What Do Crabs Eat?
Yesterday was an awesome day. We spent the morning at the NC Aquarium and spent the afternoon on the beach building castles with Lil C. For dinner, we stayed in and made lobster tails, steamed shrimp, grilled chicken, potato salad and corn on the cob. I washed it down with a Corona Light and lime. The day ended even better than it had started. After over 20 years of coming to the Outer Banks, I finally did the research and followed through so we could make a fire pit on the beach. We had a blast. There is nothing like sitting under the stars, with the surf at your toes, as you roast marshmallows with your family.
In NC, there are tons of little crabs that come out at night. If they creep you out, it's better to go to the beach without a light source. When you see how many of them are, it can be a bit unnerving. Last night, while sitting around the fire pit, a rather large one moved nearby. Mr. BBM started his scientific questioning as per usual and began asking me and my Dad if we knew what crabs ate. They seem to dig little things out of the sand and eat them.
It was then that Mr. BBM rolled up a little piece of marshmallow and threw it in the direction of the crab. It hesitated for just a minute and then quickly moved towards the little balled up cloud of yumminess. Soon, you could hear the little crab claws clicking as he went to town on the marshmallow. When he was finished with the first little balled up marshmallow, he found a second one that Mr. BBM had thrown out.
It turns out Mr. BBM answered his own question last night. Apparently, crabs eat marshmallows.
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Renewing the Soul One Writing Idea at a Time
Before I left for vacation, my Nikko Blue hydrangeas, the ones that are supposed to be the most awesome blue color in the world, were pink. It sort of summed up several months for me: expecting and hoping for one thing and getting something else entirely. I dumped a bunch of "make it blue" natural powder stuff on them, and not unlike the fairies in Sleeping Beauty, waved my little shovel around and willed those flowers to turn blue.
The day I left, they were still pink.
I have a feeling now, that at some point, they will turn blue. . . a garden analogy for my attitude and how the beach lifts me up.
There is something about sinking ones toes into the sand and and floating rhythmically on the waves that soothes my soul. I spend my days with tangled salt water hair and sand in every crevice imaginable and love every minute of it. The beach is capable of healing me, plain and simple. Ask any one of my family members who have been around me for the last couple of days.
At home, I get worked up over country club emails and let things bother me. Here? I noticed a cranky email, replied to it smartly and without stress, and I let it go.
Part of the attitude change is due to my Lil C, who is a beach girl through and through. Yesterday, while floating over the waves with her and Big I on an ocean whose surface was like glass, she said, "I am not getting out, not ever. I just love this" and then burst into a fit of infectious giggles. Of course, last night on the way home from dinner, she said "Floating on that raft was like a baby ride. It was too easy" and then she launched into a fresh round of hiccup-inducing giggles.
On the way down here, we spent a night in Chincoteague, VA. I had never been there before but I will definitely go back. A quaint little town where you can walk to "Bill's" or "Dan's" restaurants from the hotel, it jump started the vacation mode very easily. While walking to dinner, we walked past a little bed & breakfast that had a sign on the fence. Apparently, a writer (whose name escapes me now), had stayed there and written a book back in the 40's.
"That's what I should do," I told Mr. BBM. "I should stay at a little beach town somewhere and write a book."
When I was fresh out of college and working at the Creative Nonfictionliterary journal as an assistant editor, I interviewed a writer we had published named Donald Morrill. He had written a memoir piece and when I asked him what advice he could offer to just-emerging-from-college writers, he said that his advice was to not try to write any memoir until you're at least in your late 30's or 40's. "Until then," he said, "you think you have plenty to say but you really don't. Young writers who try to write memoir lack perspective." I've read two memoirs while at the beach: Eat, Pray, Love and Mennonite in a Little Black Dressand I am hungry to read more writers like these two. They were inspiring. If publishable stories can be crafted about family recipes and funny family happenings, I have a wealth of material to write about. My family is quite "write-able." And although I'd like to stick to my story that I'm still only 29, the fact is, this "29-year old" is a bit of a liar. (You know, in case you haven't figured that out quite yet.)
So, I spent much of the drive discussing with Mr. BBM, subjects of potential books and possible chapter titles. And I think I'm going to try to write more than just this blog. I think I'm going to make some type of writing commitment, even if it means getting up earlier than usual or staying up later than usual so that I can have some peace and quiet to write.
I mean, all of you who read this blog would buy my book right? I could probably sell as least 10 copies or something, and that would be pretty cool.
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Random Ramblings Including Having Babies with 50 Cent
Filed under: Board of Directors, Mental Strain for Mama
My life was sort of threatened today by a friend who said I better not ever go on a long non-writing stretch again because she is "addicted" to my writing.
I so love her. She should definitely visit my archives. . .often, as should the rest of you. Back then I was funny, witty and I actually wrote about karate every once in a while. Ah, the good old days.
I wish I was addicted to my own writing these days, but I think I've been sapped by lack of creativity due to a thankless data entry volunteer job and sheer exhaustion resulting from that. Being on the board of directors is highly overrated and extremely thankless. A neighbor and friend once told me that being on a board of any kind can open up avenues to paying board jobs. I would like to know where those are and would also like to say, "Hey, I'm your gal. Look no further."
Since I don't have any one thing in particular to say today, but because I'm feeling my life might be threatened if I don't put fingers to keyboard and write something, anything. . . I thought I would provide a rambling account of various things that you can do with them what you will:
First: do not ever opt to go for the heavier weights when doing that inner-thigh squeezer machine thing after not doing that machine for like eight months. Just don't do it. I went from walking like a primate from sore abs to walking like someone trying to keep a nickle between her thighs. In case you're wondering, neither are attractive ways for a young (or even an old) lady to walk. Just don't do it. Always opt for the easier weight. Always. Use this bit of advice as your work-out bible. It is practically the word of God, or at least BBM, which is practically the same thing (or not at all).
Second: I'd like to just put it out there that if I get to be the ripe old age of 75 plus and I start doing my hair like George Washington used to, and/or complaining about random things that no one in particular has any control over, and/or begin demanding liver and onions at restaurants, I'd like to put it out there that I would enjoy being put out of my misery at this point. I've given my husband carte blanche to put me out of my misery if I start acting all old and crazy and I'm now giving my blog readers the opportunity as well. Of course, you should probably discuss this with my husband first, in case he'd like first dibs. But seriously, if I'm a grumpy old gal, do me a favor. (I guess I should start working on my attitude because I'm kind of a grumpy younger-ish girl right now.)
Third: I am going to BlogHer in August and I know not a soul who is going. While many of you might think that I am a social butterfly, I might end up going all the way to New York in order to sit in my hotel room and order room service out of sheer anxiety and discomfort at not knowing a soul. It's my first time; be gentle with me, and please let's be friends beforehand, k? Email me! No seriously, email me! I am a good friend and known for buying drinks for new friends. I'm a good girl to know.
Finally: a confession. I am addicted to Jack Johnson and 50 Cent. I realize how odd and weird a juxtaposition this is, and I'm not sure what to make of it. All I know is that one minute, I am craving hearing about bubbly toes and the next minute, I am bopping around to the tune of "Have a baby by me, baby, be a millionaire." I'm thinking it's the millionaire part is what I'm liking so much, but the catchy beat can not be denied. Is there anyone who can help me out with the whole 50 Cent "be a millionaire" thing, or do I seriously need to go have a baby with 50 Cent?
Yep, I think I'll leave you on that note.
The Franken-Knee Strikes Back
It is safe to say that I seriously overdid it on the slant board this weekend. I am walking like a primate. So much for exercise being good for your posture.
Yesterday, while feeling the pain of my two weekend work-outs, I lightly bumped my leg, right on the screw sticking out of my tibia, against one of my counter stools. I didn't think anything of it, other than "Ugh, not again!" and went on responding to emails and cooking my dinner. But after about 10 minutes, I realized that my leg was hurting pretty badly and I took a look down. A line of thick blood was oozing out of my leg, right where the screw is protruding. I'm fine with most medical stuff after having been through two childbirths and two knee surgeries and multiple kid boo-boo's, but I had to seriously consider whether or not I needed to sit down and put my head between my knees for a minute.
Instead I gutted it out and got a paper towel and started dabbing away the blood. There was a little slit, right at the top of the screw area, slowly oozing blood. The area surrounding it, the size of a quarter, was already reddish-purple underneath the skin and directly above the protruding screw head, deep purplish-black.
When I realized that it was the screw, cutting me from the inside out, not the actual bump on the smooth stool that cut me open, my stomach started to turn. I've just had it with these issues. If the screw doesn't get taken out soon, I fear it's going to come completely out all by itself which sounds like a boatload of fun, doesn't it?
I spent last night in bed, unable to have anything touching it because it was throbbing so badly. This morning I called my surgeon's secretary and told her that I really need to have this surgery scheduled now. I asked her to please call the plastic surgeon's office so that the two of them can work things out and get this on the schedule once and for all. If I could just get them both in the same room for five minutes, I'd have it all worked out and I would be on my way to getting rid of my Franken-knee problems once and for all.
Right now I'm looking at a surgery date that is over a month away and I am frustrated beyond belief.
Fending Off The Know-It-All
Filed under: Mental Strain for Mama, Things that get my gi all in a bunch, Work it out
I considered live blogging the Flyers game tonight. But then I realized that I would probably be writing a string of obscenities, followed by an occasional "YES!" and then a bunch of hair-raising, "No! NOO! NOOO!" chants and I figured that wouldn't be very entertaining. Also not entertaining? That stupid doodle-doodle song that Chicago sings every time they score. Mute button on the remote? Check.
Instead of telling you about how wonderful it's going to be for Philly to take the Cup in Game 7 in Chicago (because you already know how awesome that will be), I'll tell you about how I went to the gym twice this weekend and how I can barely move, laugh, breathe, walk or blink without being in pain because of it. I seriously hate that I had to stop working out because getting back into the shape I was in before is going to be no small feat. I will also tell you that I am currently trying out a different gym for a three week time period to see if I like it. Mr. BBM has joined with me as well.
On Saturday, we walked into the gym and there were only about five other people there. Sweet! No one was going to bother me. I put on my mean face, stuck my headphones in my ears, turned up the volume and got to work. I decided I would try out my new prescribed knee sleeve to see how I liked it.
About half way through my work-out, a rather overweight and out-of-shape looking older dude started talking at me. I tried to look away but he kept at it and stood right in front of me. I pulled out my headphones, obviously irritated, and he started on this whole tirade of, "I saw you over on those two machines a while ago and I see you have knee issues. What did you do? The reason I ask is because I have knee issues too and my ortho told me those machines are bad for you. You're not supposed to use them. You're supposed to do natural movements like deep squats and lunges, not extensions." He continued on for a while and I glared at him with my most irritated look I could muster.
I then told him that I'm not allowed to do deep squats (not to mention deep squats and lunges are the most natural movement I can think of-I mean, I practically walk through the grocery store doing lunge, deep squat, lunge, deep squat, because that is oh-so-natural, GRR), that I spent 8.5 months of my life working with a physical therapist under the direction of an ortho surgeon and that I also worked out with a personal trainer for about a year who was also trained and personally experienced with ACL issues. I told him he should continue to do whatever his surgeon told him, and "I'll continue to do what mine told me." I stuck my headphones back in my ears and turned away, 180 degrees so there was no question our conversation was now over.
As we were leaving, I told Mr. BBM that my workout had been great, minus my little know-it-all knee man encounter. Mr. BBM told me the dude could have cared less about my knee. He was trying to open up a line of communication with me. I would say he failed pretty miserably. Opened and closed in a matter of about 30 seconds. Score 1 for me and my headphones.
I can not stand guys who go to the gym and interfere in my workouts. I truly wish they would mind their own business. I give off the "leave me the hell alone vibe" plenty, avoid any and all eye contact, and still, it happens whenever I go. Maybe I need to check out the gym during the "soccer Mom" times, or maybe I should just pretend I don't speak English next time.
Or perhaps to let him know I'm really not conversation worthy, I should start singing that Chicago doodle-doodle song thing. I guess it might be good for something after all.
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