My son was complaining because he wants a cell phone and telling him he had to wait until he was 13 apparently came across as, “You have to wait an eternity! Mwah ha ha!” Then I waved my wand and threw some eye of newt on his pizza.

So, I made a deal with him. I said, “If you get good grades and are well-behaved, you can get a cell phone when you’re 12.”

To which he replied, “Okay, so if I’m not well-behaved then I can get one when I’m 13?”

My husband and I recently splurged for the cost of a personal trainer. First of all, it’s not as expensive to hire a trainer in Ohio as it is in more metropolitan areas and secondly, I figure the money we spend on it will save us in doctor bills later.

Other than the cost, I can’t say anything negative about this experience thus far. Even the pain feels great. I know I’m getting stronger because of it and the self-torture reminds me that maybe I don’t really want that cookie (oh, okay…or those four beers) (who am I kidding? those eight beers). If there’s been one thing that I have been able to lift while overweight and out of shape, it’s a Corona Light bottle to my mouth.

Without further ado, here are my tips on how to find a personal trainer who’s right for you:

1. Ask for recommendations. Or, better yet, when your friend gets a trainer and promptly loses 20 pounds, follow her to the gym and find out who she’s working with. Try not to get arrested for stalking.

2. Get someone who is flexible. I’m not talking about time or their yoga positions, but rather personality. My husband likes to be pushed around and told he’s weak when he’s working out. I prefer more positive reinforcement. Like, “Gee, your face is really red. It looks like a rose.”

3. Choose a trainer who is strong; the kind who can catch you and your flab when your size 11 feet catch the edge of a step that you’re supposed to be jumping onto, but instead you go flailing and almost break your face. Hypothetically.

4. Preferably, get someone who doesn’t know the word, “Plank.”

5. Also, “Plyometrics.”

6. Your trainer is going to see you at your worst, in order to make you look and feel your best. Don’t hire someone with whom you’ll feel embarrassed. There will be a lot of sweating and, quite possibly, blood, tears and vomit. You have to be able to put your shame aside. Did I mention that you get weighed and measured? Yeah, that.

7. Make sure your PT is bigger than you, so that when you want to punch him in the neck for almost killing you, you’ll think twice about it.

8. Before you sign a contract, find out if your trainer minds the use of bad language and insults; the kind that will come flying out of your mouth like you’re Regan from The Exorcist. Also, he needs to understand that it’s a form of apology when you say, “I know I said I hate you, but you MADE me say it!”

9. Get someone who won’t let you cheat by dropping your knee during a plank or doing half-squats when you should be going low. Actually, this means getting someone who won’t walk away or turn his back for a second.

10. And lastly, choose a trainer who you don’t think will punish you for writing blog posts about them.

Once I had her trapped underneath me I didn’t really know what to do. How would I remove the bottle cap, pour peroxide into the spoon and shove it into the mouth of a 65 pound, squirming Labrador? I did it, but it wasn’t pretty; nor was what came out of her stomach about 10 minutes later. Have you seen The Exorcist? Yeah, that.

Thirteen years ago this was a frequent occurrence around our house. Our dog, Blue, eating something she shouldn’t (breast pads, underwear, chicken bones, a 25 lb. frozen turkey, etc.) and me, sometimes, having to make her throw it back up before it did any damage.

Like the time my in-laws were coming to town to celebrate their 50th anniversary. About two hours before their arrival, I felt the need to go to the mall and buy a new piece of furniture. I’m rational like that. While I was gone, Blue snatched an enormous, solid-chocolate bunny off the far-reaches of the kitchen counter and ate the entire thing. Happy Easter!

When I discovered this, I did what I was used to doing; I put a piece of cheese in the bottom of a bowl and covered it with peroxide. DO NOT DO THIS! Using a spoon had never worked well, so this had become my altered method. Usually, by getting to the cheese, she would ingest just enough peroxide to make her vomit. It was an extremely scientific measurement, exactly not at all.

Now, we don’t go buying fancy schmancy furniture around here. Oh, no! None of that solid wood stuff for us. If you can’t put it together with an Allen wrench or a Phillips-head screwdriver, well you can just forget it. With, roughly 30 minutes until our family would be here, I left Blue outside with her bowl while I sweat and struggled with a particleboard end table. At the very least, I have my priorities in order.

I went back out 15 minutes later to find Blue had eaten the cheese and finished every last drop of peroxide. Every. Last. Drop.

Remember Willy Wonka’s chocolate river? Yeah, that. Except that after the chocolate stopped, Blue kept retching. I’m not even kidding; I thought I had killed my dog and that she was going to throw up her own stomach. If you ever see one of your neighbors running around her back yard chasing after her dog saying, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Also, please hurry, because company will be here soon!” then you’ll know just what I looked like.

And, last week, when our young Lab, Daisy, found 1/2 a sheet of chocolate cake in a neighbor’s yard, and ate to her heart’s desire, we got to relive the experience.

Lucky for her, I’ve learned how to use a syringe.

Stacy sent me a package the other day and this is a video of my son sampling what I received. Before you go commenting and telling me that I’m an evil mother, you should know that I tested it first. I also believe in letting my kids try new things, because you never know if they’ll like it. Unless, of course, that new thing is bourbon.

Sure, it’s logical that when so many people you care about have been irrevocably touched by an awful disease that it’s hard to let your mind stray far enough to find words, but I have written through a lot here; more than I even care to rehash (or link to).

While I doubt that anyone would mind if I needed time to sort out this lack of creativity, I would love it if I could find it inside myself to write something for them. A tribute, a rally cry, something to make them smile…anything. Instead, I sit here and stare at the wall in a quasi-funk, feeling sorry for everyone. I hate that. They would hate it too.

But, I feel like my muse is hooked up to a chemo pump and my mojo is being burned away by daily radiation. I know that people I love are hurting and I can’t pretend otherwise.

This state of being miserable just isn’t me. I’m not used to being depressed. I’m always anxious, yes, but not downright sad. This has to change right now. I can’t expect them to put up a good fight when I’m not doing my best to do the same.

So, I’m making a promise to stop this nonsense. It doesn’t do any good to stare at the wall and wish things were different. If that were the case, I’d wish everyone was healthy and that I was in Fiji with a raft and a fancy drink and I would see my muse walking toward me on the beach with a Macbook in hand. Swoon.

Tomorrow is a new day full of hope and opportunity and I’m not going to waste it. It’s the least I can do. For them.

2. Your daughter takes the candy from her Christmas stocking and hides it in her room.

3. Your husband asks, “Did you eat my Skittles?” Yes, I think I did.

4. Your husband asks, “If you only ate a banana, then why is the peanut butter on the counter?”

5. The bin of recycling is full of cereal boxes that you don’t remember emptying.

6. Your waistline disappears.

In my husband’s defense, he rarely gets sick. He doesn’t have the combined history of asthma, pneumonia, meningitis and sinus infections like I do. And, people, I’m just scratching the surface of my ailments. Truly.

He isn’t used to the headache, cough and all-around nastiness he feels…and I’m not used to being around it. Especially the part about how he can’t breathe through his nose which means he snores like there are real-live lumberjacks sawing logs right next to me. And, my husband just grew a full beard, so if he puts on a plaid shirt I might just mistake him for one.

He has been kind enough to sleep on the couch for the last two nights, which leaves me free to take an Ambien and fold my adjustable bed into the shape of a taco and sleep like a baby. That part is kind of awesome. My husband doesn’t even like it when the bed has a slight roll (or, what he refers to as its golf-green shape). He likes the mattress to be flat. BOOOR-ING!

But, although I have plopped myself onto the middle of the mattress, kept the light on my side-table shining so that I can read magazines or paint my nails, listened to the TV without having to cup my hand behind my ear, and have sat in a half-taco while I type this blog post, I still hope he feels better soon.

Because that man-cold is a brutal beast. Just ask all of the wives who groaned.

One of my earliest memories of traveling with my mother was a trip we took to California to visit my aunt. We went to Disneyland, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and on a tour of stars’ homes. We ate authentic tacos and sat in the audience for a game show. I had so much fun as I listened to my mom and aunt talk, sing, and laugh.

And, then something happened I will really never forget. I watched them bleach their mustaches. I had no idea that women did such things. I was a little girl, who found the entire act absolutely hysterical. In fact, I actually rolled on the floor and laughed.

For the longest time, I thought this was a crazy Lebanese secret that only we of middle-eastern descent needed to discuss. I was thankful for my dad’s genes that gave me light hair and green eyes and thought I would be spared the growth of hair on my upper lip.

Then I turned 35. Suddenly, hair started sprouting from places that I didn’t expect. My neck and chin grew short, course, gray hairs, while my cheeks took on a thicker peach fuzz. And, above my lip, the dreaded ‘stache.

Although my mom set the example, I was not about to put bleach on my face…well, mostly because you can still see the hair; it’s just lighter. I started to notice women with hairy faces and became thankful for winter when I could wrap a scarf around my neck.

My sister-in-law and I tried waxing, but we both ended up bleeding. If there is anything worse than a hairy lip, it’s a scabby one. Short of taking my husband’s shaving cream and razor to my face, there weren’t too many options. I have sensitive skin. I once had hives for months, for no discernible reason; I couldn’t use cream without burning myself.

This is why I jumped at the chance to try the New Olay Smooth Finish Facial Hair Removal Duo, a two-step system that includes a Skin Guarding Balm that goes between the Hair Removal Cream and your skin.

The instructions said to test the products on your forearm 48 hours before applying to your face. I did so and had no adverse reaction. I applied the balm to my face as directed then the cream. I left it on for six minutes, wiped it off with cotton balls, and then rinsed my face with warm water.

I had some minor skin irritation immediately following, with some visible redness, but within the time I dried my hair and got dressed, my skin looked fine and felt amazing. Truly, amazing. I don’t even know what to compare the softness to, because I haven’t felt skin that soft since my babies were born. And now, a day later, it is still soft and completely hair-free!

It was convenient and left me feeling much more feminine than my husband’s razor. Just sayin’.

Now BlogHer and Olay are offering you something to make you feel better!

Just tell me what part of your beauty routine makes you feel most feminine and best expresses your inner beauty, and you’ll be entered for a chance to win a $50 Visa gift card!

Rules: This sweepstakes runs from 1/3/2012 – 2/3/2012.
No duplicate comments. You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:
a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post
b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post
c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post
d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.
This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.
The Official Rules are available here.

Be sure to visit the Promotions & Prizes page on BlogHer.com where you can read other bloggers’ reviews and find more chances to win!

While we’re on the subject of looking good, you might want to check out the “Looking Your Best” posts in the Life Well Lived section of BlogHer.com. There are some great tips and expert posts!

I last saw her on Christmas Day, standing in my mom’s driveway in her down coat. The sun was shining, which it rarely does here in December and that made me happy because she loves the sun, as I do. She was smiling. She is always smiling.

The news came a few days before Christmas. Cancer. The lab report from her biopsy saying it had spread to surrounding tissue, then an MRI that showed the involvement of three lymph nodes. It had been over a year since her symptoms caused her to start seeing doctors. Numerous doctors. They all misdiagnosed it. None of them did a biopsy.

Apparently, it’s an easy cancer to miss, but that doesn’t make the news easier to bear. On January 9th, she starts five weeks of radiation (with two full weeks of in-patient chemo thrown in). I think there are a lot of days ahead when I won’t see her smiling. That’s okay. I don’t want her to. I want her to get mad and tough and put up the fight of her life.

I just talked to her and told her that it’s a good thing she’s scrappy. I once saw her and another one of my sisters having a fistfight that was a lot like Rocky, but with more hair-pulling and face scratching. I know she will get through this, because she is amazing. The only problem is that she is the one who always lifts our spirits. We have really big shoes to fill.

On this, the eve of her birthday, I didn’t end the call by saying, “Happy birthday!” or “Happy New Year!” Instead I said, “We are praying.”

I hope that made her smile.

I’ve had thirteen years of you, and though it’s gone by in the blink of an eye, it’s been tremendously rewarding. So far, you have been a pretty super kid.

It’s hard for me to comprehend that in five years, you will be eighteen and it’s just as hard to think that five years ago, you were just turning eight. But, right now, while you are smack-dab in the middle of childhood and adulthood, I am enjoying watching you grow and change. I won’t lie, I could do without your grumpy attitude sometimes, but I’m sure you could say the same thing about me.

You are smart, funny and a good friend. I love that you read all the time, that you’re good at math and that you love music. I love that you hate to lose, but when you do, you’re a good sport about it. I love that you’re charitable and responsible and that you have a hearty laugh. I love to watch you play the piano, dance, play softball, and sing.

But mostly, I love that you’re my daughter.

Happy 13th birthday, Goose! If you could stop getting older now, that would be great.