

I love my life!

Labels: writing

Monday, June 26, 2006

Weekend of the Three-Legged Dog

Have I mentioned that I'm a cat person?

Cat people don't usually like to be around dogs -- even nice dogs. But when my sister-in-law asked us to watch her beloved McCabe for the weekend, saying "yes" seemed like the right thing to do. This will be good for the children, thought I. This will be a great way to help out my sister-in-law (whom we all love dearly).

Yes, I could do this.

Of course, when my sister-in-law first called with the request, I warned her that the final answer would be up to Eric. No matter than he, out of all of us, would spend the least amount of time with McCabe. I knew that the big "yes" would have to come from Eric.

And it came. My husband actually consented to a three-day stint of dogsitting.

Early Friday morning, McCabe arrived in all her three-legged glory. I was presented with a crate, a bag of doggy supplies, and a two-page list of instructions. McCabe was full of gusto, hopping around, licking every bit of exposed skin within her reach, raring to go.

I, of course, couldn't wait to wash my hands.

"There's some Benadryl in her bag," my sister-in-law said, rather sheepishly, "because, well, McCabe's allergic to bees."

"She's allergic to bees?"

Yep. Evidently, McCabe had had an encounter with a bee in her mouth, the result of which was a swelled-up doggy head. The vet had warned that any subsequent bee attack might be more serious than the first. Hence, the Benadryl.

Okay. Benadryl for a dog. I silently vowed to keep McCabe away from all flying insects at any cost.

The first day went smoothly. Maggie and Rachel slipped into hyper-caregiver mode, the likes of which I've rarely seen. Not ten minutes after my sister-in-law had left, the girls took McCabe on her first walk around our neighborhood. It was as though they had been dog owners for years.

It was Maggie who scooped up the first poop from the grass, Maggie who fed McCabe her dinner. And it was the girls' bedroom that ultimately became McCabe's hangout.

Crate training made the whole thing easier, of course. McCabe willingly went into her crate each time we said, "Kennel up!" (It sounded like "cantaloupe" the first time I heard it; fortunately it was written on the instruction sheet.) Friday went so well that I was almost feeling smug.

That is, until around 6:00, when Spencer called me from downstairs. "Mommy, McCabe threw up in her crate."

Oh, goodie. Less than twenty-four hours on doggy duty and I have to deal with canine puke.

Fortunately, she had thrown up on a towel, so I instructed Maggie to remove the towel and replace it with a fresh one. (What, you think I was going to touch it myself?)

"Oh, McCabe does that sometimes," my sister-in-law told me the next day over the phone. "I guess I should have told you."

No, really, it's good she didn't tell me. I may have had to come up with an excuse to bow out of the dogsitting.

McCabe is truly a sweet-natured dog, though. It's impossible not to love her after you've spent a few minutes with her. And yes, she really is missing a leg. One of her hind legs was damaged while she was still in the womb, so it was removed after she was born. She's remarkably agile with her three remaining legs, though (tripod jokes notwithstanding).

Considering the fact that she's so lovable, it was a bit disconcerting when, each time she saw Jonathan, she woofed and growled a bit. Not that Jonathan cared much -- he is an avowed anti-dog person (I think it has something to do with the idiot dog that lives next door, but that's another story).

Eric laughed when I told him that McCabe didn't like Jonathan. Then Eric came home from work -- and McCabe woofed and growled at him, too.

Not one to be defeated by a dog, Eric spent fifteen minutes on the floor with McCabe that night, and they emerged the best of friends.

Eric even slept with the dog on Saturday night.

(Not me. You couldn't pay me to sleep with a dog.)

And yes, Eric and I took McCabe on a walk one morning. I only got tangled in the leash three times. (Can you say, "She's never walked a dog before?")

And yes, I really did talk to the dog. Once I actually called myself "Mommy" whilst conversing to the pup. That's when I knew I'd spent more than enough time with her.

I am not, nor will I ever be, a dog's "mommy."

You know what's most interesting of all? My daughters have both proclaimed that they do not want a dog after all.

"It's just too much work," Maggie said (probably because I was making her do everything). "And I hate the dog hair on my bed."

Well, okay. It's not like we were seriously planning to get a dog. I think I was having Empty Womb Syndrome when I first brought up the possibility of buying an American Bullnese puppy.

I'm cured.

All in all, it was a magical weekend with a delightful animal. Spencer adored her. Eric bonded with her. And I pet her once or twice.

McCabe seemed happy while she was with us, so I think we must've done something right. The credit for that, however, does not go to me.

I am still a cat person.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Pool Mom

I can't deny it. I look like a total Pool Mom.

It's funny the roles we take on when we're standing on the sidelines of our children's lives. I've been a Ballet Mom, a Baby-in-the-church-nursery Mom, an Art Student Mom, and, yes, a Pool Mom.

The pool in question is a lovely, private pool in the backyard of our swimming instructors' parents' home. I've been taking the children to these two phenomenal women since 1997, minus a year here and there. It's a long drive. On my very first trip, I got lost and we never made it.

That seems ages ago. At this point, I feel like I could make the drive blindfolded.

So, yes, I've been very committed to making sure my children have received the best swimming instruction possible.

It's just that I never meant to look like such a...sigh...Pool Mom.

Look at me. Sunglasses. Video camera. Totally suburban posture.

In past years, it was even worse. I had to drag all four children to the pool with me, regardless of which ones were actually engaging in swimming lessons. I toted along lunch bags, diaper bag, the occasional homeschooling materials, and a half-gallon water jug, in addition to the requisite beach towel and sun screen.

I wasn't usually the one being photographed back then. In fact, I was the only one with a camera. Now that my older children are slowly turning into rabid shutterbugs, they tend to show up -- everywhere -- with their own cameras.

Lucky me. I get to be included in the photo line-up.

Eric doesn't look like a Pool Dad. He looks like all the other daddies who show up on their lunch breaks -- khaki pants, dress shirts, cell phones. I guess you could call them Corporate Daddies Visiting Swimming Lessons.

Come to think of it, I'd rather be a Pool Mom.

Spencer wins the Cute Award, though. Orange popsicle and all.

(Hey, I'm a Pool Mom. How could I say "no" to the orange popsicle on the last day of swimming lessons?)

Pool Moms don't wear bathing suits, though. So my Pool Mom status does not translate into weekends of swimming with my family.

I just wanted to clear that one up for you.

Have a glorious weekend!

Labels: parenting

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Halushki

Tonight, my ethnicity reared its head.

I made halushki for supper. Not because of some fond throw-back to my Ukranian roots, but because...well...it's a cheap meal.

Five hundred points to the reader who knows what halushki is. (Sorry, Jamie, you can't play!)

Basically, it's browned cabbage-n-onions with homemade noodles.

Maybe "noodle" isn't the right word. They look more like cream-colored blood clots. It's just eggs, flour, and salt mixed together and plopped by bits into boiling water. And tonight is actually the first time I got them right.

Halushki is especially good with ketchup.

Yes, it's really me, the gourmet food snob, talking. What can I say? I like halushki.

Actually, my entire family likes halushki. Except Spencer. He tasted one of the blood clots and deemed it inedible.

Then he went for the cabbage -- strand by strand. Dipped in ketchup with a pained expression on his face. Chewed about 4,327 times and not quite swallowed.

You'd have thought I was feeding the child fried bird droppings.

I finally shoveled a big forkful into his mouth and told him to chew and swallow it so that he could have his cookies. The gagging noises that followed were not for the fainthearted.

Oy, that child. He needs to spend a couple of weeks in a Third World country.

So I've got enough halushki in the fridge for my lunch tomorrow. Doesn't that sound glamorous?

And there's your glimpse into the life of a homeschooling mom/writer/Yankee-trapped-in-the-South for today.

You're dying to start a fan club, aren't you?

Don't answer that.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

First Bean

Have you ever seen a bean fetus?

Jonathan planted a row of beans alongside the house, in the only place on our property that gets enough sun for growing vegetables. A few days ago, he took the above picture (with his brand new Nikon digital camera, mind you).

I can't help but think that it looks like a sort of botantical unborn baby. You've heard of lanugo, the downy covering all over a fetus's body before he's born? Well, there you have it.

Baby bean lanugo.

Of course, the entire row of beans is going to produce enough food for one meal. One side dish, actually. There just wasn't room to keep planting a new row every couple of weeks.

Poor Jonathan. All that work and one bowl of steamed beans to show for it.

I can't get the kid to brush his teeth or remember to take the garbage bin out front on Thursdays, but he has been diligent to a fault in the tending of his micro bean crop. He waters them by hand, with a sprinkling can. Checks them for bugs. And, of course, photographs their progress.

We need to live on a farm.

Oh, try not to laugh so hard. Really. I am perfectly aware of the complete incongruity between "farm" and "Jill." I was just thinking that maybe I could stay in the house and let the kids do all the...ur...farm stuff.

No?

Maybe not. We'll have to settle for the row of beans by the garage, and the corn in the front garden, and the rosemary bush.

And my prize white tomato plant. But that is worth its own post, on another day.

One can have a farm-ish life and not live on a farm, right?

Case in point: A friend of mine bought a pair of donkeys once -- male and female. She had to keep her daughter away from the windows because the donkeys kept having donkey love just outside the house.

They don't have the donkeys anymore.

Down the road, some folks are raising llamas on their several-acre property. What does one do with llamas in Middle Tennessee? I'm afraid to ask.

Llama milk, maybe?

Okay, I admit it. I'm a subdivision queen. I can't relate to Aunty Em, Old MacDonald, or Pa Ingalls. I have nothing to say to women who can an entire fifty acres of vegetables for winter consumption. And I can't imagine cleaning up chicken poop.

I'll just enjoy the fuzzy little baby beans on the side of my less-than-half-an-acre property.

Actually, I'll just enjoy the photographs of the fuzzy little baby beans. I mean, if I get too close, I might see a bug. Or something.

Farm life. Yeah, right.

Monday, June 19, 2006

We Have a Winner, Folks!

Well, we didn't quite make it to 50 comments, but I'm delighted with the response. There's something exhilarating about watching people get in touch with their creativity.

And in some cases, with their innate weirdness.

At any rate, the winner was chosen by random in the old fashioned, draw-the-name-out-of-a-box method. But before I announce the lucky chocolate recipient, I want to shine a spotlight on a few of my favorite contest entries.

The Most Male Chauvinistic Response Award goes to Ken:

Chocolate is better than women because you never have to buy a box of chocolates for a box of chocolates.

The Most Creative Entry in the Junior Division goes to Isabel, six-year-old daughter of Will B Dunn:

Chocolate is better than onions because it doesn't give you bad breath or make you cry.

Best Entry for Play On Words goes to Will B Dunn's husband:

Chocolate is better than bumble bees because you can get a buzz without getting stung.

The Most Poignant Award goes to Jamie:

Chocolate is better than a birthday because even when it's bittersweet, you don't get any older.

The Pathos Award goes to Dave:

Chocolate is better than my first wife, because it doesn't leave a bad taste in my mouth!

And, finally, the So Lame That It's Funny Award goes, affectionately, to MrsAtroxi:

Chocolate is better than chicken because it has no bones.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed reading your entries! If you haven't read through them all, do take a minute to do so.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for:

The winner of a mini box of truffles from The Cocoa Tree is:

Ken!

Congratulations, Ken. Send me an email with your mailing address and your choice of mini combination: Light, Dark, or Favorite (see the web site for a description of each). Or, you can choose a single flavor from the list on their web site, and you will receive two truffles in the single flavor of your choice. I'd be glad to give you some recommendations!

Thank you all for participating. Tomorrow it'll be Blogging As Usual!

Friday, June 16, 2006

The Big Chocolate Contest for my Wonderful Readers!!

To extend yesterday's delightful theme -- and to express my gratitude to all of my faithful readers -- I offer you this Win The Chocolate comment box contest.

It's fairly simple. Leave a comment to this post in the following format:

"Chocolate is better than ___ because ___."

Be creative (but please -- let's not get too dirty!).

Enter as many times as you wish between now and 11:59 PM Central Daylight Time on Sunday, June 18. But please write a new sentence each time you leave a comment.

Here's the catch:

The contest is NULL AND VOID unless there are at least 50 COMMENTS left in the box!

So warm up your typing fingers and get to work.

The winner will be chosen by random from all eligible entries in the comment box. I will announce the winner on Monday, June 19.

The prize?

Of course there's a prize! The lucky winner will receive a MINI TRUFFLE BOX from The Cocoa Tree in downtown Franklin, Tennessee.*

Yes, that's two delicious, hand-dipped truffles in your choice of three flavor combinations.

What better way to let you know how much I appreciate the time you spend reading my blog?

So, are you ready?

On your mark...

Get set...

Go!

* To my readers who do not live on the North American continent: I am currently checking with The Cocoa Tree to determine what their overseas shipping policy is. I may have to end up offering a $5 gift certificate to The Cocoa Tree if the winner happens to be one of my readers from the UK or elsewhere. Go ahead and enter; I'll take care of the details.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Makes the World Go Away

Feast your eyes.

It's not the best picture, but trust me when I tell you that the cake was a phenomenal conglomeration of chocolate.

Rich chocolate cake (secret ingredient: mayonnaise).
Dense chocolate filling.
Buttery chocolate frosting.
Delicately shaved dark chocolate curls.

Can you tell I'm in love?

When I say, "Give me chocolate," I don't mean a crappy, low-quality candy bar loaded with artificial flavorings and enough preservatives to make it through the next millennium.

I don't mean a cupful of weak, trans-fat laden "hot chocolate" made with hot water and the contents of a foil-lined envelope.

I don't even mean M-and-M's or a handful of Hershey Kisses, both of which are made of an inferior substance masquerading as chocolate.

No. I mean Real Chocolate. Sixty-five percent cacao -- or more. The stuff that's loaded with antioxidants and real chocolate flavor.

I also mean Wonderful Organic Chocolate Truffles from my favorite chocolate shoppe. Luscious ganache centers with sublime flavors like Jack Daniels or a hint of orange.

In the winter, I might mean a decadent mugful of Drinking Chocolate from the best French sandwich shop in town.

I want to be sure that you know what I mean when I say CHOCOLATE.

Okay. So when I say that I'm desperately in need of some chocolate, you'll know exactly what to send.

Thank you for sharing my Chocolate Fantasy. Sometimes, nothing else will do.

Absolutely nothing.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

¿Come Se Dice "Idiot" En Español?

Since the age of seven, I have been passionate about learning to speak Spanish. Sesame Street planted the seed (Abierto! Cerrado! Abierto! Cerrado!), a beloved babysitter gave me my first lessons, and I studied the language for three years in high school and one year in college.

Yes, I could speak Spanish. Enough to hold my own at the Spanish Dinner table, anyway. But I was never fluent.

Still, the passion remained. When our house was under construction seven years ago, most of the workers were Mexican immigrants. I loved them. I brought them ice water in the summer, hot coffee in the winter. And always, haltingly, I spoke Spanish to them.

Somehow, even if I run through the words in my mind first, I always end up making a stupid mistake somewhere along the way. Like the time I offered a guy some coffee while he was busy doing some touch-up painting on a wall in our living room.

What I meant to say was, "Do you want some coffee?"

What I actually said was, "Do you have some coffee?"

Yeah, those verbs get a little muddled over years of non-usage. But the guy was gracious. He ignored my mistake and told me no, thank you, he didn't like coffee.

(I guess he didn't have any coffee, either.)

So last week at swimming lessons, one of the little boys was brought each day by his grandmother, who sat in the shade of the cabana doing needlework.

She was Mexican.

By the time Wednesday morning arrived, I could no longer contain myself. We were walking toward the pool together, and I asked her, in Spanish, how old her grandson was.

She lit up light like Fourth of July -- ur, Cinco de Mayo -- fireworks.

"Oh!" she said, in Spanish. "You speak Spanish!"

Indeed. A very little Spanish, but enough to hold a conversation.

After she had settled herself in the shade, I approached her and said, "Necesito practicar el español." (I need to practice Spanish.)

She was thrilled. She pulled up a chair, placed it near hers, and began to converse with me about her children, her life, her home in Mexico. She spoke slowly, using her hands, and occasionally threw in an English word for me. I think she knew even less English than I knew of Spanish.

"Tomorrow I will bring some photographs of my house in Mexico," she said (in Spanish).

Wow. I was loving this.

On Thursday, she brought the pictures. She described the wonderful fruit trees on her property (banana, coconut, mango). She proudly displayed pictures of her granddaughter, Yasmin, who is currently serving in Afghanistan. All this -- all in Spanish, slowly.

I was ever so proud of myself for holding my own with a native Mexican.

On Friday, daughter Maggie came with me to swimming lessons. She was feeling a little too shy to be introduced to my new Mexican friend (she was probably terrified that I would make her say, "Hola," or something equally horrible), so I pointed across the pool and proclaimed (with my new Spanish confidence) that there sat my daughter, who was twelve years old.

My friend then asked me how many children I had altogether, and I was all too happy to tell her about all four of them, and how old they are.

After I'd mentioned Jonathan, my Mexican friend seemed particularly amazed.

"Oh! You look so young to have a son that age! So young!"

Well, that was very nice of her to say. And when Eric arrived a few minutes later, she was quick to point out how handsome he was (a little thick on the compliments, perhaps).

Later, as I was driving home, I went through the day's Spanish conversation in my head. It's my way of checking myself -- seeing how well I did.

Let's see, I thought. What did I say about Jonathan? He's fourteen. I said... I said...

It hit me like a ton of adobe bricks.

I did not say, "Jonathan is fourteen."

I said, "Jonathan is forty."

Somewhere in Madison, Tennessee, there is a Mexican grandmother who thinks I have a forty-year-old son.

Either that, or she's thought it over and realized that I'm a lingistic idiot.

Cuarenta. Catorse. Well, they both start with a "C," don't they?

Jonathan thinks it's hilarious.

Well. Maybe I'd better hold off on my plans for missionary work in Mexico.

I mean, there I was, asking her about the humidity in southern Mexico and whether her house was near the beach, and I got hung up on a simple number.

I guess this makes me a bilingual number idiot. Doesn't matter which language I'm speaking; I'll always mess up the numbers.

That's why I'm a writer.

Ay.

Monday, June 12, 2006

A Sudden Crash, and the Tables Are Turned

We all know I'm the world's biggest klutz. And we all know that Eric took wonderful care of me when my fractured ribs were healing. Big prize for Doting Husband and all that.

Well, now it's my turn to play nursemaid.

On Friday evening, Eric and I were hanging out at our favorite pub in downtown Franklin. The children were here and there, as they always are on our family "Franklin outings." A jaunt to the toy store, a few sips of ice water at the table, a mosy to the parking garage to take some pictures, and back again. It was a typical evening.

Eric knew that the chair was wonky. It made tremendous creaking noises when he leaned back on it. They sounded like mechanical farts. In the world of boys and men, it was funny.

Naturally, it doesn't take much for Eric to get wound up when there's a camera rolling. Jonathan's digital camera was just the impetus Eric needed to rev up the wonky, farting chair. The camera's got a video feature, you see. Eric has a sort of reputation around here for making weird family videos.

Right. So the camera was rolling, Eric was tipping back, and the chair was farting. Even as I sat there watching, the chair kept going back, and suddenly Eric was on the floor. The creaking chair back had snapped, and Eric had landed on his back, right on top of it.

I, of course, was laughing the whole time. I mean, come on -- it was funny. It was the stuff of America's Funniest Home Videos.

In a heartbeat, the entire pub grew deathly quiet, and a beefy, Gothic waitress barked, "Sir! Are you all right?"

Eric was not all right. He was able to get up from the floor, and I thought at first that he was just a little bumped up. Not so. He was in excruciating pain. And I felt absolutely, positively horrible for having laughed only moments before.

Henry, our waiter and all-round good guy, didn't charge us for the food and drinks. I rounded everybody up, brought the van around to the pub entrance, and helped my hobbling husband into the passenger seat. We dropped off the chickens at home and headed to the ER.

Lovely way to spend a Friday night, yes? On top of everything else, I've learned yet another interesting tidbit about myself. When I'm stressed, I can't remember numbers. I gave the lady at the registration window the wrong birth date for my husband. Yes, indeed -- married for almost eighteen years and I wrote the wrong year of his birth.

Then she asked me for his cell phone number. I drew a complete, impervious blank. I had to pull out my own cell phone and find Eric's number.

"I'm really not good with numbers at all!" I said -- as if she hadn't figured that out already.

When she then asked for my cell phone number, I almost cried. I had to take a deep breath, close my eyes, and think very hard. And I got it right.

Poor Eric. He's sitting on an examination table in serious pain, and his wife is out in the lobby screwing up all his vital information.

An X-ray showed no fractures. Eric's got some sort of contusion around the hip area, just to the right of his spine. A kind of "nerve bruise," if you will. Remember a couple of weeks ago when I was complaining about the way Eric was milking a little back pain? Well, he has now officially learned the difference. This is real pain, folks. He has my complete empathy.

We were finally released around a quarter past midnight, and had to drive through the Wal-Green's pharmacy to get Eric's medication. I was delighted, of course, when the pharmacist informed me that there would be a thirty minute wait. That's exactly what I wanted to hear at 12:15 in the morning with a bruised husband on my hands.

And now we come to the best part of the entire evening -- our thirty minute wait in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I had passed "tired" and reached "punchy," and Eric was feeling all romantic because we were sitting in a parked car after midnight, alone. Mind you, he couldn't even move. Every breath he took hurt. But within five minutes, he had me belly laughing.

"This is fun," he said, smiling through the pain.

I smiled back. "And the reason is...?"

"Because I'm out late at night with you."

Does it get any better than this? Either I've got the most wonderful, sentimental, romantic husband on the planet -- or he's really desperate.

It was a rough weekend. Eric's at home today, doing slightly better. I'm not allowed to tell you all the details of my...ur..."nurse duties," so I'll be a good girl and honor his request.

Dang. Being a good girl isn't much fun.

If you're so inclined, pop on over to his blog and let him know you're thinking about him. Or laughing at him. Or feeling sorry for him because he's been at my mercy for more than forty-eight hours already.

Poor guy. It stinks when someone you love is hurting.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Letting the Pictures Speak For Themselves

As promised, here are my precious daughters, Margaret and Rachel (in that order).

The passion I have for watching my daughters dance is indescribable. The part of me that was never brave enough to dance, dances. Nobody sees it, but my heart rejoices with every step.

Have a beautiful weekend.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Ladies and Gentlemen, I Rest My Case

From the comment box comes this gem from my darling husband:

Well, I am late to comment.

I do hate that shirt. It does not match the other much sexier shirts you have, Jill. You like it and I told you you should wear it.

It was not too young for you; nor was it a burnt chocolate color with hints of olive. It is just not something that I like.

Ken, you got away with a great comment. Quickly turned it to the girl's ballet. You have great diplomatic skills.

Jamie, your husband would like this shirt on you, even if it was rust colored.

Lisa, your husband Greg is one of nicest guys I have ever met. He would have been politely quiet if he saw this shirt.

Jerry, I wasn't afraid of oggling (great word), even in closed quarters I would have put on a facade.

Folks, I just hate the shirt. Although, she did look great in it the other night! :)

There you have it, my friends. I wasn't "being a woman" after all. I was simply calling it like it was; reading his facial expression correctly.

In other words -- I was right!

Though, this one instance of "being right" doesn't feel so good. I wish the rest of you had been right and I had been wrong.

No matter. I'll give the shirt to Good Will. I may be feisty and independent and all that, but when it comes right down to it, if Eric doesn't like something I'm wearing, there's no point in wearing it.

Seriously. He's my man -- ya know?

Now, if any of you would like to contribute to the Jill's New Wardrobe Fund, I will gladly send you my Paypal address...

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Squashing the Persistent Perfectionist

I've come a long way, baby.

I'm referring to the relentless spirit of perfectionism that has plagued me almost my entire life. If you're not a perfectionist -- or have never met one -- you may not realize that perfectionism isn't all about Doing Everything Perfectly. Au contraire. It's more like Not Ever Finishing Anything Because It Won't Be Perfect.

Huge difference, that.

I do finish things. Not everything I mean to finish, but enough to make me appear at least marginally productive. And I keep getting better. Truly.

One of the "quirks" of perfectionism that still has its tentacles around me is the Don't Even Start Because There Isn't Enough Time To Finish syndrome. It goes something like this:

Jill looks at the clock. It's 3:20. She knows she has to take Rachel to ballet at 4:00. Therefore, she doesn't spend any time on her novel because forty minutes isn't enough time to actually accomplish anything.

Are you shaking your head in disgust? Or are you thinking, "Well, yeah, sure, I understand how she feels." (If your answer is the latter, then welcome to the Perfectionist Club.)

Over the past few weeks, the thought has been trickling through my brain that, perhaps, grabbing small snatches of time and using them to the best of my ability might actually result in something tangible. Like...oh, say a page or two of my current chapter.

What a thought!

So today I bit the bullet and put it to the test. It's been a long day -- swimming lessons a 45-minute drive away (and back), an orthodontist appointment, and (worst of all) the weekly ironing, not necessarily in that order. Somewhere in between returning from the orthodontist and having to start dinner, I sat down at my keyboard, fiercely determined to work on my novel no matter what.

In the space of about thirty minutes, I wrote two entire pages. Two pages!

Now, if I think too hard about all the little blips of "thirty minute spaces" over the past several months, I might suffer sudden cascade failure. Or at least start to wither from the inside out. I mean, if thirty minutes equals two pages, then half a day equals a chapter, and three weeks equals an entire book.

Ouch.

And the only way I can make sure that I'll continue to put this new-found wisdom into practice is by explaining my Eureka! moment to Eric, and asking him to keep me accountable.

I can just hear the ensuing conversation.

Jilly, did you write today?

Ur, no. I didn't have time.

I thought your appointment wasn't until 2:00?

Yes, it was, but --

So, what did you do after lunch, before you left for the appointment?

Well, I had to fold some laundry and there really wasn't enough time to --

Was there at least 30 minutes?

I don't know.

Seriously, there had to be at least 30 minutes for you to get some writing done.

*mutters*

You said you were going to write whenever you had 30 minutes.

Oh, SHUT UP!

Ah, matrimonial bliss. Eric had better brace himself for this one.

Monday, June 05, 2006

One Hip Mama

I must be hard up for affirmation.

There I was, minding my own business while administrating seating at the ballet recital on Friday night (and trying to keep Spencer from going off the deep end before the performance even started).

Out of the blue, my friend's fifteen-year-old daughter said, "Miss Jill, I really like your shirt!"

Hold me back. A compliment from a teenager? On my clothing, no less?

"Why, thank you!" I think I was blushing. I couldn't even make eye contact with her.

I have issues with the shirt in question. I bought it back in December to wear to Eric's Big Office Christmas Party. I thought I'd surprise him by showing up in a new, flirty top that he would hopefully find at least remotely attractive.

He didn't like it.

Mind you, he still won't admit how much he hates the shirt. But his facial expression when I removed my jacket that evening is forever burned into my memory. It was -- blank. Almost disdainful. And his first words to me? "Your bra strap is showing."

Oh. That was every girl's dream response, wasn't it? I'm still reliving the moment in my nightmares.

So the compliment from a fifteen-year-old made me feel like I wasn't so off-the-mark, after all. Maybe the plunging V-neck and empire waistline didn't look so bad on me. Maybe the shirt really is the perfect shade of chocolate brown.

Maybe Eric has no fashion sense.

Then again, maybe I pushed the envelope and bought something a little too "young."

At any rate, I can rest assured that I didn't look like a frumpy ol' stage mom at the recital. There's nothing like a compliment from a teen to boost a woman's self-confidence.

Naturally, the beauty of my two dancing daughters is where the focus really belonged. I'm in awe of their grace and poise. It's so not genetic.

Pictures forthcoming.

Friday, June 02, 2006

A Stitch In Time

I am, unabashedly, a Ballet Mom. What I am not is a seamstress.

Yes, I can sew. I've whipped up dolly dresses and the odd Pilgrim gown for a Thanksgiving party. But it's not my "thing." Especially when an old-fashioned "needle-n-thread" is called for.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when daughter Maggie announced, several days ago, that her ballet instructor had requested that all the moms come to the dress rehearsal after warm-up time in order to do some "stitching" on the costumes.

And you can imagine how much more thrilled I was, upon entering the dressing room yesterday, to discover that I was the only mom to show up.

Little old me, with my needle and a spool of purple thread.

It was truly ridiculous. I mean, I've always been uber-involved with the girls' ballet activities over the years, but I'm not one of those sew-the-costumes moms. I had an absolute hissy fit a couple of years ago when Rachel came home with a costume, some plastic flowers, and a page-long sheet of instructions on exactly how and where to sew the flowers onto the costume. I grumbled and cussed my way through the entire process.

Naturally, I couldn't grumble and cuss in front of a ballet instructor and five underage ballerinas, so I smiled, pulled out my needle, and acted like I knew what I was doing.

"Do you think this looks good?" the ballet instructor asked, holding up the long, deep violet chiffon thingie over the shoulder of the nearest dancer.

"Oh, yes. That will look good on stage." As if I know anything about what makes ballerinas look good on stage.

In the end, the teacher went with a suggestion given by my own Maggie, with a slight modification. Figuring that my daughter had made me look somewhat better, I confidently began to stitch the chiffon in the proper places.

I pulled it off! I tacked and stitched the costumes of four pubescent dancers -- while they were wearing them. I even had to pull out my seam ripper and remove all the stiches that one over-zealous mom had made prior to the dress rehearsal.

And I didn't prick anybody. I did whack one girl in the jaw with my hand, but she handled it well. Of course, the next little ballerina flinched a bit while I was stitching her costume. Poor thing.

Eric found the entire thing beyond hysterical. Perhaps he, more than anyone else, understands the hilarity of his wife entering a room with the intention to sew costumes. He lamented the fact that no one captured it on film.

That's a good thing. If someone's costume falls apart on stage tonight, nobody will be able to prove that I was the one who made the faulty stitches.

Stay tuned for Recital Photographs, sure to be posted some time next week. Unless of course something dreadful happens to Maggie's purple chiffon thing (do they have names for these weird costume parts?).

And rest easy. I've put away my needle and thread. Writing is a much safer way to pass my time.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

I Was Minding My Own Business...Honestly

Weirder than weird.

I met my beloved for lunch yesterday because he was on my end of town. (Why, you ask? He had an appointment for an MRI. It seems his chiropractor saw something that warranted a closer look. I am chastened, of course, for my attitude, though I still say it's a version of The Boy Who Cried Wolf when one always whines at the slightest discomfort. But I digress...)

So I was walking toward my van when I noticed a young woman beside the vehicle parked by mine. She was hunched over, her face an inch or two from the rearview mirror.

She was plucking out chin hairs.

Now, to be fair, sunlight is definitely useful for the search-and-destroy of errant chin hairs. Natural lighting is, in fact, the best lighting for this sort of...ur...activity. I'm sure my parking lot neighbor was having great success in extracting those hairs.

Except, chin-hair plucking isn't exactly something that most women do in public.

As I walked around to the driver's side of my van, the woman raised her head slightly, gave me a glance, and then went back to plucking chin hairs. Voraciously. As if I didn't exist.

She didn't even have a tweezers; she was using the thumb-and-forefinger fingernail method of extraction, which is certainly a challenging way to pull those stubborn, slippery hairs out.

There's more. She was smoking a cigarette. Think about that for a moment. Think about holding a lit cigarette in one hand while rabidly plucking chin hairs with the other.

Even as I turned on my motor and began to back out, she continued on with her plucking, only stopping momentarily to take a long drag from the cigarette. And now she no longer had the added "protection" of my minivan on one side of her.

Am I missing something here? My regular readers know that I'm all about thinking outside the box and encouraging others to do so as well.

But...plucking chin hairs in a parking lot?

I should have stuck around to see if she was going to shave her armpits and brush her teeth next. If she's this uninhibited in public, one can only wonder how she behaves at home.

I will talk about boobs without blushing; make fun of myself in front of a crowd; mention sex as though I were talking about the price of eggs. But you will never, never, never catch me plucking my chin hairs in a parking lot.

That's in the same league as pulling a wedgy out of your nether region. Or farting in an elevator -- on purpose.

No, thank you. I may be a frightening mixture of irreverent and frenetic, but I do have a measure of self-respect.

My chin hairs are no one else's business.

: Name: Jill; Location: United States

I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....

View my complete profile