Learning a Healthy Lifestyle... There's a Learning Curve

Shawn turns forty in a month. He decided that he would like to face the next forty years without encouraging one of the myriad of familial illnesses that plagues his gene pool. So, he is willing to try eating healthier. A serious commitment from someone who has spent the past forty years fine-tuning the delicate skill of vegetable-avoidance.

But, I'm on-board! I would love to eat healthier and have a buddy to help encourage me when I don't feel like encouraging myself. Also? If this is his version of a mid-life crisis and it doesn't involve a girlfriend, ridiculous sports car, or plastic surgery, I'll eat bok choy every day for the rest of my life. So, I signed us up for a meal plan on-line. It counts our calories. We sit down every Sunday and choose what we want to eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks. It gives me a grocery list. I shop. We eat.

I've only had to yell at one of the children one time when he wouldn't stop calling this "your diet." We had a discussion about what people think of as "diets" are just radically changing your eating habits for a temporary time to lose weight and then going right back to eating like crap (I didn't use that word, I promise). And, that this was Mommy and Daddy learning how to eat healthy. Forever. He said he understood. Although, he really may have just wanted the lecture to stop...

I hang my head as I tell you how foreign it was for me to buy healthy food - like fresh fruit and vegetables. (I think the first trip to the grocery store took me an hour and a half.) And how eye-opening it was when I started comparing labels to decide which brand of different foods would be the healthier option. (For example: Wheat Chex. A "whole grain wheat cereal." Must be healthy, right? Second ingredient? [And, we all know ingredients are listed in the order of predominance, right?] SUGAR. Straight up "sugar." In "healthy" wheat Chex. Damn.)

But, it's amazing how much we're learning already. After a week, I can already cut up a cantaloupe like a pro. Learning portion control has been huge for us, too. Turns out a 12-ounce piece of meat isn't in anyone's healthy diet. We've also learned how bad some of our "go-to" options are. Pizza? French fries? Salad dressing?! Oh my. But, with the variety this meal plan offers us, there are lots of things that we like that, eaten in the proper amounts, are good and good for us. And, there are healthy ways to prepare some of the ol' favs like hamburgers, pasta, etc.

We have stumbled upon one meal that made us throw up in our mouths. Luckily, it wasn't one of our first meals. We already had enough good dinners under our belts (no pun intended, ba-dum-cha) that we didn't ditch the entire "healthy" concept altogether and run for the nearest Mexican restaurant. But, that meal made it to the "Never, Never, Never, Again" List. We do already have three on our "Put in Heavy Rotation" List. So, the ratio of good to bad is quite acceptable.

It's actually been kind of fun to work along-side each other in the kitchen, too, measuring and cooking. And, I send Shawn to work with his "snack" every day. It's very Donna Reed.

But. (And, we all knew there was a "but," didn't we?) Here's the thing. He gets many more calories than I do. He gets so much food, that many days he can't eat it all... or feels like he's being force fed if he tries. Me? Not so much. I want to kick him in delicate places when he says things like, "I just can't eat my cheese and crackers."

And, then? The first week? He lost seven pounds.

Me?

I'm just bitter.

And, hungry.

Updates on Spanish, Exercise and Fascinators

There's not much to report around here.

In fact, there's so little going on that I took my obsession with the royal wedding to a whole new level and put a fascinator on my head.

Yeah. This is me taking a picture of myself and my
fascinator in the bathroom mirror. Don't judge me.

I like my fascinator. But, my sister probably said it best when she responded with, "London - yes. Amarillo - no." *sad*

I took a week off of Spanish. But, I'm back at it now. It's making me learn past and future tenses and it's just hard! *Imagine me stomping my feet and whining* I'm pretty sure that I almost told the Spanish-speaking housekeeper that I was going to "sell" her instead of "pay" her, too. I'm guessing she might not come back after that. Some people don't like human trafficking.

I've also begun acting like English is my second language. The greeter at Wal-Mart told me to "come back soon," and I had to think of the proper response because I knew it wasn't, "You, too." I asked the checker at Hobby Lobby, "Where is framing?" because I couldn't think of the pleasantries that should surround that statement.

In other news: I joined a gym. Even sweet Shawn agreed that I was probably asking more of my pants on Sunday then they were able to give. Sad. I guess I can't pretend that carpool pickup is exercise anymore. I haven't "officially" exercised now for four months. That's a third of a year. I should be ashamed. But, really. I hate exercise so much, I'm not.

However, getting out of shape has made my joints hurt. This is the beauty of my aging body: If my muscles aren't strong, my joints do all the work and they hurt. If I get up from sitting too long, I walk just like my 66-year-old dad. (Sorry, Dad, but it's true. My gross heels look like yours, too. Thanks for the DNA.) My hip hurts so badly at the moment that I think I had better get a Life Alert button. There's a chance I might fall and not be able to get up.

But, wait. Maybe I'll ditch exercise altogether and get a scooter! A scooter and a Life Alert button. And a fascinator. I'd be the hottest 37-year-old on the block!

Happy Birthday to Me...

...Happy Birthday to Me! Happy Birthday dear Meeeee-eeee! Happy Birthday to Me!

My family is treating me like a queen... Well, unless the kids are acting like Spring Break-addled savages.

But, Lulu did dress like a "Birthday Sister" for me today:

This is what Sisters wear when there is a birthday. Didn't you know?

There's not much to report around here except that two semesters of college Spanish will, evidently, get you through Lesson 4 of Disk 1 (out of three!) on Rosetta Stone. Awesome. And, I'm pretty sure the Spanish-speaking housekeeper is getting nervous listening to me yell, "Las bicicletas son amarillas!" at the computer.

Also, Cousin David is visiting from Kansas. He's staying with Shawn's parents. But, I've somehow managed the coup of sending both of my children with G'Pa, as well, the past couple of mornings! And, tonight all three kids are going to have a slumber party at G'Pa and G'Ma's house so Shawn can take me out for a Birthday Dinner. Have I mentioned how much I love my in-laws?

I should probably appreciate them now, though. I'm pretty sure they'll be dead by the morning. These three kids are a lot to handle all at once. Their rowdiness grows exponentially when placed in the same room together.

And, there is a better than average chance that I signed up to host that slumber party tomorrow night. I'm getting dumb in my old age.

Anyway. Happy Birthday to Meeeee!

I don't know what this proves, but it must be something BAD

I was sorting through the pictures in my iPhoto, identifying them with the facial recognition feature. For those of you who don't know, this is a creepy big brother cool feature wherein you identify a person in a couple of picture and then the computer is able to use facial recognition to suggest that person in other pictures. This is a handy, handy sorting feature.

I received a picture of Shawn and me from an 80s costume party we recently attended.

Original picture

(notice the perfect 80's bangs I was able to recreate that night):

And, now, notice what iPhoto wanted to label as individual people:

What kind of fashion horror did we live through that our bangs had their own facial recognition properties?!

Fair Weather Skin

I drew the short stick when God was doling out skin. I'm under no delusions. I am pale. And, I am not gloriously, china-doll pale like Nicole Kidman or Gwyneth Paltrow. I am pale in a red splotchy, covered-in-moles, see-my-veins, crypt-keeper kind of way. I am pale in a think-about-going-out-in-the-sun-without-sunscreen-and-get-a-sunburn kind of way. I am pale in a work-out-and-turn-purple, get-a-blemish-and-it-might-as-well-have-its-own-spotlight, bump-yourself-and-see-the-mark-instantaneously kind of way.

My complexion combined with the kind of moles I have, combined with blah, blah, blah puts me at an alarmingly high risk for melanoma. Yay, me! But, it's actually not that big of a deal if you're proactive about it. If you catch melanoma early, it's usually easily treated. So, I go to the dermatologist every six to eight months to have my existing moles examined and my entire (yes, I mean entire) body checked for new moles.

Ewwww. Moles.  Ewwww. My body observed in detail under florescent lighting (the horror of bathing suit shopping times 100, anybody?)

Anyway, the doctor always asks if I've noticed any new or changing moles. I always point out "this", "that" or "the other". But, since it's common to grow moles as you age, they always turn out to be nothing.

Today I casually answered his question with, "Yeah. I think this one on my knee is new."

He looked and said, "Oooooh!"

Excuse me. Did you just say, "Oooooh!"?!

Then he told me we have two options. We can wait and watch it or we can remove it.

What I said silently in my head: "Yeah, um, since you just responded with 'Ooooooh!' I don't think 'watching' it for six months is gonna be an option. Because what I can promise is that there will be elaborate charts and measurement techniques and mole-watching-parties at the hands of my obsessive nature. There may even be time-lapse photography involved.* For the sake of my sanity, my family and my friends, this mole is going to have to go."

What I said aloud: "I don't mind if we go ahead and remove it."

So the cutting began and the doctor tried to reassure me with, "Moles this small can be melanoma. But, when they are, they are almost never fatal."

Ummm. Great? Never mind that someone checking your butt for moles is enough to make you break a sweat; you'll sweat in places you never even knew had sweat glands when they tell you that (while simultaneously cutting chunks off of your person).

I'll get the pathology report back in a week. But, don't worry. I'm probably not gonna die. Yay! In the meantime, I already have my appointment for six months from now.

*It would be similar to this. Less the fetus.

(I almost couldn't bring myself to post this video for the word "stretchening" on the first screen. "Stretchening?" Well, if their aptitudes don't lean toward literacy, at least they're good with mechanical things, like cameras. And, they know how to post stuff to YouTube. So, there's that.)

The Post with Emotional and Physical Abuse

This weekend my sciatic nerve hurt. I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that: It HURT. It hurt like a lightening bolt of pain was shooting up and down my rump and leg. (And, yeah, yeah. I suffer from old lady ailments now. Leave me alone. It still HURT.)

Saturday night, as we turned off the t.v. and got up from the couch to go to bed, I gasped and cried out in pain.

Shawn laughed. (Let me give you moment to take that in...)

I told him (as I was doubled over catching my breath) that he was rude.

He said he was sorry but it's been a while since he's heard me cuss in pain. (Somehow cussing while gasping doesn't prove how much more it hurts - it just means it's funny.)

I tried to storm off indignantly, but I gasped in pain again.

This time he laughed hysterically. He had enough sense, though, to realize that I had hobbled within striking distance. He attempted to protect his upper body from my fists.

I walked away dragging my leg.

He somehow found the ability to laugh. even. harder. He said the lightening bolt of pain must have left a corncob behind in its wake. Everyone's a comedian. (Everyone's not a good comedian, though.)

I walked into the kitchen. He followed. I gasped. He SNORTED.

So rude.*

***********************************************************

On Monday, I found more of those "fine lines and wrinkles" around my eyes that the Oil of Olay commercials have been warning me about for years. Just as I did, Shawn walked in the bathroom. I showed him my wrinkles and asked, "Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm ninety-four?"

He shrugged and said, "Ehhh... Yeah."

Gee. Thanks.

Later, I tried to google the song so I could remember who sang it. (Okay! Okay! Stop yelling all at once! I know now it was The Beatles.) When I found it, I said to Shawn, "Oh wait. I was wrong. It's SIXTY-four."

His response? "Oh, sixty-four? Yeah! I can DEFINITELY do sixty-four. Ninety-four's a LONG time."

Rude.

(I think Shawn and I will probably look a LOT like the couple at 0:50.

I mean it's kinda eerie - like they did an age progression of us or something.)

***********************************************************

*I told him I was going to blog about this so the world would know of his treachery and heartlessness. He started laughing and said, "It was funny. I would pay money to see it again!"

So. Rude.

The Horses are Teaching Everyone

Spence won a week at Equestrian Camp as a door prize at our school's Spring Fling fundraiser.  It's at our university's Equestrian Center and it's really quite amazing.  He started yesterday and has already ridden "his" horse, Scarlett, "all by himself - without a teacher touching the ropes or anything."  (He says he went "medium".  But, he's going to learn to go "fast" and then "super fast".) Wow.  You go, Buffalo Bill.

The Equestrian Center also has a program that is near and dear to our hearts - The Therapeutic Riding Center.  A few years back, it came to the attention of Shawn and his co-workers that this unbelievable program was having to haul its horses (and these aren't just any horses - these are the cream of the crop, gentle, patient, smart) in an old, dilapidated trailer.  The floor actually broke out from under one of the horses and his leg fell through (luckily the horse was okay).  So, Shawn's office single-handedly pooled their individual resources and bought them a top-of-the-line horse trailer.  Then, realizing that the school didn't have a pickup that could easily pull it - they bought them one of those, too!  Truly, it is an amazing group of people with whom Shawn works.

Fast forward to yesterday and I showed Spence the trailer. This morning we started talking about The Therapeutic Riding Center.  I told him how riding horses could teach kids who learn differently than he does.  I told him I didn't know if his "teachers" from camp are the same "teachers" that the kids at the TRC have.  Those teachers are amazingly skilled and help the kids learn even more than just how to ride a horse. "They're just as smart as your teachers at school, but they use horses instead of chalkboards!" (Picture me feeling smug and proud of my analogy.)

He looked at me thoughtfully.  I thought we were going to continue our deep, philosophical discussion about how God has made us all differently, but perfectly the people we are supposed to be...

And, he said to me, "Mom...  What's a chalkboard?"

Ouch.  The horses have now even taught me - that I'm old.  Does anyone have an abacus I could borrow?  I seem to have misplaced mine.

We've made it to Corpus...

...just in time for a hurricane!  Ok.  I'm being dramatic.  It's has 4 more mph of wind speed before it's a hurricane.  Technically, it's just Tropical Storm Alex.  And,  he didn't mess with any of our flights down here.  So, really, I should get off his back.

Actually, it was a very uneventful trip down - which feels a little bit like Utopia compared to some of our past travels with children.  There was even a packed flight on one of the legs of our journey, so Shawn called dibs on sitting next to the wee ones and I had to sit elsewhere crammed in next to two strangers... against the window... and SLEEP the whole time.  Ok, honey.  I guess I'll take this one for the team...  ;)  But, my lone traveling bliss didn't last longer than that one flight before Shawn texted me that Lulu needed to go potty.  Oh, the humanity!  I have deemed that taking a child to an airplane bathroom is the ninth circle of hell.  (But, then I returned her and went back to my nap at the window - sequestered by strangers.)

We're down here visiting my sister, brother-in-law and nieces; dad, step-mom and baby brother (Damn.  There's another sign that you're old: when your brother turns 21 in a month and you still call him your baby brother...)

But, our trip is already a raving success for the fact that I can report that my 8-year old niece's sarcasm is coming along quite nicely - this is, indeed, one of the true legacies I have to pass to the next generation.

You just can't please me

So, I never go to the liquor store.  Alcohol just magically appears at my house (ok, it could have something to do with Shawn - but, no, I'm going with magical).  But, today I ventured into the liquor store. And, if I do say so myself, I was looking quite young.  I had my hair in a mussed, haphazard pile on my head; I was wearing workout clothes; more importantly, I was wearing sunglasses to cover the tell-tale crow's feet.  Couple that with my high of being carded all vacation long and I thought, "Oh, yeah.  Here it comes.  I'm getting carded for sure!"  (BTW, you know you're over 30 when the prospect of getting carded makes you a little giddy - and you don't even care if it's because the young waiter is trying to flatter you...)  I stepped up to the counter and I got... nothin'.  Not even a second glance from the cute, young thang behind the counter.  But, then I realized, most underage drinkers probably aren't buying 12-year-old scotch.

I'm going back.  And, I'm only going to buy Coors Light, wine coolers and Strawberry Hill Boones Farm.

P.S.  I just died a little bit inside realizing that it was still legal for me to drink when my scotch was born.  I'm buying the 18-year-old stuff next time.

On this day in history

1802 - The United States Congress passed an act establishing a military academy at West Point, New York.  (Happy 208th birthday, West Point!)

1825 - Women, feeling oppressed by their employers, gathered at Palmo’s Opera House in New York City, for speeches and music about their problems.  (If they gathered for music about their problems, was this the 1800s version of Glee?)

1850 - Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel "The Scarlet Letter", was published for the first time. (And juniors in high schools everywhere groaned.)

1871 - The State of Delaware enacted the first fertilizer law.  (ummmm.  I don't even know what this means.)

1883 - Susan Hayhurst graduated from the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy, becoming the first female pharmacy graduate. (Girl Power!)

1926 - The first liquid-fuel rocket was successfully launched by Prof. Robert Goddard at Auburn, Massachusetts. The rocket traveled 184 feet in 2.5 seconds.  (Insert your own inappropriate joke here.)

1950 - Congress voted to stop federally taxing oleomargarine.  (Well, I think we all say a little prayer at night in thanksgiving for this.)

1963 - Peter, Paul and Mary released the single, "Puff The Magic Dragon", which was banned by several radio stations whose management figured the song was about smoking marijuana. The group denied the allegations saying “It’s about a magic dragon named Puff.”  (That quote makes my day.)

1974, 11:45 pm - I was born.
(Avoided being a leprechaun by 15 minutes.)

1976 - British Prime Minister Harold Wilson announced his intention to retire. He was succeeded by James Callaghan on April 5. (I've never heard of either of these people.)

1978 - Former Italian premier Aldo Moro was kidnapped by Red Brigades guerrillas, who demanded the release of all Communist prisoners. (I'm guessing Italy stepped up its secret service after this...)

And, a fellow Happy Birthday to James Madison, Pat Nixon, Jerry Lewis, Chuck Woolery, Jerry Jeff Walker, Erik Estrada, and (my little 5-year-old buddy), Kate White!

Thanks to http://www.coolquiz.com/trivia/history/index.asp for all the useless trivia a girl could hope to find on her birthday!

Betty White

I stinkin' adore Betty White.  Did you see her Super Bowl commercial yesterday?  From the Golden Girls to Bob Hope "Specials" to Boston Legal to Snickers commercials, she was and is a riot.



When she was presented the SAG Lifetime Achievement award, she said during her sweet acceptance speech that she had "had" some of the men in the room.  Seriously.  How do you not love this woman?

She is 88 and she is AWESOME.  I hope I grow old just as gracefully sassy as she has.

Exercise

I H-A-T-E to exercise.  You know that saying about only running if someone was chasing you?  I think I can take it one further.  I think I would let them catch me as opposed to having to run from them.  I'm thinking of a personal mantra of "I don't like to sweat.  Ever.  Ohm."

I would much rather maintain my weight by obsessively controlling the number of calories I consume.  I know, I know, this is not the healthiest of habits.  I'm also aware that I probably have the bone density of an 88-year-old woman.

But, things are starting to settle and bulge in ways that they shouldn't.  I have a sneaking suspicion that only muscle definition will put these things back where they belong - either that or a complicated hoist and pulley system.

So, I need to join a gym.  Or take a walk.  Here and now I'm making a resolution.  I'm resolving to start thinking about exercising.