Beyonce

Every Tuesday night, my hubby has a group meeting at school to work on his Senior Design project with his group members and he doesn't get home until later in the evening. This means that Tuesday nights are mine, all mine, to do with whatever I so well please.

Typically, this includes an hour-long trip to wander the aisles of Target (and shamelessly throw money at frivolous things like throw pillows... oopsies), followed by a supper of (what else?) noodles with butter -- easily one of my most favorite foods of all time. I used to eat it practically every night when I moved off campus and lived in an apartment with some friends my sophomore year of college. Mmm, I love it.

Anyway, before my jaunt through Tarjay and five-star meal, I usually go to my gym and use the elliptical machine for 25 minutes (why 25? Easy. Because after your set time, you have five minutes of cool down. So why would I want to work out for 35 minutes? Thirty minutes (25 + 5 minutes of cool down) is more than enough). Oftentimes you'll find me zoned out on some trashy MTV show because they have cable there, my friends -- a luxury which we do not have in our apartment.

I'm a teacher, remember? That means I'm too poor to have cable.

Kidding :)

Anyhow, I'm always enjoying my trashy MTV when I'm rudely interrupted by some bass thumping that shakes the building and distracts me from some quality Teen Mom time. And you know what the culprit is?

ZUMBA.

Have you ever been?

I was a pretty good follower a couple of summers ago when it came to my hometown's YMCA for the first time. It was ridiculously fun but made me sweat like a man pig (no offense, men). I heard the feeling you have when you leave class, dripping with sweat and feeling like you're going to die, described once as feeling like a hot flash during menopause.

Now, I have no idea if that's true. But if it is, please count me out of menopause. Eeeew. I hate sweating.

Anyway, if you haven't been, Zumba is a group exercise class that's basically dancing to Latin music to get your cardio in and even some toning. It is all - the - rage at my gym. Seriously. Some nights, the lobby is jam packed with middle-to-later-age women wearing jingle bell bracelets and colorful wraps tied snugly over their behinds with little gold jingly coins tied all the way around them. Think Esmerelda from that Quasimodo movie (what was that called again? I forget. Apparently not one of Disney's finest).

So here I am, Tuesday night, made my place comfortably on my elliptical trainer, ready for some good quality Gary and Amber watching (will they get their lazy butts up off their bed in this episode? And even better: will their bed finally have sheets on it? Doubtful. I don't know why I get my hopes up), when a Tuesday night Zumba regular comes over to invite me in to "the party".

They seriously used those words.

I almost laughed.

In fact, I think I might have.

Whoopsies.

But I promise that's as rude as I get, because I'm a sucker and can't say "no" to save my life (I was apparently absent the day they practiced the broken record strategy in D.A.R.E.), so I made my way into the room and felt oddly out of place without a bright pink scarf wrapped around my bootie. Regardless, I was welcomed with open arms and away we went.

Luckily, as mentioned earlier, I'd been a Zumba junkie for a few months awhile back, so I pretty easily picked up on the steps again. But I also quickly remembered how hard it is to keep a straight face during class.

Now, by no means am I a fantastic dancer. I cannot shimmy or bootie shake to save my life (which, by the way, so totally fine by me. I mean, when would that skill come in handy, anyway? While I'm teaching fractions at the whiteboard with my backside to my students? Doubtful. So creepy). And in fact, more often than not in Zumba, I look like a complete idiot. I know this. It's a fact of life for me. Which is why I just keep my feet moving and don't bother with getting too fancy with all the hip thrusting and "booty poppin'" (yeah, my booty doesn't "pop"... whatever that means).

However, there was a woman in front of me who was all in. Except she looked just about as wholesome as you could get. I mean, like, Sunday School teacher by day, cover your children's eyes by night. Her dancing was definitely PG-13. It was hilarious! Here we are, a bunch of white, upper-middle class women, who are about as far from sexy Latina as possible, and this woman is totally shaking her rear and smiling at her reflection in the mirror like she's Beyonce. She was just loving life.

Which isn't a bad thing. Granted, I did let some giggles sneak out here and there about it, but as I thought about it more, I realized it's probably an outlet for some women to just let loose and not worry about other people watching you.

Except me, I guess. Whoopsies.

But I'm sure I had someone loving on my uncoordinated moves. Good thing my club has a "no boys allowed" sign on the door.

And next time (yes, I said next time. I'm going back to join "the party"... HA!), she won't make me giggle. Because maybe next time, she'll become an inspiration. And slowly over time, I, too, will begin to channel my inner Beyonce, conquer that bootie shake (highly unlikely) and sport a jingle bell bracelet on my right wrist.

Succumbing to wearing a jingly scarf over my bootie will take a bit longer, though.

MIA

It seems that just about every other post I make begins with an apology for being so MIA, followed up with a lame excuse for it. But really, I have some good ones this time.

Lame excuse number one: our laptop died! Yes, it came to its' untimely demise a few weeks ago. The screen turned some crazy colors and then went black. No luck making it come alive again, either. So, as hubby says -- we now have a nice, big paperweight. And, many hundred dollars later, also a nice, new desktop computer from Best Buy!

Lame excuse number two: my heart hasn't been here. I'm sure you noticed in my last few posts, I've been far from myself. And I don't really want to subject you to all the gloom and doom that I find myself submerged in during bits and pieces of the day. I'm typically a very happy, optimistic person -- but this infertility business has made me a more anxious, stressed, sad person. Luckily, we've finally gotten a few pieces of good news that will hopefully turn into bigger, even better, pieces of good news. After a few weeks of feeling really, really sad, I'm feeling much better. And eager to be back! Lets hope that continues. If you're the praying type, hubs and I would appreciate all the messages to God that we could get. Thank you!

Now, the one good thing about this whole infertility business is that I've been pouring every free moment (so as not to have any extra time to over think things) I have into different projects and recipes from (where else?) Pinterest! One of my first projects was an infinity scarf. I was feeling the urge to buy one with the up and coming autumn season, but decided to try making one of my own first. And it was so simple, I promise.


The urge first emerged in the evening, so I dragged my eager husband along with me to JoAnn's to pick out some fabric (because goodness knows it takes me at least an hour to make a fabric decision. You might think I'm kidding, but trust me: I'm not). Unfortunately, even when he comes, it only cuts the amount of time it takes me to make a choice by probably a fourth. So about 45 minutes, five dollars, and a cranky hubby later, I skipped out of JoAnn's with a smile on my face. Don't worry, hubs was smiling on the inside; after all, if momma's happy, everyone's happy (never you mind the fact that I'm not a momma... yet).


Here's what we walked out with:

 

One(ish) yard of this purple, navy, white and tan plaid. I wasn't so sure if I was in love with it initially, but now I do really like it. Anyway, here's how it all came together at midnight that Saturday night.

First, I zigzagged the whole way around the edge of my fabric to prevent fraying. If you're fancy lucky, you could serge the edges of it. But I'm a teacher, so I'm poor and can't afford a serger unless I want to eat ramen for supper each night.

KIDDING! We already eat ramen for supper each night.

KIDDING again. Anyway.


Lay your fabric out in a single layer as shown above. Then, fold the fabric over so that the right sides are together, hot dog style (elementary art class, anyone? Mr. Raske, my elementary art teacher, had a thick, black, shiny mop on his head for hair. He eventually became my middle school art teacher, too, and the rumor around school was always that he had a TOUPEE! Trust me, it was a huge scandal that kept every pre-pubescent teen preoccupied for at least a few days in my middle school. Anyway, Raske always told us to fold our papers hot dog or hamburger way).

Pin the fabric together on the open edge like so:

(How impressed are you with my little point and shoot Canon PowerShot right now? That's a pretty dang good picture, if I do say so myself.)

After you've pinned it together, sew the baby up with about a 5/8 inch seam allowance. You don't have the remove the pins as you go (just sew over the top of them), unless you're weird like me and have an irrational fear of the sewing machine needle hitting a pin and making an awful "clank" noise. It happened to me once, true story. It made an awful sound that I liken to nails on a chalkboard. Eeeeee!

Anyway, yes, sew it up... except leave a couple of inches that are not sewn at each end of it... and don't sew it shut on short the ends. Remember, we're only sewing shut the long side. The short sides do not get sewn shut.

After you finish sewing it up (except for those two inches or so on each end), go ahead and turn it so the seam is now on the inside and you've got the right sides on the outside and wrong sides on the inside. Make sense? Good. If it didn't, here's what those two inches on the ends should look like:

See? No stitch at the ends.

So here's how mine looked after that:

Mmhmm, a nice long tube of plaid. In my messy sewing/computer room. Whoopsies. I promise it's much more clean now, thanks to my hubs. He's nice like that.

So next, we need to take care of those open ends. So now you bring those two open ends together and start pinning them together so that you can sew them together almost the whole way around.

So the thing is with this part, is you're not going to be able to sew the entire way round here. In fact, you'll only be able to sew about as far as the ends that you left open when you first sewed your fabric together (hot dog style, remember?). Which, my friends, is exactly why we left that two inches at each end: so we could get this part of the job done.

At this point, you should have the entire scarf pretty well put together. The only problem left will be that little opening there that we need to fix, as shown below.

For this little fix, go ahead and pin the fabric on each side of the opening together, closing up the hole like so:

Now you could do a little secret, invisible stitch here. However, at this point it looked like this outside:

And I know you can't see the interstate, but there was literally like, zero cars out there. Because it was midnight. Infertile people do weird stuff. Like start making an infinity scarf at 11:45 p.m.

Anyway, the point is, it was late and we had mass in the  morning -- so it was time to get the show on the road. So I opted to just sew a straight stitch with my machine just about 1/16 of an inch in from the edge of the fabric. It ended up looking just fine and dandy:

And so my infinity scarf was officially created! From start to finish (not including the whole, 45-minute fabric-picking-out-sesh), it took me about 20 minutes... it was awesome.

So naturally, after I finished, I couldn't just go to bed and be satisfied knowing that I made something neat. Oh no, I had to do something else. I had to take a picture and send it to my mom, of course!

Obviously my mom was mega proud of my mad sewing skills.

Unfortunately, this story ends sadly: I have yet to wear my scarf! It hasn't quite been cool enough yet. And I'm a horrible outfit saver... always "saving" it for a "special" day (which makes no sense -- what am I waiting for, the day I find out I'm pregnant? HA!).

Sorry for the snarkiness. It's because I've missed you. Have you missed me?

I promise I'll be back soon. After all, I did somehow find myself in a Zumba class today. And goodness knows I'll need to get that experience off my chest somewhere.

Struggles

As mentioned in previous posts, I'm working through some unexplained fertility issues. It's been a very emotional past six months trying to get to the bottom of it all with virtually no steps forward. However, about a week and a half ago, I met one of my favorite people in my life right now: Dr. C. He's a reproductive endocrinologist who started an infertility clinic in my area because he thought infertility patients weren't getting the careful attention and special care they need (holla!). I waited almost four (excruciatingly long) weeks for my appointment with him and creepily cyber-stalked him on his website and watched his provider profile video sometimes more than once a day.

Yeah, I know you're totally sitting there thinking I'm a complete nut job after hearing that.

But don't worry, I'm not a nut job. Basically just because women who are infertile get a free pass to do weird stuff like that when they want a baby.

Anyway, like I said: Dr. C. and I? BFFs. Hubs and I went in to see him and he ordered blood work and an ultrasound straightaway. He then proceeded to call me the following morning at 6:50 in the morning because he knew I taught elementary school and wanted to have a chance to talk with me before I went to school.

Um, yeah. At that point I realized we were kindred spirits. (I'm hoping everyone is picking up on the sarcasm at this point. I promise I'm not that psycho.)

Anyhow, he called because he found out that my thyroid was a lil' sluggish (as my momma had previously diagnosed sans a medical degree because she's just that smart and awesome... and because mommas just know these things about their kids) and put me on some thyroid medicine that I'll take indefinitely to help my body out a bit. Wonderfully enough, a sluggish thyroid can lead to infertility. I say "wonderfully" simply because I've been dying for a reason for all of these baby-makin' troubles we seem to have. At this point, we don't know if that's been my problem or not; in fact, we may never know -- because my BFF (Dr. C., if you've forgotten -- but how could you forget?), who I got to visit with yesterday morning before school, put me on a lovely little pink pill called Femara.

So now, at least for the next five days, I'll be injesting a nice, pastel-colored kitty cocktail of medicines that will (cross your fingers!) help my body do what it needs to. Which means I'll have to wait for another ten days (only nine now because one day has already passed... woohoo!) to see if it worked.

And you see, that's the hard part. Waiting. Well, yes, waiting is hard -- but staying positive for that entire ten days is the hardest. It's been a mere 36-hours since I visited with Dr. C. and he told me what we'd do next, and I've already experienced a whole smorgasbord of emotions. First I was excited: we have another shot at getting pregnant! And then I was convinced we were going to get pregnant this round, so I shopped online after school for maternity clothes (what the -- who does that before they're pregnant, much less prior to having the chance to be pregnant? This girl does. Remember: going through this gives one a free license to have a case of the crazies).

Unfortunately, the positive crazies bug wore off by around 8:00 and my mind wandered to worst-case-scenario. I had been with my friends (my real ones this time, as opposed to my fake BFF) and came home to my husband around 10:00 and had a good cry, convinced this fertility treatment wouldn't work either and I'd never get to have my tummy grow or have a reason to eat handful after handful of skittles, washed down by a chocolate-Oreo milkshake or have the amazing feeling of my baby kicking me from the inside or get to complain about stretch marks (which, by the way, I'll never complain about. I'm totally fine with having a tummy like a tiger if it meant being blessed with babies!).

And you know why I love my husband? He refuses to buy into the gloom and doom that I so easily throw out there to him. He remains steadfast and convinced that this will work and that I shouldn't worry about it. And while it made me totally want to throw a pillow at him across the room when he was arguing with me about why he was so positive and confident that it would work, he helped me see something. Because when I calmed down, I asked him the question I find myself pondering pretty frequently lately.

"Why do you think this is part of God's plan? Why do you think He's saying 'no' right now?"

And it became extremely apparent that he has put lots of time into thinking about that same question. Except he actually thought about it -- versus me, who thought about it and never took the time to pray about it and listen and instead chose to throw a mental temper tantrum and mega-sized pity party in my mind. The thought he shared with me that I'm trying to continue to be mindful of was this:

Maybe God has a plan for our baby. Maybe he or she can't be born yet, because God's plans for them are that they will cure cancer -- but they won't be able to do it until such-and-such time. Or maybe He's just planning who they'll meet, marry and have a family with -- and maybe for that, they need to go to school a little later so they can meet.

And at that moment, I realized I'm totally selfish. This whole thing isn't just about me and how badly I want a baby. It's not even about my husband and how badly he wants a baby. It includes this other little life too, and God's plan for them.

Ultimately, we may never know the reason why this is happening. But for now, the thought of my baby's life already being mapped out really provides at least a small amount of comfort -- even when I get a case of the crazies.

Broadening My Horizons

Recently, I've begun to expand and broaden my horizons in terms of food. Yes, as a lifelong vegetarian opposite (in other words, a complete carnivore... literally NO veggies), I've finally begun trying to incorporate leafy greens into my diet. I did this originally because I read somewhere that not eating certain foods while pregnant (which, alas, I am not) can make your child allergic to that particular food. Whether or not that's for rizzle, I don't know -- but I'd rather not take the chance. And thus began my relationship with the only veggie I'll eat, which also happens to be a "super food": SPINACH! So every single day for lunch, you'll find me with my usual (I am a creature of habit -- same thing every. Single. Day. Just ask my teacher friends who eat lunch with me every day) and a side salad of spinach and strawberries. Mmm mmm mmm.

But this post is not about my superveggie friend, spinach. No, friends -- this one is about this evening's horizon broadening recipe that I tested out.

Yesterday, I made a rotisserie chicken in the crockpot. Oh so yummy and made the apartment smell completely delicious. And even better: it'll last at least four meals for the hubs and I. Saweet! Delicious + thrifty = my fave.

Anyway, with the delicious leftovers, I decided to try something new: a buffalo chicken calzone.

And let me tell you... it was awesome.

Every recipe I found initially on Pinterest (what else?) called for bleu cheese. Now, I said I was broadening my horizons with food -- not going completely abroad with them. And when I Googled "What does bleu cheese taste like?" (yes, I really did Google it. And yes, I believe Google knows just about everything. Just ask my doctor. I'm a walking encyclopedia on infertility thanks to Mr. G. and my obsessive compulsive behaviors toward self diagnosis of my woman problems. Anyway.) I found out that bleu cheese apparently tastes like feet.

So with that quick bit of information, I abruptly crossed bleu cheese off the list and decided to leave that key ingredient out.

Until, of course, hubby (a buffalo chicken extraordinaire, thanks to Applebee's half price boneless buffalo wings) shared with me that a wonderful complement to buffalo sauce is a rich, creamy ranch to cool one's palate.

Okay, you caught me: he totally didn't say that. Well, he did. Just not in that whole, foodie snob way. But basically, he told me that when you go out to eat and order something buffalo-esque, your choices for dip are typically either a bleu cheese sauce or ranch.

Unfortunately, I don't like ranch. Or any salad dressing for that matter.

But, in the spirit of becoming a little more brave on the food front, I decided I'd give 'er a try. And, as previously stated... it was awesome. Let me share, please.

Buffalo Chicken Calzones

Here's whatcha need:

• One packet of Great Value pizza crust mix (no, I don't make my own dough... sorry. I've made many versions of pizza dough over the past few years of married life, and they're really not that outstanding -- this Wal-Mart brand is ridiculously cheap [59 cents!], quick and nummy. I promise. It's all I use for homemade pizza.)
• One cup of pizza cheese (it has a mixture of shredded mozzarella and cheddar cheese in it. Obviously you could also go for 1/2 cup mozze and 1/2 cup cheddar instead... same diff.)
• One tablespoon of ranch dressing (although this next time, I'd probably up it to two tablespoons... and I don't even like ranch).
• Two-ish cups of chicken, already cooked, cut into 1/2 inch(ish) chunks.
• 1/4 cup Frank's Red Hot Buffalo sauce... or more, if you like more heat :)

And here's whatcha do:

Preheat your oven to 500 degrees (yes, 500! I know, I couldn't believe it when lucky me could turn the oven all the way up. You never get to do that. Eeek!)

Make the pizza dough as directed on the package. Let it rise five minutes like it says on the package.

While you let the dough rise, cut up your chicken into half-inchish chunks. Put it in a tupperware or a bowl and drizzle a quarter cup of Frank's Buffalo sauce on it. Snap the lid on the tupperware and shake-shake-shake until it's evenly coated.

After your dough is done rising, it should be real easy to press out on a pizza pan into a squoval (that's a square-oval, for those of you who don't do "calzone-speak", by the by).

On half of your squoval, spread your ranch dressing. On top of that, add your freshly-sauced chicken.
Then, add almost all of your cheese on top of the chicken. Spread it out evenly...

This is just prior to adding the cheese...

Next, fold the undecorated side of your dough over the side that has the party going on on it. Roll the edges together in an upward motion and pinch them down so no yummy insides can sneak out.

Finally, sprinkle your remaining cheese on the top of the calzone and spread a little olive oil on it, too.



Send it away to the oven for 12 minutes and cross your fingers that you'll actually like the taste of this concoction.

When the time is up, pull it out (obviously) and let it cool for five or so minutes. Unless you have a hubby that's staaaaarving. I only let mine cool for about a minute because the aforementioned event occurred in my kitch. So I caved and cut into it too soon, which resulted in cheese oozing out when I cut into it. But that was fine. I was maybe a teensy hungry too. Just a bit. And curious. Just a bit.



So I cut her up and on the plates she went.



And let me tell you. It was awesome (yes, I know that's the third time I've used awesome in this post to describe the taste of this calzone. I'll use a thesaurus next time, okay?).

It was so good that we ate the whole thing. Mmmhmmm, not even one little corner piece of leftovers.

So anyway, I now know why buffalo sauce and ranch are often paired up like PB & J. Like Bert and Ernie! Like me and the hubs.

It's a perfect pair that I'm so glad I broadened my little foodie horizons for. So try it, enjoy it... hey, you could even Pin it (ha)!

Happy Wednesday!

What's the Medora Musical all about?

In my classroom we do sharing every morning. At the beginning of the week, the kids are put on a "Sharing Schedule" and four or five students are assigned one day to share that week. They can bring something in to share, just tell about something, or, if they like, pass on their day.

Today the sweetest little peanut shared that over the summer, her family took a vacation for her little sister's birthday. They traveled to Mt. Rushmore (by the way: if you ever want to impress a third grader from North Dakota, tell them you've been to Mt. Rushmore. This location never ceases to amaze them and they are beyond fascinated by it. It may even rival Disney World -- true story) and then continued on the Medora to be a part of the world's cheesiest all-American propoganda: the Medora Musical.

Now, if you've never been, Medora is a town way out in the middle of nowhere western North Dakota. It really is a beautiful setting with the North Dakota badlands all around. But what occurs there is beyond fathomable: a robotic Theodore Roosevelt, a female main character that rides around on a pink semi-truck while a chorus of twelve or so twenty-somethings sing and dance around in full-out cowboy and cowgirl gear with crazy happy smiles across their faces. Think "High School Musical" only elevated five levels in cheese factor with lots of American flags and cowboy influence. It's awesome. Not to mention you can eat steak that's been cooked in a GIANT vat of oil while skewered on a pitchfork. Mmmhmm, you heard me. They call it pitchfork fondue. Again, awesome. Anyway.

So anyway, since some kids have never been to the Medora Musical, I ask her to share with the class what it's all about.

And with a beautiful, big smile and gleaming eyes, she shares proudly, "It's all about Teddy Bear Roosevelt."

So cute. So sweet. So much work to do in third grade.

I love school.

:)

The Internet! Or... lack thereof

Usually you can blame my horrible irregular blogging tendancies on my own neglect... but as of late, you can blame it on one thing: the INTERNET. Because, you see, hubby and I have been living life sans internet for almost an entire week.

Yes, my friends. It's true. Surprisingly, I have not spontaneously combusted due to my life's lack of Facebooking (though I have had a few mental breakdowns over not having access to my favorite blogs and Pinterest...).

See, hubby and I like to put as much money aside for my clothes from the Gap our future home as possible from my salary each month and we've adopted the "envelope system" otherwise and spend no more than $100.00 per week, not including the cost of gas. Of course, there are other monthly costs that are non-negotiable as well: electricity, cell phone, one pack of beer for the hubby, gym membership for me... And up until last October, we lived on our college campus apartments, which meant we had free utilities, cable AND internet.

And we moved out. What were we thinking!?

Well, probably that the 500 square foot closet we were living in just wasn't going to cut it for the next couple years of marriage. But besides that.

But lucky us, when we moved in last October, some silly amazing person didn't secure their wireless internet. Whooo for free wi-fi! Of course, we knew the day would come when they wised up and secured it so little scavengers like us couldn't piggyback anymore... and that day came last May and was followed by a chorus of sobs from hubby and I. Luckily, we were moving to our hometown for the summer and didn't need the internet in our apartment during that time. So we crossed our fingers and hoped someone new would move in and give us that wonderful little gift yet again this year.

Alas, no such luck. So now we face the life altering decision to pay 30 bucks a month for internet access or not. How will we choose? Save $360.00 a year... or live without Pinterest, Facebook and the blogosphere while not at work? AH!

Initially, I wasn't sure how we'd cope without our constantly plugged in addiction. The thought of not being able to see if so-and-so broke up with so-and-so, or seeing the latest pictures of my former roommate's cousin's best friend's step-sister killed me. HOW did we survive ten years ago when we didn't have this brain draining service constantly at our fingertips? How could life go on?

But it did. And it has. Maybe for the better.

Hubby and I talk more, and possibly even better, laugh more. We sit on our deck and read. He helped me cook the other night. We take walks, go for drives, enjoy these last beautiful summer evenings... And because of this, part of me thinks that maybe we shouldn't get back online in our apartment.

Unfortunately, there's too many things that are inconvenient to not have the internet. Hubby can't hop on Blackboard for his college courses in the evenings to do his homework. More minor? There's no checking the weather or getting news updates. Or seeing what my favorite style bloggers wore Wednesday (WIWW? Anyone? Love it. Maybe I need to start that here, since I'm sure you're ALL wondering what I wore Wednesday!)

So I guess we're kissing our $360 good-bye this year and we're signing ourselves up for the zombie-ensuing service that is the internet.

But hopefully this time we'll rememeber how nice it was to come home and have someone to talk to. And we'll make the choice to quit pinning, stalking facebooking and shopping -- and, instead, start living.

So Long, Sweet Summer

For the kiddos and teachers in my district, school begins one week from today. Eek! Where in the world did the summer go?

Though much of my summer was spent watching What Not to Wear twice a day, running through the grass barefoot and eating lunch at 2:00 in the afternoon, I did do a few things...

Hubby and I traveled south to Orlando, Florida for a visit to the Disney World parks and (our fave!) The Wizarding World of Harry Potter... awesome! It was a delayed honeymoon I suppose, and we had a fantastic time. Woot!

My baby sister graduated from high school and will be heading to our city on Sunday for college... yay!

I completely re-did a fancy shmancy chair I bought at the Boy's Ranch last fall for $18.00.



Baked a sweet awesome sweet fourth of July American flag cake!

Spent days with my niece and nephews, hung out with my mom and sister, went for bike rides, traveled to Duluth and husband's cabin, spent time with my parents, did some gardening, caught up with cousins, ate loads of Dairy Queen, became addicted to Pinterest...

We move back to our apartment after spending the summer at my parent's home on Saturday. It'll be a sad day, but I've got a group of 23 kiddos waiting for me to fill their little minds with oodles of third grade knowledge!

So here's to a great summer and looking forward to what might lie ahead... and to staying positive, hopeful and thankful -- even when it might get tough.

Well... shoot, huh?

Those were the words my doctor used when she walked into the exam room and plopped down on her chair yesterday. Only she didn't say "shoot"... if you catch my drift.

And in those three words, she identified my feelings perfectly.

I was in to see if some magic medicine they gave me a few weeks prior did what it was supposed to. Obviously, it didn't.

Trying to figure out this whole "how do we let Megan be a mommy?" thing is exhausting. And frustrating. And depressing. And infuriating. One might think I actually was pregnant with the way I cycle through all of these emotions (and more!) over the course of probably five minutes.

My husband keeps telling me it will work -- something will work. My doctors keep saying that I will be a mommy. But it's so hard not to get dragged down by all of it. Husband can't see why I'm not more optimistic about it all, but it's this perpetual gnawing fear that eats at me that I just might be one of those women who can't have a baby.

It's hard to not be angry and to not have questions. What's wrong with me? Why am I "broken"? Why is this so easy for other women? Why do others who don't even want a baby get pregnant, while someone who does, can't? What if I really can't?

Last week my aunt, cousins, mom, sister and I went to the Minnesota Zoo. Our first stop there was the dolphin training show. The dolphins jumped high out of the water and the trainers threw them little fish as rewards... and all around me sat mommies and daddies with their little ones, oohing and aahing at each trick. And I sat with tears in my eyes, wondering if I would ever have a little one to take.

There are times when I have hope. But there are times when I just want to curl up and cry. And so I do. I'm trying to be mindful of a number of things: that God has a plan, that I've been blessed with a great husband, supportive and loving family, a job and friends that I love. And that, with time, there will be some form of a resolution.

Summer's almost over. My parents both took the day off and we, along with my sister, ate a yummy lunch on the patio while the sun warmed my skin and the wind blew through the cottonwoods and made that same soothing, comforting sound I know so well. It's days like these with people like that that I am hanging on to and keeping in my pocket for the ones ahead when I'm feeling defeated and like there's not much hope. Because remembering them makes me thankful for what I have when I'm being bratty and dramatic about what I don't.

So for the time being, I try to comfort myself. I try to stay positive and shut out those nasty, negative thoughts for at least bits and pieces of the day.

Yes, I will be a mommy. Just not yet.

I haven't left!

Blog friends, don't worry! I haven't left you (again... for the thousandth time)!

I've just been out of town learning how to be a better teacher and was laptopless.

And now I'm spending my time being anxious about waiting for my doctor to call... but that's a whole other story. One where I called her a week ago and she never called me back. And then I called her again... three more times. And left messages... three more times. And still, nothing. And I even called last night to remind her to call me. And still, nothing.

So then I called again this morning, to remind her.

Still nothing.

Ya think I'm a little psycho crazy yet?

I think maybe I'm just needing some communication. Raaar!

Ya think she's trying to avoid my calls?

I think it's time for a new doc.

Heffalump.

Happy Friday!

Happy Long Weekend!

Cheers to a long, gorgeous, summery weekend overflowing with sunshine, family and fun.

We kicked off our weekend early with a few fun surprise visitors... my brother, nephews and niece arrived on my parents' doorstep a little after suppertime! Which means we have my whole family here for the weekend (sans one of my sister-in-laws :(). We've grilled, laughed, picnicked, spent some time at the beach and had ice cream. And I even got to feel my new baby niece move my cute sister-in-law's tummy last night :) God is so good! What a blessing new life is!

On Monday we'll be heading to a nearby relative's house on my mom's side for the annual Fourth of July picnic. I've got a fun baking adventure to attempt for that soiree which I'll share... assuming it turns out how it should :)

Have a happy and safe fourth, everyone!

Makin' My Kid-Self Proud

After a June filled with rain, rain, more rain, and cooler-than-summertime temps, we've finally come into some "dog days of summer" heat the last few days. Yesterday, it was a balmy 90ish degrees with ridiculously high humidity.

Seriously. It was like takeyourbreathaway humidity.

Anyway, in honor of the beautiful weather, I wanted to be in the sun and enjoy it (okay, I admit... and get a little tan). My usual playmates for a weekday would be my mom and my little sister. Unfortunately, my mom was working and my sister was with her friends having a lake day. 'Beach day' was eliminated before it even became an option. So I briefly considered going on a bike ride, but quickly crossed it off my list for obvious reasons. And then I thought about mowing the lawn in my swimsuit (you know, for the good tan!). However, I quickly ruled that out too. I hate the whole sweaty butt thing. You totally know what I mean if you've ever mowed with a riding mower on a hot day... you know, peeling your legs off the warm leather seat and having your rear damp with sweat. I can't be the only one who knows about that, but if I am -- trust me, it's semi-uncomfortable.

So upon opting out of both of those, another lightbulb lit: hubby's family lives on the lake! Why not spend my afternoon just off their dock on a pink floatie, a cherry coke zero in one hand and a People magazine in the other? A perfect mix of cool water and warm rays.

Nah, too far. I didn't feel like driving, even though it's a mere five-ish miles (apparently the lazy bug bit me that day. What can I say, the heat makes me slothy).

After considering this last option, I looked out the sliding doors to my parents' back yard, nearly admitting defeat and staying indoors to do something lame on such a beautiful day (like play the Sims. I know what you're thinking right now... don't be hatin'). But then I saw it standing proudly in the middle of the grassy lawn: a Little Tikes sprinkler.

Perfect.

So I did what I hadn't done in years. I threw on my new summertime swimsuit and quickly hooked up the hose to the round, purple base of the sprinkler. Trotting giddily over to the spicket, I put my hand on the smooth, navy dial and spun it to the left. And a glorious, steady stream of water sprayed out in all directions, immediately cooling my warm skin.

I briefly considered being done at that point, thinking, "Whelp, I got what I wanted: a cool down" and moved just outside of the spray's reach. But a smile spread across my face and my nine-year-old self took over. And in true nine-year-old fashion, I let out a shriek in preparation of feeling the icy droplets on my skin again and ran as fast as my little legs would take me across the wet, slippery grass.

And I did it again. This time, with my hands up in the air.

And again. This time, with a little leap in the middle.

Just how I remember doing it when I was nine.

And then I saw the last thing that would make the equation complete: a playmate.

I was home alone, except for one friend: my dog.


And after pulling her out from under a shady maple tree nearby, she ran through with me, too -- sans the shrill screeches, arms in the air and ballerina leaps.

Eventually she got tired and laid down again beneath that maple, and when I heckled her a little too much, she ran and hid in some bushes.

Making one last ditch effort to con her back into the sprinkler, I yelled "Suitcho'self , dawg! You don't know whatch'o missin'!" and ran back into the line of fire.

She didn't join me again. But I didn't care. Back and forth I went.

In true adult style, I, like my dog, had my fill after a few more minutes. I took one more pass through, promising to make it my best. So with one last high-pitched shriek, I prepared myself for the icy blast of cold water on my face, got a running start and did the best cartwheel I could (which means it definitely looked nothing like a cartwheel at all).

But I can be sure of one thing with those 20 minutes in the sprinkler and that cartwheel: you can bet I made my nine-year-old self proud.

OBSESSED

Now that it's summatime, I am a free woman (whoo for being a teacher!). And since I no longer have 25 little loves in my life, I have to fill the void with something.

And that something, my friends, happens to be a little show they call "What Not to Wear".

It's true: I'm hooked!

And lucky me, it's on not once, but TWICE a day. Mmhmm, at 11:00 and 2:00.

So aside from taking fashion notes from Stacy and Clinton, I'm also plotting my own debut on the show.

I'm thinking the way to go would be to make seasonal sweaters (complete with matching turtlenecks, of course), apple earrings the size of 50-cent pieces, and denim jumpers staples in my wardrobe. I'll also have to let my hair air dry everyday (that would be the real ticket. My new third graders would probably go home and cry each day because they have a swamp monster for a teacher. Whatevs -- it'd be worth it for the $5,000 makeover, right?).

So now I think that's on my summer "to-do" list: make my wardrobe and physical appearance atrocious enough that my friends and family would secretly feel sorry for me and covertly video tape how awful I look in order for me to be on the show.

Excellent.

Honest

I chose the title of today's [long overdue] blog post because that's exactly what this will be. Honest.

I've written a number of entries regarding this, but found it too close for comfort to share. And when you blog, you put pieces of yourself "out there". Once "there", they are free for others to judge, pity or not believe. I simply write this evening for anyone who has gone through something similar. And I write, as always, for myself. Maybe tonight, it will give me some comfort. Maybe tonight, it will give me some sleep.

For the past year, I've been sans my monthly friend. For some, this might elicit a fist pump. Lord knows there have been times when we women wish our monthly gift would just stay away on that summer day when we're going to the beach or on the day you chose to wear khaki pants to work. Unfortunately, I'm not fist pumping.

And I haven't been all along.

No one can quite seem to put their finger on why she's gone. Initially, my doctor, a trainer and a nutritionist all suggested my weight. "Gain 10-15% of your current body weight," they instructed (but NO whipped creme Santas, remember? Because they'll go straight to my rear. HA! I maintained my nasty one-a-day habit and haven't noticed any size change yet...). "And while you're at it," they explained, "why don't you cut back on your weight lifting, too. Just to be sure."

And I did as they said.

I stuffed my face.

Little by little, that little number on the scale increased.

And little by little, my pants got smaller and tighter.

I won't lie: it wasn't fun. In fact, there were days that I looked at myself in my spandexy exercise clothes and saw my tummy spilling a little over the edge of my pants. And days when I was stuffing myself into certain pants. On those days, I felt like Jessica Simpson when she wore those mom jeans, minus the great hair she has... and the multi-millions. Don't remember? Let me jog your memory:

Regardless of how I felt about my changing body on some days, I was happy. I was happy to know that this might get me one step closer to having the choice and the ability to have a baby. I was happy to have gained the weight -- after all, it certainly didn't hurt me to put on a little more.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

When I saw my doctor in April, she was thrilled with the 12 pound gain and told me I should see my monthly friend soon. But, she put me on some progesterone to hopefully get things started, because sometimes when your body's been out of "whack" for awhile, it takes awhile for the hormones to catch up and I might not see 'results' right away.

Unfortunately, still -- nothing has happened.

I cut back on my workouts more now. No more weight lifting for me :( Only yoga. Which is dandy. But lifting was something I really enjoyed, even if it was just once a week.

So I don't think it's my body weight.

They've done a few blood tests -- everything's normal.

So what now?

Just wait and see, my doctors say.

But I've been patient for a year, waiting to see if she'd arrive. And I'm starting to lose that patience.

It plagues me constantly, wondering what's wrong with my body. I go to sleep at night and the last thing I am thinking are prayers that God will fix it.

And I think that's the hardest part. I've learned it before, but apparently have forgotten in the moments that I can't help but tear up over my hopelessness with the whole thing because it seems like "nothing" is working and "no one" has an answer:

God has a plan.

And even though I don't get it right now and I'm frustrated and sad and tired of waiting and I think it pretty much sucks...

He's got a plan.

One day we'll see it.

And hopefully we'll see it in the smile of a baby girl. Or maybe a baby boy.

Hopefully in little eyes that look just like my husband's.

Or in a peanut-sized little girl, just like me.

Hopefully in four or five or however many little ones the Lord blesses us with.

And I'm not going to lie... hopefully we don't have to wait too long to know what that plan is.

Patience.


So. How's that for honesty?

For the Little Ones

After attending mass on Saturday evening, I was handed a bulletin on my way out the doors. Inside, it had a disturbing fact:

41% of pregnancies in New York City end in abortion.

Upon reading this, my husband and I talked about all the people, all the special souls God made, that never came to be.

And maybe it's because we look forward to having a little one of our own, or because we love our soon-to-be-here niece or nephew so much even before knowing them, or because every time we see our niece and nephews we're filled with joy -- but to think of all those little ones who never came to be because of humanity's selfishness is just heartbreaking.

Below is an opinion article I wrote that was printed in my current city's newspaper a few years ago. I was involved in a campus pro-life organization called "CFL" -- Collegians For Life while attending my university. In the spring of 2008, we voted and decided to bring the controversial "Genocide Awareness Project" (GAP). This article was a response to some of the public's detestation of the presentation and abortion in general. If you're not sure how you feel about abortion (and even, or maybe especially, if you are), I hope it just makes you reconsider a bit... that, or change your mind completely :)

Published Saturday, April 26, 2008
In response to Deb White’s article in the April 17 Forum, “Exhibit offensive, exploitive”:

Does Genocide Awareness Project utilize photographs from the Holocaust and of lynched African-Americans? Yes. But it also utilizes photographs of children from every culture. These children are sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, grandsons, granddaughters, sons and daughters of everyone. They are part of every culture. They are the past, present and future generations who never had a chance at life.

That said, I’d like to share some insight from a Rwandan woman who saw the GAP display on her college campus. She walked by and pointed at the picture of a child murdered in Rwanda on one of the signs, saying that it portrayed what happened to members of her family.

The GAP team member expressed deep sympathy, apologizing for any pain the photographs were inflicting, adding, “What do you think?” The woman thought a moment, pointed at the aborted babies in front of her, and said, “They had it worse. My people could run. These children had no chance.”

One cannot say that people “vehemently disagree” with GAP’s message just because it shows how awful their ancestors were treated. In fact, Martin Luther King Jr.’s niece, Alveda King, supports GAP. Last August, she said “the killing of a quarter of the black population of the United States has not been from lynch mobs, but from abortionists, who plant their killing centers in minority neighborhoods and prey upon women who think they have no hope … the great irony is that abortion has done what the Klan only dreamed of.”

In the United States, abortion facilities and offices of Planned Parenthood are often concentrated in poor areas where the black population is especially targeted. King also pointed out that “in the last 40-plus years, 15 million black people have been denied their most basic civil right, the right to life. Roughly one-quarter of the black population is now missing.”

The goal of GAP and Collegians for Life isn’t to show some grotesque images for “shock value” but to increase awareness. If we are so disgusted and repulsed by photographs of abortion, why do we let it happen? Making it invisible does not make it nonexistent. The truth of the matter is this: Abortion is awful, brutal, inhumane and murder. No matter what your stance – pro-life or pro-choice – you should know what you are endorsing.

In September 1955, a young African-American named Emmett Till was brutally murdered for senseless reasons. His body, especially his face, was a horrible sight, but when asked if she wanted a closed casket, his mother said, “No. Let the people see what I have seen. I think everybody needs to know what had happened to Emmett Till.”

More than 50,000 people saw what happened to Till because of his mother’s decision. A magazine also published a photo of his body, exposing millions around the globe to this act of brutality. This event is considered to be the “sleeping giant” of the civil rights movement – 100 days later, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a bus, and four days after that, Martin Luther King Jr. gave his first civil rights speech.

This truth that Emmett Louis Till’s mother decided to share with the world changed the course of history forever. Was it gruesome and unpleasant to witness? Yes. But did it wake people up to a huge atrocity? Indeed. Maybe if we follow the example of Mrs. Till and share another gruesome and unpleasant truth, people will wake up again.

Whipped Creme Santas

Back in October, I decided to make an appointment to take a seat in an egg-shaped spaceship-esque contraption known as the "BodPod" at my former gym. It informed me that my percentage of body fat was that of an "elite athlete" (um, someone please give my middle and high school P.E. teachers a call. I think they'd go into cardiac arrest). Anyway, since then, I've been trying to gain some weight to hopefully get it into a more "normal person" category.

Sounds like fun, right?

Careful what you wish for. Somehow, gorging myself on sweets and such isn't quite as fun as one might imagine it. Anyway, since then I've gained about seven pounds and had been hoping that meant I was on the fast-track to my middle school self (i.e., completely unathletic in both ability [which, by the way, has gone unchanged anyway] and in body fat percentage). Unfortunately, I had another nutrition appointment this afternoon and found out that I am still too low.

So the nutritionist asked what I've been eating each day. And though I'd intended on pretending like I was a fabulous eater who feasts on leafy greens each night (ha! In my husband's dreams!), word vomit happened and I spilled the beans on my naughty eating habits: candy, ice cream and (gasp!) non whole-wheat english muffins! What a silly girl I've been. What have I been thinking?

Let's just say she was only slightly appalled at my eating choices.

And she shared her disdain of them with me by telling me that though I look slim now, I have many tomorrows ahead of me. Whoopsies. And that the food choices I'm making will do some fancy converting thing (I didn't quite follow what she was saying) and wind up as fat on my glutes.

That's right, my friends. All those fluffy, whipped creme Santas (59 of them, to be exact. If you've been reading my blog for awhile, you'll remember I bought a hefty amount of whipped creme hearts after Valentine's Day last year -- these are the same, only in Santa format) I bought on the day after Christmas for 19 cents apiece are all going to end up making me have something in common with the man who the confections are shaped after: a large butt.

Hey thanks, nutritionist lady. Great way to get me to put on a few more pounds and get where I need to be, body-fat-percentage-wise: tell me I'm going to end up with a monster-sized tush. Granted, I totally get where she was going with it all: to gain weight the healthy way, not the candy way. But still... really?

Anyway, on the bright side, if my butt does get bigger, it might rival that of J. Lo... which is what one of my fellow third grade teachers offered to call me this week because of my enlarging ba-donk-a-donk (thank you, squats and lunges!). At that point, I didn't think I had anything on her -- but apparently if I keep this up, I just may.

Whatevs. I totally decided to not put in a work-out after my nutritionist appointment. And then I totally went home and ate one of those delicious, butt-enlarging whipped creme Santas. Bring it on!

Feelin' Hot, Hot, Hot!

Has anyone else noticed how fast weekends go? Sorry, that's a silly question. It just feels like Friday was literally two seconds ago -- and here I am with the Sunday night "pit". Which is weird in itself, too. By no means do I dislike my job. On the contrary; in fact, the past few Fridays I've found myself disappointed that the week has to come to an end and that I won't see my students again until Monday.

Regardless, I should stop complaining. My dinosaur-sized goal for 2011 is to enjoy and love every single day. Too often I spend time wishing it were the weekend, Christmastime, summertime, babytime (did I say that out loud? Shh! Don't tell), anytime but the present. And what a silly waste of time it is to spend my moments wishing for a different one.

So today, rather than spending my post-Church, Culver's, grocery store Sunday afternoon parked on our near-perfect micro suede couch with hubby's freshman-year laptop warming my thighs, I decided I'd do something different.

How different?

Very different.

As I've mentioned before, pilates is something I really enjoy. However, over the summer the hubs and I moved home due to summer jobs. The Y at home didn't have pilates at a good time for me... but they did have yoga. Luckily I'm not so serious about pilates that I felt yoga couldn't fill the void that pilates was leaving in my abs. So I hopped on the yoga train for the summer! And when we moved back to our former (and current) location, I switched back to pilates.

Tomatoes/tomatos, pilates/yoga, whatevs. All I know is they both help me relax and they apparently make muscles long and lean.

So anyway, unfortunately this new women's gym I joined doesn't offer either at a great time for me -- except for early Sunday afternoons. Now, as a general rule of thumb, I refuse to step foot in a gym A) more than four times per week and B) on the weekends. However, this yoga they're offering on Sundays is a special kind of yoga -- "hot yoga" to be exact. And hot yoga is literally just that -- you go in this room and they turn on space heaters to make the room a ridiculous temperature to do down dog in.

Which sounded entirely unappealing the first time I heard about it.

But then my city landed itself in the midst of an ice age with -30 degree wind chills. And I can't make it to somewhere tropical anytime soon, so why not go to a steamy yoga room with 25 women?

So hubby was extra kind and agreed to chauffeur me to and from the gym. And I found myself on a cushy blue mat in the front row where everyone could watch my sweaty-like-a-pig reflection.

Apparently it wasn't quite as toasty as usual in there, but it was definitely sauna-esque. Prior to beginning, the instructor asked us to think of an "intention" for our yoga practice today.

Beh?

An 'intention' for my one hour of yoga?

Sorry lady, but I only say prayers for intentions. And I don't think yoga is a form of prayer. At least, not in my own personal book.

And then the weirdest thing happened.

So we're supposed to be all solemn and thinking of who we're "offering" our yoga for today and the instructor turns on some 80s music.

Wait, wait... what? You mean we're supposed to be all spiritual-like and let our toxins be released via sweating while "Tainted Love" plays in the background?

A slow, smart-alec smile spread across my face as I tried not to giggle. Note to self: hot yoga is no place to smile. This is serious business, apparently. Everyone else around me had their eyes close and were totally getting their "chi" on... whatever that means.

As the hour went by, 80s tune after 80s tune played on (yes, no lie: a full hour of all the best 80s hits... including "Jesse's Girl" slowed down and turned into a ballad. HA!) and my typically greasy face turned into an oil slick. Luckily everyone's eyes were closed or they probably would've been blinded by the light reflecting off my T-zone, so it worked out.

But all sarcasm aside, the hour was incredibly relaxing. And it didn't at all feel like a workout -- that's what I like about yoga. Not that you don't work hard (because believe me, that perspiring wasn't just from the heat), but it's just not something you keep looking at the clock thinking, "When will this death march be over?"

Plus, the last thing you do in a yoga class is "final relaxation" -- here, you find a 'pose' that's most comfortable for you and you just lie there. Today I think we did this for a good ten minutes, which was a very welcome thing because our upstairs neighbors had us up for a few hours at 3:00 a.m. (yes, inconsiderate neighbor, we could hear you drumming away to Weezer loud and clear. Darn you, Wii Rock Band!). I'm pretty sure I even fell asleep for awhile in final relaxation today.

Unfortunately, I was jolted back to reality by what sounded like an electric pencil sharpener. And in my half-sleep state, it made me deliriously think I was in my classroom with one of my students getting up mid-language arts lesson to sharpen their pencil. Luckily I grasped reality before probing the woman next to me with the question, "can you share with us when pencils should be sharpened?" in my best teacher voice.

Shortly thereafter, adult nap-time (er, "final relaxation") wrapped up and back into the frigid temperatures I went.

Until next week, that is.

Yep, you heard me right. I think hot yoga and I are friends.

Assuming I can move beyond the awful music, of course :)

No spouses allowed!

For some odd reason, I am downright exhausted. Never mind that I had two of my five work-week days sans third graders apparently, because I am beat. I think I'll blame it on the -11 degree temperatures (that feel like -18 degrees...) around here.

But tomorrow's Friday! And the only thing that makes Friday even better are two things: the chance to wear JEANS to school and also that my outfit has been decided for me. Yes, my friends, I don't even have to pick out my clothes -- they've been pre-selected by the main social committee at school, who planned our annual holiday gathering (my first-ever grown-up holiday party! Exciting, right?) for tomorrow after school (no spouses allowed. Not gonna lie: I am beyond ecstatic about that. I have a feeling that spouse-included Christmas parties could hold an ample amount of awkwardness). And they've requested we get decked out in school-spirit wear. Don't mind if I do!

Because, friends, it seems one of the more difficult parts of my day is deciding what to put on the following morning.

So in advance... Happy Friday! :)

Dear Prude[nce].

Apparently 2011 brought along some unexpected twists. Unfortunately, I'm not referring to winning the lottery or being (surprise!) pregnant, because neither of those have happened. Nope, nothing quite that awesome. However, it did bring me somewhere I never thought I'd be: lying on top of a massage table, sans much of my clothing. Yes, my friends: the girl who has spent her entire life being beyond creeped out by massages, got a massage today.

Now, don't be deceived: I did not pay for it. Well, scratch that. I did pay for it -- but not really by choice, in a sense. I've been a faithful gym goer for the past year and have piggybacked on my husband's University wellness center account each semester for pretty cheap. However, due to convenience (or lack there-of), I opted out of that gym and joined another, women-exclusive club that is within a 2-mile radius of both school and my apartment. Hooray for sanity and a few extra hours of time in my classroom every single week! Anyway, along with sanity and being married to my third graders, this new all-woman locale came with a hefty price tag. Well, hefty to this cheapskate, anyway. I signed up for an 18-month contract and it's costing me $39.00/month (minus my "thanks for going to the gym 12 times/month" credit).

Unfortunately, there was a teeny-tiny surprise that came alongside that monthly fee: a $100.00 "kickstart" fee (which, by the by, I was told was optional when I first came and toured the place. Turns out, it's not optional. When I mentioned I was given bad information, they offered to let me split the sum into three separate payments. Laaame. Where's the customer service?) Regardless, like a sucker... I paid it. And it came with a variety of items I really didn't need: a canvas tote that sports the name of their gym (to add to my 8,000 other totes I already own and don't need); a water bottle (again, to add to my 12 I already don't use); a date with a nutritionist and a fitness specialist; and finally, the perk that landed me on a masseuse's table today: a 30-minute massage.

Excuse me while I cringe and/or vomit.

See, massages have always rubbed me the wrong way (sorry for the pun. It seriously wasn't intentional, I kind of hate puns). In high school some kids liked to give/receive them (I think it was a band/choir geek thing) but I never got into that whole bit. It always weirded me out. Anyway, I'd paid $100.00 for this massage today, so I figured I'd better get my share.

Oddly enough, my masseuse shared my same name but spelled it in a quirky fashion. I abide by the general rule of thumb that you can't trust anyone with two first names... or with an extra-quirky spelling. She first asked me where I wanted my massage to be focused: my scalp? Neck? Upper back? Face?

Uh, face? You mean you can massage someone's face? Who knew! And thanks, but no thanks.

She left the room so I could crawl under the puffy, snow-white, down comforter -- and that's when the best part happened: it was a heated massage table. Yes, heated. This may not sound like much to anyone who isn't living in my region at the moment, but this morning it was -23 degrees Fahrenheit. So heated bed? I think, yes. This alone was worth the $100.00! Well, not really. But I'll just keep telling myself that.

It was also at that moment I noticed she had this Chineseish music playing the background. Thank you, masseuse, for making me feel all cultural-like as I wait under these covers awkwardly, semi-disrobed for you to walk in the door.

I'm not going to lie: I'm definitely a semi-prude, so this was quite possibly the most nerve-wracking thing I've done. I'd put it right up there with walking down the aisle at my wedding or being at the highest point on the Wild Thing at Valleyfair.

Okay, so I'm completely exaggerating. But I would be lying if I said I didn't think about slipping out the back door.

But I didn't. And I survived. But I don't think I calmed down once during the whole thing. Especially at the point when she was giving me a neck massage and she put two of her fingers where my skull meets my neck. For one thing, it was extremely painful. And another, I began to seriously wonder whether or not her fingers would puncture that area and I'd be found dead in this back room by the police. Apparently I've watched too much gruesome CSI, because I don't think that's a normal thing to think of.

She also used oils and got them in my hair. Good thing I'm on schedule to shower and wash my hair tomorrow morning, otherwise I probably would have been semi-distraught (yes, I have a hair washing schedule that I strictly adhere to. And yes, I only wash my hair a few days a week. Don't be hatin'!).

Eventually, I was asked to flip over and lie on my stomach and put my head through one of those circle pillow deals that you see on all massage tables. My face got all smashed and contorted and all I could think of was how my face would look smashed up like that. Seriously, that's pretty much what I thought about the whole time.

And before I knew it, my half-hour of thinking about CSI, smashed faces and gross massage oils in my hair was up. And after a semi-stressful first day back at school with kiddos in my room after the long weekend, I can honestly say that I didn't feel really all that "de-stressed" from the experience. Of course, it probably didn't help at all that I didn't once let my mind drift off into China with that cultural music she had going on. Regardless, I don't think I'll ever find myself lying on a masseuse's table again. Yoga and pilates are a way better 'relaxer' for this lady.

Not to mention, I'll probably save up the money I could spend on getting massages and buy a heated bed of my own instead for -25 degree nights like tonight...

Dear blogging world,

After a far too long hiatus from blogging, I'm back! Only, I've got my tail between my legs.

Why, you ask?

What a horrible, stinky blogger I've been! (Sidenote: Stinky is the term I use almost always to describe my class' choice to continue talking after I've done "the clap". Yes, the clap. I've always vowed I wouldn't use it, but, alas, I caved and became my own worst nightmare. But that's a story for another time, my friends). Anyway, my horrible blogging habits have left me incredibly embarrassed! And have been one of the reasons why I've stayed away for so long. Which really doesn't make sense, but that's okay.

It's been a New Year's resolution of mine to come back to you, even though I don't "do" NY Resolutions. But I guess I do now, or something.

So, friends. I'm back! And I've got something out-of-the-norm planned for Wednesday after school.

You can anticipate a sassy post!