April 2010 Archives

Wow, you guys are after my own heart! It turns out you have an interest in food like I do. After last weeks launch of Recipe of the Week - I recieved an email:

"Hey that recipe sounds great, I am going to try it. Do you have any good recipes, tips or tricks to getting your kids to eat veggies? My boys ate them forever but they have both entered a stage where they would rather die then eat one. "

My reply was this:
I just tried one tonight that was flippin delicious! I made "hamburgers" but I used ground turkey, grated up some zucchini and some onion, threw in some glugs of Worcestershire sauce and garlic powder and Lowry's seasoning salt. Grilled those bad boys and then I sprayed olive oil Pam spray on some whole wheat buns and sprinkled them with garlic salt and broiled them toasty brown. Served them with pickles, tomatoes and lettuce and some sharp cheddar cheese slices. And also a side of steamed brocoli because Max just reported to his teacher that it was his favorite vegetable. So NANNY NANNY! ;) That burger was so good and I just did it on the fly. I hope I can recreate it. The kids ate it all! And Ricardo, who never makes such grandeur remarks said, "I think this is the best burger I've ever had. EVER."

I planned on this other tip but didn't get around to it for these burgers. We'll do it sometime this week though. I'm thinking I should pace my greatness and all. Try this one for vegetable picky kids: Slice up one or two sweet potatoes like fries and throw em on a cookie sheet with some olive oil pam spray and sprinkle them with a little bit of cinnamon. Before the kids figure out if it's a veggie or dessert, they've eaten them all.

So, I hope that works for your question.

Ultimately, I have a pretty good reputation (Good for me, atleast. The kids might differ in opinion.) around here about what my kids eat. My kids eat what I put in front of them, y'all. I've actually sent them to bed for complaining about the food I make. Try it just once. They'll eat what you put in front of them. It's never too late to convert and force your kids to eat veggies. I'm not much of a proponent of sneaking in veggies all the time. That burger recipe was bonus veggieness. I want them to know what they should eat. If the kids come in while we're cooking and dramatize this amazing scene about how crazy hungry they are, we put a bowl of baby carrots and broccoli out. If they're as hungry as they say they are, they eat it. If not, that's one vegetable serving down on the table for dinner. One to go.

Still, if you really want to send your kids into vegetable consumption bliss - here's a recipe from Rachael Ray's show. I'm trying to remember how I deviate from this recipe, but really, she's nailed this one. This recipe is why this woman is so great and why she has her own show. I'd have never thought of Ratatouille for yumminess. However, she purrees it. BRILLIANT! This recipe is good hot or cold. It's a great leftover lunch gig.
Grilled Ratatouille Soup with Breaded Ravioli
Ingredients
1 head garlic
EVOO - Extra Virgin Olive Oil, for drizzling, plus 1/4 cup
1 stem fresh rosemary, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
1 medium zucchini, cut into 1/2-inch planks
1 medium red onion, cut into 1/2-inch thick slices
1 medium eggplant, cut into planks or rounds 1/2-inch thick
4 roasted red peppers, drained
1 28-ounce can diced or whole fire-roasted tomatoes
2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
Olive oil or vegetable oil, for frying
1 pound fresh ravioli or defrosted frozen ravioli
2 large eggs
1 cup breadcrumbs
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, a couple handfuls
1/4 cup flat-leaf parsley, a handful, finely chopped
Yields: 4 servings

Serve soup in shallow bowls with a few fried ravioli on top.

That's the Rach's Recipe. I remember now what I changed... I don't fry up ravioli. God Bless You Rachael Ray, and also, why would you dumb down this wholesome goodness with fried cheese housed in pasta? I get whole wheat tortellini, cook it up as directed by the back of the box and I toss it into the Ratatouille just before serving. That takes a lot of tedious steps out of the process too. Don't get me wrong, I've tried the fried ravioli in this soup before. But I'm also trying to work off the same 5 pounds from last year. So, we go with an easier and slightly healthier alternative. While making this dish I secretly dream of cooking for her highness, Rachael Ray, right here in my kitchen one day. And when I do, I'll ask her about the fried ravioli choice and get back to you on her answer.

I serve grated cheese with this. Just use whatever cheese you have - usually Parmigiano-Regianno, but sometimes we're out so I use Romano or Parmesan. Just a sprinkle. Usually I sprinkle it over the soup because if I serve it on the table, Lucy likes to make cheese soup.

Also, we're not huge fans of rosemary here. So, we just use some dried oregano or an Italian spice blend. Works just fine.

I'm interested to see if you try it, do your kids like it? Max and Lucy like it, but they really want a 1:1 soup:tortellini bite. Once they run out of tortellini, they want to quit. I tell them there's no quitters here. And they eat the rest. I could throw this back with no pasta, easy. If your kids eat tomato soup, I think they'll like this. And it's tons of crazy veggies!

Please let me know if you try it and what you think!
That's how I roll.
Song of the day: That's Not My Name by The Ting Tings

Oh yeah, we went there. This is our last-swim-before-a-triathlon-swim-hat. And yes, it really is a swim hat, not a swim cap. It gives us lots of drag for training, along with our hips and unshaven legs. We're committed to training, folks. Well, committed atleast. I made this picture sepia-toned as it deemed a good fit what with looking like a picture right out of the 1930's and all. So, you can imagine how fantastically bright these hats really are. We were the belles of the ball in the pool today. For sure. We may not "win" races, but we sure look good losing them!

If you'll remember from last year, I got this wild hair to try Triathlons. And then I suckered JulzHOLLA! into it. I wish I could say we've been training for this season all year. But mostly, we've been looking into upping our accessory wardrobe more than anything.

Spring is here. Well, it was, and then it left, and now it's coming back in the form of extreme wind. Since the last triathlon, I've purchased bike shorts, a new bike, shoes that clip in to new bike (Remember when I said I should never be clipped in to a moving vehicle?), a new swimsuit, about 7 pairs of goggles, these really cool stretchy zip-tie shoe laces, new running shoes, special bike socks, and a wetsuit.

Did you say wetsuit? Why yes I did. Everytime we tell someone we got wetsuits, they re-assess our less than muscular and sleek physiques get that cocked-to-the-side like a confused dog who's just heard a high pitched sound look and say, "Wow, you guys are serious abut this triathlon stuff!"

Well, sort of. Can you sort of be serious about triathlons? Is that possible? If so, that's us. We're doing the workouts but we're more committed to coordinating our outfits. The wet suit was a quick and bold move because most of our schedule this year - That's right we have a SCHEDULE because we're cool like that - most of our schedule involves swims in lakes. And swims in lakes up here in the arctic tundra will be cold. When it warms up for 2 months out of the year, it turns out, that's not enough time to for lake water to warm up.

So, we bought wetsuits when they were on sale. Because nothing says, "I'm not a serious athlete" like committing to a $500 dollar wetsuit. We waited for the ridiculous sale, and got the sleeveless suits. It's hard enough squeezing my thighs into this neoprene, by the time I got my arms in a suit, the triathlon would be over and the kids graduated from college. Besides, I'm not paying for a full wetsuit and then getting it on and realizing I'm in capris and a 3/4 sleeve. I'm too big. A sleeveless gig will be just fine.I don't need to feel my arms anyways. That's overkill.

Ordering a wetsuit when you live in Nebraska is just weird. All the books and articles suggest you go to your local triathlon store and get measured and get a custom fit wetsuit. Mmmm Hmmm...now where was that triathlon store again? Oh, right, there's none for 3,000 miles. So, you have to order it online. And maybe a few phone calls are involved, "Hi Sue, me again, Leslie in Nebraska. Hey, okay, so I'm tiny up top and have giant thunder thighs and a bit of badonka donk. And I'm 6'3. That's not on your size chart anywhere...."

Sue instructed me to get a men's suit. I was only slightly offended until I tried it on. And then I was the happiest men's wetsuit wearing woman ever. I felt like a superhero. I wonder if it would ruin the precious neoprene to sew a cape onto it? It's like a Spanx for your entire body, y'all! I will pass on this little nugget of information though: don't try on your suit in front of anyone you want to look you in the eye for the rest of your life. Ricardo was devastated. He's getting through it with medication and therapy. Getting a wetsuit on is extremely delicate and rough all at once. Imagine putting pantyhose on that are 1/4" thick and four sizes too small. You know when you start and your foot seems too fat and you have to dislocate your ankle to get your foot in - you know it's not going to be pretty. So, my advice is to have someone on stand-by...but in another room...with the door closed. Cover all mirrors. You shouldn't see your body do this either.

You'll need someone close by to help you zip it up. Because the zipper goes in the back. JulzHOLLA! might have tried hers on backwards. Still, it fit. And she was good with that. It wasn't worth it to take it off and turn it around and try again. That's another day's workout.

As far as the swim hats go. That was a bit of a communication error. It's a very Laverne & Shirleyish story. I explained that they have flowered swim caps with actual flowers, but also that they have flowered PRINT swim caps. I said it'd be funny to have the printed flower swim caps, but JulzHOLLA! thought I meant the actual flowered hats. So, she surprised me with them. I explained that no way in hell was I wearing that at a triathlon. And neither was she. We are fun and crazy. But we are also busting our asses. I insisted that she know she is an ATHLETE!

I think we are starting this season eager. Last season, we started, uh, petrified.
This season, our goal is to improve our times each triathlon. Tomorrow we leave for our first triathlon of the season. I'm looking forward to starting another season and journey, with JulzHOLLA! and all of these fabulous accessories, especially the swim hat.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: "How Far We've Come" - Matchbox Twenty

I still like this dog. But he seems to be tip-toeing around me a bit today.

This week started off with me actually looking forward to a dentist appointment. I'd had a bit of a toothache and was convinced there was a hole in my tooth based on the fact I could almost cut my tongue if I ran it against said tooth. I even bailed on my workout with JulzHOLLA! citing a potential root canal. The dentist called to see if I could come in earlier. I looked back at the table to see the kids playing a wicked game of UNO instead of eating their toast or drinking their smoothies. So I assessed an unrealistic vision of the kids coming to the rescue for me putting down their cards and eating their breakfast bringing the plates to the sink and rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher and then whisking off to get dressed, teeth brushed, hair done, snack packed and out the door so that I could get to the dentist.

"Surrrrre I can be there at 8:30!"

And then I hung up came back to reality and started barking orders. When that didn't work - I accused my kids of being selfish. That they can't help me out and get ready quick for me this one time...because mommy has unrealistic goals. And then I managed to get totally manic and switched back to nice mommy just before dropping them off. Because hey, I don't want them to go to school upset. They were oblivious, but still.

I dropped them off and hustled over to dentist. It turns out it was a false tooth alarm. I have a ridiculous sinus infection. That's alarming that a sinus infection can make your teeth hurt. I'm just sayin. It turns out that my awesome dentist has signed up for the Omaha Triathlon. I explain how much fun it is and she's afraid of me now.

On my way home I schedule Farley a bath at his super salon. I pick up Farley and he sits in the passenger seat with me when he gets this look of humiliation and apology on his face and shits all while sitting in the passenger seat. I pull over to clean it up. Looks easy. Just two gifts of poop. But when I turned to pull over, Farley shifted to keep his balance and stepped in it mushing into the seat and his paw. I get that all cleaned up while gagging and realize when I told him to stay still - he did exactly as ordered and managed to poop out another while sitting and smeared it all over the seat and his butt. I hustle to the dog spa while he sits in each seat - sharing his poop all over the car. I drop off dog. There's good news and bad news. Which would you like first?

"Bad - ok - bad news is he pooped in my car and he's a bit of a mess. Trust me - I got the worst of the messes though. Well then what's the good news? The good news is that he doesn't need to poop anymore so y'all don't need to walk him. Do you guys know of a car detailing place?"

Mind you, Ricardo has just asked me to tone down the shopping for our budget's sake - but I'm pretty sure this counts as an emergency. Should he contest the urgency of the matter - I am happy to switch cars with him. However, he doesn't contest.

On my way to car detailing to beg them to make it all stop - my lady bits start to get uh - uncomfortable. A little bit crampy - sadly I think I might be familiar with this gig. I drop off the car. Guy asks me if I'm good with waiting 45 mins - I ask if he minds getting the poop out. We're both ok with each others request and quite frankly - I'm pretty sure I should just stop and sit for an hour. Don't move. Another pingy cramp - the last time this happened I drove myself to the ER. Which if you've ever had to - driving yourself to the ER just might be the best example of irony ever. I resolve to not let it get that bad.

So now - sit waiting for my car to be rid of dog shit and 4 years of kid gunk - Oh God - just remembered about the seatbelt with gunk in it. We've given up on it and folded it down in the Stow-N-Go because there's so much gunk in it, it won't buckle. Oh, maybe they could fix it! I run out to the detailers - whip out the seat we have down and show them the buckle with goo in it and explain - "This has goo in it and won't buckle - will you clean it?" The kid is in awe. Maybe he was ticked that was another seat he was going to have to detail and he was almost done. Or maybe we has fascinated by my one-handed kick ass super-hero move to make a seat appear out of nowhere. Or maybe he was afraid of the goo. Rap music is blaring in the shop. I want to ask "Who sings this?" but am not really in the mood to make a connection with Jimmy the car detailing guy and his rap music today. So, instead I say I say "What? You're not familiar with Stow-N-Go?" I smile. He giggles. We share a moment, and he agrees to try to get the goo out.

I go back in and dial my gyno and talk to the nurse. She's not laughing at my funny cramp and pee jokes. Dammit. Fine. And I'm instructed to come give a urine sample this afternoon. And there is the punchline of my entire day - "We're going to need a urine sample." Nice. The car was finished early - but they couldn't get the buckle gunk out. As long as the poops gone - good with that.

The urine test - which it turns out is very complicated, lots of instructions - comes up negative and nurse instructs me to cover all basis drink some cranberry juice and lots of water. Super, false alarm number two. Guess I should head on back over to medical school to brush up on...oh wait, that's right, I'm a journalism major! A negative test is great - but it reminds me of the time I thought my water broke - but that's not what it was at all... Now THAT was humiliating. Today is chump change.

Farley's spa calls and announces his arrival of decontamination and cleanliness. I look at my watch and it's time to pick up the kids from school. And I don't even have 3 hours to wait in the parking lot. Imagine that. I have 10 minutes to get there. Nice. I tell Farley's spa friend that I'll be there after I pick up the kids and head over to the school. The car smells fantastic and looks brand new. The kids get in the car and I apologize for calling them selfish this morning. Then I ask them if they want to know how my day was. They confer with each other in one glance, that this is a trap, but they'll humor me and take the bait. And I say,
"Farley pooped all over the car today." And they explode in evil laughter. Too bad they don't know I didn't have their seats cleaned. Just the front passenger seat.

So, how was your Monday?

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Hold On Be Strong by 2Pac

This is a picture of an elephant's ass. There's lots of symbolism here: memory, and ass are the two I can think of now. That, and I took the picture when I volunteered at the kids' zoo field trip. Because I'm up at the school allllll the time.

I've had a few altercations incidents with mothers from the elementary school where my kids attend. The first was just weird, and I learned early on not to get suckered into someone else's drama. I've got plenty of my own. The second was really crazy but, was taken care of, I think.I'm good with it, atleast. This last one though, I'm going to have nightmares about for a long time.

I got a call from a lady who has a kid in the same grade as my sweet numchuks at the school they all attend. The lady asked if we could talk and keep it just between us. So, I'm going to respect that request and keep the details of the actual issue we disccused. However, I might have blabbed to Ricardo and JulzHOLLA! for therapy purposes. They get spousal immunity.

As every year winds down, the talk of who your kids teacher next year will be starts to brew. This fine lady wanted to discuss teachers and what I thought. And without getting into details about what I THINK her questions and doubt may have been, let's just say, on the actual points, our views and experiences differed greatly. I must be growing up because I was totally cool with that. I must have said, "To each his own" and "Sounds like kids respond differently to different teaching styles" atleast 20 times each.

While I was eating cake and chatting on a Friday night, she was apparently drinking a glass, or FIVE, of wine. I think it was wine because somewhere in the conversation, I listened for ice clanking as she raised it to sip. No ice clank. Must have been wine. I was on the phone with her for an hour. It started out friendly. It ended badly, and very slurred.

I don't know what mixed signals I must send to people. Some think I'm mean and rude, others think I'm approachable. I think I'll work on oozing more mean and rude. Because approachable would suggest she'd called for my opinion. As the conversation progressed, view points differed, slurring increased, and someone - uh, not me - became a bit more irate. I was cool, tried to resolve the situation. But she was hearing nothing of it. I couldn't really figure out what the goal of the conversation was. There was no end in sight. The speech more slurred.

Perhaps I should have kept up with her glasses of wine - me for more cake. I don't know. But a few things bothered me.
Her kids were sitting next to her, listening and even contributing to every word. I had gone outside to discuss the situation so that my kids don't get involved in whatever this was. If you want a kid to listen to you, grab the phone, dial, and whisper into it. They'll hang on every word.

So when lady was slurring, "WELL MAYBE LUCY IS SMARTER THAN BOBBY." I'd had enough. Bobby heard her say that. And upon the mere suggestion that I'd insuated that, I was livid. So, I said as loud as I could so that ol Bobby would hear me through the reciever in hopes the sound waves would reverberate off the more-empty-than-not wine glass, "I DO NOT THINK LUCY IS SMARTER THAN BOBBY!" I tried to get sound bytes in like that because she was doing the talking louder and louder over my very awesome and realistic points.

About 45 minutes into the conversation it started to seem very familar to me. What was it? Oh yes, years and years of oppressed childhood memories. Mommy, is that you? Son of a Bitch. Really? I wanted to say, "Look lady, I've done my time on this one. I've gone to extreme efforts to not end up on your side of this phone call." I wanted to say all that. But I knew better. This woman was not going to remember this call. It was THAT bad folks. Remember the last time you had a conversation with someone so drunk you were begging them to give them your keys so they couldn't drive? And all your pal could do was counter argue that the bartender jipped him on the last margarita with no salt. Remember that?

So, I'm trying to back out of this conversation as fast as I can, "Oh, okay, I see your point..." Which I sooooo didn't. And then she just continued to talk over me. Why am I still on the phone? She's the only one talking. She does not want my input like she'd initially asked for on glass of wine number 2. She's on number 7 now. She's talking back meaner to the kids too. Shit. In a mere hour, she's done a complete flip from fairly cordial to insanely argumentative. I could just hang up. I could come up with a great excuse. I'm clever like that. And then she goes on and on about why she called me. Because she's a WORKING mom, and I'm up at the school ALL THE TIME and I know ALL the teachers. Oh. No. She. Did. Not.

Yep. She did.

I correct her with my super funniness, "Look, I go up up on Thursdays for a half hour to stuff folders. I request I don't have to interact with the kids. I am not up there all the time." Because there really are some moms who are up there all the time. Like, waiting for their kid in the parking lot - 3 hours before school gets out. It's creepy. And although I'm sure they are lovely women, I don't want that reputation. I'm not that mom.

Wine lady does the "Oh I didn't mean to insult you, I'm gonna cover now, and then inevitably continue to insult you further" thing. I'm not allowing the false judgments to bother me, because a) she's wrong and 2) she's DRRRRRRUNK. When she says again,
"It's just that you're up there all the time, and I thought you'd have better input than this."

Nice.

I sit there and let the awkward silence sober her up a little bit.

And then she says again, "I work 8-5 and I cannot be up there all the time." I can see her head cocking back and forth as she says this. And then, as she'd done a couple of other times, she literally forgot who she was talking to. She can't remember, and she's asked the same question a couple of times, made repetitive statements. But this time she's stumped. And she says,
"Do you work? I mean, I know being a mom is a job and all..." Reeeeeallllll condescending like.

And based on an argument we'd just had 5 minutes prior about if a teacher had her credentials and graduated when teaching our kids, for once in my life, I upped my title to sound like I worked really hard. (I'm assuming she wouldn't have known what Adjunct Faculty would mean anyways.) Lame, I know, but effective, "Yes, I work! I'm a college PROFESSOR!" Just like that.

She backtracks with more friendly reminders that I'm up at the school all the time. And I give up. Check. Out.

I'm still graciously polite at this point while willing her an incredible wine hangover headache with my super powers of ESP through the phone. She rambles some more about the same stuff. It's a vicious cycle of not only the same topic, but the same phrases and exact same sentences. I eventually put on my best surprised voice and say, "Oh wow, it's been great talking to you, but I need to get the kids ready for bed!"

Long pause. Well, not too long, but in perspective of this conversation, it's a pause, therefore concluding, it was long. And then, she says, simply, "Fine. Bye." And hung up.

Years of suppressed childhood memories have just been resurfaced. Thank you, lady.

That's how I roll.
Song of the day - Party (Up in Here) - DMX - Gone In 60 Seconds Soundtrack

I've been thinking. And that was a tiring 30 seconds. Whew! I've decided that I have many hobbies and two passions. I'm passionate about my awesome family and cooking. Really my passion is eating, but I'm working through that with my therapist. Even moreso, I love new recipes, and I love cooking healthy meals for my family.

So, I thought, maybe I should stop yapping about all that and share something of sustenance with you. So, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to post a recipe I used this week. And then I'm going to post how I actually did it. Because I thought I followed a recipe fairly verbatim. It turns out, I don't. I have something better to add, or adjust because I forgot to get something at the grocery store always.

So here's your very first ever Mom On The Rocks recipe of the week:
Betty Crocker Whole Wheat Blueberry Muffins
1 cup fat-free (skim) milk
1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
2 egg whites or 1 egg
2 cups Gold Medal® whole wheat flour
1/3 cup sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup fresh or canned (drained) blueberries

1. Heat oven to 400ºF. Grease bottoms only of 12 regular-size muffin cups, or place paper baking cup in each muffin cup.
2. Mix milk, applesauce, oil, vanilla and egg whites in large bowl, using fork or wire whisk. Stir in flour, sugar, baking powder and salt, using spoon, just until flour is moistened (batter will be lumpy). Gently stir in blueberries. Divide batter evenly among muffin cups.
3. Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until golden brown. Immediately remove from pan to wire rack. Serve warm.

My version - I made this today! I used egg whites. I used EVOO (Extra Virgin Olive Oil) - I use it for all oils in any recipe and it always works. I suppose I could find some Canola, but one gigantic bottle of oil is really all I care to keep in my kitchen. It works. I think it actually makes baked goods fluffier and lighter, but can't really prove that. Mostly, it's there. So, it's easier. I did not use the Gold Medal® whole wheat flour as recommended by ol Betty. I used whatever whole wheat flour I had in my pantry. The horror, I know. It worked.

I never ever measure vanilla, it's a waste of dirtying a measuring spoon. I drop an estimate of what should be in there. I'm guessing it comes out more than the recommended dosage. I use Mexican Vanilla always. It's so good, and I think stronger and more potent. So, if I ever hear of someone going to Mexico, I beg them to get me a bottle of vanilla while there. If I'm out and no one's willing to smuggle me some vanilla, I ask my moms to grab me some at the Mexican mart down in Houston. The woman is a good woman because she's willing to get me that vanilla for me and mail it safely! Thanks, Moms.

In an effort to keep it as clean as possible -I'm trying y'all -I'm not perfect, I used organic sugar. I haven't stumbled across any Sucanat yet, but will try it as soon as I find it.

And where's the spices? I added a dash of ginger and some cinnamon. I would have added some nutmeg, but I couldn't find my spice grater thingy immediately and it was early in the morning and I'd only had one gigantic cup of coffee, so no nutmeg. I did know where my citrus grater was though. So I threw in some grated orange peel and a squeeze of the top of the orange I used to grate the peel. This ensured no seeds from the quick squeeze. I am awesome and genius. I'll remember this next time.

A cup of blueberries? What? I used a large double handful and stirred that in. It didn't seem like enough blueberries to necessitate tallying a fruit serving, and I thought it would be yummier. I like more blueberry than muffin. So, I lopped in another double handful of fresh blueberries.

When the muffins came out, I sprinkled them with more organic sugar. That's not really a clean idea, I'm aware. Still, thought it would be fun. And it proved to be so. The muffins turned out great. They were pretty fluffy and made 12 huge muffins. The kids have no clue we've changed from regular flour to whole wheat. I served the muffins with strawberries, yogurt and a glass of water. Lucy was ticked off she had to actually stir the yogurt because all the fruit was at the bottom. The horror. It's Friday, and I was on a roll from all that wholesome cooking and all, so I stirred it for her - but with rage. She ate the yogurt out of fear, I think. They both asked for second servings of the muffins. Success.

This recipe took maybe 5 more minutes than a muffin mix would take. So, I'll probably keep it in my recipe log. (i.e. - I've bookmarked it)

Let me know if you try this recipe and what you thought about it!

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Gin and Juice - The Gourds (not for kids, just fyi) The irony of making these wholesome muffins while rocking out to this song is fun for me. Kinda like the irony of the Gourds covering a Snoop Dogg song. Right?

Everyday I pick up the kids at school and everyday we start with the questions. I'm sure there's some book out there that tells me I'm not asking the right questions. But everyday, just for giggles, I ask what they did at school today and everyday they both answer "I can't remember" or my personal favorite, "I don't know". Both of which are stellar validation of my fine tax dollars at work. So then I break them down with my super genius journalism background of progressive questioning:
"What did you have for lunch?"
"What did you get off the cart?"
"Did you thank the lunch lady?"
"Did you do something nice for someone today?"
"Did someone do something nice for you?"
"What did you do at recess and who did you play with?"
"What did you do at Music/Gym/Gymsic?"
"What did you do at school today?"

Typically, I jog their memory of their fondest moments first (lunch) and then go from there.

But the other day, I got pretty much nothing out of them. So, I relented and explained,
"We are going to the mall today for Daddy's birthday present. We will not be getting any cookies. We are there for Daddy. Not cookies. Okay?" (We tend to lure them to shop with us with cookies at that cookie place in the mall food court.)

Lucy replies, "I got a kid cookie with Daddy this weekend (while I was out of town, mmmmhhmm) and he liked it. I shared it with him when we were having daddy-daughter time. He really liked it because he's never had a kid cookie cuz he's an adult. But we split it."

I was just about to say something to add to the conversation when Max chimed in with his man-voice, "Well did it have a line of symmetry?"

Lucy: "No, Max. It was a DUCK!"

Max: "Oh yeah. Those ducks NEVER have lines of symmetry!"

Four minutes later, Max starts giggling to himself. Lucy asks what. Max says, "Nothing!" and then immediately continues with: "Well, it's just that Iwas making an alliteration poem today and I couldn't think of anything. So, I went with Loser Lucy Licks Lollipops."

Lucy thinks about it and says, "well, we haven't done alliteration poems yet. But when we do, I'm going to use M."

Ah, yes. Alliteration paybacks are a bitch. So, I guess they've learned about alliteration and lines of symmetry this week. We made it to the mall, got the presents and all with no cookies.

That's how I roll.
Kid's Pick (but its fun for adults too) Song of the day: Clap Your Hands - They Might Be Giants

Happy Birthday to Farley the Wonderdog. We're shocked you've made it this far. No, really, the kids have almost been dreading this day because they heard that the average life of a lab is 12 years old. And so, they took that to mean that he'll literally drop dead on this very day. Sorry, Nostradamus, this dog's still kicking. I tried to explain what average meant. And that Farley certainly is not average. And just in spite, he'll probably go a few more years. For the sake of cake and singing Happy Birthday to him, Max and Lucy have put away their concerns for his demise.

In the kids defense, he is aging quite a bit. The grey hair, we find is a handsome distinction. His hips are starting to go, though. It breaks my heart when he wakes up from his third morning nap on the foyer tile so that he can move to his afternoon nap in the living room. His hips lock and he can't catch any tread on the slippery tile. He kind of looks like that dog on that commercial who scoots his butt on the carpet. But then he just gives up and resolves to take his nap #4 on the tile again. He moos, gets settled down and starts sleeping and farting. The absolute quality of an old man life. Happy Birthday ol boy.

So, Farley the Wonderdog has this cyst on his side. It's no biggie, kind of like a wart with wings. And the vet, who, we've seen a lot lately, explained it was harmless. And then one night we were all three laying in bed - Farley between us - and Ricardo was petting him and that harmless cyst exploded. Ew.

The vet might have mentioned that we could have it removed for $50. Ricardo agreed to it right after he cleaned up the cyst incident. I scheduled Farley to have the cyst removed while he was at their kennel when we were at Disneyland and Ricardo in Ireland. Everyone was getting all kinds of high dollar treatments, so the dog should get in on it and get what we told him was a "spa" treatment. The kennel and minor surgery we led Farley to believe was like trying out a Hookah Bar. So, Farley, ofcourse, was all for it.

Imagine my surprise when I checked the voicemail from the vet while waiting in line at Space Mountain. He left me a message and I'm at the happiest frikkin place on earth - I'm just hoping the message wasn't, "Uh, yeah, it didn't work, he's a goner." I don't really remember the actual message, just the dollar sign cha-chinging over and over again as the vet explained that the cyst was 3 times bigger underneath the skin, and instead of that $50 local anesthetic, they actually had to put Farley under, and he's recovering well, but while he was under, he took a look at that whole eye thing I'd mentioned, and he had two eyelashes growing the wrong way INTO his eye, and that's what was scratching his eye, so he went ahead and removed those eyelashes, CHA-CHING, and now he's recovering fine, and has 26 staples, about a 6" scar, looks kinda like Frankenstein - CHA-CHING - and he's on pain meds CHA-CHING and antibiotics CHA-CHING. CHA-CHING! But he's doing well, and eating and everything is just great. Thank you doctor.

The $50 removal just went to $300 real fast. Still, the cyst was the size of a tennis ball under his skin. My favorite part about the bill was that due to his "ADVANCED AGE" he'll need to follow up and get the stitches out in 3 weeks instead of the usually 10 days.

In celebration of making it to 12, we picked out a KONG ball and snacks for him. We obliged the advanced age and have the senior formula of the human version of cheeze wiz in a squirting can, and then regular snacks. Last night he brought the KONG to us and suggested from his stare down that he was done playing games and could someone with opposable thumbs puhlease get the damn treats out for him.

Yes we can. We love you Farley! Happy Birthday to the best dog ever!
That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Man Of The Hour by Norah Jones

I had a friend and mentor tell me one day - after reading this very hilarious blog - that I was a modern-day Erma Bombeck. And who the compliment came from was overwhelming. He doesn't just hand out comments like that every day. But let's not insult Mrs. Bombeck like that. And thank you.

I'd heard of Erma Bombeck before, but when my journalism instructor started talking about her one day in a class, I was freaking out. How did my grumpy old professor know my mom's old friend? The only recollection I have of Erma Bombeck was that she was some friend my mom and her other friends always giggled, sometimes hysterically, and talked about. She was some type of mommy-relief reference for getting through life, a golden mommy secret. Kinda like the vodka and the good chocolate stash tucked away throughout our house kept sacred and away from us kids.

That's my memory of Erma Bombeck. I read a few of her books after college, and returned to them a few years ago. But I had to put the books down. Dear God, this woman is explaining my life as a mom! I was petrified I would hack her greatness because I sure was living and laughing it outloud. For fear of hacking, I put the book down and then wondered if she'd been nominated for sainthood yet.

Somewhere in web browswery-land, I searched Erma Bombeck and discovered the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference. I assumed I was not of any caliber to attend such an event, but still bookmarked it. And 5 years later, I promised myself, and my kids, I'd get off my duff, try to at the very least act like a writer and then maybe I'd become one, and I signed up for the conference.

So, this weekend, I packed up, and left for Dayton, Ohio. A crazy bonus, I met my pal Melisa. Melisa and I were close friends in Jr. High, and even shared a notebook. It must have been the start of our writing career. And though we went down separate paths in High School, mine of shallowness and oppressing memories, by the powers of Facebook, have re-connected. We promised each other we'd one day go to this conference. And so we did. I drove East. Catching up with Mel was like we'd never missed a moment after 15 years. Fine, 18 years. Whatever.

Here's the highlights of the conference.
- I got up and did stand-up at the open mic night on the last night. I didn't really want to do it, I grew more nervous and I was just about to bail when Melisa was all, "I can't wait to see you go up." Dangit. So, I went up and had a blast. That was fun. And Melisa was right to make me do it.

- I got lots of tips on how to wow you with this super blog of mine. There might be some changes.I mean, it's pretty great already, I know. But perhaps a few enhancements are in order. My webserver design pal is concerned with my new proactive demands.

- I heard Mo Rocca took a picture with this girl at my table. Because she came back to our table and was all, "OMG - I just got a picture with Mo Rocca!" Ricardo and I love Mo Rocca. So, I decided to seize the opportunity and be that fan, and ask for a picture. I thought I should be real different and totally funny and stand out and all and I'm not known for thinking on my feet when talking to celebrities because well, I'm not well known for long conversations with celebrities. And this might be why. I just blurted out real funny-like, "Hey Mo, can I get a picture with you? My husband thinks you're HOT!" That's funny right? He didn't think so. Perhaps he thinks that I think he's gay, and if so, that's still weird because of my reference to my husband... Weird. Still, we took the picture. And then he kept his distance the rest of the night. When I returned back to the table I realized I'd just eaten garlicky au gratin potatoes and then approached this poor man and said right in his face, "My husband thinks your HHHHHHHOT."

Perhaps his look in this picture is what he looks like when trying to not pass out. I don't know. So, Mr. Rocca, I'm very sorry about that. Call me! Heh. Heh. Heh.

- I wanted to get a picture with Bill Scheft as well. And Gail Collins, W. Bruce Cameron, Nettie Hartstock and Karen Walrond. But after that whole Mo Rocca moment, I decided to not stand out and send thank you letters later. I'm sure they'll appreciate it. I wanted to grab a photo though because they were so darned helpful. Not because my husband things they are hot. Although, maybe, I dunno. Mo Rocca really took one for the celebrity team on that one, y'all.

- Typically, comedians and writers are a wee bit narcissistic and slightly self-absorbed. So, I was nervous that my lack of confidence in my writing skills might overshadow more than my height coupled with my birthing hips. These humor writers, it turns out were nothing but selfless. The entire conference - attendees, speakers, workers - everyone was helpful and supportive. Just incredible. And there might have been one out-of-place and completely un-earned inflated-ego there. I referred to him as the conference diva.

- I'm a writer. I never considered that until Bill Scheft and Gail Collins told me I was. It's good to know. Whew!

When I got home, Lucy puckered up and gave me a huge kiss and said, "Well, did you write your book!?"

Oh good, a 12-hour self-therapeutic drive back to my babies and I get to disappoint you so soon!

"Um, not yet baby."

"Then WHAT did you DO for four days?"

"I got lots of good information on how to write."

"Oh." Satisfied with that answer, she ran off.

About then, Max walks up and gives me a cool dude hug and then exploding with pride and like he's just remember something very very very important, he says, "Hey Mom, look, I've been practicing for you!" He proceeded to stick his arm under his shirt in his opposite armpit and start cranking arm pit fart sounds.

"Oh wow, Max, looks like you've been working so hard on that. You've gotten really good at it. Good job, Baby."

And I knew, Erma must have giggled at supporting fart sounds at some point in her life. And then it was worthy of writing down.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow Mix by "Iz" Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole

I picked up a Clean Eating Magazine the other day. I have all kinds of recipe books and magazines on cooking, but eating? Tell me more! I was curious. And then I was totally hooked. I've gone from eating an entire box of Twinkies to trying to figure out how to plant more vegetables and get a grass fed cow on my lawn. Up to this point in my life, Clean Eating would suggest that I observed the five-second rule if food dropped on the ground. And let's be real, it can be stretched out to 10 seconds just depending on the recency of the last mopping gig.

Clean Eating is basically eating and cooking with whole foods in their most natural state. No preservatives. No chemicals. Nothing you can't pronounce on the ingredients label.

This is a big ixnay on my Diet Coke-ay abit-hay. Coffee was still okay, but that creamer I must have is not. I'm not okay with that yet. But I have switched from splenda to agave and like it better.

My biggest problem is that I'm not a big fan of water. I used to sneak Diet Coke into my water bottles at workouts. Not even kidding. Water is overrated if you ask me. But if I'm going to do this Clean thing, I suppose I should consider water. Especially since vodka's no longer an option either. So, I've started putting orange slices in my water bottle with water, not vodka. And it's delicious. It works! And everyone's jealous at the gym, I'm sure of it. Strolling around with luxurious orange slices in my water. The nerve. Whatever, it's working.

I picked up some soy milk the other day to replace my very unclean french vanilla flavored sugar free coffee creamer. I put it in the cart and wondered - if you're supposed to eat whole foods in their most natural state, how is milk made from a bean plant whole? That's processed right?

Then I got to talking to a lady who is serious about this stuff. She gets her milk from a farmer and makes her own yogurt, y'all. She's done loads and loads of research and confirmed my suspicions. She was not impressed with my soy milk purchase. And went on to explain really crazy stuff about hormones and just said, "It's processed food." Exactly. That was the longest two days of icky coffee ever. I went back to the unclean creamer.

I mean really - does anyone look at this and say, "Wow, that's totally allllllll natural."?

I'm now a subscriber to the http://www.cleaneatingmag.com/minisite/ce_index.htm for the recipes, ofcourse. But in the magazine, there was an ad for a Clean Eating book. So, I got it and read it. The book is way different than the concepts of the magazine. The book was basically a diet. Although she swears it's not a diet but instead a way of life, I don't see myself eating 4 egg whites, oatmeal with flax seed and bee pollen, an apple, and 2 pieces of fruit for breakfast. The book seemed more like a bodybuilding type diet. I kept reading, but never really fully bought into her theory of clean eating. Then I got to the chapter where she explained her boob job, and I was out. Really? An entire book on why you should put only natural products in your body, but stuffing silicone in your chest for "symmetrical purposes" is okay? And from the pictures, I'm guessing her lips and face have been done too. I finished the book disappointed and resolved to simply use the magazine.

Ricardo isn't so sure about all of this yet, but for the most part, at home, we are already clean eaters. Still, just the commercials and interviews on talk shows with Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution are enough to freak me out and start taking a hard look at what my kids eat in a day. I've recorded all of the shows, but since I'm such a popular and busy socialite, I've missed every show because it's on Friday nights. Or, it's just a coincidence. Still, I'm waiting to watch them with the kids.

In the meantime, another coincidence, (or a desperate attempt to answer questions of parents watching Food Revolution) the kids brought home a food diary to fill out and a new food pyramid that splits up your fruits and veggies and then my favorite part - this pyramid says that a kid should have 6-11 servings of grains. WHAT? 6-11? And it doesn't say whole grains, just grains. And they count the stale white bun on the burger they serve at school. At school, they serve 5 options of entrees a day. FIVE! And then that nasty thick chocolate milk. And then, my other favorite part - there's a cart for them to walk by and if they want, they can get a fruit sitting in a vat of syrup, a bowl of lettuce they refer to as a salad (or as the kids put it - that stuff I use to shovel Ranch Dressing in my mouth with), and pickles for a vegetable. PICKLES FOR A VEGETABLE!

My Mother-In-Law told me one time to let them have lunch at school, and then give them the healthy stuff at home. Let them have some control of their choices at school. That makes sense, but the more I take my head out of the sand, the harder it is to not force them to bring their own lunch with whole grains and fresh fruit. And in an effor to not be THAT MOM and march up there and re-structure their whole menu - I'll leave that to Jamie Oliver. And I'll just insist my kids take their lunches to school.

I've been having a ball cooking new recipes and knowing they are good for us. Don't get me wrong, I crave a burger now and then. And I go for it.

That's how I roll.

I picked up the kids up from school today and Max asked if he could ride his bike to his buddy's house. I don't know if there was some kind of special herb in my iced tea I wasn't aware of, but I told him "Yes". Wait, what the hell did I just say? What I meant was no. No way. Uh-uh. Nope. But I can't take it back now because Max's little face is all lit up at the thought of independence and freedom and all that overrated stuff. He even did the fist and then shuttled his elbow back to his ribs and said, "YES!" Dangit, what have I done? I mean, this is coming from the same Mom who's made her stance against the ice cream man.

Never ever ever, have they ever asked, nor ever gone over to a friend's house further than across the street, ever. And why now? Well, I guess they are in second grade. When I was in Kindergarten I walked home from school and it was double the distance, and no sidewalks, just walked right on in the middle of the road. And in the summer, I just disappeared for most of the day.

Thankfully, said friend is the son of a pal of mine. She has older kids, so I was nervous to out myself that I'm a hovering mom. What, what?! I know you're all shocked. I am though.

So, I stalled as long as I could and made him put away his laundry. And then I slathered him with sunblock, made him wear a helmet and body armor and then sent him on his way. Fine, no body armor. And he wore his helmet voluntarily. I sent him out to cross 4 streets and get to his friends house. And then I held my breath. I even waited outside just in case, you know, I could hear the crash and go running if I needed to.

I texted my pal and told her he was on his way. She humored me and said she'd let me know when he got there. So I waited. Waited. Still waiting and listened for crashes and/or emergency vehicles. Waiting. Still holding breath. And then the text: "He's here all in one piece." That was the longest 4 minutes ever.

Meanwhile, Ricardo got home from work and after I explained where Max was, all he could say was: "And you said yes!? Wow, this is a big milestone for you."

Yes it is.

When Max was done playing my pal called me to tell me he was on his way. So we went outside to see him come around the corner. As he came around and needed to cross, but couldn't see us yet. The kid looked both ways. TWICE.

And it was as big a deal for him as it was for me. "Dad, Mom let me go to Scott's all by myself!"

I'm so proud of him. But let's be real here, I'm proud of me. Tomorrow I'm sending him on his scooter to the grocery store.

That's how I roll.

The other night, I was at a fun jewelry party with a friend. I only knew a handful of the ladies there. They are my pal's pals, but they let me hang out with them on occasion. I was trying to be on my best behavior.

One of the girls I didn't know, but looked familiar (which really doesn't matter because I can't remember names anyways) asked if I worked out at Prairie Life. Why, yes I do. And then I remembered where I knew her from, "Don't you work out with Dry Humper?"

Woops. I'm just meeting this woman, and it's not my party to offend the guests and all, but it just slipped out.

She was completely unfazed, "Yes, I do. Do you call him that because of the way he stretches people?"

Would there be another reason to call him that? I'm just sayin.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

We shared a laugh because we were surrounded by ladies who do not go to our gym, and were intrigued by the getting-to-know you dialogue occurring before them.

And then, in all seriousness, she really meant this - she takes it to another level of awkwardness with,
"He really is totally like the BEST STRETCHER." Complete straight face.

Oh no she did not. Yep she did. I love it when I get one-upped with awkward moments.

That's how I roll.

I'm still sitting on the same throne - different representative.

A few days before Easter, Lucy explained that she would like a baby for an Easter gift and that I should make that happen. Well, if ever there was an Easter miracle - giving her a baby brother or sister would certainly fit that bill. I suggested that playing with Maggie was enough, and she concurred, "Yeah mom, Maggie IS SO cute!" I know.

The very next day, Lucy says, "The Easter Bunny is bringing me a black Webkinz." Well, at least she's downgraded from the whole baby gig. But I'd already gone shopping.

In my head: "Uh, no, he's bringing you a Pet Shop Play land thingy."
Out loud: "Really, and when did you see the Easter Bunny to make such a request?"

"Oh, I didn't see the Easter Bunny, Mom. I PRAYED to the Easter Bunny."

Oh God. Literally.

So, then Lucy goes on to explain that Santa and Jesus and the Easter Bunny are all in the same boat. What have I done to this poor little girl? Effn society and all your children's stories to win their interest on Holy Days and lure them into the hour and a half church services. This is great. Just great.

I finally got over all that and just chalked it up to the fact that she's going with what we've traditionally done on each holiday. I mean, don't get mad at your kid because she's praying to Easter Bunnies if you hide the eggs and magically make the darned Easter baskets appear with candy and toys. Right?

We went to Gramma and Bean-Bean's for a family gathering.The kids are getting older now, and the family is all playing and having fun and staying up late. Ricardo and I realized that we wouldn't be able to wait until they fell asleep to get the Easter Bunny-ness out before we went to bed. So we snuck into Gramma's room to put the Easter Baskets together. We told all of the adults in the house what we were doing so they could help keep the lock down on our attempt to prevaricate to own children, but whatever. I'm not going to be the one to tell them the jig is up, they'll have to tell me. Amazingly, Lucy busted right into the room - BUSTED US! The jig is up - we're the Easter Bunny. She saw us, saw what we were doing, each of the three of us had a plastic egg and was stuffing it. Baskets were out. Chocolate everywhere. And she says, "Oooooookay." And shut the door. I figured the jig was up.

"I guess we'll be having that long awaited talk about the Easter Bunny and Santa and probably the Tooth Fairy on the way home tomorrow."

"Yep"

And we continued the lies and deceit. When we finished, we had to leave the web of lies in Gramma's room. And the plan was to get up early, and put it out before they woke up. But then, all of us are stupid, because the kids woke up early only to discover that the Easter Bunny had not made it yet. Uh, yeah, well, when you go to bed after we do, and you wake up before we do, the Easter Bunny cannot stumble out before her coffee and set everything out, okay!? Jeesh.

So, we managed to get the baskets in our room and yell at the kids, "Hey, I think the Easter Bunny was confused because your dress is hanging on our door, and he left your baskets in here."

They both came bounding in and before they spotted the baskets, Lucy corrected me, "MOM! The Easter Bunny is a SHE!"

"So, you prayed to HER?"

"Yes. Hey look, a Pet Shop Playland! YAY!"

Oh, I am loving this whole Easter Bunny gig. And she still believes. For sure. We're good.

That's how I roll.

A few weeks ago, I went to get what I thought was a major award with my work. I thought I was all special because I'd been with the college for 20 quarters and that's why I was getting my major award and invited to a dinner. But it turns out, I'm just a baby, someone got 180 quarters. WHAT?

My friend, co-worker, and super fabulous mentor found me and let me sit at her table, introduced me to everyone at the table. I'm a part-timer and don't have an office. So I don't know a lot of people. So, it was good to put some faces to names and meet new people. In the middle of the dinner, a lady showed up and sat at the last chair at our table. I'd already stolen her roll, and someone else had snagged her water. So, we teased her for being late, and finished up eating, then I got my major award. I bantered with the late lady a bit. But I never got her name. So, when the major awards ceremony was over, I asked her what her name was. It turns out she was my boss. And not just any old boss, she was my Dean. Since I'm a part-time instructor, I've actually only met her once in a mad dash with 3-year-old twins in tow (mind you, they are seven now) to drop off some paperwork. That's it. We email each other occasionally, but I'll have to ask her to attach an updated picture, I suppose, because she's nothing like I remember when I galavanted my kids through her office shouting, "It's nice to meet you. DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!" Only slightly more embarassing than that is now, as I re-meet her while receiving my major award. As if to say, "You've been here 20 quarters - that's five years, and you don't know who your boss is. Nice."

I'm bad with names, but I should know my boss. My Dean. It was weird. For me and for her. We made the best of it and they let me keep my major award.

As an instructor, I try to teach my students that you can't just put your flaws out there and then just be okay with that. You've got to know your flaws and overcome them. So, I've been thinking, maybe I should be better with names - trying to work on it.

Then I went to spin class last week at the gym, and started getting my bike ready. It has to be just so - raise the seat and the handles, and then scoot the seat as far back as it'll go. But the seat was torn, and we don't need any chafing up in here, so I moved to another bike, and ended up next to a very familiar man. I tried so hard to place the guy, but just couldn't. I had two options, ask the guy his name, or progressively lose brain cells while gasping for oxygen and try to remember his name. I really wanted to try to remember his name, but then again I have no pride. So, I asked him.

"I recognize you, but just can't place it. What's your name?"

"Oh, I'm Mike. Mike Fahey. What's your name?" Ohhhhhh, yes - THE MAYOR!!! Are you kidding me!? Uggh! To my defense, he's the former mayor by about a year.

"I'm Leslie. And I have a blog!" Okay, not really, Just "I'm Leslie Murrell. It's nice to meet you. Ah yes, well, I'm sorry for not recognizing you immediately. I'm a transplant from Texas."

"Oh, well when did you move here?"

"Uh, five years ago." And then I explained what a great city Omaha is and how much we're enjoying it. I've never been so happy for an instructor to get a class started as I was then.

I've got to get better with names.

That's how I roll.

I've been talked into some really bizarre things. On the top of the list would be swimming with sharks. But Ricardo promised he'd take care of me, I believed him, and he did. He also served me a vat of rum punch.

I think I've mentioned that my idea of adventure is vacuuming every third day instead of every other day. And trust me, I've been extremely adventurous by that very definition lately.

I just think there's a limit to all the grandeur things you can challenge yourself to do. And at some point, you really have to know yourself to say, "Nope, I would not benefit from coming out of my comfort zone for that one." One of those little challenges is anything that involves coordination. That's right folks. I can run and bike and swim, because it involves minimal coordination. I'm tall. I'm not the greatest athlete. In college, volleyball footwork took me a while (3 years) to pick up on. I mean, sure I'm tall enough to block over the net, but you gotta get over to the ball to block it. Not my strong suit.

So, we have this competition every year at my gym called March Madness. I thought it was a great idea to sign up for a few years, only to get me and my team's butts whipped. So, this year, I was going to fly under the radar and not sign up. But do you know how hard it is to fly under anything when you're 6'2"? Pretty hard, folks. And lo, JulzHOLLA! and I got suckered invited to be on a team. The point of it is to get your team to try new classes and new exercise programs. It's also an effort to get you to the gym because you don't want to let your team down. And our team was Pittsburgh, so they're not earning any points on the bracket for us, we've got to earn our own now. Great. You get a four-point-shot for your team if you attend a Zumba class. I suggested I'd go to it, but I didn't think my team would actually hold me to it. They did. But I made them promise that if I went to this dance class, they'd have to play basketball or volleyball with me. A court activity is also a four-point-shot.

There's a reason I watch the dance shows. Because I appreciate it. I love music, and I'm a fantastic sitting-in-the-car dancer. But moving my legs AND arms all at once, not my forte. I don't go to any aerobics classes for fear of the step and the whirly-bird or the helicopter. My goal at the gym is to get a workout without the EMT being called. It's a good goal that has worked well for me.

The thing is, by the time I've figured the move out, with just my feet, I've abandoned all arm movement, by the time I get it, they switch it up. It takes me approximately 20 reps to possibly pick up on something. My coach is laughing hysterically now and probably muttering, "A little bit more than 20 reps, Les, dontcha think?" Yes, I do. Fine.

My team captain thought it would be a good idea to go to this Zumba class. And then later we would do a court activity, thus earning a whopping 8 points easily. Fine. I'll take one for the team. Last week, we were supposed to go to Zumba, but then JulzHOLLA!'s baby girl was sick. So, I couldn't go. No, I didn't have to help with baby girl's sick, nor help with any other kids. But it just sounded like a great opportunity to bail, "Oh, I'm sorry she's sick, guess I can't go to Zumba now. Shucks!" Lo, turns out Zumba is every week, and I had no excuse the next week. So, I went with my team captain. It also turns out that team captain could probably teach the class if Zumba instructor couldn't make it. Nice. Zumba class is 60 minutes. That's about 47 minutes too long for me. I hung in there about 13 minutes before the voices in my head started suggesting, "Uh, you realize how long these brain waves have to go to get to your gigantic feet right?" And things like that. It was really bad. Really, y'all.

After class, I tell team captain, "I'm taking you down tomorrow. You pick: volleyball or basketball."

She replies with a sheepish grin, "Oh, did I not mention I'm going out of town?"

"Oh no you did not."

I must have taken a tone because she promised me I could school her like she did me in Zumba when she got back from her "trip". I'm still waiting. Meanwhile, I'm officially retiring from any dancing and adventure for a while. I'm off to vacuum.

That's how I roll.