Misplaced My Waist

I'm not sure exactly when it happened but I'm fairly certain it was somewhere between the day after Christmas when I left my beachfront rental and last Tuesday. I seem to have misplaced my waistline. I know that I had it when I checked into the resort. In fact, I remember feeling a little sticky from the eleven-hour ride through rain and sleet and gloom of night. I hurriedly unpacked and put away everything and rolled the luggage out of sight. I distinctly recall seeing it when I showered but I don't know that I saw it at any point after that.

It was a rough winter and I may (or may not have) eaten a little more than I should have and exercised a little less than I should have (and didn't). But I pulled on a pair of my favorite jeans and they pretty well shut down and refused to let me in. I begged and pleaded and prayed and sprayed (cooking oil) and eventually they let me in. Make no mistake about it though; they didn't like it one bit. And they did their very best to make me miserable. They tried everything. They made a horrible swishing sound when I walked, they threatened to unleash a mighty yeast if I dared take another step, they baked muffin tops when I sat down and I am certain I politely said "no thank you" several times. But I won, yes sirree! I wore the jeans despite their protests.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have given in. I went for a walk around town and caught a glimpse I didn't much appreciate. I glanced sideways into a vacant storefront window, saw my huge butt and stopped short. Less than a minute later my butt stopped. And that's when I knew I had a problem. It wasn't when I tried on a dress in a department store fitting room and local firemen had to use the jaws of life to get me out. It wasn't when my 5-year-old patted my bottom and declared, "It's ok. I love you anyway." Nope, it was the storefront window that brought me to senses.

With not a moment to lose, I decided to take immediate action. What to do, hmm? Egads! I've got it! I'll eat right and exercise. That's the ticket! But what will I eat and how will I exercise? Thank God for Google! I'll just google up some answers and get to work. But, first, I need a snack, just a little one. A few crackers maybe. Healthy crackers, of course. All-Bran crackers are tasty little squares of multi-grain goodness. I'll have those. So, now I'm munching and surfing and munching and surfing. And then I realized I was thirsty. What should I have? Wine, of course! No, not white wine. Red wine for the health benefits it offers. Just a half-glass or so. I begin to sip and realize that I haven't eaten much all day. Musn't let the wine go to my head. A piece of cheese will do. Tiny wedge of smoked gouda never hurt anybody. Now I'm happy and clearly on my way to a fit and trim new body. After all, I did eat something from every food group. Am I off to a great start or what! Disillusioned much? Perhaps.

I console myself with the thought that half the battle is admitting you have a problem. I convince myself that my problem is faulty genes. I decide to make a few minor, sustainable changes in my exercise routine. There's a fitness center in my office building but that doesn't seem very convenient despite its location. There are fitness paths in the parks near my home and a 24-hour health club within a stone's throw of my home. Musn't forget the Nordic Track, yoga ball, and free weights in my home. (Starting to sense my lack of motivation, are you?) Nope, won't work. I need something new, something different, something... well, pretty much effortless.

I decide to invest in a Wii fitness system. We already own the Wii system and this seems like a fun way to work out at home and keep track of my progress. I slide the balance board out of the box and put everything where it belonged. Easy! Nothing to it. I set the board on the floor and get started. So the little balance board comes on the screen, greets me pleasantly and gives me a lesson in posture and balance and offers to weigh me and give me some general information about the state of this body. I glance around and everyone in the house is otherwise engaged so I jump on. Not literally! But, I swear the little bugger made a noise as though I had just let the air out of him. And things just continued downhill. This "helpful" little balance board nailed my weight down to the ounce and posted my body mass index (BMI) on the screen in a font so big my neighbor gasped when she saw it. And my drapes were closed! No matter, I power on determined to get the lead out. The balance board administered a few balance tests and had the gall to ask me if I found myself tripping a lot. Maybe. Ok fine, YES! I've run into walls in hallways with 12 feet of clearance on either side of me.

I realized that this friendly little balance board was on to something. He wasn't trying to hurt me. He was just trying to get me off to a good start. Thirty minutes later I had taken a run along a scenic path alongside a waterfall with my good friends and family running alongside me and cheering me along the way. But, I was in the room alone. All of my well-wishers were in the game. Amazing! I had hula-hooped and nearly thrown my hip out. I had burned calories on the stepping board and earned credits to unlock new yoga poses. I felt the burn, baby! And I could tell that this was a workout worth sticking with.

So, now, I'm in love with my Wii Fit. The problem is that my girls are also in love with it. So, I have to jump up earlier or stay up later to get a turn. But, they're working off excess energy and building a healthier heart and having a blast in the process. I can't figure out how the creators of this system did it but I am enjoying my workout. And after less than a week I feel certain I am going to find my waist. I even bought my motivational bathing suit. I'll keep you posted.

Happy Feet: Love my Fit Flops!

Today was the first real day of spring. I spent most of my time inside of a building devoid of fresh air and had no clue how great the weather was until I emerged from said building in the afternoon. I breathed in as much air as my faulty lungs could manage then deeply exhaled and pondered my next steps. I was completely overdressed for the weather and wished I had a pair of shorts and a tee in my trunk. No such luck. But what I did have lying on the floor of the car directly behind the driver's seat were my Fit Flops. I wore them for a long ride over the weekend and later changed into a pair of pumps better suited for the events of the evening.

I bought my Fit Flops last year after hearing a disc jockey rave about the pair she had recently purchased. She carried on about how well-toned her legs were as a result of just walking her dog while wearing the shoes. She swore the shoes had tightened up sagging muscles in her calf, hips and padded bottom. I couldn't imagine what kind of fit flop could do all of this and did a Google search to see what all the hulabaloo was about. I'm not usually gullible but I admit I fell for the hype. I spent my college years trolling the campus in a pair of Birks I wore all winter and replaced each spring and figured that if the Fit Flop was half as comfortable as my beloved Arizona, it was worth a gamble.

I ordered a pair from Victoria's Secret because I happened to have a gift certificate for the online store and they happened to sell the color I wanted. Three days later my Fit Flops arrived and I couldn't wait to get them out of the box and onto my feet. I walked around the house and swore I felt the burn in my calf the disc jockey had described in her on-air experience. I didn't think I was all that impressionable but I wondered if I was unduly influenced by all of the hype around this new new shoe, the Holy Grail of open-toed shoes. So, I started wearing my Fit Flops everywhere. And it wasn't longer than a week before I had proof positive that the shoes worked. My legs looked and felt stronger and more toned. One week, no kidding and no exaggeration.

My husband teased me about my cult-like dedication to the sandal and my daughter, fashionista that she is, questioned my judgment in wearing the shoes with pretty much everything I owned, irrespective of color or style. I began to wonder if the manufacturer had secretly mixed in psychedelics with the EVA used for the outsole. Everywhere I went I extolled the virtues of the Fit Flop. A stylist at my hair salon noticed the sandal and casually asked if they were comfortable. After my 10-minute infomercial she and a few of the clients were excited about trying the pricey fitness-friendly rendition of the traditional flip-flop. I don't know how the other women fared but my newly converted stylist praised the Fit Flop for comfortably supporting her during long hours of standing and quickly joined the Fit Flop craze. This year she backordered the new Electra style and was counting down the days on a Castaway calendar until they arrived.




Not long after, my neighbor and I were talking late one evening before her flight to Vienna for an 11-day tour. She happened to mention that her list of things to do for her trip had been shortened but she hadn't gotten to a store for comfortable shoes. Well, naturally, my ears perked up and I quickly recommended my new favorite shoe. It was late, stores were closed and her flight was very early the next morning. I did what any good neighbor would do; I offered to let her take my shoes. We were the same size, after all. She declined but then decided that if it made me happy... Besides, I was waiting for a new pair to arrive in bronze. I handwashed the sandals in my laundry sink, sanitized them with Odo-Ban and delivered them to my grateful (if skeptical) neighbor.

I received word from Vienna that my neighbor loved the shoes and was very comfortable walking around the tourist districts in Vienna. She even wore them to Wiener Staatsoper. I was busily in love with the new sandals I received during her trip and insisted she keep the original pair.

Today I had that feeling all over again when I wore my Fit Flops for the ride home and later for a walk in the park with my girls. I felt that familiar burn in the back of my legs and realize now that if I had worn my beloved sandal all winter... Why, I would have buns of steel right now. Oh well!

I just ordered a pair of Electras and can't wait for them to arrive. It's the little things in life that excite me. Love my Fit Flops! And I can't wait to sport my new silver pair.

In An Age of Diversity, Some Still Judge The Book By It's Cover

Have you ever had the experience of feeling that you somehow didn't measure up to those around you? Maybe you felt underdressed at a dinner party or uneasy about the wrinkles in your forehead when standing next to the local queens of Botox. Perhaps it was a job interview and the hiring manager nitpicked your education and experience without the slightest hint of reassurance that you were on the right track.

Imagine walking into a room filled with thousands of people, taking center stage, and having an audience and three judges laugh at you and dismiss you outright before you ever opened your mouth. I have fairly tough skin but I don't know that I would have been able to move beyond that and perform, at least not without being defensive.

One woman, a 47-year-old named Susan Boyle, faced off with Simon Cowell on Britain's Got Talent and brought a tear to my left eye. I am inspired by Susan Boyle to dream on and stand my ground in the face of adversity. Watch this video and you'll understand. And, please, share it with a friend.

Click this link to view video.

What Scares Me Most About Child Predators

I recently read a gut-wrenching story about a man following two young girls down a main street street in Montclair, New Jersey in an attempt to get them into his luxury SUV. The girls, ages 9 and 11, were walking their dog in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. This particular predator was very persistent and continued to follow the girls as they ran across two lots to reach their home. When the girls reached their home, the suspect parked and got out of his car. The girls ran inside and told their father but the suspect was gone by the time the father got to the window.

The rape and murder of little Sandra Cantu is currently the most publicized child abduction case in prominent media, in part because of the circumstances surrounding her abduction and because her alleged attacker was a female Sunday School teacher whose daughter was close friends with the victim. Reactions ranged from outrage and fear to judgment and condemnation of the victim's mother for allowing her young daughter to wander around the mobile home park they lived in without adult supervision. For some, the words "mobile home park" conjure up Hollywood images of rectangle boxes on wheels with card tables and beer cans adorning the front entrance. This particular community, Orchard Estates, offers affordable housing complete with a community pool and clubhouse ($70,000 gets you an 1150 s.f. home with 3 beds, 2 baths, central air, deck and 2-car garage). It was built more than twenty-five years ago with young families in mind and it isn't unusual for someone who was raised in Orchard Estates to start their own family there.

It also isn't unusual to live near a sex offender in this mobile home park. According to the California State Sex Offender Registry there are thirteen registered sex offenders within 1/10 of a mile of the home Sandra Cantu shared with her mother, Maria in the Orchard Estates Mobile Home Park. But the alleged rapist and killer isn't among those registered in California. In fact, her brushes with the law involved theft and drug use. One might argue that Maria Chavez knew, or should have known, that it wasn't safe for her self-described "tiny, little eight-year-old" to play outside alone especially after an incident at the pool two years ago when an adult male neighbor kissed the little girl on the mouth "to be nice." But, let's suppose Sandra was not allowed to walk to a neighbor's house unattended and that it was unusual for her to be away from home at 8 p.m. on a school night. Can we really say that this would have kept her safe? Remember, she was allegedly raped and killed by the mother of her close friend, a Sunday School teacher, the granddaughter of the local pastor who also lives in the community, a woman with no record or known history of child abuse or sexual assault.

Even the most diligent parents can find their children at risk. Take the recent case of an attempted abduction in a town near Phoenix, Arizona. A man jumped out of his truck in a grocery store parking lot and grabbed a girl who was walking with her mother. The mother reportedly dropped her groceries and physically fought the girl's attacker to keep her safe.

There are stories every day about attempted abductions by predators posing as delivery men, snow shovelers and lost drivers. And we have all heard the stories of assaults by male relatives and clergy and sick teachers. But, this is a first for me. And I admit that it unnerves me more than a little. I'm not looking at parents of my daughters' friends any differently. They aren't allowed to have sleepovers at other people's homes. And the friends in our circle generally don't allow their daughters to sleep over at other people's homes. So, the girls rarely have sleepovers. They don't take trains and buses to shop in the city and they don't walk dogs or jog alone. And, yet, I know that this offers no guarantees. While we were working hard to protect our children from physical harm at the hands of Chester The Obvious Child Molester, the Internet and social networking sites were unknowingly providing predators a whole new way to lure our children into a web of evil.

Experts agree that education is the key to prevention. It's never too young to start talking to your children about safety. We used a video from the creator of America's Most Wanted titled Stranger Safety (see link on this page) to help our daughters understand how to spot danger and what to do. I only hope that they will trust their instincts to stay out of danger and use their legs and lungs if danger lurks nearby.

My heart aches for Sandra Cantu's family and all of the children who are harmed at the hands of predators. And my response is to work that much harder to keep my children safe.

Two Turn Tables and a Microphone

This post isn’t for everyone. In fact, I can’t mandate it but I strongly recommend that overly sensitive soloists, choir directors and praise leaders exit stage left… now! I have questions that need answering. I’ve tried to figure this out on my own and with the help of other people. I’ve prayed without ceasing and looked for the lesson in the experience. I’ve taken a Freudian approach to determine what might have happened in my childhood that makes this particular experience so distressing to me. Yet I have found no answers. And, so I turn to you. The masses of congregants around the globe who suffer in silence each Sunday through the abominable racket of the selfish, spotlight-seeking singers who inflict pain in the name of the Lord. Those who sing songs so far off the musical mark that they no longer resemble the original work of art.

Pray with me if you would. It’ll only take a moment. Just a short prayer but I believe that if we all pray together we can make a difference. Let’s bow our heads, shall we?

Lord, we come before you today to thank you. To thank you for the ears that you have given us and the gift of hearing to accompany them. For, Lord, in your infinite wisdom you placed the ears in the perfect spot to allow us to enjoy the beautiful chirping of the birds you created, the wind rustling through the leaves, the roaring waves of the ocean and the joyous noise of the babies you have blessed us with. And, Lord, because of these ears we hear the sweet words of appreciation shared with us by our loved ones and the beautiful lyrics you so generously gifted the talented musicians serving in your kingdom. I thank you, O Lord, for all of the gifts these ears allow me to experience. And, I ask forgiveness. Forgive me, Father, for the hostility that rises up in me on a Sunday morning when I’m forced to sit and seethe in silence at the hands of my choral captors who sing for themselves but should probably not sing for anyone at all.

Lord, I thank you for my teeth and I beg forgiveness that I grind them down to wee little bits in the name of sanity as I endure the hour-long suffering of unpracticed and unnecessary praise. Lord, forgive my child for covering her ears and screaming out, “Make it stop! Please, God, make it stop!” For she knoweth not the time nor the hour that the suffering might end. Lord, we pray for the tone-deaf soloists for we know that although they sing in the key of Z, their hearts are in the right place. And, Lord, forgive them for what they did to Amazing Grace that Sunday. There was an American Idol marathon earlier that week and they knew not where reality ended and real worship began. I beg you, Lord, to help the anti-anxiety meds to kick in a smidgen earlier during service that I might begin zoning out during the microphone check and recover moments before The Word.

And, I ask you to move in the hearts of those whose giving is tied to the performance rather than the blessings you have given them. For we know that although praise and worship service is too often a most horrific racket and a nightmare at best, it is not intended to be a performance. Lord, I ask you to return those who have left the fold because they just couldn’t take it anymore. Touch their hearts, O Lord, and increase their threshold for pain that they might learn to endure the suffering once a month to start and then gradually work up to a full month of pain. Finally, Lord, I ask you to please remove the self-centered, glory-seeking, untrained, wholly unqualified ministers of music and replace them with persons who, first and foremost, love you and can also identify a music note, sing on key, stay on key, and restore grace and dignity to the choir stand.

Let the people say Amen.

Special thanks to El W. for going old school on Facebook the other day. Who knew it would inspire my post. And thanks to my husband for just letting me be me.

Would You Leave if He Cheated?

Everyone has some experience with infidelity. Whether you've cheated or been cheated on or helped a friend through an affair or thought about it or wondered whether someone you loved was thinking about it... infidelity strikes a nerve and a reaction in just about everyone. I recently had a long conversation with a good friend about infidelity. My position generally troubles women not because I would have an affair or support others who have affairs, but because I wouldn't leave my husband for having an affair. "But doesn't that mean you're giving your husband permission to have an affair?" No, of course not, anymore than not divorcing him for leaving the toilet seat up means that he would leave the toilet seat up if he wasn't already planning to.

The fact is that affairs don't end marriages. A marriage that ended at the hands of an affair was already on life support or should have been. People may conveniently choose to ignore the glaring problems that plagued their previously blissful union. Indeed, the affair may be the catalyst for the decision that was already being made but not yet admitted out loud.

This isn't to say that if I married a serial cheater I would hang on for the bumpy, disease-infested ride. I have limits. And I'm not suggesting that if my significant other had an affair with, say, my mother or (God help us) my brother, that I would stand by his side. I'm talking about your basic, run of the mill, I-feel-inadequate-and-you-don't-seem-to-need-me-so-I-need-some-skank-to-make-me-feel-manly type of affair. And, yes, I did say skank. (I sure hope I haven't offended anyone.)

Thankfully, I'm not living this particular nightmare. I know women who are or did or afraid that they might be. My advice is not for women to sit idly by and do nothing. I simply think it's best to consider your individual situation and make an informed decision based on your needs and expectations and those of your family rather than doing what other women might do in the same situation. I also think that was an insanely long sentence, but I digress.

Consider Bill and Hillary Clinton. Could an affair be more public or humiliating? I don't know that I could have kept my head high in the midst of that pain. Feminists called for Hillary to cut off Bill's delicate man-meats and run screaming from the White House. Hillary chose to seeth in silence until it passed. And she kept her home together, her dignity intact and her and her husband's future interests first in mind.

Many years later, the Clintons appear comfortably settled into a close marriage and well-partnered in business and in politics. Chelsea was spared the agony of divorce and Monica Lewinsky, last I heard, was scarfing down Krispy Kremes and peddling a line of ill-styled handbags in some obscure town trying to find a little limelight.

The decision is always personal and the circumstances as different as the players involved. Before you decide to run or stay, I recommend you take a step back, your hands off, and your girlfriends out of it. If you're a woman of faith, pray without ceasing. If you don't know what to do, don't do anything until clarity sets in. And don't punish yourself or your family for what will likely blow over in short order if you allow it to.

And to the readers who inspired this post (four couples come easily to mind) how great is it that, despite the odds, you're still or back together and happier than you've ever been.

The Perfect Mom

Ok, so I'm driving the girls to school earlier this week and listening to a bit on the radio where the DJs are disucssing a recent episode of Oprah. It seems Oprah invited mothers to expose their deepest, darkest mothering secrets and the women felt free to open up to millions of viewers. One woman confessed that she had made complete lunches out of the snacks she found in her car on the way to school. Sounded less like a confession and more like the incredible accomplishments of Supermom to me. Then there was the woman who confessed that her children had pizza for breakfast a few mornings a week. There were maxi-pads for diapers and babies not being bathed for three weeks at a time. I was amused by some of the confessions and stunned into silence by others. Some of their confessions made me feel normal and I admit that some made me feel maternally superior. For about a minute. And then, with the help of my 13-year-old, I recalled some of the things I had done (quite recently) that leveled the playing field.

I'm not the perfect mom. The thing that makes some women uncomfortable with that is that I don't care to be. It's not important to me to be the perfect mom. Never has been, never will be. It's important to me to provide a safe, happy, healthy and balanced childhood experience for my little ones. I learned somewhere about the fifth month of my first pregnancy that my life was no longer about me at all. I accepted that fact sometime last year. Oh, yes, it's been an interesting few years. I can remember when I used to turn my nose up just a smidgen when I was forced to sit near the family whose children appeared to have been raised by wolves. I remember the absolutely flawless "hmph" I would serve up to any mother whose children were the slightest bit noisy in the local department store. Oh, yes! That was me. I would inch ever so subtly to the left if the baby with the messy hands reached out to touch my designer jacket or unbelievably pricey purse. Hey, look, I'm not proud that I did it. I'm not saying it's right. Just that I did it. But the best (yep, it gets better) was actually confronting mothers about their parenting skills or lack thereof. I had it all together so I could afford to judge those mothers. You probably have guessed by now that I had no children during this phase of my life.

Motherhood certainly changed me. I have three children. Two were gifts from the womb and the other is my bonus baby, a wedding gift. He came in a package with my husband. He isn't my favorite, although the kids and the husband would beg to differ. He's just different than my girls. My girls give me a run for my money every hour of every day. Raised by wolves? My 13-year-old was ousted from the den because of her incessant chatter and the five-year-old backed the den mother into a corner one time too many and, if my sources can be believed, the den mother has been nursing her thumb in the corner of a padded room in a psych ward ever since.

Being a mother has challenged every iota of my being every day since I joined the motherhood. I've forgotten money for school trips, lost school library books, washed and dried laundry early on a Monday morning, given the kids caffeinated drinks the morning after I kept them out too late and threatened to take away toys for the rest of their natural lives (all the while wondering where that saying came from and what is the opposite of a natural life anyway). Oh yeah, the hypocrite in me has chastised the kids for listening to music I really like dancing to.

Perfect? Not even close. I'm in the motherhood now. I understand.

So what brought on the urge to blog?

I would very much like to say I've never been told that I talk too much. I could say it but it most certainly wouldn't be true. I haven't heard it from anyone lately. And I don't think it's because I stopped talking. I've matured and now find myself in the company of a more reserved circle of friends. That, plus the fact that they are older and, in the case of my dear husband, hearing-impaired. Although oddly enough, he seems to hear other people just fine. Perhaps he has mastered the art of tuning out static. The thing is, I can type to my heart's content and all anyone has to do to tune me out is close the window. I can remember when closing the window on someone's fingers was unacceptable. Now, it's just the way things are.

The funny thing is that I regularly get requests for advice. On everything from jobs and careers to pregnancy and child care to college and retirement communities. I get asked what to do about a marital problem or how to find a man, what part of the country an area code is connected, how to spell tricky words, how to fix a leaky faucet, how to write a business letter... I do not, however, get questions on how to cook anything or how to run a household. I have no clue and I'm learning that more and more every day. The other topics? Oh yeah, I'm a walking encyclopedia, glassus nerdus! It doesn't make me special but it does seem to make me a bit more talkative than your average nerdus maximus. And I don't claim to have the answers, mind you. I am grateful that people trust me enough to share their stories and feel honored to be able to help in some small way.

So, what does this have to do with why I'm blogging? Pretty much everything. I finally accept that my life is a comedy of errors and a bushel of blessings that make me wiser and also provide me with enough material to do a one-woman show for a ten-year run in a Vegas showroom without ever repeating a story. Truth be told, I may have a tendency toward the theatrical when sharing stories about my children. It isn't that I want to be dramatic. It's just that my children are characters. Funny little creatures they are. Witty, comedic, and downright impish. Mix that in with a couple of chronic conditions, a blended family, a couple of ex-spouses (different than the chronic conditions) and theatrics just sort of show up. But, that's just one part of it. I am also blessed to be in the company of some really talented people from whom I learn so much and I find myself wanting to spread the good news of thy thingdom, whatever thy thing is on any given day.

This blog might be therapeutic. After all, I am sitting here writing my thoughts for the world to read. I'm realizing more every day that so many women struggle with the same things, have many of the same experiences but never say a word, and need a sanity check that you just don't get unless you take time out to talk to somebody. And so this blog will be as much for me as it will for someone else with something on the noggin. I suspect that as time goes on, we will have covered everything from postpartum depression to career advice to child care and everything in between. There are two common themes for the requests I get for information and/or advice. One is about careers and the other is about relationships. There are two such situations on my mind at present and I wondered how common it is for other women. For now, though, this will have to be enough. Tomorrow we'll start knocking down walls and bringing the world together, one overtaxed woman at a time. Until then...