Be careful what you wish for

Having one and a half pregnancies behind me, I can say that I am one of those lucky women for whom gestation has been relatively pleasant.  For the most part, I actually like being pregnant. I find it absolutely thrilling to have a new, tiny LIFE growing inside of my body. And in everyday situations, a pregnant girl is kind of a novelty which can draw attention, and let's face it--I'm not generally uncomfortable with positive attention.

The problem is that for the first 3-4 months (at least, depending on her physique) no one can tell a gal is pregnant just by looking. Then for another month or two (or, again, often longer) no one would dare comment or ask for fear of the utter humiliation of being wrong.  So for half or more of my pregnancy, I wish I could wear a T-shirt like this:

I've never had washboard abs or anything, but I take pride in maintaining a fairly slender, athletic figure. So I start feeling "chubby" early in pregnancy.  In the first couple of months, the uterus may not yet have grown higher than my pelvis, but it is pushing everything else up and out.  My uterus pushes up my other organs which in turn push my layer of "soft tissue" (read: fat) which usually conceals itself pretty well by lying flush with the rest of my body out over my pants. So that's why long before people compliment that cute baby bump, I (and presumably many newly pregnant women) am struggling to button my jeans and can't stand to look down when seated.

For several months I pine for my flabby belly to round out and look pregnant so the world will know that I am intentionally knocked up instead of carelessly filling out. Of course my ever-rational husband wonders aloud why it matters what anybody else thinks. A valid query, certainly, and one for which I do not have a rational answer without exploring intense psychoanalysis and social commentary. And this is neither the time nor the place for such nonsense.

About three weeks ago I had three ladies ask me on the same day, in different words, if I was pregnant. These were all members of my Curves who know my pre-pregnancy shape, so they felt comfortable with the assumption.  Pleased that familiar people finally felt comfortable enough to ask, I still would not have expected a stranger to be so bold at that point. I don't mean any offense, but the fact is there are many women who carry the soft tissue around their midsection in much the same way that my abdomen was presently protruding.

Then, I swear over the course of about 48 hours, my belly popped out.  One day a couple of weeks ago I  suddenly looked officially pregnant.  I was thrilled at first to not feel so self-conscious and for maternity-type clothing to not look and feel so awkward. But now I'm wondering if it was too soon. Have I gained too much weight for the halfway point? If my belly is already this big, how uncomfortable will I be four months from now? And I am not so naive to think that the fetus is taking up the entire space in there, so I'm feeling a little bit guilty about the excess girth.

I gained about 60 pounds during my first pregnancy. Thankfully I was able to lose all of that weight, but it did take me 10 months and during the first few I felt very uncomfortable.  My intention was to reign in the weight gain this time around--but then I haven't made any concerted effort to do anything differently. And  at times I found myself rationalizing an extra helping or sweet indulgence with my desire to look pregnant! Can you believe that? I would justify eating more because I wanted my belly to show.

Granted, I love food and struggle with willpower any day of the year. When weight gain and major changes in my physique are as inevitable as in pregnancy, making the choice to limit calories or choices becomes even more challenging and I almost rebel against the idea. There is rarely a drawn out internal monologue, the doireallyneedthisbutyumiwanttoeatitandi'mgoingtogetfatanywayandicanlosetheweightlatersowhat'sthedifference thought process occurs instantaneously. 

I'm enamored by the idea of being one of those adorable pregnant chicks who wears her regular jeans through the seventh month and whose belly you might wager was just a volleyball tucked under her shirt. That just is not me. The question is whether that is due to a pre-determined physiological difference or, more likely, the choices that I make. Could I be one of those skinny preggers? Who knows. Maybe. Probably not. And why does it matter? It doesn't.

When my cylindrical reflection in the mirror mocks that area where a waist used to live, I am a little disappointed in myself.  Right now I've got that cute baby bump I longed for earlier, I'm just afraid it will be way too soon when people start quipping that I must be about to pop.  Or that when someone hears my due date her expression will betray to me her surprise that it's so far away.  Or that I will be miserably, uncomfortably large in three months, give birth to a giant baby (with only my body's natural pain relief mechanisms), or be unable to lose this weight afterward.

But I am aware that I am being unfairly critical and hard on myself. The most important thing in my life right now is nurturing the tiny future person growing inside.  It does no good to concern myself with such vanity. I share these personal feelings with you in case you can relate and wish to share insight or encouragement.

Birth blanket

This is kind of a continuing of yesterday's Flashback Friday. I had read about the idea of a birthing blanket in a book, and decided to make one. The blanket is designed to be waterproof messproof in order to protect the bed or floor, while providing a soft place to labor. I also tend to agree with the sentiment that a "birth project" of any kind can aid a mother-to-be's preparation for the big day.

Common sense indicated that I would be throwing this blanket away after its purpose had been fulfilled.  So I knew it didn't need to be pretty. I found two flat sheets at Goodwill, but bought a new shower curtain because really--is there a used shower curtain in existence that isn't covered in mildew and soap scum? I'm no seamstress, but I've done a number of sewing projects, including a pieced quilt duvet cover and my "senior quilt" made as part of my church young women's program. A birth blanket is uncomplicated, like a senior quilt: the shower curtain is layered with the batting between the two sheets to create a watertight barrier. 

So I set about making the blanket in much the same way I remember making my senior quilt. For added liquid-catching ability, I rolled up the sides before clumsily stitching them shut. This blanket was for function, not beauty, remember? Then in order to secure the batting in place, I proceeded to tie the quilt with yarn, as I recalled having done so many times in young women. The needle goes through the blanket, tie a knot, then repeat over and over again all over the quilt, and cut the yarn between the knots to make the little ties that add flair to your finished blanket. Ta-da! 

With my blanket complete and a table in my bedroom covered with supplies like sterile gloves, disposable blue underpads, garbage bags, and flashlights, I was ready to have this baby. 

And I did. Which you'll be able to read about next Friday. 

But you may have already figured out the inherent flaw in my birthing blanket's design. Because YOU are clearly a much more intelligent human being than I, whose mind the error never crossed until it was too late. All those HOLES I poked in the blanket with a quilting needle resulted in a failure of its waterproofing capabilities. So directly under the place where Madelyn was born, we have a lovely dark red stain on our memory foam mattress' pillowtop. I'm sure my brother who owns a carpet/upholstery cleaning business loved trying to clean that up. Ha ha, Bryan. That's what you get for putting nooses on my stuffed animals and flying them around on the ceiling fan.

A measly 200 friends

I got started on Facebook much later than most people I know. Of course I still occasionally run into someone who continues to resist; my husband is one of those.  From the beginning, I mainly interacted with my Facebook profile when it interacted with me: if someone "friended" me, I responded; when someone wrote on my "wall" or sent me a message, I viewed it. I made only a few efforts to find people from my past, and quickly grew weary of the superficial "OMG how are you?" posts that rarely progressed beyond those few words. So even though I was "on" Facebook, I just didn't spend very much time on Facebook. 

For reasons I can't quite identify or recall, I've clicked over to Facebook more often recently, and as much as I would have preferred to remain oblivious, discovered that I am deficient in friends. I've always found the implicit pursuit to collect the most "friends" on a social network to be a ludicrous paradox, so I never meant to get involved. But I accidentally noticed on a few of my (real) friends' profiles that they have over 300, 400, even over 500 Facebook friends.  That day I had 183. 

Pretend that you don't care how many friends you have if you want to, but there is no denying that personal connections make us feel liked. Also, it's easy to pretend you don't care if you are one of the ones with many hundreds of friends. Now, we all know that Facebook friends do not equal real friends. They aren't all people you'd invite to your birthday party, even if they all lived nearby. I started out very selective about my Facebook friends, but lightened up about it as time went on.  The truth is, I don't have copious opportunities to make acquaintances like some of my church-going/world-traveling/bar-hopping associates.  So many of the people I know are my business clients, and it makes me nervous to think about them viewing photos of my private life or clicking on the link to my blog. But I got a little fire under my butt for some reason to boost my friend numbers (my ego), and have been actually clicking some of the "people you might know" suggestions. I still have a hard time sending a friend request to someone I was never close to in the first place, it makes me uncomfortable. 

My half-hearted endeavor has grown the list to 190 friends so far. Two hundred is within reach! 

I am pathetic. 

Falling Down

I would rank falling down among the most humiliating of experiences.

Little ones seem to spend about as much time on the ground as they do upright--stumbling and tumbling regularly as they run and play.  Skinned knees and scraped palms are simply the marks of a joyful childhood.  When you think about it, the average adult human is approximately four times taller than wide, so the occasional misalignment of one's center of gravity should be anticipated and accepted.  But falling down seems to be universally and undeniably awkward, no matter the circumstances.

After receiving a big, concrete-flavored taste of humble pie yesterday morning, I realized that I can't even recall the last time I actually fell down. All the way to the ground. I felt childish and ashamed, and I don't even think anybody saw what happened. Although there's no way to be sure. Perhaps a YouTube search of "hilarious girl eating pavement" is in order.

I was running with Loki and Kezia, my two Siberian Huskies. My dogs are both pretty good running partners, by which I mean that once we are moving they tend to stay focused on forward momentum, usually obey voice commands to slow down or make turns, can run by another dog or human without much distraction, and refrain from pulling, criss-crossing, or other typical canine nonsense. I hold only one leash, which is connected at the far end to a coupler, which then connects to one dog's collar at each end. See figure A.

Fig. A (finishing a run at the beach November 2008)

Yesterday the male dog, Loki, decided that one particular tree could not exist any longer without his personal scent sprinkled upon it.  Occasionally he is unable to control this impulse, and my response is to continue running. Most of the time his business is so efficient that he has returned to his place in front of me before the leash ever pulls taut. Other times I am forced to slow down for a few moments and issue a stern command to keep moving.  But on this particular occasion the circumstances were intricately coordinated so that when he strayed left and I kept running, I basically ran straight through the horizontal coupler while Loki held his position (on three legs, I'm sure) when he felt the tug, and before I realized that a correction of balance was necessary, Kezia was under my ribcage and my elbow was skidding across the asphalt.  See figure B.

Fig. B (my scraped and bruised elbow)

Okay, so it's not really that bad. But the inherent humiliation of falling to which I pointed earlier caused a surprising sequence of emotions. After overcoming the initial shock of being suddenly horizontal, I shouted at Loki, brushed the gravel out of my wounds, and continued to run. I was soon overcome with anger at my poor pet, and actually gave him a little kick in the butt. As if Loki premeditated the event and tripped me on purpose. It was a very childish emotional outburst--attempted retaliation for having caused me harm, both physical and emotional. A few moments later, of course, the remorse settled in and I tried to pet Loki while we ran as penitence for my foolish behavior. 

There were no cars driving by, no people around, but who knows if someone happened to glance out their kitchen window right as my stride became a skid.  The other thing about falling down is that in the eyes of still-upright witnesses, it can be absolutely hysterical.  Common decency suggests that we bite our lips and suppress the guffaws, but come on: haven't you ever seen a falling-down sequence that made you burst into side-splitting laughter (or at least want to)?  For me, the falls that make sustaining common decency a real challenge are those ones that just. keep. going.  The person continues to trip over himself or other objects until you wonder if it's all a carefully orchestrated gag.  But then it's not. And you feel horrible for laughing. You should be ashamed of yourself. Ahem.

So anyway, I fell down. It hurt. But it could have been a lot worse. I wasn't hit by a car, for example, and thankfully the street did not gauge my nicest Nike performance pants.  Possibly because the heroic Kezia helped break my fall.  Hopefully experiences like these will continue to be rare for me. I guess I was due for a good fall--to keep my pride in check.  And now I'll always carry the memory of my intimate encounter with the corner of 13th and Maple. 

When was the last time you had--or witnessed--a good fall? (Sarah, your list of recent falls is limited to 350 words or less. Just kidding!)

What more do you want from me?

Here's what happened at the grocery store last week.  I loaded up a cart FULL of items I needed for a party we were throwing at Curves where over 100 guests were expected. Mainly my list consisted of large, heavy ingredients such as about 10 jugs each of cranberry juice, ginger ale, and lemon-lime soda.  It was one of those annoying shopping trips where I didn't manage to find everything the first time through the aisles and so ended up zigging and zagging back through the store a couple of times pushing an overburdened and unwieldy cart before ultimately completing my mission.  For the sake of convenience, I threw a handful of items needed for my own kitchen into the cart as well.  Three-year-old Madelyn was being relatively tolerant and well-behaved considering the circumstances.

When I had finally collected everything on the list, I surveyed the checkout lines. They were all similar--about 3 people in each with relatively equal conveyor belt loads. So I just picked the closest one, and when space became available, began hoisting my goods onto the black rubber belt.  Madelyn loves to help with that part.

My cart was more than halfway unloaded when the old lady behind me piped up.

"Isn't this the EXPRESS LANE?"

My heart dropped into my stomach as I looked up to see that little lighted square sign indicating that her words echoing in my head were indeed accurate.

I was mortified. And remorseful. Which should have been made apparent by my subsequent actions, in which I first apologized genuinely and profusely.  Old lady's response to this was, "they may as well just take down the sign."  I then explained my blunder to the cashier (who was still ringing up the groceries of the customer in front of me) and asked if I should move.  When she assured me it was fine and she would take care of me, I still hesitated to finish unloading my cart, and offered--no, implored--the cranky lady to go ahead and check out before me, since she only had a handful of items and my transaction was going to be lengthy. For some inexplicable reason she refused and repeated her indignant opinion that they should remove the Express Lane sign, as it was clearly doing her no good AT ALL.

By this time there were a couple of other people behind her in the un-express lane, so it was with nearly tangible penitence that I laid down the black plastic order separator and added my "personal" groceries to the conveyor belt to be purchased separately from the business-related groceries.  Now not only had I committed a cardinal sin of grocery check-out etiquette, but added insult to injury by having to make two distinct transactions.  Hey, I had warned Ms. Cranky and tried to insist she go first. And by the way, my second purchase totally fit the criteria of the Express Lane, so there.

In spite of that fact, I completed my two misguided purchases feeling as though eyes were boring into the back of my head.  Even the cashier, who had told me it wouldn't be a big deal, didn't offer any consolation. And my lovely daughter, who continued to be patient throughout this process, seemed to give everyone more of a reason to despise me--that mom who brings her annoying little brat to the store and gets in everyone's way making a mess and being too loud--rather than eliciting the usual pleasant, entertained responses.

I apologized in words. I apologized with my facial expressions. I all but pleaded with the old lady to check out ahead of me.  What else could I or should I have done?

Seriously, it's time to fold laundry

Sometimes there simply are not enough hours in the day.

Careful when you attempt find that favorite pair of sweatpants in there...you never know when it's all going to topple.

Just when I might have considered folding the clean clothes, the dirty hampers would begin to overflow so I'd decide to do another three loads first, and then be too busy to get back to folding the now multiplied pile. This happened three times, so what you see is approximately 11 loads of laundry, minus the items already desperately fished out.  If it doesn't seem like it could be 11 loads, let me assure you my shirts are hopelessly wrinkled from how tightly they were packed in there, and also, the desperate digging grew increasingly frequent in the final days.

Great. Now where are we going to sleep?

Flashback Friday: Devilish bride-to-be

Beginning with the previous installment, I've begun a sort of "personal history" series of Flashback Fridays.  After the surprise Las Vegas proposal, naturally the next chapter in this series is my bachelorette party. 

I think that my own is the only "real" bachelorette party that I've ever been privileged to attend. In my early twenties, many of my friends wouldn't exactly be drawn to such risque night-time activities, and those who would be weren't getting married at the time.

My friends Lana and Melinda planned quite the wild party to celebrate my upcoming nuptials (or mourn the end of my life as a swinging single, perhaps).  I was kept in the dark about all the details in advance; the only thing I knew was that we were all to wear red dresses.

Crazy Bachelorette Party in Seven Easy Steps:

Step 1: Identify.  I arrived at Lana's house to discover that--of course--the bride is the only one in red, everyone else is dressed in black. Sweet.  

Step 2: Accessorize. Everyone applied bachelorette-themed temp tattoos and shimmering body lotion. The bride was donned with a shiny bachelorette sash and "horny" bridal veil which perfectly matched the solitary red dress.

Step 3: Bestow.  What would a bachelorette party be without wacky, sexy gifts such as Sizzling Body Candy and glow-in-the-dark bedroom toys? 

There were also "Dick Tax" mints, X-rated fortune cookies, and many more hilarious items including this penis shot glass (which has since been passed along to another now-married friend). 

Step 4: Ride. All the girls piled into a stretch limo with a bottle of champagne and headed downtown. Our chauffer was very nice, if perhaps a little too excited about our general frivolity. Bordering on creepy.

Step 5: Scavenge. I received instructions to complete all the items on the following list in order to win "the hottest bachelorette party ever!" 

Yes, I completed them all.  No, I did not enter the men's restroom--I had the bouncer at Slaughter's help me out with that one. Yes, I saw some things on overhead televisions at that gay bar that I'd just as soon have not. No, I do not remember the erotic story and wouldn't retell it here anyway. Yes, Rico is an exotic dancer, and I totally snapped his thong.

Step 6: Wonder. Darcelle XV: World famous female impersonators.  It's something you must experience to fully appreciate. And in actuality, there isn't any wondering to do. It's not a subtle transformation for "ladies" like Darcelle, pictured here in all her rotund glory.

Step 7: Get crazy.  At Darcelle's, the evening starts with innocuous transgendered fun, then it gets a little racier as the evening progresses.  I'll leave it at that. 

Stuff.


Cuff.

All of the bachelorettes received a cassette tape (this was only 4.5 years ago, so what the--?) of our pre-show interviews with Darcelle outside the theatre.  I do not know that girl that I'm half-hugging. Just a fellow bride-to-be having a crazy time out with girlfriends.

Did you have a bachelorette party? What was it like?

Flashback Friday: Unhalloween costumes

Dressing up is fun. I have always loved a good costume party or themed dance event where dressing in character is encouraged. Of course, it is most fun if everybody has a good attitude and fully commits to the permitted silliness. The ironic component of that statement is that individuals who tend to refrain from childish costume fun seem to do so (at least in part) because of a fear of appearing foolish. Yet if everybody cast away his or her inhibitions about it, then nobody could feel foolish. Therefore, those who insist on attending dress-up functions deliberately or even smugly un-costumed create the only reason to feel self-conscious.

I happen to love Halloween because it is one of the few times in life when donning a costume is publicly acceptable. I'm just not shy about that kind of thing. Then once you're wearing a costume, what's the point of sitting around the house in it? Costume parties are okay, sure, but why not go out to dinner? Wear it to work or to the gym? People will stare at you. What is wrong with that? Most of the time those people who stare admire and envy your audacity and will often compliment your creative or cute or sexy costume.

During high school I had fewer reservations even than now. I was extensively involved in the performing arts departments then, a path which favors confidence and a healthy ego. My theatrical director even called me an exhibitionist once. But that's another story.

Franklin was one of my first boyfriends. He, too, was not one who could accurately be labeled 'shy.' The movie Men in Black was released in the summer of 1997, and it was a pretty big blockbuster that year. I still really like it. Franklin was a big kid: he was into superheroes and the dashboard of his car was completely covered with classic action figures and small vintage toys.

He arrived at my house dressed in a black suit. When he flipped open his MIB identification, I knew exactly what to do. A few minutes later I had raided my dad's closet and grabbed my sunglasses and we were ready to roll.

My well-prepared mother would never allow this special--if completely spontaneous--moment to go undocumented, and thus we have the proof of our alien-fighting escapade captured on film.

You might notice the date stamp, commonly included on these 35mm prints, which indicates that these photos were taken on September 2, 1997. Nearly two full months before Halloween, this outing had nothing to do with any costume-appropriate holiday. In fact, Googling the 1997 calendar tells me that September 2nd was even a Tuesday night. A school night.

I don't know what we did after taking these pictures. Certainly we got in Franklin's hot Chevy Corsica and went somewhere to draw attention to our eccentricity. An AM/PM seems to ring a bell in my memory and would be a reasonable assumption. I'm really not embarrassed by this admission of childish behavior at the ripe old age of 16. I imagine plenty of kids my age were either involved in far worse or bored out of their minds that Tuesday night. Whatever we did, and even if our shades weren't as cool as Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones' Ray-Bans, I assert with confidence that I looked dang good in my dad's suit.

Will I ever learn?

That's what I fully expected my husband say to me after reading my confession in this post. Unfortunately, I didn't even have to wait that long, because Gary discovered the evidence of my most heinous of crimes yesterday, before I had a chance to explain or apologize. Both attempts at which would be futile against the fact that I was foolishly negligent. Again.

Yesterday Gary brought an important item I had forgotten to me at work on his way to pick up Madelyn from Grandma's house. When I approached him in the parking lot, he apologized for being late and said he would have arrived sooner except that he had to clean up some nasty piles of dog vomit on the carpet downstairs. He did not immediately suspect that I knew precisely the cause of this catastrophe, but my guilty expression led swiftly to that conclusion.

You see, earlier that morning I noticed a tiny piece of cellophane wrapper on the stairs. We don't just live in a house full of garbage, so I picked it up, and recognition immediately sunk in. The piece of wrapper belonged to a the package of Clif ShotBloks I had only partially consumed on my 11-mile run Sunday morning. I conjectured then that I had left the open package in a pocket of my CamelBak on the floor of my office all day Sunday.

Only one logical reason exists for the wee bit of wrapper to be on the stairs:

Kezia. (It rhymes with 'amnesia')

She might look innocent, but it's all a ruse. This girl is a dumpster-diver through and through. She'll find a plastic baggie with crumbs at the bottom of a trash can and take it out to her dog run to mutilate until every molecule of cracker has been consumed. It's not just food, either. She has an affinity for crinkly plastic things even without edibles inside. More than a few items of mine have been ruined or scarred by this dog's teeth. Thankfully nothing irreplaceable. Yet.

I was immediately angry that she had stolen away with my energy goos, which translates into being upset with myself for leaving them on the floor or forgetting to close my door, which is usually easier for me than remembering to put all Kezia-tempting items out of reach, or guessing which items those might be any given day.

My mind then starting racing toward other frightening possibilities. Would two-thirds of a product designed to give athletes several hours'worth of energy from a variety of sugar sources harm my little pup? And what about the other two unopened packages that I now remembered were located nearby--had Kezia discovered them too?

I reluctantly went to my office to investigate, a little worried about what I might find. The Camelbak pocket was unzipped and empty. The bag in which I was fairly sure I had left the other two varieties of energy chews now contained none. There was no evidence of foul play--only the missing commodities gave her away.

I have to admit I was at that moment more upset about the waste than I was concerned about Kezia's health. I didn't think it would kill her or anything, and my 'running candy' isn't cheap at $2.00 per package. If Kezia ate all the chews that I had just purchased in preparation for next week's half marathon, I considered it 6 bucks down the pooper. Literally. And I had been really excited to try this new kind I found:

I forced myself to go out into our dog run, which is really one giant toilet, and smells like it too. If I wanted to confirm my suspicions, I knew the proof would be there. I did not notice any unusual excrement; I supposed it would be gooey and some fabulous variation of Cran-Razz or Black Cherry in hue. But I did find shreds of uneaten evidence: lots of little pieces of wrapper without a trace of electrolyte-balancing gummies to be found.

As this was not the first of similar incidents caused by my carelessness, I knew to expect disapproval from Gary. I hoped that discovering the mess and cleaning it up myself might soften his irritation. But it wasn't hard to see that all the scraps I gathered were not equivalent to 3 full package wrappers in sum. And there was nothing left on the ground.

Which meant, of course, that portions of the wrappers had very likely been consumed by my mischievous husky.

I made a full report to Gary, and together we speculated that the indigestible plastic caused the vomiting, as what he found on the carpet was not red and gooey. I apologized profusely, and accepted my deserved lecture about leaving these things within reach of dogs and kids.

For curiosity's sake, I wish I could have seen Kezia in those first hours after consuming her Energy Gel Blasts and Shot Bloks. Did all that sugar affect her behavior? Was she ill shortly afterward? And also, did she share some with her similarly naughty brother Loki, or was he merely an innocent bystander?

One to add to my collection

In case you don't know, I am a very serious fan of The Simpsons. I distinctly remember the weeks of advertising leading up to the series premiere in December 1989, and then eagerly gathering around the television with my entire family to watch that famous first episode, "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire." My eight-year-old self latched onto this cartoon family and I feel like we basically grew up together. My personal character developed alongside those of Springfield USA, and as I matured, so did the show. I would say that I credit much of my own sense of humor to The Simpsons, except that I think the more apt analysis is that the series shaped what is considered humorous across popular culture in general. As a long-term fan, I notice the Simpsons' influence in so many movies, TV shows, radio jabber, and more.

The fact that I have seen every single episode aired over 20 years is not as impressive proof of my fanaticism as my prized VHS library. There was a time, not long ago, when you couldn't run to Best Buy or Wal-Mart and pick up your favorite television series' collector's edition DVD with audio commentary and behind-the-scenes footage. Back in the nineties, if you wanted to watch a show under any other circumstances than live at its scheduled time, you would

need to program your Video Cassette Recorder. Taking this idea to a new level, I created an enviable collection of 19 tapes, six to eight hours each, containing episodes recorded from television without commercials. And I carefully cataloged each episode on each tape so that there were no duplicates.

My collection of 19 VHS tapes containing commercial-free, non-duplicated The Simpsons episodes from Seasons 1 through 14

THE SIMPSONS VIII tape with typed episode label as a sample from my prized collection

The project was quite an undertaking. Upon pulling out the videos to snap those photos, I discovered my episode lists from each season with systems for tracking which ones were missing from my tapes, and the scratch paper on which I looked up online and wrote down the dates and times when those episodes would be aired. My mother was a helpful accomplice to my obsession, as she generously bought me tapes with longer recording times, and on many, many occasions sat in front of the TV with the VCR remote to record my episodes and press pause when commercials began and the show resumed. That is true motherly love right there. This endeavor continued into the year 2003, when the accelerated release of complete seasons on DVD threatened to make my collection obsolete. In addition, the invention of TiVo and our "season pass" setting allows me to select from an ever-revolving couple of dozen episodes and watch one by pressing a few buttons on the remote. And I can easily skip the commercials.

I'll let you call me a Simpsons Geek any time. It's an obsession of which I've never been ashamed. And I might not watch those videos right now, but their mere existence is cherished.

As is common when a person indicates an interest in a theme, I have received many Simpsons-related gifts and collected some unique paraphernalia over the years. Here are a few favorite, and more obscure, pieces in my varied collection:

Artwork supposedly signed by Simpsons creator, Matt Groening. It was given to me by one of my high school best friends' dads who dealt in celebrity autographs as a business. I've always wondered at its authenticity, however, especially since he didn't provide any certificate. But I still like it, and yes, I have it framed and hanging on the wall in my house.

Wow, this one is amazing. I don't know where my friend Wiyaka found it, but she sent this Homer marionette of questionable origin for my daughter's first birthday. Technically I guess it belongs to Madelyn, then, who has been able to name the Simpsons family members for about a year now I would guess. (She learned them from the set of nesting dolls below; she doesn't actually watch the show. Yet.)

Madelyn has also commandeered this cool metal lunchbox recently too. She stashed her various trinkets and treasures in there and takes them places.

Another undeniably unlicensed article was mailed to me all the way from the Izmailovsky Market in Russia by my friend Bridget, who was living there at the time. Tiny little Maggie has been misplaced--I can only hope we'll find her when the time comes to move my desk. And Marge's head was sadly crushed underfoot when they were strewn about my office floor by a toddler one day, but the many pieces were carefully superglued back together, and you can't even tell, no? This set of matryoshka dolls is probably my favorite piece of Simpsons memorabilia, due partly to its exceptional distinctiveness and foreign origins, and partly because it reminds me of the bond that Bridget and I shared as teenagers with a mutual appreciation for the creative genius that we knew as The Simpsons.

Yesterday I learned of a new item that I might need to add to my collection:

That sultry temptress Marge has agreed to do a pictorial and appear on the cover of a special Collector's Edition of Playboy as part of the 20th anniversary celebration. I assume the spread will be tasteful and artistic, because surely Marge wouldn't consent to less. Okay, I probably won't buy an issue of "entertainment for men," but I'm curious enough to see it.

Happy upcoming 20th Anniversary, Simpsons!

Not my #1 parenting moment

From my vantage point on the shady park bench I noticed the unmistakable half-squat stance indicating that Madelyn needed to use the bathroom. My eyes scanned one end of the park to the other and noticed no free-standing restroom facilities. In small, neighborhood parks where we might be the only family present, I haven't hesitated to take Madelyn nonchalantly beside a tree or large rock and allow her to relieve herself as nature intended. Sometimes I even bring our tiny portable IKEA potty seat when I know there won't be a bathroom at a park. But I hadn't brought that seat today, and we happened to be at this large city park to check out a summer youth program, meaning we were not the only people here by a long shot.

My daughter has developed respectable bladder control in her 8 months of being potty trained, so I wasn't especially worried about an accident. I approached one of the volunteers in the craft area to inquire of the whereabouts of the nearest restroom. Through various hand gestures and descriptive directions, I realized we'd be hiking to the library at the end of the field and across a parking lot. I turned to gather up Madelyn and her friend who I was babysitting, and noticed that Madelyn was now modeling a full-squat variation on the pee-pee dance.

Because she was facing me, a moment passed before I realized that Madelyn's pants were around her ankles; her squat not intended for orifice constriction, but release.

"Crap," I thought as I raced beside her, scanning the area for parents' eyes wide with shock and disdain. Kneeling in front of her, I urgently and firmly told Madelyn that we need to go pee in toilets and not on the ground, hearing the words laden with the weight of hypocrisy. While practically rolling my eyes at myself for creating such ridiculous confusion, I quickly leaned over her backside for a status evaluation. Scrutinizing the damp ground, no definite puddle was recognizable--perhaps I wasn't too late and could pull up her pants and whisk her to the socially appropriate facility.

I suddenly realized why there was no puddle, and the reality of the situation suddenly struck me. That was no pee-pee dance. It was a poo-poo dance. I've never facilitated a #2 outside, so I was surprised that she would drop her pants to do so right in the middle of a crowded park. But sometimes you just gotta go, and she knows she shouldn't do it in her pants.

This situation held the potential to be high on my embarrassment scale, so I swiftly helped Madelyn down onto her bum in the grass. My glimpse was enough to establish full awareness that we were past the point of no return, but I hoped to at least cover our shame until a reasonable solution could be determined. As far as unexpected ghastly disasters go, I was relatively prepared. From inside my purse I retrieved the small Ziploc bag that I'd stuffed all of our snack trash into. I attempted to use this little baggie in the way I would scoop dog poop to

pick up the two brown turds on the grass between Madelyn's legs. But my foolish attempt to keep the trash contained as well as scoop poop backfired and, well, let's just say it wasn't the most sanitary of methods. I also happened to have a few hand wipes in my purse, which not only rescued my fingers, but also worked nicely as bum wipes in a pinch. Hopefully anybody who noticed me wiping my daughter's cute little crack didn't put "two and two" together.

I tried to look casual dropping my bag of poop in the trash can. Nobody in the vicinity appeared the least bit concerned with what had just transpired, and as I furtively examined nearby faces, I grew more confident that the debacle had gone unnoticed. Of course there may have been some very understanding mothers who simply turned away to allow me to b

e mortified in peace while they simply chuckled on the inside. That's what I would have done as a witness, anyway.

I let the oblivious little girls under my care play for just a few minutes longer. When the thought of being without hand sanitizer became too much to bear, we all hurried to the car where retrieving it from its handy place in the glove compartment became first priority.

How far did you read before appreciating the pun in the title?

Six reasons I am not a real runner

In no particular order...

1. I cannot fathom purchasing five different pairs of running shoes in one calendar year, as I heard my good friend/serious runner claim.

2. I have yet to experience the "second wind" or "runner's high." At least not to an extent that makes me thrilled to be running. My runs are more of one big "wall," and a sideache is my frequent companion.

3. I do not own any cool running gear. I sport either yoga pants or shorts with a Curves T-shirt on most runs, and feel pretty lame next to my more fashionable running counterparts. But now that I know at least one person's secret, I think I'll be hitting the Goodwill to score some sweet duds (cast away by good-intentioned quitters).

4. Long-distance running is time-consuming, and time is an element of which I have little to spare. I've been spoiled with a 30-minute total-body workout, and while Curves won't provide the same level of endurance training as running, it feels good to burn about 500 calories in just half an hour. Since running doesn't tone the whole body, it won't ever be my sole form of exercise, which leaves even less time to get it done.

5. Shoes are the serious runner's most important piece of equipment, so I understand and respect the necessity of keeping them in top working condition for the sport. But I don't see myself ever being involved to the extent that I would track miles run on a pair of shoes and limit that number for the sake of performance.

6. Perhaps all those reasons are merely symptoms of this confession: I do not aspire to run a marathon one day. If I change my mind as I get into better shape, then so be it. For now, the mere idea of running 26.2 miles seems like a really popular form of masochism. I will enthusiastically cheer for my racing friends, and join them for enchiladas beyond the finish line. Maybe if I am nice enough, they will do the same for me at my 10k's.

25 random things

By popular demand (by which I mean badgering from one particular friend), I am posting these 25 random thing you probably didn't know about me. Enjoy.

1. I have a big freckle smack in the middle of my right big toe. I have had it since I was a child, but it has started fading, which oddly saddens me.

2. I rarely wear make-up. It just takes too much time. If anything, a little powder foundation to even the skin tone.

3. I am allergic to my own dogs. But I suffer because I love them.

4. The only foods I can think of that I do not eat are mushrooms, raw onions, and shellfish other than prawns and whatever clams are found in clam chowder. Other than that, I EAT EVERYTHING. I love food.

5. I am a drama geek. My favorite roles have been Rizzo in Grease and Helena in A Midsummer Night's Dream. When I have more time, I want to return to do more community theatre.

6. My husband and I combined our two last names to create a new family name when we got married. So we both have a "maiden name."

7. I can type pretty fast, but my hand positions are not technically correct. And since I primarily use a laptop, I am proficient with keyboard shortcuts.

8. I find great joy in wrapping presents. My mother used to even let me wrap my own because I enjoyed it so much. She would put items in plain boxes, and I would wrap them without ever peeking inside. I wouldn't dream of ruining the thrill of surprise!

9. One time I made out with the pilot of a small plane while his flight students took the controls. I'm sure he kept one eye on what they were doing. Ahem. At least I hope so.

10. I have always despised the flavor of cola. It doesn't matter if it's Coke, Pepsi, RC, or store brand, I just do not understand how anyone finds that taste the least bit pleasant. I rarely drink any soda at all, but when I do it's Root Beer or a Sprite equivalent.

11. My only travels outside the United States have been to Canada and Mexico, both as a young child. I have been to Alaska once and to Hawaii twice, but that's the extent of my exotic expeditions thus far.

12. I lettered in choir in high school. That's right: lettered, like normal people do in sports. The necessary accomplishments included being co-president of Concert Choir, Alto section leader, and a member of our small performing ensemble. I was also voted by peers and drama director as "Best Female Vocalist" my senior year. I do love music, but it is now with chagrin that I admit I have a letterman's jacket with four treble clef patches sewn on the big 'W.'

13. I have never broken a bone in my body. I always wanted to because a cast and crutches seemed so cool.

14. I send thank-you notes faithfully, not only because my mother taught me well that it is the right thing to do, but because I truly enjoy expressing my gratitude in words. I also know how good it feels to be appreciated.

15. My late childhood spanned the resurgence of new Disney animated features that began in 1989. I can still sing most lyrics from The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, and The Lion King by heart.

16. I prefer to drive with manual transmission. Well, in little, fast cars anyway.

17. Once upon a time I had a crippling crush on Doogie Howser--the character, not the actor who portrayed him (Neil Patrick Harris). That's the first celebrity crush I can recall.

18. Window shopping only depresses me. If I can't buy, I don't want to look.

19. I hate the shape of my chin.

20. I have a nerdy tendency toward sticker charts and reward systems. I have my mom to thank for that quirk.

21. I endured ten years of piano lessons and completed the highest level of OMTA piano syllabus evaluation. Yet I am disappointed in my playing ability because it has always been a struggle for me, rather than a "natural" talent. I have always wished I could play by ear, or at least be a better sight-reader. I can sight-read vocal music well, but on the piano, my eyes, brain, and hands form slow connections.

22. I genuinely love shopping for other people. If I had more money, I would buy gifts for my friends and family all the time, because I constantly see things they would love and that I want to give them. When I'm filthy rich, I plan to give generously to those I love.

23. I played with Barbies past the age at which most little girls lost interest. If it's any indication, my cousins and I would sometimes pretend Skipper was battling the consequences of an unplanned teen pregnancy. You know, shopping for baby clothes, the poor dear.

24. Soccer and volleyball were my sports of choice growing up. Given the opportunity now, I would love to play again.

25. I'm a sucker for traditions. There is something so special about having silly, inconsequential memories to look forward to and repeat again and again.

So now you know some useless facts about me. This wasn't originally a blog tag per se, but I'd love to extend the invitation to enlighten us the same way to:
Jeni
Annie
Lilly
Sarah
If you accept and want to pass the tag along, great. If not, no worries here. Thank you Barb, for expressing interest in learning a bunch of odd crap about me.

Flashback Friday: You really can be too nice in this business

When I was 15 or 16, I got a job at a restaurant a few miles away from my high school. It is one of the nicest restaurants in the area, although still a few notches down from being true "fine dining." I was a hostess: seating and clearing tables, and quickly worked my way up to being a lead hostess. As lead hostess, I basically ran the entire restaurant. Okay, so I wasn't in fact managing employees or cooking the food, but the choices I made as lead host affected every area of the crew and made an impact on the success of the entire shift. Don't underestimate that girl (or guy) at the front of the house with the clipboard, because a great deal of control rests in her hands. An incompetent lead host will activate a domino effect resulting in poor service, slow ticket times, and dissatisfied customers. But I was a damned good lead host. And my General Manager not only knew it, she kindly told me so on multiple occasions. I left the restaurant when the time came to start my (short-lived) college education.

During summer vacation, I was thrilled to finally be old enough to step into the enviable role of a foodserver. At this particular restaurant, the requirements for servers are pretty strict. We had to memorize every ingredient in every item on the menu. We were required to ask specific questions when greeting a table, and set each plate at a specific visual rotation in front of the guest. There were no notepads allowed--we memorized all orders for tables with fewer than 6 guests. I took the job seriously, and worked to become highly proficient at the many skills required to excel in such a fast-paced environment. I am an excellent multitasker, and to this day that aspect remains my favorite memory of foodservice. During a busy shift, I might be simultaneously inputting the four-top order I memorized from table 21 since their salads just arrived, printing a guest check for table 11, calling for a side of thousand from the cold side of the kitchen, filling water glasses for the new guests at 20 on my way to pick up Long Islands at the bar for table 10 after I grab the side of thousand from Jose, back to my section to drop off the check, waters, drinks, and dressing, then take 20's order, grab a few app plates for them, head back to the kitchen where I run food to table 109 and pick up the credit card from 11 before returning to put in the app order for 20 and run 11's card. I grab dessert menus for 30 on my way out with food for table 52, and drop off the menus before returning the credit card slips and bidding goodnight to the guests at 11. And it goes on and on like this. Usually with more weird requests and unexpected problems than you'd probably ever guess.

Since I did not return to school in the fall, I continued my "education" in the restaurant. And truly, I did learn a LOT--about people, about on-the-job politics, and about life. I am still learning from this job, as experiences become currently relevant to a lesson I am ready to learn.

I worked in this restaurant for a total of 5 years, most of the time enduring a love-hate relationship with the place. I enjoyed the social interaction with my co-workers. I made more money than I needed on a very flexible schedule. I felt like I did a good job and my customers liked me. On the other hand, I dealt with some despicable human beings, had to pick up the cloth napkin I saw an old man repeatedly blow his nose into, and the manager who had once showered me with praise for my skills as a hostess did not apparently feel that my server persona deserved the same appreciation. Despite my compliance, sales results, and complimentary comment cards, I felt as thought I was constantly fighting for "The General's" approval. My every move was under intense scrutiny, and I would be called on innocent mistakes and little discretions that I had watched numerous servers get away with right in front of her.

I was eventually asked to resign from my position as a foodserver in this restaurant. Just before my shift one day, I was invited into the manager's office, where she explained to me that my service had generated the final customer complaint necessary for her to terminate my employment. What follows is the story of my reprehensible customer service.

It was a beautiful, sunny day. We had the outdoor seating open and the empty tables beckoned anyone who would enjoy a good meal near a sparkling fountain under the warm sun. My shift had barely started at mid-afternoon, so I was ready and full of energy. My first table to arrive was a large group: at least 10 or 12 people, adult men and women, looked as though it might be a family but I couldn't be sure. After the host pulled together a few of the round, umbrella-clad patio tables (always an awkward proposition, but worth it to sit outside on a gorgeous day like today), I bounded outside to greet them. I said hello and asked everyone how they were doing. Those who did not reply with silence did so with little more than a grunt. I thought that was strange, and didn't intend to have these bummers bring me down with them. I made a cheery comment about the delightful weather, and then continued with my usual (required) spiel about the menu, specials, soups and so on.

We continued in this manner throughout their meal. Me: friendly and perky. Them: gloomy and callous. Finally they paid their bill and went on their way. Only I caught sight of one of the gentlemen from the group speaking with a manager in the bar. He approached me and shared that these customers had not been satisfied with my service. I was immediately defensive, explaining how every aspect was impeccable, and that I was totally nice to them in spite of their crotchety moods. This is when he informed me that the group had just come from a funeral. They did not apparently appreciate me being so friendly and happy. They also did not apparently think that I was just doing my job, and that normally servers are expected to be friendly and happy. They did, however, apparently think that they bore some sort of tell-tale sign that I should have recognized as the reason for their less-than-sunny dispositions. I swear, there were no black veils or funeral programs in view; I don't even think they were all wearing black or I might have put two and two together.

At any rate, I had no clue about the circumstances that brought them together at our restaurant that afternoon. But I do believe that even a person in mourning can appreciate a lovely, sunny day, and that I shouldn't be penalized for being friendly and vivacious. But that is precisely what got me fired.

Sitting in the manager's office, staring at a form I was being asked to sign indicating my resignation, I was dumbfounded. I thought about all of the truly terrible things I could have done to bring me to this moment instead of being too nice, things I may have even considered at various times. I thought about my co-worker who had recently stormed out in the middle of his shift, but was back at work the next week. I wondered to myself if this same "complaint" had been received by one of Leslie or Catherine's tables, would the managers have even bothered to write it in their files?

I couldn't help but be offended when The General asked me to consider whether foodservice was "the right job" for me. I had worked my butt off for this company, and for each of the negative remarks in that little manila file, there are dozens of positive comment cards and countless clients who left my section with a smile on their face and a big fat tip on the line. So instead of signing her paper meant to protect the company, I let her fire me.

Of course foodservice isn't the right job for me! There are few people in the world who can make a career surviving in that environment. And I'd venture to say they all know how to suck up to the boss better than me. The truth is, when I was fired, only three months remained until the Grand Opening of our first Curves club. So it was really inconvenient to have to find a new job, and get hired under the false pretense that I would be able to stick around long-term. But with 5 years at that restaurant on my resume, I got the job I wanted in an instant. And since the standards there were relatively lax compared with my previous job, I was able to proudly demonstrate some of the best service they had ever witnessed, and left them wishing I could stay. I don't believe they would have ever considered "too friendly" a complaint worth even writing in my file.

Criminals at Twilight

For a special New Year's Day date, my husband and I ventured out to the movie theatre. Such an excursion is very rare for us. In all of 2008, I'm not sure I saw more than two movies on the big screen. Truthfully, I prefer watching movies at home. I can wear my jammies and slippers, cuddle up in a big blanket, and make my own delectable treats to enjoy. Paying eight times the price to see a movie in a crowded theatre in exchange for relinquishing those comforts of home is not very appealing. Having said that, sometimes it's nice to just do something--anything--which could be construed as a real live "date" with my Honey. Plus, we got a new Entertainment Book for Christmas, so decided to go all crazy and use the discounted movie coupons.


Since we never see movie trailers on television (bless you, TiVo), we selected one based on two criteria: 1) appealing online description, and 2) starts within a convenient window of time. The one that fit the bill was Yes Man. The movie was fun, with some great laugh-out-loud scenes. The comedic tone was quite similar to that of Jim Carrey's Liar Liar, with the notable plot exception being that in Yes Man, Jim Carrey's character makes a choice to improve his life by saying "yes," rather than fighting a spell requiring him to tell the truth, as in Liar Liar. Gary and I both thoroughly enjoyed this escape into unabashed mirth and frivolity. So much so, in fact, that when I mentioned that the other movie we had wanted to see started in four minutes, Gary actually called his mother to see if she wouldn't mind keeping our daughter a little longer.

Since I have quite possibly the most generous mother-in-law west of the Mississippi, we bounded out of those springy seats, then sauntered down the hall to the theatre showing a little movie called Twilight, which you might have heard of.

Although my husband has read the entire Twilight series, I of course have not. But I was actually very excited to see this movie. I feel pretty left out being one of the few remaining humans having yet to read the books. Fully realizing that watching the movie would pale in comparison to the experience of delving into the world of Twilight through Stephenie Meyer's writing, I still wanted to know the story. Then I could at least have a basic understanding when anyone or her grandma started talking about Edward's eyes or "the prom scene."

So we nonchalantly meandered down the hall to find the right theatre. Isn't one paid movie ticket like an "all-access pass" to the theatre as a whole? Gary left me at the door to go use the men's room. I walked up the ramp and found the surprisingly small theatre jammed full. I walked up and down the steps, scanning each row, and found only a few single seats. Our best option (well, besides just accepting the fact that all of the people who had purchased tickets for this movie had filled it) was a couple of seats in the front two rows, one diagonally behind the other. When Gary returned, I showed him, and he shrugged his approval. We were both too excited to see the movie to care that we wouldn't be able to hold hands. Oh wait, and we're not in eighth grade, either. I climbed over the back to get to my seat in the middle of the second row just as the lights went out and previews started to roll.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that folks laden with buckets of popcorn and over-sized Cokes kept trickling in the door, scrutinizing the theatre as I did in search of a seat. I tried not to stare, but couldn't help but do the math. I realized that one group came in, left baffled, and returned with an usher. My eyes focused on the screen, with visions of a junior-high assembly creeping to mind. One where a student shouts the F-word when the teachers' backs are turned, and we all have to stay in the gym until the culprit comes forward.

Would they do that? My conscience got the best of me for a minute, and I imagined the trailers on pause and the house lights brightening up. The teenaged usher, in all his pimply glory, stands in front of the crowd and authoritatively states that only as many tickets as there are plush seats in this room have been sold. "Who among you dares steal from a Hollywood Blockbuster? Mwa-ha-ha-ha!!!"

Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my plan for explaining why I didn't have my ticket stub in my pocket, I peeked over at the usher. He seemed to be motioning one of them to a seat on the far side of the theatre, and I believe I deciphered his gestures to the other guest as an offer to set chairs in the wheelchair spaces.

My heart rate returned to normal just in time for Bella to start talking about death.

My assessment of the movie was very different from Gary's. While he insisted on critiquing many of the casting selections and director's choices (as one is wont to do when viewing the scenes in his imagination wrongly interpreted by another), I just kicked back and loved it. I can see how the story itself drew in readers with such force, and oddly, watching the movie piqued my interested in reading the books. Watching other big screen novel adaptations has not had the same effect on me. For example, after seeing the Harry Potter movies, I just feel pleased that I got to experience in a mere two hours what all you book-loving suckers spent several days absorbing. The same goes for the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Of course, I didn't really have any interest in reading those series' before watching the movie, but I would have expected any previously held interest in reading Twilight to likewise be satiated after watching the movie. Not so.

Twilight was not by any stretch of the imagination an Academy-Award winning film. It should not earn a place on a list of best movies of 2008, let alone of all time. I think it's interesting that I found myself forgiving some of the movie's faults based on the knowledge that it was adapted from a book. In places where I would have been frustrated with the lack of character development or critical of the choppy editing, I actually thought, "I'm sure that was explained much better in the book," or "I bet they had to cut out a lot of the important details here," and excused the filmmakers for it. I didn't feel the need to pardon Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings in such ways, but perhaps those glaring omissions added to my desire to get the full story from the book. I am usually not so quick to absolve a movie for such offenses, so perhaps I was just in the mood to be entertained. I'm glad I was, and am delighted to report that I plan to find a way to make time to read this year.

The stash

If you have been wondering why I keep getting fatter and fatter (I know I have), the photo below should unravel the mystery. No it is not a pregnancy pee stick with a pink plus sign. Sorry.

Behold, our treat cupboard. That's right: we have an entire cupboard with two pull-out shelves dedicated to housing edibles of the sweet snack variety. And recently, this is more of a backup plan, since our counter has been decorated of late with various baked goods and candy we have received as gifts/party leftovers/church fellowship bribes.

I would like to point out a couple of things about the photo, though. In our defense, most of the items pictured are never touched. For example, we dumped Madelyn's Trick-or-Treat haul in the front corner. We don't really care for the selection, but hated throwing it away, you know? Also, most items on the top shelf were intended to be toddler snacks, but we rarely give them to her since we feed our daughter much more healthfully than ourselves, apparently. The brown box right in the middle is bona fide Japanese chocolate-covered potato chips, left here by Yuka. She went home to Japan in June. There are really only a few staple treats here, two of which are indicated by the gaping bags, clearly left open to facilitate ease of handful acquisition without wasting precious time pulling apart the resealable closure.

As owner of (and faithful believer in) multiple Curves facilities, it is embarrassing to admit that I enjoy some manner of delectable treat no less than once per day, and usually more often. The thing is, I manage to exercise 5-6 days every week. We eat healthy, balanced meals most of the time. But it's time to admit that I am addicted to sugar. This is an addiction whose power must rival that of nicotine or coffee, but is so often overlooked. And I'm a victim of it. I know because it is very difficult for me to turn down sweets, even when I'm stuffed full, and even when there is no reason to have them. My mind can be saying to me clearly, 'you don't need to eat this,' and I take another bite.

There is a certain euphoria that accompanies the delicious sweet taste, and it's a deadly combination. I'm sure there is research out there to support my assumption that the chemical effect on the brain is similar to what some drugs would do, although almost certainly more mildly.

I have been working with people who need and want to lose weight for over six years. It is no fun to see them struggle. But as their Curves coach, I can provide information and encouragement; the rest is up to them. I have thus far been blessed with a decent body composition, but I think many of my Curves members looked about like me 15 or 25 years ago too. Everyone started by gaining the first five pounds. I know I need to be more vigilant, but overcoming addiction is hard. Conversely, justification is so easy to come by. And given that it's "The Holidays" (Halloween through the first week of January, you know), I'll be faced with my vice at every turn.

I won't ever be that person who doesn't eat junk food. I love it. I'm happy to pay for the privilege through faithful exercise. I believe moderation, not abstinence, is the key. So the second week of January, I'll start moderating like nobody's business. I swear.

Six utterly embarrassing confessions

1. I can count on one hand the number of books I have read cover-to-cover in the past 5 years. One of them was a baby name book.

2. I use the return address labels that come in the mail without donating to the charity that sends them.

3. I am a very careful re-gifter.

4. One time I followed some loathesome customers into the Stanford's parking lot and nonchalantly flipped them the bird. They called my manager, of course, and I convincingly denied their (true) allegations.

5. I have kissed at least 28 guys (that's how many I could remember, although I couldn't remember all of their names) and 2 girls.

6. I wet my pants until first grade. The doctor gave me medication because he said my bladder was small for my age. But the truth is, I just hated going to the bathroom.

Yikes. And unfortunately, there are more where these came from. Now that I feel like a pathetic wretch of person, won't you please assure me I'm not the only one with dark secrets? Go ahead, get one off your chest.