A broken soul & the 28 day cleanse

It’s not often that one reads about having a cracked or “broken soul,” when reading a book about food and wellness, but I did. Me being me, the first time I read this, I dismissed it as I eagerly absorbed the rest of the book’s content. (It could have been the surroundings: poolside, feet beyond the view of the top of the book, and my focus was on looking good rather than feeling good, but I digress). That was six months and two deaths ago. Yesterday, my focus was feeling good, and thus, the broken soul notion jumped out at me.

The book that ended my migraines

If you are following along, it’s found in book two by William Anthony, the Medical Medium. The short story is that at 4, Anthony had a spirit appear that stood by his grandmother, and who aided him in putting his hands on his grandmother’s chest and repeat the words “lung cancer.” The room went quiet, ad the grandmother was so unnerved that the next week she saw the doctor who told her that yes, she did have lung cancer, despite having no symptoms. Spirit, as Anthony calls his guide, has been with him every day of his life, ever since. He’s diagnosed the medical conditions of thousands over the decades, and more importantly, given specific direction for what to eat to heal the body…and soul.

Whether or not you believe the above, I will tell you this: I’d been suffering from severe, debilitating migraines starting a few years and nothing, save serious drugs, helped me out (and I despise even taking an aspirin). To that point, I’d been spoiled. Never so much as had even a menstrual cramp. Well, life changed and no amount of help, both western and non (think homeopathy, herbs, essential oils…changed a thing). Had I been rich and eccentric, I would have visited a shaman in Africa if I thought it would help.

Knowing my desperation, my next door neighbor (a doctor, ironically) tentatively suggested this book and it’s sequel. I read both in the span of about twenty-four hours. The sections are specific, and designed to aid one in self-healing. I looked up migraines, and got the “recipe” for a smoothie and other herbs to take.

The result: my migraine left within an hour. When the next one started to come on, I repeated the concoction. What’s more, as I read about the triggers of unhealthy food (and consequently my bad food intake) I have had only one migraine, and that was because like a rebellious teenager, I willfully and wantonly abused my body.

Back to the soul

The first read-through was six months ago. Last week, I was feeling emotional down, mentally drained and frankly, scraping the bottom of my personal barrel. When you read my sassier blogs, it’s because I have my moments of happy, and that’s when I tend to write…when I’m up, not down. Well, I go back to the book and essentially learn that my soul is aching and my (bad) food intake is exacerbating the problem. This didn’t take me entirely by surprise, but what did was the connection of the (good) energy of the food and how this can literally fill in the gaps/cracks/holes in the soul.

The notion being that God created life. Every living thing has positive energy, particularly food. The specific energy in any given plant or fruit aids a particular part of the body, and the root energy behind it, or the soul. Anthony contends that over a period of time, negative events crack the soul (divorce, death, etc.) and that if not filled with the positive energy (from the best source), then they remain.

Now, I like to think that I’m a normal, highly-functioning person. Yet, as I reflect on my forty years-plus of life, I have to admit that yeah, I probably have some of this ick still in my body….as in, it’s literally in my body in the form of toxins. So, going back to the soul concept, I may have rid myself of the bad spouse, but the toxins may yet reside in my body. When a trigger hits me, then I go for my comfort food, and instead of getting the badness out of me, I am just adding more toxins.

The outcome

At this point, I’m bought in. I’m nodding my head, and think I’ll do anything to feel better at any level. The next chapter is…a cleanse. I am wondering why it took me another six months of pain and punishment to essentially say: Yes, I am worth it and yes, the best thing I can do for myself is get clean and see what happens. (Just so you know, I’ve never, ever, been able to maintain a diet, cleanse or other notion for more than five days. E.V.E.R.).

Day one: fruits and vegies as prescribed by what’s in the book and what’s in my kitchen.

3 main meals with some grazing in between. Easy to manage. My mood goes mellow around 10 am. By 12 I’m starving but the salad and smoothie works wonders. At night, I have the prescribed salad and more fruit but I am sooo tired. My body is shutting down, or so I envision.

2 am. I feel a headache coming on. I knows it’s withdrawal symptoms from the sugar/whatever badness is in my system. I breakdown and take a pain pill because I can tell I’m going to puke if I don’t. Sleep until 4:30 am, and my eyes pop open, and I am wide awake. As in Wide. Awake. I give it up, take a shower, bond with the dog and drink some water.

Day two: I have my water, then my smoothie, but before I hit yoga at 9:30, I’m jittery. I’m not a coffee drinker and am generally very sensitive to caffeine (it triggers headaches) but seriously, I might as well have taken 3 caffiene tablets.

The hour-long class is wonderful until I realize I’m causing the horrific stinking smell that’s surrounding me (GROSS). Nothing like marinating in your own ammonia smell.

Still, I figure “it’s working!!!” That’s good. I just apologize to my fellow classmates and leave as quickly as I can to spare then, and myself.

11 am: I stop by the store, load up on more fruits and veggies and inhale 2 bananas No headaches, still jittery, but feeling really good.

Day 2-4. no issue and I have dropped 7 pounds. Weight loss wasn’t the primary goal (and still isn’t) but it’s nice nonetheless.

Day 5. In the morning I’m fine, but I sense I’m heading for a fall. We got the news my beloved cat is dying of an incurable disease (next blog probably) and we have made the decision to put him down. While I don’t have cravings, I’m unsure how I’ll handle it. The time comes, the deed is done, and around 9 pm, I lose it. I buckle to my trigger go-to of hot chocolate, which is really half-cream, half-milk, and Ghiradelli chocolate. It’s 10:42 pm now, and I don’t feel any better. In fact, I feel worse. ugh. Now I’ll regroup and get back on it again tomorrow.

That’s it, right up present. If you want to join this journey with me, do so. No time like the present. If not, I’ll periodically give an update and you can laugh and cry with me.


Men ask questions, Women are silent

Since posting the last blog, what, 72 hours ago, on the tightening effects of Preparation H to the face, I’ve had 4 men reach out to me via Instagram or my blog. Two bikers (as in, motorcycles), a radio executive and an author. Each one basically wrote: “You’re going to go out and buy this stuff?” And generally, my response has been: “Are you kidding? I’m going to take a bath in it.”

The women, on the other hand, have remained silent. As I’m hanging upside down like a bat this morning in sweaty yoga, I’m contemplating why it is that women haven’t made a peep. My conclusion? The women are driving down to the store and getting a few tubes, shaking their heads the whole way, wondering why in the world my mother didn’t raise me to have a bit more shame.

“Better her than me,” is what I imagine to be the common thought. My husband agrees.

“Can you see Nicole Kidman or Reese Witherspoon texting on Instagram the joys of a fanny ointment?” (Truth be told, I had to change a word or two of his quote for obvious reasons).

Yes, I know. Of all the important things to share with the universe, I’m covering this, but as my sister says: “This is life changing! People should know!”

I promise to go back and give more plugs for giveaways, new releases and exercise tips, trying to stick with the five-paragraph rule that seems to be the Holy Grail for bloggers, but it’s hard. My blog is like my invisible friend, the person who’s always there, nodding, agreeing with me, endlessly interested in whatever I write, like any true friend.

And a true friend cares about fannies and faces.


My favorite denial


The elk came through October 13, a record by a month. Here’s the deal: the elk come through approximately 2-7 days before the first snow (this is what the last 2 years have taught us). This year, we think- they have become confused–there is No. Way. it’s gonna snow. Oct 13th, they are lounging it the grass. Oct 14th, BAM, it snows–three inches. The elk look as shocked as we are, but their internal clocks had it right.

Two years, thirty pounds. That’s what a move, moose and too much hot chocolate has done to me. My indented stomach expanded like the air in a tire, gradually filling up the once-loose space under my t-shirts. It’s added warmth, I tell myself, watching the temperature gauge hit 12 degrees on the drive to the house.

During this same time, my husband’s tummy flattens as he snow-beasts himself up and down our road at all hours of the day and night in the winter snowplowing (he resembles a white snow-beast in his winter camo outfit, hence the snow-beast) and in the summer, he’s felling trees or whatever else he does in the forest. He is shrinking as I expand, which drives me even more desperately to all things dark and chocolate.

Spring, summer and fall have come and gone two times and one day, not too long ago, I tug at the waist line of my long-sleeve t-shirt, pulling it over and down to my jeans. I see Rog watching.

“It’s not there if you can’t see it.” He smirks, I wink. We burst out laughing. “It’s my favorite denial,” I quip. My personal roll of insulation is still there, but until I do something about it, I choose to ignore it entirely. I still hear his laughter as I walk downstairs.

Since then, the phrase has gotten so much use around my house.

Dust on the floor? Move the chair cuz if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

Dirty laundry? Throw in down the shoot, cuz if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

Do you see how useful this catch-phrase has become? I’ve found a whole new lease on life.

Sexual disease? …ok, kidding on that one, but it’s just fun and sassy to write.

As I type this blog on this lovely, Sunday night, I stare at an empty plate beside my bed, which just thirty minutes ago, had six chocolate chip cookies on it. But, they don’t exist at all, because they are now in my stomach. The good news is I am wearing a cozy fleece top, so my jelly belly doesn’t exist at all.

Clay, the easy, natural & free cure for a spider bite

The night before I’m to give a presentation (that would be Saturday) I feel an aching, then swelling, then itching in the center of my foot. I itch. It grows. I ice. It grows. I whine. It continues to grow. By midnight, I’m losing my mind–actually, that had already begun when I used calendula ointment and then arnica gel (both purchased at the local health food store, and have been using both since I was a teen). Both actually worked to a degree, but I can’t tell you definitely which one was the best, since I was in a mad rush of solutions, and slathered both on, one after another. I also tried a few other natural treatments I found on the bastion of all information, WebMD.

The next morning I wake, don on my nylons and heels and get going. Mid-presentation, I’m talking about overcoming and I stop, raise my foot and give an object lesson.

“Like now,” I say, retelling my spider bite story. “All I want to do is itch the center of my swollen foot but I’ve made it through nearly fifty minutes.” I get head nods of affirmation (which makes me feel good and strong), but afterward, a woman whom I know to be naturopath comes up to me and says this:

“Don’t lance it.” (in the presentation, I’d said my husband, Rog, has a singular solution for everything from a bad relationship to a zip and spider bites. “Lance it!” he always suggests.

“Lancing will make it worse,” she says, grateful I ignored him (just this once). “Do you have mud?”

“Mud, as in, in my backyard?” She affirms the very same. “About ten acres of it.”


This is a spider bite taken from this helpful article

“Go put wet mud on your spider bite. Clay draws out the venom.”

Sure enough, I got home, walk ten feet, get a handful of dirt, add water and apply. It was only a matter of minutes before my foot felt better. The swelling reduced, the itching stopped almost immediately. Today (Monday) I woke with barely an evidential point of the bite. By 3 this afternoon, it’s completely healed. No itching, soreness or residual effects.

I’m glad I used the calendula (good for itching) and arnica (which is normally for pain), because I’m sure they both tempered the issue. But the mud? That was the ticket.

*sorry, no pictures. I wasn’t thinking clearly. it was the spider bite:-

Gym’s, Gerry’s and the petri dish of life

Going to my gym is like experiencing a cornucopia of life. A mixture of people, sizes and persuasions along with contradictions and for me, curiosity.

kroc center

Who gets a gym that looks like it belongs in Aspen? Me and 14,000 other people, that’s who

Maybe it’s because this place is a multi-purpose center as opposed to a strictly iron and class oriented gym. This place is rock climbing and swimming, theatre and basketball courts. I’m sure there is more, but my curiosity taps out where the day care center stops. It starts back up as I approach mile three on thick rubber bottom-treadmill and the sweat is dripping in my, blurring the letters on my Kindle. My mind starts to wander and I look around. Out of my left eye, I spy an older man two treadmills down about 5’7 who has a crunched right hand. At first I only sense this, because he’s having extraordinary difficulty pushing the buttons. In front of me is a younger couple that are engaged in the type of back and forth that only occurs in the dating phase. Married couples, FYI, go separate directions, or if they stay together, move with military-style precision. They are here to get things done, not flirt.

I move on from the young couple. They are boring me and honestly, if I have to watch people flirt on the treadmill, my only recourse is to give myself more pain as a distraction.

Downstairs, over the railing, I see a late-twenties man rolling his wheelchair. He works here. Once I overhead him talking to a group of elderly patrons. He said a snowboarding accident left him in his present state. He wheels everywhere with vigor, being much more helpful to the senior citizens who occupy this place than I would normally expect a late-twenties employee to be. (Nothing against late twenties, mind you. It’s just that a person who is half the height of a granny tends to be a) non-threatening, b) interested in what life’s lessons are all about and c) funny. If you have lost the use of your legs, along the path, I believe a decision is made whether or not to become bitter. And if that’s not the choice, happiness usually is. Have you ever noticed how happy disabled people are? It’s like it was a blessing. But I digress.)

Then comes the group of big, bald and…(no, not bloaty, I know you thought I was going there), but hard. How can that be? You ask. I can answer because in my alter life, I am the quizat haderachk. These men are mostly forties to sixties, and own their bigness and baldness. As I ramp up my treadmill to 7% and then 11%, I’m in awe of how these men own it. Actually, I have to give credit to my friend from LA, Mark S., a snowboarding, surfing CEO of not one but two companies (he’s single, but has attachment issues, sorry ladies). In any case, he will look at you when you completely err (e.g. fart in a closed-windowed car) and say “Claim it, bro.”

These men, I watch them and then claim it. Claim their bigness that is so big, their tummies is one, enormous round entity that stretches the t-shirt like a balloon ready to go into the stratosphere. They strut. They laugh. They do the man-bro hug and pat each other’s back twice with a bap-bap. I must say, I applaud it. They are so full of confidence it almost makes them appealing. Almost.

Then we have another group of Gerries (what I call older women, Gerries—with a j–) is short for geriatric. Rog thinks it’s insulting but in my posse of grandmas who I hang with (thing church and service-based activities), a Gerry is really an affectionate term, one of endearment. (e.g. oh that Gerry si so cute driving her scooter, oh, that’s a hot Gerry, she’s working that lace skirt).

In any case, these place has the female equivalent of the balding, big men. They are the not-so-well preserved women who are trying really, REALLY, hard. (yes, I shouted, but more of a nice emphasis cuz I like these women). This area, in Northern Idaho, isn’t about pretense, plastic surgery or make-up. When I’m talking try hard, I’m referring to a completely different try, one that requires my complete respect and more than a little bit of awe.

To wit (invoking my high school English lit class), one woman in her late sixties, her face an unfolded piece of parchment paper that attests to her a lifetime in the northern Idaho sun, has poured her skinny self into a pair of stretchy leggings and a skin tight halter top. Rock climbing shoes without sock are the only other piece of clothing she puts on before scrambling her little superhero butt into the harness. She shimmies up the rock wall, putting the out of shape fourteen year-old male’s to shame.

That girl has claimed it. Dang. I look around wanting to claim something of my own.

As I get off the stationary walking apparatus of pain, I head directly to the weight section. There I run into a wall of Gerries who have commandeered the machines, many with their personal trainer (compliments of the center). They have their small white pieces of paper, attached to a clipboard and their minder. (I’m borrowing that from the Scientologists. I like it. It fits. I hope I don’t get sued. If the government of the US doesn’t have the funds or gumption to sue the Scientologists, I’m pretty sure I don’t). In any case, the minder keeps tabs on very push and press, pull and dip. Nary a sweat drop in sight, but I tell you what I do see. A lot of looking around. Gazing—at the opposite sex!

I ponder this as I continue into the free weight section where I’m in the company of only one other woman (who is definitely not a Gerry) and a whole lot of maleness under thirty. I’m okay with this, but as I mention to my husband later than evening, I’m confused as to what to do and how to be. My natural, nice, talkative self creates the impression that I want to talk, instead of working out, and that my talking is a forward to getting into bed. So after realizing I was creating a legion of potential stalkers who would follow me around from bench to pole, I tried the other approach. I stared straight ahead, barely making eye contact, and only doing so when I needed to verify bench or item was available. I’m terribly conflicted about this, because I think avoiding someone’s gaze is rude and I run this risk of thinking I’m all that (which, if you saw me at the gym, would know I’m very little of all that).

I’m reminded of what Rog told me earlier in the week. “Who cares if they look or talk to you? Why are you even thinking about this? Enjoy a younger man talking to you. It’s not going to last forever.”

What the…? Laughing while foreseeing my old-age Gerry-ness coming into play, I continue working out, trying to find a balance between being focused and polite but distant and not-b—chy. The good news is I have better things to focus on, like the man who has been burned on half of his body, and the woman plastered with so many tattoos I can barely see the skin. She doesn’t look very happy but has an amazing body. This then makes me wonder if I have to be grumpy and focused to have a great body.

Closing the locker on my things, I wipe some sweat off and head out. The meanderings of my time at the gym. I came. I exercised. I pondered. I realized I don’t know half of what I need to be wise, but if the Gerry’s around me are any example, I’m going to have a lot of time to figure it out.

Chocolate addicts, UTIs and a fix

Not a sexy topic to be sure, but lets face it. When one consumes massive amounts of sugar, but it by mainlining (alcohol) or the slower but no less effective chewing kind (candy or the less adulterated kind, like processed bread that eventually turns into sugar), one needs a fast, effective solution for the sugar-induced UTI (urinary tract infection) that is the consequence of short-term joy.

I have found that I can cope with nearly anything my UT (urinary tract) throws at me to stop my evil ways. I first went to sugar rehab while in college, when I was in the dorm room shower and saw blood coming from (down there). I was nearly in tears I was in so much pain, the ejection of pure acid out my peep-hole enough to make me beg for three more calculus classes. Worse, my mother comes out to take me to the doctor, and he asks if I got it by having sex. (I was an undefiled virgin if you must know), which he soon attested to in front of my mother (whew!).

He then probed the causes. I wasn’t overweight (under actually) and had kept off the “freshman 15” by drinking 3 64 oz diet cokes a day. Hmm. Yes. I bought into the zero calorie marketing hype. LIttle did I know that the man-made acids were not conducive to a function UT. BTW, if you are thinking that women alone are afflicted by this–no. Men have all the joys of UTIs along with the she-counterparts.

“No more sodas,” intoned the doctor. He didn’t need to tell me. I’d so destroyed my insides that 10 years later I learned the lining of my walls had been permanently damaged. And by permanently, what that means is that if I have 3 gulps of soda–any kind–I will get a UTI (more commonly identified as a bladder infection) within 15 minutes. UGH.

To keep this short and to get you to a solution, keep two things in mind: reactive and preventative. The former is: I’m in pain, or I’ve just had a few too many choc bars, desserts or whatever and by the time I get home I’m going to be screaming. For these instances, you need to keep several tabs of Probiotics in your wallet, purse or pocket. These little gems are the equivalent of a urinary tract napalm explosion. (I’ve found this brand in particular works best). I’m talking scorched earth in 15 minutes. Unless you have gone to CA (Chocoholics Anonymous) you must use these white magic pills as your sponsor.

Now, if you are a thinking person (which all my readers are) you are going to take the smart, proactive, never get caught with my privates-on-fire situation, right? Right. Those people will do the following:

every day, once a day, take 2 cranberry gelcaps, (for UT health) 3 alka greens (for PH balance and alkalinity, which do a whole lot more for you than can possibly be explained in this blog) and finally, you will take an alkidophilus. I did this all best preventative solutionthrough Europe this last summer and not once in weeks did I have issue. And trust me, I should have been wailing through 15 different countries I was easting so much sugar and chocolate.

Now, the above two situations are normal–but sometimes, I’m in critical, life or death pain–and by this I mean I wake up in the middle of the night. Here’s what I do. I load up on all of the above and power all four items down with as much water as I can possibly keep inside me. Sometimes I have to take a hot bath- but that’s probably more for mental help that I’m so stupid as to get myself in a college-age predicament yet again.

Tip: buy the cranberry, probiotic at Costco– great brands and inexpensive. the others I get on line through amazon.

Mind and body hook-ups, just in time for Mother’s Day

It’s fascinating to read how many people tie a healthy heart rate to an active, healthy libido. Am I the only person who doesn’t get this? I have never, in my Swedish-I-never-say-no to that, felt more interested in getting Olivia-Newton-John when I exercise a lot. In fact, when I over exercise, you know what I want? Sleep.

I will give the theory one point of merit, and that has to do with being seen sans clothes. Or, as my husband says, when I do exercise, my skin tone changes so dramatically that my personality is different. He doesn’t need to tell me. I feel it. I’m more confident and frankly a loss less encumbered by the confines of clothing when I feel tight in the muscle, not in my pants. Maybe it’s the running around with a bit of nakidity (that would be my own Don-King-ism), singing “I’m a free-bird.” Not sure.
Here are a few of my 20 minute tips to get your groove on, your clothes gone and your inner American Idol going for the Free Bird tune.
When watching TV: lie on either side and crank out 50 leg lifts, inner and outer thighs. It will knock off and out that yucky skin and get you into skinny jeans (even men). (quick workout refresher)
Get on the elliptical: Read 20 minutes of your favorite magazine. It’s approx 2 miles if you are working hard. Great for lifting up the butt. Less painful than P90X.
Take the stairs: up and down at the office, at the dentists appt. Think about it as an elliptical replacement. I think it’s less about burning calories that lifting up the butt and getting cellulite off the back of the legs.
Don’t forget the ballet butt-ups. A perfect, 200 second experience with the devil, but in a good way. What’s @3 minutes out of your life anyway?
Go for some yoga. It stretches the inner and under arm flabs, and as we know, batwings are about as attractive as the turkey-gobble. But whatever you do, do NOT go on Sundays or Mondays. Know why? The men–the professional athletes that tend to live around my area, hit the yoga on Mon after a weekend of getting beat up and drinking. Beyond stretching, yoga rids the body of toxins, esp the hot yoga, which is my choice. Know what that means? All the badness that has been internalized must now get out of the body. gerr-roose. Stinky. Smelly. Farty. It’s disgustingly bad. If you must go, go in the morning. Your sensibilities will thank you.
With Mother’s Day coming up, give your man the body he deserves (and by the way, you do to). You’ve got a potential to tighten up, slim down or at least get mentally confident that this V-Day experience will be better than in years past. I have faith that you too, can be a ‘free bird.’

Two months already

My readers know that when I go dark (e.g don’t blog), life is brutal. Ironically, good things can actually serve like lights in the midst of a blackout; little points on the horizon that reminds me life exists outside my own microcosm of a universe. So since the Illustrious She and my cousin Nance have both now given me swift kicks in my be-hind, I’ll write a few notes on the last 60 days.

In 2 months:

1. I’ve had a relationship enema. I’ll blog at some point about the true-isms of finding renewed peace, energy, love and sex with your spouse/partner, but anyone in a relationship knows that those things don’t come without massive emotional constipation, tears, fury and the ultimate decision made famous by The Clash, Should I Stay or Should I Go. Children of the 80’s know that to stay means trouble to go means double. Tip. If you wake up and state 5 great things about your life, family, your partner, the day goes a little better, the sun seems a little brighter, and then a day passes, then its a week, then its a month. Then it’s a way of being. Do clouds come? Oh yeah. Thunderstorms? of course. But the lightening hurts a little less (or doesn’t make a direct hit).

2. Physical pain brings enlightenment. Why is it that God chooses to divert my angst and simultaneously humble me through physical travails? The day after I returned from Mexico last wk w/the family, I crushed the bones in my left hand. Who does this happen to? (me) Why? (clearly, I need it). Last wk I read in the Times a journalist who espoused that God doesn’t love the wealthy more and yet doesn’t love those who suffer any less. We are responsible for our own success, happiness and injuries. Ok. Then I’m an idiot for pulling out weeds in our pond, stepping on a rock, slipping and in an attempt not to get freezing water inside my chest-high waders, I thrusted my hand forward, thereby hitting another set of rocks and cracking my hand. I’m all about self-love now. Good thing I’m right handed.

3. Family vacations are great for kids and tiring for parents. 6 wks ago went to Puerto Vallarta with Rog. It was relaxing, got lots of time at the gym, and went to clubs/shows every night. I slept in. It was glorious. I thought-my kids will love this. For spring break, we went back down. It wasn’t relaxing. I spent zero time at the gym, but we hit shows every night (my kids are like that). It wasn’t relaxing. What it was however, was family-unit building, wherein the girls played, swam, made crafts, waterslided-their-hearts-out, and ate food from 10-10, all amongst mostly Mexican nationals, which had a side effect of improving their Spanish. The nt before we returned, daughter #2 got an earache, thus I was up all night, holding, comforting and administering Menthal (a natural earache healer I got at the local Pharmacia), fervently praying she’d be well enough to go on the plane. I came home needing a vacation.


Chambers in Poland. to be releaed May 2015

4. Authoring is no longer a hobby. Two days ago I approved the cover for Chambers in Poland. The book comes out next month. This is four countries now, and while I’m happy about it, honestly, I still feel like a complete loser. The largest publishers in 3 foreign countries have taken on this book, but no major US publisher (they are apparently still pissed that I gave the film rights away thereby cutting them out of the deal). I’m like David Haselhoff without the chest hair. I’m really big in countries where I don’t speak the language. In the interim, 2 books in my adult fiction line are almost done, and I’m constantly battling with Rog who is convinced I’m having mental affairs with the men I write about (some who I kill off, others who are completely hot. I can hear my mother-in-law laughing about the truth of this). Finally, in exasperation, I retort “Right, and I’m the lead girl in all my books, like just a schizophrenic-Sybil-like person. Gah!” (Us intelligent author-types can say that).

5. Billionaires like my food. I’ve been telling a particular person “No” to a project for some time. Said person flies west to call on me (sounds very 1800’s does it not?) brings spouse to my home, gives us amazing host/hostess gifts (exotic food and jewelry). I make food my family will eat and not offend my guests sensibilities (which I’ll detail in another blog, along with the recipes) and in the end, after 4 hours, I still say no. We all ended friends (they particularly liked my crab cakes and chocolate mousse). Said billionaire came back later and said-“I’m not interested in anyone else. I’ll wait for your schedule.” In my ever eloquent way, I said to myself, Holy crap. And this is why this person has billions. Perseverance. Patience, and the ability to wear others down.

Beyond these uber-level highlights:


comes in either capsule or liquid form. use 2x a day on an empty stomach. unreal results in 30 days but can see results in 2 wks

1. I’ve proven that the Omica brand Super Zlite Zeriolite capsules really do improve hair quality and thickness (it has ash, which strips the body of metals, which in turn increase hair and nail growth).

2. I desperately miss my chocolate ice cream. I want it. I can’t have it. I think about it all the time. Fondly. I daydream about it. Yes. I’m that pathetic.

3. I truly enjoy my readers from Russia (who, might I add, have great taste in watches and sportscars?) Who cares if the president is off his rocker? So is ours.

4. I’ve discovered Mulco Swiss watches. (My readers know that watches to me are like crack. I can’t get enough. And as my husband points out, crack is a lot cheaper, but at least this way, I have my teeth).

chumlee for president

my favorite episode in recent months is where Chumlee makes a coin. mighty fine looking president

5. I fear for Comedy Central.Can they lose any more good hosts (actually, are any left?) and finally, What. In. The. World. has happened to my favorite people of Pawn Stars? The shows success has made what was great complete crap, esp Rick. He’s now stilted and boring. Make Chumlee and Big Hoss the leads, please. And BTW. the last time I was in Vegas, I saw “the Old Man” driving a stinking Bentley! Show up to the actual store and learn that he and Rick are never actually there. Just come in on “show times.” Ugh. I hate it when something goes from pure to completely manufactured.

6. Bowing to publisher-pressure, I’m now on Instagram under my own name, sarahjgerdes. I haven’t really figured it all out- as in, what’s interesting and what’s not. My publishers want me to revert everything back to my blog, and I’m not interested in posting what I ate for breakfast. I’ll probably offend as many people as I entertain, but then, that’s me. (I do have to say I like following Ducatistas and Porsche and airplanes. very cool images and satisfies my penchant for  machines and speed). I do have to say I wish I knew the last names of people I’ve met. I’d follow them and keep tabs but alas, I’m so caught up in the person I don’t get it. sigh.

7. Vancouver BC was fun, esp given that we found a new place to stay for the hockey tournaments. It spurned me into becoming a travel reviewer, because the place we stayed at got such bad reviews, I had to dispute it. Thus, now you can find me in Trip Advisor under Sarah G. (I know. You can’t get quite enough of me, but this is solely reviews of places, nothing more).

The missing leg and other object lessons

Nothing gets the attention of six 9 year old girls like a formal Air Force office taking off his titanium leg at the knee, all done whilst during Sunday School. At church. You read that right.

So now you know two things. One, I’m a Sunday School teacher (try not to go running in to the night screaming). Two, I’m all about object lessons. And this one is classic. If I had an object lesson like this for every vice, weakness or temptation in my life, I’d be a saint.

rosemary in png

Rosemary is good for migraines & muscle relaxation

Here’s how it goes down. The lesson: the tie between health and wisdom (yes, for pre-teens. It’s never too early to talk about how caffeine will stick you to the roof of the car, thus requiring a parent to unpeel you off with a set of prongs). As I’m sitting there in the pews, considering the rosemary sprigs I’ve cut from my herb garden (to show how you use it in the belly of a turkey as well as in the stuffing, but can also press it for oils and put it on the muscles in your neck to ease the strain and reduce/eliminate migraine headaches, but really, is that going to be something the kids will remember once they leave?

I see George, a former fighter pilot. A devilishly-handsome man (from the pictures I’ve seen taken 30 years and 100 pounds lighter). I recall when my daughter Porsche was four. We went for a visit to his home. He’d just had his right leg removed above the knee. Her, being four, asked him where it went, just like that. He glanced at me for approval, his look of “can she handle this?” answered by my look of “don’t holding anything back, man, this is life.”

“I ate too much, got fat, lost the circulation in the leg due to diabetes and they had to cut it off.” (Thankfully he skipped over the gout, gangrene and other stuff he said off-line).

My daughter had no issue with information, and when it was followed by his admonition “this is what happens when you eat too much sugar.” My four year-old looked at his non-foot, and the titanium boot sitting nearby and that was that. From that day forward, she has watched every bit of food to go in her mouth, especially sugar. (Thankfully, it only took a few wks for her to figure out what had sugar and what didn’t, the good types and the bad).

So to my original point: wouldn’t it be grand if someone, early on in life, had pointed out some guy and said “and this is what this type will bring,” or a box of melted chocolate saying “this is what will give you headaches and pre-cancerous cells.” Would I have run to or from those things or towards them shrieking ‘bring it on!’

It’s not entirely too late for me though. I watch. I ask questions. I adjust, as painful as it sometimes is, hoping to prevent some future (and entirely preventable) badness.

In the meantime, I was humored to learn that I, myself, was used as an example in my brother’s own seminary class (another version of church) because apparently I made such a mess of my life for a period of time that he wanted to show the teenagers what happens when a person goes off the rails for a period of time (isn’t that what the 20’s are for? and not to justify my slightly questionable decisions, I’m not in jail, nor do I have an Internet video available).

So go ahead. Use me as an object lesson to your desired end. And when you are wondering if you should have that 3rd piece of pumpkin pie, think of George and his missing appendage. Let him be the object so you don’t have to learn the lesson.

The Point of Failing

Writing, like traditional martial arts and relationships, is all about failure.

Failing to get the right sentence structure, or create a visual that reads like the image in my mind. Lucas (the producer at Warp) told me years ago that he knows a famous author that will spend two weeks on a single sentence. I wanted to ask, ‘in one stretch?’, but I kept my mouth shut. I will go back to paragraphs many times, write and re-write, until I feel like a failure, and certainly want to (and sometimes do) give up, but then return once again.

When I was a lowly second section (that means I was about 6 months in), I was regularly collapsing on the floor of the studio (in our line, it’s not called a dojo, it’s the “studio.”). In any case, the 8th degree black belt said I can “work through anything.” In other words, get up and keep going. “Set your mind.”

That was it. No encouragement. No sympathy. Just do. Very Yoda-like in my humble opinion, so I got up and started again, just like the writing (which coincidentally, happened not long after this aforementioned incident).

Then relationships. Failure abounded after I started dating (well, to be honest, long before an actual “date” occurred) but when the guy was right, I actually realized that failure was no longer an option – or rather, my response to failure was no longer the option. Just like martial arts, I had to set my mind and “push through it,” the global, oft-repeated mantra heard by all.

Now lo, these long years after first hearing the words,  the notion of pushing through it all sometimes…tiring. Sometimes, I just want a break. I want things to be easy, not always a bloody struggle, like Atlas pushing the rock up the hill. My shoulders are wide but come on. Yet my stubborn Swedish/Danish roots come through, and after I’m done crashing (figuratively and literally) on the bed, I wake up, and start all over, determined to replace my temporary failure with success. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

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