The Great Internet Disconnect

How long could YOU go without screen time?  Could you unplug yourself from your phone and your computer and your tablet?  I have been asking myself these questions lately, and the answers were making me squirm.  I have many OCD issues, but I would have to say the thing that I am most compulsive about is checking my cell phone.  I check the time (and yet, for some strange reason, the time never registers in my brain so I have to check it again), I check email, I check texts, I check my blog, and I check Facebook.  I truly am obsessive AND compulsive about my technology.

This morning, Dylan and I were up early, getting ready to go to Sand Hollow before the sun scorched the desert and sent the temperatures over 100 degrees.  Getting Bridger going early in the morning is an exercise in patience, but we managed.  We were in Dylan's pickup by 7:30.

Just before we left, I had a spontaneous thought.  One of my goals is to loosen the grip some of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies have on me.  I had watched a video last week that had touched me.  It had inspired me to "disconnect to reconnect."  I knew it was something I needed to do more often, especially when my husband and children are present.

Disconnect to Connect YouTube video  You can click this link to watch the 90 second video.

At the last minute, I texted my husband and posted to Facebook,  "Good morning!!! Going fishing with my boys. I'm declaring the day NO TECHNOLOGY DAY...well, at least until we come back to civilization. Wish me well. Checking my Facebook is my biggest OCD behavior of all. A little nervous I am."  I powered off my phone and left it on the kitchen counter.  And just like that, I walked away from my beloved phone.

Sand Hollow is northeast of Saint George near Hurricane.  The reservoir is crystal clear and is a good place for bass fishing, if you like to fish, which I don't.  I hate to fish. I hate the smell of worms and Power Bait and fish.  The only fun thing about fishing is casting and I was chastised for the incessant casting and reeling I did a long time ago when I tried to have a little fun.  I haven't fished since. So I have to find other ways to enjoy myself when I accompany the men in my family who enjoy "drowning a worm" now and again.

In my CamelBak hydration backpack I put my camera, journal, book, snacks, cooling cloths, and sunscreen...but not my Droid Razr cell phone.  While the boys hiked up and down the red rock surrounding the water, trying to find the perfect fishing hole, I tagged along behind them, taking pictures as we walked.  There were beautiful white flowers in bloom in the hot, red desert sand.  I loved catching pictures of my boys casting their fishing poles, taking sips of water, talking together, standing in silence alone on the rocks. 

As the sun made its way across the sky and I got hotter by the minute, I looked longingly at the lake.  The clear water teased me, lapping against the red sandstone shoreline.  I pulled out my neckerchief filled with beads that plump up with water to facilitate cooling on occasions such as this.  I was so tempted to take off my shoes and socks and get my feet wet.  The hotter it got, the more I entertained the thought of immersing my whole body in the lake.  But today Dylan had told me about the probability of getting swimmer's itch.

Swimmer's itch is an awful skin rash resulting in pus-filled blisters, and is caused by a bacteria that is in certain bodies of water.  Sand Hollow contains that bacteria.  The rash is itchy and miserable.  Considering the consequences, I busied myself with soaking my Coolcore cloth, dripping water from my Camelbak onto the cloth and snapping it to activate its cooling feature.  It was my salvation as sweat trickled down my torso.  

I envied the water skiers.  The skiers were young and not scared off by threats of a rash. They were laughing and enjoying themselves immensely.  I, on the other hand, was drinking copious amounts of water and getting hotter by the minute.  My life is all about comfort.  I was taking comfort in the fact that I was avoiding the dreaded bacteria hiding in the lake, and doing everything I could to stay cool without diving in head first.  Yes, I am plagued by the mindset of the "mature."

Case in point:  I looked like a dork on the rocks, but I was cooler because of my dorky attire....not cooler culturally, mind you, but cooler physically.  We laughed about my attempts to avoid the heat.  "Nerd alert!"  Dylan teased.  He recorded me in all of my glory.  I was smiling at the camera. "Shrink, don't smile in every picture.  Write in your journal.  Look like you just had a great idea!"

After jotting notes in my notebook, and taking pictures of the boys and the beautiful scenery, I decided to find a shadier spot and read.  I'd just started The Pilgrimage by Paolo Coelho, and took advantage of the boys' quiet fishing time to get a little farther in my book. Eventually, all of the water I'd been drinking caught up with me.  It was time to traipse back to the restrooms.  That settled it; the boys had only pulled one tiny bass to shore, and they decided they had had enough sun, too.

We drove around the sand dunes, and some of the newer housing developments in the area.  Dylan spotted a pair of sunglasses on the side of the road, and he asked Bridge to go get them.  When he put the purple plaid Burberry glasses on, he asked, "Do these sunglasses make me look as sexy as I feel?"  That boy...  He had never heard of Burberry, but I recognized it as a high end name in the fashion industry.  If only I had my phone, I could prove to him he had found a treasure by showing him what a pair of those glasses were worth.  That was the first time I really missed my cell phone.

I will admit that by not being glued to a screen, I had more opportunities to be an active participant with the boys this morning.  It is something I will do again.  It was worth it to leave the technology behind.  

When we arrived at the house, it was 11:57.  The boys made me wait three more minutes.  "Wait for it..."  Five hours techonology-free, and I had survived!  When I checked in on Facebook, I had 15 notifications.  Friends had teased me about my "break."  They know I'm addicted.  They know it wasn't easy.  It was probably good for them to have a break from me, too!  

The first thing I Googled was Burberry sunglasses.  They retail for over $200.  What a nice find they turned out to be!  Oh, I do love my internet connection and all of the information and communication it allows me.  But I will ALWAYS love my family more than ANYTHING...even Facebook!  

Who wouldn't be happy to be spending time with these boys?

The younger learns from the elder.

Fishing is serious business.

If Dylan is wearing his Kauai hat, it's
going to be a fishing day, Jamie says.

It's a thneaky thnake.  Just a blow snake,
thank goodness.  We got "up close and
personal."

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia! Remember Chia Pets?

Ever since our little "CHIA PET" PUDDING adventure last night, my head has been SPINNING.  Not around the clock, without a break, but it comes and goes with great frequency.  I've been racking my brain.  Am I getting sick?  Is this how the flu starts? Are my eyes sick of staring at screens all day?  As my kids can tell you, I live my life in front of a computer or a cell phone, it seems.

Could it be the HEAT?  My heavens, it's hot as blazes in Saint George, Utah. Bridger said it's supposed to be cooler today...down to 100.  Yeah, that will be refreshing.  (P.S. It ended up being 109, according to my car thermometer!!!  "But it's a dry heat," people say.  Hell's heat is similar, I bet.)

After staying up late with the kids last night, I woke up with a headache at FIVE.  Slightly light-headed, I took breaks from doing hair and makeup with little rests in bed.  By seven, I was at Margie's to pick her up for breakfast.  "Oh, do you want to cancel?" she asked when I complained about my head.

"Absolutely not!  It's not THAT bad."  We had such a good time catching up...laughing often and sharing stories about our grandkids and talking about art classes and confessing to some of our little indiscretions.  Ha!  Nothing big...little things like spending money on ourselves without guilt for the first time in our lives...eating comfort food a little too much, and a little too often. Occasionally, I had to hold my head or close my eyes, but the dizziness seemed manageable.  Margie suggested I see my eye doctor.  Maybe my Lasik surgery results have changed over time, or I need glasses now. It's something to consider.

Later, the boys and I headed to Sportsmen's Warehouse.  They each headed to different departments, fishing and ammo, and I made a beeline in another direction.  I told Bridge I would be in camp chairs.  I was LITERALLY in a camp chair within moments, resting my eyes. Several employees asked if I were enjoying myself.  I felt like I needed to explain my actions to an older couple who smiled politely behind raised eyebrows.  "Are you going to be okay?"  I assured them I would.  When the boys were ready to go, I covered by eyes with my sunglasses and put on a brave face to do back to school shopping for my upcoming sophomore.

Now that we're home, I've been resting in the darkened guest room, and Googling vertigo.  Then I Googled vertigo + chia seeds...and guess what?  There are several articles linking the two. Hmmm...there were suggestions about chia possibly lowering blood pressure.  When I told Dylan, he said, "Well, chia seeds are pretty expensive, but probably cheaper than tickets to ride a roller coaster, yeah?"  That kid can turn anything into a chuckle.

I am still investigating.  Does anybody out there KNOW if chia could be the culprit of my vertigo? For the time being, I'm going to play it safe and avoid them.  I really like the taste of the chia pudding, and I like feeling fuller, longer.  I hope it's just a short-term problem that will go away on its own.  If it ends up being the chia, I have plenty of chia seeds here if anyone wants to grow Chia Pets with me.

YouTube: Chia Pet Commercial

IF YOU AREN'T WORRIED ABOUT VERTIGO, AND YOU ARE CURIOUS ABOUT COOKING WITH CHIA SEEDS, MY BLUEBERRY CH-CH-CH-CHIA JAM RECIPE IS HERE.

My Son, the Joker

"Hey, have you ever had chia seeds?" I asked my 26-year-old son while we were visiting at his house in Saint George.

"Are they like Chia Pets?" He flashed his impish grin.

"Same seeds, different product."

"What ARE they?" he wanted to know.

I told him what I knew: they have omega-3s, they're high in fiber, they're a super food.  

"So if I swallowed some seeds would I feel full?"

"Yes. Dylan, let me just read the package for you...'Grown in Mexico, Chia Seed was a diet staple of the Aztecs and Mayans. The Chia...'"

He cut me off mid-sentence. "They're all dead, you know."

"What?  Who?"

"The Aztecs and the Mayans."

"Yes, Dylan, I know." I paused. I stared at him to make a point. "So are the cave men." Dylan follows the Paleo diet. This is an on-going conversation we have. (If the Paleo diet is so good for you, where did all of the cave men end up, huh?)

"Well, you told me it was a super food, and the people who ate it are all dead."

"May I finish?  'The Chia See's nutrients provided sustained energy during long hunts, and had numerous medicinal benefits.  Revered by the people, Chia Seed was often used in religious ceremonies which led to its ban by the Spanish during their conquest of the region.'"  There was the history.  And then I continued reading the lengthy list of health benefits.  My kids have always enjoyed trying something new, if not without some good-natured teasing, and mock hesitation.

I ended up making some pudding from the seeds.  It was so simple.  This time I poured 1/2 cup of chia seeds into a Tupperware container, and then let it soak in about three cups of almond milk. While the boys played video games, Jamie and I went for a late night run to our favorite frozen yogurt shop, Menchies.

When we got back the boys were still playing Mario Bros.  Dylan was talking to Bridger.  "No more resurrections for you.  Looks like there'll be no Easter this year."

That couldn't be right. I asked for clarification. "Is that really what Mario Brothers calls lives on their games...resurrections?"

"No, but if they did, I'd have 41 of 'em."  He giggles. "41 Easters!" Sometimes it's hard to believe he's not still eight years old. Jamie raised her eyebrows, and flashed him her tolerant smile, and ruffled his hair.  "WHAT???" he looked at her defensively. "Even Jesus laughs, Jamie."

"Who wants Chia Pet Food?" Dylan asked later.  Jamie, of course, was too full from her small serving of yogurt.  She was the only one who wasn't ready for a snack.  Of course, it could be because it looks so...suspicious.  Puffy little black seeds floating in a gelatinous sea of milk.  The boys put frozen raspberries in theirs, and I kept my small dish plain.  We all agreed it's pretty good. I know it will be a staple in my kitchen.

Jamie went to bed; she gets up early to open the Cracker Barrel Restaurant in town.  I needed to sleep, too.  I was taking my friend Margie out early for a visit at a local restaurant. "Dylan, I need to borrow a hair dryer for the morning."  I was crossing my fingers the kids even had one.  They both wear their hair short.  Dylan met me in the bathroom with a very nice purple dryer.  When he went to plug it in, it made a funny blip sound.  He unplugged it, and said he thought if he held it just right it would work.  I was nervous.

As he plugged it in a second time, his eyes went wide, and he began convulsing.  His face broke into a big grin.  "Just kidding, Shrink." That kid. He is ALWAYS "just kidding." After poking around in Jamie's bathroom, he found me another one.  This lovely red specimen pictured here.  Yeah, I'll be going to town Saturday to buy the kids a new hair dryer.  I think my hair can go one more day

without washing it.

It had been a fun evening full of laughter and good food.  We had made TWO recipes of Shepherd's Pie.  It took all of us. Bridger peeled potatoes, I cut up the onions, and Jamie cleaned up behind us as fast as we made our messes. Dylan was in charge of making the Ninja blender whip up the potatoes. They turned out great.  Who knew a fancy blender could make mashed potatoes? This old dog is always learning new tricks from her pups. Whenever we're all together, wherever we are...it feels like home to me.

RECIPE FOR CH-CH-CH-CHIA Blueberry Jam HERE.

Eating with Gusto

This weekend my youngest is traveling with me to see the oldest. My boys are ten years apart. When Bridger was first born, Dylan was the best big brother.  He rocked him, and kissed him, and made him laugh.  They were so cute together.  And then our little Boo learned to talk, and Dylan seemed to resent the Petit Prince.  He became jealous of the talking baby. "You let him get away with EVERYTHING.  You spoil him."  Well, there was probably some truth to that.  Bridger was only two.

Time has a way of softening the hard edges, and after Dylan grew up a little more himself, the boys actually became close again. Bridger worships the ground on which his big brother walks.  My heart melts a little whenever I watch them together.  And I laugh.  I have to; they're so funny together.

Now Dylan has grown up, married to the sweetest little wife, and moved three hours away to Utah's Dixie in Saint George.  My boys miss each other. This weekend will be a treat for us all.

Dyl and Jamie at Crossfit

Dylan and his wife stick to low-carb eating, along the lines of the Paleo diet. If you're not familiar with that, they eat like cave men...whatever grows out of the ground and can be hunted with a spear is what's for dinner.  That's my take on it anyway...they basically eat no processed foods, and get plenty of veggies and protein.  There's not a lot of room for homemade rolls and cookies in their diet, but on the weekends, they splurge occasionally. 

Yesterday I asked if Dylan had any special food requests for the weekend. "Shepherd's Pie!"  was Dylan's enthusiastic response.

"Do you want the real thing, or Paleo-style with cauliflower as a substitute for the mashed potatoes?"

"Real stuff!  I'll help make it if you want.  Thought about adding mushrooms and grilled onions to the burger part."

Dylan is quite the cook and manages their kitchen beautifully with weekly menus posted on their fridge.  He is a master griller and Dutch oven expert.  He continued,  "Do YOU have any requests you would like to do this weekend?"

"Hiking, but only if it's not hot as hell."  Yes, that would be me, speaking like a sailor to my child.  (You should know that Saint George IS hot as hell.  It's not just a figure of speech, so I excuse myself from resorting to this crude language.)

"It's pretty stinking hot, but we'll see."

During the summer, it's always over 100 in Saint George, unless it's raining.  It's a desert down there, so that is a rare and welcome delightful experience!

My kids are all healthy eaters; more so than I. They always have been.  We're all a little obsessed, though. 

I remember once when Bridger was in kindergarten, he was in his booster seat in the back of the car, complaining about being hungry.  

"I think there's a Reese's peanut butter cup back there; eat that." And what did my little five year old child say to that?

"Do you know how many freaking fat grams there are in that thing?"

Yeah, we have some issues.  I recall a 'last day of school" celebration when I offered to take the kids to Bullies, the local drive-in, to celebrate. I'm thinking ice cream cones and milkshakes!  It's a special day, after all.  What did my kids want? The boys wanted sandwiches, and Sierra asked for iced water. Sometimes I wonder if they are actually mine.

And WHY do they have issues?  I blame myself.  After Bridger was born, WAY after Bridger was born, I was still packing the pregnancy weight, and then some. Okay, I can admit this; after my third baby, I weighed 224 pounds. 

I remember the day I had struggled into my swimsuit to go to the pool.  Bridger was standing on the king-sized bed, and he patted my back. 

"Mommy, your back has boobs, too."  Good lord, I WAS big.

Not long after that, I began my first Body for Life challenge.  The nice thing for me was that Dylan was a high school athlete at the time and he was happy that I was eating more protein and making healthier choices.  We experimented together with our protein shakes and making healthy breakfasts. At his request, I made whole grain waffles with oat flour and flax seed oil.  We topped them with fruit or homemade syrup.  And Cool Whip.  There's always my favorite non-food of choice: Cool Whip.  I still struggle to give up that junk.

Sierra is my only girl, the Sierra Sandwich has her in the middle of the boys. She has been on board with most of the healthy eating.  She was blessed with muscles from the start, just like her brothers. She has always had the waist of a wasp and gorgeous, muscled arms, butt, and thighs. She rolls her eyes at me whenever I ask about calories.  

"I don't COUNT calories, Mama Llama." She has a great attitude. Sierra is actually one of my heroes when it comes to having a healthy mindset about life and priorities, in general.

My kids are my partners in crime.  Most of the time, we all try to eat healthy.  Some of the time, we indulge, and when we do, we do it with gusto.  We love Café Rio, Menchies, Swig (a local specialty drink drive-in in Saint George), ice cream, homemade goodies...  

Thankfully, I am the only slave to the scale. 

As anyone who has read my blog knows, I tend to be obsessive-compulsive about so many things.  I did NOT pass the awful weighing habit on to any of them.  I am just glad that my kids seem to be not only health-conscious,  but have a healthy perspective about diet and weight.  I tend to be the one throwing us all under the bus, diet-wise, most of the time.  ("Who wants ice cream? Want me to bake some cookies? Anyone up for frozen yogurt?") They rein me in with their raised eye-brows or their polite "no, thanks" when they think it's time to tone down the gusto.

I am looking forward to some silliness, some visiting, and some good food this weekend.  This IS the good life, and I'm so glad for these sweet kids to share it with.  (AAAAUGH!!!  A preposition at the end?  Can I let it go for once?  Watch me.  I can do this.  I'm going to slowly exit out of this without even fixing it.  Now if I can just not hyperventilate while I do.  Deep breath...breathing slowly. THE END.)

A Little Obsessive + A Little Compulsive = OCD? You Be the Judge

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.  OCD.  I bet everyone has it to some degree in some way, don't you agree?  It is not my intention to make light of anyone who suffers from debilitating anxiety over every day situations that lessens the quality of life.  I am simply admitting to some of my  own idiosyncrasies. Writing is my therapy.  "How will I know what I think until I see what I say?" (E.M. Forster)

Who among us DOESN'T have a preference for the way the toilet paper hangs?  Don't we ALL??? Does that mean I have OCD if I think your way isn't the RIGHT way?  Maybe.  I probably won't change your toilet paper roll in your house.  I said probably.  But I have to FIX the ones in mine on a regular basis.  No one in my house changes them back; thank heavens.  It would be terrible if we all fixated on rolls of toilet paper.

(A side note.  My fifteen year old is over my shoulder, proofreading this with me. 

"STOP," he orders.  "Whenever we go to Grandma's, I have to fix her toilet paper roll because the paper is hanging backwards."  We high-five each other.  Yes, my job here is done here, folks.  I've passed my WEIRD genes on to the next generation.)

I MAY have a touch of OCD.  The last few years, I have noticed that I count while waiting.  You know, while the water dispenser fills my cup from the fridge door, while the microwave reheats an item, while I dry my hair.  I'm not sure it has any purpose...except for the microwave.  10 seconds is the magical number if I want a homemade roll to taste like it did when it was first pulled from the oven.  And so I count to pass the time.  Or because I'm obsessed.

Numbers have always been a thing for me.  I was one of those moms who said, "Don't make me start counting."  (Briefest of pauses.) "One...two..."  You know the type.  Ever hopeful we've followed through enough times on our threats that we'll never hit THREE again as long as we live.  A mom can dream.

Even though I'm very language-based in my thinking, I am FASCINATED with numbers.  When I would explain my line of reasoning on solving an algebra problem, a fellow math teacher would just shake his head, and say, "That's INTERESTING.  If it works for you, use it.  I wouldn't solve it that way, though." Patterns are cool.  I love the fact that my dad's area code in Virginia was 804 when mine in Utah was 801, and when his changed to 434, mine changed to 435.  That's not just weird, but it's AWESOME, too.

My favorite number is TWO, and 222 is my ultimate favorite number. According to Bridger, my soul child, my mathematical logic is faulty. 22 should be the perfect number; it contains 2 twos.  Three twos seems "off," according to him. 2 twos sounds like "tutus" to my linguistic mind, and a tutu is something a ballerina wears. Two-two-two rolls off the tongue with a staccato of my numerical notes being repeated.   Bridger can pick his own favorite number for his own strange reasons!  I just love 222. It figures prominently in most of my passwords since it is the BOMB of numbers.  Here's a little fact about Adam Levine of Maroon 5 fame:  he has a tattoo of 222 on his arm because it is HIS favorite number, too.  I fell for him a little harder when I learned that little tidbit.

Some people are number freaks.  I guess I'm one of them.  You may have heard of 11:11 wishes. When the clock has those repetitive ones on a digital clock, you make a wish.  Ever since my kids were little, we've been wishing on ANY repetitive number.  Who knows how many disagreements in which they've been embroiled because their weird mom went a little too far with the wish thing. ("You can only wish on 11:11!"  "Nuh-uh.  MY mom says...")   My kids at school know that many times when reading to them before lunch my head would pop up from our novel, and I'd interrupt the story with, "It's 11:11!  Make a wish!"  That may not have been the best time to bring that up.  My bad.

Guess which teacher freaked out over 12:12 on 12/12/12.  Yep, that's right.  MOI.  I was giddy all day.  We talked about the SIGNIFICANCE of this day in our morning meeting.  When the fateful minute arrived,  I grabbed the clock off the wall, one of the kids pulled the calendar off of the bulletin board and all 36 of us crammed on, near, and around our crummy class couch for a picture.  I sent it to a friend, who must have some OCD tendencies of her own.  "What is WRONG with your clock?"  I inspected it.  Oh, no.  The clock's hands were loose and it looked like we were celebrating 11:12 on 12/12/12.  I couldn't have that.  I had one of my kids take it to the custodian for "immediate" replacement (translation: at his earliest convenience).

Have you seen Sleeping with the Enemy?  Julia Roberts plays the wife of an abusive husband with severe obsessive-compulsive disorder.  His canned food labels are all facing forward and the cans are in alphabetical order.  Hand towels are folded perfectly in half and hanging straight.  Their house is immaculate.  I'm afraid that last one would have caused me to jump ship, too.

OCD somehow lost any hold it has on me when it comes to cleaning.  I will wait until images outside  become murky before tackling a window cleaning project.  My toaster feels a little tacky. My stainless steel appliances rarely have that Better Homes and Gardens glow. (Those are an OCD person's nightmare, let me tell you.  When I DO decide to clean them, they're only clean for a nanosecond before some small smear can be detected.)  

I can let my floors go forever.  Ask my brother Eric.  On more than one occasion I watched him walk across my kitchen floor, lift his bare foot, and wipe some odd crumb off on his pant leg.  We'd chuckle, my cheeks tinged with pink.  You see, Eric and his wife share an OCD passion for cleaning.  Deep weekly cleaning.  I admire it.  I envy it.  I don't have it.

Besides toilet paper rolls, I have other things that drive me a little crazy in the bathroom.  I am an obsessive tooth brusher, weigher, mirror checker, hand washer, and sink wiper.  AND... see this all-but-used-up tube of toothpaste? There are those who shall remain nameless who would have the AUDACITY to throw this away.  When that happens, I dig it out of the trash and I hide it. That toothpaste will last me for WEEKS, people! ("Me, too," I hear Bridger's soft voice over my shoulder.)  We don't need to use a whole LINE of it so that it's dripping off our brushes into the sink for people like me to wipe up later!

"Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" seems to be our motto.  Yes, my mother passed her thrifty gene on to us.  I'm extremely tight-fisted when it comes to using up health and beauty products...and food.  There are itsy bitsy containers of food that plague our fridge and freezer.  I am such a penny-pincher when it comes to pennies.

But just like my other selective OCD tendencies, the frugal one is limited to certain areas of my life...to others, not so much.  I'm not so thrifty when it comes to spending in general.  I do love to spend money, especially on luxurious towels and bedding because, just ask my kids, I have a THING for touching stuff.  My hands glide over every exposed piece of fabric in stores.  I love plush towels, soft blankets, smooth sheets...mmmm...yes, it's nearly a fetish.

Back to the bathroom...  I LOVE scented soaps from Bath and Body Works.  Every single season, there are tantalizing smells that make my mouth water, and I swoon in front of their hand soap displays.  The names like Coconut Lime in the summer...Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin in the fall...you get the idea.

BUT WHAT IF THE SEASON IS OVER AND THERE'S STILL SOME LEFT?  Yikes.  That's a quandary.  I've done two things:  1.  Tuck the unused portion in the cabinet for a year.  That bugs me because I know I haven't used it up, and I started a new bottle.  2.  Keep using up the Winter Candy Apple until summer is nearly over.  I am getting a lot of flak over this current solution from Bridger .  

"Loving this winter soap in the summer, Mom."  

"Yeah, I know.  Get over it."  There are some who would solve all of our problems by throwing away the half inch portion remaining in the soap dispenser.  I would just dig it out.  It is a terrible, terrible thing to be haunted by these insignificant matters.

When conflicting OCD behaviors collide, my mind gets jammed.  No solution seems satisfactory.  I force myself to not obsess about it by focusing my attention elsewhere.  Maybe I'll develop a new one on which to fixate.  The gas pump game is one I finally terminated awhile back.  I could always return to THAT nonsense... Sometimes I just have to laugh about my crazy mind.  I don't even want to think about being crazy.  That would make me really...well, crazy.

You Know What They Say about Women Who Wear Big Shoes...

Petite I am not.  Delicate, winsome, lithe, dainty...these adjectives belong to someone else.  I've always seen myself as some sort of Amazon woman.  It doesn't help that most of my friends are so much smaller than I am.  One of the troubling things for me about my body has always been my feet.

There is no getting around it:  I have large feet.  My husband has even gone so far as to put on my shoes, lace them up, and comment that his shoes feel a little snug.  Yeah, I don't buy matching walking shoes any more.  Did you know that you can lose weight and drop a pant size or two, but still have to buy the same size shoe?

When I was in high school, it seemed all of the girls I knew wore smaller sizes of shoes:  5, 6, or maybe a 7.  Did we sit around and discuss sizes of things ad nauseum?  I don't think so, but IN MY MIND, the small conversation we may have had about size was blown out of proportion.  I wanted desperately to blend in with the other girls; I couldn't buy a big honkin' shoe size that could make me the brunt of a joke.  It was 1975, after all.  Sasquatch, the Legend of Big Foot had just been released.  I cringed at the connection.

I remember the Saturday my Dad took me to Best to buy some shoes for our upcoming tennis lessons.  I was probably 14 and I was standing before the Chris Evert display of tennis shoes.  I knew I had to have some white Chris Evert shoes, but what size could I buy?   If I wore the shoes to school, and I would, because an extra pair of shoes couldn't just sit in the closet waiting for Saturday to come; I would be wearing them, someone might notice my big feet.  What if one of the girls, or worse, one of the BOYS asked me what size I wore?  I have never been a liar.  And what fool would lie when a shoe size is imprinted on the shoe. I would have to choose carefully.
Never once did the concept of finding the perfect fit enter my mind.  I needed to find a size that seemed NORMAL.  So I selected a 6, and tried to squeeze my foot into the small opening.  There was no way.  The Prince wouldn't have given me a second chance with that glass slipper.  He'd know he had the wrong girl the moment he saw my feet!  How about a 7?  I struggled, and I managed to get my foot wedged into the shoe.  I laced them up and walked hobbled around the showroom.  There was no salesperson to talk some sense into my stubborn head, and my dad was busy trying to find shoes for my little brothers.  The shoes didn't feel GOOD, but an 8 would sound so big.  I think my mom wore a 9, but she was a grown-up.  I was still a kid.  I would buy the 7.  Maybe they would stretch.  They didn't, and my toes were squished inside those shoes every time I wore them for the next year.

Fast forward a few years.  I'm in college, 2300 miles away from home.  I am sitting on an examination table with my feet exposed to the doctor.  "What you have is a neuroma.  That is a tumor that has built up around your nerves to protect them from the surrounding bones.  Perhaps you've worn shoes that were too tight and your bones were rubbing on your nerves.  Your body produced a cushion to protect the nerves, building the neuroma in layers, much like a pearl grows around a grain of sand in an oyster."  Too-tight shoes, huh?  Maybe that's it...

Guess what size feet I have, really.  Well, you already know not to guess 5, 6, or 7.  Not an 8 or a 9, either.  Before I gave birth to three beautiful babies, I was actually a size 10.  And a WIDE size 10 at that!  After babies, I have always worn an 11.

Since having surgery, I have liberated my feet to only wear shoes that fit.  It has been an extreme pleasure to find places like Nordstrom Rack that have shelves and shelves and shelves of shoes that are made for women like me.  They even carry up to size 15!  Sometimes I made the mistake of buying shoes JUST because my feet went into them without any friction, only to discover at home that they were simply too loose and caused problems of their own.

As a teacher of 5th graders, I made a point of talking about my own experience in front of my whole class.  I realized I could be a role model for these kids.  By sharing my story, they were able to see that it's healthy to be who you are and accept yourself as you are.  We talked about how harmful teasing could be.  Children are smart.  They know numbers are simply numbers.  I don't want them to ever judge themselves by the numbers that identify their size or their weight.  I proudly tell them I'm a size 11.  I've even had a few girls who were my size at that tender age of 10.  I've shared my extra shoes with the girls. I know how hard it is to find shoes larger than a 10.

These days, I'm not camouflaging my foot to blend in to the crowd.  It's all about comfort.  If the shoe fits, buy two...no matter what color.  The wilder, the better, especially when it comes to athletic shoes and hiking shoes.  I've had Nikes that looked like Spider Man shoes.  Blue tie-dyed shoes.  Fluorescent green shoes.  Orange shoes.

I love my feet these days.  I jokingly call myself Sasquatch before anyone else can.  If I beat them to the punchline, we can all laugh together. I still don't want to run the risk of people laughing AT me.   I take care of my feet by finding shoes that fit and feel good.  This summer, I'm sporting Merrell hiking shoes and Merrell sandals.  The hikers are men's shoes.  And I'm okay with that.  I love the way my wide foot can spread out on the cushiony footbed without my toes rubbing on the sides.

My husband and I joke about my love affair with comfy shoes and short hair.  I keep going shorter and shorter every time I see my stylist.  "Ellen DeGeneres is going to be checking me out, Honey.  I don't want you to be jealous."

"She's not stupid.  Of course, she would check you out.  You're so hot, Dee."  He knows just what to say to make me laugh.  And smile.

"You know what they say about women who wear big shoes, don't you?" This is my favorite joke.  "We have big feet."  :D

The Mantra of a Massage: Keeping My Brain in the NOW

Flatirons, Boulder, Colorado

How hard is it to empty a head and just be? For me, it takes super-human strength and is as elusive as a Walmart associate when you need one. There are rare times I try to find this meditative state; when I pray and when I am the recipient of a massage. A certain degree of attention deficit has always been with me, so I find both of these activities very challenging to do without incessant brain chatter from the voices inside my head.  

Today was my lucky day; my favorite masseuse Melissa at Massage Envy was available at a time I could actually be there.

I like Melissa.  She asks enough questions for me to feel like she knows what I need and cares about me, but not so many I want to wring her neck and remind her that I am PAYING to de-stress here!  She is a single mom who shares just enough information to make her approachable, but not so much as to make me feel like I need to friend her on Facebook.

As I sank into the soft sheepskin pad on the padded table that was covered with a luxurious sheet, I reminded myself to just BE here today.  Don't try to solve all of the world's problems; don't review all the to-do lists in my head.  Just clear the mind and relax into the experience.

There are certain "touchstones," if you will, that help me remain present.  The things that seem to work best are focusing on my own breathing, the touch of the masseuse, and the music. My breath, taken in and then released, deeply and slowly, is my favorite way to bring me back to this moment.   If I am truly to benefit from the massage, I believe that to pay attention to where her hands are on my body is a good way to stay in the now.  New Age music is typically piped into the rooms of any spa for the relaxation and enjoyment of its clients.  Instrumental music without lyrics helps me dwell in the moment.

Ahhhh...as her oiled hands slipped down my aching spine, I envisioned the skin on my shoulders and upper back to be taut and smooth, and the flesh she was smashing toward my glutes probably resembled a puddle of Shar-pei wrinkles gathering in voluminous piles.  Shar-pei dogs are so adorable. We saw that cute one in San Diego, waiting for his owners to finish their dinner at a sidewalk cafe. Oops. Deep breath in...and slowly out.

Melissa's fingers expertly find the knots in my shoulder.  As she palpates the tender areas to release the tension, my muscles start to relax and enjoy her touch. And on to the next one. Ouch! Sometimes she presses deeply, concentrating with one or two fingers on the tightness that is there. If only I weren't such a klutz. That shoulder injury has been there for almost three years.

It was a snowy winter Saturday and I had just let our Boston Terrier outside to take care of his business.  I followed him onto the deck, but only walked onto the first icy stair when my feet flew out from under me. As I careened down the steps on my butt, my right arm flew high into the air behind me, and...sigh.  This relaxation is hard work.

Clearing my mind, I try to look at the back of my eyelids.  It's very dark. There's nothing there. That's the point. NOTHINGNESS is what I want to focus on for the time that I am here. In my mind's eye, I see calm and relaxation flutter over me like a gauzy blanket.  I take in another breath, slow and deep, and notice the warmth of Melissa's hands gliding over my back.

"I was going to ask if you're getting ready to go back to school..." she says in a soft voice. I feel my body tighten. "But then I remembered, you've just barely retired.  Are you happy about that?" 

I relax. "Yes," I whisper, smiling as I say it.  Usually a one word response is all the cue she needs to know I'm not up for too much visiting at the moment. Pretty soon, I'm lost in the darkness behind my eyelids and the tumbling thoughts in my brain.

The soft New Age music has an oriental quality to it.  There are wooden flutes, and some very strange stringed instrument that is starting to annoy me.  It sounds like the thickest string on a guitar, very loose, and vibrating with a reverberating TWANG at varying intervals!  New Age music.  I have a few tracks on my iPod.  I should set up a new playlist...I could label it "New Age..." DUH.  Or just "Easy Listening..." so that I can...A-HEM...another deep breath in and out.  A new song is playing. Thank heavens. I certainly didn't want to focus on that LAST one.  It was so annoying.

I've requested that Melissa focus on my back and glutes today. My shoulders and lower back are always aching with stress and knots.  She is doing such a good job.  Again, I let the moment wash over me, taking in the sensory experience for what it is...human touch, skin on skin, taking in the positives and releasing the negatives, listening to the soft music that is filling the room.

Before I knew it, Melissa had pulled the soft blanket up to cover my shoulders, and asked how everything went.  "It was wonderful.  I feel great," I smiled up at her.  It really was a nice experience.  Meditation is a work in progress for me.  I did better today than some days, believe it or not. There is always room for improvement with me, it seems.

Deepak Chopra has this to say about meditation:  "Meditation is not a way of making your mind quiet. It's a way of entering into the quiet that's already there - buried under the 50,000 thoughts the average person thinks every day." 

I certainly have my share of the 50,000 thoughts, now I just need to find the quiet. If Deepak says it's there, it must be!

*Pumpkin Pie Squares: Starting to Slide into Autumn a Little Early, Another Little Tradition of Mine

Perhaps it starts with the premature Back to School ads and displays.  Maybe it's knowing all of the football fans are settling back on their couches watching their games on TV. It could be the late-night browsing I do on the internet when I can't sleep, but I am already starting to make the transition from yummy summer to scrumptious autumn.

It always happens this time of year.  Instead of buying candles with tropical names like Piña Colada or Coconut Lime, I start searching for the ones with woodsy, spicy fragrances.  Pumpkin and cinnamon scents start wafting through our home, courtesy of the fall-scented candles and my experiments in the kitchen. When I browse for recipes, I'm looking less for summer salads and more for hearty soups and foods featuring apples and pumpkin.

I finally found a guilt-free treat:  Pumpkin Pie Squares from the folks who brought us Forks over Knives. The ingredient list is short:  pumpkin, oat flour, Medjool dates (available at Sam's Club, by the way), nuts, and spices.  The "frosting" is macadamia nuts blended with dates.  I only have almonds this morning, so let the substitutions begin!

This is a VERY healthy recipe.  There's no sugar; no sugar substitutes; just whole food.  If you didn't have access to anything sweet, this would do.  It by no means could compete with true-blue pumpkin desserts.  It has a heaviness to it.  The bars are slightly sweet with the topping giving it a barely sweet, nutty taste.  They're OKAY.  Not bad for a first attempt.  There is definitely room for improvement.  I love to play in the kitchen.  This one will be getting some tweaking, and it's a good place to start.

The link to the Forks Over Knives website is here, if you'd like to give the recipe a whirl in YOUR kitchen!

Pumpkin Pie Squares

Teachers Everywhere Are Getting Ready before They're Ready to Get Ready

Friends ask, "How's retirement going?"  Come on, you guys.  I'm a teacher.  A summer off is a summer off.  Whether you're a teacher or a retiree, summer is vacation time.  So far, this summer is no different than the last fifty odd years' summers have been.  Ask me mid-August, when all of my friends are heading back to school for inservice meetings, faculty meetings, and district meetings.  THEN, I hope that I will be pleasantly surprised that life IS different for a retiree.

The realization is starting to sink into my skull slowly, ever so slowly.  A couple of weeks ago as Bridger and I were driving into town, his eyes lit up as he turned to me and said, "I just realized, I won't have to help you get your room ready this year!"  We both smiled.

I have always counted on my kids to help me turn that chaos of stacked furniture and empty bulletin boards into a homey classroom that would welcome my new students.  It's HARD to cover twelve foot long bulletin boards with only one pair of arms!  It's STRENUOUS to move three dozen desks and chairs into a creative classroom arrangement!  It's TIME-CONSUMING to pass out all of those textbooks and classroom supplies.  Add any of my three kids into the mix, though, and suddenly, it's a circus.  It's fun.  We laughed.  We drank sodas from the faculty room Pepsi machine.  We walked across the street to Bullies Drive-In for lunch.  We listened to music and cranked up the swamp cooler (Utah's answer to central air!) and whipped my fifth grade classroom into shape.  Will I miss that?  Yeah, I think I will.

Being retired doesn't mean my sub-conscious knows I don't have to report for duty this year.  Sleep always eluded me as August approached.  My head would spin with to-do lists, homeroom class lists, seating arrangements, bulletin board ideas, lesson plans, and wondering how I would ever get everything done before the first day of school.  My brain doesn't know we get to relax this year, apparently, because when I go to sleep, the dreams of my past come to haunt me.

Our fifth grade team was a rare combination of people who actually LIKED working together and we all took care of recess duty together so we could catch up on each other's lives and laugh together. Already this summer, I've had the dreams where I'm oblivious to team meetings that are taking place where my presence is required, and I'm outside at recess duty, all alone, feeling grumpy that my team is not joining me outside. Then it hits me that we're supposed to be at a meeting, and I need to find them!  I'M the one in trouble, not them!  I have this recurring nightmare because it happened so frequently.  I became the absent-minded professor toward the end of my career, spacing off faculty meetings and forgetting scheduled appointments with my team.  We all laughed about it, but I seriously began to question my sanity and "with-it-ness" those last weeks of school.

Last night, in my dreams, I was starting a new year in a new school in a new state!  Yes, I was in sunny California, and Johnny Whittaker (remember him from Family Affair as Buffy's twin brother Jody?) was a visitor at my school. Of course, I introduced myself, reminding him that we had lived in the same neighborhood when I was in college.  And, of course, he did not even have a vague recollection of me, even in my dreams.  Anyway, in my state of slumber, my second day of school was a flurry of activity, passing out papers, assigning work, and getting to know my students.  "Why do we have to do THIS?" asked a pretty little thing, as I assigned the week's spelling words.  I wonder the same thing myself, as one who doesn't need to study spelling to pass a test.  In my dream, I didn't even bother to come up with a suitable answer to alleviate her irritation with the assignment, but the question ruffled my feathers, even though I smiled as I handed her the packet of work.

And so another school year starts in the minds of teachers everywhere.  It is not even August, but I see your Facebook posts about your summer training meetings and your wonderful kids helping you get bulletin boards ready.  You are blowing up the Pinterest home page with fun activities and classroom themes that will welcome your newest charges.  You are already stockpiling school supplies at home that you've been buying at all of the back-to-school sales.  I know you are.  I was once you.

This morning my husband and I were eating breakfast at the Cracker Barrel.  I was telling him it seemed so odd not to be scurrying off to Staples or Office Max to gather dozens of composition notebooks, markers, and pens.  I laughed about my dream as I told him that I thought those nightmares would all be behind me.  Some things have improved since school ended in May.  I haven't needed sleeping pills since the last day of school, and it has been delightful to sleep WAY past 4:30, sometimes even staying in bed until 8:00.  I never would have imagined that for myself.  Now someone just needs to tell my brain that I've retired.  If I could trade in these nightmares about school for some sweet dreams of retirement, I would feel like I'm truly ready to enjoy this new phase of my life.