Bikram Yoga is the DEVIL!

A few days ago, a friend told me she wanted to try out yoga and, knowing that I’d been exercising, asked if I’d like to take some classes with her.

“Sure!” I said excitedly. “Yoga sounds like fun!” Isn’t yoga pretty much just stretching? I can stretch! No problem! She found a great special that let us take unlimited classes for a month for $40. Awesome! Before our first class, I ran out to Target and bought a yoga mat so I looked all official and like I knew what I was doing.

So, today I met my friend, Sandi at The House of Evil yoga place. We walked in amid all the thin people who look like they do stuff like yoga. The woman behind the counter (who will be known forthwith as Satan) welcomed us. She took one look at the nice, cushy mat I’d brought and told me it wouldn’t do as it offered a modicum of comfort and comfort is not allowed in yoga. I had to use one of their paper thin mats instead. And who knew you needed to bring a towel? I sure didn’t. Although, in hindsight, I would have done well to bring a couple dozen towels. And some sponges.

We walked through the door into the yoga room and were immediately hit with a wall of heat and humidity. The air in the room would make the rainforests of the Amazon feel like a polar ice cap. It was over 100 degrees in there with enough humidity to drown a small child. We spread out our mats and sat down, talking and giggling about the ungodly heat. The rest of the people in the class were stretching and warming up, quietly sitting, and calmly relaxing.

Satan came in and took her place on the platform. She informed us that the class would last for an hour and a half, but it would feel like a lifetime, and would consist of 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises. Then she laid down the law that we were not allowed to drink water until death was about to claim us after the third posture. If we couldn’t do a posture or we felt like we were going to throw up or pass out, we could simply lie down facing the door until the moment of sanity passed and we felt like getting up and torturing ourselves again.

And the class began. Already I was covered in sweat from the intense heat and humidity and so far, all I’d done was stand up. We began with some sort of lamaze-type breathing. As if the air in the room wasn’t horrid enough, it began filling with everyone’s bad breath. The carbon dioxide in the room must have been at a toxic level at this point because everything started spinning and the dizziness threatened to take over.

I gave Sandi a sidelong glance as if to ask, “What the crap did we get ourselves into?” She returned my worried gaze as Satan instructed us to do the “half moon” posture. In this exercise, you bend your body like a tightly strung bow until you can stretch no further. When your ribs actually crack, you know you’ve done it right. This is followed by a “chair pose” in which you kind of squat down while your butt muscles cramp and Satan admonishes you to “keep your spine straight, keep your arms straight, keep your arms parallel to the ground, up on your toes, look straight ahead, keep your spine straight, stretch.” While the skinny, model, overachiever girls in front of me hold the postures perfectly, I teeter on my flat feet, unable to even get up on my toes. I try to avoid looking at myself in the mirrors that cover every surface in the room because the person staring back at me is just plain scary. I giggle uncontrollably at my lack of balance and inability to hold the posture for more than 4 seconds. Satan gives me a dirty look and reminds us there’s no talking in yoga.

At this point, I’m soaked in my own sweat and am a little disgusted to see sweat pouring off the other fools people in the class. Sweat is dripping into my eyes and running in little rivulets between my boobs. Mascara is smeared down my face, making me look like The Joker. The room has got to be at least 150 degrees now and the stench of 30 people’s sweat combined with the unbelievable heat is making me want to vomit.

Next, Satan instructs us to do the “eagle” posture. In this one, you balance on one toe while folding yourself into a position you haven’t managed since you were in the womb. I believe it was at this point when Sandi and I looked at each other and mouthed the words, “Oh my freaking gosh, let’s leave!” We bent to pick up our mats and sneak out the door, never to return. Satan reprimanded us and told us we couldn’t leave. Then she used her powers and locked the door with her mind, effectively dooming us to a slow, agonizing demise.

Resigned to death, we put our mats back on the floor and lay down while I willed myself to die quickly to get it over with. The class continued like this. Heat, a pool of sweat, pain, contortions, Satan reminding us to keep our heads up/down, elbows straight, spines straight, elbows in, index fingers outstretched, no drinking, no talking, no vomiting, more heat, pungent odors, more pain, more heat, more sweat, and occasional blackouts. At some point, we did the corpse pose. I’m pretty sure that was the only one I did correctly.

By the time the class was over, I’m pretty sure my body would have burst into flames if it wasn’t for the fact that I was lying in a couple inches of sweat (a combination of mine and everyone else’s in class). Satan cooed to Sandi and me, “Aren’t you glad you stayed?” I vehemently shouted, “No!” Well, in mind I shouted no. In reality, I mustered all my energy to move my head from side to side while whimpering.

As we limped outside into the cool, refreshing 90 degree Florida air, a stream of crazy people walked out, telling us what a great job we did and how it gets easier — all we have to do is keep coming back and pushing through the pain and misery. Satan popped her head out the door and called, “Are you coming back? It feels so good if you keep coming back!”


I laughed out loud. “No, it does not feel good. Sex feels good and I wouldn’t want to do that for an hour and a half in 110 degree heat. I sure as heck don’t want to fold my body into a pretzel do yoga! I have a better idea. Instead of pushing through the pain and misery, I’m going out for margaritas tomorrow, and I will be staying in dry clothing the whole time. Namaste that!”

And the Torture Continues . . .

I’ve been walking and/or doing step aerobics 
every day for a couple weeks now. Because I was pretty sure I was at death’s door after my walk yesterday, I decided to do a workout video today instead. I have an old Kathy Ireland tape that I haven’t picked up in years. And now I remember why.

I popped the tape in my player and Kathy Ireland appeared on the screen looking perfectly coiffed, makeup beautifully applied, body skinny and toned. I immediately hated her. Before she started, she introduced her mom who was working out next to her on the video. If her mom can do this, I can totally do it too, I convinced myself.

She began in a soothing voice, “Let’s do some warm-ups,” then she proceeded to contort her body in ways worthy of a Barnum and Bailey’s side show. Oh, this can’t be right, I thought to myself. If this is just the warm-up, what the heck is she going to do for the work-out?

“Doesn’t that feel good?” she cooed. No, Kathy. No, this most definitely does not feel good. Lying in a lounge chair, a margarita in hand, and a hot young guy rubbing sunscreen on me would feel good. Stabbing myself in the eye with a sharp stick would feel better than this. Getting hit by a cement truck would feel better than this. But this, this torture you’re promoting, does not feel good, you evil work-out devil.

Why does she have to show off her abs like that? Is that really necessary? I glanced down at my own abs. The only evidence of a six-pack was the jello-like squishiness left from giving birth to my six-pack of kids. But wait a minute! What’s that I see? I think I see an ab! I did one more crunch before the searing pain hit me, making me realize my “ab” is actually just a hernia.

But that’s okay because this week a couple people have told me that my face looks thinner, which, of course, is everyone’s dream come true. I mean, that’s the whole reason I started exercising – I thought my face looked fat. Not my butt. My face. I figured I could stand to trim a few inches off my cheeks. The cheeks on my face, that is. Uh huh. Why is it that the first place we notice weight loss is in our faces and/or our boobs? It’s just cruel, I tell ya.

I kept huffing and puffing, attempting to do sit-ups or at least not die. Why does she have that stupid smile plastered on her face, I thought angrily. Does she think she’s fooling anyone into thinking that this is pleasant in any way, shape, or form? I have a butt cramp and I want to slap that smile off her face. Is it possible for your butt muscle to catch on fire from too many squats?

After a couple more minutes of watching the evil woman taunt me, I decided I’d had enough and staggered over to my scale. Obviously, since I’d suffered so greatly, I must have lost at least five pounds. I stepped on the scale and was utterly shocked to see that my weight was the same as it was before I started the tape! Is it too much to ask for instant gratification and immediate weight-loss after exercising for twenty minutes? I think not!


I collapsed on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water, too tired and sore to get in the shower and too depressed that I hadn’t dropped three dress sizes during my workout. I did what’s becoming a daily ritual for me – I denounced my supermodel plan and embraced my lie around like a slug plan. At least until tomorrow when I’ll devise a new form of torture and force myself to exercise again.

The Supermodel Plan (aka - how exercise is gonna kill me)

In January, I made my annual resolution – 
lose weight. Yeah, I know, real original. Generally, this resolution lasts until about January 2nd, give or take a day. This year, however, I’ve stuck with it. Or maybe I haven’t exactly stuck with it, but I haven’t completely given up on it either. I’ve been making careful food decisions, choosing vegetables over cookies, fruit over pasta, sawdust bars over chocolate. Despite that, the weight has been coming off pretty slowly so I finally came to terms with the fact that I can no longer count brushing my teeth and fastening my sandals as exercise. I need to add actual exercise – the kind that makes you sweat and scream in pain – to my repertoire.

I’m doing this for myself.  I’ve neglected myself a lot over the years.  Having six kids kinda does that to you.  The past couple years especially have been tough.  I know the kids have had a rough time dealing with the divorce and the way their dad has changed.  I know they’ve had a difficult time adjusting to the move.  I’ve been dedicated to ensuring their well-being at all costs.  Every moment, every decision I make, everything I do is spent with their best interest in mind.  If I have a spare moment, it’s given to my kids, whether it’s helping them with homework, talking to them, teaching them life skills, or even working so I can make enough money to pay for football sign-up or a dress for the dance, etc.

I don’t regret any of those choices.  I’ve done what needed to be done and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.  But now that we’re all developing a new sense of normal and getting into a good groove and adjusting pretty well, I feel the need to take some time for myself.  I’m pushing the selfish feelings I have aside and, much like the airline safety video states, I’m putting on my own oxygen mask so I can better assist others.

I have a plan.  I’ve named it the Supermodel Plan.  By the end of summer, I will look like a supermodel, or I’ll at least look good enough that no one will try to push me back in the ocean when I’m lying on the beach.

How hard could it be, right?  I mean, when I look at the dating profiles of all these guys, I see so many of them state they like working out.  They even include pictures of themselves at the gym.  They’re smiling in the pictures and they look like they enjoy working out.  If all those guys can do it, I can totally do it too, I convinced myself.

Today, I opted to go for a walk.  I dug out my tennis shoes and found a pair of socks.  Clay took one look at me and asked, “What’s on your feet?”  That’s how often I wear shoes.  My own son was confused and couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t barefoot or clad in flip flops.  I walked outside, popped in my earbuds, fired up my iPod and started down the street at a fast clip.  Heck, I was practically jogging I was going so fast.  I got to the end of the street, rounded the corner, and slowed down because my feet were hot.  I considered ditching my shoes and continuing barefoot, but thought it would probably be bad if I stepped on something sharp.  I walked on toward the lake.

A couple weeks ago, I tried walking around the track at school, but after two laps, I got tired and quit.  By walking to the lake, it’s tough luck if I get tired because I still have to walk back home.  I’m pretty sure this method has been deemed torture by Amnesty International and the Geneva Convention, but I force myself to do it anyway.

As I walked on, I became aware of the fact that I could no longer breathe like a normal human.  I gasped and panted and groaned (and not in a good way either).  I think I may have started wheezing at some point, but the blood pounding in my ears made me deaf to my breathing and moaning.  Soon after I became oxygen-deprived, I got a cramp in my side.  I stopped for a moment, bent over, held my side, and gasped like a fish out of water.  I thought about knocking on the door of the nearest house and asking them for a ride home, but let’s face it – if someone looking like me showed up at my door, I’d call the police, not offer them a ride home.  I straightened and kept going.

By this time, I was dripping wet.  As I arrived at the lake, I remembered being told once that “pigs sweat, men perspire, and women glow.”  I gave a little snort to myself as my glowing-ness dripped into my eyes, down my back, between my boobs.  I thought about jumping in the polluted lake to cool off before heading home.  I saw an alligator which surprisingly didn’t deter me, but made me want to jump in even more simply because I figured an alligator bite equaled an ambulance ride home.

I don’t remember anything from the time I reached the lake to when I walked in my front door, but I think I may have crawled part of the way.  I stumbled inside, ripped off my shoes and socks, and collapsed on the floor amid a chorus of insults from my kids.  “Mom, did you just take a shower?  You smell like outside.  Why is your face so red?  Are you dead?”

In order to attract all sorts of younger men who are physically fit, I think I’ll add this photo to my online dating profile with the caption – ‘I’m sexy and I know it.  I work out!’ What man wouldn’t find a woman who can’t walk three miles without turning beet red, going into cardiac arrest, and sweating enough to look like she’d just come out of the shower attractive, right?

540496 10150986363490116 606385115 9430710 2065085613 n 225x300 The Supermodel Plan (aka   how exercise is gonna kill me)


I’ve made a slight adjustment to the Supermodel Plan.  It’s now called the Lie Around Like a Slug All Summer Plan.  I’m okay with that.

Oh Clay, I'm so Proud (For Real This Time)

This morning, I attended an Honor Roll Breakfast 
at the grade school my kids attend. Clayton got straight As last quarter so we celebrated his success today. When the principal called the kids’ names, they walked on stage to accept their certificates. The teachers were standing alongside the principal and most of the kids either shook their teacher’s hands or gave them hugs. When it was Clay’s turn, however, his teacher reached out her arms to give Clay a hug but instead, he did some weird-looking, double high-five type maneuver. He may be a straight A student, but he’s still my Clay.

After all the kids had received their awards, I got up so I could kiss my kids goodbye and head to work. On the way out, I stopped and said hello to Clayton’s teacher.

“Hi, Ms. Meehan!” Then to Clay, “Good job, Clayton!”

In response, Clay crossed his eyes and made a goofy face.

His teacher continued. “Clayton is one of my best role models in class now.”

I glanced at Clay who was hopping around like he was standing on hot coals. Then I looked back at her for confirmation that we were indeed talking about the same kid.

“Clayton?” I asked, dubiously. “He’s a role model?” I asked, certain I’d misheard her.

“Yes!” she confirmed, smiling at us.

Now, this is the same kid who got in trouble regularly in kindergarten. And first grade. And the beginning of second grade. This is the same kid who was written up for throwing corn across the lunchroom, punching a kid, standing on the toilet and hanging from the bathroom stall, kicking a kid, pushing a kid down, and calling a kid names.

This is the same kid who came out to my car one day after kindergarten, and when I asked him if he’d gotten in trouble at school, answered, “Nope, I was good today.” When I asked him, “Then why is your teacher walking out to the car?” he frantically yelled, “I don’t know drive, drive, DRIVE!” as he ducked down in my car.

This is the same kid who writes books about poop, and dances around the house making silly faces. The same kid who tried to eat Brooklyn’s homework last night. The same kid who ricochets off my van while shouting, “Parkour!” every morning.


I had several people tell me I should be proud of myself because I did such a great job raising a straight A student. No way! If I take credit for his good grades, I’ll have to take credit for his um, “oddities” and there is no way I’m willing to do that!

I Don't Feel Bad When I Throw up on my Dentist

My kids were eating Airheads yesterday and asked 
me if I wanted one. Repulsed by the idea, I adamantly refused to try the sticky, sweet stuff, insisting it would likely pull out my teeth. I used to have good teeth, I did! Then I had kids. And now my teeth are the consistency of sandstone; they crumble apart at the slightest pressure. So I was a very good girl and didn’t eat any garbage that could damage what’s left of my teeth.

Ironically, not ten minutes later, I was washing dishes and felt like there was something stuck in my tooth. I used my finger to dislodge the particle only to discover it wasn’t a piece of food at all. It was a filling. Or part of my tooth. Or something that was definitely not supposed to come out. Which is just another argument in my growing list of reasons why doing dishes is bad for your health.

So I made an appointment for this afternoon and figured I might as well get the tooth next to it filled as well while I’m there, (I lost that filling over a year ago.) I’d go to the dentist more often if it weren’t for the four foot long needles, the drill, the sucky thing, the variety of nasty tasting solutions they put in your mouth, and the picture of Steve Martin singing and dancing around with a maniacal look on his face that run through my head every time I consider making an appointment.

This particular dentist has a TV in the room and plays a movie for you while you’re in the chair of doom. I suppose it’s to take your mind off the fact that he’s dislocating your jaw like a python and drilling holes in your head. Today, the movie du jour was National Treasure. I like Nicholas Cage so I was okay with his choice. Of course, I only got to see the first few minutes before he tipped me back so far that all the blood rushed to my head and pounded in my ears until I thought I’d pass out. Then the fun began.

I received my standard-issue paper bib and sunglasses. I’m not sure what the sunglasses are for. My old dentist didn’t do this. Maybe it’s to keep flying spit and stuff out of your eyes. I was just thankful they weren’t 3D glasses because the dentist coming at you with a drill in 3D is not something that anyone should ever experience.

He put some super-nasty gel that tasted like rotten pineapple mixed with grain alcohol on my gums to numb them. Then he gave me a shot of Novocaine (or whatever numbing agent they use these days) and left to sharpen his tools while it took effect. When he came back (and took me away from Nick again), he asked me if my lip was good and numb. “Uh no. Is it supposed to be?” I asked, freaking out that I’d feel him drilling, jump out of the chair, and stick to the ceiling like a cartoon cat reacting to a dog bark. And then I did an about-face and freaked out that he’d give me another shot so I offered, “My cheek is numb though.”

After determining that I wasn’t numb enough, he gave me another shot. Some shot juice squirted out of the syringe and arced through the air, landing on my sunglasses. Ahhh, so that’s what they’re for! I wondered if my eye would be numb if it weren’t for the protective eyewear. Would I be able to move my eye? Would it dilate? I spent the next couple minutes thinking about this until he came back to check my numb-ocity level. My lip still wasn’t numb at all, so he gave me yet another shot.

By this time, Nicholas Cage had found The Charlotte and my lip still wasn’t very numb. My ear, on the other hand, was very numb. It felt cold and wet and I kept turning my head to make sure there wasn’t a dog licking it.

The dentist (who probably wanted to get home for dinner) decided I was numb enough and started drilling. Everything was fine for a minute until – what the crap?! I jumped up (and thought about grabbing the drill out of his hand). “Should it feel like I was hit by lightning in my tooth?”

Enter the fourth shot of Novocaine. While he drilled my cavity, the smell of burning teeth assaulted my nostrils and images of Bill Cosby doing his dentist bit flash through my mind. “There’s smoboke combing out of myby moubouth!”

He finished drilling my cavity, put some vile, bitter swill in the crater, then went on to fix the tooth that fell apart yesterday.

“I can’t really put another filling in here,” he informed me. It won’t last. You don’t really have any tooth left. You need a crown.”

My eyes lit up at the thought of a crown. “A crown, you say? Now, would that technically make me a princess?” I inquired. I’m not sure, but I think he replied with, “No, but it will let me buy that boat I’ve had my eye on.”

He started drilling and once again I felt pain from my tooth down to my toes so he shot me up again. That’s right – FIVE shots of Novocaine. FIVE! By this time the entire left side of my body was numb. I probably looked like I’d had a stroke.

When the drilling was finally done, I was pretty sure I’d need surgery to fix my permanently dislocated jaw. Then he did something so diabolical, I shudder to recall the details. He shoved some sort of cord around what was left of my tooth, pushing it down into my gums with an ice pick. That wasn’t fun, but the really horrible part was that it was soaked in rat poison or something. As it dripped down my throat, I gagged. Repeatedly. The assistant backed away so quickly, she nearly fell off her chair. I would have laughed at her reaction, but I threw up instead. I can’t say that I felt bad about it either.


For dinner tonight, I had a smoothie and enough Advil to kill a horse. I don’t believe I’ll ever go back for my crown. Royalty is highly overrated!

Taste Takes Flight for Wings

As you know, I was one of the contributing authors for Margaret McSweeney's book, Pearl Girls (available here). 100% of the proceeds from the sale of this inspiring book are going to Hands of Hope and Wings, two very worthwhile organizations. I've done book signings for Wings (Women In Need Growing Stronger) and I love what the organization does. Wings provides safe houses for women and children fleeing domestic violence, job training and placement, transitional housing, hope, and so much more for those in the Chicagoland area.

Wings is holding a fundraiser, Sip, Sample, and Shop on Friday, April 27th at The Meadows Club in Rolling Meadows. Tickets are $50 each. I wish I was back in Chicagoland for this because it looks like it'll be a DELICIOUS time! I mean, there will be wine, chocolate, and tasty fare from local restaurants like Chessie's/111 Grille, L'Eiffel Bistrot and Creperie, and Wild Asparagus so what's not to like, right?

Aaaaand, Katie Workman, founder of the super-popular cookstr.com(a fabulous website with great cookbook recipes and a phenomenal search engine. You can type in ingredients from your fridge and pantry and voila--- recipes will pop up!) will be there doing a cooking demo and signing copies of her new cookbook: The Mom 100 Cookbook! In fact, my dear friend, Margaret McSweeney recently interviewed Katie on Kitchen Chat. You can check it out HERE!

If you're in the Chicagoland area, check out the event! And have a glass of wine and some chocolate for me. Oh and give Margaret McSweeney a hug for me. (I hate having to do these things by proxy!)  You can get your tickets online HERE. Want a chance to win a ticket to the event? You're in luck! I have one ticket (a $50 value) along with a copy of Katie's new cookbook to give away to one lucky winner! Just leave me a comment here in order to be included in the random drawing on Wednesday. Make sure you include your contact information. Good luck and thank for supporting Wings!

Twelve Tips for Your Online Dating Profile

Many of you know that I joined eHarmony recently. If you don't know, you're clearly not reading my blog often enough. You know who you are. (pointed, raised eyebrow stare) Anyway, I'm not sure that online dating is for me. I'm not in a rush to find a husband or anything. If God leads me to a good man, that's great. If not, then I know I'll be supplied with the tools I need to survive and be happy on my own. It's all good.

That said, I've learned a few things from my foray into the world of online dating and I feel the need to share them here. There are a LOT of you who need help with your dating profiles. In fact, I'd venture to wage that most of you could stand some help. If you think you don't fall into this category, ask yourself - How much interest is my profile generating? Am I getting emails, winks, icebreakers, and messages from possible matches? Are people even taking the time to look at my profile? If you aren't receiving the attention you desire then perhaps your profile is making potential matches think you're an uneducated troll not that desirable. Allow me to elaborate.

Here, in no particular order, are twelve rules for creating a decent online dating profile. The first three rules really go hand-in-hand, but they are all so important that I’m separating them and giving them individual attention.

1. POOR GRAMMAR

EXAMPLE: I’m am like to walks on the beach and opening the doors for ladys is something I do alot.

You don’t have to be an English teacher to use proper grammar. If this is not your strong suit, then find someone to help you! True, a poorly written profile may not scare off everyone who reads it, but it will definitely eliminate a fair amount of people who have the ability to read.

2. POOR SPELLING

EXAMPLE: I like to get out their and do phisical activitiees and doing thing outside like serfing and playing soccar.

Two words – spell check. Again, if spelling is something with which you struggle, get help!

3. POOR PUNCTUATION

This will undoubtedly come as a shock to some of you, but stringing 250 words together does not a sentence make.

EXAMPLE: Let’s eat Grandma! Or Let’s eat, Grandma!

Punctuation: It saves lives.

4. BORING PROFILES

Stand out! I read several profiles a day and they all sound the same. Why should I take time out to talk to some guy who sounds like every other guy out there?

EXAMPLE GUY A: I’m looking for someone honest who likes the same things I like. My partner must like keeping in shape and watching movies. I hope to find that special someone to share my life with.

EXAMPLE GUY B: . . . I know many women where we like each other well enough. I make ‘em laugh; we are an intellectual, moral, and recreational match. We both love Long Walks On The Beach, Fine Dining, and Can Go From Jeans-And-A-Tee-Shirt to A-Little-Black-Dress-And-Pearls In The Bat Of An Eyelash (although I had to have my LBD tailored — you should have seen the looks on their faces at Neiman Marcus). But I’m still looking for that one special person. . .

Now, just from those little snippets, who would you rather talk to?

5. TOO SPECIFIC

EXAMPLE: I’m looking for a woman who is 5’6″ and weighs no more than 140 pounds. My ideal mate has blond hair and blue eyes, but I’ll consider light brown hair. I’d really like to find someone employed in the medical field.

Although I think it’s a good idea to list some details about the kind of person for whom you’re searching, being too specific makes you sound like a jerk picky. And yes, you’re allowed to be picky about potential partners, but don’t list every requirement in your profile!

The next several rules deal with profile photographs.

6. IT WAS “THIS” BIG!

Okay men, I understand your need to document the catch of the day, but this is not a photo you want to include on your dating profile unless you’re looking to meet other men. The same goes for dead animal heads hanging on the wall.

7. PHOTOS WITH MOM

To be honest, I hesitated for a bit on this one. It could mean nothing more than a guy who’s showing potential matches that he loves his mom and he’s been taught to respect women. Then again, it might mean he lives in mommy’s basement and she still cooks for him and does his laundry. Ultimately, it’s best to leave the I <3 Mom pic off your profile.

8. PHOTOS OF VEHICLES

I’ve seen pictures of cars, campers, boats, motorcycles, jet skis, and ATVs. Again, I wonder just what audience these men are trying to impress with these photos. Yes, I’m sure there are some women who would be impressed by your car, but do you really want a woman who is talking to you solely because you own a sweet ride?

9. PHOTOS OF SCENERY

Although those shots of beautiful sunsets, peaceful lakes, and gorgeous mountains are lovely, we want to see what you look like. So, unless you’re in the foreground of that breathtaking scenery shot, leave it off your profile. Including random pictures of landscapes is no different that using a picture of a table, or a napkin, or a Cheeto on your profile.

10. OLD PHOTOS

It’s just plain mean to include pictures from your college football days when you are currently sixty pounds overweight, bald, and missing a tooth. And what do you think your date is going to say when you finally meet her in person? She’ll think you’re her match’s father! Use current photos!

11. PHOTOS IN CARS

Why do so many men like posting pictures of themselves sitting in their cars? And why are these always taken from such a low angle that it just ends up being a picture looking up the guy’s nostrils? That’s never a flattering look. For anyone.

12. BATHROOM PHOTOS

This is another common photo that people use. I guess a picture taken in a bathroom mirror isn’t that big a deal as long as there aren’t water spots all over the mirror and dirty towels/hemmorhoid medication on the counter, however it does kind of scream that you have no friends to take a picture of you. And if you must use a bathroom mirror pic, do not use a flash!

Please take my tips and feel free to pass them on to anyone who might need a little help. The online dating world will thank you. And best wishes on finding that special someone!

When You're Mom and Dad

Lexi came home with a flyer advertising the first annual father-daughter dance at her school last week. She showed me the paper and asked, “Should I just throw it away?”

My throat closed up. What do I say?

Of course, her dad isn’t going to take her to the dance. Stuff like this breaks my heart. I can juggle and juggle and work myself into the ground trying to care for everyone, but this just brings it home that I can’t do everything no matter how hard I try. I will always fall short. And the super-hero in me hates that.

I told Lexi I would bring her to the dance if she liked. A second later, Austin stepped up and offered to take her. Lexi glanced between us and hesitantly pointed to me.

“You want me to take you? I’d be happy to go with you. I will probably be the only mom there. I don’t care. I don’t think it’s a big deal, but if you think that might make you feel uncomfortable and weird, you don’t have to go at all. We could stay home and do something fun here.”

Austin said, “You might be the only mom there, but I’d be the youngest ‘father’ for sure!”

Lexi admitted that she’d feel weird going with either one of us. I encouraged her to think about it, but if she really didn’t want to go, it was no big deal. I told her we could stay home, watch movies, paint our nails, and she could eat chocolate while I eat a heaping pile of failure stew.

But how do you teach your kids how to fix stuff when you don’t even know how to hold a screwdriver? How do you teach your sons to open the door for a lady? How do you play catch with them when you throw like a girl? How do you discuss cars when the only thing you know about cars is what color they are. And more importantly, how to teach your son to grow up with good moral character? How do you teach him to be a man of his word? Yeah, yeah, I do the best I can with what I have, but I still feel like they’re missing out, not having a positive male role model in their lives. I worry about that. But still, I think no male role model is better than a poor one.

And on the subject of poor role models, although I think I may be ready to date, I am in no way, shape, or form ready to even consider introducing someone to my kids. The first time around, I married the first guy who came along even though he was completely wrong for me. I will not make that mistake again. I will only consider men of strong faith who are addiction-free, depression-free, can fix stuff, don’t chew with their mouths open, have hulking big muscly arms, who have a decent moral compass, and who walk on water so that one day, in the far-away future, they’ll make good, positive role models for my kids.

In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to be both mom and dad. I’ll keep teaching my sons and daughters what I believe is right and wrong. I’ll keep dropping balls. I’ll keep picking them back up and juggling again. I’ll keep trying to surround my kids, especially my boys, with positive male role models. I’ll keep letting my sons make fun of me for not knowing the difference between a Challenger and a Camaro. And I’ll keep trying to understand what’s so funny about farts. Actually, on the second thought, scratch that last one. I’m done trying to understand the inner workings of the male brain.

Those Kodak Moments

I love to take pictures. I’m not necessarily good at it, but I enjoy it nonetheless. Besides, if I’m behind the camera, then I won’t be caught on film because I hate getting my picture taken as much as I love taking pictures. I’ve put thousands (literally, thousands!) of pictures on flash drives and CDs. I’ll probably never have the time or money to print them and put them in albums, but now and then I like looking through them on my computer. I really like looking at other people’s pictures also. It doesn’t matter what the subject matter is, I just truly enjoy looking at pictures. If that description fits you, please feel free to take a look at some of my better photos here. I’m happy to share!

CONTINUE READING HERE!

One Small Act of Kindness - Week Six

Today, I treated myself to an iced coconut coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. As I pulled my car up to the drive-thru window and paid for my coffee, I told the cashier I’d like to pay for the person’s order behind me. I do this now and then and the good feeling I get from doing it never gets old. It spreads throughout me, warms me, and makes me smile. I drove away grinning, but got stuck in traffic. The woman whose order I’d just paid for drove up next to me, honking, waving and smiling like crazy. I nodded and smiled in return and continued my commute to work.


There are so many great things about doing random acts of kindness for strangers. For one, you get to make someone else’s day! That’s a powerful feeling. Another amazing thing that stems from your act is that the person who benefitted from your kindness is likely to pass it on in some way to another person. It really is the gift that keeps on giving. (Now I’m thinking of Clark’s Jelly of the Month Club gift on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation!) And, one of the coolest things that comes doing something nice for someone else is that it pulls you out of yourself. We get so wrapped up in our own problems and agendas that we end up unintentionally alienating ourselves from the rest of the world. We’re so focused on ourselves that we forget there’s a whole world of people out there with their own struggles.


Don’t take my word for it; try it yourself! Do something for someone else and see how it brings you out of yourself and makes you feel really good for the rest of the day!


As always, please leave me a comment with your ideas for random acts of kindness. It’s not bragging about how awesome you are; it’s sharing ideas that can benefit everyone who reads this.

Now THAT'S How You Stretch a Dollar!

I absolutely love looking at little kids’ schoolwork. I admire their drawings and I’m fascinated with the way their minds work. Reading what my little kids have written is one of my favorite things to do. Hmmmm, maybe I should include that on my eHarmony profile under how I like to spend my leisure time – deciphering the phonetic spelling of a little kid.

Clay, who is in second grade, brought this paper home today. Now, I thought I was pretty good at stretching a dollar. I can make a buck go pretty far, but Clay . . . Well, Clayton is a jedi master at making the most of his money! The question he had to answer was – What would you do if you had $100? His answer was -

If I had $100, I would buy 10 Ripsticks and 2 lamborghinis and 2 dogs and 20 controllable small cars. And I will share with everybody.

I’m not sure what kind of deal he worked out with those lamborghinis, but go Clay! In fact, how does my eight-year-old even know what a lamborghini is? Is car knowledge something boys are just born with? Hmmm, I’ll have to ask him. But awwwww, he said he’s going to share with everyone! How cool is that? And that’s not all. He continued his answer with . . .

And with my leftovers, I will buy a house. And in my house, I will buy a TV, couches, kitchen stove, a pool, bikes, and last but not least, playing with it.

I love this! I cracked up when I got to the part where he’d buy a house with his leftover money after buying two lamborghinis. So he may not have the most accurate concept of money, but how great is this paper? This one is definitely going into his box of saved schoolwork!

photo 300x224 Now THATS How You Stretch a Dollar!

God's Trains Run on Time

A reader recently asked me why I don’t write funny stories about the stuff my kids get into anymore. The answer is simple – my kids don’t get into all manner of things anymore. (I'm at a different stage of my life now. These days I write about my son's hobo career goal, and getting back into the dating scene after 20 years.) As with everything, the mess-making was a phase my kids went through when they were younger. At the time, it was frustrating. But take heart, you parents of young ones, this too shall pass. It won’t last forever. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Or, as my dear friend and author, Margaret McSweeney always says, “God’s trains run on time.”

Of course, it will be replaced with other frustrating and confusing things like first boyfriends, getting driver’s licenses, college applications, weddings, grandkids . . . But then again, those stages will pass in the blink of an eye as well. That’s kind of how it works. Nothing stays the same; people grow, circumstances change. Things happen when they’re supposed to happen and they end when they’re supposed to end. It all works together and good can come out of even the most dire situations.


I know that time flies in the blink of an eye. I know this. I see it firsthand every day. Yet, I still have to remind myself to slow down and enjoy it sometimes. It’s just so darn easy to get caught up in the stresses of daily life, and so easy to be blind to the little things that matter. Last night, Brooklyn climbed into bed with me. I thought – great, now I’ll never get any sleep! That kid is like an octopus! For a tiny girl, she sure takes up a lot of space in my bed, limbs all over the place. And her feet are drawn to my butt like a magnet; I get kicked on my backside all night long. But something made me stop last night and look at her sweet, sleeping face. This won’t last much longer. Before I know it, she’ll be too big and too old to climb into bed with me. I know this stage will be replaced with something else and it makes my heart ache a little. So I pulled her closer to me and snuggled. What’s a little butt-kicking between a mama and her baby, right?