Beth + Tall Ladder + Balancing paint can = A lot of paint on the driveway

Oh yea, it's time for another Beth and The Giant Ladder story.  This time the ladder is one of those extension ladders that has the rope to move it up and down and is therefore about 10 times heavier than I am actually able to lift and is 10 feet tall when not extended so is completely ungainly. 

Perhaps I should set the scene a little bit: Steve took off work on Thursday and Friday to help me with The Monster Paint Project (TMPP).  When I say "help" what I really mean is "tell me what to do in vague terms and with an irritated voice and then be angry when I fail to follow directions."  Just so we're clear.  Steve is the boss at work and he kind of forgets that I'm not an employee and that following his directions is a concept with which I'm not terribly familiar.  I also need to mention that Steve has a bizarre and slightly unnatural love for our driveway which he had re-sealed last fall and apparently the blackness of it brings him joy.  Or at least it used to.

Anyway, it is my job to take the scraper and scrape off any loose paint.  Then Steve goes by with the belt sander and pretty much removes the paint down to the bare wood.  Then I take the leaf blower and power off all the sawdust, cobwebs, and small insects that seem to be very attracted to this whole process.  Finally we are ready to apply primer.  We are using an oil based primer and before you can finish gasping about how awful it is that I am using such a toxic product I will say that I am using this product under duress and wouldn't have touched it with a 10 foot pole had 2 different paint store guys not sworn that a latex primer is not an option with our particular house circumstances and we'd end up re-painting every 2 years or so (which is what the previous owner did) because the paint would fail.  I can't see how using toxic oil once every 7-10 years is any worse than using slightly less toxic latex every 2 years. Back to the story: since Steve doesn't like heights it is my job to do the high parts.  I have no fear of heights, though clearly I should, so I scamper up the ladder like a little monkey, but unlike a monkey, I am wearing my apron with the big center pocket because that is how I am holding my paint brush, sanding block, scraper, and cell phone.  One hand holds onto the ladder, the other hand holds the can of primer.  Now you may recall that I mentioned how heavy and unweildy this ladder is so I don't like to move it very often.  Instead I like to reach as far as I possibly can to the left and right thus completely throwing off my center of balance.  My apron with the big center pocket tends to sway to whichever side I'm leaning, thus throwing me even more off balance.  Steve did inform me that most ladder accidents occur from exactly this behavior. 

Well everything was going along swimmingly: there I was scraping the gutters.  Sanding the gutters.  Priming the gutters.  I really really really needed to climb down the ladder and move it again, but I was tired, the ladder is heavy, and everytime I moved it a new scrape mark was created on my freshly primered gutter so I had a better idea: what if I rested my paint can on the roof, leaned back slightly, and kind of jumped the ladder a little to the right?   Well apparently this wasn't a good idea at all!  The ladder didn't really jump as much as sway a bit and with only a freshly primed gutter to grab on to (which I certainly wasn't about to mess up my fresh primer) I really didn't have much choice but to pinwheel my arms around wildly trying to regain my balance whilst I threw my weight forward to try to stabilize the ladder.  In all the pinwheeling and throwing my weight around somehow the paint can must have gotten knocked off the roof.

For the record: when a nearly full quart of primer falls from a great height it hits the ground and explodes paint everywhere.

Did I mention this is oil based primer?  You can't just hose it off the driveway.  Just ask BP how hard it is to clean up an oil spill.  So Steve is screaming "What the hell?" and I am scrambling down the ladder as fast as I can to try to hide the accident meanwhile white primer is flowing all over Steve's nice black driveway in a river while droplets of exploded primer and paint can are still raining down all over the garage, the grass, me, and yes, the driveway.  I had the great idea to quickly pour sand all over the primer hoping the sand would absorb much of the liquid and make clean up easier.  The idea wasn't bad, but it didn't work out quite like I'd hoped...

We now have sand and primer stuck to our driveway.  Steve is resigned.  And I learned nothing because as soon as I finished spreading sand all over the driveway I climbed right back up that ladder and thought "I wonder if I could rock the ladder from side to side to move it?"  I thought it.  I didn't do it...yet...

How men and women see color (hint: very differently!)

Ahhh, another home improvement project with Steve and Beth.  How our marriage has ever survived these projects I don't know because there could not be two people with more different views on how to plan, organize, and execute a project.  Add to our usual differences the fact that we see and interpret color very differently and you can imagine how challenging painting the exterior of our house has become.

I like to call this: project negotiations...

Steve: I see our house with a really dark green body, off-white trim, and navy blue shutters.
Beth: I see our house with a light olive green body, bright white trim, and dark red shutters.

The fact is that men and women may really see color differently.  About 50% of women are tetrachromatic which means they have four types of cone receptors instead of three.  Cone receptors are cells located in the retina that are responsible for our both our vision of color and the detail in which we see it.  Just having more or less cone receptors isn't the whole story.  It turns out that even with people with the same number of cone receptors the interpretation of color can vary greatly.  Human beings have a color experience which means that we relate to color as it relates to experiences in the world because our brain does an automatic color correction so things appear "right" to us despite wearing sunglasses, colored lenses, or colored lighting.   So my brain interprets color differently from Steve's brain.  (Clearly my brain's interpretation is the correct interpretation therefore my color choices are superior, right?)

It's more than just a physical difference.  Men and women perceive colors different as part of our different gender experiences.   If we go back to our original hunter/gatherer roots women evolved to prefer colors on the red spectrum as berries, fruits, flowering plants, and other necessary foods come in that color.  Also, as the primary caretaker of children since time began, women had to perceive variations of red as an indication of fever or rash in our children.  Being attune to the red spectrum may have been necessary to save a child's life.  Men evolved to look for colors on the blue spectrum: blue sky indicating good weather necessary for hunting, blue water indicating good watering hole where animals may be found.  Purple clouds indicating a storm coming.  Movement in the shadows indicating attack by an enemy or animal.  Seeing variation in the blue spectrum may have meant life or death to the man his tribe. 

Well, Steve and I are already ahead of our biology: we both want a green house, it's the depth of color that has us at odds.  I always prefer light colors and Steve always prefers darker colors.   This doesn't appear to be biological as much as personality preference. 

There is one big factor that must be considered that is probably more important than biology, personality, evolution, or societal influence:   I am the one who is actually doing the painting!

Light olive green, welcome to the neighborhood!

We all had the same mom, but we're not related

Yesterday Steve and I were chatting with the server at a restaurant (Side note: I truly feel sorry for the servers in restaurants who get Steve and me for customers because we just looooove to chat so God help you if you have other tables to attend to 'cause we are about to monopolize your time!) and laughing about sports teams, childhood, marriage, you know the usual stuff you chat with your poor can't-I-just-take-your-order-and-move-on server about.

It struck me how common our human experience is: take sibling relationships, for example.  We had a big ol' brown station wagon with jump seats that popped up out of the floor of the back.  Seated 10, comfortably.  Our bench seats were made of vinyl so they had these stitching lines that ran vertically down the seat.  My 2 brothers and I sat in the back with my baby sister in the front (my how times have changed) so that meant that one person in the back didn't have a window seat.  That's a recipe for a knockdown, drag out fight if I ever heard one.  My mom had designated certain stitching lines as our 'boundary lines' and we weren't supposed to put our hands or legs or any other body part over onto anyone else's seat.  Because we were good little children with immaculate behavior and sweet dispositions we spent most of our time creeping our fingers, legs, elbows, basically any body part we could stretch, move, or pull, over those stitching lines just to annoy each other.  I would creep my pinkie finger over my older brother's stitching line, he would promptly take his fist and try to pile-drive that finger into the seat (which didn't really hurt because the seat would give a little and absorb some of the impact).  I would snatch my finger away.  Meanwhile my little brother was moving his leg over my stitching line so I had to pound my fist into his thigh (which did hurt a bit more) and then he would yelp and my mom would threaten and I would deny and my older brother would laugh so I would have to breathe really hard on him so he would yell "Mom!  Beth is breathing really hard on me" so my mom would start to lose her mind and the baby would start to cry so finally Mom would reach into the glove compartment, pull out the wooden ruler she kept there for just these sorts of occasions and she would take that ruler and begin to smack whatever she could reach.

The ruler smacking generally didn't work out too well for the person sitting in the middle because my mom's reach was limited and the window-seat folks could suck their bodies into the doors as much as possible but the poor middle seat person just had nowhere to go.

I'm willing to bet that most people reading this (who have siblings) can relate to some version of that story.  I don't care where you live, what God you worship, what your socio-economic status is or was: if you have a brother or sister at some point in your childhood you were willing to risk pain, retaliation, and a wooden ruler just to annoy that sibling.  And you'd do it all over again if given the chance, even knowing what you know now.

You may even have a slightly different but no less immature and annoying game you play with your spouse, I know I do.  I know it drives Steve crazy if I get the remote before he does.  I like to get the remote and then put it on my legs with my hand loosely on top of it.  Then I can be "too slow" to fast forward the TiVo, something which is guaranteed to make Steve lose his mind, but before he can grab the remote away I snatch it out of his reach and then speed up the fast forwarding.  Seeing poor Steve's hand twitching on his lap as he tries to control his urge to pile-drive me into the couch and take that remote is true entertainment my friends, it really is.

So 'fess up folks.  What did you do or are you currently doing to annoy your siblings or spouse?  Don't be shy, chances are that whatever you did/are doing we have all done or will use as something new to try!

...And that's why I need more toilet paper.

So late last week I had this great idea:  I will turn the remaining 3 months before my 40th birthday into a boot camp of sorts and sculpt my body so that when I turn 40 I will be ripped, cut, and amazing.  I couldn't help it, I was hyped-up by the return of Biggest Loser after the long Winter Olympics hiatus, I'd had a little too much enjoyment from my peanut butter cookie Larabar, and I had recently seen a picture of 42-year-old Halle Berry in her underwear.  Inspiring, to say the least.   Never to be one to do things by halves, I jumped into my new routine.  I made sure my breakfast smoothie was pristine: no cheating by using orange juice for extra flavor because it also adds calories.  My lunchtime veggie intake was a thing of beauty: no dip, a small handful of almonds or walnuts for protein, perhaps some fresh-squeezed lemon juice for some zip.  Snack time I had a Larabar.  Dinner was awash with whole grains, fresh veggies, and simple proteins.   I was working out with a new fervor: 30 minutes on the elliptical, an hour of weigh training, an hour-long cardio class.  Each day I had breakfast, take daughter to school, workout, home, shower, lunch, take a walk, yoga, pick up daughter,  snack, housework, cook dinner, read, bed.  Get up and do it again all over the next day.  Earlier this week I was so sore I was sure my chest pains were a heart attack.  By Wednesday I was sure I had a sinus infection (and still possibly a heart attack).   By Thursday I was so sick I was willing to consider going to Dr. Breast Exam to get antibiotics.  By Friday I was so sick I was only well enough to yell at Steve, but too sick to go to the doctor.

Perhaps working out about 5 hours a day and consuming barely a thousand calories while still not fully recovered from my cold wasn't my best plan. 

Still, congested as I was, I didn't rate breathing high enough to go to Dr. Breast Exam for a prescription so I decided to cure myself with probiotics and extra psyllium husk in my smoothie.  Look to the colon folks!  Whatever ails you, look to the colon.

I'm still congested.  I still have a headache. My nose is still raw from blowing it. 

But By God my colon is clean.

And that's why I need more toilet paper.

Speed Bathing

  This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I will not be featured as an Olympic athlete in the 2010 Winter Games.  I should be though, because my friends, I could take the Gold in Speed Bathing.

I have been training for 11 years.  Ever since my darling infant baby girl first began going into apoplectic shock the second I stepped foot into the shower, I took up the art of Speed Bathing.  And I'm finding that it's a hard habit to break.

What began as a sanity-saving-get-in-and-get-out-before-that-child-bursts-a-blood-vessel necessity has morphed into a reckless-do-I-really-need-to-shave-those-legs-today race that is fueled primarily by procrastination with a healthy dose of poor planning thrown in for good measure.

I don't tend to leisurely enjoy my toilette.

I intend to.  I really do.  I have purchased fluffy towels, yummy-smelling-soaps, a PVC-free shower curtain liner, decadent shampoos, and expensive razors.  I have my Burt's Bees Royal Jelly Body Lotion strategically positioned on the counter so after my shower I can take a moment and moisturize.  I have my razor blade suction-cupped to the shower stall where it won't get wet.  I even bought the girlie shaving cream.  I go into the shower with all good intentions to pamper, primp, exfoliate, shave, and condition.  That is, I go into the shower with those intentions oh, about once a week.  The problem is that the rest of the week I go into the shower with T minus 31 minutes until I have to: 1. pick up my daughter from school or 2.  be at an appointment that why I didn't just schedule it 15 minutes later I don't know, but that's poor planning for you or 3.  Steve is about to burst a blood vessel because instead of showering (like he thought I was doing) I was reading blogs and/or searching for Google Images, so now I have to get showered, blown dry, and dressed before he finishes eating toast.

Here is how it usually happens: I get home from the gym.  I intend to immediately shower so my back doesn't break out from contact with my sweaty sports bra.  I turn on the water.  The phone rings.  I have to look to see who is calling because it could be my daughter's school and therefore an emergency.  It's Debbie.  Or Chellie.  I decide to talk for a minute while the water heats up.  (These are very interesting women and if you talked to them you wouldn't be able to talk for a minute either, so no judging please).  I realize bathroom is filled with steam.  I feel guilty and turn water off.  I decide to unload/reload dishwasher while chatting, thus being productive.  I fold laundry.  I make beds.  I hang up coats.  I straighten cushions and throw pillows.  Conversation ends.  I really need to shower but look, there is my computer!  I'll just quickly check to see if I have any comments on my blog then I'll take my shower.  Hey, someone commented!  I'll write back so they know I appreciate them.  Oh look, one of the blogs I follow has a new entry. I read.  I follow links.  I find funny youtube video.  I email funny youtube video to friends and family.  I remember I haven't sent any e-cards lately.  I begin perusing e-cards.  I send some out.  Wait, don't I have a new bill in my email?  I read emails.  I pay bills.  I glance at clock on computer: 2:15!!!  I have to pick up my daughter at 2:45!!!  I race upstairs, turn on water while pulling off now-stiff-with-dried-sweat sports bra.  I jump in shower with water still cold.  I shampoo quickly.  No time to rinse and repeat!!  I mash some conditioner around and soap up.  Yes I really need to shave my legs but I don't have time!!!  I dry off.  Yes I really need to moisturize my alligator skin but I don't have time!!!  I blast my hair with a blow dryer while brushing my teeth.  I slap mineral make-up on with one hand while pulling out clean clothes with the other.  I throw on clothes, grab keys, phone, and coat and run out the door with 2 minutes to spare.

Gold medal caliber I tell you, Gold medal...

The January Doldrums

Our household is feeling the January doldrums.  The blahs.  Steve is home sick from work.  I am having to talk myself into going to the gym, folding that last load of laundry, and/or cooking dinner.  Our daughter is trying to fry her brain with too many The Suite Life of Zach and Cody reruns.

Yep, it's the end of January all right.

I read a feng shui book that had a lot of information about stale energy.  If I have any energy at all right now it is certainly stale, so I thought I'd get the book out again and brush up on the cures.  It turns out the cure to stale energy is to get moving.  sigh.  I don't want to get moving, but okay, I'll play along.  The book said to move 21 items in your home.  Unfortunately cleaning up, while extremely good, doesn't count as moving items.  I think I'll give it a try.  That candle on the mantle that has been collecting dust could be (dusted) moved upstairs to my bedroom.  The picture frames that I keep meaning to fill could be filled and hung up.  Maybe the throw pillows on the couch in the living room could be switched with the ones on the couch in the basement?  Perhaps I can recycle a pretty glass jar I received at Christmas as a new pen holder on my desk.  Maybe I'll even add a ribbon to it.  Or add a fun label to the jar.  Heck maybe I'll print out a collection of black & white toile labels and give my desk a coordinated French country look.

Okay, maybe there is something to moving 21 items.  Just thinking about moving the items I feel more energetic.  I'll start with moving the biggest item: myself, and then see where it goes from there.

Happy January!

How did I go from JailBait to Cougar?

I was checking out a fun blog about turning 40.  Then I was chatting with Debbie this morning and she mentions a fun new show on ABC called Cougar Town starring Courtney Cox.  Courtney Cox is a Cougar?  No way!  Courtney Cox is that adorable girl from the Bruce Springsteen video.  Courtney Cox is the super-hip young urbanite on Friends.  If Courtney Cox is a Cougar, then ...then...so am I!  I turn 40 in less than 5 months!

I have achieved Cougar status.

You know I have noticed lately that many of the women in the gym are younger than me.  And come to think of it, that woman on the Pilates mat next to me yesterday may not have wanted to strike up a conversation with me because she may have looked at it as talking to someone who could be her mom.  Just because my daughter happens to be 10 doesn't mean I couldn't easily have a child who is 20.  When did this happen?  I'm still buying acne cream and yet I really do need some wrinkle cream (especially under my eyes, dear Lord it's not pretty).  I remember being in my 20s.  And in my 30s.  But I don't remember aging!

I am looking forward to 40.  I don't feel it's old, though it continually surprises me when other people do.  I have made a commitment to myself to be in the best shape of my life at 40.  (Thus the Pilates, sigh)  As Steve and I celebrate our 19th Anniversary this year (child bride, what can I say?) I certainly feel like our marriage is better than ever.  I'm certainly better equipped to handle my verging-on-teenage-hood-daughter than I would have been 10 years ago.  I'm even better at making (and most importantly, keeping) friends than I was 10 years ago.

Still, realizing that to the young men at the gym I'm the scary Cougar is quite an eye-opener.  Don't worry boys, you have nothing to fear from me, I'm old enough to appreciate what I have, live my life in the present, and not create any drama for my future.  Grrrrrrrowl.

The Perfect Marriage

If you've been reading this blog you know that Steve and I have the perfect marriage: we laugh a lot, we fight a lot, we have very little in common, and we love each other a lot. When we attended a wedding back in August we received a rare and wonderful compliment: the DJ asked all the married couples to come to the dance floor and asked us how long we have been married. When he got to Steve and I and we answered "18 years" the woman next to us gasped and said to her husband of 38 years, "I would have sworn they were newlyweds! Look Ed, look how in love they are!"

It's quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said about us as a couple.

So recently as we stood in the kitchen arguing over my choice of song on MY iPod I wondered what makes us work.

"It's the most wonderful, romantic song in the world! I love this song!"

"Turn it off, that song is stupid, even our 10 year old doesn't have that song on her playlist!" "It's my iPod, I can have whatever I want on it!"

"Great, then don't play it through the speakers. Use your earbuds."

He turned it off. He turned on the football game. I turned on the mixer. And the blender. He took 3 days to confirm me as a friend on Facebook. It took me a whole day before I mentioned I had taken a teaching job without consulting him. He buys his own Christmas presents in October. And November. And December. I spend $6 on butter because it's organic. He likes music where the girls are slutty and the guys are confused. I like a sitcom that hasn't made a new episode since 1995. He said that last night's dinner smelled like dirty sweat socks and looked like dog food. (He was kind of right about that one...) I make fun of his haircuts even when I like them.

And yet, when I hear that song, my favorite-most-romantic-song-in-the-world song, I only think of Steve. This song is sung with such feeling, such depth, such beautiful orchestry I feel warm inside just thinking about it. Steve's romantic song choice: Smooth Up In Ya by the Bullet Boys.

My choice: Kiss the Girl from the Little Mermaid soundtrack, sung by Sebastian the Crab.

One drill, 8 screws, 2 curtain rods & me

Let me begin by stating: I love my home. I think the previous owners did a fantastic job picking out paint colors, wood finishes, designing the floor plan, and choosing the carpeting. The previous owners did not, however, have a talent for putting up curtain rods.

"Please leave all curtain rods and associated hardware." we wrote in our contract when we bought the home. I was trying to save myself from having to move in, fill a bunch of huge-drywall-anchor-sized holes, paint, and then be able to put up new hardware. Ironically I am having to do exactly that because you see the curtain rods are mounted four inches below the top moulding of each window. That's right, I said below. It is the most unusual placement of a curtain rod I have ever seen. Rather than elongating the window it bisects the view. Most standard 84" curtains drag the floor (as opposed to puddling on the floor in a display of decadence and luxury), and it is disconcerting to have the curtain rods below the moulding.

Well I'm no slacker, I'll just get Steve's trusty drill and move those rods up about 6 inches. Easy, right? Wrong. It's important now that you know that when we hung the curtain rods in our daughter's freshly painted room we broke the Phillips Head drill bit for the drill so when I went to remove the screws on the oddly-low rods in the family room I had to use a bit that was not made for the drill and is therefore too small. So it kept falling out. So I kept trying to tighten it back in and try again. It kept losing traction on the screws and falling out. Now I like to keep at problems like this for a good 5 minutes or so - you know just enough time to thoroughly round out the screw head so that I when I finally decide to just get the &*^% screwdriver and take the screw out manually I no longer have enough traction to do so. But maybe that's just me.

So I go back to trying the drill (having learned nothing from my previous 100 failures). This time I decide to push that button on the drill that Steve always pushes when he has failed 100 times. I don't know exactly what the button does, but when Steve pushes it, grunts, curses a bit, and pushes the drill really hard into something he seems to get success.

I pushed the button. I grunted. I cursed. I pushed the drill really really hard into the screw. The drill bit slid right off the screw and punched a decent sized hole in the wall. Hmm. I get the spackle out of my big center apron pocket and patch that hole right up. I try again. This time I decide (wisely) to hold a small cork coaster next to the spot I'm drilling. Yep, it worked like a champ because this time after I pushed the button, grunted, cursed, and pushed the drill really hard into the screw it flew right off the top of the screw and punched a decent sized hole in my hand that was holding the coaster. I didn't have any band-aids in my big apron pocket so I decided to forego the medical attention and just stick to the cursing. Besides by now the drill feels a little hot and I'm thinking the blood running down my hand may cool the bit, kind of a like a morbid wet-saw.

I am having a harder time holding the drill now. My arm is tired. One hand is bloody. The screw-heads are completely rounded out - so much so that I actually contemplate using an Allen wrench instead of a screwdriver. I cursed a blue-streak, grunted, and pushed that drill into the screw as hard as I can yet success eludes me. I briefly consider going to Lowe's to buy the appropriate drill bit for our drill, but I've wasted the afternoon now, school is almost out, and I have to return to my real job.

Drill, screws, curtain rods = 1.
Beth = 0.

But on the bright side, at least I didn't wet my pants this time!

Eat This...AND That..and that...and that..

After a four year hiatus I am returning to a vegan lifestyle. I have never felt so good in my life as I did during the 5 years I was a total vegan: my energy was up, I slept great, I was always healthy, people said I looked younger, and keeping my figure was effortless. You may wonder what could occur in someone's life to make them change a lifestyle that is obviously working so well for them, well, it was during the height of all this health that I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. While I know logically that it's not possible that being vegan caused the tumor somewhere in my head the lifestyle leading up to the diagnosis and the actual diagnosis itself got all twisted up and I found myself reluctant to continue being a vegan. At first it was for practical purposes that I began eating animal products: I needed to keep my weight up. After the tumor was discovered I was panicked, unable to eat, continuously nauseous (due to fear), and losing weight rapidly. Because I was already very slender when I was diagnosed, the 5 pounds that I dropped within the first 2 weeks were really noticeable. Steve said "you've got to eat and not that weird seaweed crap you usually eat, I want you to eat meat!" and so I did. I felt like somehow the tumor was punishment for the ultra-healthy lifestyle. I know it doesn't make sense, but that's what I was thinking.

Then, after the surgery I returned to veganism but found myself feeling afraid, shaky, and nervous most of the time. I didn't realize at the time that I was dealing with what a lot of people who have had a surgery deal with - a kind of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome where you know the immediate danger is over but now begin to ask the big questions about long-term survival. I found that I seemed to feel less shaky when I ate bigger, fuller meals and that quickly led to meat and then finally even to some dairy as well. I gained weight. I felt okay. I began to get the regular assortment of colds that most people consider normal - though I had not had a cold the entire time I was vegan. My allergies kicked in to high gear.

A year went by. Then two. Three. Four years later here I am feeling awful. I have joint aches, I have had several colds/sinus infections, I feel heavy, lethargic, and old. I kept wondering what should I be doing that I am not already doing? I exercise. I eat a very balanced diet of fruits and veggies. I am active with friends and happy in my marriage and family life. Why don't I feel well? While walking yesterday it hit me: it's what I eat. I think that some people's bodies just aren't really made to digest animal products. Specifically I think my body doesn't digest them well.

The first time I went vegan it was like throwing a switch: one day I was eating pepperoni pizza, the next day I wouldn't eat anything made with animal products. That approach works, but maybe there is a more balanced approach that I can take this time around. I simply won't prepare any foods containing animal products for myself when I am at home. I always ate whatever I was served at people's homes and I will continue to do that but this time I won't be such a pain when we go out to restaurants. This time I will allow for gray areas such as butter or eggs. I'm going to try it. I think a month's worth of time is a reasonable test period and I'm going to see how I feel. My theory is that the joint aches, stomach aches, and heaviness will be gone. I'll let you know.

Either way it's going to be good for me to dissociate veganism from a brain tumor. It's good to process all those feelings and put them in perspective. It's good to look forward to eating again because what I am eating feels right to me.

Glass of soy milk, anyone?

Oh so that's what we are supposed to do in bed!

New house. New bedroom. New bed including mattress and box springs. Scene set for a night of ...TV watching? The new house also came with another new feature: the wall mount TV bracket. I abhor the wall mount TV brackets on many, many levels as I will detail for you in a moment, but first let me ask: what is it about an empty TV bracket that instantly turns men into beings obsessed with filling that space? We haven't had a television in our bedroom for 8 years and suddenly Steve cannot live another moment without watching the news while he gets dressed each morning. Now I'll admit that with all the "together time" we've had over the past 2 weeks that he was on vacation he probably he fears having to talk to me for any length of time, but I don't know that putting a television in our bedroom will solve this problem because I have no problem talking over the TV.

Now about these wall-mount TVs:
1. The bracket isn't centered over a fireplace or other architectural structure it is in the corner of the room just like in a hospital. With our green-painted walls and white bedding the whole hospital look may just be too much for anyone but especially a recovering hypochondriac like me.

2. The television is ugly. It is a blank black box. It is not aesthetically pleasing. It cannot be masked, mounted in the corner as it is. It is an aberration in my beautiful, peaceful room.

3. First comes the TV. Then he'll need TiVo. Then a DVD player. The corner that was supposed to house a beautiful chair for relaxing, reading, and looking at the mountains will become a shrine to technology. It is inevitable.

4. Sleep and sex. That's all I need to do in bed. I would prefer not to do either with a laugh track playing in the background. (Although studio audience applause, if well placed, could be kind of encouraging...)

5. Feng shui says this a definite no-no and y'all know how into Feng shui I am.

But...I don't live alone (for which I am thankful) and I don't have complete control over the contents of my home (something which I am striving to change through nagging), and I suppose that anyone lucky enough to live in a home with a view of the mountains could perhaps, just perhaps, be graceful enough to suck up having a television in the room.

Then again...if nagging works....

She wants an Itty Bitty Teeny Tiny Hot Pink Flowered Bikini...

My daughter's BFF just bought a new swimsuit. Sigh. Did she buy the standard Land's End Tugless Tankini with privacy liner, you may ask? Nope, she did not. Then she must have bought the LLBean Rash Guard with matching Swim shorts, you may be thinking. Sadly, no, not the rash guard and swim shorts either.

She bought a tiny little hot pink hibiscus flowered bikini with lime green trim, circa Target, 2009.

So guess what my daughter wants now? Yep, you guessed it, she wants to know when she can have a bikini. Now for the record, I am not actually against the bikini. I think there is a fairly wide spectrum of swimwear and I know we can find plenty of 2 piece suits that fall respectably within the bikini part of the spectrum but are still appropriate swimwear. I also know that to forbid the bikini is essentially to throw down the challenge: how frequently can you wear a bikini behind my back and get away with it? I know this because I was forbidden to wear a bikini. When I was 12 we visited my cousins in Kentucky. My aunt dropped us off at the pool where I immediately went into the restroom and changed from my mom's-choice-really-cute-one-piece to my cousin's friend's mom's quite-ugly-but-at-least-it-is-a-bikini abomination from the early '70s. Then when I was 14 I had babysitting money so I simply purchased my own bikinis, wore them underneath my clothes, put my one piece in my bag, was dropped off at the pool and mom was none the wiser. This went on for probably a year or so before I was "found out." My mom was mad at being lied to, mad that I went behind her back, mad that it had been going on for so long, and felt helpless because she realized that there wasn't much point in telling me I couldn't wear something I had been wearing for years.

I'm hoping to avoid that particular fight with my daughter by applying some of what I've learned from own poor behavior and from other friends' stories: I won't forbid the bikini because in forbidding it I set myself up to be lied to and my daughter to be sneaky. I also completely forfeit any say in the style of bikini because my daughter would be choosing it with her friends or (God forbid) her boyfriend and I wouldn't even know she was wearing it.

So back to the bikini issue, it's not really me that will be the great roadblock in her plans to bare her midriff. It's Steve. Steve cannot imagine any situation in which it will be okay for so much of his daughter's skin to be on display. He cannot fathom why I wouldn't be as adamant about this as he is. Well, I guess it's because I've been there. I've done that. I realize that wearing the bikini is (right now) more about fitting in with friends' cute fashions and not really (yet) about sexuality. There will definitely be a time when the swimsuit choice is all about attracting a mate, showing off what the Good Lord gave her, and trying to be mature and frankly, more than ever, that's when I want to be able to weigh in on the swimsuit choice. I recognize that there will still be times when I will be lied to. When my daughter will sneak around behind my back. When she will see just how much freedom she has or can take. I'm no fool now and I was no angel back then.

But for right now I still have her. She's still mine. She still obeys because she doesn't realize yet that she has a choice. And for these last few precious weeks, months, or years that this is true I want to cultivate as much of a my-mom-is-reasonable-and-can-be-reasoned-with relationship as I can.

'Cause I know this for sure: it's not about the swimsuit. It's never just about the swimsuit.

Grace #17 Seinfeld

I've never argued the fact that I am stuck in the late '80s/early '90s when it comes to television. I still love Seinfeld. Sure, the earlier episodes, before they found their rhythm, aren't nearly as funny as the later stuff, but I love it all anyway. I am not an aficionado. I will never win any Seinfeld Trivia Contests, nor will I ever write a fan letter. I am not that kind of fan. I am the kind of fan who, at 10:30 at night, after a really bad day, will sit down to 22 minutes (after fast-forwarding through all the commercials) of a show about nothing and will feel all of the stresses of the day start to dissolve.

I can relate all sorts of Seinfeld-ish dilemmas to my own life and they always make me smile:

Steve is Sponge-worthy.

For all race-related issues I "look to the cookie."

I frequently yada-yada the details.

My daughter is a sidler.

My dad is a close-talker.

My mom is a low-talker.

Steve buys lunch most days from a Greek version of the 'Soup Nazi'.

I was sad when the show went off the air. Life was just a little less funny for me after that. For awhile I was able to placate myself with the higher-brow humor of Boston Legal, but even that is taken from me now.

Having a sick sense of humor and very little moral conscience, I laughed uproariously at It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and am hoping for new episodes in the fall. I know that as old shows go, new shows come and replace them. I miss the old, but I'm all right.

You might even say that I'm Even Steven.

Survival of the Fittest

We have a war going on in our house right now: a war between human and insect. Currently both sides have taken heavy casualties, but the humans are few (though large) and the insects are many (and not really that much smaller) so it is only a matter of time before the insects win. We can only hope we have moved out before they fully take over.

We have ants.

I don't mean just your ordinary-run-of-the-mill-picnic-ants, we have ants the size of cats roaming around here. They are big, black, and they bite. They fearlessly stroll along the counter tops, leisurely munch on the cat's food, and while they scurry away when they see Steve coming, they laugh when they see me.

You see, they know my weakness...

...I am unable to kill them. I say this with great shame, not pride. No humanitarian (insectitarian?) award for me folks because I really, really wish I could just smash the little buggers, but I can't. Every time I try to kill a bug at the last second something inside me says "you're bigger, you know better!" and I end up finding a tissue, capturing the bug, and taking it outside. I call it my catch and release program. Steve calls it stupidity. "Just smash those little buggers!" he yells at me as he watches me wrestle one into the tissue. I can't. It makes my stomach hurt to think of deliberately killing anything. Oh I admit, when one was biting me on the leg the other day, I smashed that little guy to kingdom come, but that was a reflex action, not pre-meditated murder. I'd get a lighter sentence for that one or could even claim self defense.

I keep hoping that Princess, our cat, will take over bug patrol. Not used to exerting herself any further than moving to a sunnier patch on the couch, the cat doesn't seem interested in her role as exterminator. I have no problem if the cat kills the ants, that's nature. If I kill the ants, well, that's murder. I don't like it when Steve kills the ants either, but I especially don't like it when he uses one of my shoes! It makes me feel like an accessory with the bug guts all over my soles to prove it.

Now Steve wants to bug-bomb the house. Even if I could get past the mass-murder aspect of this plan I still would refuse on the grounds that I don't wish to breathe, or have my child breathe, bug-bomb-residue-laden air. I like to suck in my pesticides the old fashioned way, through my food.

So here we are: currently at an impasse. I tell the ants that I rescue to get out, stay out, and tell their friends to stay out too. They come in greater and greater waves each day. We move in 24 days. It is a race to the finish line: who will survive the age-old battle between human and nature? I can practically hear their little antennae buzzing as they plan their attack. Up through the dirt floor in the basement. Under the ill-fitting basement door jamb. Once they hold the kitchen, they've taken the house.

I hope I have enough tissues...

Bicep curls, Tricep curls, squats, and Kegels

Well I am just about as happy as I have ever been. After my incontinence post, my good friend Debbie called me right up and said "Girl, I can help you!" She reminded me that I should be doing my Kegel exercises daily, (something which I'm sure I haven't done since my OB said to them before my daughter was born), but then added the most wonderful piece of trivia I have ever heard: "you know Beth, there are weights you can use to strengthen those muscles..."

What? Kegel weights? How could I not have known about this???

While I haven't actually worked up the courage to purchase, insert, and lift said weights, just knowing that there are women out there who are using them has made me happy. You know that very distracted looking saleslady who just blew you off at the checkout?...well maybe she was distracted because she was, at that very moment, lifting her Kegel weights! How about that woman who always has the slight smile on her face everytime you see her? Yep, probably Kegel weights. How about that woman who is not at all attractive, not very friendly, and has no personality to speak of who is married to that hot, rich guy and you could never understand what he saw in her? Now you know that woman is probably up to 10-15 pounds of Kegel weight and is able to make change with those muscles!

I feel obligated to get these weights. Sure, yeah, the jumping-and-feeling-like-I-have-to-pee thing, but more importantly, I will never stand in a long at the post office again and feel that my time is being wasted. I will no longer sit through the PTO meeting just doodling on my agenda sheet. I will no longer have to worry about having an interesting answer to the question "so, what are you doing today?" "Why, I'm lifting my Kegel weights, thank you for asking!"

And Steve, well, well, well, my friends, Steve is really in for some surprises, if I do say so myself...

Is that Neosporin supposed to make you look sexy?

I have been debating the to-bikini-wax-or-not-to-bikini-wax question all winter. Finally, with my waxing appointment more than a week away and my bikini area looking a little too unkempt for my taste, I decided just to shave. I have not had a lot of shaving success stories in this area, which is why the bikini wax question became a question in the first place. I have asked friends for advice, but frankly my friends are not as hirsute as I am and really cannot understand the depth of the problem. Debbie, who to my knowledge has not bikini waxed, told me to go for the waxing. Chellie, who to my knowledge has absolutely no unsightly hairs anywhere on her body, suggested that if I shave I use Neosporin afterward to reduce the red bumps and lesions.

I shaved. I Neosporined.

I am a mass of red bumps, welts, lesions, chicken skin and stubble.

Is this really the sexy, smooth look for which I was aiming??

Now where do I go from here? Do I wait a few weeks to get the required 1/4" stubble to be able to wax? Do I try shaving again? Do I just give it all up and wear swim shorts? And it's not just about swimming: frankly I do not wish to slink into the bedroom, toss a naughty look at Steve, bare all, and have him swoon from the Bactine fumes as my Neosporined thighs glisten in the moonlight. Surely I am not forced to painful and expensive sessions with electrolysis just to keep my Eastern-European-Women's-Wrestling-Team genes at bay?

I don't know what to do. Perhaps I can train Steve to get excited when he smells Neosporin. Perhaps I can try using a man's razor with the patented lift-and-cut blades. Perhaps I can make peace with the fact that I am a hairy beast and that is how God made me.

Perhaps I can purchase skirted lingerie, wear boy shorts, buy swim shorts, and just never, ever look down again.

Writer's Block

I never thought it could happen to me while blogging: writer's block. I mean after all, I don't actually write about anything, yet I've been able to fill many months with posts, so how can I be blocked from writing about nothing? It boggles the mind, it does.

I just couldn't bear to put up another post about how I can't find a house, wah wah wah, how I am just obsessed with finding a house, yada yada yada, how if I have to live in this low-ceilinged-door-sticking-no-heat place another minute I'm just going to freak out. Too much of a good thing (assuming you ever thought the other posts were good) is still too much.

So without my litany of self pity about the house situation I found myself with nothing to write about. How sad is that? Then I realized something: I have all sorts of things about which to write. I have so many ideas and opinions that Steve regularly has to hide in the bathroom just to escape hearing all my thoughts/feelings. So here goes:

I have recently purchased some new workout wear. This was big for me because I usually workout in clothes that most homeless people wouldn't be seen in. I have been enjoying my classes so much and connecting with so many other women that I finally decided that I don't want to look homeless. I want to wear clothes that fit and are comfortable. I work seriously hard on staying in shape and by-God I'm tossing out the too-big-for-Steve-free-vendor-T-shirts and bringing in the cute spandex (oxymoron? Not in workout wear!).

My hair is growing out. It doesn't look better, just longer. Progress?

My face is still slightly broken out from the last major waxing. I still think hives/pimples look better than a goatee. On me, that is. Now I am faced with the bikini wax dilemma. I have never had a bikini wax before and I am admittedly scared. I am not afraid of the wax, I am afraid of losing the respect of my aestethician once she sees what has been lurking under my button fly jeans. Still, the red bumps from shaving are perhaps not my best look and I'm getting to know my 'waxer' so well that I think it's time we took our relationship to the next level.

Steve and I have been downloading documentaries from Netflix to our TiVO. I now know everything about nothing. Status quo.

There, that about covers it and gives me all sorts of fodder for new posts: my bikini wax, what I've learned from the documentaries, and my hairstyle progress. Gold, pure gold.

Steve and I are having problems in the bedroom...

Steve and I just celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. For all those years we have always had a problem in the bedroom. The problem is our bed. It isn't just limited to our bedroom either, we seem to have bed problems in the homes of our families and friends, in hotel rooms, and even in a beautiful bed and breakfast we found in Maine.

It all began when we first moved in together. We were poor. I'm talkin' got-our-first-kitchen-table-from-a-restaurant's-dumpster poor. We both had twin beds and since we were so poor we certainly couldn't afford a new bed and new sheets we decided that we would just share one twin bed. That lasted one night. Already we were learning that comfort and sleep could overrule libido. Then we had the great idea of putting both our twin beds together with one single king-sized fitted sheet holding them tight. We actually slept like that for about 6 months until I just couldn't stand waking up each morning "in the crack" and began looking for a new bed. Next we bought a second hand queen sized waterbed. This bed was with us for 8 years! It never really worked that well for us because the plastic liner made Steve sweat and I was always a little sea sick from the waves and I was still waking up "in the crack" only this time "the crack" was the area between the mattress and the frame where I would inevitably get tossed during the night.

Finally, pregnant, financially stable, and fed up, I demanded that we get a real bed. We did. We bought a beautiful queen sized sleigh bed with a good quality mattress and box springs. It was bedtime bliss for about 4 months. Then our daughter was born and we soon discovered that our tiny infant took up the space of an adult and we wished we had a king sized bed. Since our daughter opted to not sleep - ever - we spent many nights with one or both of us ultimately moving to other beds in the house so our child could stretch out in comfort.

We moved to Toledo and our daughter (then 5) finally started sleeping through the night. At last, we could enjoy our bed again! Nope: we foolishly purchased a house with a floorplan that could only be arranged so that our bed shared a wall with our daughter's bed. I found the mere 3 inches of dry wall between our beds to be quite daunting to um..other bedroom activities. In desperation we tried moving the bed against the window wall. Too noisy and freezing during the winter. Finally I actually moved the bed in front of our closets. Not too convenient, but at least it was private!

We move to Massachusetts: new bedroom on opposite side of house from daughter, maybe finally we will get to enjoy our bed. Not so, not so. We had to borrow a split box springs from our landlords because a queen sized box spring will not fit up our narrow steps. The borrowed-box-spring squeaks. Constantly. With every little movement. Still no rest for the weary.

Like I said earlier, this problem extends to outside our home as well. The bed squeaked so badly at the B&B in Maine that I couldn't look our hosts in the eye the next morning and I hadn't even done anything.

At Steve's parents house we either have to sleep 2 floors apart or Steve has to sleep in a 'tester' bed that is so short that his feet hang over the edge all night.

My mom has a queen bed, but only one and there are 3 of us. Obvious problem there.

When we stayed with friends during an extended power outage their guest bed was plenty big enough but had mysterious sand-like-crumbs on the sheets that made our feet itch all night.

The hotel air conditioner was broken on one vacation and we had so much humidity in the room that our bed was actually damp each night.

I am looking forward to getting a new house and a new bedroom, but most of all I am looking forward to getting a new bed. I think I am older and wiser now. I know the pitfalls of a poor bed choice. Because let's face it...

...right now, Steve and I have BIG problems in the bedroom!

Is the Third Time Really the Charm?

Steve and I have been getting a lot of rejection lately. We put a contract on a house. This house had been luxuriating on the market for almost a year with no offers but when we put in a contract BAM so does someone else (someone with more money than us, apparently) and the house goes to them.


Okay, we had a Plan B, a contingency house, if you will. We put a contract in on Plan B house. They countered. We let the contract expire. Plan B house was Plan B because it wasn't good enough to be Plan A and frankly, who wants to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a house that wasn't really good enough?

There isn't a Plan C.

So here I am again, searching the MLS, pouring over the meager 2x2 photos of the houses, driving by each new candidate to get a feel for the neighborhood, the yard, the house. Rejecting house after house. Getting excited about a house. Going to see the house. Getting disappointed about the house. Are there really that many people in America who chose pink or blue for their formica countertops? What were they thinking???

I am with a Buyer's Agent again. I don't have anything against real estate agents as a group, it's just that my last experience was so annoying. I'm also checking all the For Sale by Owner websites, hoping to find homes that I didn't even know were available.

I am going to start putting up the pictures of the homes I choose as 'candidates.' Perhaps the comments I get back will help us to make a decision because I have now seen so many homes that they are all starting to run together. Whatever house we choose next will hopefully be the one we get. This will be the third contract we will have written. My mom always says "Third time's charm!" Is it?

Perhaps I'll even make the final contestants into a poll! Wouldn't that be exciting!? (yep, my life is that lame right now).

But hey...at least my hair is growing...

Weekly Wellbeing: Seeking out people with different problems

I just watched an episode of Jon&Kate Plus 8. I really enjoyed seeing a full 30 minutes of someone else's life that is clearly, on a daily basis, much more chaotic than mine. As I sat, folding laundry, in my quiet-child-in-school-and-no-one-melting-down home I realized how incredibly blessed I am. I get overwhelmed easily. I get freaked out by too much chaos. I am the absolute most perfect person in the world to have only one child. And, if the reality show is real, Kate is absolutely the perfect person to have 8 kids.


I think it's good to look at other people's lives. I have never found someone whose life I would rather have. We are not rich, I am not beautiful, I am not famous, and I will probably not win a Nobel Prize, but I have a good life that suits me well. Even lives that look really good on the outside seem to have problems on the inside that I would not want to have. My daughter is healthy. Steve is healthy. I am healthy. My parents are both still alive. I have fabulous friends. I have enough to eat, good books to read, a roof over my head, and comfy flannel sheets on my bed. I may not have my own reality show (which, let's face it, would be one boring show), but neither do I have to divide my attention between 8 children each afternoon.

I like hearing about other people's problems, not so I can judge how messed up they are, but so I can appreciate how perfectly suited my problems are to me.