If only I had something to write about

I have reached the end of my creative brain cells. Sad, isn't it?

I am at a blogging standstill.

I got nuthin'.

Seriously. I can't even spell anymore.

I suppose I could write and tell you all about the two-hour bike ride to the park that I made my kids take yesterday.

I chose a path that was "too hilly" according to them and they kept getting off to walk their bikes up the hills that were apparently uphill both ways. Barefoot. In the snow.

That's their version anyway.

I could tell you about the behind-kicking workout I had this morning and how I don't think I'll walk for a week. But nobody (not even me) wants to hear about that.

So instead, I will leave you with a little weekend gratitude list:

I am thankful for an upcoming night out with the Husband sans kids tonight.

I am thankful for the Queen B and the fabulous book I won in a contest over at her blog. I never win anything; it made my whole day. You should go now and read her blog, if for no other reason, but to see pictures of her big, hairless cat. Makes me laugh just thinking about it. Plus, she still has her brain cells and is always very funny.

I am thankful for birds chirping right outside my window. Big, fat robins. What do these guys eat? Shouldn't they still be lean and scrawny from the winter? They're like guinea pigs with little stick legs - they're just huge.

I am thankful for spring break because it means I can sleep in every day and ignore the children and their pleas for Eggo waffles at the unholy crack of dawn.

I am thankful for a husband who is finally home for a day or two.

I am thankful for an upcoming mini-holiday with the Husband and kidlets (and hopefully an old friend. Come on, Em. You know you want to come and meet us!).

I am thankful for Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, even though they are the devil.

I am thankful for deodorant. Seriously, what would we do without it?

I am thankful for blogging.

I am thankful for blogging so I can look all busy and not have to help certain children find tiny lost Polly Pocket shoes. "Oh, sorry. Mommy is working on the computer right now. Come back later if you still need help."

I am thankful for boring Saturdays where we're all so healthy and fulfilled that we have nothing better to do than play in the basement while listening to soundtracks from action movies. Sometimes no news in life is good news.

What about you? What are you thankful for on this Saturday?

And if you see my brain, send it home. Tell it I'm sorry. Tell it I might really need to use it one of these days, and I promise to let it have the remote and drink some of my diet coke. But I won't give it my side of the bed. There are some things that must remain sacred.

A letter from a hopeful customer

Dear Quaker Rice Cakes,

Last night after an exhausting day spent mothering, nurturing, feeding, and driving my three children to school, scouts, ballet, and home again, I was tired and hungry.

I am trying (somewhat eagerly) to lose a few pounds. I recently picked up some of your delicious-looking rice cake snacks at my local Sam's Club. I bought them in bulk (which was a gamble on my part), trusting them to provide me with a tasty low-calorie snack. I took a risk, knowing that if nobody in the house liked them, we would be stuck with a large case of rice cakes.

And we don't have a dog to feed uneaten snacks to.

So while foraging through my pantry like a hungry raccoon, I saw two viable options with which to curb my nighttime craving. One, was a stale, half-eaten package of Oreo cookies (not really a good choice, I know); and the other was one of your rice cake snack bags. Really wanting the Oreos, but yet not wanting to find myself yelling at the scale in the morning, I resisted temptation and went with your rice cakes. The turning point in this decision came when I noticed a pretty little green rectangle in the top left corner of the bag, shouting out to me that the entire bag contained only 60 calories.

So I dug in. And I found myself really enjoying the crispy, crunchy, slightly chocolately snack. I thought to myself, "Damn! I need to buy these again." And you must know that I rarely swear in my mind.

Usually it's out loud.

I got about halfway through the package and started reading the bag. You know, because sometimes when snacking, one likes to have something to read. And I noticed, to my shock and horror, that the back of the package claimed that I was not consuming 60 little, itty-bitty calories; but that I was actually eating 110 calories.

I almost fell off the couch, I was that disturbed.

But I composed myself, and double checked.

Then I did fall off the couch.

The back side of the package DOES in fact claim that one entire bag of the mini-rice cakes contains 110 calories.

And yes, I am aware that sometimes tricky companies like to make you think you're eating less by posting the calories for a serving size, and there are often multiple servings in a given bag. But not yours. Yours says, one package, 110 calories (on the back). And 1 bag, 60 calories (on the front).

So which is it?

I have a solution for you. Since you seem to be unsure as to which is the correct number of calories, I offer this negotiation. How about we just go with the 60 calories then? Let's round down this time, instead of rounding up.

Because this little-too-late discovery put me in a bit of a spot. I had already eaten at least half of the bag. But I was already so addicted to the crunchy sweetness that I found myself unable to put down my half-eaten treat. And so I finished the entire bag, all the while praying they were truly the lower number.

So please, dear friends at Quaker, let's call it 60 calories. Just for me. And my scale. Do this, and we can part friends. Do it not, and I will be unable to buy this product again. Which would cost your company at least like ten dollars a month.

And just think, with my new 60-calorie best friend at my side, I could live to be well over 100, which gives me at least 66 more years as your loyal customer, netting you a minimum of $8,000 over my lifetime.

I think it's worth it. And I know you'll agree.

Your hopeful new friend,

Christie

Blog hopping today

I'm not here today. I've got a little product review up over here. One of my favorite bloggers, Jo-Lynne, at Musings of Housewife, asked me to review my favorite beauty product, which of course relates to hair. Check out what I had to say, and be sure to nose around both her sites. You'll enjoy them and come to love her as I have.

Go. Now. You, too, Daniel. I think your hair could use some work. Maybe this product will help.

Road rage

You know the scenario and have probably seen and done it a million times.

You're driving along - maybe in a hurry because you're running late - and somebody cuts you off. The frustration turns to sheer rage, and you futilely yell through your closed window at the person who just cut you off. Or maybe the highly unskilled driver drove in such a way that almost caused an accident, which was saved only by your excellent defensive driving skills, and you laid on your horn to let them know of your disgust. I'd even go out on a limb and wager that almost all of you have even raised that ubiquitous middle finger a time or two.

I'm ashamed to say I have.

Generally speaking, I am a rational driver. My "mild" OCD tendencies almost always have me heading out the door with time to spare, ensuring that my drives are smooth and even. The purchase of a car that came equipped with wireless headphones and a DVD player has left me with an immense amount of peace and quiet time from the children.

In short, my car rides are usually not rage-filled ones.

After leaving the race track of the California freeways behind me, I find myself quite at home here in the sleepy Midwest, where no one even goes the actual speed limit - they go below it. I try to not get annoyed when I'm stuck behind one of the locals, especially when I see that it's an elderly silver-haired poodle, nervously peeking up over the steering wheel.

The other day, I happened to witness the typical road-rage driver. A vehicle pulled out in front of a woman, and she laid on the horn, immediately accelerating to within inches of the bumper of the offending car. She raised her middle finger and furiously shouted expletives. She followed so closely behind this other car that I was bracing myself for the accident that was sure to happen.

And a few miles later, when she turned off onto another route, she made sure to let the other driver know she still had not forgiven them for causing her to hit that light exactly 1.2 seconds later than she otherwise would have.

Closer examination of the offending car revealed a sweet little elderly man in a black houndstooth fedora, driving with his wife by his side. [I don't know what it is about the fedora on an old man. LOVE. IT. Can't even stand how much I love it. Ahhh. I digress.]

But here was the cutest little couple - probably somebody's grandparents, for crying out loud - driving to the doctor's office, or the grocery store. Sheesh, they're just old. Let's cut them some slack.

I have been unable to shake the incident from my mind. I'm disturbed on several levels. What is it about feeling safe behind a pane of glass that allows our ugly selves to come out?

Just imagine being at the grocery store and someone cuts you off with their cart. You immediately start yelling, you flip them off, and you push your cart to within inches of their heels, all while yelling at them for being so stupid.

Can you imagine the horror?

Why then do we see that as a viable option when we're behind the wheel?

Have you ever honked and yelled at someone in your car, only to realize afterwards that you actually know them?

What possesses us to get so angry? What bravery we don when no one can talk back or even apologize.

I would just love to have everyone take a deep breath, realize we all have places to get to, and stop being so damn mad all the time. It's just pathetic. We're all human beings. In a society. What have we to be so upset about?

Discuss.

Here's to being unkind and intervening

One of my new pretend internet friends, Lisa at Take 90 West, did a little post last week in which she posted pictures of herself from years gone by. It was inspiring and beautiful. I thought I'd attempt to do the same.

What I have come to realize is that I was actually a beautiful child, but lacked some serious guidance when it came to my teen years. Mine was the mother who felt it would be unkind to intervene and tell me that the baby blue eye shadow caked on like frosting did not work for me.

She should have been unkind and intervened.

But she didn't, and I spent some seriously ugly days thinking I was extremely hot. I give you the 70s and 80s as they should not have been:

But first, this is the only beautiful picture of me taken between 1973 and 2005. It must be included to show the marked decline which happened from this point on:

Unfortunately, I didn't stay that adorable. Here is my pathetic, frighteningly curly homage to Dorthy Hamill. Sleeping in the pink foamie curlers overnight with short hair will produce this cross between a poodle and Luke Skywalker. I like to think that people were too busy gaping at my extra large jack-o-lantern teeth to notice my polyester red and green floral dress.

That thing looks like a grocery bag that I poked my head through, and put a rubber band around the neck to keep it in place. For all I know, it could have been:

My hair eventually grew out, but my bangs did not. Please stop and admire the high lace collar and red gathered jumper, both of which were homemade by my mother. She had mad sewing skillz and used to make me things all the time. I think she might have thought twice about it if she knew that I was doing handstands with my friends on the chain link fence in those very dresses, shouting with glee every time a truck driver honked at us and our panties on display.

She should have sewn me pants instead.


Here is what I like to call my demure look. It rocked the 4th grade. As you can tell, I was still sleeping in the pink curlers, but I got to have my bangs parted down the center and feathered this year. I was wearing another homemade dress, this one covered in strawberries. I like the lopsided strawberry that is apparently growing out of one side of my head.

It is no wonder that this was the year I got chocolates from a boy on Valentines Day.

[Also no wonder that it was the only year that happened.]

This is the year that things started to go very wrong for me. I strutted my stuff - toting a large alligator-skinned tenor saxophone case around the halls of the junior high school, while wearing tapered aquamarine jeans and acid washed jackets. I spent my babysitting money buying Aquanet by the gallon. It took me an hour and a half every morning to cover any holes in my helmet-like hair. I believe I subconsciously did this to keep insects from finding a way in. I have no doubt this hair would have made for an excellent and cozy nest.

And you thought it couldn't get worse than the last one? Well, it does, my friends. This was the year that I decided to spike my bangs up in a cascading waterfall of tangles, held high by a sticky wad of hairspray. I worked hard to get them as high as possible on one side, with a gradual slope so precise that it could have kept any geometry class busy for hours. I was also a big fan of Sun-In (see, Lisa, you're not the only one!) and did not seem to mind that my hair was divided by an equator of blond frizz.

This was also one of the many painful years I spent in a cast as a result of needing many surgeries on my right arm. Here is a shot of me at the hospital just minutes before going under the knife. As you can see, one must be properly sprayed, moussed, and spritzed before undergoing surgery. You know, in case any cute boys happen to be in the operating room while I'm under anesthesia. That would be, like, totally embarrassing for them to see my hair flat.

High school was not much kinder to me when it came to matters of my hair. I was far too busy to do any homework because I was out getting a new perm every eight minutes or so during this period of time. What I did not know then was that I actually had naturally curly hair hiding under all those chemicals that only became fuzzier and more poodle-like with each round of treatments.


Here I am making the most of my manly button down shirt, while my bangs keep an eye out for any upcoming danger. I like to think that those bangs were like a lookout tower on top of my head. You know, in case I might have crashed into anything. Like a flat iron or de-perming solution.

And last, but not least, my senior year. Here I stand, on the cusp of adulthood, completely unaware that shoulder pads have no earthly place in a t-shirt, and eyebrows are for waxing.

Someone really ought to have told me.

My morning master

I have an obsessive love/hate relationship with a small, thin electronic device.

It is not a cell phone.

It is not a laptop.

It is not even a Game Boy Advance, although I hope that would surprise you if it was.

It is my bathroom scale.

Every morning, without fail, I cannot begin my day without paying a visit to what sometimes becomes the dictator of my mood. Even if I know that certain amounts of cookie dough will most likely prevent me from seeing a good number, I still have to stand on it. I cannot go a day without weighing myself.

Surprisingly, sometimes the number is even good.

But lately, the morning number has not been all that reliable. I have been doing some intensive weight training for the past two months. And I know, without fail, that when I stand on the scale the day after doing the weights, I am going to be up. I know that it is due to my muscles retaining water as they recover. I know this.

And yet I still hope for different.

And usually a day or two later, the numbers return to more friendly ones.

So my question for you is this: Do any of you interpeeps weigh yourselves daily?

Are there lucky women out there who don't even have a clue what they weigh?

And if you see a number you don't like, do you sometimes head down to make breakfast in a bad mood?

Or if you see a good number, are you the kindest, most cheerful, Christian version of yourself?

I don't know what it is about the scale that has such power over me. But I find myself unable to go a day without knowing. I'd like to just once not know.

But I can't do it. I have to know.

Please tell me if you weigh or do not weigh, and if it affects you. I must know if I am as weird as I think I am (Shut up, Daniel. Don't even say it).

P.S. Laura C - I made your Zojirushi bread recipe. It was THE BEST EVER. Just wanted to thank you for sharing with me what is now the only recipe we will ever make again.

I also hold that recipe responsible for the number I saw on the scale this morning. Stupid, evil, warm, gooey, toast with butter and jam.