Red Toes, Will Travel

I decided to save some money by giving myself a pedicure. I planned to paint my toes an orangey gold, but my husband said he preferred red. I painted them red.
Just as a warning to anyone else who thinks about cutting corners by doing things yourself, rethink that self-bikini wax. Once you have the nerve to apply the hot wax down there, there is only one way to get it off. With a yank. And it hurts.
That's my tip for the day.

Dreams

I'm antsy this morning. My to-do list running through my head. The college's website that lets me grade paper not working from 5 to 7 a.m. The minutes tick by so quickly now when I need them to slow down.
I made myself go to the Y to burn off some energy.
There, I ran into the white-bearded man who first explained how to use the treadmill for interval training. He came and stood by my treadmill today, wishing me a good trip and filling me in on the latest news about flights to Paris.
"My understanding is that ticketed passengers have priority. Those who missed their flights have to wait." He's one of the guys who seems to be an expert on every subject, but in a sweet way not an obnoxious one.
I suggested that my trip to Paris might inspire him to travel some.
"No," he replied.
His wife wants to go to the Caribbean or Florida. He wants to go to the mountains and hike.
"So go," I told him.
He claims he knows no one who would go hiking with him.
"I'll just walk on my treadmill alone," he said.
He's in his 60s and in decent shape, judging from the amount of running and weight lifting that he's doing at the Y everyday. So why has he given up on travel? Why is he condemning himself to a lifetime of watching himself in the mirrors in front of the treadmill rather than mountain peaks and blossoming leaves?
My darling, handsome husband is in his 50s now, and I can't imagine that 10 years from now: A) he'll have a white beard down to his chest or B)he'll be content to walk on a treadmill that doesn't go anywhere.
I expect that 10 years from now, hopefully, with all three children through college, we'll be travelling more than ever.
I'll need to keep watch on the pilot light of our dreams and fan it to make sure it stays alive well into our 70s or 80s.

Vacation Drama

I scour news sites, airline sites, airport sites for a definitive answer. Will my flight to Paris go or won't it?
When I see that the flight for Sunday night hasn't been cancelled, and today is Sunday, I despair of learning ahead of time. The people who are scheduled to fly to Paris tonight are still scheduled. Imagine how panicked they must be. Packing, kissing kids goodbye, arranging sitters, changing dollars to Euros. Then they may arrive at the airport and be turned around.

That might be me too.
I look at my list of things to do before we leave and realize I must complete them all, just in case.

I hope and I despair at the same time. I long to go; I have my fears about leaving the kids for a week. Maybe it's worse now that they're older rather than younger.
I'm asking them to make sacrifices. They don't want to stay at their Aunt's house.
"That's like 10 minutes extra every morning on the way to school," Grace complains.
"Okay, 10 minutes a day to school for six days. That equals an hour. I'm asking you to sacrifice an hour for me and Dad."
Huff.
My stomach feels extra jittery as I sit through basketball games and measure the shot put at a track meet. .
Oh, to be in Paris, settled into a seat at a cafe, watching the people hurry past while I sip a teeny, tiny espresso. I drop the sugar cube in and stir it with the little spoon until it dissolves, half sugar/half espresso. Aaaah. The stress of life pools in a puddle at my feet and trickles down the sidewalk. I have left it behind.
I hold hands with my husband and walk along the Seine. We stop to admire artists at work and listen to his spattering of English as he tries to convince us to buy his art.
We linger at dinner, ordering things we aren't sure of then feeling our taste buds come alive again at the touch of the food on our tongues.
In the back of my mind though, that fear that if I do make it to France, I'll be worrying the whole time that I may not make it back. What if the volcano kicks up again and I am stranded in France? Oh, I know there are worse things in life, but the everyday banality of kids and work wait like a ticking clock.

Reading the Signs

Suppose you planned a dream vacation. Suppose you told all your friends about it and talked about it for months.
Then suppose you started having second thoughts. Maybe you shouldn't go. It was going to be expensive and you do have a child going off to college this year. Maybe it would be better to put off this vacation.
You looked for signs, other than the dollar signs.
Was it a sign when the airline said you couldn't get a refund? That meant you had to go.
Was it a sign when the hotel had a room available? Everything was falling into place.
Was it a sign when your friends planned to be in town that same weekend so you could see them?
All the signs seemed to be pointing to yes. Yes! This is the right vacation for you.
Perhaps, you were missing the smaller signs. Maybe even some medium-sized signs, because all of a sudden a large sign has shot from a glacier.
A volcano erupts in Iceland, stopping all overseas travel.
Now that's what I call a sign. A sign that no one could miss.
Don't worry, we have a backup plan.

Coincidence?

I rode my bike to work again today. The temperature was in the 80s.
Earl had the day off, so he rode his bike to the Clippers baseball game. The game started at 11:35 and I finished working at 1. I began to pedal home, and as I turned a corner, I see my husband on his bicycle headed home too. What are the odds?
He's trying to cross a busy intersection and is headed against the traffic.
"Hey mister," I call. "You're going the wrong way."
He ignores me.
He crosses the street and I follow him without even looking for traffic. That's the kind of leader he is, but the light has changed and a car is coming. It stops for me.
"Hey mister, what are you trying to do? Get us killed?" I call again.
"Shut up," he yells back at me.
He still hasn't looked at me.
"Hey, did you just say shut up?" I ask. "Cause I'm your wife."
He looks back then and sees me.
Later he tells me he thought I was some crazy bicycle harrasser. Well, I could be. But I'm still his wife and he can't escape that fact.
Photo of Huntington Park by Columbus Underground.

Blog Favoritism

My friend Sheila at her blog http://lifesmanycolors.wordpress.com/ keeps tracks of posts she writes according to topic. She has three kids, like I do, a girl and two boys.
She has written 30 posts about her daughter Bethany, 13 about her youngest son and nine about her oldest son.
I don't keep track of the topics of my blogs, but I'm sure that if I did, Grace would be one of the largest subjects of my blog. Not that the boys mind. They probably prefer not to be the topic of my blog. I just wonder if I write about Grace all the time because she is my oldest and everything she goes through is new, or if it's because she's a girl and I can relate to her growing up incidents.
Grace reads my blog and is quick to say, "I hate that photo of me" or "I totally agree." The boys don't read my blog, and it's a good thing. If Spencer had seen that photo of him asleep with his shaggy armpit hair sticking out, he would have been very embarrassed.
I was defending myself, thinking, what am I going to write about the boys. I sat through five basketball games this weekend. But I could've written about Spencer's new AAU basketball experience. We had no idea going in Sunday morning that if he won, he had to keep playing. They won two and finally lost the third. So much for a relaxing Sunday.
I could have written about Tucker's first track meet. I never thought he would stick with track. I mean, running that much is hard work and Tucker doesn't put hard work on the top of his "to do" list. But there he was last week, running in his first track meet. I don't know if it was a good time for him. I do know the wind was blowing and I was wearing a headband that covered my ears. My hair was curly and blowing in crazy strands all over the place. I was wrapped in a blanket and I took off as soon as he had run his last event. The bus would bring him home.
There are some things I haven't been able to write about, like inappropriate texting from a girlfriend, that ended Tucker in parent jail, even though, as he defended, "I didn't do anything." Just receiving that message was enough for me to become suspicious.
I'm not sure what I'll do next year when Grace moves nine hours away to go to school. Maybe I'll write a lot of posts about how much I miss her. Maybe I'll drive up there on long weekends and share some New England foliage with you all. Maybe my blog will fall silent as I am surrounded by two teenage boys, a husband and two male cats. At least the cats aren't exuding testosterone.

Livin' the High Life

Here's Grace coming home from her usual Sunday afternoon outing.

Well, truthfully, it was a special occasion in celebration of her friend Anna's 16th birthday. Her parents rented a limo to take 16 of them out to dinner. They drove around Ohio State and "partied" according to Grace. To clarify what this meant, I asked, and she explained they danced in their seats. She's a wild one, my oldest daughter.
But limos are a reminder that the prom season is sneaking up on us, so while I was shopping for vacation clothes yesterday, Grace searched for a prom dress and found this one.

I thought that it was too risque and that she was bound to feel exposed. The v is criss crossed with ties, but comes down well below the place a bra should be. She said she didn't feel exposed.
Her friend Emily pointed out that some boys might see down the neckline.
"Who'll see it besides boys who are actually taller than me?" she asked. Then ticked off on her fingers who that would be: "Jude, Chase, Sean."
After she'd tried on a dozen dresses, she returned to this green one.
"I really like this one," she said.
"You smiled the whole time you had it on," Emily added.
Now that's a good friend. The one who notices what makes you happy. I paid for the dress and took it home while the girls continued their shopping adventure. They didn't come home in a limo, but Em's Volvo isn't bad transportation.

Wardrobe Updates

Shopping is not something I enjoy. I like to go with a goal in mind, buy it, and come home. I know, weird.
Today I went to Macys in search of a dress for our trip to Paris. I didn't have a particular dress style or color in mind. I am getting better at choosing styles that look good on me -- smaller waist, full skirt. And I found this one with a swooping v-neck and a belt around the waist. I had to keep trying on smaller and smaller sizes, which says something about the dressmaker rather than any weight loss on my part.
The dress is a classic, Marilyn Monroe kind and Earl insisted I twirl while he took my picture. It's Jones of New York and its a polished cotton with a silky under liner.
The shoes I knew would be tricky. I want stylish shoes that feel good so I can walk for miles. Comfort and fashion just don't go together. I found these shoes called Jambu. Cute t-strap. Strap around the ankle as is the fashion this year. The shoe saleslady had a pair of this brand on and swears they are comfortable for working in. They feel very cushy on the bottoms of my feet. The verdict is still out on whether the leather tops will rub. I'm going to wear them around the house for awhile to test them.
Now my friends can stop worrying that I have nothing to wear in France. I have a dress and a pair of shoes. What else could I need?

Snooze Quandry

I'm one of those moms who has always gotten her kids up for school. Well, let's face it, they've only been in school for three years, so it isn't that long of a tradition. Now that Grace is 18, ready to go off to college, and Earl and I are preparing to leave for vacation, I've been letting them set their alarms and get up.
Grace is very reliable at this. She sets her alarm, gets up and jumps in the shower first.
Tucker also is fairly prompt at rousing himself.
I came back from the Y this morning at 7 and he was in the shower.
Spencer is another story. This boy sleeps hard. He always has. When I was waking him up, it became a yelling thing nearly every day. I'd start gentle. I'd call his name, shake his shoulder, turn the light on, throw a cat onto his bed. He might open his eyes, he might respond, but he wouldn't actually get up. Then 10 minutes before we were leaving, I'd be shouting and he'd be shouting back.
"You're going to have to walk to school. You're going to be late," I'd warn. Somehow, he always manages to stick his head under the shower, brush his teeth and run out the door to the car.
Most of the time he doesn't have time for breakfast. If I were 6-foot, 3-inches and 150 pounds, I'd want breakfast. Sometimes he'll grab a granola bar.
Now that he's in charge of waking himself up, he sets his phone as an alarm.
"I hit snooze four times," he explains. That's his plan. To wake up and turn off the alarm four times.
I just don't get it. Wouldn't it be better to sleep straight through until the absolute last minute you have to get up? Why wake up 15 minutes early, hit snooze, then five minutes later, hit snooze.
See, I just don't understand the appeal of the snooze button. It doesn't seem logical.
Can anyone explain it?

Happy is Boring

Yesterday it struck me that I am really happy. I have pretty much everything I want in life. Then this morning I received my sitemeter report and saw that the number of my blog readers has dropped this month. That's why I decided that happy doesn't make good reading. That's why artists must suffer.
Rebellious children, cheating husbands, floods, locusts...they all make good reading.
Happiness...not so much.
On our drive down to Florida, we listened to The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown. One of the characters in the book is studying a kind of science that determines that thoughts have mass, that they carry a kind of gravity that helps make things happen. Sound familiar? Yes, similar to the philosophy of the book The Secret.
That's when it struck me that last year, or was it the year before, during our runs we talked about intentions and whether our thoughts could affect our lives.
Two things I focused on increasing our income and going to France.
Hello. I just did our taxes and we made more money this year. And I'm going to France in two weeks. My intentions, my wishes, have come true.
That makes me feel powerful. Who knows what else I can accomplish? The tooth with the infected gum, the one the dentist said may need an implant, I began picturing little guys in there fixing the tooth, rebuilding bone. Now the gum isn't red and inflamed any more.
I've put behind my worries about college expenses, and since then I've been asked to sub for classes twice this week and had a call from a researcher at Vanderbilt who is going to pay me $20 to fill out a survey about the results of my knee surgery 7 years ago.
Of course, staying optimistic is especially easy when the weather reaches the 80s, the birds sing and I get to whiz along on my bike to work.
Oh, that's another thing. On Easter Sunday, at my sister-in-law's house, they pulled a bike off the wall of the garage and gave it to me. Now I have a bike to replace the one that was stolen last fall.
As I walked around campus yesterday with my bike helmet attached to my backpack, people kept commenting, "Did you ride your bike?" Traffic is awful near campus and parking is worse. So, I just smiled, so glad that I lived where I could ride my bike, so happy that the weather cooperated.
I can't help it. I'm just happy right now.

Prayer Interrupted

This morning after gorging on chocolate, our family schlepped off to church. We're Catholic and we made some dressing compromises to what we might normally wear, adding collared shirts for the boys and skirts for Grace and me.
By the time the service started, the church was crowded with people standing around every wall. I noticed a man with jaw-length, frizzy gray hair and a navy jacket come in a side door after the service had already started. I thought no more about him.
After the homily, which is the sermon, the priest sits down and we reflect on his words. Today he talked about expectations. He joked that expectations are just premeditated disappointments. Then he used an example of George on Seinfeld and how he decided to keep making the opposite decision of what he would normally do. It all tied back to the Apostles expectations after Jesus died.
Anyway, in the silence of meditation after the homily, the man with the frizzy gray hair yelled out, "Allah is great!"
Now, when I first heard his voice, I expected that this might be a new dynamic to the service. Our church has been known to put on plays, to have liturgical dancers, who was to say that this wasn't part of the Easter mass.
But when the man bolted from the church, we realized he wasn't a planned part of the service.
I thought it was strange, but we go to the Newman Center. Most people in attendance would probably have agreed with him. "Allah is great!" Then they might have taken it a step farther. "Yahweh is great!"
Our liberal church accepts other beliefs. We study our history which began Jewish and we've had Muslim leaders in to talk about their beliefs. The man wouldn't get a rise out of us for shouting "Allah is great."
But within a minute, I felt Grace's body trembling beside me. We no longer live in the kind of world where we can hear a man shout his belief in Islam without fearing that violence will follow.
I hugged Grace and told her that everything was fine. She asked me to come with her to get a drink of water and I did. Then I went back into church and she stayed in the outer rooms. I had just whispered to Earl that he should go looking for her before the Lord's Prayer. "I will after the Our Father," he said.
In our church we hold hands and then raise them on "the kingdom, the power and the glory." Before we reached that part, Grace came back in and slipped her hands to me and Earl.

Making a Mess

Ever notice how easy things look on television? My boys saw a commercial for Rice Krispie treats shaped into eggs and dipped in chocolate and sprinkles. They decided they would like to do that.
I have never made Rice Crispie treats. So I bought a box at the grocery and saw that I needed marshmallows and butter. I got out a heavy pan and the boys went to work.
Spencer melted the 3 tbsp. of butter then poured in a bag of miniature marshmallows. Tucker put some chocolate chips in the microwave to melt. Then they measured six cups of Rice Krispies and poured them into the pan.
This pan is cast iron and the whole thing gets hot, so one boy held the hot handle with a pot holder while the other stirred. The next step was to shape them into eggs shapes.
The commercial shows a mom with little children laughing and smiling as they pat the sticky treat into egg shapes. My boys quickly found out that more stuck to their hands than to the egg shape. And when they tried to dip it in chocolate, it came apart. They ate a lot off their hands and ended up running to the sink to wash them.
"Imagine if your hands were sticky like this all the time," Spencer said.
I suggested the gecko may have this problem.
"If you played Xbox with sticky hands like this, you'd ruin the controller," Spencer continued, mulling over the tribulations of sticky hands.
Spencer burned his wrist reaching into the hot pan and I think I didn't plan it very well.
"The commercial makes it look so easy," Spencer said.
"Yeah, but their mom was helping them," Tucker said accusing me. I laughed.
They ate a few and created eight Rice Krispie eggs that still remain.

Hangin' With the Teens

Since I have three teenagers of my own, I am well used to hanging out with teenagers, usually surly with high expectations, but sometimes surprisingly helpful and interesting.
I came to Florida with my daughter and her friend Sarah. Another high school friend was staying at St. Pete Beach a few hours away from us. His mother texted and asked if he could come spend the night. We were game and the kids spent some time in the pool and another few hours watching a movie on the patio television as it grew dark. We gave them the living room and I heard them laughing into the early morning hours.
We were driving to St. Pete Beach the next morning and I made plans to have lunch with a friend. I didn't count on the time it would take for these teens to drag themselves out of bed and get ready. I dropped them at the beach where the boy was staying with his parents and hurried to lunch with my friend. An hour late.
After I had a leisurely lunch and drive down the coast, the teens were ready for some action by the time I reached the hotel. They wanted to go to The Hurricane for grouper sandwiches. The parents opted not to come along and I immediately felt irritable. I'd just had lunch and I was going with the kids. Surely the parents could keep me company. I'd met the mother for drinks before to talk about all the happenings in our small town. In my own passive/aggressive way, I said nothing but headed out to the car with the three teenagers. I ordered a pina colada to assuage my grumpiness.
The Hurricane has long been one of our favorite restaurants on Pass-a-Grille beach south of St. Petersburg. When Earl and I worked for the Tampa Tribune we haunted the place. Then it was a little grubby but had the best grouper sandwiches ever. Now it has gone upscale and charges $16.95 for a grouper sandwich and a cup of coleslaw.
After the restaurant, I drove the kids to play miniature golf at a place with a giant Easter Island head. I sat in the car and read a book, wondering why I felt so grumpy when the Gulf of Mexico was on one side of me, the intercoastal waterway on the other and pelicans flew overhead. Surely I should just get over it.
I texted the mom to come pick up her son because we were driving back to my parents after mini golf. The kids sat on the curb waiting after they finished playing. Only two more days and they'd see each other back at home.
As we drove back, along an arching bridge, the girls squealed to see dolphins emerge in their slow arcs.
"That made my day," Grace said.
And, when I put aside my grumpiness, I have to admit it was a pretty amazing day.

Hero

My running friend who found out she had breast cancer just had a lumpectomy this week.
She has a drainage tube and she says the doctor will allow her to run 48 to 72 hours after the procedure. I have my doubts, but find that any of my excuses not to run sound incredibly lame in comparison to her fortitude.
She sent an update after she got home.
A nurse was trying to reassure her and promised that she would be healthy again someday.
My friend replied, "I am healthy (now)."
And, I'm going to have to agree that she's one of the healthiest and strongest people I know. She's not just a breast cancer statistic. She's an incredible individual and she'll handle this her own way, like she does everything.

Prehistoric

Have you ever wondered what it might have been like to live thousands of years ago? A time when highways didn't crisscross the country and McDonalds didn't blare its yellow red logo at you?
Imagine standing in a prehistoric time where the plants exerted their influence, where tree trunks became buttressed to withstand the swampy soil and sent up "knees" underground to increase their strength.
Imagine longing for a glimpse of the sun's warmth. Green plants emerging from the brown muck to find the light.
Animals with tough skins lift their heads to the sun.
And others burrow into the ground.
The trees and the swamps go on and on. The wind rushes through the tops of the hammock rattling the palm fronds, sending debris down below. That rustle in the bushes, is it another animal?
What could that be gliding through the water?
Alone in a prehistoric land. An alien land.
Imagine how small you'd feel

Like Deer in Headlights

When I went for my run Saturday morning, I was a little disappointed not to see more wildlife. I've seen cranes and herons and wild turkeys while running in Florida. Around a deserted, overgrown, brushy area, I'm always a little concerned about the remaining Florida panther jumping onto my back. I've even seen snakes slithering on the road. Yesterday, though, I saw only a few mockingbirds and backyard dogs. The statuary animals are plentiful though. That's when I decided to do a fake animal tour.
This woodpecker is in my parents' backyard. One day I called the kids to quietly come look because I thought it was real. Okay, I was at a bad angle at the time. He looks quite wooden now. This fish mailbox isn't pretending to be a real animal, but he is pretty awesome.
Why the fake duck? Are we really a country in need of more ducks or geese. In some business complexes they are poisoning the geese or letting dogs loose to get rid of the geese. Do we need more fake ducks and geese?
Bunnies in the garden? Really? These homeowners would probably go crazy if some real bunnies hopped into their flower bed. My mom, who used to have a lot of cats that hung around outside, says they now have a rabbit that sticks close by. As soon as we got out of the car the other night, a little bunny came dashing through the front yard followed by a big white cat with a black tail. These bunny statues are going nowhere.
I always have trouble remembering which is which, but egrets are tall white birds and herons are gray, I think. I'm guessing these guys are egrets. They look kind of regal don't they?
Pink flamingoes used to be ubiquitous in Florida. Now all I could find was these wooden versions with wings that flap in the wind. If you look to the right of the flamingo, you'll see a gray blob that turns out to be an actual animal. A cat that stood up and stretched in these weeds after I took the picture.
The pelican is an impressive Florida bird. He was going extinct not that long ago but now you see squadrons of them swooping over the Gulf of Mexico and diving down with a splash.

My final fake animal picture isn't of a fake animal, but a warning to a real animal. A man who lives not too far from my parents put up this sign and I love the fact that it is addressed directly to the animal, who we hope can read and heed the warning.
With threats like this, maybe that explains why there are so few real animals around for me to take pictures of!

Girl Road Trip

It's not the kind of Girls Gone Wild spring break that some might imagine, but our trip to Florida ended up being all girls. It was supposed to be a family vacation, but Spencer had a basketball tournament and Tucker had track practice so Earl "volunteered" to stay home with them. Grace then asked if she could bring a friend. So Sarah, Grace and I drove to my parents' home in Florida.
It started out dreary and rainy. As we drove through Cincinnati, the rain and clouds were so thick we couldn't see the next bridge over the Ohio River. We spent the night at my grandmother's in Kentucky and then left at 5 a.m. the following morning to drive to my parents' house. We listened to The Lost Symbol on tape and stopped at the perfect restaurant with a Dairy Queen and a Subway, but a college bus had beaten us to it. We ended up driving through a Burger King, which I wouldn't recommend. Then we made another stop at a gas station. While I filled up, the girls went in to use the bathroom, then came back and said it was all truckers and hookers.
"They were sending us upstairs to use the bathroom," Grace said. "Creepy."
Of course, Sarah was half way up the stairs before Grace called her back.
Thirteen hours after we left, with few traffic problems and beautiful sunshine the entire day, we arrived to burgers on the grill.
The girls were quick to hop in the pool. They have plans to meet a friend at St. Pete beach sometime this week and want to go hiking and bike riding at the state park nearby. Meanwhile, it's just nice to be in the warm weather, to go for a run with the weather at 60 instead of 30, to let my hair curl because the humidity is too high to straighten it.

More Tears

Just when you think the plane could be coming in for a smooth landing, things get bumpy again. Grace has been accepted at her number one college so things should be good.
Adding to her jubilation, this week, she found out she was nominated for Scholar Athlete. The newspaper asks each high school to nominate a male and female athlete. They get pictures and articles in the sports section of the newspaper, and 17 students are chosen to share a big pool of scholarship money. Grace was on cloud nine. The athletic director picked her from all the other female athletes in the school, including some with well-known parents. She learned that the athletic director talked to teachers and coaches before making her decision, so somewhere teachers and coaches are saying nice things about her. She felt like she had won for once.
Of course, the fly in the ointment, my husband works for the local newspaper. So he felt the need to clarify whether Grace was actually eligible to receive the scholarship money. After several rounds of phone calls, he found that although she could receive the plaque and the newspaper publicity, she couldn't receive the scholarship money since Earl works at the paper.
When I told Grace, she cried, leaving a wet spot on the leg of my pants. "I should give it back to them and let them choose someone else," she sobbed.
It's hard to know the right thing to do. Should Grace get the acknowledgement from the school and the city, or should she give up her spot to let another student at her high school have a chance at the scholarship?
I suppose even considering whether to return it means she's going to be okay either way. She thinks about doing the responsible things. Maybe she could be on one of those insurance commercials about people who do the right thing. Think she could get a scholarship for that?

Flush

I hate diets. I believe that dieting is at the heart of gaining weight, at least for me. If I limit myself, saying I can't have that one cookie, then I crave cookies and I'll eat a ton.
So I've always tried to eat what I want in moderation and exercise a lot. The past few years, it has caught up with me. That's when my friend Sheila suggested the Fat Flush diet plan. I liked a lot of what the book said about detoxifying the liver and getting rid of wheat, dairy and sugar to see if it is causing the fatigue or allergy symptoms. Plus, the first part of the diet lasts two weeks.
Knowing I probably wouldn't make it two weeks, I decided to give it a try yesterday.
My morning routine includes preparing a press pot of coffee, steaming some milk and pouring the coffee in to make it a lovely tan color then adding a teaspoon of sugar. Well, the fat flush requires no caffeine for the liver to deal with. So my morning started with a cup of hot water and half a lemon. Not nearly as satisfying. And a nagging headache started behind my eyes as I drank the cranberry water concoction that is required - 64 ounces each day. When I drank the cranberry water with a tablespoon of flaxseed, I gagged on the thickness at the bottom.
Breakfast was two hard boiled eggs with some cumin for seasoning. That wasn't bad. Then I walked for an hour with Sheila, chasing along behind her little, speedy dog.
My headache was increasing as I made my way back home.
I steamed some broccoli, sliced a cucumber and opened a pack of tuna for lunch. Then I gave up and headed to the couch for a nap.
Still my headache kept increasing and I felt pressure behind my sinuses.
This detox thing is really clearing out my sinuses, I thought.
That's when I started throwing up and it finally became clear to me that the headache/migraine was connected to my monthly cycle rather than the Fat Flush diet. I lay in a dark room for most of the evening, getting up to puke.
I was feeling little better as 9 o'clock approached and thought I would drive to pick up Spencer from basketball, about 20 minutes away. As I stood up, I ran to the bathroom to throw up.
Flax seeds? Again? How could they still be in my stomach after all day?
I prayed I wouldn't throw up as I drove to get Spencer and his friend. I had left it too late to send Grace to get them. She avoids driving on the highway so it would have taken her much longer to get there.
This morning I am walking carefully, as if I carry a dozen eggs in my head that must not be broken. I am having a cup of coffee to see if I can knock that nagging pain.
I may try the Fat Flush diet again tomorrow or once I get to my parents' house in Florida Friday, but as for today, I can't face any cranberry water or flax seed.
If you want to read about someone not puking on the Fat Flush diet, check out Sheila's blog called Life's Many Colors. http://lifesmanycolors.wordpress.com/

The Highs and Lows of Applying for College

This afternoon when we opened the mailbox, a big cream-colored envelope (recycled, of course) awaited us. It was addressed to Grace, but Earl and I tore into it since she was at school. The letter had finally come from her top pick college. She was accepted!
We rejoiced for Grace's acceptance to a school, a really good school where the incoming class hails from places like: Marblehead High School in Massachusetts, Seton Hall Prep School, Miss Edgar's & Ms. Cramp's School in Quebec, Lawrence Academy at Groton, and La Salle Academy in Rhode Island. I'm not sure Grace realizes the odds of a student from a small, public high school in Ohio getting into this elite college. I'm not sure that she realizes her good, but not great, grades were probably not enough to have pulled her into this school. Her freestyle swim stroke may be what twisted the arms of the administrators to allow her to attend. But we'll take it.
During her lunch break, I called and told her the news. She screamed then screamed some more. "I got in!"
The elation we felt for her rose to the ceiling, before falling to the wood floor beneath us when we saw the financial aid offer. The offer was so generous. More than $26,000 each year for Grace's college education. But the tuition is so much more. The college offer included a couple of loans and some work/study opportunity in addition to the $26,000 grant. The bottom line is that our family portion is still going to be more than $19,000 for tuition, room and board each year. Gulp!
It didn't take long before I was on the computer searching for our airline reservations, the ones that were supposed to take us to France next month. We still aren't sure if the tickets are refundable, but if they are, they can go a small way toward paying that chunk of tuition. We realize, now that the numbers are on the table, that we have to put the money toward college rather than a whimsical trip to France.
Even though we may not be going to France, I'm keeping the purse.