Looks like I’ll be visiting Maine…

It’s unfair the way life tosses someone into your life, only to remove them later.  I hate that, and it’s happened to me a lot over my lifetime – one of the hazards of living in a transient area I suppose.  No one stays in D.C., except me, and I think I hold the record…twenty-seven years and counting.  I had so hoped to get the hell out of here a long time ago, but the furthest I have ventured to live is my current location of Manassas, and that’s only 30 miles from the D.C. border. Wow, look at me, such an adventurer.

Anyway, one of my dearest friends is wrapping up her move to Maine.  In actuality, she has been up there since last fall, but just recently sold her D.C. condo, so now I guess it’s permanent.  (Insert my bitchy resting face here.) I was hopeful that somehow she would not sell it, thus giving her an excuse to come back here periodically, but alas, my hopes have been stomped on by the D.C. real estate market.  She’s all packed up now, and will be leaving next week.  Am I sad? Yep, although not terribly sad.  I refuse to say goodbye to this awesome woman, and priceless friend.  We’ve only known each other for a few years, but I feel like I’ve known her a lifetime.  I also know that no matter how long it is between conversations, or how many miles between, she will always be there, and vice versa. Why? Because she gets me, and all the neurotic/crazy behavior that goes along with knowing me. Besides, I’m not losing a friend. I am gaining a new vacation spot, and that can’t be all bad.  And I have heard her bragging about the outlets up there. Shopping is a good excuse to visit.

Being a Yankee girl, going to Maine isn’t terribly frightening, although they do talk funny up there.  I know they say wicked a lot. I shall try to incorporate it into my vocabulary so that I am comfortable using it in any situation.  “It’s wicked cold out today” or “That’s some wicked big hair you are wearing tonight” (only she will get that reference) are two fine examples of how I can use “wicked” in my every day vernacular.  I also understand that when someone dies in the winter up there, they have to “keep them on ice” until the spring thaw because they can’t dig holes in the ground to plant someone in the winter (keeping them cold shouldn’t be hard since it’s cold as BALLS up there in the winter.)  Hell, just throw grandpa out on the back porch until the ground defrosts. Therefore, I think it’s best if I only travel during the temperate seasons, in case I croak while visiting. I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I think summer is on a Wednesday in July but I will have to verify that.  Maybe it’s a Thursday, I don’t know. I know it’s not much longer than a week at best.  I shall take lots of snuggly clothes with me just in case the weather turns quickly.  I’m going to see her this weekend before her departure, which will give me the opportunity to remind her that she will no longer need all those fabulous summer designer duds, so she should just leave them with me.  I will take good care of them, and make sure they are worn only in fashionable and appropriate situations.   We wear about the same size, so we might as well make the most of it, eh?  Which leads me my next question. I know they say “eh” a lot in Canada, which is CLOSE to Maine.  Does that mean they also say “eh” like they say “wicked”?  Damn, it’s like learning another language.

So to you, my big-haired fabulous friend, I wish you much love and great happiness back home where you truly belong, although it really doesn’t work for me, but whatever.   I shall love you anyway.  Expect a visitor, and make sure those sheets on my bed are high thread count. You know how high maintenance I am. Not "goodbye" but "see ya later alligator". 

The cruelty of 13 year old girls…

Having a 13 year old daughter is my greatest joy. It is also my greatest heartache on any given day. Maybe because even though I am pushing fifty years old, I can still vividly remember the nauseating angst of middle school. And if I think about it too long, I still get that feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve been lucky with Tricia.  She has suffered much less than many other kids at the hands of a bullying classmate.  But I am mystified that when it does happen, it is often at the hands of someone who purports themselves to be her friend. Why is it girls are so cruel to each other?  Jealousy?  Insecurity?  Ignorance?  A ridiculous need to insert themselves into a situation all for the sake of creating drama? Probably all of the above in some form or another.  I’m not sure where these girls have learned such unspeakable meanness.  I know I have worked tirelessly to make sure Tricia understands the meaning of compassion, and indeed she is one of the kindest, most compassionate kids I know, sometimes to a fault.  That being said, I have also tried to make her understand that being a doormat is not an option, and that as long as she is doing the right thing, standing up for herself is really really important. And she does, much better than I ever did when I was her age.  Hell, I’m pretty sure I had doormat tattooed on my forehead until about 40.  

But today…today was one of those days when I could have put her friend “Dory” through a wall.  She took what was a vulnerable issue with Tricia and viciously turned it on her.  Really?  And she did it over text messages and the phone?  Apparently Dory is a gutless wonder on top of being a drama-filled insecure bitch.  Tricia was hurt, really hurt, and all because this pain in the ass of a 13 year old girl was too uncaring or too stupid to know when to shut the hell up.  I gave Tricia the “ignore her” speech. I told her that this person was not a friend.  But it seemed no matter what I said, the situation still cut like a knife in my daughter’s mind.  Have you ever wanted to grab that other kid by her long freaking blonde hair and scream “You’re such a BITCH!” to her?  Yeah, that’s where I was today.

I wish, for one hot minute, Tricia could see the girl I see…beautiful, intelligent, giving, with an acerbic wit and a sharp tongue when she wants to make her point.  There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think to myself how lucky I am to have such an incredible daughter, in spite of myself.  I know I’m never going to get that coveted “Mother of the Year” award.  In fact, I am constantly amazed she hasn’t landed in therapy by now. But every day, she becomes more and more of a fabulous young woman, and every day I thank God for giving her to me.  

I’ve told her often, these days will pass and in twenty years you won’t even remember this little tyrant’s name.  And for the most part that is true.  It’s such a blessing when we all come into our own and finally realize that the ONLY opinion that matters is our own, and to those who don’t like us, well they can just fuck off.  She’ll get there, probably sooner than most kids. But until then, all I can do is hug her tight and remind her that she is nothing less than wonderful. It comes along with being my daughter.

The Perils of Using a Friend's Prescription Painkillers...

A conversation between one of my closest friends (nameless) and myself…

Me:  Hey, are you there?

Nameless Friend:  Yep

Me:  OMG, my mouth is KILLING me.  I have never had a toothache before.  Ibuprofen isn’t touching it.

Nameless Friend:  You want me to ask  [insert nameless friend’s boyfriend here] if he has any Percocet?

Me:  (DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER!) Would you?

Nameless Friend: Yep

(a few minutes later)

Nameless Friend:  Yep, he has some. How many do you want?

Me:  Three???

Nameless Friend:  They expired last month, is that ok?

(It should be noted they could have expired two years ago, and I still would have taken them.)

Me:  No problem, I will take them. (Mouth throbbing to the point of seeing stars)

Nameless Friend: You want me to drop them off at your house?

Are you freaking kidding me? She delivers?  Hell, she would have made a hell of a drug dealer.  Hell, if I were at home when she arrived, I’d even tip her.

Me:  Oh, if you could that would be awesome!

Twenty minutes later…BAM, the contraband has been delivered.  What I did not realize is that in the twenty minutes, the ibuprofen kicked in.  All 800 milligrams of it.  Splendid.

Fast forward to this morning.  I’m searching the house of more ibuprofen, but apparently it is GONE (I could have sworn we had a huge bottle of it) and I am yet again in agonizing pain.  I think to myself, no worries, I have three handy dandy Percocet, and THAT will take my worries away.  I grab the baggie of illegal prescription drugs, take one out, and pop it in my mouth like a piece of candy. MMMMMMMM…YUMMY. Not really, but I would have eaten dirt if it would have made me feel better.  

Fifteen minutes later…

OH MY GOD I NEED TO SIT DOWN.  By this time, I am sweating, I feel like I am going to pass out, and I cannot put together a sentence.  This can’t be good.  What the hell?  I’ve taken Percocet before, countless times before my back surgery, and it NEVER affected me like this.  Holy hell, suddenly a coma was sounding like sweet relief.  I sat down and waited for the wave of dizziness and nausea to pass.  Then, it dawned on me…that one little word I totally forgot…DOSAGE.  Now let’s think – nameless friend’s hunky boyfriend is about…wait for it…220 lbs.?  He’s about 8’ tall, at least to me, and he certainly is not a human stick figure.  And I am…wait for it…5’3” on a good day and about 135 lbs.?  Yeah, I have just taken what is the equivalent of a horse pill of narcotics.  I panic.  I didn’t really feel like I was dying but I did feel like I was having an out of body experience. I really needed to get to work.  I finished my blueberry smoothie (which was doing nothing for my stomach, by the way) and decided I could make the three miles to the office, which I did, thankfully. Upon my arrival at the office, I quickly sit down to try to make the room stop spinning, and called Nameless Friend to tell her of my “situation.”  She hadn’t thought about dosage either.  Apparently NO ONE had thought about it.  I promptly tell her I have to go because I have to throw up in my office waste can.  Lovely, now my office smells like blueberry scented vomit.  Mother of God, can this day get any worse?  I laid my head on my desk and tried to make the feeling stop. I was unsuccessful. I tried to explain the situation to my boss/friend, but was having issues because of my slurred speech.  Something about blueberries, Percocet.  He, in his usual manner, shook his head and laughed at me.  He has come to expect anything but normal from me.

I did make my 11am dentist appointment (and I am proud to say I have no cavities and not really a reason for all the pain, other than the fact I needed a good cleaning.) Wonderful, I live for deep scale cleanings. By the way Ginger, my hygienist friend from high school, SAVE IT. I know what you are going to say.

I guess the moral of the story is, if you need to “borrow” prescription painkillers from a friend, you might want to cut those babies in half depending on the size.  I wouldn’t recommend going through what I went through to anyone.

That is all. I really just wanted to share my pain.  Thanks for listening!

Pope for a day...SWEET, where do I sign up???

For the record, I know my hair doesn't work with the head gear.

Ok, so the Pope is retiring.  Retiring? Really?  Who do you even write your letter of resignation to, God?  I understand the rigors of the job, the pressure, the daily chore of jamming your feet in those funny pope slippers/elf shoes. It’s got to be hell, but in a good way on some level…because of course you live in the Vatican!  Still, the stress must be exhausting, especially if you’re somewhere between freaking old and ancient.

Honestly though, I wouldn’t mind being Pope for a day. The food must be awesome and you get to have a million minions doing your bidding, not to mention an entire college of cardinals.  Hell, I wouldn’t be writing my own homilies.  That would definitely be their job, since they are a college and all.  You get a cool pope-mobile, your own jet, millions of followers.  I think I just found my dream job. I would have to become Catholic of course. I’m not thinking this will be a problem though.  I hear they are enthusiastically accepting applications.

So when I heard the Pope was retiring yesterday, I have to say I was a bit taken aback.  Yes, you are old. Yes, you may not be in the greatest of health and may walk with a cane, but you are, in fact, the Pope. Can’t you work around these things?  I’m sure they can make all sorts of special accommodations for you, not to mention some really cute nurses to wait on you and give you sponge baths.  Just delegate, my Man, delegate delegate delegate. What are they going to do?  Say no? 

I’m also not sold on his choice of retirement “homes.”  I can guarantee a monastery would not be on the top of my list.  Pretty boring, no?  You work for the Catholic church.  Really, look into some island real estate on the books.  Pick something in a warmer climate, like maybe the Caribbean or Mexico.  Both are demographically Catholic.  Hell, even Florida would be better than a place filled with nuns and monks.  Yes, there is an overwhelming Jewish population in Florida, but they sure know how to live. Find a nice sandy spot on the beach, get some sun, order a nice fruity drink in a coconut.  You can pray and tan at the same time. It’s not difficult. You just need to figure out the whole multi-tasking thing.  As a woman, I do it all the time, and once you get the hang of it, you can get so much more accomplished.

I don’t know, maybe his heart was never really in it.  He never seemed excited to be the Pope, not to mention John Paul was a tough act to follow.  Anyone would have paled in comparison to John Paul’s outstanding papal talents.  He even skied when he was Pope. I can’t remember Pope Benedict skiing one time during his entire tenure.  They’re even fast tracking John Paul to sainthood.  You’re quitting, Pope Benedict.  No gold watch for you. Have you even been there long enough to collect your pension?  Usually it takes ten years to be vested. You’re two years short.

I personally believe I would make an outstanding Pope.  First thing I would do is institute a Friday Happy Hour and wine for everyone.  I’d also change the color of those vestments to something darker so I would look thinner, and the pope shoes would have to go. Perhaps a nice pair of Pope heels (not too high, mind you) and a tiara instead of that giant Pope headpiece.  That would give me a damn headache.  And really, it’s not very attractive. Also, I'd move midnight mass back to, say 8pm, on Christmas Eve.  I don't like mass getting in the way of time with my family and friends, and cocktails.

The possibilities are endless. There would be enough room for all my friends. We could have weekend games of “Angels and Demons” or “The DaVinci Code.”  The location would be ideal for those sort of murder mysteries. However, Mondays would be my day off, no exceptions.  I hate Mondays.  I figure God doesn’t like them much either, or he would have made them more appealing overall.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to submit my resume and references. I’m a natural for the job…snicker…

ME FIRST…THE LINE FORMS TO THE REAR.

I learned a long time ago that to be a better mother, wife, friend, family member, there comes a time when you must finally realize that “putting everyone before yourself” is complete and utter bullshit.

“NO” may be the single most difficult word for any woman to say, no matter what her situation. It doesn’t matter if you are a working mother, a stay at home mom, a single woman, a divorced or single mom, or just married. The ability of society to put unreasonable expectations on us knows no boundaries.  Nothing pisses me off more than society encouraging – no, wrong word – INSISTING that we put ourselves at the end of the line, and put everyone else first. Does the world have a clue how long that fucking list is? I mean, seriously, think about it for one hot moment.  I don’t know about your list, but mine takes up two pages on any given day. And God forbid you actually take a moment for yourself, then there is whole guilt thing to deal with and wrestle into submission.  I’ll be damned if anyone is going to make me feel guilty for being kind to myself. Now THAT is some bullshit right there.

Let me give you a real world example of what I am talking about.  I have a friend. For the sake of anonymity we will call her “Jane.”  Now Jane is a young divorced mom of two very energetic little girls.  She has a good job, a deadbeat ex husband, and a veritable mountain of obligations to others, so there is really no time or energy for her to keep any obligations to herself. She’s trying to get in shape, trying to find some “me” time, and last but not least, trying to maybe find a rewarding relationship with a man along the way. Sound familiar? Anyone??

Her two school-aged daughters, adorable as they are, have taken over her bedroom in the evening, so there isn’t even a quiet moment to read a book, or watch something besides Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel (both of which make me want to stick my head in an oven and turn on the gas.)  Every night they sleep with her (on the professional advice of her daughter’s therapist) so they would feel “safe”, take over her bathroom, insist that her time be given to them completely.  In the end, she was left feeling empty and exhausted. She asked my advice.  Hmmmm…let me think about this for a moment.

Well, you know me, I’m so subtle when it comes to giving my opinion, sort of like an oncoming freight train.  My first thought was “are you fucking kidding me???”  First of all, I am NOT a fan of “co-sleeping” arrangements, and in fact my daughter, now 13, has never slept with me, unless I asked her, generally when Bill is out of town and we are watching tv together in my bedroom. I was not shy to tell Jane that she needed to get her daughters out of her room, and quick, or they would be going to college and still sleeping with her.  Several of us who are older and a bit more experienced (i.e., over 40 years of age) in such things, told her “to hell with the therapist!”  Get them excited about their own bedrooms, even put them in the same bedroom to sleep so they at least have each other.  Make bedtime a routine instead of an argument. And for God’s sake, get them to use their own damn bathroom.  I think she hesitated a little, but in the end she brightened up their own bedrooms, presented the situation in a positive light, and voila!  They are now sleeping in their own bedrooms and leaving toothpaste all over the sink in their own bathroom. Did they pout?  Yep. Did they cry?  You betcha.  But Jane stuck to her guns.  Mission accomplished. GO JANE! Wait until I tell her she now needs to find a babysitter, put that bitch on speed dial, and get out of the house for some “adult time” once in a while.  That one may take a bit more work.

It’s hard to establish boundaries so that at the end of the day you have time for yourself.  My “me” time has always been immensely valuable, and I have never been afraid to take it for myself. To be honest, I’d go bonkers without it.  So many demands from every direction make it nearly impossible, but if we don’t insist that we hold back something for ourselves, then the world will just continue to take and take, until we are popping Xanax like Skittles and hiding in the closet drinking vodka out of a paper bag.  We end up sleep-deprived, unhappy with the world around us, and most of all unhappy with ourselves.  I don’t know about you, but I can’t live like that.  I can’t even think about living like that.

So my advice to you today is take time for yourself, even if it’s an hour at the gym, or a well-deserved pedicure, or hell, if it is just being alone in your bedroom with the door closed doing absolutely nothing at all.  You’ve earned it. I’ve earned it. WE HAVE ALL EARNED IT. You are not being selfish.  Taking time for yourself will make you a better mother and spouse. Trust me on this one.

Battle of the Swimwear

We love to hate it, we dread shopping for it, we are perpetually dissatisfied with the way we look in it.  I’ve always been envious of the women who can rock a bikini with complete and utter abandon.  It’s not an easy thing to do, especially when you are 5’3” and pretty much convinced you have been ten pounds overweight your entire life.  I’ve sort of made peace with the world of swimwear by arming myself with an army of sexy and elegant beach covers and dresses.  They allow for a hint of bikini without revealing the wide selection of stretchmarks that cover my hips, and my less than toned abs. 

Usually, January is not the month in which I stand in front of the mirror torturing myself with thoughts of putting on a bathing suit.  I save that special hell for late February or early March.  But a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, brought the subject to the forefront because she is heading to Florida.  She is a very tall, very athletic looking woman who actually had dropped a profound amount of weight recently, and is still adjusting to the new girl in the mirror.  I think she looks sensational. She still thinks her arms are fat and hates her legs. Today she contemplated putting on a bikini for the first time since losing weight.  I could tell from our conversation that it was not something she was looking forward to doing, and was truly worried about what other people would think.  I told her she looked fabulous, and she does.  I told her that the sexiest part of a woman’s body is her confidence, and it is. I told her if she was really worried, take the coward’s way out and buy a hot beach coverup.  She listened, and tried to believe me. I think we made progress, but you never know what is going through another person’s head.

It dawned on me, I’m really bad at taking my own advice. What a revelation! How many  times have I donned one of my bikinis for a day out on our boat, only  to stand in front of the mirror and beat myself  up for not having the body of Jennifer Anniston.  Every damn time, every damn year.  I spend a small fortune on swimwear only to have it look up at me from its spot in the drawer, taunting me.  If I manage to persuade myself to get into one, I usually stand there and pick apart every little flaw I can find.  My friend would be disappointed at my inability to take my own advice, and she’d probably give me hell for it, because she’s that kind of friend.  It’s true, we are our own worst enemy when it comes to self-deprication and self-loathing.  As I had mentioned in an earlier blog, it is my resolution to stop that self-destructive behaviour and just get on with it in a healthier, happier frame of mind. Now that the whole “swimwear” thing is in my head two months early, I shall look at it as an opportunity get a jump start on not getting thin, but getting healthy – body and mind – and hopefully that will help to change the way I look at myself in the mirror.

So here is my plan of attack.  First off, in the interest of not turning into a brittle-boned, arthritic old woman, I am going to start doing yoga.  Not the full-fledged pretzel version of yoga, since I am the most unbendy person on the planet, but a kinder gentler yoga that will allow me to start slowly and work my way up to more bendy yoga positions.  I’m not going to rush it, or push myself well beyond my limits to the point of needing traction. Believe me, I have done that many times at the gym.  Not fun.

I’m also heading back to the gym after a ridiculously long hiatus of  two years.  The best I’ve ever felt is when I went to the gym five days a week. I looked in the mirror and described myself as “strong” and “toned” and “sexy.” I haven’t done that in forever. Time to get back in the groove and do something positive for me.  But this time, I am not going to put the pressure on myself of being there every day, Monday through Friday.  It stops being fun, and becomes a chore.  I will aim for three days a week.  If I feel like going four days a week, then great, but I will no longer make it mandatory. And since I need constant motivation to keep the groove going, I am going to enlist my friend to go with me, so she can kick me in the ass when I’m too lazy to do it myself.  She already belongs to the gym I plan to join.  That solves part of the problem right there.  It’s also less than two miles from my house. Another problem solved. Wow, I’m on a roll.

So, I stand before you, ready to admit I am not in the best of shape, but ready to do something about it, and not just for the sake of losing weight.  That will be a bonus if it happens.  The name of the game is healthy – mind and body.  

Let’s do it. 

This Woman's Worth...

Sometimes in life, we struggle…sometimes we overcome.  Sometimes we just lay there, floundering, trying to find the balance in life and in all that we do.  Right now, I am floundering.

2013 begins with a lot of uncertainty in Bill’s and my future.  Bill is being laid off from his job of 32 years.  This is a tough one for him – talk about a struggle.  I am more concerned for his well-being than the financial aspect of the situation.  I make an adequate income. We are carefully planning so that by the time his job ends in September we will have nearly all of our short term debt paid off.  When you have a plan, life is a lot less terrifying, at least that has been my experience.  And while it is completely disheartening that his career at his current company is ending, we are thankful that we have been afforded a lot of lead time so that we can make the necessary preparations to weather the storm.  I keep telling him, it is not a setback, it is an adventure into the next chapter of his life.  A positive outlook does wonders.

My inability to find life’s balance comes from inside me.  I’ll be 48 years old next month – just two years away from the big 5 0...wow.  I’m not sure where the first 48 years have gone, but it’s been quite a rollercoaster ride.  I’ve overcome a lot of adversity in the first 48 years, and enjoyed many triumphs. I’ve made mistakes, some of them sizeable.  But I have no regrets. I own my past – good, bad or otherwise. I am the sum of my experiences and all paths to this point have led me to right here, right now.  I love my husband, my daughter, my family and friends, and my career.  I count myself as blessed in so many ways. But at the end of the day, the struggle comes from looking in the mirror and trying to find the guts to really like my physical appearance. And it comes from inside me, not from anyone else. Ok, I know I’m not “homely.” I know I have great hair and pretty green eyes. There are many things about myself that I actually appreciate, maybe even love. Yes, I have been known to dabble in botox, and spend more than my fair share on skincare, but at the end of the day, I don’t look anywhere near my age.  I don’t want to look 20. I just don’t want to look 50, so it’s all good.

In the end, my insecurity (yes, I said insecurity) comes back to the whole “weight thing.” It’s the thing that haunts me, follows me around like some sort of shadow.  It chips away at my self-worth, taunts me at every turn, and ruins my fun at the most inopportune moments - like today.  My prevailing thought when I woke up this morning? It’s a new year, summer is just around the corner, need to start worrying about how I am going to cram my ass in a swimsuit. Did I gain weight over the holidays? Are my jeans a smidge snugger than they were a week ago? Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter? Yep, it does to me.

I look at my scale as some sort of mortal enemy that doles out my torture, one day at a time. Even when my clothes fit the same and the needle hasn’t moved, I worry. If I gain one pound, that will turn into 3 which will turn into 5, then 10, and so on. Going to a restaurant can be just as painful. What did I eat today?  Was it healthy?  Too many calories? Should I order the salmon or the steak that I really want? No, I don’t want any sauce or butter on my entree.   “Would you like dessert?” Are you freaking crazy?  Yes, I want it. No, I’m not having it.  I’ve been having these conversations in my head since high school.  I thought I was fat then. I hated myself.  Now, I look back at those photos and think to myself, “You looked great, what the hell was your problem?”  My problem?  After 30 years, I still look at myself the very same way. I never see thin, only "if I could just lose five more pounds" or "does my ass look big in this outfit?" It’s mentally and emotionally exhausting.  I’ve battled my way through eating disorders on more than one occasion in my life, and it’s still a struggle, much like being a drug addict or an alcoholic.  And with it comes shame, hopelessness, and fear that it will rear its ugly head again.  I’m tired of being afraid.

So here is my resolution for this year. This is the year I am going to find TRUE balance. I am going to stand up to the demon scale and tell it to fuck off. I’m going to “walk the walk” instead of just “talk the talk” to my daughter when it comes to self-worth and being healthy.  I am going to stop comparing myself to every size 2 woman that crosses my path and realize that I look good, REALLY good, for almost 48 years old. (I’m not owning 48 yet, I have 30 days to go before I cross that bridge.)  I am going to concentrate on being healthy, instead of being skinny, and I am going to order the cheesecake once in a while.  While I take on this challenge, I am going to document my progress in my blog, It is not always easy laying your thoughts and emotions out there for people to see, but if it helps someone else who is fighting the same battle, then it is worth it.  I know I’m not the only woman on the planet who struggles with her weight so maybe it will prove to be beneficial to someone else if I share my journey.

Have no fear, I will attempt to throw some humor into the equation, just to keep it fun. And above all, I will try to convey the positive in everything.  With the positive lies hope, and without hope…well, life just sucks, so hope part is important.

I hope you’ll bear with me on my path to a happier, healthier mind and body.  I can’t guarantee the ride will be smooth, but it should be an interesting journey this year.

And so it begins…