Can the Candy? I think Not.

You'd think that after years of eating candy which resulted in thousands of dollars and endless hours spent in the dentist chair to repair my damaged teeth, I would have kicked the habit. But alas, I have not. Nor would I ever deny a trick-or-treater the joy that comes with a sack full of candy. As far as I'm concerned, folks who hand out healthy alternatives to candy, should be burned at the stake. Ok, that might be a little harsh, let's leave it at egged. People who hand out apples and granola bars on Halloween should be egged.

I was thumbing through a ridiculous women's magazine the other day when I came across an article entitled How to Manage Halloween. Really? When did Halloween get so complicated that we need tips on how best to manage the day?

Here's what I learned....

Avoid stocking up on Halloween candy early. Having candy around the house will only tempt you. Aim to purchase your candy no more than a day or two before Halloween (you may hit some great sales, too!) Having eaten my weight in candy corn over the past two weeks, I can vouch for the temptation thing, but the part about hitting some great sales is a bunch of bunk. If you wait too long to purchase your Halloween loot, you will be left with the candy that nobody wants and you're just asking to be egged.

There is nothing wrong with giving treats that are healthier than traditional candy. Um, yes there is...that statement is completely false. Nobody wants a bag of baked chips, a box of raisins or a bag of microwave popcorn in their plastic pumpkin head. A Clif Bar is a great snack for a random day in April, but come October 31st, kids want chocolate. And I am not talking about dark chocolate miniatures, I'm talking Snickers.

Consider handing out non-food treats.

Consider nothing of the sort. Repeat after me: bubbles, pencils, stickers and Slinkies are not treats. I've heard stories of clever moms who give out toothbrushes instead of tasty treats. I have one word for those moms: killjoy.

Rally your neighbors and as a community make a plan for a healthier Halloween.

God help the neighbor in my 'hood who approaches me with a pre-approved treat list. I'm not in favor of passing out candy to kids every day (I know that's rich coming from me) but one day a year isn't going to kill 'em. Stop raining on their parade and let them have a Kit Kat.

Talk to your kids about the treats that they are most looking forward to and the right amount to consume. Make a pact with them about what you will do with the "left-overs".

I'll tell you right now, I could never be friends with the woman who wrote this article. Ever. But as tips go, this one isn't bad. In fact, I guess it's good for my kids to know up front which candy I'm going to be looting from their stash. As far as left-overs go...I define left-overs as the candy that remains after all the trading is complete. It's the candy that nobody wants (think: Dots, miscellaneous hard candies, wax candy lips and Good & Plenty). The left-overs should be tossed out immediately, as I have been known to cave in a weak moment.

Consider a visit from the Halloween Fairy. Allow your children to pick ten pieces of candy from their haul and place the rest on a table for the Halloween Fairy. When the children awake on November 1st, they find that the Fairy has left a small gift in exchange for the candy. Good luck with that plan. It would have never worked when my kids were young. First of all, my daughter stopped believing in Santa at age 4, so something tells me the idea of a Halloween Fairy who confiscates her candy would never have taken off. Secondly, as the person most likely to play the role of the Halloween Fairy, I can assure you that the candy would be safer with my kids. And last, but not least, why do today's parents feel the need to control every aspect of their children's lives? It's Halloween, for crying out loud, let the kids enjoy the day.

When I was a kid, handing out apples was frowned upon by parents and children alike. Everybody knew the story of the psychopath who hid razor blades in apples and passed them out to unsuspecting children on Halloween. Dozens of children cut their mouths when they bit into the forbidden fruit. Clearly this was an urban legend as most children would not voluntarily choose to bite into healthy apples over delicious candy on Halloween night.

Now go buy some Hershey bars before they disappear from the shelves.

Rewriting Memories

I sat in my car watching my son leap out of the school bus hoping that the weight of his backpack wouldn't crush him on his dismount. He landed a perfect 10 at the bottom of the steps and immediately sprung into action sprinting toward his friend. They must have been making paper airplanes on the ride home because they each had what appeared to be a stash of folded paper in their hands. As soon as they were in throwing distance of one another, they began pelting the crowd with their homemade crafts. I could hear their shouts of joy and roaring laughter through the closed windows. But the fun ended when my son's friend spotted his ride and took off like a shot. My son glided a few more planes before repositioning his gigantic backpack on his back and finally looking around for me.

When he spotted my car, he lifted his chin acknowledging my presence and slowly made his way over picking up a few stray airplanes and making necessary repairs. As he swung open the car door he asked, "Are you still dizzy, Mom?" This morning's bout of vertigo was by far the worst. I barely made it downstairs and I suppose, in hindsight, I never should have gotten up. I was a nasty, cranky, bitter mess during breakfast and I let me family know it. My Mommy Dearest performance ended when I screamed bloody murder about a pillow on a chair that hadn't been put back properly the night before. Then I dramatically excused myself and stumbled back upstairs cursing and carrying on every step of the way until I collapsed in my bed.

"I am a bit dizzy" I told my son "but not nearly as bad as I was this morning." It's so like my sweet son to ask how I am feeling, but I think this time he was inquiring because he wanted to know if I was still in a foul mood. I told him that I slept from about 9:00 am until about 1:30 in the afternoon and woke up feeling much better.

"So when I was in reading class, you were falling asleep." He paused for a second and then added, "I almost fell asleep at that time, too." He confided that sometimes he gets so sleepy in reading, he has to concentrate just to keep his eyes open. My power of recall is pretty much shot, but I have vivid memories of sitting at a desk trying desperately to control my head bobs. I'd like to think that those sleepy moments came later in the day after a full schedule of challenging classes, but who am I kidding, I was probably doing head bobs in the morning just like my son. But, the beauty of not having a good memory is that I can rewrite history and since my son pretty much believes everything that I say, I am able to fool my captive audience. "Hmm, I never got bored in school. I loved all of my classes, especially reading." Then I added, "Maybe we need to adjust your bedtime." I may be dizzy, but I'm still as sharp as a tack.

During dinner my daughter complained that she has to memorize a bunch of prepositions for a test. "It's so stupid" she whined, "we're just going to forget them after the test." I'll give it to you, 99% of what I learned in middle school is completely gone, but somehow the prepositions stuck with me. About, above, after, against, along, among, around, at, before, behind, below, beside, between, beyond...I can rattle them off in alphabetical order in about 16 seconds. If you'd prefer, I can sing them to the tune of America the Beautiful. A useless feat, I realize, but I celebrate the few things I've managed to retain.

I'll teach her the new lyrics to America the Beautiful over the next few days and she'll be all set for that test. And maybe in 40 years she will still be able to spot a prepositional phrase when she sees one. One can only hope. But it would be nice if her memory failed her on one account...and that would be the memory of her lunatic mother and her crazy performance this morning. I'll do my best to rewrite history, "Remember when I had vertigo and I was just not myself...." Hmm. I don't think she'll buy it, but my son probably will.

As The World Turns....

I finally saw Julie & Julia. For weeks I've been hearing and reading great things about the movie. As promised, Meryl Streep's performance was amazing and Nora Ephron's screenplay was magical. Several people told me that I'd especially enjoy Amy Adam's character, Julie Powell, the blogger who gained a large following, scored a book deal and eventually sold the movie rights to her story.

As much as I would like to follow in Julie Powell's footsteps, her story is not why I was enamored with this movie. It was Julia Child's excessive use of butter that had me mesmerized. Ms. Childs was no stranger to fat, as evidenced in her pork and veal stuffed duck that she then wrapped in a buttery pastry crust. For all intents and purposes, Julia Childs and her husband, Paul, were walking, talking heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen. But, they both lived into their 90's. Fair? Hardly.

From what I can gather from the movie, both Childs were heavy smokers, enjoyed their wine and the only exercise they got was walking to the market. For more butter. I'm not knocking their lifestyle, in fact, I'm bitter and jealous. I desperately try to lead a healthy lifestyle: I avoid butter, do not eat red meat, work out on a daily basis, drink (almost) 8 glasses of water a day, eat my fair share of fruits, vegetables and healthy nuts, drink alcohol in moderation, and visit my doctors for yearly preventative medical check ups. And yet, despite my best efforts, I have had some strange ailments over the years. Well, really just since I turned 40. Five years ago (ok, almost six).

My latest malady came 5 days ago in the form of vertigo. After spending a few days in bed while the world whirled me by, I finally managed to drag myself to a doctor who diagnosed me with Benign Paroxymsal Positional Vertigo...those of us afflicted simply refer to is as BPPV. It seems that the inner ear, the labyrinth, if you will, maintains a sense of balance. Small pieces of said labyrinth, called canaliths, can break off and float into ear canals where they have no business floating and when this happens...it causes vertigo.

Using what is called the Epley Maneuver, the doctor was able to move the canaliths into an area of my head that does not upset my balance. Or at least, that was the plan. Many patients feel immediate relief after the procedure, others require a second maneuver. So far, I haven't benefitted from its effects. If I don't feel relief soon, I am cutting my own head off, thus eliminating the need for a second maneuver.

But if I really wanted to, I could perform the maneuver on my own. In fact, I did, perform the move the day before I visited the doctor. Having spent the better part of the day Googling vertigo and all that it encompasses, I was able to find several You Tube videos detailing the Epley Maneuver. But, much to my dismay, it did not do the trick. The only thing that my DIY Epley Maneuver provided me with was a massive projectile vomit session. Too much information? Yeah, well, I apologize.

After yesterday's doctor-assisted manipulation, they sent me home sporting a neck brace with directions to stay vertical for 48 hours. They told me that I should sleep in a Lazy-Boy at a 45 degree angle. And that would have been just swell, providing I had a Lazy-Boy to lounge in. Instead, my kids constructed a make-shift variety in the guest bed (while laughing at my neck brace). But, to no avail, I am still spinning.

What would Julie do? She'd probably blog about it. And while blogging does allow me to keep my head is in the perfect position (neck long, chin out), I can assure you, it hasn't helped with the dizziness. So what would Julia do? I bet she'd throw caution to the wind, shed the neck brace and saute something in butter. Perhaps chopping a few onions will force my head into a position that will knock my insubordinate canaliths back into place, thereby releasing me from this endless pirouette.

I'm going to give it a try. What do I have to lose? Everything is better with butter. That's my new motto, thanks to Julia.

Careless Mistakes

We have a new catch phrase at our house: careless mistakes. I've been hearing it from both of my children, several times a week, since school started. "I would have gotten an A+ on my test, but I made a few careless mistakes." It just rolls off their tongues as if the mistakes are perfectly acceptable because they were careless in nature.

It doesn't sound like a term that either one of them would have come up with on their own, so I'm assuming they are quoting their teachers. I'm sure their teachers use the phrase as an incentive to do better on the next test, but my children use it as a defense. They plead not guilty by reason of careless mistakes. It's much easier to cop a plea than to admit that their efforts, or lack thereof, might have had something to do with their oversights.

When my son brought home his math test this week, the numbers circled in red did not indicate that he had a fundamental problem understanding the material, but rather that he was sloppy and absentminded. These careless mistakes are happening so often that I'm beginning to wonder if he and his teacher will soon abandon the term "careless mistakes" and replace it with "chronic mistakes".

My daughter has been after us for about, oh, I don't know, roughly 3 years to buy her a cell phone. When we were finally ready to succumb, my husband threw out a challenge: ace your math test and you'll get your precious phone sooner rather than later. A few days later she strutted through the door announcing, "Yeah, baby, somebody is getting a cell phone!" I was pleased as punch for her and told my husband that he better deliver the goods. So imagine my surprise when she brought the test home the next day and I saw that she received a 90, not a 100. "Um, hello? Acing a test means getting all the answers correct." Her response? "Pfff, come on, Mom, I did, these are just careless mistakes." Seriously?

Now granted, careless mistakes made on math tests should not have huge ramifications (yes, she still got the phone), but careless mistakes made by a bank teller, a construction worker, an airplane pilot or a neurosurgeon could have horrible repercussions and I don't want my children to lose sight of that fact. And add fertility doctor to that list: I read an article in yesterday's paper about a woman in Ohio who is carrying another couple's child after a fertility clinic implanted her with the wrong embryo. Now that was a careless mistake of monumental proportions.

I don't have a problem with my children making mistakes, but I am getting a bit fed up with their cavalier attitude toward their slip-ups. They act as if there is nothing they can do about careless mistakes; they simply come with the territory. And that might be true, after all, they are just kids. But at what age do careless mistakes become just plain old stupid mistakes?

Some people are paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes. I don't want my children to ever feel that way (although, surely there's a happy medium?). Oh, for the love of Pete, I am trying to do two things at once...blog about mistakes and make brownies for a friend and it seems I've made a careless mistake...I've added too much oil. Hmm. Looks like I will have to double the recipe and keep some brownies for the Reids. I hope my children learn from my careless mistakes. Or are my mistakes considered just plain old stupid mistakes because I am no longer a kid? No, I don't make stupid mistakes, only very, very clever ones. And I'm pretty sure that my kids will agree when I offer them a brownie this afternoon.

I'm Much Too Busy...

It was a week of lessons in civility brought to us by Wilson, Williams and West. Every newspaper I picked up, every website I visited, and every magazine I subscribed to was abuzz about our society's inability to be gracious and humble. It seems that we as a nation have forgotten how to keep our mouths shut and demonstrate self-control.

I grew up in a household of five girls where my mother would often tell us to "act like a lady, even if it hurts." Over the years, I've learned that biting your tongue figuratively can be a lot more painful than doing so literally. But lately it seems that what we as individuals have to say simply can no longer be contained. (Hence my blog.) When did we get so gosh darn important?

Which brings me to my rant. I'm not going to add my two cents to this week's civility lessons. Instead, I'm going to vociferate about a problem that I believe has added to this attitude of self-importance. This week, I'm going off on....busy people.

Every one of us is allotted the same 24 hour period, 7 days a week. Mother Teresa managed to minister to the poor, the sick, the orphaned and the dying during her 24 hours. Leonardo da Vinci made due with his 24 hours while dabbling in math, science, engineering, botany, anatomy, painting, sculpting, writing and playing music...to name a few. Best I can tell, Franklin Roosevelt put together the New Deal in a string of 24 hour periods. And yet, a lot of people today cannot manage to get dinner on the table in the same 24 hour time span.

My problem is not in the fact that dinner isn't made, but rather that busy people feel the need to recite the litany of reasons why they don't have time to make dinner. They reel off the list of excuses as if I couldn't possibly understand because I'm not nearly as busy. Or perhaps even more offensive, they assume that I haven't made dinner either. Quite frankly, I don't have time for this behavior (I'm far too busy).

Busy people wear their busyness like a badge of honor. It's become a competition amongst busy people to prove that they are the busiest. "You think you're busy? Your child plays soccer, takes piano lessons and art lessons? Hah! Mine does all of those as well, and he's in a play at school AND he's got 2 brothers in activities as well!" You do the math...the person with the most kids in the most activities is the busiest person. And the busiest person wins.

I love how busy people act as if they aren't responsible for setting their busy schedules. One minute they are in complete control and the next..POW...their kids are put on several sports teams and are forced to take guitar lessons. So, I guess what we are to believe is that coaches are sneaking into the homes of busy people in the middle of the night and taking their children to travel soccer tryouts without the parents consent or knowledge. And to make matters worse, when the parents do find out, they can't say no. It's out of their hands and there is nothing they can do about it.

Don't get me wrong, I realize that there are plenty of truly busy people out there. I think the difference is that a productive person, one with a lot on his plate who manages to pull it off on a daily basis....doesn't obsess about it. And doesn't feel any more important as a result of having a hectic schedule. (Nor does he feel the need to share the boring details with others). And most importantly...a truly productive person doesn't fear free time.

I could go on and on and on, but I don't have the time...if I told you all that I have to accomplish between now and the time I have to be at the bus stop, your head would explode. I'm one busy lady. Move over Mother Teresa....

Keep It In Perspective

We are right back in the thick of it: school, homework, soccer, forgetting our homework, field hockey, homework meltdowns, flag football, carpools and more homework. Like it or not...we are back in a routine and on several occasions, that routine has been known to set me over the edge. But after today, I've vowed to try to keep it all in perspective.

You won't hear me reading my son the riot act when he tells me he can't do his spelling because his book is in his desk at school. And far be it from me to lecture my daughter about her commitment to the field hockey team. If I spend the next 5 days in my car shuttling kids, that will be ok, because after a day like today, I am going to rejoice in every single ordinary, customary, familiar piece of my routine. Because having a routine signifies that every thing is normal and normal is good. Just ask my friend Amy.

Amy, who lives in Charlotte, spent the day in NYC at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center with her husband, Jeff, and her 5 year old son, Grier. When Grier was 2 1/2, he was diagnosed with Stage IV Neuroblastoma; since then, their lives have been anything but normal. Today Grier underwent another surgery and I don't think I've stopped thinking about him for more than 5 minutes at a time. I spent most of the day checking for updates on Facebook and Grier's website. I don't know how Amy does it, but she does it and she's an inspiration to everybody who knows her. And so in honor of Amy, I've vowed to keep it all in perspective. (And, boy, do my kids owe her BIG time).

When I click on her website, I immediately hear Amy's voice and that crazy giggle of hers. And while I know it must be unbelievably hard for her to write about the things her family has been through, she always does it with humor and grace. And most importantly, she keeps it all in perspective. I remember one post back in the spring where she described the grueling round of scans that Grier undergoes every three months. She wrote that while Grier bears the physical part of the tests, she and her husband endure the emotional burden. But that's it, she doesn't go on to question why this is happening to her sweet son and the rest of her family. Instead, she convinces Grier that everybody goes through these tests...and he believes her and is comforted by her. And we almost believe her, too...but not really...but we are comforted by her. And when she recounts an incident where somebody asks Grier about his summer vacation plans and he doesn't miss a beat with, "we're going to NYC to live at the Ronald McDonald house!" we find ourselves laughing along with her. And we can't believe how well she manages to keep it all in perspective.

The last update I received this evening said that Grier was resting comfortably in the Pediatric Observation Unit. I hope Amy and Jeff are resting, as well. But if I know Amy, she's watching monitors and keeping tabs on nurses and IVs and medications and catheters....but undoubtedly keeping it all in perspective.

Honk If You're Always Right

While pulling into the farmer's market parking lot, I noticed a woman backing out of a space who was completely unaware of my presence. I stopped and waited for her to notice me, but to no avail, she continued to back up. When she got dangerously close to my car, I beeped my horn to let her know that I was there. Or maybe I laid on my horn, in moments of panic, I don't always recall the specifics.

But the horn got her attention and she stopped immediately. As she pulled beside me toward the road she mouthed the word "sorry". I nodded, acknowledging her apology and as I started to pull into the empty space, the off-duty police officer who mans the lot motioned me over.

I've been going to the farmer's market every Tuesday and Friday for years and this particular off-duty officer is always there controlling the traffic flow. He's tall and thin, wears dark sunglasses (even when it's cloudy) and shaves his head. He almost looks like Mr. Clean, but not quite. I think he'd be flattered by the comparison, but quite frankly, he isn't nearly as buff as the grimefighter. Still, he's probably more at home at the farmer's market than at Dunkin' Donuts and I get the feeling he likes this gig of his.

I've never had a full-fledged conversation with him, we've just exchanged pleasantries, but based on the way he looks and the way he carries himself, I've managed to sum him up quite nicely. I do that often, and yes, I know that you can't judge a book by it's cover or a person by their appearance, but that never stops me. I'm quite good at it and on the rare occasion when I'm wrong and misjudge an individual, I am overwhelmed with guilt (but then am quick to do it again).

So, I roll down my window and Mr. thinks-he-looks-like-mister Clean, puts his (not very) massive forearms on my door and leans into my window and says, "She didn't see you, you know." And I want to say, "Really? Hmm, you don't say?" But, I don't say that, instead I say, "I know she didn't see me, that's why I beeped my horn." And then the keeper of the lot says, "Well, I saw your expression, ma'am and you looked angry." And I want to say, "Not as angry as I would have been had she hit my car." But, I don't say that, instead I say, "I'm sorry if I appeared angry, I think I was more scared than angry." And why are you getting all Dr. Phil with me? Is it against the law to look angry or do you just want me to work through my emotions? (and no, I did not say that).

Seriously? Are we having a discussion about my body language and facial expressions? Does he think he can sum me up based on how I look? Cause I get that, really I do. And I get the whole knowing-what's-going-on-in-your head thing because I fancy myself a doctor of psychology, too. I guess the difference is that I don't go telling people to roll down their car windows so that I can tell them what I think and he does. (and maybe I'm a little envious of him, because I'd like to be able to do that). (I'm just saying.)

Deep breaths.

So now he's turned his entire body and he's leaning on just one arm and his head is a bit closer to mine as if he's going to let me in on a big secret. And then he proceeds to tell me that tempers often flare in this parking lot and he does his best to keep everybody calm. Really? Do fruits and vegetables make people crazy, I wonder? Or does he make people crazy? Because I was fine until he told me to roll down my window. "Ok, listen up Officer, get your overly flexed bicep off of my car door, let me park my car, buy my veggies and then you can continue to pretend that you are controlling both the traffic flow and the overall mood of the farmer's market." But I don't say that, instead I say, "And we so appreciate all that you do." (And if I had that sarcastic font I would have applied it to the previous sentence.) Then I looked straight ahead, put my car in drive and pulled into the space.

I wasn't angry when I arrived at the farmer's market, but clearly I was leaving feeling a smidge irate. But then I thought, I was soooo right about Mr. Clean; I knew he thought he was something special. And just knowing that I was right made me happy. And when I left the parking lot, I tooted my horn, but I made sure that it was a happy toot.

On Being Red

During dinner last night my daughter mentioned that several boys on her bus have been giving her a hard time about her red hair. That particular morning one of them broke out into a chorus of "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire" while rubbing his hands together over her head. We all chuckled about it. And then I told her that they do it because they think she's cute; that's how middle school boys flirt with redheads. If she were blonde, they would tell her dumb blonde jokes, that's what 12 year old boys do. She was quick to silence me, "Stop it, Mom, they do NOT think that I'm cute, just stop." (She's far more bothered by me, than by them.)

She's actually ok with her red hair; in fact, she's always been ok it. Which is rather odd when you consider that she doesn't like attention of any sort. You would think she would prefer being a brunette so that she could blend in, but I don't think that's the case. Apparently only 1% to 2% of the human population has red hair, but I didn't realize how truly unique it was until I had a little redhead of my own.

I must come clean, while I think her hair is beautiful, there was a time, not so long ago, when I was not a fan of red hair. I knew a girl in college who had a wild, crazy, unruly mane of flaming red hair that was, well, in a word...tragic. Poor Grace, she didn't resemble Bozo, per se, but her hair was the same shade and it certainly had the same texture of the popular clown's wig. The phrase "better dead than red" was often muttered under my roommates' breath whenever poor Grace walked in the room. Today I'm eating those words ...

Since the beginning of time people with red hair have struggled with a bum rap, treated as a redheaded stepchild, if you will. They've been thought to be untrustworthy: Judas is most always depicted as a redhead. During the Spanish Inquisition, flame colored hair was evidence that its owner had stolen the fire of hell and as such redheads were burned as witches. Another common perception about redheads is that they have fiery tempers and sharp tongues.

My daughter's red hair came as a complete surprise to my brunette husband and I. But I think it was more of a surprise to my BFF. She was one of the college roommates who coined the phrase "better dead than red" and she was there in the delivery room when my daughter was born. I was in the throws of the delivery when my friend glanced down (as only a BFF could do) to check on my progress as the doctor announced that the baby's head was crowning. And as I watched the expression on her face, I knew something was terribly wrong. Did my baby have two heads? Was she missing an ear? I couldn't bear to hear it. But then my doctor, very matter-of-factly proclaimed, "Ahhh...we have a redhead!" I looked at my BFF and she winced as she patted my arm and whispered, "we can dye it."

So you see, when your own mother and godmother are dissing your hair color before you're even born - a little ribbing from the boys on the bus is simply small potatoes. Red hair is often associated with fair skin, and while my redhead has her fair share of freckles, I'd say her skin is pretty thick.

It didn't take us long to fall head over heals in love with her... and her gorgeous red hair.

One Woman's Perfume is Another Woman's Poison

So, I'm back. Once again.

I had one of the best summers on record and I am not nearly ready for it to end, but like it or not...it's time. The kids are back at school, the days are getting shorter, and the fat lady has all but sung.

The last time I pondered new blogging topics, my husband lost his job. So this time around, I'm not looking for anything new. Hear that universe? Do not, I repeat...do not send me anything new to blog about...I'm good. No news, is good news. While I am tired of blogging about unemployment and job searches, I am sure that I can come up with something else to rant and rave about without turning my world upside down, thank you very much.

For instance...

Today I returned to my favorite spin class. Having taken a sabbatical from cycling this spring and summer, I decided today was a good day to get my butt back on the bike. I've been in a funk since the kids returned to school and decided that spinning was just what the doctor ordered to get me back on track. Aside from giving a killer workout, the instructor is adorable; he plays great music, gets my heart pounding (not only because of the way he looks), motivates me, and manages to do it all while doing a stand-up comedy routine. I always leave in a good mood (which makes me wonder why I ever stopped going in the first place. Hmm.)

So...I get there 15 minutes early to stake out my bike only to find that somebody has taken "my" bike. Granted, it's been awhile since I attended class, but still, that was my bike for months. But much to my dismay, there's a towel on the handlebars and a water bottle on the seat and that's Y talk for "this bike is taken." But that's ok, I take a deep breath, find a new bike and get myself situated.

The room starts filling up with familiar faces and I'm pumped, ready for a good workout....and then I spot her. I've never seen her in a spin class before, but she takes other classes at the Y and always comes in late and NEVER SHUTS UP. Ever. So while the cute instructor blasts Black Eyed Peas and tells us to find a road, I hear the drone of Chatty Cathy's voice in the background. My blood pressure is rising and my heart beat is elevated...not because of the resistance on my bike, but rather the resistance to this woman. Deep breaths. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. I will not let her ruin this for me. This is my time. It's all about me.

And much to my surprise, I am able to keep it in check. I control my breathing and manage to block her out completely. My eyes are closed and I'm sweating like a pig and have obviously slipped into the zone because I never heard or saw the woman who climbed on the bike next to me. That is, until I smelled her. Holy. Good. God. I seriously almost fell off my bike.

And so now I think I have a topic worth blogging about: Do not, under any circumstances, wear a fragrance of any sort while working out in a group setting. One woman's perfume is another woman's poison.

As I gasped for air, my eyes popped open and my head shot to the left to see who (or what) was next to me. I will be honest with you, I am not a fan of perfume and it might be because I have an overly active sense of smell. I not only smell perfume, I taste it. And this particular scent was lodged in the back of my throat and burning the bejesus out of me. I felt like I couldn't take a deep breath without vomiting. Now keep in mind I am on an exercise bike gasping for air; the fact that I couldn't breathe even if I could breathe seemed beyond ironic to me.

I'm pretty sure she doused herself with Off before coming to class. My first thought was...I haven't been in the cycle room in a while, maybe they are having a problem with mosquitos and the joke is on me. Maybe my smelly neighbor is going to be fine at the end of 45 minutes, whereas I will be covered with mosquito bites because I didn't know to wear bug spray. (although if that was the case, I assure you, she was wearing enough to cover the both of us). I look around at the other spinners hoping to catch somebody's eye so I can mouth the words, "Hey, are you being fumigated by the insecticide too, or is it just me?" but everybody has their head down and seems unaware of the stench. So I do the same. I find myself trying to eavesdrop on Chatty Cathy's conversation in an attempt to get my mind off of the stench.

It's been five hours since the spin class ended and the smell is still lodged in my nasal passages. My husband wants to go out for sushi tonight, but I'm pretty sure all I'll taste is Off....it hardly seems worth it. On second thought, maybe the wasabi will sear my taste buds...I'm in.

Count me in for sushi and for more public service announcements....

Go Speed Racer, Go!

Is this week, the one leading up to the 4th, considered Fourth of July Week? Or is next week - the week after the 4th? It's hard to tell with the 4th falling on a Saturday. Regardless, I don't know where June went and I feel like summer is starting to slip away...

We are staying put this holiday weekend. At least, the kids and I are staying put. My husband is taking his super-charged Batmobile to the track with his buddies for BMW driving school. That's racing to you and I, but he refers to it as "driving school". It's his passion and I do not begrudge a single minute of the joy he gets from changing brake pads and tires, souping up the M3 and taking his baby around the track at speeds that I simply cannot comprehend. I don't have the need for speed, but I totally respect his. But, let's call it what it is, shall we? It's racing.

So, a couple of times a year he heads up to VIR; this just happens to be one of those weekends. It's a shame it falls on the 4th, but that won't stop the kids and I from celebrating our nation's birthday without him.

I bet that the population in Charlotte goes from nearly 700,000 to about 350,000 this weekend. Ok, I may be exaggerating a bit, but in my 'hood, many neighbors have flown the coop. As much as I enjoy them (most of them), I do love when my fellow Charlotteans vacate the premises and head to the mountains and beaches (and VIR). I love having the grocery store to myself, I love driving down East Boulevard and being the only one in the left-hand turn lane, I love reading on my back porch and not hearing a sound (I think even the birds fly to the beach for the weekend), I love going for walks and bike rides and not passing a sole.

But, it's Thursday afternoon, two days before the 4th and it's not completely dead around here...which leads me to believe that next week is the official Fourth of July Week. Who knows? I just know that I'm looking forward to smaller crowds this weekend. And then when folks start returning to their homes (and to the grocery store and to the left-hand turn lane on East Blvd), I'll resent the hell out of them.

Happy Fourth of July!