I visited her home this past weekend and, though I wasn’t there for a happy occasion (same city, different sister), I had that same urge. This time, I actually fought the desire to fill up my car with as much as I could grab. True story.

Her living room. Swoon.

See that white sofa? SHE HAS A DOG. A big one, who runs freely in the rolling fields surrounding her house. First born overachiever!

This is her mud room. What you can’t see is the gorgeous, heavy, antique door that marks the entrance. What you can see? That she has forced bulbs in February and I can’t grow plants in June when I buy them from the nursery already in bloom.

Doesn’t everyone have leaded glass over their kitchen sink? Oh, look! More bulbs!

A nook for when one of her guests picks up the guitar and plays. True story. It happens every time I’m there. Also, look at her phone! Who has a cute phone? Oh yes, that’s right…she does.

All I know is that I’m 40 years old and I still want to be her when I grow up.

It’s possible she will be like her father, who has no problem sitting in a dark house in the wee hours of the night while the TV flashes images unfit for my psyche. cough…Saw…cough. Popcorn and Paranormal Activity are not my idea of a good time.

My guess is that she’ll be more like me and won’t be able to wash the dishes without thinking someone is walking up behind her. Note: Always wash the steak knives last, so they’re within easy reach for a quick stabbing.

Maybe she will walk past a window and be startled by her own reflection, or feel the need to look in her closet and under her bed before she goes to sleep. Maybe she’ll be scared to go in the basement, or take a shower, or walk anywhere after dark. Where’s my Zoloft?

Though, I suppose it would be a good thing for this movie to scare her in the way Amityville Horror did me. I am cautious, aware, and I know how to wield a crucifix.

Not to mention that the last time my husband and I went to the shooting range, I was a way better shot.

Although I had been decorating shoe boxes with aluminum foil and doilies for years, it wasn’t until the ripe old age of eight or nine, when I colored a picture in my CCD workbook, that I learned Valentine’s Day was originally known as Saint Valentine’s Day.

In CCD class, they don’t talk a lot about how saints become saints. Speaking of beheading, burning, and torture would send young children running from the building, never to return. And we can’t afford for that to happen; we’re running out of priests, yo’.

But, I was curious. Curiosity is also why my cousin and I used to bake cakes with Tabasco in them, which explains how I know that it actually did kill the cat. I digress.

My curiosity showed me that no one knows much about how St. Valentine’s Day came about. There were three St. Valentines and, as far as I know, none of them decorated shoeboxes with aluminum foil and doilies. What I do know, is that all of them were martyred.

Thus, St. Valentine’s Day was born; because nothing says, “Be mine” like extreme suffering and death.

The feast day for St. Valentine was long-ago removed from the calendar of the Catholic church, leaving card companies and florists free to swoop in and make it less a religious holiday and more of a, “Let’s see you flex your romantic muscles or you can sleep on the couch” holiday.

So, today, when you eat from your heart-shaped box of chocolates, tip the caramel-filled square to St. Valentine. It’s really the least you can do.

Although I have made a serious commitment (mentally and financially) to getting healthy now that I’ve reached middle-age, I was still afraid that a lack of weight loss would interfere with my motivation. It doesn’t take a lot for me to throw up my hands and say, “Well, I tried! Let’s go get a beer.”

For the past six weeks I have been working out five or six days a week; thirty minutes of intense weight training and thirty minutes of cardio, every time I go. I haven’t felt this good in years. But, back to those results that could send me straight to a plate of nachos…

The scale? Well, it wasn’t pretty. I have only lost a few pounds and have a lot more to go. Like fifty more. Yeah, if that doesn’t make you want to eat a bag of M&M’s, I don’t know what will.

However, I have lost seven inches. SEVEN INCHES. Three of those were off of my waist. I’ll take that news all day long! *puts M&M’s back on the store shelf*

It’s a small success, but it’s enough to keep me motivated. I’m going to keep on keepin’ on. It’s part of my new, “If I’m able, I will” mentality.

And, for my friends who say they can’t go to the gym because they don’t look good enough, or it’s too intimidating; I say, “Pffft!” This is a picture of me after my workout on Tuesday. I didn’t pour water all over myself; that’s sweat, and lots of it. If I can go to the gym looking like this, so can you.

Though, you may want to invest in some activewear with wicking fabric first. Just sayin’.

When other kids would rather shuffle from classroom to classroom without making eye contact, I’ve been told that every time my kid sees his music teacher in the hallway, he greets her with, “La, la, la, la, la!”

He has no problem telling strangers that he thinks they’re pretty, he can convince anyone that he shouldn’t get punished for something and he has a way of wiggling into situations in which he has no business. Last week, when we went to get his new glasses, he got the technician to let him adjust his own glasses with that little heater they use.

He’s a nine year old used-car salesman in the body of a five year old.

Last night at his Cub Scout meeting, the boys played a game where they blew a ping-pong ball across a table. If they let the ball fall onto the floor, they were out. My son lost round after round.

When we were heading to the car after the meeting he said, “That game was fun, but I lost every time!”

I replied, “Well, somebody had to lose. As long as you had fun while you were playing and you tried your best, it doesn’t really matter.”

For a moment he considered my philosophy. Then he said, “Yeah, but I don’t think I could blow the ball across the table because I don’t have enough hot air.”

Really? Because I think you’re pretty full of it.

Yesterday morning, my stepmother was at a regular check-up at her doctor’s office when she started to feel queasy. The doctor ordered a shot of anti-nausea medication and the next thing she knew, it was today. She woke to find herself in the ICU with a ventilator doing her breathing.

It likely wasn’t an allergic reaction, as she’s had this medicine before with no side effects, but rather a near-lethal combination of medication in her system. Don’t ever doubt drug interactions; they are a very real danger.

In between her passing out in her doctor’s exam room and waking up in Intensive Care, we watched and waited. We didn’t know if it was a heart attack, stroke, embolism…or what. All we knew, was that there were a lot of doctors attending to her, she wasn’t regaining consciousness or breathing on her own, her blood pressure was perilously low, and a minister had asked my dad if he wanted a Catholic priest to be called. We honestly didn’t know if she was going to live or die.

Tonight, she is fine. I was there this afternoon and she was off the vent, alert and talkative. She was lucky.

On my way home from the hospital tonight, I was thinking how quickly this all happened. That’s how it goes, you know? No one knows what the next minute will bring.

The sun was setting and the sky was a deep pink. The same color that makes me think of my step-niece, who must have been looking down from heaven on her grandma yesterday.

I turned on the radio and the station was playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”, which is one of my dad’s favorite songs. The man who, just yesterday, was devastated to see his wife in grave condition.

I thought of my niece’s death, my stepsister, my stepmom, my dad, the fear, the tears, the events of the last day, and how precious and fleeting life is.

Then I started singing.

I sang the song that reminds me so much of my dad. I sang to myself, to the sky and to the passing cars. I didn’t even care who saw me. Because, why should I? I sang because I can, because I have a voice, because I’m breathing, because I’m living.

All of those phrases up there are completely true, but don’t waste your time uttering them. Just sing, people.

Just sing.

I never have to tell her to study or do her homework, she just does it. She reads so much (12 books so far this month) that I sometimes have to tell her to stop. She makes the parent/student relationship very, very easy.

As I’ve always said, if her brother hadn’t been born, I would think I was the best parent on the face of the earth. Thank goodness he came along to set me straight. And, oh boy, did he ever. I found out that my daughter isn’t intelligent from anything I’ve done, just as I can’t be held responsible for my son’s wrong answers.

I make mistakes just like any other mother, but this latest misstep of mine was quite a doozy. *head desk*

I told the super-smart, natural-braniac daughter of mine that she could get a hamster if she got straight A’s for the entire school year. We’re halfway through…

I have never wished so hard for a “B”.

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.