HG's Loss, Your Gain

A lot of you have been asking about the status on the writing position I applied for with Hungry-Girl. About a month ago HG had a note in her daily newsletter about needing some help from someone who loves to write and eat. Hello? Add in "watching HGTV" and you've got my dream job.

So I obligatorily sent in my resume, a list of compelling reasons (see above) and a sample essay, written in HG style.

Status? Nada. Haven't heard anything. So I'm not completely giving up; I just feel that since it's been five weeks, I have the right to share my sample "Chew and Tell Review" with my blog readers. I mean, you wanna know what to order when you go to Chick-fil-A, right? And if HG doesn't approve well I'll just say, "Don't have a cow." (Sorry, I just had to slip a cow pun in there. For more of those, keep reading.)

Chew and Tell Review: Chick-fil-A

We love their cute cows, their alternative side items and even though we wish they were open on Sundays, we give Chick-fil-A credit for sticking to their values. But is everything on their menu a great choice? Here are a few tips for eating right when you wanna chicken out:


Say “bye” to the fry:

Hey, we love their Waffle Potato Fries as much as the next hungry chick but at 350 calories and 17 grams of fat, we say, “Let the cows keep ‘em!” Instead, try one of Chick-fil-A’s healthy side items like the fresh fruit cup (50 calories, 0 fat), a side salad (50 calories, 3 grams of fat) or a hearty breast of chicken soup (140 calories, 3.5 grams of fat). Yes, they cost a little more but we say it’s worth it.


Go for Grilled

Since their Chick-fil-A Chargrilled Chicken Sandwich is so tasty and satisfying, who needs the fried “classic” version clocking in at 410 calories and 16 grams of fat? Plus, with the grilled guy (at 270 calories, 3.5 grams of fat), you get tomatoes, lettuce and a wheat bun not to mention a much trimmer waist line.

Wait on the Wrap

When you hear the word “wrap” you automatically think “low-carb,” right? In Chick-fil-A language, that’s just plain wrong. Each of their three wrap choices comes complete with 50+ carbs. And while their 400 calories aren’t necessarily fast-food frightening, we think these dry, tasteless fellas are just not worth it.


Making it in the Morning

Now we would never tell you to skip breakfast altogether but if you’re short on time and find yourself honking your way through the Chick-fil-A drive thru one morning, we want you to be prepared. Your best bet is the Chick-fil-A Chicken minis which should fill you up with 270 calories and 11 grams of fat. Too small? You’re better off adding one more mini which takes you to 360 calories and 15 grams of fat than choosing the Chick-fil-A Chicken Biscuit at 420 calories and 19 grams of fat. Oh, and don’t be fooled by the words “sunflower” and “multigrain” in the Chicken, Egg and Cheese on a Sunflower Multigrain Bagel. That’s just secret code for 500 calories and 20 grams of fat.




Dream it, Don’t Shake it

If you follow our tips and have a nutritious, low-calorie lunch you can probably afford the sweet stuff too. Their Icedream cone is only 160 calories and 4 grams of fat. Just don’t let your sweet tooth get out of control with their new shakes—each one is over 700 calories and 25+ grams of fat. It would take a whole lot of shakin’ to get rid of that.


Do the Math

Like lots of other of our fast food faves, Chick-fil-A offers nutritional information plus a handy meal calculator online. So be sure to log on before you drive thru. http://www.chickfila.com/MenuCalculator.asp

Now that you’re armed with all these Chick-fil-A facts, you can eat there till the cows come home!

So Long, Soft Diet

Yesterday I went to the periodontist to have the last of my gum bandages removed (some had fallen out on their own) and for a check-up. This would signify the end of my soft diet.

The last time I was at his office I was quite loopy from the drugs so I felt a little embarrassed as I walked in yesterday. “Well, hello there, Elsa,” the receptionist said with a giggle. I vaguely remembered saying to her when I first got there two weeks ago, “I need to go the bathroom. Gimmee that toothbrush key!” (The key to their bathroom is on the end of a toothbrush). And then I think when I returned it I said, “Don’t worry. I didn’t brush my teeth with it,” but I may be imagining that.

Then the hygienist came out and greeted me in the same way. I barely remembered her. She said that during the first part of my surgery (which was really just a deep gum cleaning) I kept saying, “I don’t like that…I don’t like that.” As she told the story the receptionist AND insurance lady both laughed and said, “I remember her saying that!”

It’s sad that some minor gum surgery is rivaling my 21st birthday.

The most embarrassing thing was seeing the doctor. I remember when I was in the midst of the surgery, he and his assistant (what’s up, Luther?) were over my head, discussing Grey’s Anatomy. I soooo wanted to be in the conversation and I kept trying to comment. But since all this stuff was in my mouth and I was really out of it, all I could get out was, “MigDeemy!” Translated into English that’s “McDreamy!”

So the doctor would ask Luther, “So isn’t the main girl in love with her boss?”

And I would say, “MigDeemy!”

Then Luther explained how Meredith slept with George but she started crying. The doctor said, “Why did she do that?”

I sputtered, “Beguz see of MigDeemy!” (Translation: “Because she loves McDreamy!”)

“Quit talking, Elsa!” the doctor and Luther said simultaneously.

So seeing the doctor yesterday was a little weird but he didn’t comment on my McDreamy outbursts. And he gave me the green light to eat anything I want. I had started to adopt this policy in the last week anyway. I moved on to chewable soft foods about a week ago but stayed away from crunchy foods like Kashi and chips.

Now I’d like to briefly reflect on my soft diet and point out one highlight and one lowlight:

Highlight:
I invented this fantastic new smoothie: Blended bowl of Kashi
It’s everything you would put in your bowl of Kashi (milk, Kashi) plus a banana. Oh, and I throw in some flax seed as well. Whoever got us that smoothie maker as a wedding gift, we definitely gotten your money’s worth.

Lowlight:
When Frank stole my cupcake.
I bought Frank these awesome cupcakes from Wal-Mart for his birthday but I couldn’t eat any. So when I started eating soft chewable foods I decided that one of those cupcakes would be my first splurge. I can’t tell you how excited I was to bite into this cupcake. It was chocolate with creamy pink icing on the top. Oh, and there were sprinkles. Sprinkles! My only regret was that it wasn’t bigger. I thought, “This cupcake will be gone soon so I better enjoy every bite.” So when Frank asked for a bite I was a little bummed. He’s always so nice about sharing with me that I caved. He bit into it and when he gave it back to me all that was left was this thumb-sized bite of the chocolate part. No icing! No sprinkles! I freaked out. “I can’t believe you ate my whole cupcake! I haven’t eaten in a week! I was so looking forward to that cupcake and its icing! You suck!” I think there may have even been tears. Lucky for him, we had more.

So let this be a lesson to you: If a girl has been on a soft diet for a week and finally gets to bite into something, don’t take it away from her! I’m pretty sure MigDeemy would never do that.

Now They're Dragging Grandpa Down

Last night, just as I was brushing my teeth I heard a sound come from the TV that gave me chills. Mind you, my back was turned. And no, it wasn’t the commercial for Lady in the Water by M. Night Shalamananana. (Although that’s pretty scary.) It was a young girl scolding her grandpa for something he was doing with a sandwich. I can’t remember exactly what she said but it was something like, “Grandpa, why do you make such a big deal about a sandwich?”

For some reason it felt ooky. It felt odd. It felt…like I was watching the Jif commercial where the dad says “plenty of room” to the little girl. I whipped my head around just in time to see a little girl and her grandpa laughing as the announcer said, “Choosy Moms (and Grandpas) choose Jif.”
Ah! Jif strikes again! I hate them. And not just because their commercials drive me batty, but because they’re such wimps. They obviously caved when some customers complained.

First, someone wrote in and said, “I’m a single dad and I have to choose a peanut butter too. What about me?” Their answer? “Plenty of Room:” the worst commercial ever made. Then, obviously, some grandpa wrote in (or maybe even drove up there) and said, “Hey, every time my granddaughter comes to visit I make her PB& J. There’s no mom to choose. There’s no dad to choose. I’m doing the choosin’! What about me?” Their solution? The latest commercial catastrophe.

Jif, I have news for you: Not EVERYONE is your target market. Moms are your target. Trust me. I’ve sat in dozens of meetings regarding the advertising of a very popular bread company. We did research. We did focus groups. We did segmentation studies. And it doesn’t matter that women are now busier than ever with careers and men are assuming some more household duties. We STILL make the primary grocery decisions.

I know why you’re freaking out and giving in to everyone who complains. You’re now owned by Smucker’s. And if people feel alienated by your PB, they’re not gonna buy your jelly either. But before you launch a campaign with the slogan “Choosy moms (and mom’s live-in boyfriend’s cousin) choose Jif,” let me just stop you. Sure, it’s nice to include everybody but sometimes you just need to stay focused. Forget the dads. Forget the grandpas. And definitely forget M. Night Shalamananana!

Hostess in Heaven

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Frank’s Aunt Marilyn is the sweetest person in the world. I would say she’s as sweet as apple pie but I won’t because a). that’s a total cliché and b). apple pie is fattening. It has a dark side. Aunt Marilyn doesn’t even have a dim side.

Example: We went to her house this weekend for an engagement party she and Uncle John were throwing for their daughter and her fiancé. There were about 50 people there and everybody was talking, eating, drinking…typical party stuff. Aunt Marilyn walked in the noisy room, looked around and announced, “This is heaven!” I asked, “Why do you say that?” She said, “All my kids are here, my grandson is here, the rest of my family is here, our friends are here…it doesn’t get any better than this.”

“But we’re trashing your house,” I said. “Look. Somebody just spilled a beer all over your couch. It got on the carpet!”

“Oh, it’s just a house,” she said sweetly.

“But we’re loud and messy and there are toys everywhere and you’re gonna have so much to clean up tomorrow,” I pressed, convinced I could crack her.

“I don’t mind at all,” she said, “Everybody’s here and I’m in heaven.”

See what I mean? I like entertaining as much as the next gal but I’m not sure I’d be so calm if beers were exploding in my living room. I could maybe fake it. But Aunt Marilyn’s not faking it. She’s always genuine. I know what you’re thinking, “But, Elsa, I’m sweet too!” No you’re not. When it comes down to it, you’re still a little bit selfish, aren’t you? I know I am. And even if you’re 90% sweet and 10% selfish, you’ve still got nothin’ on Aunt Marilyn.

We moved the party to the backyard for a little pool time: water volleyball, margaritas, even a piñata. The sun was shining and I really was having a great time, catching up with the cousins and family, watching the water volleyball game get more and more intense.

Then a dark cloud starting hovering overhead. We stayed in the backyard until the cloud burst and the rain came pouring down into our margaritas. Everybody crowded inside the house and it didn’t look like it was going to clear up anytime soon. I looked around for Aunt Marilyn, feeling bad that her party was ruined.

She walked up with a big smile on her face and said to me, “Well, it looks like it rains in heaven!”

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Even though I love Kate Hudson, I won’t be seeing that movie “You, Me and Dupree” when it comes out next Friday. Sure, Matt Dillon is a cutie and yes, Owen Wilson is hilarious. But the movie’s theme is one I loathe: the unwanted houseguest.

Now, Kristin Clark, if you’re reading this: this has nothing to do with you coming to visit today. We are excited about your visit. And anyone else who has come to visit (well, most of you)—we enjoy having you as well.

But the unwanted houseguest theme is as old as the Donna Reed Show. And I’m not just saying that to give you some perspective; I really did see it happen on the Donna Reed Show. And Ozzie and Harriet. And the Patty Duke Show. (I used to be really into Nick at Nite.)

And it’s almost always the husband’s old buddy who’s a little bit wild, a little bit rowdy and a lot disgusting. He’s usually played a Chris Farley-esque actor. The wife can’t stand him. Pretty soon the husband can’t stand him either and the friend usually overhears the two of them complaining about him:

Husband: “I know, honey. He bugs me just as much as he bugs you. Do you think I like how he eats breakfast in nothing but his underwear? But he’s my oldest friend…I can’t tell him to leave…”
Wife: “Well you’re gonna have to. It’s him or me! That disgusting piece of…(enter unwanted houseguest)…OH, LARRY, WE DIDN’T MEAN IT!!”
UHG: “That’s okay. I’ll just go sleep in my car…thanks for the pancakes.”

He’s visited the Brady Bunch, The Facts of Life, Family Ties, The Cosby Show. Even Seinfeld wasn’t too good for this tired plot. Remember when Jerry met that guy upstate and said, “If you’re ever in the city…” and the guy took him up on it? Then he ordered a hooker? Jerry felt like he couldn’t even hang out in his own house.

And that’s what I hate most about the unwanted houseguest. I hate that feeling that people can’t go on with their normal lives. Something really bugs me about the fact that they have to change their whole lifestyle to accommodate this person. And then the person inevitably stays longer and it’s just a whole mess. The other night Everybody Loves Raymond had an unwanted houseguest and Frank said, “Oh, unwanted houseguest. Gotta change the channel.”

He’s right. I can’t watch it. And I certainly can’t watch a whole movie about it. It’s disturbing. It’s creepy. It’s cooky. Which reminds me; I think the Addams Family had an unwanted houseguest once. Now that’s just my worst nightmare.

Trainerphobia

I told you about how I like to eavesdrop on personal trainers, remember? Well, apparently one trainer noticed because now he insists on giving me unsolicited advice every time I see him at the gym. It’s getting out of control:

· I’m doing tricep exercises wrong.
· I’m doing lat pull-downs incorrectly.
· I’m a complete mess when it comes to abs
· And the best? I walk funny. (He offers imitations free of charge.)

I HATE it when he corrects me. I know, I know. I should WANT to do everything right but when someone tells you that you do everything wrong, you start to wonder if you could possibly be doing everything wrong or if he just likes to criticize. Or maybe he just likes to show off in front of his clients. Yes, he’s usually working with a client when he does this. Sometimes he even has them demonstrate the right way to do it for me. Oh, and this was the worst: He told one client to show me how to do it wrong and then how to do it right. After one attempt to do crunches as poorly as me she shrieked, “I just can’t do it wrong anymore!” And he laughed and said, “I know. It’s hard after you’ve learned how to do it right to do it wrong.” Ugh. Ugh. Triple Ugh.

Here’s my biggest problem: Even though I loathe seeing him, I always tell him I’m so appreciative of his help. Like I go way overboard on this. I’m like, “Thanks for taking the time to help me. I really appreciate it.” What? No I don’t. I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he’s so patronizing and most of all, I hate it that he reeks of smoke as he’s telling me how to get in shape.

So for a few weeks I avoided that gym location. I actually drove further to another location just so I didn’t have to see him! How pathetic is that?

On Saturday I braved my old location. I had a speech prepared: “Look, I don’t really feel like getting helped today. I just had this gum surgery and I’m trying to take it easy.”

I was doing this leg press machine when he came bouncing over. I gave myself a mini pep talk: “You can do it. Just tell him you don’t want to be helped. You don’t need his help. Remember how he imitated how you walked with your butt sticking out? You hate him. You hate him…”

He poked his spiked head around the machine and just as I started to say, “Look, the thing is,” He asked, “How many sets do you have left?” I was so caught off guard that I stammered, “Um, uh, I guess…two?” He said, “Great,” and walked off.

You know what that means? I’m doing something right! So today I’m bravely going back to that location. I wanted to do arm exercises with free weights but it’s too risky—too out in the open and too much room for error. So I’ll do them at home and then go do the trusty leg presses.

I mean, once you get so good at something it’s hard to do it wrong.

Bouncin' Back

I once wrote an article on the greatness that is dryer sheets. But the pub wanted me to stick to one single use so we settled on “patting your clothes down with a dryer sheet after eating at a Mexican restaurant.” (Thanks, Tips from Thea.)


But while I was researching the article I found all these other uses for dryer sheets (usually relating to freshening up an otherwise unfavorable and/or musty smell): Stick them in your luggage, throw a few in your underwear drawer, slide them under your pillow case, etc.

Then, when I was cleaning our impossible-to-get-clean-unless-I-hire-a-maid-but-Frank-won’t-let-me shower the other day, I remembered something from that research: dryer sheets work better than sponges.

I just so happened to have a bunch of dryer sheets I’m trying to discard. I bought a private label brand at CostCo and they weren’t doing a great job at their primary role: preventing static electricity in clothing. And since I bought them at CostCo, I had about 675. I was throwing three at a time in the dryer, just trying to get rid of ‘em.

Back to the shower: I had tried BAM, bleach, a new sponge…this off-brand dryer sheet was my last hope. Did it work?

Absolutely! It was the best feeling to scrub and see my white shower appear before my bleach-burned eyes. I cleaned the whole bathroom in dryer sheets, much to Frank’s despair (“That’s like $3.50 worth of dryer sheets!”)

This morning I looked at my kitchen sink and recalled a conversation I had with Thea this weekend. She pointed at my permanently stained white sink and asked, “What’s going on here?” “It’s a permanent stain!” I answered, feeling a little defensive. “It’s always been there!”

But today as I looked at it I wondered if my miracle dryer sheets could do the trick. So with a little bit of bleach and two dryer sheets I achieved this:

Now, I don’t have a “before” picture but trust me, this is a lot whiter!

Oh, and now I’ve gotta go to CostCo. I’m officially out of dryer sheets.

Church Chat

It’s one of the oldest religious debates and Frank and I had it yesterday: what to wear to church. Growing up as an Episcopalian, we always dressed up for church. I wore some floral-printed Laura Ashley-esque frock most Sundays.

But in the Catholic Church it seems like anything goes. And that’s especially true at Sunday night mass. You see, it’s the “teen” mass which means guitars, 16-year-olds doing the readings and apparently clothes that you could wear to church and to the beach.

My own attire has gotten more casual as the months have gotten warmer. Yesterday I was wearing a jean skirt and I had this debate in my head before we left:

“A jean skirt to church? Really, Elsa?”
“People wear worse things than that. Last week I saw a girl wearing a jean skirt shorter than this. It was like Paris Hilton style. And the week before that I saw a girl wearing shorts and a tank top…”
“Well then surely my jean skirt is okay to wear. I mean, it is the teen mass after all. And look at Frank. He looks like he’s dressed to go to a 4th of July BBQ after this.”

So I wore the jean skirt and whaddya know? At sermon time the priest said, “It’s not a comfortable thing to talk about…”

“This is gonna be good,” I told Frank. “Something controversial.”

What would it be? Abortion? Gay marriage? Why there aren’t any lady priests?

“…the dress code at mass.”

Ah! I immediately pulled my skirt down to cover my legs more. He went on to say that we’ve just gotten too lax and we should dress up to come to God’s house.

I think he’s right. And I told him so after mass. I said, “You’re right about the dress code. I’m going to try to do better.” He laughed.

Frank couldn’t believe I said it. He does not agree that we should have to dress up for this particular mass. He says, “People should want to dress up for church. And if you force them, that just defeats the purpose. Plus, it’s really hot outside.”

We then had our religious debate: My main argument being that it’s respectful to dress up and it’s only one hour a week. Why can’t people do it? His main argument had something to do with dressing up for Jennifer Aniston. He lost me.

So anyway we had to agree to disagree. Although we don’t know what we’re gonna do about it when we have kids. But I’m pretty sure I have some Laura Ashley dresses they could have. Hey, they’ll be vintage!

Unemployment Tips for Star

Star, being unemployed isn’t that bad. I’ve been unemployed too, girlfriend. Can I call you girlfriend?

In my case I wasn’t actually “fired” like you were. I was laid off. The difference? When you’re laid off you can collect unemployment. So check the terms of the exit papers. If it says “laid off” then you can file. It’s a little bit of a pain and you have to call into this number every week to prove you’re looking for a job but it’s totally worth it. You’ll get about $300 a week! Here are a few other tips for you, girlfriend:

Update your Resume: These babies have changed a lot since you looked for a job nine years ago. Besides listing your past jobs and education, you have to list languages you can speak, activities you’ve participated in and computer skills. Do you even have computer skills, girlfriend? Well, you might want to take a quick Excel class and get caught up.

Eat tuna: Since you don’t know how long you’re gonna be unemployed you’ve gotta make every nickel count. This is especially true at the grocery store. First of all, you’re gonna have to start shopping at Wal-Mart. Second of all, you gotta stock up on tuna. It’ll get you through these next few weeks, months, years…however long it may be. Now, girlfriend, you can’t eat one can of tuna in one sitting. You gotta spread it out. Ration a little bit. If you can turn one can of tuna into three meals, you can get your food budget down to $3.50 per week.

Run: Girlfriend, you thought you lost weight before, just you wait. When I was unemployed I started running. And when I was tired and ready to head back home, I thought, “What’s the point of going there? It just smells like tuna.” And I kept running.

Find a part-time job: Try substitute teaching. I did. I bet you could do it, girlfriend. You get, like, $70 a day. Now of course you have to report that to the unemployment office. And it’s summertime so you’ll probably have to wait until school starts again. But still. Maybe you could practice at VBS for awhile.

Get a hobby: You’re gonna have a lot of down-time. Well, I guess you only worked like one hour a day anyway, right? Well, during that hour, find something else to do—like knitting, scrap booking or making fun crafts out of all of those tuna cans! Just whatever you do, don’t turn on the TV! Your former co-workers will probably be talking about you, girlfriend.

Day 3: I Hate my Soft Diet

Who wants to eat soft food for 14 days? Yogurt makes me yawn. I curse at cottage cheese. And I’m definitely done with soup.

Even my much-anticipated VitaTop ice cream milkshake was at best palatable.



On day one Frank did soft foods with me too. Well, he had a bowl of soup with a corn dog so he partially did the diet. By day two he was done with soft foods and I made him this chicken, pasta, veggie dish I’ve been wanting to make. Who wants to cook food you can’t even eat? If I wanted that I’d be a food stylist. They put too much glue and sheen on food to eat it.

I want to chew. I want to bite. I want to devour!

And I really want a drink.

My Softer Side

I had gum surgery yesterday. Now I’m left with stitches, a couple of “gum band-aids” stuck in my mouth (including one that makes me look like I’m dipping) and the best part, a diet consisting of only soft foods! Why am I excited about this? It means I have to follow rules! Well, really just one rule: no chewing. Oh, and they also discourage the use of straws.

Last night I went to the grocery store to stock up on softies for the next two weeks. I got:

Oatmeal (which I’ve already eaten twice now)
Cottage Cheese
Yogurt
Ice cream (It’s like I got my tonsils out!)
Tons of soup (tip: don’t get private label soup. Gotta go with Campbell’s. The other stuff tastes like toilet bowl cleaner. Not that I know what that tastes like but you know what I mean.)

I also got bananas for my smoothies. Yesterday, while I was recovering and before we went to the store, I was still groggy from the drugs and had to create some sort of soft meal based on what we had in the house. For some reason, a peanut butter and banana smoothie sounded really good:

1 banana
3 tablespoons of whipped peanut butter
Some milk (not sure how much cause I was loopy)
A few pieces of Kashi

Even though I couldn’t use a straw it was excellent! One of my better smoothies I must say.

So today on the meal plan is:

Breakfast: Oatmeal
Lunch: PB and banana smoothie; some yogurt
Snack: Cottage cheese
Dinner: Soup (The exciting part will be picking which kind. I’ve got ‘em all.)
Dessert: Ice cream

So on day two that still sounds pretty good. I’ll let you know what I think by day 14. I probably won’t even want to hear the word soup. And I’ll be dying for a straw. But hopefully I won’t pick up a dipping habit.

A Public Service Announcement from Writinggal

Get out your hanky or your off-brand tissues. I’m going to tell you the saddest story there ever was. It’s a tactic I like to call “making an impression with depression.”

There once was a couple who went to Mexico. But this story is not about them. It’s about the people the couple met on the bus traveling from the airport in Cozumel to the hotel. It was a family. Well, part of a family. There was a daddy, a little girl (about nine I’d say but I’m really bad with kids’ ages. She could have been six. Or twelve. Definitely not three. She could talk. But not a teenager), and a boy (between ages 4-11).

The kids looked sad. Why so glum? They were in Mexico! I never got to go to an all-inclusive resort when I was their age (whatever age that might be). No, I had to go to Civil War battle fields. There was no pool. There was no “kids' club” with ping pong and Candy Land. And there certainly were no virgin strawberry daiquiris. I was just getting to the part about the “no swim-up bar at the site of the battle of Vicksburg” when the dad said, “They’re sad because their mom isn’t here.” Yikes. Dead mom. Whaddya say to that?

“She’s coming on Monday,” the dad informed me. “We got to the airport, all ready for our trip and they wouldn’t let her on the plane because her driver’s license was expired.”

And the big bummer? This day was Saturday and she couldn’t get to the DPS office until Monday when it opened.
And the biggest bummer of all? They were only staying until Wednesday! So mom would get there on Monday and have to turn around and leave again on Wednesday.

I felt helpless and I wanted to do something. So I’ve made it my cause (second only to my cart crusade) to tell the world (or my dozen or so blog readers) to CHECK YOUR DRIVER’S LICENSE! DOES IT NEED TO BE RENEWED? You better renew it or you could end up like this poor family. You won’t get to go to Mexico. In fact, the only place you’ll get to go is on a tour of Civil War battle fields. And trust me, they don’t know how to make a good mojito there.

Lootin’ Tootin’ Good Time

We Simciks get excited when stores close. You know what that means—big discounts! In the last few months we’ve been truly blessed—both the Tom Thumb and Albertson’s near us have closed.

Shopping at these going-out-of-business extravaganzas takes a delicate, strategic plan. You can’t go too early (not enough of a discount) and you can’t go too late (not enough merch left). You see, it takes stores about six months to officially close so you gotta get the timing just right.

With TT we went too late. The store was probably going to disappear the very next day. Most of the shelves were bare except for random, unwanted products. And then, of course, there were bins of crap. That doesn’t mean the store wasn’t crowded. People didn’t care what was left—they just wanted cheap stuff. As we trekked through the remains of what was once a “Flagship” Tom Thumb, I really felt like hurricane victims, looting a store (except for the electricity, lack of flood waters and the fact that we still had to go through a checkout line).

So here’s what we got on that visit:
One bottle of wine
Two Pria bars
One bottle, hot sauce
One can, matzo ball soup
Total: $8

On Saturday Frank came home, bursting with the news of the Albertson’s closing: “There’s a man standing on the street corner, wearing a sign saying that Albertson’s is closing!” (By the way, we were wondering why stores always hire a person to wear sandwich signs rather than just sticking them in the ground. Frank thought maybe the store thought it was more effective. I said that having a homeless man stand on a corner smoking a cigarette and wearing your sign isn’t really more effective than the sign just standing there on its own. We decided it must be illegal to just stick a sign in the ground so they have to hire someone).

Anyway, because of this smokin'-sign-man, we went to Albertson’s and got the following:

Three bottles of wine
One bottle of Nadia
One bottle, conditioner
One tube, mascara
One pound, ground turkey
One box, Smart Start cereal
One bag, frozen veggies
Two boxes, brown rice
One bottle, nail polish remover

Okay, I can’t remember everything but somehow it all added up to…
$100

Ah! In the end we decided that since a lot of stuff was just 10% off, it was now equivalent to shopping at Wal-Mart. So we’re not sure we really saved much. In fact, we think our visit was premature. We plan to wait a few months and return, when the real lootin' begins. We'll probably need some matzo ball soup by then.

House Peeping

One of my favorite things to do is to look at other people’s houses—either on HGTV, just visiting friends or peeking into neighbors’ houses while on a walk. Oh, and by the way, if I’ve never been to your house before, you BETTER give me a tour the first time I come to visit. There’s nothing worse than a tour-less house visit. When you come to my house, I give the best tours—closets, inside the washer/dryer, drawers…everything.

So you can imagine my delight when Cul de Sac Carrie and I paid $11 for the Parade of Homes tour a couple of weeks ago. After the first of five houses I said, “I would pay $11 just to see this house!” We took turns pretending who owned each house:

Elsa: Oh, Carrie. I love what you’ve done with the dining room.
CdSC: Thanks. I like having that formal bench on one side of the table; that way guests can just pass out there if they drink too much.

CdSC: Elsa, it’s cool how you have a TV in every room plus buckets of champagne (even in the closet)! It’s like all you do is watch TV and drink.
Elsa: Well, it IS a dream home.

Of course we got tons of ideas for our own dream homes on the Cul de Sac: Wine cellar? Check. Pool with a sloping entrance so you don’t get a torn up bathing suit when you sit on the side? Check. Stripper pole for dancing or to use as an alternative to stairs? Double check.

But there is one room I refuse to build into my dream home—the media room. I really don’t like media rooms. That’s not to say that when I attended Alicia’s friend Kate’s Oscar party in her media room that I didn’t have a good time. I like other people to have media rooms. I just don’t want one for myself.

“But Elsa, you LOVE TV! In fact, you said you hate it when people say they don’t have time for TV!”

Yes, omnipotent person, that’s true. But when I watch TV I hate to feel cut off from the outside world. I like to know that at any moment I could get up and do something else. Or if someone called I could talk to them. Or if I was hungry I could eat and not have to worry about getting crumbs in my stadium seating. Plus, can you really channel surf in a media room? It’s like too much of a commitment—like you have to sit in there and watch old movies like Giant. I would feel weird watching anything trite like Tuesday Night Book Club or the Real World/Road Rules Challenge: Gauntlet Part VI or anything on UPN.

So on the Parade of Homes tour, every house had a media room. But this one house actually had a BED in the media room. CdSC and I immediately put our hands on the bed, both breathed a sigh of relief and simultaneously said, “Not a water bed.” Talk about tacky. That would be the ultimate in media room madness. This coming from a girl who’s not opposed to stripper poles.

TEN DAYS OLD!

Get ready to say, “Eww,” and “Those Simciks are nasty!” I don’t care; I’m proud to admit that this morning Frank and I drank milk that was TEN DAYS past the due date. In Frank’s defense, he didn’t know it was ten days past the due date. If he even knew it was one day prior to the due date, he probably would have opted to skip breakfast. But I knew it tasted fine. How?

Yesterday we returned from a five-day vacation and I checked the milk, thinking it would be just a couple of days old. When I saw that the due date was June 12th I didn’t even want to pick it up, much less drink it. But out of curiosity I examined it. And then of course, I smelled it. The problem is that milk ALWAYS smells weird. It’s milk. So there was no other choice. I had to drink it. I poured the tiniest amount into a glass and sipped it. It tasted fine! So naturally, I put the carton back in the fridge and turned it so Frank couldn’t see the due date.

Then, this morning Frank got up earlier than usual. Ah! I had to get down there to make his cereal before he could see! I managed to make both our cereals (he the Smart Start, me the Kashi) before he caught on. He didn’t notice that it tasted bad (because it didn’t) and he’s feeling fine now. Aren’t ya, Frank?

Now why am I sharing this “accomplishment” with you? Because I know someday soon you’ll have some milk in your fridge that’s two, maybe even five days old. You’ll think, “Should I or shouldn’t I?” Then you can remember me and my ten day old milk. I hope to be a milk idol for you—your milk mentor of sorts. Oh, and don’t worry, I did dump the rest of the milk out and I’m buying a new one today. I’m not THAT disgusting.

Evite Etiquette

My whole social calendar revolves around Evite. It’s not that I’m like a major butterfly or anything but my friends like to do Evites for even the smallest of gatherings. Cul de Sac Carrie even sent one JUST to me!

So since I’m a regular, I’m pretty familiar with the Evite functionality. Apparently, some people aren’t. That’s why I thought I’d offer this brief FREE workshop which I’m calling “Evite Etiquette.”

IF YOU CAN ATTEND:
Please note that the “yes” bubble is automatically checked for you so you don’t need to do anything there. All you have to do is decide if you want to make a comment. This is encouraged. It makes the event more anticipatory for the attendees. If you’re not so clever just write, “Can’t wait!” or “Looking forward to it!” There’s really no need, however, to say “I’m in!” This is repetitive as your name already appears in the “yes” column.

Also, if you add a “plus one” please come forward with the name of that “plus one” otherwise we’ll all discuss it behind your back: “Who’s she bringing?” “Is it a date?” “Is it just her cousin?” “Does she think her dog counts as ‘plus one?’”

IF YOU CANNOT ATTEND
You MUST move your checked bubble to “NO” otherwise your reply will end up in the “yes” problem with a note like “So sorry but we will be drinking margaritas in Mexico at that time. Have fun anyway!” This completely messes up the head count tally for the host.

And speaking of your excuse, you needn’t make it lengthy. This just make the party look lame because the “No” list looks longer than it really is.

Oh, and BIG Evite Pet Peeve: DO NOT add a “plus one” or “plus five” or any plusses whatsoever in the “no” category. This is just like saying, “Not only am I not coming, but my boyfriend isn’t either and neither are any of my friends. Your party sucks.”

IF YOU’RE NOT SURE YOU CAN ATTEND
Go ahead and move your checked bubble to “maybe” BUT when you have a firm answer (which you should by the time the reminder goes out) please move your checked bubble to either “yes” or “no.” I once hosted a party with six “maybes” and had a mini-panic attack when I couldn’t decide how many individual parfaits to make.

WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T FAIL TO REPLY
I have been known to remove people from future guest lists simply for not responding to an Evite. This is as rude as leaving your trash in a movie theater, as despicable as not calling your mom on her birthday and yes, even as appalling as leaving your cart in the grocery store parking lot.

When you fail to reply it’s like saying, “I don’t care that you took the time to invite me. I don’t have any respect for your party, your planning, your time, your friendship.”

Do you non-repliers not know that the host can see that you checked the Evite? We can also see WHEN you checked it. And if you check it more than one day, we can see that too. So if you’re one of those disorganized people who can’t keep up with their emails (don’t even get me started), just reply as soon as you open the Evite. As stated above, you can say “maybe” and then when the reminder goes out, change it.

I hope this workshop has been helpful to you. Please refer to it next time you receive an Evite. Oh, and happy partying!

More Lost Works of Writinggal

This is another one from my college creative writing class. Just as in my jaw surgery essay, nary a comma has been changed from the original (which will be very evident when you read the very dated pop culture references).

The assignment was "Amateur Sociology" which I (along with several of my classmates) just used as an opportunity to rant.

Elsa K. Weidman
E325M
Paper #1-Amateur Sociology
January 28, 1998



Seventy- Six Trombones Lead the Big Charade



I hate to rain on a parade but blocking off streets for the purpose of watching beauty queens, politicians, marching bands, and giant-size paper mache characters is a bizarre tradition.

Who enjoys parades? The individuals in the parade (the parade participants) endure hours of waving at strangers. The marching bands lug heavy instruments while wearing uncomfortable, not to mention unattractive, uniforms. How about the float caretakers? These guys in matching UPS-style jumpsuits have it the worst. They work for months to create oversized replicas of characters like Charlie Brown, only to spend a morning gripping a rope to hold down the useless thing. They unsuccessfully attempt to wave at the sea of faces in the crowd while the audience focuses on the gigantic Garfield or Marvin the Martian or Barney. This is a job with much sacrifice and little recognition.

The only people more pathetic than the participants in the parade are the parade supporters who get up early to watch this display of nonsense. Families trek down to Main Street with nana, paw paw, and the youngsters to grab a front row spot for the festivities. Inevitably they will spend the morning mindlessly staring at people walking, marching, or driving down the main thoroughfare of their town.

The parade supporters also encompass an even more pitiful sub-group, the parade television viewers. They make the conscious decision to refrain from watching their other sixty channels to watch a parade. I suppose they like to look at it from all sorts of interesting camera angles.

Perhaps they particularly enjoy listening to commentators like Kathy Lee Gifford and Bryant Gumble explain the complicated process to them:

“ Here comes Miss Pre-Teen America and Miss Tiny Little Bitty America!”

“Wow, look at that tickle-me Elmo float! All the people under him are wearing little red jumpsuits! That is just adorable!

“Oh, watch out for the horse droppings, Miss Big Mama America!”

Perhaps the most unusual parade custom is waving. Waving generally signifies 'hello,' but not in this case. Instead, the parade participants are waving in an effort to say, "We are superior to you, the parade supporters. We were chosen because of our power and/or good looks to glide through the center of town so you could all stare at us." The parade goers stand trapped behind barriers waving back at these people as if to say, "We, the lowly parade supporters, worship you, the parade participants, and are not worthy to promenade through our own streets."

The pleasure these parade supporters receive, if any, is not worth the cost and inconvenience of a parade. The city must hire security to enforce the roadblocks and to deal with intoxicated or rowdy audience members. The whole town suffers from traffic complications. The city blocks off the main vein of the town in order to hold the blessed parade. Those that choose not to attend the parade must take all sorts of detours so as not to impose on the parade route, honking and causing noise pollution. As the parade goers set out on their adventure, these frustrated drivers pose a threat to their safety.

Parades are also dangerous. Sometimes the rows of onlookers stand twenty people deep. People risk death due to trampling. At a recent Thanksgiving Day parade, the float caretakers could not compete with the strong winds and a giant float escaped their grip. Several people avoided death but suffered injuries due to the parade mishap. Is it all really worth it?

The responsibility for destroying this practice is up to the people it hurts the most, the parade supporters. They must realize that it is okay to admit that they are not actually having fun, that many other methods exist to express the joy of gaining independence, celebrating the homecoming of old friends, or giving thanks for food.

I’ll admit I’ve attended and participated in my fair share of parades--even watched a few on TV. However, as I reflect on my parade experiences, I realize that I never felt happy while taking part in this tradition. I believe that others resent parades yet choose to hide their true feelings for fear their peers will make fun of them. These people need to come forward, as I have done, and say, “You’re right! Why am I standing here in this massive crowd fearing for my life, causing inconvenience, staring at these foolish floats, and pretending to have a good time?” Their efforts are our only hope for a parade-less world. I am convinced that the end of parades will lead to a more comfortable, classless society, and a world where waving simply means ‘hello.’

Words of Wisdom from my Dad: Post-Father’s Day Edition

Borden created Elsie the Cow in 1939. Did you know that? I don’t think my parents did. When they named me Elsa in 1977 they were handing school children a ready-made target. And it wasn’t only because my first name kinda sounded like Elsie. It didn't help that my last name was pronounced WIDE MAN. Good thing I grew up before the childhood obesity epidemic.

I wasn’t really insulted or hurt that kids would call me Elsie the Cow; I was more just annoyed. You see, I don’t like repetitive things. So, like, if I had a carrot growing out of my head and everyone said to me, “Hey, Carrot Top” over and over again, that would be so annoying. Or if I was Baby Jessica and people always asked me about that damn well everywhere I went…you get it. I just wished they could come up with something more original.

Once I complained to my dad about it and he gave me the best advice a dad could give a daughter:

“Just say ‘my name’s not Elsie. It’s Elsa.’”

OH! Nothing a bunch of second-graders respond to better than good ol’ logic.

So this day-after-Father’s Day, remember: even if your dad has read every book ever published and can do The New York Times crossword puzzle like nobody’s business, he’s no match for elementary school bullies. So take his advice with a grain of salt…or better yet, with a glass of milk.

Stylists on Strike?

It was bad scheduling, really. Matt Lauer had landed an exclusive interview with fallen pop princess Britney Spears only to find that all the stylists in L.A. were on strike (apparently protesting Loreal’s announcement that they would begin testing their products on eight-year-old girls sent to detention).

Left to style themselves, Britney and Matt made some less-than-flattering choices.

Britney remembered a stylist telling her once that you should accentuate your best features:

“I know right now that’s not my belly!” joked the expectant mom, who’s “6 or 7 months along” (she’s not exactly sure). Instead Spears chose a blouse that not only accentuated her chest, it almost didn’t cover it at all. Poor little Lauer. Throughout the whole interview he kept saying to himself, “Just focus on her eyes. Don’t look down. Don’t look down, dammit!!”

But focusing on her eyes proved to be a challenge as well. Like every girl Brit loves to wear fake eye lashes. But like every girl, she can’t apply them herself. Yet that’s just what Mrs. Federline did the day of her Dateline debut. Her eyelashes looked worse than mine the day I let a 17-year-old Cosmetology student do my make-up for my bridal portrait. And I’m pretty sure I used the word “tarantula eyes” several times that day.

The stylist strike gave Britney the opportunity to experiment with different shades of blush—a freedom that made her absolutely giddy: “My top was this bright, pretty pink color so I thought I’d use bright pretty pink blush.” Lots of it. And then apparently young Sean Preston got in on the fun and applied some more blush onto mommy’s face.

So who should we thank for her tousled, no-frills, bleached-out hair do? K-Fed? Another creation by SP? Lauer himself? Nope, that was all Brit. The busy mom doesn’t have time to go to one of them fancy salons; she just picks up a box at Walgreens. Hey, Brit—me too! Let me know next time. I have a coupon.

As for Lauer, he was just excited for a free trip to L.A. “I’m hittin’ the beach after this. I got my trunks on under my jeans!” exclaimed the now first-banana of morning television. In the absence of his regular stylist, Lauer chose dungarees that came so far above his waist, he really didn’t even need a shirt. And in lieu of shoes he opted for aqua socks. Maybe he thought he’d get an invitation to swim in the Federline’s pool?

Of course that would mean Britney and Kevin would be forced to choose their own swim wear. Any chance Lauer could escape before having to witness K-Fed in a Speedo?

My Cart Crusade

I’ve made a decision. Shopping carts will be my cause. Everybody needs a platform, right? Katie’s got colon cancer. Alex P. Keaton’s claimed Parkinson’s. Pam’s got her paws into KFC. And if you opt not to choose a cause, you can be sure that one will find you.

I’m sure one day I’ll have a big fancy gala in order to raise money and awareness for my cause and I’ll be sure to invite you. But until then, I just gotta spread the word:

Since I began writing on behalf of buggies I’ve had several people tell me of their own tales of cart corralling: One reader said that she saw someone fail to put their cart in the cart corral so she immediately pushed the cart into the corral, all the while glaring at the perpetrator. Good job! Another said she confronted someone in the parking lot about it and the suspect said, “If I turn the wheels just right, it will stay in place. It’s okay because it’s not very windy today.”

Then I had a little run-in of my own. I was walking out behind a man who I just KNEW was not going to put his cart away. Do you know what he did? He positioned it right NEXT to the cart corral. So it wasn’t doing anybody any good—it could still roll into someone’s car (like mine)! I said to him, “Oh, come on. You couldn’t put it in there?” He said, “Huh?” I said, “Nevermind. I’ll just go put it in there myself,” (thinking he would then do the chore of taking ten extra steps to put it in the right place). Instead, he said, “Yeah, you do it.” I said, “REAL NICE!” to which he said, “Well if it bothers you so much!”

People, do I have to remind you of the consequences of not taking back your cart? Higher cost to grocery stores and therefore, higher costs to you! Potential damage to your precious car! And if that doesn’t convince you, how ‘bout plain old BAD karma?

Okay, one more little aside which is more about general bad parenting but it did take place in a grocery store:

I was in line at Kroger behind a father and son. They were buying TWO shopping carts full of groceries and the dad said, “Hey, we forgot Spam” (or something like that). So the kid picks up his SKATE BOARD, jumps on and rides through the store to get it. I expected the dad to say something fatherly like, “Don’t ride in the store, son! You could knock down jars, run into people or slip in the frozen aisle and bust open your head!” Instead he looks at me and says, “That skate board comes in real handy, doesn’t it?” And just when I thought this dad couldn’t get any worse he answered his cell phone while he was trying to pay for the two carts of groceries. He then had a long conversation with the other person. Oh, and when the cashier asked for his Kroger card, he didn’t have it but still insisted on using it by giving her his phone number. All while he was still on the phone. When he and his skateboarding son started to leave the dad turned to me and said, “Sorry if I held you up.” I guarantee Cell Mel and Boardin’ Bart left their cart in the parking lot. Both of them!

Like every charitable cause, we’ll need a good slogan: Here are some initial ideas:

-Do your part. Take back your cart.
-Push it out. Unpack. Push it back.
-Don’t want to pay a lot? Don’t leave your cart in the parking lot.

Please feel free to vote on the above or suggest your own. Together, we can lick this problem, one cart at a time.

Choosy TV Viewers Don’t Choose Jif

I hate the Jif commercial with the dad showing his daughter how to fold over his peanut butter sandwich. You know the one. It goes like this (synopsis courtesy of Wikipedia):

[Dad’s] about to have a slice of bread with a spread of the peanut butter in a living room when his young daughter walks in, asking, "Hey dad, what are you doing?" He replies, "I'm fixing a snack. Come on, plenty of room", in which she joins him on the couch. After she sees him fold the slice in half, she asks why. He reponds that his father did the same, and he wanted to be like him. She replies with, "That's silly!" She, too, folds her slice, and her father laughs as the two cuddle close enjoying their snack.

So why do I hate it? Is it because I don’t think dads should be involved in food preparation? Nope. Is it because I don’t like people eating on the couch? Not really. Is it because I hate folded bread? Quite the opposite.

I hate how he says “plenty of room.” Ugh. It just bugs me so much. I have to change the channel every time it comes on (which is a lot, especially during the show formerly known as Katie). I can’t explain why that bugs me but it gives me the same feeling as when TV characters say, “Why you little…!” Double ugh.

So whenever I say, “I hate this commercial” and change the channel, Frank says, “I hate it too.” But his reason? “I hate how they’re saying that dads can only make peanut butter sandwiches.” Frank, Jif MAKES peanut butter! What should they say? “Choosy moms (and dads) choose Jif for peanut butter sandwiches but when they’re making more complicated meals like lasagna they choose other products.”

For some reason this commercial came up in a conversation we were having with Thea and she agreed that she hates it as well.

I ventured to guess why: “Because when the dad says ‘plenty of room’ it’s just like nails on a chalkboard, right?”

“I bet it's because they’re saying that dads are stupid and can only make peanut butter sandwiches," Frank suggested.

Neither. She said she hates the face the girl makes when she asks her dad why he folds his bread.

We'll take it.

Can you believe a company can cause this much distress in thirty seconds? It makes me just want to put my hands around the CMO’s neck and say, “Why you little...!”

Mr. Frank-Fix-It Follow Up

Last night I did a radio interview with Dr. Fitness and the Fat Guy and the first thing they asked me about was my blog and Frank. “What’s Fabio doing in your pictures?” (referring to pics from our hike) and “How big is his chest?” This confirmed Frank’s theory that he is the “favorite supporting character on the blog.” I suppose I need to give the people what they want so here’s what Mr.Frank-Fix-It's been up to lately:

This weekend he went on a fixing, building and refinishing spree with all sorts of household projects.

He spent Saturday building these shelves for our garage:

We got them at Ikea so it’s not like he bought lumber and designed them but still…it was quite a project. My favorite part? Ikea's $.50 hot dogs.


He spent Sunday afternoon cleaning our hardwood floors with the new “Flip-It” floor cleaning device. I sat on the couch and lifted up my feet while Frank made the floors look like this:

Later that afternoon he did the biggest job of all: finally fixed our master bathroom toilet. It’s been running since we moved in. He bought some part at Home Depot and was in there getting grease and toilet water all over him. I laid on the bed watching Real World reruns (that Paula is such a freak, isn't she?)

He may be your favorite supporting character but trust me, you don’t want him having any authority in the kitchen. He totally abuses our dish draining device. Instead of letting things dry for a little while and eventually putting them back in the cabinets, he just keeps piling dishes on top of other dishes and look what happens:

Ah! But I guess a girl who's married to Fabio really shouldn't complain.

Pink with Envy

This weekend I attended a baby shower in honor of my oldest friend, Misty. No, she’s not 93, she’s just the first friend I ever had. While it was great to see the expectant mommy and other old friends, the event also brought up some feelings of jealousy. You see, Misty was wearing pink pants which reminded me of another pair of pink pants she had when we were about eight-years-old.

I think she got this outfit for Christmas or her birthday or maybe it was just Tuesday but here’s what it looked like:

Pink parachute pants—complete with plenty of pockets and silver zippers.
A grey, purposely torn, off-the-shoulder t-shirt that said “Flashdance” in pink letters across it.
Pink Converse

How cool is that? There were so many variables that escalated my envy:

I didn’t have parachute pants in any color (and I’m pretty sure Misty had black ones too).

I wasn’t allowed to see Flashdance (neither was she, by the way). In fact, I still haven’t seen it. Gonna have to rent that classic.

I didn’t own a pair of Converse in any color and I know Misty had the pink ones and turquoise among others.

The only pair of pink pants I had were cotton and pleated and I think they were Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

Later, my jealousy would resurrect when Misty (and every other 7th grader but me) all came back from Christmas break with Z Cavarricis.

So there’s only one thing I can do to rectify the situation. When I have a daughter I will definitely buy her the outfit described above (“What the heck is Flashdance, mom? Is it some sort of strip club?”) and I’ll buy Misty’s daughter a brand spanking new outfit courtesy of Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

The Lost Works of Writinggal

We freelance writers sometimes write stories that people never see. Maybe the magazine went defunct, the story just sort of vanished or it just wasn't accepted. But I thought, "Why deprive the world of reading those stories?" And with that, I give you an article that was rejected by a travel mag:

A Hike To Remember

Hiking seven miles in Italy’s gorgeous Cinque Terre didn’t scare me. But hiking seven miles in 112° weather did. Okay, it wasn’t really 112° but it was according to my personal heat threshold. My husband, Frank, and I were doing the cliché trip to Italy—visiting all the touristy hot spots like the Vatican, the Colosseum, our friend the statue of David. And we were doing it for cliché reasons—he a recent graduate from business school and me, feeling a little burnt out and that “almost-30-and-haven’t-been-to-Europe” anxiety. But that’s where the cliché ends.

My parents had told us about the Cinque Terre, a group of five towns on Italy’s coast. Even though the word’s gotten out that it’s heaven on the Mediterranean (thanks to super tour guide Rick Steves), the Cinque Terre is still a less predictable stop than let’s say, the leaning tower of Pisa (where we did go and yes, we did take that picture that looks like we’re trying to push it back in place).

We were staying in Monterosso, the furthest north of all the five towns. You could get to the other towns by train but why do that when you can hike seven miles? I’m sorry, pay to hike seven miles. Despite the cost, the hills and the heat, we were determined to do it. And the warnings we heard from fellow travelers didn’t stop us: “We couldn’t do the whole thing,” said a girl we met at the Colosseum, “We had to stop in the third town and take a train back.” Ha. Clearly this girl was out of shape. I mean, I work out on an elliptical machine. I’m used to hills and heat, right?

The first phase of the hike would take an hour-and-a-half, our trusty Rick Steves tour book told us. And it would have. If we didn’t get lost, stop to remove layers of clothing and walk extremely slow. At the end of the first stretch, we got this clever idea to take pictures of ourselves holding up numbers to represent which town we were in. Frank took a picture of me holding up two fingers. Fellow hikers just thought we were sweaty American Bush-haters.





The #2 town was Vernazza and it offered quite a reward—a beach complete with cold water for swimming. I wanted to jump right into the ocean. And I did—after I removed my shorts, folded them neatly under my shoes so no one would steal them, re-applied sun block and secured my pony tail. The water felt so great, we stayed until we had the wrinkly-finger syndrome.

The next stretch between Vernazza and Corniglia also promised to be long and treacherous. We faced steep hills, some rowdy Germans and that darn heat. But the views—I mean, from what I could see through my sweat-filled eyes—were just magnificent.






By the time we arrived in Corniglia and did our obligatory #3 picture, we knew the hard part was over.






Our next two hikes were much shorter and less hilly. After a disturbing and less-than-sanitary stint at the Corniglia train station bathroom, we were on our way. The 45-minute hike between Corniglia and Manarola was so much easier than the last two that I didn’t even mind the impatient Germans and their walking sticks. Or the gorgeous Brits who hiked in only their bikinis and eyed my husband. And when we arrived in Manarola, we had another watery reward—a lagoon.







Forget Brooke Shields’ Blue Lagoon (or even the Milla Jovovich remake), this one is where I’d make my next—well, first—movie. The water was the perfect temperature and my high-school-water-polo-champ husband was able to tread water for at least ten minutes. Since I could only last a few seconds, I decided to chill out on some of the rocks nearby. I was only slightly embarrassed when I slipped and had to be helped up by a hunky French guy. Take that, British bikini babes.



With only a 20-minute hike ahead of us, I felt euphoric that we were going to complete our coastal climb. We took our time on that last stretch, taking in the views, chatting with fellow hikers (who cares that the only Italian we knew was “excuse me?”) and taking advantage of the photo opps. We asked another couple to snap our #5 picture at Riomaggiore and I have to say our smiles are the biggest and our sweat no doubt the stinkiest in that one.





We decided that food would be our final reward after our six-hour hike. So there we sat on the coast of Italy, at a restaurant we found in our American tour book, chowing down on pizza and toasting red wine. Hey, we’d come this far, what’s one more cliché?


Note from Writinggal: We did this hike a year ago this week!

Belated Blog

I've been trying to post a blog all day but the picture function won't work. And this particular blog NEEDS its pics!

So I'm giving up. No blog for you today (except this little one).


I'll try again tomorrow.
WG

6-6-6: You Don’t Scare Me

All you people with your not crossing black cats, not opening umbrellas inside, not walking under ladders, not breaking mirrors, not stepping on cracks, picking up pennies, knocking on wood, rubbing rabbits’ feet…you’ve got it all wrong.

You only need one superstition and that’s the one I believe in: My only superstition is not being superstitious.

Then I’m totally covered.

Plus, wasn’t the real danger during the year six? June 6, 6 A.D. I bet they were really freaked out that day. As for today, I’m not gonna let the bad omens get to me. I’m gonna do whatever I want—step on cracks, walk under ladders, pet a few black cats…I may even open an umbrella inside the house. Actually, I’m gonna avoid that. I'm not gonna put an eye out just to prove my point.

My Friend Jen

I was worried about my friend Jen for awhile there. Right after she finished filming Friends she made four movies: Derailed, Rumor Has It, Friends with Money and the Break-Up. The first three flopped, tanked, sunk, bombed.

I don’t know why but I feel bad for movie stars when their movies don’t do well. I mean, she still has pa-zillions of dollars and a great head of hair, does she really need my sympathy?

I think it’s because I’m convinced Jen is my friend, my buddy, my gal-pal. I feel like we could hang out and talk about clothes, food, hair products, grocery cart theft…you name it. We could even do all this at Oprah’s house.

So you can imagine my dismay when I heard bad reviews for Jen’s new movie, The Break- Up. “Well, this is it for her,” I thought. “She’s gonna have to go on the Surreal Life with people like Kevin Federline, Oma Rosa and Tina Yothers.” Then I don’t think we could be friends.

But this morning I heard good news about Jen’s latest movie, The Break-Up, with her boyfriend, not-boyfriend, fiancé, un-fiancé Vince Vaughn. (If we were real friends she would tell me the truth about all that.) It came in at #1 and made more money than expected. Hurray. It’s a movie-making miracle.

And even though I fret about mega-stars’ movie careers like my friend Jen’s, I’m not really doing my part. I rarely go the movies and this weekend when I did, I saw The Da Vinci Code. Although I did rent Derailed which so far is pretty good.

But I’m still rootin’ for her. I’m not sure if it’s her down-to-earth personality, her good nature or the fact that she would take me and a gaggle of girlfriends to Acapulco on her tab, I just like her. And really, I would hate for anyone to have to share a bathroom with K-Fed.

Why TV Theme Songs Rock

It’s a dying art form. Our kids won’t even know what they are. They’ll watch a re-run of Friends on Nick at Nite one day and say, “Why are Chandler and the gang dancing around a fountain before the show starts? And look at Rachel’s 20th century haircut!”

Yep, the theme song is gradually being eliminated to make room for more commercials. Now they just tease us. They’ll play one chord of the song, slap up a logo from the show and we’re supposed to sing along. I remember the days when the TV theme song was the best part of the show. And with that, I present Writinggal’s TV Theme Songs that Rock:

Growing Pains
Sample: Show me that smile again, show me that smile. Don’t waste another minute on your crying.
Best Part: The end when they all try to form the family photo and somebody comes in late. Is it Mike? Or Carol? If it's Carol she was probably throwing up her food.
Trivia: Did you know Alan Thicke (Dr. Seaver) wrote the theme song plus the Wheel of Fortune theme song and the next one on our list? He gets like $.08 every time they play any of them.

Diff’rent Strokes
Sample: Well the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you, may not be right for some…Diff’rent Strokes it takes, Diff’rent Strokes it takes…
Best Part: Shots of Arnold before he got weird
Trivia: Yep, Alan Thicke wrote it AND sang it. This guy did more than just counsel three people out of his home office.

Friends
Sample: It’s like you’re always stuck in second gear...when it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year…I’ll be there for you
Best Part: Duh. Dancing in the fountain. Oh, and when they turn that random lamp off at the end. Is there an outlet in the fountain?
Trivia: I always feel better about myself when I think, “Oh, they’re always stuck in second gear too…their lives aren’t so great…” And then I remember that they’re fictional and in reality, are all obnoxiously rich and can afford to fly a cupcake First Class in the seat next to them if they wanted to.


That 70’s Show
Sample: Hangin’ out, down the street, the same old thing, we did last week. Not a thing to do but TALK to you, We’re all alright. We’re all alright.
Best Part: “Hello Wisconsin!”
Trivia: Danny Masterson (who plays Hyde) is responsible for yelling out that last line.


Family Ties
Sample: “I bet we’ve been together for a million years…what’ll we do baby without us?”
Best Part: Sha-na-na-na
Trivia: It was Tina Yothers’ (Jennifer Keaton’s) idea to add the “sha-na-na-na” at the end and she later went on to a front a semi-successful rock band. Just kidding. About the sha-na-na AND the semi-successful part.


Facts of Life:
Sample: You take the good, you take the bad, you take ‘em both and there you have the Facts of Life, The Facts of Life.
Best Part: When Mrs. Garrett Chimes in, “When the boys you used to hate you date…”
Trivia: Guess who wrote it. That’s right. I think I owe him like $327 by now. Oh, and I can sing every verse of this theme song from the Molly Ringwald days to the George Clooney days.


Honorable Mentions:
Malcom in the Middle: “You’re not the boss of me now”
Silver Spoons: “Together…we’re gonna find our way…”
Cheers: “…where everybody knows your name…and they’re always glad you came.”
Mary Tyler Moore: “Who can turn the world on with her smile?” Best Part: If you don’t know, you don’t deserve to know.

I got this whole idea after jammin’ to “The Office” theme song four times last night (they had a marathon). I LOVE that song but it’s too hard to write about since it doesn’t have words. But trust me, it rocks. I bet Alan Thicke wrote it.

Cooking with Columbus

Last night I attended a cooking demo at Whole Foods with neighbor Carrie (let’s call her “Cul de Sac Carrie” for purposes of the blog). The theme was brunch and I have to say, pretty much everything coming out of the chef’s mouth was new information to me.

She would do that trick like teachers do where they make you fill in the blanks like this:

“If we want to slow the boil we want to add…”


And then she would have to finish it herself because nobody would know: “…salt.”

The whole thing was like that:

“Once we finish cooking the food we...anybody?...we eat it.”

“Potatoes come from the country of…” (Idaho is wrong. I tried.) “…Peru.”

And somehow from there she got into a history lesson. Apparently I didn’t pay attention in 6th grade when we covered the explorers. Nor have I been listening when Frank sings a song he learned the same year about them. (Frank, be sure to post the lyrics in the comments section.)

The chef said:

“When Christopher Columbus was setting sail on his journey King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella wanted him to bring back…what?...spices…they especially wanted him to bring back…what?...pepper…But when Christopher landed in…where?...the Caribbean…and he told them he wanted peppers…they didn’t…what?...have any…but they did have…they did have…anybody?...chilies.”

Here’s where it gets interesting: Chris snatched up the chilies and brought them back to Ferdie and Izzy and called them “chili peppers.” That way they gave him credit for sort of finding pepper. And then they could overlook that whole “landing in the wrong place” situation.

Now I have a new respect for Chris. Cul de Sac Carrie and I also have a new respect for brunch, which apparently can include salad, pizza, salmon, asparagus and banana pecan pancakes—none of which we will be able to make again. But we did consume it all last night. I’m not sure why but the chef says we owe it all to…who?...anybody?...Christopher Columbus.

Split Time

This weekend while in North Carolina I met a girl named Tommy Kaye. Since she was about 32 and had a husband named Frank, we became instant fries. Most of the Kinfolk were impressed by Tommy Kaye’s singing (“She sounds like Reba!") or her enthusiasm about her first grade class (“I’ve never seen someone so excited!”) but I was amazed by her super-toned bod. As a workout girl myself I had to know how Tommy Kaye got her bikini-ready physique. Here's how I found out. (And again, make sure to do your best NC accent on TK’s lines):

Elsa: “So Tommy Kaye, what do you do to stay in such good shape?”
TK: “Oh, thanks! I do the splits.”
Elsa: “Come again?”
TK: “The splits.”
Elsa: “You mean like this?” (visual: me attempting to do the splits, making it about halfway down…okay, I was really just standing with my legs shoulder-width apart).
TK, laughing: “Yeah, that’s right. I get up every morning and do the splits.”
Elsa: “And that’s your workout?”
TK: “You know, I was a gymnast growing up and I didn’t realize that everyone couldn’t do the splits. I’ve been doing them for years.”
Elsa: “So you’re telling me that all you do is the splits?”
TK: “Yep. Every morning."
Elsa: “And that’s how you got toned legs?”
TK: “Yep.”
Elsa: “And that’s how you got a six pack?”
TK: “That’s right.”
Elsa: “Muscular arms?”
TK: “Uh-huh.”
Elsa: “All from doing the splits?”
TK: “Yes, ma’am.”

I can’t believe I’ve been busting my ass in spin class, sweating like a hound dog on the 4th of July, using circuit machines, lifting weights, jumping rope and doing crunches on an incline like a sucker! And all I had to do was the splits? Do you know how much time this is going to save me? Tommy Kaye should write a book! I mean, it would be a short book but still, I think she’s got the secret to a rockin’ body! I’m totally stoked about my new workout plan.

Now if only I could do the splits.

Things Overheard at the Pig Pickin'

This weekend Frank and I traveled to North Carolina--the site of my family's annual Memorial Day pig pickin'. The barbecue is held on the beach at my Grandma's house and prior to the lunch, she reads her famous poem--created just for the occassion. She includes everyone who's going to be there that day (about 50-60 people) and what's going on in their lives. Besides that, we spend the weekend going to different relatives' houses and eating, drinking, eating, talking, eating and more talking. Here are some of the things that were said this weekend and unless otherwise indicated, my grandma said them. Oh, and be sure to do your best North Carolina accent when reading this:

“Bottled water is for the birds. They just get it out of someone else’s tap water, you know."

“Are you gonna eat some grits?”

Referring to my aunt’s meal plan at her assisted living home: “You use it or you lose it.”

"I can't add her into the poem. Her name is Janice. Nothing rhymes with Janice! The least he could do is a bring a girlfriend with a name that rhymes with something."

Prior to reading the poem:
“The poem is a dee-saster.”

Every woman over 70:
“Frank, you look right skinny.”
Frank: “It’s because of Elsa’s cooking” (His attempt to compliment my healthy cooking didn’t come out right.) Old lady giggling ensued.

“Now you’ve got to have some grits!”

“Put some butter on your sweet potatoes. Put some butter on your sweet potatoes. Put some butter on your sweet potatoes. Did you put butter on your sweet potatoes?”

"I declare, I look like a rick-a-ma-roar."

Three old ladies trying to use the telephone:
“What’s the number?”
“It’s 247-354”
“Well, that’s not enough numbers!”
“Well let me try it!”
“It’s not working!”
“You didn’t do it right!”
“Is it ringing?”
"It’s making another noise. What’s that noise?”
“It’s not ringing. It’s not working.”
“You’re not gonna get through that way. You’ve got to start over!”
“But I don’t have enough numbers.”

Same three ladies trying to figure out one lady’s meal plan status:
“Juanita, how did you get eight meals in the hole?”
“Did you know it’s ‘you use it or you lose it?’”
“Well they say I’m good through the 21st.”
“Well it’s past the 21st. You’re gonna have to live on that sweet potato till the end of the month!”
“I reckon I just don’t pay attention!”
“Well you’ve got to keep track. You see it’s you use it or you lose it!”
"It is a pretty big sweet potato."

"You’ve got to eat your grits or else you’re not a Kinfolk.”

On using the camera:
“You’re wasting your pictures, Elsa!”
Me: “It’s the kind of camera where you can take as many pictures as you want.”
Grandma: “What?”
Frank: “You use it or you lose it.”

(After I poured Frank some Orange Juice):
“That’s right, Elsa. You wait on him.”

“Patty likes grits. Claire likes grits. Jack likes grits. Polly likes grits…”

"You want some fun in your drink?"

Aunt Betty Lou:
“Elsa, you look like a right floosie. What? It’s a compliment!”

“…Betty Lou likes grits. Betty Lynn likes grits. Jasper likes grits…”

“She isn’t any bigger than a minute; Well she certainly hasn't lost any weight; She’s right heavy.”

“Frank, you ate your grits. That’s a good boy!”
Frank: “Well I figured you use it or you lose it.”

More pics:

Grandma teaching Frank the card game Dirty Dog. For some reason the rules kept working in her favor: "Oh, I put down a 7, that's wild. I put down a 4, that skips you. I put down a 2, that means you have to pick up all the cards." Frank is saying, "Grandma, you're a dirty dog!"

Me with the "Use it or Lose it" ladies.

Enjoying a "fun" drink with Grandma

For the Birds

We’ve been enjoying the speakers Frank added to our deck and you know who else is enjoying them? A family of birds.




When we first spotted the nest Frank said, “How long do you think they’ll stay?” I said, “I guess until the babies are born.” Frank said, “So nine months?”

Obviously we had a lot to learn about birds. Here's what we know now:

-Birds are born faster than humans

-In the category of movement the score is baby birds =1, baby humans = 0. Baby birds start flying days after they’re born and baby humans…well, they never fly but I’m pretty sure they don’t even walk for at least a year.

-Mama birds don’t like people to come near their nests nor do they like being photographed.

-In the category of craftiness the score is Mama bird = 1, Elsa = 0. Did you see that nest? And she doesn’t even have opposable thumbs.

-There doesn't seem to be a daddy bird. So Mama bird is a single mother. You go, Mama bird!

-The whole bird family prefers Jamie Cullum to Coheed and Cambria

So far it’s working out fine with the bird family living out there. But if they stay much longer I’m pretty sure Frank is gonna start charging them rent. I hope he gives the single mama a break. I like her taste in music, home décor and the kids don't seem to be brats. As far as I'm concerned they can stay forever...as long as they don't bring any of that bird flu around.

Sing. Sing out Loud. Sing out Strong. Sing out Proud. Or maybe not.

Even though we managed to avoid this entire season of American Idol, last night Frank and I tuned in at our neighbors’ house—and were struck with McPheever and Hicks-mania.

I don’t really like to watch it because they drag it out too long. Frank has a bigger issue: he’s tone deaf. So when they show the “bad” singers he says, “They sound fine to me.” He’s like Paula.

Even though I knew about Frank’s handicap (a big surprise considering he was a member of two semi-successful bands including Strictly Business), I didn’t know how bad until our most recent road trip to Austin. I had made a mixed CD of all my fave songs and we were jammin’ to them while I sang along. Every now and then Frank would join in as he always does in a silly-mocking-singing voice. It’s sort of high-pitched, way off key and really loud. As usual I said, “Do you have to do that? I really like this song.”

But this time Frank said in all seriousness, “What’s wrong with my voice?” Unsure of where to start I said, “Well, it’s just annoying how you sing in that silly voice and make fun of my songs when I’m trying to enjoy them.” He said, “I’m not making fun of them. I’m just singing.” Ohmyga. THAT’S HIS REAL SINGING VOICE. “So you’re saying that’s just how you sing?” I asked, stunned. What could I do? I had to allow him to sing along if that was, in fact, his real voice.

You may be surprised at my Simon-esque critique of Frank’s singing but a). You would think it too and b). Here’s something you may not know about me—I used to be able to sing. You know how people might say as a joke, “Hey, what did you do with the money your parents gave you for singing lessons?” I would have to answer that with “I got singing lessons!” I could always sort of sing but in high school I wanted to really sing (to get this part in the senior musical). So my parents sprung for voice lessons. The weird thing was, the voice teacher couldn’t sing all that well but she was a good teacher. I got good enough to get the part of Sandy in Grease junior year but by senior year I got stuck in the chorus for Guys and Dolls. Guess those voice lessons didn’t pay off.

I still sing around the house, in the shower and of course, in the car. In all those places I sound pretty good. But I’m no Katharine McPhee. I’m no Carrie Underwood. And Frank’s certainly no Taylor Hicks. But I figure if William Hung can make it in the music biz then Frank’s still got a chance. And until then, I’ll let him sing in the car. But only if I can turn the radio up really loud.

Buggin'

I’ve always believed that a true sign that you live in the ghetto is the abundance of grocery carts.

Now that’s my neighborhood.

It started with just one cart. Frank said to me one day, “So what are we going to do about this grocery cart at the entrance of the neighborhood?” I told him, “I guess we could push it back to Kroger…” Problem: we’d look like the people who originally brought the grocery cart to the neighborhood.

So one day we were heading home and we saw what we thought was the cart a little bit further down the road. “Look. The cart moved,” Frank said. We were pleased that someone had at least tried to take it back to Kroger. But then when we arrived at the neighborhood entrance, we saw that the original cart was still there.

Then somebody obviously got the brilliant idea to merge the two carts together. Now they sit there, consolidated, as if they’re in the cart corral at the grocery store. Hey, why don’t we just start a whole line of them right there? That way, when we have to go to the grocery store (or move houses), they’ll be right there waiting for us. People will knock on the door of the house closest to the carts and ask, "Do you have any of the little baskets? I'm just picking up a few things."

I mean, this is the ultimate in shopping cart betrayal. I’m not sure who’s worse now—the lazy people who won’t take back their carts or the thieves who actually steal them. So whaddya think? Should I push them back to Kroger? It’s less than a mile away. Maybe I could do it in the middle of the night when nobody could see me. Or maybe I could get the homeless man who lives in our neighborhood pool to help me. I guess having stray grocery carts isn’t the ONLY sign that you live in the ghetto.

You're Under Arrest. I'm a Cop.

That was my favorite line from 21 Jump Street. A 25-year-old Johnny Depp played a 25-year-old undercover cop playing an 18-year-old high school student. He’d go into the school, befriend the kids and then when things started getting heated, he’d whip his badge out of his pocket and say that famous line: “You’re under arrest. I’m a cop.” Does it get cooler than that?

Yep—when a GIRL goes under cover AND gets to wear fun costumes AND kicks everyone’s butts. That’s Jennifer Garner in Alias. I wasn’t an Alias fan from the beginning (looked all Science-fictiony and confusing to me) but Frank and I were drawn in by the promo for the 2005 season. It featured agent Sydney Bristo in all her different outfits and wigs, beating up people to the tune of “I’m Crazy for This Little Lady…” by Lenny Kravitz. We were sold. We rented the DVDs from Blockbuster and got all caught up. Well, we were still confused but we got the idea—she worked for the CIA and went undercover all over the world trying to get something from the bad guys. And they would always ask her, “Who do you work for?” and she would never tell them—even when they pulled out her teeth one by one. Sydney never broke. She had cool lines too:

“What’s your name?”
“Ima.”
“Ima what?”
“Ima gonna kick your ass.”

And then, of course, she would.




I had my own Alias/21 Jump Street experience recently. I signed up to be a mystery shopper. My assignment is top secret so I can’t tell you much but let’s just say I gave an Oscar-worthy performance. They’d ask me questions and I answered all of them coolly. They couldn’t break me! Now I never did get to work in my favorite TV lines like “Ima gonna kick your ass” or “You’re under arrest. I’m a cop.” But I did get to say, “Here’s my urine sample.” Does it get cooler than that?

Dissin' on Dissertations

On Friday I attended not one, but two graduation ceremonies honoring Frank’s sister, Julie. I remember at my graduation from the college of communication at UT, we just handed the announcer our name on a piece of paper and he proceeded to butcher it across the loud speaker. By the time we got to the middle of the stage to collect our letter telling us we would one day get a diploma in the mail, they had already butchered three more people’s names.

But when you’re becoming a pharmacist I guess there’s more fanfare. Each kid got about 45 seconds of recognition plus a hood. And that was just the first graduation. When we reprised the whole thing for the second graduation, I needed a little more entertainment to keep me amused.

That’s when Frank’s mom and I discovered the dissertation topics in the program. You see there weren’t just pharmacists at the second graduation but also dentists, periodontists, prosthetic orthodontists (no idea), nurses and other molecular, micro scientist-type people.

Now I knew these people would do better than "Different Leaves” but still, I thought I could at least pronounce their dissertations. They were things like:

Linker Histone and Core Histone N-Termini Contributions to Chromatin Structure and Condensation Using a Reconstituted Model System (Is that even English?)

Characterization of Bone Morphogenetic Protein-9 Expression, Binding and Biological Activity in the Adult Rat Liver (Ew…he’s a rat doctor)

Contributions of the Core Histone N-terminal Tail Domains to Higer Order Chromatin Structure: A Chromatin Model System Reconstituted from Bacterially Expressed Purified Components (Um...)

A Feasibility Test of the Systematic Terraced Exercise Protocol in Mexican-American Fourth Grade Children in states that start with the letter “N.” (I Love it when they’re super specific.)

We based our applause on how much we liked their topic. For instance, if it had something about finding a cure for breast cancer in it, we cheered really loud. If it had “protons” and “photons” we did a golf clap. Then one woman had one that was something like, “The impact of male and female relationships.” How simplistic. That sounds like one of my MSN articles. Could I turn in a stack of ‘em and get myself one of those PhDs? We booed her.

Naturally, reading those topics made me feel just a little bit stupid. But then again, I bet those guys wouldn’t understand the complexities of my work: “Your Ex: Friend or Foe?” or “Two-minute tone-ups that work!” Or maybe we could put our minds together and create an intellectual yet entertaining dissertation. But the minute they bust out the rats, I’m outta there.

More Smoothiegal Experiments

So you may be tired of hearing about my smoothie stories but I’m not tired of telling them! Each day this week I’ve tried variations on smoothies. Monday you read about my strawberry-flavored smoothie and well, since I had about 227 strawberries left, I had to keep on using ‘em:

Tuesday’s smoothie:
I was out of bananas so at first I thought I was going to have a smoothie-less day. But then I realized I didn’t need bananas. I had plenty of other fruits lying around like strawberries, blueberries, cherries and grapes. Don’t worry, I didn’t combine all of those. Well, all but the grapes:

Smoothiegal’s Super Strawberry Blueberry Cherry Kashi Flax Seed Surprise

Notice it’s in a smaller glass than usual. That’s because I dumped half of it out after this reaction:

Wednesday:

Let’s try this again:

Smoothiegal’s Super Strawberry Blueberry Cherry Flax Seed SPLENDA Surprise

So we lost the Kashi and added the Splenda. HUGE improvement.

Thursday
Yesterday was a high point:

Smoothiegal’s Super Strawberry YOGURT Kashi Flax Seed Surprise

No Cherries
No Blueberries
Now with Vanilla yogurt

It was a smoothie sensation!


Yes, yogurt seems to be the key ingredient to a delicious and healthy smoothie. Oh, and of course, the smoothie squats, which I think I've maxed out on this week.