Oprah Schmopra

This Monday (Valentines Day...could she be more cruel?) Oprah profiled her 12-week bootcamp to get Americans to shape up and lose weight. Like most viewers, I watched the show from my couch where I ate chips and took mental notes on what I needed to do to lose weight.

Miss O's bootcamp is not for the faint of heart. For the first month there are NO grains. Not even the good whole-grain stuff we're supposed to be allowed in moderation. Nada. Nothing.

You know what? That's just not going to happen for me.

There are also 8 workouts a week. I'm all in favor of good health, but if God saw fit to only make seven days, far be it from me to usurp Her judgment and throw an extra workout day in there. Wouldn't want to tick her off now, would we?

And then there is the no eating 2-3 hours before your bedtime rule. I perked up and potato chips crumbs rolled to the floor. "Do only this," Oprah said, "and you will lose weight."

Now we're talking! I can do that. I go to bed at 10, so my cutoff time is between 7-8 pm. I don't need to be eating dinner any later than that, so this would work out perfect. The pounds, I was sure, would just melt away.

I was perfect on Monday. Had some decaf herbal tea at 8pm and went to bed a little hungry, but very much in control.

But yesterday I taught class and was hungry when I got in my car at 8:50. I ate half an apple, thinking, "It's fruit. Fruit is good for you." But I knew I'd cheated. So there was only one thing left to do.

Stay up until midnight.

So technically, I didn't eat anything 3 hours before bed. I just hope I don't make this a habit. Otherwise I can see my bedtime creeping around the clock until I'm going to bed at 8am because I just had to have a bowl of cereal at 3.

I don't think diet bootcamp is intended for people like me.

No kids for me

I don't like kids. I don't. And I'm not happy making that admission. I treat suspect any person who tells me they don't like animals. What does it say about me that I don't even like the young version of my own species?

You know those women in movies who the audience laughs at because they're extremely prissy and follow their kids around with a dustbuster in case a crumb spills on the floor and they have heart attacks if there are fingerprints on the fridge? How distressing to learn I am that fussy, prissy, dustbuster touting woman.

My 3-year old nephew was here for less than 24 hours with his mom and I spent most of those hours trying not to scream. And it's not him. He was very good. He just had the energy and disposition of...a 3 year old.

I tried not to cringe when he ate potato chips on my oriental rug. Or when he flung his fork on the unscratched surface of my dining room table. Or when he liked the whap sound his belt buckle made on my hardwood floor. Or when told to eat his green beans he shouted "No!"

What's really interesting is I don't have kids, I have no plans to have kids, I don't enjoy spending time with kids, yet I'm confident I know just what each of you need to do to raise your own kids.

I'm not backing down on this. I don't need Dr. Phil to tell me not to give kids sugar past 5 pm at night. Both my niece and one of my nephews have been allowed to indulge in candy, cookies, sweet cereal, and Mountain Dew only minutes before their supposed bedtime. The best part is their parents then don't give a thought turning to us and sighing, "We have such a hard time getting her to go to bed at night."

Are you people insane?

I'm sort of shocked to discover that if I had kids that I would be a bit of a hard-ass. Food would be eaten at the table and you're going to eat what I serve you and you're not going to get up from the table and roam around and bother those of us who are still eating and I will wipe that smirky pout off your face faster than you can say "early bedtime."

Whew. It needed to be said.

The sort of sad thing though, is that I admire homes where kids can be kids. If you're more worried about your sofa remaining unstained than your kid having a happy childhood, something's out of whack. Which is why I should not have kids, because I really, really like my sofa.

I love visiting kid friendly houses where 18 children who may or may not belong to said parents are running in and out, the dog is barking, the cat is stalking, and a bird or two may be flying about. There's a jovial sense of barely controlled chaos.

I admire these people.

I am not one of these people.

I like everything in it's place. I like no yelling. I like order. I like clean floors. I like being able to sit down and read a book whenever I feel like it. I like not having to keep someone else entertained. I like not having to answer the question "why" ever 5 seconds. (I started to get creative toward the end. "I'm doing laundry." "Why?" "Because hippos are orange.")

I've always said, "I love kids. I just love other people's kids." Now I'm not so sure. Apparently I only love kids if they are drugged or in a drugged-like state.

There is some hope. I read my nephew several stories and he laughed at the funny voices I did, and kept asking me to read more. That made me feel good.

But I still can't wait to vacuum my rug.

A Writer Without Words?

I teach public speaking workshops. Love doing it. Love showing people that public speaking doesn't mean you have to be this robot clone who never falters or makes a mistake, but that it's more about being a real person with real ideas and just talking to people like you were having coffee with a friend.

Which is a long route to saying that I'm comfortable speaking in public, I'm pretty quick on my feet, questions don't bother me and, if I may tout my own horn, I'm a pretty funny person. Just ask my husband. (As if he'd dare to say otherwise).

When I decided to sign up for a 4-week improv comedy workshop, I thought it would be fun.  I'd step a teensy bit outside my comfort zone, learn some new skills, maybe find new material to bring to my public speaking classes. Cool.

So it was nothing short of a full-blown ego-jolt to discover that not only am I not funny at improv, I completely and totally no-holds-barred suck at it.

I am okay with the sucking and will continue the classes regardless. But get this. One of the first exercises we had to do was a simply rhyming game. Rhymes. I'm a writer. I work with words for a living. This should not present a challenge.

HA! The game was you had to sing--very fast--the da-do-run-run song. I met him on a Monday and my heart stood still. Da-do-da-run-run, da-do-run-run.

Only you inserted a one syllable name . I met him on a Monday and his name was Ted. Da-do-da-run-run, da-do-run-run. Now you kept rhyming. He had a cold so he went to bed. da-do-da-run-run, da-do-run-run.

Then, if it was your turn in line, you were screwed b/c you had to come up with 3 rhymes right in a row (again, singing at breakneck speed). So the group would say, manamana, and then you'd have to come up with the rhymes. So it looks like this:

Group: Manamana

You: His face turned red

Group: Manamana

You: And his fingers bled

Group: Manamana

You: So we left him for dead

Everyone: da-do-da-run-run, da-do-run-run

Then the next person goes and you keep going until people can't come up with any more rhymes.

I know what you're thinking. It looks easy (and very classy). IT'S NOT. But still, I can't even believe that when my turn came I blanked on any word in the English language that might rhyme with "Bill." Pill, chill, thrill, frill, dill, kill, mill, ....see, I can do it now. But apparently my brain goes into lockdown under pressure. But how heartening to see that the stoned-out druggie performing next to me can come up with eighty rhymes to go with "Ann" and I can't think of one. Makes me want to go home and fling my laptop out the window.

But first I need to get ready for next week's class. I'm looking up all words that rhyme with one syllable names - Ed, Ann, Pam, Ted, Bill, Trish...

Who said comedy was fun?

Manamana.

I Pee Alone

No way. Just no...friggin'...way.

Ever had a day that wakes you up to the unpleasant realities of life?
We went house hunting yesterday. We're considering moving out of the rural town where we live (pop. 2,500) and flinging ourselves at the mercy of the humming metropolis we like to call "Winston-Salem."

So we drove around some neighborhoods. Found one very nice area where we decided we could live. Never mind that it's way out of our price range. As Scarlett says, "I can't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow."

One of the homes was having an open house so we went in. Downstairs okay, nothing great. House is older and needs work...bad carpet, no closet space, paneled (God save us) living room. Bad but, you know, salvageable.

Then we entered the master bedroom. My husband I took one look and just burst out laughing, regardless of the realtor below (who I now feel really, really sorry for) and the other people touring the house. "Good luck moving this one," was our response.

Here's the deal. The master bedroom and master bath shared a wall. Only instead of a solid wall, there was a huge arch cut out of 3/4 of the wall next to the garden tub. I suppose the romantic ideal of the genius who envisioned this set-up was that the lady of the home would soak in sweet-smelling bubble baths while keeping the man of the house, as seen snuggled in bed through the huge arch in the wall, happy.

Fine. EXCEPT, you could see more than the tub. In fact, anyone actually in any portion of the master bedroom would have front row seats to observe anyone using the toilet and accompanying bidet.

It was the most God-awful set-up I've ever seen. Because the thing was, the toilet and bidet were in the center of the bathroom! Picture a rectangular room. On one long wall is the tub and the other long wall is empty. A door is one of the short walls and the other short wall is empty. The toilet and bidet are several feet in from the short wall and basically cozy up next to the tub. I don't think so.

Here's the best part. This relationship nightmare of a house was listed at $600,000. Please. You couldn't pay me $20k to take it off your hands.

So we had a good laugh. But it does show that location is key. The house will probably sell close to that just because it's in the best part of Winston, convenient to everything.

I wish we could pick our house up and move it. We will never, ever, ever come close to matching its size and beauty and I hyperventilate at the thought of leaving my newly remodeled kitchen (We don't cook, but it's fun to stand in there and pretend that we do).

So we're slowly easing into the idea of downsizing. But I draw the line at an open border bathroom.

I pee alone.