If Google Could Talk…

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.

My words are:

pixie dust ~ paramedic ~ cardio class ~ high school ~ Fraizer fur ~ pop tarts

They were submitted by: http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/

My first thought upon seeing my words for this installment of Use Your Words was what in the heck is a Fraizer Fur?

Naturally, when I don’t know something, which is often, I google it.  Sometimes I get really paranoid about what I google.  I think maybe it’s going into some big database somewhere that the NSA is tracking and I’m on some watch list.  Or I’ll die suddenly, and people will go thru my google history which would embarrass me more than being found by a paramedic with 8 week hair growth on my legs and dirty underwear.

WordPress has this feature which tells you what google searches brought up your blog in the search engine.  I see weird things here all the time.  People searching for things like “high school nip slip.”  My first thought was why on earth would someone from Finland google that particular phrase?  My second thought was equally horrifying, WHY DID MY BLOG COME UP?!!!?!? I’ve talked about some questionable subjects to be sure…  Well, now that I think about it, I’ve probably covered topics on pretty much every body part, so even though I don’t remember specifically talking about nipples, it’s not a farfetched idea.  However, I still don’t know why anyone would be googling it and can’t imagine they are up to any good!  I also imagine they were very disappointed perusing through my blog, because while no body part may be off limits as far as topic conversations go, there are no accompanying nude photos or graphics for viewing pleasure. This is just not that kind of blog.

Anyway, I digress.  I googled Fraizer Fur and got really worried.  Well first I got annoyed, then worried.

The first thing that popped up from Mr. Google:  “Did you mean: what is a frasier fir” 

Is that what I typed Mr. Google?  NO.  I don’t need autocorrect or made to feel stupid, this was the word I was given now tell me what it is without the commentary!  Is it just me or does Mr. Google feel awfully judgmental sometimes?  I scrolled down a bit, and saw a link to the Animal Liberation Front, which I clicked on against my better judgment.  Now I’m really freaked out that I’m on some NSA naughty list somewhere.  Just typing that phrase probably puts me on a list.  I don’t want to be on a list.  But curiosity got the better of me.  So I clicked.  Apparently, a bobcat was freed from a Montana fur farm, the Frazier Fur Farm in Plains, Montana, not to be confused with the Fraser Fur Farm in Ronan, Montana.  Whew!  Cause I mix those two fur farms up all the time.  Apparently, this is the first recorded live liberation in the history of the Animal Liberation Front.  They opened the cage and let the bobcats “run free to the wilderness.”  I mean I’m happy for the bobcats, but am I the only one concerned about the ramifications of “freeing” bobcats that have been caged for who knows how long?  In other news, another anonymous group freed a group of 4,800 mink in Idaho.  I worry for these animals and their newfound freedom, this doesn’t seem very responsible action to me.

All this research is making me hungry.  I’m seriously eyeing my son’s pop tarts.  The brown sugar cinnamon kind.  Honestly you could sprinkle cinnamon on anything and I’d probably eat it.  The fact that I really want to eat them is disturbing to me, because honestly is there a more gross breakfast treat than a pop tart?  Have you ever looked at the ingredients in a pop tart?  It’s got yummy ingredients like tbhq for “freshness” and sugar and corn syrup and high fructose corn syrup and dextrose and palm oil and wheat starch and did I mention sugar?  Is it any wonder I’m seriously considering eating the entire box.  In one sitting.  This really highlights the nature of my distress over my google findings.  Of course one pastry is 210 calories and 7 grams of fat.  A typical box contains 6 packs, each with 2 pop tarts per package.  So let’s see…math is not really my thing.  Hold on a sec.

If I ate the whole box that would be in the neighborhood of 2,500 calories and 84 grams of fat.  Since I can’t just magically sprinkle pixie dust all over myself to keep my stomach and thighs from absorbing all these calories and fats, I’ll be forced to do hours of cardio class, squeezed into uncomfortably tight workout pants, panting and sweating, trying to make it look easy and still look sexy for the incredibly hot (and probably Australian) male instructor who sounds remarkably like my Siri pal.  I’ll start to feel nauseous (all that tbhq) and decidedly not fresh, which will be followed quickly by my friend dizzy and her cousin light-headed.  I collapse into a heaping hot mess of sick and tired, upon which the hot Australian instructor is forced to do CPR, trying to avoid the dried cinnamon sugar at the corners of my mouth and bottom of my chin, and call the paramedics who in turn discover my 8 week unshaved leg growth and dirty underwear while searching for my phone to call my next of kin and chancing upon my dodgy google history!  In their attempt to revive me, all I can mutter are short phrases like “Fraizer Cinnamon Fur” and “Animal Liberation Tart” and “Save the Pop Minx!”

(I feel quite strongly that the entire paragraph above might come under a google search for “word porn”…)

(I’m also thinking that the visual I just gave you has you feeling quite jealous of my husband right about now)

(If you’re finding yourself getting too excited, my husband has been known to refer to some of my workout outfits as “man repellant”so yeah…)

Now that we are all calm and under control…

I still don’t know what a Fraizer Fur is but I’m leaning towards a tree of some kind?  Excuse me, I see a pop tart with my name on it! Disgustingly delicious!

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking In A Tornado                        http://www.bakinginatornado.com

Southern Belle Charm                            http://www.southernbellecharm.com

Not That Sarah Michelle                         http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com

Spatulas on Parade                               http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/

The Bergham Chronicles                         http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver        http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy                   http://dinoheromommy.com/

Confessions of a part time working mom      http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/

On the Border                                           http://dlt-lifeontheranch.blogspot.com/

Climaxed                                                 http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

So, I’m Basically Moses


My Bible study this week has been focusing on Moses and the Exodus from Egypt.  This study couldn’t have come at a better time for me.  When God tasked Moses with liberating the Israelites, he was full of excuses about how it would NEVER work.  Moses was a bit of a whiner.  I’m not judging.  To judge Moses would be to judge myself.  Not that I think I’m ACTUALLY Moses reincarnated or anything like that (although…), just that I completely understand his fear and reticence towards the monumental task set before him.  Moses basically attempted to dissuade God in three primary ways:

  1. Moses didn’t believe in himself or think he was good enough.
  2. Moses was afraid people would doubt his authenticity or credibility.
  3. Moses believed himself to be a terrible public speaker.

I am 45 years old and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  I’ve always wanted to be a mother.  I’m not terribly ambitious.  I mean I can be super competitive, you probably don’t want to find yourself my adversary in a board or card game, but in the world of business, not so much.  I don’t have any desire to climb the corporate ladder or further my education.  I always knew I wanted children.  It’s the only life ambition I can ever recall truly wanting and craving.  Part of being a mother, meant helping to support our family, so working outside the home was a necessity.  I don’t have any regrets, but as I enter a new season in my life, I find myself floundering.

Our three girls are out of the house, adapting and thriving in a world outside of our little bubble.  We couldn’t be more proud of them.  Our son is only 10 and still living at home.  I don’t know where we went wrong with him.  I keep encouraging him to get a job and be a contributor in life, but he’s full of excuses (just like Moses).  Apparently, he’s under the impression that 10 is too young to work or drive.  I tell him he’s just not trying hard enough.

Obviously, I’m joking.

Or am I?

But seriously, most of the time, it’s just me and little man hanging out.  My husband (in addition to working 2 jobs) is in Seminary, completing his Masters of Divinity degree.  Unfortunately, we don’t see him as much as we’d like (never thought I’d say that!)  I’ve taken the last year off from working outside the home, choosing instead to focus on little man, my health, my faith, my husband and my girls.  We’ve focused these last few months on simplifying our lives.  We will be downsizing from 3600 square feet to 1300 square feet of living space in a few short weeks.  I feel like we are either selling or giving away our entire life and history, it’s both terrifying and exhilarating.  Like many people, we have entirely too much STUFF.

I’ve been looking into part-time jobs and opportunities, not having much luck or finding anything I’m truly excited about.  I feel lost and a little dejected if I’m being honest.  I’ve been channeling my inner Moses and whining to God about it.  I don’t do many things well, but I do think I’m a competent writer.  I haven’t figured out how to make money doing what I love, second only to motherhood.  I do feel I have a story to tell, and God has impressed this feeling onto my heart.  It’s scary to put yourself out there, metaphorically naked and under a spotlight.  I don’t like feeling vulnerable.  I’m embarrassed when I get complimented or even noticed.  I both crave and cringe that spotlight.  Maybe if I could keep my clothes on…?

As I read about Moses this week, I’m struck by his three excuses to God.  Why?  Because they sound so familiar!  Those same three excuses have been stuck on a loop in my head for months.

  1. I worry I’m not good enough
  2. I worry that people won’t like me or that I’ll annoy them
  3. I worry that I won’t be able to speak (write) confidently or authentically, that I will fall short and be judged harshly and found lacking

In short, I’m worried I will fail.

If you’ve followed my Instagram or Facebook posts lately, you’ll notice I’ve been posting more about my health and fitness journey. In my quiet moments of prayer and reflection, I feel like it’s this part of my journey that God wants me to share.  I keep making excuses and trying to ignore that little voice but it’s not going away.  I feel like there are so many people out there that have struggled with weight, poor self-image, terrible self-confidence and low self-esteem.  People who look at themselves in the mirror and feel shame, even hatred for the person looking back.  People who feel like they have tried EVERYTHING and nothing works.  People who have just given up, thrown in the towel, trying to convince themselves and others that it doesn’t matter anymore, that they don’t care.  People who are tired of failing.  Tired of feeling ashamed and judged.  People who find themselves spectators in their life instead of active participants.  People who just don’t feel good enough or that they measure up against the ideals of others, stuck in the perpetual cycle of despair and recrimination.

The other day, I shared my 21 day challenge group with all of you.  How it gave me new energy and focus, a sense of purpose and excitement.  My accountability group is comprised of an amazing group of women, who are motivated simply by helping and encouraging others.  I shared how in 21 days, I lost 3.5 inches overall.  I spoke briefly of how excited I am for my next challenge group to start.  In some ways, this group has given me a sense of belonging I didn’t even realize I was missing, a sense of purpose.

Over the last month, I’ve been reflecting and praying, listening hard for an answer.  What I didn’t realize was that it’s been in front of me all along, but I, like Moses, gave God a million excuses why I was the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong place.  I will fail.  I can’t do it.  No one will listen.  No one will like me or relate to me.  I won’t find the words.  I’ll suck.  It will just be another thing in a long line of things that I’ve attempted to do that I’ve failed or given up on.  This time, I’ll fail publicly and spectacularly.  I’ll withdraw into myself again, gain all the weight back and feed on self-loathing, self-pity and cupcakes.


For real though, this is the rabbit hole I find myself diving into, time and again.  I’ve worked so hard to change my thoughts.  Changing my thoughts has changed my behaviors.  Changing my behaviors has changed my perspective.  Changing my perspective has changed my life.

So I took the leap.

I decided to become a coach, a fitness consultant for Beachbody, run my own challenge groups, be a part of an amazing team,  and see if I can’t reach the people who struggle just like me, need the encouragement and motivation of someone who understands.  Someone who gets how hard it is.  Someone who has to fight for every pound or inch lost.  I’m living proof that perfection is not required, just a willingness to do the work, to show up, every single day.  Celebrating both scale and non-scale victories is sweeter when done with people who truly want the best results for you.  I love my challenge group because it’s not just about physical change.  There is a heart change, a mind change, a willingness to believe in yourself because other people believe in you and are walking alongside you, cheering you on.  Where I saw failure, I now see opportunity.  I’m excited to embark on my new journey, this new stage in my life.  I’m scared to share it.  I’m terrified of not living up to my own expectations.  I’m even more terrified of letting my team down. I feel I’ve found a beautiful way to share my journey, help others while doing what I love most, writing about it.  I will still write about other things, participate in my writing challenge groups, share my thoughts and insights, but I’m focusing my energies primarily on my health and fitness journey.  Even giving my blog and social media accounts a bit of a face lift, revitalizing my writing and sharing space with a new look and a new name.

I struggle with this concept that I could possibly know or understand what God wants for my life.  I know that in those quiet moments of prayer and reflection, this direction, this path feels right.  I feel God is telling me that I am the right person.  This is the right time.  And I’m in the right place.  ❤

If you are interested in hearing more about my next challenge group, please don’t hesitate to message me!  We have another one starting on November 14th (prep week starting on November 7th) and it’s going to be fantastic.  I’m beyond excited and I don’t get excited about exercise or eating healthy!  So you know it must be good.


I hope I’m the mouse, not the frog 😛


Coo Coo Ca Choo Mrs. Robinson Cruisin’ in The Mini

image courtesy of somecards.com

I know I’ve addressed this particular issue before.  Addressed or whined, bitched, moaned, cried, raged, screeched…pick your adjective or provide your own.  As many of you now already know, I work for a retirement community.  The average age here is 85.  Wearing makeup or doing my hair would be a waste of time, unless I knew ahead of time that the hotties at our local fire department would be making an appearance.  Otherwise, why bother, I’m surrounded by the nearly blind and the partially deaf.  The sweet lady that wears her wig askew, or the kind gentlemen that sometimes forgets to change his depends are hardly the sort to care if my grey hairs are showing or my eyebrows need to be plucked.  

More than a few of these residents (at least the Protestant ones), also know my husband.  He comes every few weeks and does some preachin’ in the Tuesday Protestant service.  No, he is not a preacher (mostly because I would be a horrible preacher’s wife I think, but he never says this…to my face).  He has a “regular” job, the one that pays our bills.  He enjoys public speaking and he’s very good at it, extremely eloquent and very smart.  He has this amazing knack of remembering things he’s read and being able to work them into what he’s talking about.  On the other hand, I can’t remember what I wrote in my last paragraph, like 5 seconds ago.  My residents LOVE him.  Seriously, the adoration is enough to make you throw up in your mouth a little.  But enough about him, this is my pity party, and he’s not on the guest list! 

I am minding my own business, going about my day, when one of my husband’s adoring fans approaches me.  The conversation went something like this:

Adoring fan:  We sure enjoyed your husband the other day.

Me:  Aww, thanks I’ll be sure and pass that along.

Adoring fan:  I can’t believe ya’ll have 3 teenage girls.  Well, mostly I can’t believe your husband has an 18-year-old daughter, he’s so youthful looking.  Do you find that to be true?

Me:  (in my head) I really wouldn’t know, my cataracts are pretty thick and the wrinkles on my forehead obstruct my view. 

Me: (out loud)  sigh.  No, can’t say I’d noticed that particular quality.

Adoring fan:  I guess maybe you might not see it like we do.  He’s just so youthful and sincere.  Sure glad you let him visit now and again.

Me:  (in my head)  LET HIM?  Yeah, occasionally I release him from my trollish dungeon and let his beauty and lightness of being shine down on the world.  But most of the time, I keep that shit locked up because I don’t want everyone to see the ancient troll I really am when standing next to such exquisite perfection.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  How were you married for 100 years and not understand that what you are saying to me is insulting!  Dude, my “youthful” husband has wrinkles and frown lines and ants could tunnel in those forehead creases!  I have no wrinkles!  I get told all the time by other parents that I look like the babysitter, not the mom!   But if being “youthful” is an acronym for short, then yeah he’s discovered the freakin’ fountain of youth!  Now, you made me attack my husband in my head and rip apart his faults.  He’s probably got a nose bleed right now and has no clue why!  Just go away!

Me:  <flashed a smile>  (Although it was probably more feral than charming)  I’ll be sure and tell him you said so.

Adoring fan:  My wife was older than me by 6 months.

Me:  (in my head)  MY HUSBAND IS IS ALMOST 4 YEARS OLDER THAN ME!  (I am now mentally snatching his walker and beating him over the head with it). 

Me:  (out loud)  Good for her, that little cougarette, but my husband is actually older than me.  By SEVERAl years.  (on a side tangent, calling his wife a cougarette is sadly not the most inappropriate thing I’ve uttered to a resident.  I think my personal best would be a tie between suggesting that a resident’s black eye came from an altercation with her much younger cabana boy or that another resident should use the dollar bills I gave her at “the club”…)

Adoring fan:  Ok, well I guess I’ll let you get back to work.

Me:  (out loud) Ok, nice talking to you (in my head) let’s not do it again soon.

Not only do I have to suffer the indignity of knowing that people think I am playing Mrs. Robinson to my husband’s Benjamin Braddock, but I get to cap off my day riding home in the “pedo-van” (I can’t wait to see what google searches ping that phrase).  Keep in mind, that we consider the mini-van our “good” car.  We play this fun game when we travel together as a family called “guess what will fall off the car next while driving down the highway”.  Catchy, right?  The winner gets to the keep the object in question, unless we need it for the car to run.  I think this game will catch on.  Don’t worry, I’ve got visuals.  I don’t want anything to think I’m exaggerating. 

Evidence #1

That is the little pad that covers the break pedal, it fell off the other day.  I’m assuming it’s cosmetic only????  You can also see how my fat ass has rubbed the leather off the seat.  Sexy.  I noticed it on the floor when I pushed the emergency brake down (which I am loathe to do because sometimes when you “pop” the brake, the handle comes off).  I never used the emergency brake when parking in front of my house until the police showed up on our doorstep one day to inform us that The Mini had rolled down the street and into the neighbor’s lawn.  Yeah…our neighbor’s hate us. 

Evidence #2

That little red light popped on after my husband left the sunroof open and it rained inside the car.  I’m pretty sure it means I’m going to die by giant wrecking ball, so I avoid construction sites.

Evidence #3

Here is a pic of our lovely bumper that’s being held on by zip ties.  Is that a piece of styrofoam sticking out?  I think that’s new.  Do all cars have bumpers made out of styrofoam?  The black marks were there before The Mini rear-ended someone.  I got those running into our fence…a couple of times. 

The side doors don’t open from the inside.  I love standing outside waiting for the kids to get out, knowing that they can’t.  That game NEVER gets old.  Although, since it’s like 100 million degrees, I can’t play that game very long or people threaten to call child services. 

On the plus side, the car is really good for my diet.  Since the driver’s side window doesn’t roll down, I can’t freqent drive-thru’s, and the air-conditioning still works! 

I should get my extremely younger looking husband to bring me to work, “Driving Ms. Daisy” style. 

It’s all about the silver lining.