Get a LIFE already!

There comes a time in a person's life when you take stock of what you do with your time. When you've been in school and/or training for an extra decade, such as Matthew and I have, you realize you HAVE NO LIFE.

When people ask of you, "what are your hobbies?" and you say, "umm, work?" Then they say, "No, I mean, what do you do in your free time?" and you say, "sleep," you come to realize you are boring. Really. Mind-numbingly. Boring.

It's not like we don't have any free time...okay, I have A LOT of free time now, but just a few months ago I did not; and Matthew has approximately one day per week that he doesn't work from dawn to dusk - Saturday. The point is, what we do in our free time is terribly uninteresting.

We both like to read.

Which reminds me of a scene from one of my favorite movies, "Best in Show"



So anyway, we both love soup and we like to read. We are the exciting couple who go to the bookstore on a weekend and wander off to our preferred sections to select a book, then reunite to come home and sit on the couch together and read. Now we each have a Kindle, so we go to the bookstore, pick out books we think look good, write down the names and go home to buy it through the Kindle. We are party animals.

We also watch a lot of movies (as you may notice, given the frequent references to movies). I am connoisseur of comedy, while Matthew is a fan of action and we both like sci fi (and soup). We go to movies and/or rent movies on a pretty regular basis. This hobby is really only interesting if you appreciate the ability to relate nearly every moment of regular life to a scene or line in a movie. Not an ambi-turner? We've got a movie reference for that.

We also enjoy eating. Not that you would know this by looking at us, but we really enjoy good food. And by good, I don't mean 'plentiful,' I mean tasty. See, also, my sheer joy on day one in Detroit when we had sushi at 10pm. I believe sushi is soul-sustaining, not just in the way that it provides necessary calories for sustaining bodily functions, I mean spiritually sustaining. Maybe one of these days I'll give you a full review of the sumptuous food we have had since moving here. Big cities = many, many restaurants = better chance of really incredible life-changing food.

Case in point: Vietnamese food. Love it. I have what may be considered a clinically significant addiction to Pho, which if you've never had it (and I mean, had it at a REAL Vietnamese restaurant, the kind where you are the only non-Vietnamese person in the whole place), then you haven't LIVED. Pho is typically a beef-broth-based noodle soup with thin slices of beef, spices, Thai basil, bean sprouts and other added yummies for desired spiciness. I am so obsessed with good Pho that I will go to great lengths to find it (I used to drive two hours to Philadelphia for it - Pho in Harrisburg was watered down with poor quality ingredients; Pho in Portland is best at the restaurants you're not sure could pass the health inspection).

Let me show you what my heaven looks like.


Yes, I actually took a picture of my Pho and the avocado milkshake (seriously, it's really good, I promise...and somewhere around 7,000 calories, but every now and then it's worth it for the extra 75 miles I would have to run to burn that off) from my new favorite restaurant. And guess what? It is ONE mile from my house and that bowl of deliciosity (making up new words) is only SIX DOLLARS! Yes. $6.

(okay, I'm going to have to take a break mid-post and go get some Pho for lunch. Clinically significant addiction is not an understatement people...I'm jonesin')

******************************************
And I'm back. And, yes, I really did go get me some $6 Pho and an avocado milkshake and can now bask in the post-Pho glow (I am, in fact, "Pho-drunk" as my friend Lauren used to call it).

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was explaining that we don't have 'hobbies,' so to speak. When you move to a new place and meet people (or are interviewing for jobs, which I hope to be soon) they tend to ask: do you have any hobbies? What they're really asking is: Are you interesting in any way?

Answer: No. Categorically, no.

The most interesting thing I do is CrossFit, a strength and conditioning program used by military/law enforcement/tactical operations teams/martial artists and other athletes. But, honestly, unless you're into fitness, exercise and weight lifting yourself, you're not going to be interested in my one rep max snatch or clean and jerk, let alone what my "Murph" time is (very long, it took me an hour the last time and I don't even wear a weighted vest). When I try to explain it to people I can tell how well-versed they are in exercise just by the glazed look that comes over their face.

I find it more instructive to have someone try one of the benchmark workouts, like "Angie" (some workouts are named after original Crossfitters, like Angie, and some are named after fallen soldiers or law enforcement, like Murph). Angie is 100 pull ups, 100 push ups, 100 sit ups, 100 squats in a row, no breaks, as fast as you can (i.e. "for time"). Try it, you'll understand CrossFit.

Unfortunately, if I'm in a job interview I can't exactly say, "well, I do this strength and endurance training program, it's hard to really explain it, so let's just do this workout called Linda, or '3 bars of death' - we'll just be doing 10 deadlifts at 1.5x's your body weight, 10 bench presses of your body weight, and 10 cleans of 3/4 of your body weight...then we'll do 9 reps of each, then 8 of each, then 7 of each, then 6 of each, then 5 of each and so on until we get to 1 rep of each. And we're going to do it as fast as we can without resting between sets. You might want to take off your high heels and your pantyhose for this."

See, your eyes just glazed over READING that, imagine how boring it is talking about. Unless that person is also a CrossFitter or a masochist, then there could be some common ground to work with. Even Matthew gets his fill of CrossFit (it makes him nauseous and sometimes throw up, which might be the reason) and refuses to do anything but run, which I personally find horrific.

Here is a fun video of an incredibly fit guy doing "Angie" - Click here.

I love how the dog keeps coming up do him and checking him out, like, 'what is wrong with my hoomin? He acting very weird?...Hoomin? Are you okay?" Then, gets bored and lays down next to him. If I lay on the floor to stretch or do crunches Bandit climbs on top of my chest and lays down. Once I held on to him and did a couple sit ups (I figured it would be a little extra weight to make it harder), but that pissed him off and he rolled and tried to lick my face the rest of the time.

What else do we do in our spare time? Umm. I cook, indulge my OCD with deep cleaning, dabble in health foods and supplements (see, also, Chia Seeds)...

Matthew is in even worse shape than me. With more work, longer hours, more years of residency the sum total of his hobbies include "used too's." As in, he used to be a competitive kick boxer (as in, real fights, not like the classes my mom and I used to take when she kicked that guy next to her because she was going the wrong way), he used to run, he used to downhill ski, he used to water ski and wakeboard... okay, we both did that recently on our trip home to see the family, but once a year is hard to call a hobby.



But now he has time for an occasional hour of pleasure reading or trolling the internet for interesting stuff, which is what led him to our new hobby. And, I might add, our first 'Couples Hobby.'

We're brewing our own beer.

Stay tuned for more Adventures in Brewing with the Budges

Michigan - Not an ambi-turner

Have you seen the movie Zoolander? No? Well, let me introduce the following scene from the movie:

Derek Zoolander(Ben Stiller) is a male supermodel who has been challenged to a "walk-off" (competitive runway walking...don't ask, I don't know either) by his rival, an up-and-coming male supermodel Hansel (Owen Wilson). Here they are in the walk-off ---



Immediately after this scene Zoolander is talking to a reporter, Matilda (Christine Taylor, also Ben Stiller's wife in real life, FYI) and explains that the walk-off didn't have to be so sophisticated. All Hansel would have had to do is turn left.

Apparently, Derek Zoolander cannot turn left on a runway. As he explains,

"I'm not an ambi-turner"

Well, let me tell you something: Michigan is not an ambi-turner. You cannot turn left onto many of these roads.

How the hell does that work? That was my question when we first came out to visit, but I'm getting the hang of it now and, if I may say so, it's actually quite brilliant.

Woodward Avenue, also known as US-Hwy 1 and the first paved road in America (see, you're learning things from this blog!), is a busy road that runs diagonally out of downtown Detroit northwest to Automation Alley, now known as broken down empty buildings and burned out factories. You cannot turn left off of Woodward onto another road.

No left turn lanes.

But I don't want to mislead you, you are allowed to turn left here. It's not like they removed the left turn signal from my car when I registered here (and yes, I did get Michigan plates, I managed to live in PA for two years without switching out of my Oregon plates, but I had to break down and embrace the Michigan department of transportation - which is actually the "secretary of state" office here...learning learning learning!).

Instead of turning left directly onto the street of your choice, you have to go straight through that light and immediately after there is a switch-back cut into the median. Or, you turn RIGHT on the the street you actually want to turn left onto, and you take one of those switch-backs to go the direction your want. Seriously.

So you get to make U-turns. Legally. Frequently. (This is difficult for me to describe in writing, so I may force Matthew to drive while I video the process because I know how interesting this is to you all).

Anyway, I think this is just about perfect for me because I am ALWAYS going to wrong direction and frequently have to turn around. It's like they built these roads just for me. Not only are they set up with built-in U-turns, but they are laid out in a grid - roads go either North/South or East/West (except Woodward, which goes kind of diagonally, but I can handle one wonky road). And they have easy to understand names like "13 Mile Road" (the road we live on) which is exactly one mile south of "14 Mile Road" (ho ho! Clever!) and one mile north of...wait for it...yes, "12 Mile Road."

I don't even have to use my GPS here, which is good, because I used to plug it in, program the address and promptly ignore it. The GPS would say "take a left at the next light" and I would be, like, "nah, that can't be right." As it turns out, the GPS was pretty much always (okay, always) right and I was wrong, so I still did a lot of turning around and back tracking (all while the GPS is screaming "MAKE A LEGAL U-TURN").

So Michigan isn't exactly an ambi-turner, but it's is a u-turner, which is even better.

I think we have a problem...

This is a familiar tableau at my house. This is my dog with his face stuffed in the wine tower. I don't know what the deal is, this thing was in our house in Portland - he ignored it - and the townhouse in Harrisburg - he ignored it - and now that it's here in Detroit? Well, let's just say I think he has developed a problem.

As far as I know, Bandit hasn't had a lot of alcohol in his life (he's only 10, that's way too young to be drinking). I've caught him licking the top of a beer bottle, but he was pretty uninterested once he got a taste. Wine doesn't seem to hold any attraction, but he does enjoy an aperitif or after-dinner drink, specifically, Bailey's Irish Cream Liqueur (thanks to Matthew "giving him a taste" of mine when I got up to use the bathroom).

But this is getting ridiculous. The other day I caught him with his paw in one of the cubby-holes trying to pull out a bottle of vodka. At first I thought maybe he had gotten a toy stuck in there, since that's what he does when one rolls under the couch, but, no, nothing but vodka. Now I'll hear him whining and find him with his face stuffed in the slot that holds the scotch. Seriously?

While we love Detroit, it has driven the dog to drink.

Some thoughts...

1) Bacon is a very strong odor. If you cook bacon when your house smells like curry, it does not replace the smell with bacon. It makes your house smell like curry-bacon. This is gross.

2) I think that I would like to conduct my meetings, workshops and/or classes with a full gospel choir backing me up. It occurs to me that, anything you say with a gospel choir backing you up, sounds much more authoritative.

That is all.

Olfactory Girl

If I was a superhero my super-power would be a preternatural sense of smell.

Why would I choose to have a superior ability to detect odors? PLEASE people, I would never choose that on purpose, I'd rather fly or have X-ray vision so I could see exactly how much cash my husband actually has in his wallet before I ask him for some (plus, I'd hone my craft so I could see how much every pair of shoes at Nordstrom costs without having to pick each one up until I find the pair that won't rival my school-loan debt).

But, if you know anything about superheros, you know that they don't get to choose their super-power, it is 'gifted' to them by some cosmic power or freak accident. Well, I don't know if it's a cosmic power, freak accident, or horrible genetic mutation, but my sniffer is both large and in charge. I seem to have an above-average olfactory capacity (hmm, maybe I can fly, too? I'll check that one out later).

Having a super-sensitive sense of smell can be used for good (fresh baked bread) or evil (Matthew's GI system post pepperoni), but it cannot be tamed. I am constantly saying, "do you smell that?" to which Matthew is frequently saying, "it wasn't me!" But it isn't just poo that I smell, I smell EVERYTHING like it has been crammed up my nose.

It doesn't necessarily bother me, I mean, I not one of those people who can't stand when other people are wearing cologne or perfume (I don't wear it because I am lazy and that would be an additional step to complete when getting dressed and frankly, just wearing matching socks can feel like a burden sometimes). I love the smell of flowers, especially the really fragrant ones like stargazer lilies, and fresh-cut grass is yummy.

I like seasonal smells: Fall mornings in Oregon, around 7am when it's cool and crisp and it smells like I should be wearing new school clothes; Winter snow fall in the mountains by our cabin smells clean and damp and makes me want hot-chocolate with mini marshmallows; in the spring, after it rains and the sun comes out and warms the pavement and every Portlander puts on their sneakers for a jog, or a bike ride, or to walk the dogs or just to be outside in the sun and smile at their neighbors; and summer in Central/Eastern Oregon or Couer d'Alene, ID smells like warm pine cones and sap and dry brush and I feel like I should be basking in the sun trying to catch chipmunks with my brother.

There are smells that aren't good, per se, but are necessary: like when someone is getting sick and their breath smells different. When Bandit isn't feeling well or he's stressed out he smells different. Not bad, just a different dog smell than his normal dog smell. (Matthew swears I'm imagining this, but I can smell it and if I'm having olfactory hallucinations, that's a sign of a brain tumor, not schizophrenia, so he shouldn't be making fun of me, what kind of doctor is he anyway?! Sheesh.)

But I am having some issues lately with my superpower. First, it was Halibut.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I bought, like, two pounds of Halibut at the store (it was on special) and I got it home, opened the paper and thought, 'uh oh, that's smellier than it should be.' Clearly my fish wasn't as fresh as they were advertising AND there was way too much there for the two of us to eat before it went totally south, so I decided to freeze part of it. This is easier than it sounds.

According to the internet (the source of all reputable information) it is best to 'glaze' the fish before wrapping it. This involves dipping the fish in really cold water, then setting it in the freezer on wax paper until that layer freezes and repeating the dip, freeze, dip, freeze, until you have a coating of ice around the fish. Then you can put it in a freezer bag or some other container for longer-term storage.

Well, let me tell you what this process did? It made my fridge smell like fish...and my freezer...and my whole damn house. I did everything I know to do to prevent and/or correct this: I took the trash out immediately, I put fresh boxes of baking soda in both the fridge and freezer, and I bleached the hell out of the kitchen surfaces and eventually every inch of the freezer (bleach freezes quickly, just so you know...I recommend NOT spraying it directly into the freezer, lesson learned). After a few days with the windows open and about a gallon of bleach I was able to walk in the front door without saying "ugh, it smells like a sick vagina in here."

Halibut smell = vanquished.

But I may have met my match: Curry.

Oh how we love curry, but DAMN that is some smelly spice! Not only does it infect your home, it starts coming out of your pores after a few days. It all started when I made the mistake of taking Matthew to Trader Joe's.



First of all, taking him grocery shopping is like taking a young child to the store, minus the tantrums (he doesn't read this blog, he has no idea that I'm tell you all this). Every time I turn around he has added something to the cart and that 'something' is ALWAYS junk food (chips, cookies, those "pepperoni" sticks that are really just ground-up assholes and udders). Let me be clear here, that I am not opposed to junk food. We always have a few treats around the house, generally we don't eat junk unless it's homemade (i.e. no Hostess cupcakes or Tasty Cakes or Twinkies, etc - although Oreos and ice cream are allowed because I don't make those). My reasons for this rule are several: a) less processed gunk and preservatives; b) I think they taste better; c) I don't feel compelled to make tons of junk food, but it's very easy to buy tons of junk food, making it too accessible.

But the primary reason: it is a complete waste because we don't eat it all before it goes bad. For example, I made chocolate chip cookie dough a week ago. Notice I say "dough" not cookies, because Matthew only wants to eat the dough, not cookies (it's like salmonella roulette). I prefer my cookies fresh, so if I really want a cookie, I have to preheat the oven, bake them and wait for them to cool enough so that they don't remove a layer of flesh from my mouth. When it's all said and done, it takes about half an hour and by then the urge has passed and I leave the four fresh cookies on the counter. Sometimes I'll eat one, say, with breakfast (yummiest with coffee, but not so much with eggs), but usually they go stale and I throw them out.

A week later, half that cookie dough is left because we haven't eaten it. And we're not going to. (But I'm making dark chocolate cupcakes with dark chocolate frosting next, so I feel okay about being done with cookies for a while).

But I digress, where were we? Oh yes, at Trader Joe's. So Matthew isn't just a cart-stuffer with junk food, he is a pretty equal-opportunity impulse buyer. So when I see him heading toward the frozen food isle (back away from the dinners in a box that you will never eat!) I redirected him to the meats where he picked up the Trader Joe's Curry Chicken Tenders. Basically, they're just chicken marinating in curry and they were FAB.U.LOUS.

The morning after Curry Chicken Tenders the whole house smelled like curry and it was clear it was not a situation that could be remedied with bleach (I'd already tried). Plus, there were leftovers to fashion into a second meal that wasn't exactly like the first meal. Day two of Curry Chicken Tenders became Curried Coconut Chicken and, effectively, a curry-fogging of the entire apartment.



If curry was a pesticide there wouldn't be a living bug within these walls...EVERYTHING SMELLS LIKE CURRY!

Windows open - not working
Bleach - not working (smells like curry-bleach)
Baking soda - not working

Is it possible?

Is curry my kryptonite?

From the vault

We are completely settled into our digs here in DetroitRockCity (I refuse to call it anything else) and I'm reminded of The Big Move across the country just a few years ago. I shipped all my stuff out in a pod months before I moved so that, by the time the school year ended at Reed and I said goodbye to my family, friends, beloved mentors, colleagues and clients, we were able to load up my car and head out.

My mom, Bandit and I set out in the early morning in my little car to drive across the country. We had a borrowed GPS (took us 45 minutes to figure out how to turn it on) and a brand new video camera that we intended to use for our "vlog" (video blog)...except that we could barely figure out how to record, let alone download the videos and upload them to a blog. Back then, we blogged old-school (in writing), but just today I ran across the videos we took.

Hilarious. At least, I think they are. The rest of you, dear readers...well, don't judge us too harshly. We were in a car for 12-14 hours a day for 4 days with nothing to amuse us but our own somewhat ridiculous sense of humor.

Pulling out of the driveway: that is my brother you hear in the background saying "this is already funny, they can't even get out of the driveway. (Hey Ben, you're on video, I CAN HEAR YOU! I'm gonna freeze all your underwear at Christmas, FYI. )



This one is of us turning left...seriously... we had been in the car for two full days by then. You'll also notice we're really mastering the "time zone" system. And seriously, who is really hoping to "end up in Lincoln, Nebraska?"



Here we are in Chicago. At a toll booth. Actually, we had a valid reason for videoing this part because, as you'll hear, it was my mom's first time at a toll booth (we don't have toll roads in Oregon).



The moment of truth...(sorry, it gets a little "Blair Witch Project" in this one - might want to take a Dramamine if you get motion sickness)



Needless to say, there are a lot of pictures of us at gas stations:

(Eastern Oregon - can't pump your own gas in Oregon)








because that's all we did. Drive, gas up, drive, eat, sleep, drive some more.

Now that I think about it, the move to Michigan was WAY easier.

No Loud Grunting

What is the definition of "loud grunting?"

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I ask this incredibly important question because we joined a new gym here and they have some very specific rules, some are clear and make perfect sense, such as:

Re-rack all weights and equipment.

This was also a rule at Gold's, where I previously spend most of my free time. Unfortunately, quite a few people felt that putting away their toys at the end of their workout was 'beneath them' or something, because it was not infrequent that I would sidle up to a bench station and find three or four 45lb plates...on each side. Just pulling those off and putting them away was a workout. It got so bad that they put up signs every 18" on the walls and mirrors saying "MEMBERS WHO DO NOT PUT AWAY THEIR WEIGHTS WILL LOSE THEIR MEMBERSHIPS IMMEDIATELY" (except that it was mis-spelled "immeadetely" which drove me to distraction...until I brought a sharpie and corrected them).

New Gym also requires:

(Appropriate) Gym attire only: no jeans, cut-offs, zippers, buttons, boots or sandals - gym shoes only.

This was also (supposedly) a rule at Gold's, but again, not enforced. One of my gym friends, a particularly enormous man named Louis, consistently wore jeans and heavy construction boots to his nightly workout. JEANS. Can you imagine anything more uncomfortable during exercise? The chafing alone would send me to the nut house. However, Louis had pecs the size of my entire torso, so I believe he is in the weight category of "I'll wear whatever the f*** I want." Light to Welter weights, such as myself, follow those "appropriate dress" rules to the letter.

[Also unappreciated is the gym-goer (male) who does not feel the need to wear tighty-whities/boxer briefs and then wears shorts. It is a given, my friend, that we will see your junk when you do squats. Keep the hairy beanbag to yourself.]

There are some rules at new Gym that I find difficult:

No jumping rope in the gym.

Seriously? NONE? Don't get me wrong, I don't really love jumping rope because it's hard, both cardiovascular-wise, but also in terms of demand for coordination (lacking in the latter). But sometimes the Workout of the Day calls for jumping rope, or worse, double-unders (the rope goes under your feet twice with each jump) and if I'm going to do it, I have to go outside and jump on the sidewalk. Next to the nail salon and the Indian food restaurant.

(Jump) Can I (jump) have a (jump) bite of (jump) your naan? (jump)

Do you know what is not a rule?

Steroid use.

I mean, technically it wasn't a rule at Gold's either, but it tends to be frowned upon by the legal community. Case in point, a couple of my workout buddies during my first six to nine months at Gold's were no longer my workout buddies thereafter cuz they went to jail. I think the kicker for them was importing steroids across international lines. And selling them. And injecting people right there in the gym bathroom. But they never, ever talked about them openly and they all tried to hide what they were doing (though it was pretty obvious to look at them).

Anyhoo, juicing is not a problem here. How do I know this?

A) These people are E.NOR.MOUS. I have never seen anything like it, even my old juicers didn't look like these guys on Vitamin S. Matthew and I look downright Lilliputian next to them.

B) They talk about it! Rather openly, I might add. I was standing next to Gargantuan Man with Bacne (see also: acne on the back) who was telling his friend he had placed in a body building competition (clearly not one for naturals) who said, "they should really tell you in private that you've won, not on stage, I mean, jeez, my estrogen was really high!" (meaning: he cried...that would be totally worth seeing). I repeated this to Matthew, just for confirmation that, yes, that is one of the side effects of steroid use. That, bacne and shrinky-dink testicles, I believe top the list for men.

So steroids are okay, but jump ropes are not. Got it...kind of.

But this rule is the one that confuses me:

No yelling, loud grunting, or profanity.

I mean, I understand what yelling is and anyone reading this blog is well aware of my prodigious use of profanity, but what exactly constitutes loud grunting?

Again, at Gold's I became acquainted with the concept of excessively loud grunting. Another group of my dear gym friends were obnoxious screamers "GET SOME GET SOME" "YOU GOT IT" "HIT THAT" "AAARRGGGHHHHHHHHHH" - So loud that you could hear them from the far side of the gym the minute you walked in the front door. That is certainly loud, but what about a little "ungh?" Is that so bad? Maybe so, because nobody grunts at this gym.

Well, except me.

The thing is, I worked hard on my grunt. Originally, when I couldn't even bench press the bar (that's 45lbs, for those who are unacquainted) I would squeak. Well, Matthew said it actually sounded a little more "sexual," if you will, rather than a squeak and he implored me to clean it up. Either I learned to grunt like a man (or at least not like a porn star) or I was no longer allowed to lift weights. At all.

I believe his quote was: That sound is like a mating call for every meat head in this gym. They hear that and they're like prairie dogs looking for prey.

And damn it all if he wasn't right: their heads would pop up over the machines and bars and weight racks and swivel like they were plopped on a lazy susan.

So I learned to grunt...like a man. And, yes, there really is a place for grunting when you lift weights heavier than a 10-year-old can manage. It forces you to breath out, rather than holding your breath and causing the capillaries in your eyes to burst (did that, once). I'm particularly grunty when doing cleans and/or clean and jerk and/or should presses. Above the head is a grunty zone, laying down I'm still a little squeaky. but improved.

A couple weeks ago I made my first attempt at benching 95lbs (that is 75% of my body weight I'll have you know and that's a lot for a Lilliputian) and I grunted. So sue me.

No one else seemed to notice, there were no prairie dogs, but Matthew said "SHHH! You're the only one grunting! No grunting!"

Pshh! They said no LOUD grunting and I am definitely not loud. And I didn't even swear, which is really good for me!

The next weekend, this other non-Roid guy, about Matthew's size, was benching and he was grunting really loud. Not loud like my old friends at Gold's, but definitely louder than me. So I peeked and he was doing very little weight. I mean, he was doing what Matthew does to warm up. Granted, he was lifting more than me, but seriously, I'm a girl.

There was a prairie dog effect (though it's starting to resemble Whack-a-Mole to me, heads popping up and dropping, where's a padded mallet when you need one?) and I felt a little sorry for the guy. I mean, some of us are little and we have just as much right to grunt as a juicer, right? And the best news is, even though he grunted VERY loud at every station on every rep of every set (doing the same weights I use), no one said a word to him about toning it down. Guess what that means?

Green light to grunts-ville.

GET SOME! HIT THAT HIT THAT! AAAAARRRRGGGHHHHH!

Oh, we're going to play THAT game again, are we?

Matthew and I play a little game with the laundry that I like to call "What did I hide in the pocket of my scrubs?" I don't know if Matthew realizes he is playing this game, but I'd like him to know that he is winning.

This is how the game is played: Matthew wears scrubs to work each day and fills his pockets, intentionally and unintentionally (I'll explain that later), with little "treasures," shall we say. The tricky part about scrubs is that they are reversible, meaning you can wear them inside-out so they have pockets in both the outside AND the inside of the pants and shirt. This means he has four pockets to hide goodies in that I have to find BEFORE they go into the wash.

Every morning the breast pocket gets filled with a list of the patients on his service, a pen, sometimes a little quick-reference book about fractures, and other odds and ends. The butt-pocket on the pants might get more lists, but it always gets a couple of tissues.

Kleenex is the enemy of laundry.

I think Kleenex actually procreates while in his pocket, because, as the day wears on, a tissue can be found in the breast pocket and the INTERIOR pants pocket (how does he do that?...more importantly, why? Then you have to sit on your snot). Later some coins might be added and other various workday flotsam and jetsam...but always the tissues.

My job is to play hide-and-seek with all these tidbits and remove them before they enter the washing machine because, once they're in, the damage is done. So I rummage around and find all these things and sometimes the unintentional gift of blood and human tissue.

Usually this is dried up by the time I get to it, but the real point is that I am a) touching the innards of another human being, which is not something I endeavor to do, on purpose, ever and b) how in the HELL does that get into a pocket? When I ask how this could possibly happen I get upsetting answers such as:

"Sometimes it squirts" (usually accompanied by a hand motion insinuating that a femur is actually a geyser)

or

"Things are flying around in there" (meaning when you're working away on someone's bone the chips get to roaming).

or, my favorite,

"If that's the worst that gets on me in a day, that's a good day" (well that is PLENTY of bio-hazardous material for me, thank you very much, and I'll leave out the story of when Jodi, another orthopaedic surgeon, found maggots on a patient).

But, really, how does this happen? He is wearing his scrubs in the OR, yes, but on top of the scrubs he wears Lead. Lead is a canvas apron encasing a lead plate, like a really long bulletproof vest (except that I don't think the bone chunks are moving at that velocity) that is both heavy and very hot to wear (which is why they keep the OR really, really cold...like my basement in Harrisburg). On top of the Lead is another smock, plus two pairs of gloves (I think, surgeons reading this, correct me if I'm wrong), booties for the feet, a cap and mask. Now he's also wearing a helmet, yes a helmet, that holds a big plastic face-shield (and I'm not kidding you, that helmet is hilarious...it is huge and it has a FAN in it - again, because it's so hot under all that- but seriously, it looks like a big ole' bike helmet with a bunch of plastic straps). The whole get-up is like riot gear for the operating room. So you tell me, how does blood get through all that and into a pocket?

Well, the bio-hazards have made me a little gun-shy when it comes to cleaning out pockets, but that's not really the issue here.

The issue is the tissue.

Somehow there is ALWAYS a tissue that makes its way into the wash and then I'm screwed. I open up that lid and all the wet laundry is covered in wet tissue shreds. Grrrr. Which means once it's dry, the laundry is covered in dry tissue snow that gets all over the house. Which means I could vacuum the entire house every time I do a load of laundry.

Thus, I think Kleenex is actually a hermaphroditic alien species taking over the world one load of laundry at a time.

The end.

Phase III: Unpacking and settling in

Our first night in our new place was wonderful. I can't believe how quiet this apartment complex is at night (well, all the time, for that matter). Yesterday the girls at the office told me they are completely full with a waiting list, so I know people live here...maybe they're all mute.

The air-conditioning in this place is super-powered. I was a little concerned, being on the third floor, that it would be difficult to keep the place cool enough to survive. This is primarily based on our experience at the townhouse in Harrisburg. The top floor, with the bedrooms, was never cool enough during the summer. We could have set the thermostat to 45 degrees and still have been sweating through the night.

The basement was like a meat locker and actually uncomfortably cold. When we staged the house for sale we moved the TV to the basement, which really cut down on the television viewing. Somehow the act of walking down 9 steps seemed like way too much effort to watch crappy sitcoms, so the only time we watched TV was Biggest Loser night (Tuesdays, 8pm - but we're between seasons now, I think the new one starts in Sept?). On Biggest Loser Night we would bundle up in sweatpants and sweatshirts AND wrap up in a blanket just to survive the arctic temperatures.

The main floor was perfect, of course, since that's where the thermostat is located. So basically, we lived in the Goldilocks House: This floor is too cold, this floor is too hot, this one is juuuust right.

Anyway, so this place is perfect - it's a bit of a delicate balance, though, because we've had a few Michigan Winters in the middle of the summer if it gets turned down too far. So we felt quite lovely the first morning we woke up in Michigan...except for The Plague.

The Plague was still draining Matthew's functional capacity, but I was feeling okay (it didn't really hit me until the next day). I like to believe that I have a super-human immune system. I think it's the Chia seeds. So if I feel crappy one day I am certain that it will only be one day, by the next day I'll be on my feet. I think this is borne out of my experience when I was in my teens and early to mid 20s. However, this is now a delusion because things have changed since I turned 30.

And on that note: What the hell is that about, anyway? It's like a switch flips at age 30. Gone are the days of having a few drinks and staying up late on a Friday night and getting up Saturday morning like nothing happened. Now I have one drink, fall asleep in my chair/on the couch by 9pm, wake up feeling like I had 14 drinks and need a nap after breakfast.

Gone are the days when I could remember everything I had to do in a day without writing it down or remember everything about a client's history and relationships the minute they sat down. Now I'm lucky if I remember a quarter of my to do's and I find myself thinking "damn, what was her husband's name again?" 3/4 of the way through a session.

But I digress.

The movers arrived at noon (actually, a little before noon) despite the fact I had given them the wrong address (oops) and didn't even seem slightly concerned when we pulled the 26' truck around. True professionals. They did seem a little relieved when we opened the door and it was only half full. Unfortunately, it was RIDICULOUSLY warm AND humid that day. And they had to haul everything up three flights of stairs.

Again: hiring movers = best decision ever.

Now here's an interesting thing I learned in this process, and I would be curious to hear from my readership who are of the male persuasion on this: Matthew felt guilty about the movers doing all the work. So guilty, in fact, that he had to LEAVE the house.

I noticed this the day before, too. When the movers were there, he went to Subway to get lunch. This seemed kind of strange to me, especially since there were a few special instructions he was to give them, such as 'don't pack those things.' There were some items (e.g. garden hose and reel, some large shelving in the garage, flower pots) that we planned to leave at the house and some other items (mattress, vacuum) that we planned to use and would pack ourselves.

This is why, when the movers in Michigan hauled up the garden hose and asked me where to put it, I was like, WHAT IS THAT DOING HERE? What am I going to do with a garden hose in a third floor apartment with no spigot? Oi...

Anyway, just as they arrive, Matt says: I gotta go
Me: well go, they can just put the boxes outside the door.
Matt: what are you talking about?
Me: you can use the bathroom, they can just leave the boxes out here.
Matt: No, I mean, I feel bad that I'm not helping.
Me: Why? You're sick, you should be sleeping. Besides, this is why we hired them.

This fascinates me. I can intellectually understand how it is sort of un-manly to watch others labor at carrying your own stuff when you are an able-bodied strong man, but we're paying them to do that. Am I wrong? Apparently I am, because Matthew explained that, even though we're paying them to do that, it makes him a "puss-bag" (I believe this a cross between "pussy" and "douche bag") not to be out there sweating it out and doing manual labor.

Sometimes it is really great to be a woman, you know? Particularly when it is HOT and HUMID and you live on the third floor. The thing about being a woman is, I don't have to constantly 'prove' my femininity. I am a 'girl,' even when I'm wearing grubby clothes and no make-up and it's not really a 'threat to my femininity.' If I feel the need to be more 'feminine' I just put on a dress. It's pretty simple.

Being a man requires constant monitoring of masculinity, though I think the importance of this fades with age (or it does for some men, not all). Masculinity has to be 'proven' regularly and can be taken away with a simple omission of manliness or commission of puss-bag-ness. It seems exhausting, y'all should just have a sexual-revolution and move on.

Well, I don't really care if Matthew is a puss-bag, so I sent him to Starbucks to get me some coffee and food. When he got back, I put him to work arranging and re-assembling the furniture while I told the movers where to put items. Telling people what to do and where to go is a role I feel quite comfortable with :)

Do you think the movers even noticed or cared? I was really convinced that they could care less that he wasn't hauling stuff, since it's their job and all, but I may be wrong because as the two-hour window we had the movers for was drawing to a close I realized they were not done. Not even close. Well, I'll be damned if, after all that, Matt and I were going to have to haul the heavy furniture up by ourselves. So I followed them down to the truck and headed for the boxes.

First, they freaked out a little. "Oh no, that's really heavy, why don't you take this?"

It was a fricking laundry basket.

An empty laundry basket.

Be-still my heart, I might collapse from the vapors under the burden of that weight. Again, my femininity, thus weakness and incompetence, is automatically assumed, which invariably has the effect of pissing me off. So I grabbed a big ole' box of BOOKS. (Proving my masculinity of course.)

Holy GOD, who packs a large box with BOOKS? Don't you know that's what the small boxes are for, they even say "recommended for Books" on the side. I'll tell you who: my husband. Well god bless him, because I hauled that box of books up those stairs the whole way thinking a) I will kill you for this and b) this is just like being at the gym, just one more rep...I mean, step. It was HOT in that stairwell and by the time I got in the door and Matthew walked up and said, "oh my god, what are you doing? give me that," I was done with being manly.

Now, however, Matt had to help with the unloading because I was being more manly than him, so we both made a bunch more trips, up and down, up and down. Toward the end I commented how unbearably hot it was in the back of our mobile sauna/moving semi and one of the guys said, "at least you notice, some people never even walk into the truck and then they get mad when we sweat on their stuff."

Can you imagine? It was literally90 degrees and 80% humidity and they were going up and down three flights of stairs...

"Don't you touch that table with your sweaty hands! I'm going to need you to put towels between yourself and my belongings so you don't contaminate them."

Even I'm not that OCD.

Phase II: departure and travel

Thursday morning, moving day, dawned bright and sunny. We got up, quickly and efficiently packed our bags in the Uhaul, loaded the dog in the car and hit the road earlier than expected. There was little traffic, no construction and we only stopped once for gas and food. The weather forecast called for mostly sunny skies with a chance of rain late evening at our destination, but we arrived to sunny skies with a few gossamer clouds lazily drifting across the glittering city-scape. We were met at the front door by our Leasing Consultant, who let us into our new home, which was pristine, as though no one had ever lived there before, and wonderfully cool, despite the heat outside. Our first night in our new home consisted of a delightful picnic on the floor of our living room of Chinese take-out and a fresh bottle of wine, then we retired to sleep through the night on a light mattress in the bedroom.

WRONG.

That is not how the day went. At. All.

Thursday morning we got up early and started hauling the last few things out to the Uhaul. When I got home the night before the movers had packed everything but our suitcases, the mattress and cleaning supplies. I had spent the night before cleaning every inch of the house and it was pretty close to SPOTLESS (which totally appeals to my OCD - cleaning a house with nothing in it is so much easier, you don't have to move any furniture or knickknacks or toothbrushes, etc, so you can see every clean inch...love it love it love it. I love it so much, I now have fantasies of living in a home with absolutely nothing in it so I can clean and clean and clean...but that's a little crazy, so we won't talk about that anymore).

It was HOTTT in PA the day we were leaving, so when we rolled open the door to the semi-truck it was like getting into our very own mobile sauna...except that it smells like cardboard and metal and minor domestic violence. Loading the last few bags into the truck was easy, it just took a little longer than expected (like everything does) and then we had to embark on the complicated series of actions to get all trucks, trailers and cars ready to go.

Trip one: Matthew drives the Uhaul semi truck back to Uhaul on Allentown, I follow in his truck. At the Uhaul location they will hook up the trailer that will hold my car, while I'm waiting for them to find our trailer (yeah, because we didn't take it the day before when we picked up the semi - because it would be much harder to load the truck with the trailer attached - they thought they might have RENTED IT TO SOMEONE ELSE, delightful), Matthew took his truck to Starbucks to get me my drug, I mean, coffee.

Trip two: Matthew and I leave Uhaul, with coffee, and drive back to our house. The goals of this final visit are to pack up the dog and get my car, as well as do a final walk-through of our home. Matthew, still sick, realizes we should probably document the condition of our place because we have renters moving in the next week. I think this is a great idea because I can savor the cleanliness over and over. While he walks through taking video of each room, I put the dog's belongings in my car, then sit down to enjoy my breakfast and coffee, which I left sitting in the entryway...

A full grande mocha.

Sitting on the floor.

At the front door.

Where I promptly KICK IT OVER completely upside down and dump the entire contents of the aforementioned grande mocha on my FRESHLY CLEANED entryway and CARPET.

Where my BLIND DOG, who hears the possibility of spilled food, promptly walks through the middle of the spill and somehow manages to rub it on the wall.

The freshly painted wall.

Me: SON OF A BITCH!!!
Matt: (from the bedroom upstairs) What? What happened?
Me: NOTHING! Bandit, no no no no!
Matt: Did you knock over your coffee? (like he knows me or something)
Me: BANDIT NO NO NO! (blind, epileptic dog with notoriously delicate gastrointestinal system drinking cafe mocha before a 9 hour car ride...excellent)

Towels = all packed
Paper towels = packed
Sponges = packed
Two napkins from Starbucks = inadequate

I had nothing left but the clothes on my back.

So I sat on it.

Matt: (coming down the stairs) What are you doing?
Me: (scooting around on the floor on my rear, trying to utilize dry parts of my shorts while simultaneously fighting off the dog who is now trying to lick the floor, walls and my ass)
Matt: Honey!?
Me: nothing, it's fine, I got it.
Matt: oh my god.

Coffee fricking everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All over the floor and seeping under that little strip of metal they nail between the carpet and hard floor...and now all over me. It looked like I'd had explosive diarrhea. And my clothes were all packed in boxes, except the suitcase I'd packed with a couple day's worth of clothes.

Which was in the back of the Uhaul semi truck.
Which was sitting in the parking lot of the Uhaul store on Allentown Blvd with a trailer hooked to the back.

And the worst part? I had only had one or two sips of that coffee! Not anywhere near enough to survive this day.

My husband has a cool head in a crisis (probably a good thing, you really wouldn't want your surgeon screaming and running around in a panic...or mopping liquids off the floor with his pants, for that matter, but whatever). He found a sponge on the top of the trash, washed it off and wiped down everything as best he could. Then he gave me his coffee. I would marry him again in a second.

Trip 3: Back to Uhaul with both cars, dog and a mocha-scented pair of shorts. Delightful.

So our plan to get on the road by 9am was not successful and at 11:00am we hit the turnpike. Bandit and I are leading the caravan in Matthew's truck (I plan to do most of the driving, after all, Bandit is blind), he is following in the semi truck pulling my car.

For the first several hours, we were doing okay...even though we were going slow enough to be passed by the real semi trucks. We stopped for gas just before Pittsburgh and got a bite to eat. Then we hit Pittsburgh. And construction. Narrow two-lane stretches with concrete barriers inches from the side of the semi left no room for error, but he made it through (white-knuckled all the way).

Ohio was rolling by easily until we were just outside of Toledo. That's when the thunderstorms hit. And the rain. And the tornado warnings.

SERIOUSLY? Could we just get to Michigan? It was raining so hard I would have had better luck blowing on the windshield because the wipers were completely ineffectual. Traffic was going 35 miles and hour. Fan-fricking-tastic.

This entire day was becoming a test of the actual strength of my deodorant. Watching the Uhaul semi-truck weave through construction, getting caught in a monsoon...what next? Oh, I'll tell you 'what next'...

A damn TORNADO.

Some of you may know how I feel about natural disasters (tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes) = Bad. I do not feel good about these at all. We do not have these things in Oregon. None. The worst we get is flooding, but not even flash flooding (typically), there's usually plenty of warning.

The Emergency Broadcast System keeps popping up on the radio to tell us there are severe thunderstorms and tornado warnings, then a tornado sighting, in all these counties, etc. Of course, I do not know where these counties are because I DON'T KNOW OHIO GEOGRAPHY. Well that's just awesome. Now I'm going to get swept off to Oz in a pair of coffee crusted shorts. Not okay.

After a 35 mile an hour crawl we finally reached our exit and the tollbooth operator says: Now you know, there's a tornado in this area. Goody. At this point, I just didn't even care. I couldn't care. I just wanted to get to our new home because, oh guess what? I was starting to get sweaty and chills...a fever. The Plague was creeping in.

At 9pm two sick adults (one who smelled of coffee and looked like she'd pooped her pants BIG TIME), one blind dog, a Uhaul semi-truck pulling a trailer and a small white pickup truck pulled into The Heights in Madison Heights, MI. It was about 88 degrees and 90% humidity.

When our leasing consultant met us at the office we must have looked like a bad mistake, but she took us to our apartment anyway. It looked great, very clean, nice space, but on the third floor and a wee bit toasty since the air conditioning was turned off. We could have cared less at that point, we just hauled the mattress up the three flights of stairs (SOOO happy with each step that we had movers coming the next day to unload everything else), got the dog fed, pottied and put to bed, and went off in search of food.

By this time (10pm-ish), Matthew was actually feeling a bit better and, for the first time I can remember, said he couldn't eat junk food for another meal. I just wanted to put some french fries and a milkshake in my mouth and lay down for about, oh, 17 hours of sleep. Given that we had just left an area where restaurants close by 10pm, I was not feeling hopeful about our options, but we went into downtown Royal Oak, MI.

It was at this moment, through a haze of fever and irritation, that I was able to recognize one thing very clearly: I am going to love this place. It was 10:30pm and there were restaurants open everywhere...and people sitting at the outdoor tables drinking beer and talking about interesting things...and smiling at strangers (no longer wearing poopy/coffee pants because I'd found my suitcase. I suspect they would have been less smiley if I looked like I had mismanaged incontinence issues)...and the waiter was so friendly.

And we had sushi.

And life was (feverish, but) good.

Phase I: Packing your belongings

Forgive me, dear readers, for I was lost in a world WITHOUT INTERNET! Can you even fathom it? I hardly can, and I just lived through the experience. In all the hubbub of moving the one thing that didn't get set up was our internet and cable in Michigan, which we realized the day we drove out. Oops. Aside from that horror, the move was relatively smooth.

Relatively.

On the Saturday before our move, after packing for 6 hours and watching the boxes pile up, Matthew asked what size truck we had.

Me: 14 foot.
Matt: WHAT?! There's no way all our stuff is going to fit in a 14' truck!
Me: That pod I used when I moved out here was only, like, 6x8' and remember how much we had in there? Bed, sectional, tables, the bar, a million boxes.
Matt: There is no way we're going to be able to fit in a 14' truck...why did you get that one?
Me: You TOLD me to get "the middle size one"
Matt: That's the small one!
Me: THERE IS A TEN FOOT TRUCK THAT IS THE SMALL ONE THEREFORE THE 14 FOOT TRUCK WOULD BE THE MIDDLE ONE!
(did I mention we were a little testy at this point?)
Matt: OH MY GOD...
Me: Well I don't think GOD CARES IF OUR TRUCK IS TOO SMALL!

At this point it became clear to me, and I think to Matthew, that we were not the enemy. The enemy is the act of moving. Moving sucks. Moving makes you take stock of exactly how much crap you actually own. And by the looks of it, we had a lot more crap than would fit in a 14 foot truck. So I called U-haul and upgraded us to 17 feet.

After that we were both much calmer, and nicer to each other frankly, except that Matthew seemed more tired that usual. We chalked it up to stress until Sunday night when he really started to look like shit. The plague took him out for most of Monday and all of Tuesday, but this was okay (I mean, not okay that he was sick, but okay in the world of moving) because we had made the greatest decision thus far in our adult lives:

We hired movers.

Hallelujah, people let me tell you, I will NEVER AGAIN attempt a move without professional movers in my life (right now my dad and brother are cheering on this decision). When I reserved the truck there was an option to hire two movers for two hours for about $150, with the option for more time at an hourly rate, and we could use local companies to help at each end of the move. I figured, if we packed everything and even hauled it down the the main floor of the house, the movers could just shoot in and out, carry all the heavy stuff and strap it into the truck. Whatever they didn't finish in two hours we could do on Wednesday night and it would be perfect. And it was, but let me return to this in a moment.

When: Wednesday, 7/21/10 at 7:15am.
Where: U-Haul on Allentown Blvd in Harrisburg.

We're pickup up our (now) 17 ft moving truck. Matthew looks like he can hardly stand upright, but I figure he can just sleep until the movers arrive and, frankly, he can sleep the rest of that day if necessary. The darling girl behind the counter pulls up our reservation and at that moment, through the haze of illness, Matt says: Maybe we should get the 24' truck.

Me: (completely resigned to the insanity) Okay.
Matt: It says the 24' truck is for 2-4 bedrooms and an entire house
Me: Okay, but we're only moving to a 2 bedroom apartment
Matt: But the 17' truck is only for 1-2 bedrooms
Me: Okay. Whatever you want. Are you sure you're okay with driving all that?

Because no matter how many times we've talked about it, I am absolutely certain he is not taking into account the other fact of this move: He's towing my car behind the truck. And not on one of those little dollys that holds the front wheels. Oh no, my baby is going on a full "Auto Transport" trailer, as they call it. It's like another entire 24' truck BEHIND the moving truck.

Me: But the 10, 14, and 17' descriptions say "Drives like a Van!" and then when you look at the 24 footer it does not say that. It does not drive like a van, it drives like a SEMI TRUCK! They don't even try to hide it!
Matt: I'll be fine
Me: okay, if that's what you want...

Uhaul girl: um, yeah, like, we don't have any 24 footers.
Me: oh.
Uhaul girl: I can give you a 26' truck.
Me: holy shit.


He is now driving a semi truck PULLING a trailer to Michigan.
Perfect.

Matt: Okay. Okay. It's fine, I'll be fine.
Me: Surgeon by day, truck driver by night?
Matt: No, it'll be fine. I used to drive these when I worked for Dick in high school
Me: And when they put the trailer on the back with my car...?
Matt: (silence) ...Well, we just can't go anywhere where I might have to back it up.

Oh my god.

He was so calm (or maybe it was the plague sapping all remnants of life from him), but his relief was just palpable, so I just went along. There was no question that we would have enough room for all our junk...driving a semi for the first time was not even a concern.

And herein lies one of the things I love about men, and in particular, my husband: Not for a moment does he question his ability to do something a) he's never done before, b) with no training, skills, etc, c) with no more than about 4 seconds of consideration put into the entire endeavor. The concern : what if all our stuff doesn't fit? The answer: GO BIG OR GO HOME!

Now my answer would have been: fine, we'll be throwing out/giving away some more stuff. Whatever. It's just stuff.

Man answer: MUST GET BIGGER MACHINERY

But I digress. Let's return to the greatest decision ever made:

We hired movers.

They were incredible. Not only was it 93 degrees that day AND about 143 degrees inside the truck, but they packed every single thing we owned into that truck in LESS THAN two hours (!) and there was not an inch of space wasted. They were so good at packing that we had about 10 feet of space left in our 26' truck. That's right, we only used 16 feet.

Ch - ch- ch - CHIA!

So last night I ate a tablespoon of a horse supplement...on purpose.

But, let me start from the beginning:

I was reading this really interesting book entitled Born to Run: A hidden tribe, super athletes, and the greatest race the world has never seen by Christopher McDougall (a highly recommended read) which is about humans as natural endurance runners (ha, not in my personal experience) and a indigenous tribe in Mexico called the Tarahumara or Raramuri. They run, like, literally 60-100 miles A DAY like it's nothing (I run, like, 1 mile and feel both suicidal and homicidal). In an aside, the author mentions they eat a concoction they call "Iskiate"- a mixture of Chia seeds and lime juice they use as a regenerative tonic before/during/after ultramarathon-length runs.

Well I gotta have me some super-food, let me tell you. Especially if it will make running easier.

Chia seeds also happened to be the topic of the most recent newsletter I received on Paleo Diets. The Paleo Diet is supposedly what our paleolithic ancestors ate and, thus, is what we are biologically evolved to eat. Needless to say, it does not involve french fries or ice cream (which I feel fully evolved into eating on a fairly regular basis). I don't eat Paleo, as they say, but I do follow The Zone diet (daily intake of 30% protein, 40% complex carbs, 30% healthy fats). I'm not sure where Chia seeds fall in this, but I suspect they are both a carb and a fat.

They are little omega-3 and omega-6 factories (2 tablespoons have more than your daily requirements of each) with pretty high protein content (4 grams per two tablespoons) for plants, anyway. And they are really high in fiber (7 grams per two tablespoons = 33% recommended daily fiber intake).

Screw the health factor: will they make recovery from hard workouts easier AND make me run, say, more than ten minutes without feeling very sorry for myself?



When my 3lb bag of Chia seeds arrived in the mail I was super-pumped. Matt was chanting "this is what people who don't have kids do...they spend their extra time and energy on crazy fads." Like he wasn't right there with me shaking the bag and reading the pages of recipes that came with them. You can sprinkle them in cereal, oatmeal, yogurt, etc, or you can add 1 part Chia to 9 parts water and they turn into a gel (add the gel to soups, liquids, etc and it won't dilute the flavor).



I don't know how you would react, but this bag of 1 millimeter pellets turned us into 5th grade science students. First we read all the information on the bag, then we smelled them and sifted them around a bit. Then we made gel - that was pretty exciting (or maybe it's only exciting for people with no lives and few hobbies). Finally, we devolved into TRUE children in science class:



Matt: eat it.
Me: No! Eww!
Matt: Why did you buy them? Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!
Me: YOU eat it
Matt: No! I'm not the one who bought them
Me: (sniffing the bag) Okay, how?
Matt: eat the gel!
Me: No, I'll take a taste
Matt: PUSSY! EAT IT EAT IT EAT IT!

Well, nobody calls ME a pussy at 9 o'clock at night in my own kitchen. On the other hand, the gel looks really disgusting. So I took a spoonful of the seeds from the bag and dropped it on my tongue.

Chia seeds have almost no flavor at all, but they do turn kind of slimy as they react to your saliva (becoming gel, I guess). I drank a bunch of water to wash those little buggers down and it occurred to me that, if you add 1 part Chia to 9 parts water and they expand, won't they do that in your stomach? Hmmm. Am I going to be uncomfortably full from a teaspoon of Chia? Or is my stomach going to blow up like a starving kid in Africa?

Bloating was not my goal.

The other thing about those bastards is they get stuck in your teeth. Everywhere. They are slightly larger than a poppy seed and after a spoonful I looked like I had eaten poppy-seed/jellyfish hybrids. And somehow they hide in, like, every crevice in your mouth. Every time I moved my tongue I found seeds. I looked like I lost all my teeth and was chewing dentures.

Well, the excitement of eating a teaspoon of seeds passed and I started looking through the recipes again and ran across a colorful little card with a checklist of the wonderful properties of Chia...

Me: Wait...what does that say?
Matt: (laughing uncontrollably)
Me: Does that say "Equine Chia?"
Matt: (laughing)
Me: DOES THAT SAY "HORSE SUPPLEMENT?"



My mane better be REAL shiny after this.

It has begun...

A new city, a new home, a new blog.

Some of my family recall my first foray into blogging (Gullible's Travels), which I wrote for, oh...a couple months.

See, I always have grand plans for "life projects" and sometimes they are truly life-long projects (e.g. mastering the art of raising a pug, fitness and health, enjoying marriage, laughing as much as possible in a day, etc) and some are really brief interludes that I find entertaining for a period of time and then dump by the side of the road when something better comes along. These have included, but are not limited to:

Sewing - In my early 20's I decided I should learn to sew. Not only should I learn to sew, I should make my own clothes. What a grand idea, don't you think? The problem was that I knew no one who could sew. My mom hates to sew and my dad's sewing skills were all developed in the Boy Scouts. So I set about learning to use the sewing machine (never could figure out how to thread it) and make myself a dress. My first "dress" turned out more like a wind-sock and I bled more from needle sticks than even a visually impaired phlebotemist could have caused.

Beading - I do enjoy beading, actually. I learned how to wire-wrap when visiting my family in Hawaii and bought all the necessary tools and accouterments to allow me to make an entire jewelry wardrobe of beaded trinkets. I soon realized that I don't actually like to wear jewelry. Go figure. So my mom now has an entire jewelry wardrobe of beaded trinkets and I have one necklace I kinda liked (it lives in a drawer with all the other jewelry I don't wear). I still bead every now and then, so if you like beaded necklaces, bracelets or earrings, I can hook you up.

Running - Damn I hate running. I have tried several times to enjoy running and I just hate it. Guess what's on the list of new hobbies? BAREFOOT RUNNING. I figure, I can't hate running any more than I already do, so doing it barefoot at least adds a little danger and excitement. I'll let you know how that pans out for me.

Blogging - Yes. It's true, blogging is on this list. I was pretty steady throughout the cross country drive from Oregon to Pennsylvania, and even for a few months after that...buuuuuut, then I got busy with work and actually made some friends, so I petered out a bit. And by "a bit" I mean, I hadn't posted in over a year when I let Matt take over my old blog to post info about his trip to Haiti after the earthquake. Then I wrote a little bitch-fest post about all the snow and you haven't seen me since.

This is a new blog. 'New' means exciting, right? 'New' means I'll totally go after this blog with the same gusto I have shown toward torturing my husband with healthy foods and befriending every single person who goes to my gym between the hours of 5pm and 9pm.

We'll just see :) For now, I can promise to bedazzle you with stories of the chaos of moving from Pennsylvania to Detroit, Michigan (on purpose) and the other random stream-of-consciousness things that are knocking around in my brain. If you've never witnessed/experienced the full measure of my observations on the world, get ready for a ride my friends.

And this time, I'll try to keep it at least PG-13