Is it wrong that my grocery list for my evening home alone with my husband included tortilla chips, pepper jack cheese, tequila, and crushed ice and the only item I remembered to buy was tequila?
(In case you’re wondering, the menu was nachos, margaritas, and lurve.)
Nutrient density is my new “thang.” I’m trying to cut down on the number of empty calories I consume because, really, if I am going to gain weight (as I seem to no matter how I try to lose), I might as well be healthful about it.
Choosing foods with a high nutrient density appeals to my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Rather than obsess over calories or fat grams or Weight Watcher’s Points or even the number of bites I take, I can obsess over the number of colors on my plate. (An article I read said to strive for three to four colors on your plate at each meal.)
So, on Friday, when everyone else was eating donuts, I ate an omelette made with red and green bell peppers and pepper jack cheese. For lunch at a fast food place today, I ordered chicken nuggets but chose a side salad instead of fries. When I ordered a slice of pizza the other day, I ordered it with bell peppers and had a smoothie made with mangoes, strawberries, kiwi and orange juice rather than a soda. When I serve dinner, we eat a fruit salad or melon medley in place of a starchy vegetable.
It works for me. I’m not eating that many fewer calories but at least the calories are put to work rather than situating themselves comfortably on my hips and settling in for the long haul. I’ve lost a few pounds but that wasn’t really my goal.
I just think that the time has come when I should eat like a mature, responsible grown-up rather than like a teenage kid. My body no longer burns every fat gram I ingest as it once did. And quite frankly, the junk food just doesn’t taste as good as it used to. Possibly because I know the toll it will take on my body, it is just SO not worth it.
There have been moments though where, in true Bridget Jones style, I have found ways to justify the foods that aren’t quite so good for me. Like the other day when they were serving banana splits at work and I got one because the banana, pineapple, and strawberry toppings equaled three colors and were more nutrient dense than if I had chosen only a chocolate topping and the ice cream counted as a dairy product which meant: calcium, baby!
I’m just guessing that banana splits were not exactly what the nutritionists were promoting when they started pushing the whole nutrient density idea. But I’m not going to beat myself up too bad over it.
The important thing is that I am eating healthier and squelching the child in me that demands instant gratification, preferably in the form of chocolate and french fries.
I checked my phone messages yesterday afternoon and was pleasantly surprised when I heard a strong, clear voice say, “Heather, this is Vicki . . .”
Vicki is my very dear friend of oh, about 18 years or so. We met in junior high. When I was 13 and she was . . . 43. You see, she was my choir teacher.
When I was 13, I found myself in a new town, in a new school, with new people and all of my lifetime friends left behind. When I registered for school, I was required to choose an elective and, on a whim, I chose choir. Little did I know how much I would love it.
I looked forward to the class every day. I loved singing and I loved my teacher. The one thing I did not love –in fact, I dreaded it — was sight reading. I’d seen The Sound of Music. I knew the Do-Re-Mi song. But when Vicki handed out a piece of new music and sat before the class on her red stool and guided us with hand signs for the solfege symbols, I was completely lost. Everyone seemed to know exactly what was going on except me. And, oh! how I wanted to do well in that class!
One afternoon, I decided to just bite the bullet and admit to Vicki that I was clueless. I screwed up my courage and visited her office after school. My relief when she didn’t seem amused or outraged at my ignorance was palpable. She offered to teach me and, right then and there, without hesitation, gave me a crash course in sight reading. I cried through part of the lesson –partly from relief and partly because I cry when I am nervous, I just do, it’s how I am made.
Vicki was endeared to me from that moment on and, I think, I was endeared to her. I don’t know exactly why. We just clicked and adored each other from first contact. I spent all of my extra time in her classroom. I tried out for Swing Choir the following year and made it. I attended early morning rehearsals and was her teaching assistant as well as still having my regular choir class. I often joined her after school, as well, either to help with the most current project or just to talk.
When I moved on to high school, I often came back to visit her. I’d sit on her red stool and listen and watch as she directed the choir students who came after me. I was terribly prone to skipping school and more often than not, rather than being up to no good, I was instead sitting in Vicki’s classroom soaking up the good vibe I found there.
After high school graduation, I moved away and Vicki and I kept up a faithful correspondence. No matter how many letters I wrote to her, she always wrote back promptly in her perfect, ornate handwriting. I used to have all of the letters, tied together with a red ribbon and pressed into a shoebox. I’ve since lost track of them but hope I will find them someday when I am older, looking back on my life.
Vicki secured a job for me one summer during college at a golf course where she had friends and where her daughter had worked before me. They hired me based solely on her reference. I got to see her nearly every evening when she showed up at dusk to walk her little dog. It was one of the best parts of the job.
Time passed and Vicki attended my wedding. She visited me within a week of my son being born when I was floundering and still trying to get everything together. I remember sheepishly clearing a place for her to sit in the midst of the laundry, baby paraphernalia, and general clutter and her just flashing me an amused grin and asking to hold the baby.
Vicki has moved away from my hometown now and it has been years since I’ve seen her. We don’t write like we used to and we rarely even talk on the phone. She forwards e-mails to me and I e-mail photos to her and in that manner we keep up with one another and assure ourselves that the other is alive and well. She calls me most years around my birthday. I called her when her father died back around Christmas and, before that, when she lost her mother.
It’s not exactly the closeness we once shared when we happily weaved in and out of one another’s lives in the physical sense. But the closeness that matters, that fusing of heart and soul that started so many years ago in her little office at the end of the school day, is still there.
And when we hung up after our telephone chat yesterday and she said, “Goodbye, Heather, and I love you,” I meant it when I replied, “And I love you too.”
This is why I can’t quite bring myself to be cynical and hard-hearted. It’s why I can’t close myself off to new people and experiences. Eighteen years ago, I timidly admitted that I didn’t know how to sight read and I gained a lifelong friend. Vicki is one of the brightest splashes of color on the canvas of my life.
If such a thing can happen, who’s to say the next new experience won’t also bring love and tenderness into my life? My life is still a work in progress. Who knows what beautiful and distinct strokes are yet to be painted?
I’m not very good at it yet. I’ve been experimenting with exposure and shutter speed and some of the different settings in the camera: Macro, Action, Portrait, and Night Scene.
This photo is overexposed, but can you find the lizard?
He only learned to ride his bike a few weeks ago . . .
The roses growing in front of my house.
Another shot of the roses on my dining table — with too much shadow.
My puppy!
It’s a lazy day here — perfect for practicing with my brand new camera.
About six weeks ago, my husband and I purchased a jacuzzi bathtub that’s designed to fit in a corner. It’s 60 inches by 60 inches and it has twelve jets. There are two corner recesses with three jets each along the back, one jet on each side and then two jets opposite the corner seats which are perfect for soothing aching feet. It’s a lovely bathtub. I spend as much time as possible soaking in it.
Of course, plumbing the tub was a task more monumental than my husband was willing to take on and so we hired some plumbers to come in and get the job done right.
The master plumber sent over two young chaps and, from the moment they started working, I was entertained. It was like watching a well-rehearsed comedy show. Except it wasn’t. They were for real.
I stood in the guest bathroom curling my hair while they worked one morning. The more outgoing of the two liked to bark orders: “Go get my wrench out of my truck. And hurry up!” The soft-spoken plumber ambled lazily to the truck, rooted half-heartedly in the tool box and ambled back into the bathroom, holding out a wrench.
The blustery plumber took one look at it and his eyes bulged a little. “Not that wrench, you dimwit! The other wrench. I swear. You’re just about useless!”
Unfazed, the soft-spoken plumber ambled back to the truck, chose another wrench and took his time making his way back to the bathroom. “It’s about time!” puffed the blustery plumber. “I could have had this job finished in the time it took you to get here!”
Occassionally, the soft-spoken plumber would quietly disappear. The blustery plumber would quizzically glance around the room, swear a little, and march out the front door in search of his seemingly unmotivated partner. Usually, the wayward plumber would walk back in the house and set about working on the tub whilst his frustrated co-worker searched high and low. Blustery plumber would walk back in, do a double take when he realized his search had been for naught and bellow, “Where the hell’ve you been?” Soft-spoken plumber would just shrug and keep working. Blustery plumber turned a little red in the face and muttered angrily under his breath.
The constant tension between them would have bothered me if I hadn’t seen them leaning against their trucks, laughing and talking at the end of the day as if they were the best of friends. I figured it was just their way. But I must tell you that I was not too impressed with their intellect.
My opinion changed the day they came to install the water faucets on the tub. Blustery plumber politely asked me where I would like the faucet and handles installed. I asked him to place the handles on the side of the tub and the faucet in the corner closest to the handles. He nodded and set about installing the handles as I left him to do his work while I loaded the dishwasher in the kitchen.
I was surprised a few moments later when he appeared in the door way with his hat in his hand and a slightly embarrassed look on his face. I looked at him questioningly and he said, “Um, Miz —-, I’m not trying to get all up in yours and your husband’s bizness or anythang. But this here corner of this tub, where you want the faucet installed? Well, it’s one of the corners with jets. And seeing how this is a two person tub, I thought I should point out that, if one of you’ns is sittin’ here and the other is sittin’ there . . . well, someone is gonna have a faucet in their back.”
He sheepishly looked at his feet and twisted his hat in his hands as he finished his spiel. We were both quiet for a moment and then I told him, “I think it’s a good idea to put the faucet in the corner without jets. What do you think?” He smiled, “Yes, ma’am!” and jauntily sauntered back down the hall to install the faucet.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve prayed blessings on his head for his insight. And to think I ever questioned his intellect. He may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer but he certainly understood the concept of a jacuzzi built big enough for two.
I’m fairly ambivalent about celebrating my birthday most years. I don’t know exactly what it is that causes some anxiety for me every year.
Maybe it’s that I am always pleased when my friends and family remember my birthday but am not sure how to respond to a big, hearty “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Of course, I always say, “thank you,” but that doesn’t seem right either because I didn’t do anything. I was simply born 32 years ago. It was no great accomplishment on my part. Maybe my mother should be the one getting gifts and phone calls and cards and letters. (Not really. They’re mine! All mine!) Also, I always hate it when someone forgets about my birthday. Not so much because they forgot, but because I know they are going to feel bad when they realize they forgot. And really, it’s okay. I don’t expect anyone’s world to revolve around me — not even on my birthday.
Anyway, I always go into my birthday with an equal mix of anxiety and excitement and this year was no different. Last night, though, I was struck by the realization that, for many years, there’s been someone who has smoothed out the roiling emotions that plague me and made each birthday enjoyable and special.
And that person is my husband.
Shortly after midnight yesterday, Brad curled up next to me and silkily sang into my ear, “Happy, happy birthday, bay-bie . . .” in that silly-but-still-somehow-sexy way he has of flirting with me. When his alarm woke us at 7:00 and I shrieked and jumped out of bed (because I was supposed to wake up at 6:00 and be at the hospital to give an in-service at 7:30), he calmly got up and went about the business of waking the boys, packing lunches and whatnot. As I attempted to run past him on my way out the door, he lazily snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him to give me a good-bye kiss and a calming word to start my day.
At lunchtime, he complained not at all when I requested to eat at my favorite pizza joint even though I make him eat there all the time and he is sick of it. When he got home after work, he lavished attention on me asking, “How was your day, baby? Was it as wonderful as it should be?”
After dinner with my parents at my favorite Mexican restaurant, we went back to my father’s house and enjoyed a pralines and cream ice cream pie with caramel and chocolate topping which had Brad bought earlier in the day to surprise me, because he knows I love to have a birthday cake.
Afterward, we came home and I was the recipient of a special birthday neck and shoulder massage while watching one of my favorite shows. I was tucked into bed with tender care and fell asleep with his arms around me.
Brad’s attentions were not the only good parts of my birthday. My friends and family stepped up to the plate and made me feel very loved. But it is nice to know that the person who has treated me with such tenderness for my past twelve birthdays is the same person who will be around, God willing, to make the rest of them just as gentle.
My Third Annual 30th Birthday isn’t officially until next week but Brad and the boys surprised me tonight by giving me my gifts early. The reason? They wanted me to be able to take good pictures of my brother’s wedding while we are in Las Vegas this weekend!
So, yes, I got a new Pentax SLR K100D digital camera which is totally flippin’ awesome and I love it. And yes, I am going to be in Las Vegas for the next few days.
Brad took this picture with my new toy. I question now why I am posting it as it was taken late at night after a very emotional, tiring day and thus I am wearing no make-up and look like I may fall asleep at any moment.
The boys made me handmade cards. Here’s the card from the six-year old:
I was tickled by the ten-year old’s card:
I love how he wrote, “you look 20 for 32!”
So now I’ve shared my new toy with you! I may share more pictures from Las Vegas but, then again, I may be too busy having a grand ol’ time.
I’ll see you when I see you . . .
| Your EQ is 140 |
 50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick!51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you’d have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You’ve got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You’re average. It’s easy to predict how you’ll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities – you’ve either out “Dr. Phil-ed” Dr. Phil… or you’re a dirty liar. |
It might be of interest to all of you that God once again proved he has a fantastic sense of humor by plaguing me with the ugliest, reddest, painful-est zit right above my lip right after I wrote that last post about real beauty being within. Coincidence? I think not.
Go ahead and laugh. I’ll wait.
*still waiting*
In other news, my Mother’s Day started out bright and early at 1:30 am when my stepmother, who had awaken in the night and decided to adjust her sleep number mattress, accidentally picked up the phone rather than the mattress remote. In her sleepy haze, she punched redial on her phone and called, you guessed it, me.
When I answered the phone, there was only a dial tone. I sat in my bed, crouched and shaking with dread fear that I was about to hear bad news — my grandparents were sick or dead, my brother had been in an accident, my father had a heart attack — you get the idea. I managed to dial the phone and my stepmother answered.
“Did you call me?”
“Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry. I must’ve dialed the phone in my sleep. I am so, so sorry.”
About that time, my father woke up and heard her telling me how sorry she was and he had a freak out similar to the one I had when my phone rang in the middle of the night and demanded to know why my stepmother was consoling me.
It’s nice to know that the pessimistic, over-reacting tendencies I have are hereditary.
So, I fell back asleep but had nightmares the rest of the night. I don’t do well with middle of the night phone calls.
It reminded me of the time a couple of years ago when my phone rattled me out of a sound sleep at midnight. I answered and my mother’s voice was on the other end sounding a little confused. She said, “Heather? Oh! I didn’t mean to call you. I was trying to call American Idol!” At the time, I thought I must be dreaming and tried shaking the dream-haze out of my head and going back to sleep.
What with my rather sleepless night, I was thrilled with my Mother’s Day gift: a morning home alone, away from the spawn of my loins and the man responsible for them, er, being spawned.
Yes, that’s right. For Mother’s Day, my family went to church and left me here all alone to sleep. I didn’t sleep; I talked on the phone to Sharon instead, but still. It was lovely. A morning alone!
The morning alone made the gift and handmade card that the youngest brought home from church even more endearing. He pointed out that he had written “I love you” on the card and I told him how touched I was by those few words. He shrugged and said, “It was written on a card. I just copied it down.” But he gave me a kiss and wrapped his sweet little arms around my neck after that and I told him I was glad I was his mother. He seemed pleased and consented to being pulled into my lap for more hugs and kisses.
The 10 year old woke me this morning with a card he had picked out. It said, “Mom, instead of flowers, or candy, or gifts, we bought you something you could really get some use out of . . .” Inside was a Do Not Disturb sign.
My children know me well.
I hope you all had a Happy Mother’s Day!
