New Year's Resolutions

I'm late with my resolutions this year, but it's never to late to resolve to do a bunch of things that may or may not happen.

I didn't achieve all of last year's and I can tell already you one thing I won't be making a goal this year: a juice fast.

But I'm a sucker for goals, so here goes..

1. I will finish the novel I am working on. I'm pretty sure this has been on my list for, like, three years in a row. This time, I mean it. Actually I only have about 20 more pages of revisions to work through, and then there's that little matter of the final chapter which I didn't really write yet. Minor detail.

2. Join the polar bear club. When I first started writing these at the end of December, this was going to be my "easy" one because I'd already registered for the swim. I thought this was pretty clever because I'd automatically start off the New Year already having achieved a goal. WIN!

Unfortunately, on Dec. 31 my son developed a sudden, raging ear infection. Which I did not realize until the evening, at which point, it was too late to take him to the pediatrician and I thought the urgent care place would be a drunken, germy two-hour purgatory.

And then the infection got much, much worse. So I guess the lesson here is go to PrimaCare early on New Year's Eve if your kid has even the slightest thing wrong, because at 7 am on Jan 1, nothing else was open and instead of starting my new year by jumping into a freezing pool, I started my new year by forking over a nice, fat ER copay. Who's clever now?

I'm keeping it on the list anyway - because maybe I'll just randomly jump into our pool this winter. It could happen. I did it last year to amuse the kids. And then a certain spouse posted it to Youtube and Facebook and I looked ridiculous.

Really, this one just needs to go, doesn't it? Plus, why am I trying to imitate polar bears anyway? They eat people.

3. I will learn how to use Uber. I know, I know. Everyone else is already using it. Here's the thing: months ago, I installed the app on my phone and accidentally requested a ride and the guy on the phone was super aggressive and all "I'm cheaper than a taxi!" and I tried to explain that while I totally believed him, I did not actually need a ride just then, and then he seemed to get angry at me, and the whole experience was entirely too stressful. Then, of course, there was the infamous driver here in Dallas who assaulted a woman and all I could think was, maybe that was the same guy.

I mean, clearly he had an anger management issue, maybe he was a rapist, too. Or maybe he just really, really wanted me to know about his cheap fares. But no matter, this year I will conquer my uber-phobia.

(Note to everyone: if I end up chopped to pieces by a psychopathic Uber driver someday, this is what they call "foreshadowing" and you can FB it to everyone with lots of comments like "eerie" and "OMG that is SO creepy" as an example of what NOT to choose for a New Year's resolution).

That's it. Those are all my resolutions.

Sure, I could aim for exercising more, yelling less and cutting out wine, but why?

I signed up for a half marathon in March because I am an idiot, so I'm already exercising more.

Plus, I'm realistic about my maternal skills and ability to remain calm amid the inescapable chaos of my house.

Patience, particularly when dealing with math homework, is best served with Chardonnay.

All I want for Christmas

Dear Santa,

You probably don't remember me, but I'm the one who keeps threatening that you won't come if my kids don't stop trying to kill each other. Yeah, I know. Me and every other parent. Doesn't really work, either -- they seem to have an unstoppable magnetic force that makes them shove each other into furniture. Oh and they've already written you pages full of stuff they want. Spoiler alert: there's a lot of Pokemon this year. Sorry elves, those cards look like a real pain -- what the hell is a Charzon anyway?

If you've got a second, I've written in a few requests of my own. I think I've been mostly good this year -- and by "mostly" I mean not exactly bad. Like I'm not a saint or anything, but I'm not ISIS. (PS -- those guys are your naughty list. Period. I just saved you an entire season of wasting your time watching billions of kids. You're welcome).

So these are totally just suggestions, but I thought maybe if you're looking to jazz up your repertoire, you could take a crack at one or two ...

1. A new job for our Elf on the Shelf. He was cute for like a week. But lately he just doesn't want to move and he never turned in one of those cute "doctor notes" so my kids expect something exciting! And New! Every! Day! Some people's elves are really, really good at it - you know who I mean, they're hilarious yet whimsical, like magical fairies spun from irony and Pinterest. Alex, our elf, is more chill. He likes to hang out in the living room, reading. And contrary to what I had hoped, his choice in reading material did not, in fact, spark my children's interest in Harry Potter. I feel like Alex is ready for new challenges -- maybe next year Alex joins the Peace Corps or goes to find himself in Tibet. I hear Brad Pitt took seven years -- and I'm cool with that.

2. A magical glass that gives every sip of wine the nutritional equivalent of zero-calorie vitamin water. Before you laugh, hear me out. The ability to turn anything into water is a genius idea with life-saving potential. I mean, if you could make booze as healthy as water, you could change the world, one wine glass at a time. The fact that it will greatly reduce the impact of my cheezit-chardonnay consumption on the fit of my jeans is just an added bonus. Also, Santa? I hear someone else who's big this time of year could turn water into wine. I don't know you tight you are with JC, but can you say Best.Prank.Ever???

3. My car cleaned. And I mean really cleaned. Not like Car Spa clean, where they're always like, yeah lady we can get your car detailed and then they start looking at all the milk shake stains and the crushed Cheetos and three hours later they are still laughing at me. I want elf-magic clean. I want the seats to actually repel the crackers and the Gatorade back into my kids' hands. I want the smell of old french fries banished, to be replaced by the soft scent of lavender, primeval pine and unrealized dreams. Think Enya meets Pitbull meets Jo Malone.

4. About three more years worth of sleep. Real sleep, not the kind where a six-year-old is kicking your back. Sleep in a bed without children. Or the dog scratching or walking around, sighing - and what does a golden retriever even have to sigh about, anyway? Is she regretting the entire steak she devoured raw off the kitchen counter? Somehow, I doubt it.

5. Also along those lines, could you fix my phone which on some mornings wakes me at 4:45 am even though I deleted that alarm from my phone like three times? Really, if you look at my phone settings, that alarm does not exist. And yet. Every Monday, some Tuesdays, most Wednesdays and the occasional Thursday - there it is. Maybe it was set by ghosts. In which case -- well played, malicious spirits. But seriously, knock it off.

6. Magic laundry fairies. I'm good at getting the laundry into the washing machine. My husband is good at getting it into the dryer. Where we both are lacking is in the folding and -- especially -- putting away of the kids' clothes part. Yeah, I know, I should have trained my children to put away their own clothing by now. It's just that when I try that, I notice those clothes mostly end up shoved in their closet, which leads to 7:30 am meltdowns because I CAN'T FIND MY SHORTS MOM. NO NOT THAT PAIR, THE OTHER ONES! NO OF COURSE I CAN'T WEAR ANY OTHER PAIR! THERE IS ONLY ONE PAIR IN THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT MATCHES MY ORANGE UNDER ARMOR SHIRT AND I NEEEEEEEEEED IT NOOOOOOWWWW!!!! So just saying, a little laundry help would be much appreciated.

7. This last one is not just for me -- it's for all the ladies in my office. We want the name of that guy at work who looks like Prince Harry so we can prove to everyone who hasn't seen him that he really exists. Really, the resemblance is uncanny. And when he gets into an elevator all the women dissolve into giggles. Now I realize this is all sounding ridiculous, but Santa, have you ever been in a corporate office building? It's ... well, not the most exciting environment. So when something -- anything -- causes a group of otherwise rational women to act like we're twelve again -- well, it is greatness. But here's the thing -- there are other women we work with who have never, ever seen him. He's like a unicorn, Santa, and only those who have seen him believe. If we could just pin down his name, we could pass it around to all the other ladies in my office so they could org-chart stalk him.

This is such a tiny thing, but it would bring joy to so many. And really, isn't that what Christmas is all about?

(Not) Good at Math

I'm tired of third grade math. I just am. I'm tired of attempting to decipher the questions my son doesn't understand (or, doesn't care to try to understand). Tired of alternating a "tough approach" (hey, pal, you got it wrong, redo it. No, neatly. No, still wrong) with an "encouraging" approach (fake smile + wine = Mommy is going to act like this math is FUN). Tired of looking at a diagram with numbers and words that bear no resemblance to any math I've had to do or would actually need to do ... like EVER. I'm tired of trying to explain concepts that I don't really get.

But mostly, I'm tired of having to say again and again, "No, you're not bad at math." This one really wears me out for two reasons. One is that math used to be easy for him, and if the drawings he does of elaborate football plays are any indication, he seems to have a pretty good grasp of numbers.

But the second reason is that every time he says "I'm not good at math," I remember second grade.

When I was in second grade, we had "tracked" classes. Meaning, you didn't just study all your subjects with your homeroom - you studied with kids of similar academic abilities. The kids in our grade were divided into three groups - for fun, the teachers suggested we pick soda names. The 7-Ups, the Sprites and the Mello-Yellos. But we knew what they really meant.

For the first week of school, much to my relief, I was a 7-Up in reading and math.The second week, I was in 7-Up math, when the teacher abruptly told me I was in the wrong class. I was confused, but she said to return my math book to the pile at the front of the class. Then she walked me and another kid across the hall.

To the Sprite math class.

I was horrified. A month away from turning seven and already I was mediocre. Taking my new seat, I was too embarrassed to concentrate on anything the teacher said. The real kicker was that up until then, I'd actually thought I was smart. But clearly I wasn't. I mean, the teacher herself said I was in the wrong class. She was the teacher, for God's sake. She knew.

Then I wondered if my friends, all of whom were 7-Ups, would even want to be friends with me anymore. After all, they were smart and apparently I was not. All these awful thoughts swirled in my brain, and when the new teacher called on me, I didn't have an answer. I didn't even know what the question was. He made some sarcastic remark and somebody snickered. I'd heard that noise before -- well, directed at me in PE, but mostly at other kids during reading. The kids who stumbled over syllables and paused in the wrong places. The kids I'd always felt sorry for when somebody laughed. And now? That was me.

It only got worse from there. I remember the teacher holding up a clock, and calling on students to tell time, which even now, when I think of it, makes me sweat. The first time he did this, I watched as another kid counted fives to come up with the correct answer. The teacher said, "good idea" and I thought hey, I can do this. I know my fives. So when it was my turn, I studied the clock and carefully began, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty ..." but I didn't know when to stop. So I just kept going till I reached the twelve, hoping the right answer would magically pop out of my mouth. It didn't. Another sarcastic crack from the teacher and mercifully, he moved on to someone else.

God, I thought, no wonder I'm in Sprite math. Any minute now, it's Mello-Yelloville. That fear did not come true; I stayed in Sprite math the rest of the year. I don't remember learning anything, except that telling time by counting fives only worked if you actually understood how to read a clock. Mostly I sat in the back and drew pictures, prompting the teacher to constantly call me out for messy work. I didn't care -- I mean, at least I was good at drawing, which was more than I could say for math.

From that point forward, I was not good in math. I don't mean my actual grades -- I was paranoid about grades early on and if I didn't understand something, by God, I'd memorize it. But in my head, I was bad at math. Every grade and new math concept I approached with dread, assuming I wouldn't do well.

Algebra came as a surprise in 9th grade. It actually made sense. I assumed this was some sort of mistake. Because, again, not smart in math.

10th grade - geometry, yup, not real smart. In 11th grade I moved out of state, to a giant school where I didn't know anyone. Math was much harder there, but, I realized, even the kids I could clearly tell were "math-smart" struggled. So I studied harder. And harder.

The next year, when I moved back home again, math was suddenly easy. The teacher complimented me. But, deep down I knew I wasn't really good -- it's just that a lot of what we covered I'd already learned the year before. When she gave me the advanced math medal at the senior award ceremony, I felt a little bit like a fraud.

In college, I tested out of the basic math requirement. Which means = I never had to take math again. And I've managed to survive fairly well on that high school knowledge. Somehow, without crazy tables and place value diagrams, I've been able to balance checkbooks and pay bills. So until recently, I was kinda thinking maybe I'm OK at math.

Then this third grade nonsense hit. With crazy word problems and splitting numbers into bars and questions like "what is the relationship between these two numbers?" I told my son, I don't know, maybe they're dating?

The teacher tells me she thinks he just isn't interested. I think -- why would he be? It's hard to get and it's easy to give up. (And, I must confess, I think things like: who the hell needs to know this stuff? Maybe he won't need this crazy math. Maybe he'll be a writer and will later laugh when he thinks of this math hell).

I also email the teacher to let her know when he's struggling - not that I have to, she can tell. But she's told me to tell her if he clearly doesn't understand the homework and I do. A couple weeks ago I started my note with, "I have to be honest, I didn't understand this" -- and then I hesitated. Why tell her that? It would just make me sound stupid. She already knows he's having problems, and I pictured her reading my email and thinking, "well the apple doesn't fall far from that tree."

But thing is, I can't be afraid to ask questions that make me look dumb because how does that help my son? So I sent the email. Since then, he's tanked another test. I made him redo the wrong answers. It was painful. But amid the yelling (from both of us) because he didn't want to do it, I told him it was important to redo the answers he got wrong.

He shook his head."Why does it even matter?"

Because, I said. You can do this.

You're good at math.

All I ever needed to know about business I learned from a Billy Idol concert

Spoiler alert: the headline is somewhat of an exaggeration. I’m sure I learned something about business in college. Except that I majored in art, which is more about learning to starve. Or, I could credit the advertising world with what little business savvy I have. But that would be an entirely different article, probably inappropriate for this venue. Instead, I’m taking my cues from a recent night at the House of Blues. Because the same tactics that work at the office are on full display at a Billy Idol concert. Take away the incense and it’s practically Marketing 101.

1. Always Leave ‘Em with White Wedding – AKA, know your audience

That Billy is no fool. The house was packed. There were overpriced t-shirts and tote bags printed with his face. (Because if there’s one thing that marks your fan base as suburban parents, it’s tote bags). Clearly, he knows his way around the soccer mom crowd. The set actually started on time. He knew what we wanted to hear, but he saved it for the encore. He played new songs first, capitalizing on the enthusiasm of middle-aged people who were, frankly, just excited to be out of the house. By 9 p.m., he was playing all the classics, and by 10, he’d played “White Wedding” and was out the door. Pretty genius when half your audience has to get home in time to pay the sitter.

Bottom line: if you give the people what they want – they will gladly shell out $50 for a ticket and $30 for a tote bag. Which is totally carrying juice boxes to three soccer games next weekend.

2. You Don’t Need a Gun – AKA, be polite and persistent to get what you want

Sometimes you need to get people on your side to get things done. Sure, you can try to bully or bribe, but that’s sort of frowned on nowadays, and it’s a lot of work. Call me old-fashioned or lazy, but I’ve found that if you’re just polite and persistent, you can often persuade people to do all kinds of things. This works whether you are trying to tame a tricky client, or get the hosts in the Foundation Room to seat you at a “reserved” table, which for some silly reason they are saving for “members only” (note to House of Blues: you’re a bar, not a country club).

Bottom line: you can accomplish a lot with moxie and manners.

3. All of us were once Sweet Sixteen – AKA, nostalgia sells

They say it takes a village to raise a child. It takes a lot more than that to get me out of the house after 8. Why stand for hours in a crowd when I could sit at home and watch Downton Abbey, where the couch is comfy and the wine is free?

I’ll tell you why.

Because the first chords of Eyes Without a Face take me back in junior high, rushing off the school bus to meet my best friend, who was bringing her special picture disc single, imported from England. You may not remember picture discs, but they were records (yes, actual records) that had a picture imprinted on them and you had to special order them from an actual record store (Because? The internet? Did not exist?). Once you had it, you could only play it a limited number of times or it would warp or the picture would fade away or something would explode, IDK. What I do know is that we raced into the house, took out the record and stared at it reverentially for maybe ten minutes. And then, finally, she put it on the turntable and we turned the volume knob as loud as it would go until the old German lady across the street asked us to please turn that down. Which we did (politely, of course – see #2). And then we put the record away. Because you could only listen to once.

And Rebel Yell takes me back to the first Christmas after my parents divorced. It was awkward and quiet and didn’t really feel like Christmas. Until we opened presents and I got my very own Sony Walkman with the Rebel Yell cassette tape. After that, nothing else mattered. The uncomfortable silence was filled by the sounds of Billy Idol, in my ears. All.Day.Long. Seriously, I don’t think the headphones came off until dinner.

You can’t download those memories from Netflix. But you can sell me a ticket to see someone who loomed larger than life at a time when I needed it the most.

Bottom line: you can’t go wrong selling people their childhood.

4. Don’t be afraid to Dance with yourself – aka, don’t worry about looking like an idiot

Lots of perfectly good ideas start out sounding ridiculous and stupid to someone (hello, talking pictures?). You can’t be afraid to suggest them, just because you’re afraid someone in a meeting will think you’re an idiot. If they do, they’re the idiot. Tell them Billy said so.

In the same vein, don’t be afraid to jump and down and scream because OMG! He? Just? Came? Out? OnStage!!! Even if one of your friends is using her phone to capture the moment on video. And then puts it on Facebook. And you sound like you’re singing while simultaneously being strangled and having an asthma attack. Who cares? If you get hit by a bus, are you going to regret all the stupid stuff you tried? Of course not. Unless, of course, one of them was playing chicken with a bus. Which is definitely a stupid idea, so don’t try that one – you don’t want to look like an idiot.

Bottom line: don’t worry so much about what other people think of your ideas that you never voice them.

5. Remember, we’re all in this Rat Race together – aka, keep a sense of perspective

Sometimes new ideas are great, sometimes not so much. The Chevy Nova comes to mind, although my mom had one and honestly, it drove just fine. But the point is that in business, as in life, some things will succeed and some will fail. Sometimes it seems like the world just ended because a brochure is late. It hasn’t. The world’s still going, with or without your marketing collateral. Of course, try to do your best, but a sense of perspective goes a long way to preserving your sanity. It’s not rocket science. Unless you work for NASA, in which case, don’t you have more important things to do than read this post?

Let’s say, for example, you go to a concert and have a wonderful time. And after that concert, you’re woken up at 3 am by your dog barking at the life-size mummy on your front porch because your family is way into Halloween. And then you try to calm down the dog, but the wind sets off the motion detectors on the cackling witch, and the googly eyes start flashing in the bushes. Pretty soon you’re stumbling around in the dark trying to find the “off” switches because your entire front yard is like the Spirit Halloween store and the dog is freaking out. Do you lose your mind and declare the entire evening a disaster?

No. You slip the dog salami, go back to bed and wake up two hours later for work. Where you’ll juggle meetings and articles, and something will probably slip through the cracks, despite your best (sleep-deprived) intentions.

Bottom line: we’re all in this together. Do your best, and don’t freak out. Unless, of course, there’s a life-sized mummy on your front porch. Or Billy Idol. In which case?

Call me.

The Spy Who Snacked with Me. AKA, Royale with Cheez-its

At 6:15 this morning, I thought of James Bond. Actually, I was swimming in our pool (and freezing), and then the giant inflatable dolphin scared me so I had to toss it from the pool. Which made me think of that one James Bond movie where he swims underwater and there's some scene with a diver and maybe someone gets stabbed? IDK. But anyway, that led me to wondering who would play the next Bond. There's been a lot of debate over that, at least according to Yahoo News. And Twitter. So you know, it's legit.

And I got to thinking. What if the new 007 had a new secretary? A sort of flakier, think-she's-still-youngish-but-isn't-really, doesn't-quite-have-her-s***t-together Moneypenney. Let's call her NickelSlots.

And they have a thing -- because of course they do. He's a super cool spy, she's a hot mess. It's a Moonlighting meets Remington Steele meets Bridget Jonesian sort of thing.

And then, naturally, I had to play out the scene in my head.

Scene I:

JB (Strides into room, flicks invisible fleck of dust from impeccably tailored suit and perches on desk). Addresses secretary: NickelSlots,you ravishing creature, did you miss me?

NS (looks up, stashes magazine surreptitiously in trash can): "What? Oh, hey 7. S'up?"

JB: NickelSlots, I asked if you missed me!

NS: Um, yeah! Of course. I mean, obviously I missed you. Wait, did you go somewhere?

JB (to himself): It's like why did I even come back? Yes, I went somewhere. A little place called the Middle East.

NS: Did you have a good trip?

JB: A good trip? I fought ISIS, NickelSlots.

NS: Oh right. So, not good then?

JB: NickelSlots, don't be such a tease. Fetch me a drink. You know the way I like it, shaken, not stirred.

NS: Oh. So about that. The vodka's gone.

JB: What do you mean? Where did it go?

NS: I took it to book club.

JB: You took vodka to a book club?

NS: Duh.

JB: Why do you drink at a book club?

NS: Why would you NOT drink at a book club?

JB (sighs): NickelSlots, do you have anything to drink?

NS: Yeah. Hold on. Want some wine? (Holds up bottle of Yellow Tail Chardonnay).

JB (disgustedly): Oh. Fine. Do you have anything to eat with that?

NS: Goldfish?

JB: Nickel, really. Haven't you any Cheez-its, at least?

NS: Please. You know Cheez-its go straight to my hips.

JB: Oh, yes, let's talk about your hips.

NS: Let's not. Actually, let's talk about your expense report.

JB: Uh...

NS (fiddles with drawer, brings out receipt): So says here you wrecked an Asto-something?

JB: An Aston Martin, NickelSlots. A very nice car.

NS: Yeah, well I don't care if it was Ashton Kutchner, this bill's like $200 grand. What the hell?

JB: Let me explain.

NS: Hold up, hold up, I'ma let you finish. But first? Explain this (holds up photo of attractive blonde).

JB. Oh. That.

NS: Uh-huh.

JB: That's Svetlana Oblisky. KGB.

NS: KGB my ass. Svetlana rides the pole at Babydolls, doesn't she?

JB (leering): when am I going to ride your pole, NickelSlots?

NS: Soon as you pay me back all the singles from petty cash. I make $50K and you get your salary in, like, gold bars or something.

JB: NickelSlots, you know I'll always take care of you.

NS: Take care of your s*** . The rest of us have to pay for stuff, you know. Even the queen pays taxes.

JB: Royal family stalking again, are we?

NS: I don't know what you're talking about.

JB: What's that magazine you're trying to hide in the dustbin, Nickels?

NS: What magazine? There's no magazine.

JB: Prince Harry's on the cover of OK! again, isn't he?

NS: Shut up. No. I don't even read that. Also? Prince Harry was on the cover last week.

JB: Aha. I know you too well, NickelSlots. When are we going to do this?

NS: Do what?

JB: Us. You and me. Man and woman. The beast with two backs.

NS: British guys are so polite. It's like you can't even be crude without quoting a 16th century playwright.

JB: Oh, you slay me. Answer me, Nicks. When are we going to face the inevitable and give in to our baser natures?

NS: Right now.

JB: Seriously?

NS: Seriously.

JB (loosens tie): Oh NickelSlots.

NS: Nice tie. Is that gray?

JB: Fifty shades of it, darling.

NS: I love it when you street talk me, 007. Open my desk drawer.

JB: Oooh, yes. What's in here? Toys? Whips?

NS: Better.

JB: Now you've aroused my curiosity. What could be better? Handcuffs? (Peers in drawer)

NS: You'll see.

JB: Oh, NickelSlots.

NS: Oh, James.

JB: Are those what I think they are?

NS: Yes they are.

JN: I love it when you're naughty, Nicks.

NS: Bust out the Cheez-its, 007. I snack hardcore.

THE END

Juicing a la Snoop Dog

Day 3 of this awful experiment known as #juiceapalooza.

After only managing to consumer 2 1/3 bottles of the wretched stuff (Foul green, Too-gingery orange and Aloe Vera Surprise), I returned home to find what can only be described as a total dinner fail. The pork in the crock pot, ostensibly barbecue, had a smell and a texture that absolutely no one in their right mind would consume.

I chalk this up to making dinner early yesterday morning while foaming at the mouth in a juice famine frenzy. (Slow cooker meals + juice fast = really terrible food).

Fortunately, I had actually eaten a few lettuce leaves yesterday, and I credit the salad dressing with giving me enough fat to fuel my brain cells. Sometimes, you just gotta admit defeat and call papajohns.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was pizza time. Call me bastardizing a classic, but I bet Charles Dickens never tried slow cooker pork bbq while juicing (A Tale of Two Collards?)

Lucky for me, the pizza arrived before the kids realized how close they came to eating pork mush. Unlucky for me, pizza didn't stop them from trying to drown each other in the pool. And because I am THE WORST MOM EVER, I made them come inside. I know, I'm such a witch - it's just this thing I have? Where I don't like my kids to kill each other?

Towels were flung, there was a lot of smacking and a last-minute showdown with Nerf guns (there is a special place in Hell for you, Nerf). I barely made it through the drama unscathed, and honestly, I had to eat the rest of my son's pizza before I totally lost my s*** and went all Mommy Dearest on the little scamps.

Eventually, people went to bed. Only to get up about 5 times. Because there is a ghost that lives in my son's closet. I mean, duh. Everyone knows that.

What seemed like days later, I found myself wandering into the kitchen and reaching for an open bottle of Chardonnay. And before you judge, let me point out that wine comes from grapes.

Which are fruit.
Fruit liquefied = juice.
And there you go.

This is my last day. I have 2 juices at work. I am ignoring them. I hope a magic fairy sneaks into my cube and devours them. (Also? If that magic fairy could turn my office into a cute balcony in the French Quarter, I'd be down with that, too)

So here, in summary, are the top ten things I've learned from this nutritional fiasco:

1. I said it before, I will say it again. Collards + bacon = yes. Collards in a glass = no. It's that simple.

2. Satan, thy name is beets. In fact I'm pretty sure in Hell, every meal is beets. Except on Tuesdays when they serve meatloaf.

3. Never trust a green drink unless you're on a balcony with Pierce Brosnan. In which case, don't hate being a foregone conclusion. Hate that your breakfast is compost instead of a croissant.

4. If God intended us to drink aloe vera, He would not have made it so effective as a sunburn treatment.

5. Things that go on the outside of your body don't belong inside. I don't care what you think 9 1/2 weeks taught you, or what chichi restaurant is serving lavender ice cream. Just say no to #lotionfood.

6. Did I mention that beets are evil? I can't emphasize this enough. Really, really bad.

7. I am not a very nice person when I'm hungry.

8. I am slightly more pleasant after a slice of pizza.

9. I am WAY nicer after a glass of wine.

10. As God is my witness, I will never juice again. Unless, of course, the juice in question comes with a side of gin, or in a glass bottle.

With a cork.

Beets are the devil

Day 2 of Juiceapalooza, AKA, another ridiculous idea I vow not to repeat


After one day of juicing (which I hope NEVER to use as a verb again), I can report the following:

1. Collards belong in bacon, not my glass

2. Beets are the devil. They are evil, and should only be permitted to exist in pickled form, nestled next to a bratwurst and potato salad or nowhere on this planet.

3. Drinking raw fruits and vegetables is not making me crave more "real" foods. It is, in fact, having the opposite effect. I came home last night never wanting to face another green thing again. I wanted bread, pasta, cheese and Cheez-its. (Now here's an idea: a Cheez-its and Chardonnay fast. Who's with me?)

4. I did not feel energized, I felt hungry. Also? Making meatballs for my family while contemplating another bottle of green sludge did not make me appreciate my newfound health. It made me mad.

5. I grabbed an apple late last night, and I noticed something. It tasted pretty good, except I kept thinking it would be so much better if it didn't taste like apple juice. Which made me realize: I don't actually like juice. I never drink it. I sort of like grapefruit juice. And I like OJ in a Mimosa. But unless I'm mistaken, and there is actually a juice fast in which everything gets mixed with Champagne, I may have picked the wrong diet.

But -- once again quoting Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day. And it's today. I woke up ... well, hungry, but I did manage to walk the dog and swim. And then, when I was getting dressed, I noticed one ear piercing is lower than the other, causing one earring to look longer than the other. Is this the "new mental clarity" the juicing gurus spoke of?

To make this morning's green monster more palatable, I dumped it in the blender with a few strawberries and half a banana. It was better. Not good. But more like strawberry-banana grass, instead of apple grass, which is an improvement in my book.

But three hours later, I was still extremely hungry. I could have totally gone medieval on some waffles. But I ate 2 boiled eggs instead. Because that's a party. And because I was so annoyed by the raw food philosophy of the juice company, I had to eat something cooked just out of spite.

What lunatic decided cooking was bad, anyway? No, please, don't tell me. I don't care. I just know it's wrong. Some things are just better with a little heat. Collards, for one. That's right, juicing people, you have now made me hate collard greens. I'm from Kentucky, for God's sake, why don't you just take away every piece of my culinary cultura heritage, piece by piece?

What's next, RAW CHICKEN?

Day 2, juice 3: I'm skipping juice #2, because it was that orange-gingery thing that's OK. But juice #3 I couldn't deal with yesterday, so this is my first taste.

BLECH. First, never trust anything with a label that reads, "Vitamin C, Folate, Potassium + Love."

I'm pretty sure if love has a taste, it's not cucumber juice.

Second, aloe vera? I'm not into drinking lotion. That's just me.

Third, pineapple juice. Why couldn't we just lead with that? It's listed first as an ingredient, which gave me hope. But it's not the dominant flavor. Cucumber and aloe vera are stealing the show here, so basically this juice tastes like something I should be plastering on my face, not ingesting. So maybe I should go home and dump this in the tub, turn on some Enya and call this a spa bath.

Or ... maybe I'll just dump it in the trash.