On Living Paleo and the Shakeology Challenge: PART ONE

If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you know I like to talk about my health and what new fitness or diet regimes I've tried. Why, you ask? Well, why do I ever do the things I do? Most of us will never know. I can say one thing for certain though, I have learned the hard way that I am no longer 23 and my body just can not hang like it used to. Perhaps all those years of late night shenanigans are catching up with me. Maybe it's all the steroids I've been forced to take in the last few years, maybe it's those two small human looking creatures with giant eyes that I grew and then pushed out of my body that are keeping me up all hours of the night. Whatever the case may be, I have had my share of generally feeling like, well, poop over the last few years. And I have chronicled much of those experiences in this here blog. I have a nagging feeling that one day my kids are going to be teenagers and won't be seen with me in public for shame of some of the things I have shared. Well, TOO BAD. They just better wait until their first boyfriends come over and I begin to recount tales of how they didn't learn to wipe their butts until they were like twelve! I kid, I kid.

In all seriousness though, this path to health, while supported by my family has been a mostly solo journey. Growing up, I never played sports, not even kickball. I got cold sweats when it came time to play co-ed games in gym glass. Because not only was I uncoordinated, but I was also a daydreamer. I read books, I wrote and told stories. Heaven forbid someone asked me to shoot baskets with them, but by God I could recite the presidents, helping verbs, and Robert Frost. I performed in theater. Pronounced thee-ah-tah. I memorized Shakespeare for fun and wore glasses. I was hopeless. It's a wonder I didn't get my head stuck in the toilet. I credit the invention of boobs and contact lenses and quarterly trips to The Gap with saving me from a life as a complete nerd.

To make matters even worse, I ate to fuel my emotions. Who doesn't on occasion? But I had a real lifelong habit of this. For most of my life, at the first signs of stress, I didn't want to stick my face in my pillow and cry, nooooooo, I wanted to bury it in Haagen Dazs until I'd forgotten all about whatever it was that made me upset to begin with. But, like most forms of emotional appeasement, that never really worked. It only created a vicious cycle which at the time I was able to recognize, although dealing with it was another battle. What I didn't realize until more recently though was the physiological effect this was having on my body. It wasn't until I became very sick with my eye and felt worse than I ever have and then learned I had gluten allergies that I realized the cycle of sugar addiction, insulin fluctuations, and internal inflammation I was subjecting myself to.

At the beginning of my Road to Wellville, I begin working out with a good friend of mine, April. Now, outside of donning the occasional eighties leg warmer to play Jane Fonda with my mom as a kid, and being forced by a very manly lady to run a mile in P.E., I had never really "worked out". My method for losing weight had always been to stop eating very much and ingest some chemical "aids". It worked for short periods of time but because I was causing my body to fast, whenever I went back to my regular habits, it all came back. Hello Haagen Dazs.

April and I have very similar physical makeups and so working out together was great because we basically had the same goals. We began following a cardio and weight routine laid out in one of my (now) favorite fitness magazines, Fitness RX. After the first workout, I wanted to throw up, and neither one of us could easily make it down the stairs our legs were so sore. But, we did it again. And again. And after only a few weeks I noticed such amazing changes in the shape of my body that I was forever hooked. I can only credit April's sparkling personality and sordid tales with keeping me motivated, well that and the fact that my dad no longer made beeping sounds when I backed up. No seriously, he did.

So, fast forward a few years. We moved to DC and I found it very difficult to work out without a partner. So, I pretty much just didn't. I lost weight by dieting and walking but found that while I could "pour" my body into a pair of skinny jeans, it just didn't look too good without said jeans. I guess that's what they call "skinny fat". I needed to add muscle and the only thing that was going to work was to do strength training. So I joined a gym close to my house and tried a class called Body Pump that came highly recommended by several people working there. They told me I should take Johanna's class, that it was really good. So I decided to give it a try. I knew that first day that if the line of people waiting to take it was any indication of how it was going to be that I was in for a very difficult treat.

Johanna showed up and let me tell you, if I was a hater, I'd hate her. She is so beautiful and has the most amazingly sculpted body but it is her spirit that won me over the most. In the beginning those classes ( high intensity strength training so it burns like cardio) left me so sore and weak, I could hardly move, but her smiles and words of encouragement during every class helped me to pick myself back up and return. In my head I dubbed her "The Happy Drill Sergeant" . She encouraged me to start taking her cycling class following the body pump class and so I did. I basically just took whatever class she was teaching and in a few weeks time I began to notice great changes again. Don't get me wrong, it was HARD for me. I never walked into the gym and breezed through any of it. But, I did learn to push myself beyond what I thought I was capable of. And then it was time for us to move...to Guam. I panicked a bit and frantically searched the internet for a gym in Guam that taught similar classes, and lo and behold, I FOUND ONE! I was deeply relieved, but in the months between our leaving D.C., staying with family, and living in limbo in Guam hotels, I found some of the weight I had lost. MOM's COOKING! ROOM SERVICE!

And then I got sick again, and we all know this one: STEROIDS! By they time I was finally well enough to start working out again, I was twenty pounds heavier than when I had left D.C. It was hard for me to find the motivation to go in because I was still recovering from my eye and left feeling very weak. So, for lack of a workout partner, I hired a personal trainer. My main reason for doing this really wasn't because I thought I could learn anything new; I mean C'MON, I had gotten myself in great shape before, I could do it again! My reason for hiring a trainer was because I really needed to know someone was there waiting for me at the gym, or else I just wouldn't be able to find the motivation to go. Remember, not only did all that medication effect my body greatly, it wreaked havoc on me emotionally and I was hard pressed to leave the couch on some days.

So I started with my trainer (if you're living in Guam and would like his info, please get in touch with me) two days a week, skeptical that it would work, but Oh em gee, this know it all learned quite a few somethings, mainly how to use the proper form when doing certain exercises like squats and lunges to avoid injury. And since he is a self professed "jock", a lot of the things he makes me do require some modicum of athletic ability, which I admittedly do not possess. But, he made me keep doing them and while I may not be ready for intramural sports any time soon, I increased my skill level a little bit. Which is a lot in my books. Side note: he asked me to throw a really heavy medicine ball with one arm once while rising from a squat and actually laughed out loud at my attempt. But that's OK, I agree, it was totally funny. I have weak wrists! I'm a delicate flower, what can I say?!?! But that's also one of my favorite things about my trainer, we have fun. There's a lot of joking around WHILE working out. Because if I can't be ig'nant, then I just can't BE.

So over the course of the last few months I managed (with the help of my trainer )and living by the rules of The Paleo Diet about 75% of the time, to lose thirteen of those extra pounds I so effortlessly gained in between D.C. and toxoplasmosis. Things were going really well and I had an established weekly routine, and then my trainer announced that he would have to leave for a couple of months. GASP! What would I do now?!?! Working out by myself, while certainly a viable option, just wasn't my favorite option. You see, Jillians do best in the company of others. We(I) need people to thrive and survive. Working out for two hours in silence was a very bleak option and this flower could begin to feel herself wilting. (WOW! A metaphor AND referring to myself in third person! Is that some kind of strange literary record? One can only dream.) So, admittedly I was determined to continue on my journey toward the best me, but I was also discouraged. It seemed like every time I had made any real progress, I had some sort of set back. So I did what I usually do. I prayed. I asked God to fill the gaps where I needed support. I told Him in no uncertain terms that I could not, would not, should not have to do this alone and to please, right away send me some one.

And that's where the awesome fitness minded ladies of Guam come in. When I first got here I had to attend a childcare meeting on base. At that time I knew very little people and hadn't made many friends. But in this meeting I saw a super stylish and adorable lady who I decided was going to be my friend. No one that cute could slip past my clutches! Her name was(is) Becky and after the meeting was over I practically assaulted her and asked for her number informing her that I claimed her as my new friend. The fact that I didn't scare her away right there speaks volumes about her personal fortitude. The day after my trainer left, Becky called me and asked me to come to their running club. And then to run this race, and run that race, and do this triathlon. And on top of all of that, she introduced me to some other amazing ladies who are fun! cute! and just as determined as Becky to make fitness fun and challenging. No, I did not compete in the triathlon (this time) but during that first run, I ran further than I ever have on a continuous basis in my entire life! Yay! And OW! New shoes were in order after that.

I mean, SERIOUSLY, whoever can run 10 miles (JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT!) at 'O Dark Thirty and then pose like a Charlie's Angel is more than OK in my book.

Around that very same time, Johanna (D.C. Johanna, my Happy Drill Sergeant Johanna!) asked some of her Facebook friends to join in on a challenge that she was coaching. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I knew if she was going to be a part of it, then I wanted in! She told me that she was promoting these protein shakes called Shakeology and that the challenge group would replace one meal of the day with a shake and take Bodypump classes three times a week (along with whatever else we normally did to work out). As much as I trusted Johanna, I didn't want to jump blindly into something I hadn't researched so I began googling. I could not find one single negative review of Shakeology. It seemed everyone had something wonderful to say about the taste and the health benefits. So I joined the challenge. My shakes won't arrive until tomorrow but I have already lost 1.5 pounds (OVERNIGHT) following the low carb/Paleo plan again.

Part of the Shakeology Challenge* (which is distributed by Beach Body, the people who brought you P90X and Insanity) is that you have to take pictures of yourself in a bathing suit "before"and "after". I figured that since I'm making it public that I'm doing this, I should also let you watch my physical progress so that it may inspire others too. Jeremy quickly put the ixnay on me posting photos of me in a bikini ( I was all: OH PLEASE! You're acting like there are creepy people trolling the internet! PSHAW!). So you're just going to have to settle for me in workout clothes...believe me, your eyes thank you for not having to see my thighs in all their corpulent glory.

Before I do this, I would like to note that me and myself had a wee going away party (more like a wild frat party with call girls made out of pizza) for all of the foods and drinks (goodbye wine! I shall miss thee!) I will be forgoing for the next thirty days. I pretty much made myself sick. I was so bloated I couldn't take my rings off and along with a major food baby, I developed "pregnant face" overnight. SALT, you delicious devil, you!

Without further ado, your "before" photos:

wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!

Food baby, 'bout three days gestation. Congratulations! It's aaaaaaa: PIZZA AND A SIX PACK of CORONA!

So there's that, Internet. Hope you aren't scarred for life. I'll update you periodically on my progress and let you know how the shakes are and I will also post the "after" photos after the challenge is over. Good lord, pray for me!

I said all of that to really say this: If I can make these changes in my life, then ANYONE can. And I mean that. I'm poking fun at myself and baring my weathered soul to you in the the hopes (as usual) that maybe, just maybe, there is someone reading this that doesn't know where to start, or feels like there is no hope. Listen. Listen to me. There is ALWAYS hope. You can ALWAYS be a better you. This has been a very long uphill battle for me. On the way I've had to continuously fight my own personal demons and my own body turned against itself several times making me very sick. But one constant remained: No matter how far I fell backward, or how low I felt, I always managed to find a way to keep going. Little by little. And you can too. Don't look at the big picture, look at the little one. Today. Sometimes, one hill at a time is easier to climb than the whole mountain. But if you keep going, one day you will turn around, after climbing all those little hills and see that you have in fact climbed that mountain.

*If you are interested in purchasing Shakeology, you can do so through Johanna on the Beachbody website.

Watch Your Toes, I May Be About to Step on Some

"A mind may be likened unto a garden which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild, but whether cultivated or neglected, it must, and will bring forth."~ Allen

OK. So maybe I shouldn't be getting ready to say what I am about to say, but then again I am the girl who got expelled from eleventh grade for defending someones honor...with a knife...at school. Don't worry, no one got hurt, I just developed one hell of a crazy reputation for being, well, crazy.

I have kept my big mouth quiet on this matter for as long as I can and I here I go about to stir up some ruckus and defend someone, or a lot of someones honor again. Let me just go ahead and take out my earrings and take my shoes off in case this 'bout to get ugly and I step on some toes.

This post is dedicated to all those people I see on a daily basis who complain about this island and its people and its problems. And perhaps I have been there on occasion, and if so, for that I am deeply sorry. But, how dare you. How dare you speak ill of people who welcome you into their home and onto their beautiful island with such hospitality and kindness that it blows this former east coast girl away. That above all the other negative poison I hear daily angers me. You are no better than any other person that walks this Earth, and if you think so, may you have a very humbling experience real soon.

If you are a military member or the spouse of one, you knew what you were signing up for when you joined this club and if you're here and don't like it, I think you should drop to your knees right now and thank God that you are here instead of Afghanistan or some otherwise equally awful place. It's January, get your ungrateful ass out of bed and take a walk on the beach, look at that beautiful water, say to yourself "It's January, and it's eighty degrees and I'm wearing shorts."Be thankful that while all of your other friends on Facebook are complaining about single digit weather, you're drinking out of a coconut, about to throw another shrimp on the barbie.

Maybe it's because I've moved over 30 times that I've learned (the hard way) never to have expectations of a place before I meet it. I left one of the biggest cities in the US, where I had access to just about every amenity you could imagine at my fingertips and I came to this tiny island hoping only for new experiences and with an open mind. Yes, I miss Trader Joe's and Starbucks too, but if that's all we focus on then that's what we allow to grow in our mind.

And grow those thoughts will. Those seeds of negativity will take root, grow stronger and blossom into more poisonous thoughts until you're mind is overrun with them. A mind really is like a garden and we are the gardeners of our minds. So please, grab those thoughts by the root and yank them out, throwing them as far away as you can. And in the big hole that they leave behind, plant some positive seeds. I am experiencing a new place on the other side of the world, something that most people only dream of doing. I am living in a place who's people have a rich cultural heritage that I have an opportunity to learn about and then share with others in the world when my time here is done. I am a guest in this house, I will treat it and the people who it belongs to with respect. Let's say that last one again, cuz it bears repeating. I am a guest in this house, I will treat it and the people who it belongs to with respect. I will lie in the sand, warm water lapping my toes, a plumeria in my hand, and I will be grateful for ALL things.

My friends, while I'm sure I have offended and even pissed off some of you, it's a risk worth taking because if you will only let what I'm saying sink into your hearts, I know you will find that you could be happy even in a shoebox. If you are new to my blog, I won't rehash everything I have experienced in the past five years, but I will tell you that there was devastating event after devastating event. Soul-crushing things happened but because of my steadfast belief that God will work all things together for the good of those that love Him and my conscious effort to remain focused on whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable*, I was knocked down at times but never out. I have been able to remain joyful and hopeful because of the practice of this gardening of my mind.

All righty then, I will now put my soap box back in its home under my bed. I love you all (mean it!) and good night.

*Philipians 4:8-9

ED NOTE: Since many people comment on my blog from Facebook (who makes it much easier to comment than blogger...eh hem) I have decided to upload the comments as photos and add them to each post. Please feel free to add your thoughts, opinions, verbal scourging, etc to this dialogue. If anyone knows a better way of doing this, please let me know.

The Conscious Evolution of a Former Party Girl

Piles of dresses littered the floor like rainbow colored, satin shag carpet. Heels in varying degrees of ankle breaking height lay discarded and pairless among the dresses. Castaways. Containers of makeup and brushes lined the bathroom counter leaving little room for anything else. A half drunk vodka and red bull sat on the dresser, party fuel. Liquid courage. But what was there to be afraid of? Only myself. For so long, I was my own worst enemy.

So many parties, so many pretty shoes, and so little time. Walking arm in arm, laughing as our breath hung in vaporous clouds above our heads. Girls in pretty dresses and painful shoes, our eyes heavy under the weight of the layers of beauty we had applied. New Year's Eve. Each night so rife with limitless possibilities and promises of carefree socializing. But in the end so ultimately empty. And so...sad.

And now, so many years and so much happiness later, another year is born. But this time legos and Barbie dolls litter the floor. The theme song to Spongebob plays loudly from the other room as a half drank sippy cup of milk lays discarded on the table next to a two year old who lies heavy lidded on the couch, trying her best to stay awake for the party.

I sit with my husband and older daughter on our lanai. We (the legal aged ones) sip wine and laugh as the cat tries to climb a seven foot screen to catch a gecko on the ceiling. It's eight O'clock.

"Let's have a trampoline party!" My child proposes.

"Awwwww, yeah," I say, and we run barefoot outside, the warm breeze rustling the branches of all the palm trees.

We jump and laugh for what seems like forever, sweat beginning to bead and run down our backs. Exhausted, we take a break and I watch her savor a popsicle the way only a kid can and I say, "This is a fun party, huh?"

"Yeah. The best, " she says.

And everyone falls asleep before the year ends. Happy and content, oblivious to all the other parties. For now at least.

Eight Years

Dear Husband,

As of today we have been married for eight years. That's almost ten. It has gone by so quickly and yet the milestones that we have created and the trials that we have forged have somehow cemented us together in such a deeper way that I can't even articulate how deep it feels. Can you believe that?!?! I, meeee, am speechless?!?!

You were and still are an intensely private person and I am learning to respect that...kind of. Maybe. So, instead of airing all of my syrupy and scandalous sentiment for you in front of the whole internet (No, I'll save that embarrassing moment for when we're out in public, even MORE fun!), I thought I would just take us on a little walk down memory lane by way of pictures and my running, snarky narrative. You like me best when I'm being "feisty", after all.

Look! Here is the only surviving picture of my 21st birthday (thank you, Kevin!). That is you I'm talking to on the phone (and what a large and cumbersome piece of technology that thing is!), you called to wish me a happy birthday. Awww, it's our first phone conversation. If only you could have seen then that I had drawn a handlebar mustache on the Pope before that was even a cool thing to do, you may have run for your life then and never looked back. We went on our first date the next day and we've pretty much been stuck like glue ever since. Scary Pope mustaches and all. After we expressed our mutual lurve for one another, I promptly told you in no uncertain terms that you had two years to decide whether you wanted to marry me or not. I wasn't going to waste the best years of my face on someone who was up in the air. And guess what? We all know what happened after that! My threat worked! You took me to the location of one of our first dates, deep in the woods of Brown County, far from public view (and that right there is just another demonstration of how personal and private your displays of undying love are), got on one knee and asked me to be with you forever. And I was all: Forevah evah? And you were all: Word. And then I think I cried. Even though I would have proposed (had I been the proposer ) on a step ladder, with a bull horn, in the midst of a flash mob I had arranged just for that occasion, I appreciated the importance of that place in the history of our relationship. It was the place amidst the trees and the birds where I ran screaming from a bee and almost broke my ankle because I was wearing platform heels in the woods. I thought for sure you wouldn't stick around after that great display of mental instability, but nope, you were laughing so hard I started laughing too. And then when you knelt down two years later, I had to stop you before your knee hit the ground because there was a pile of deer poop right underneath it. More spectacular history to add to the tales we tell our children...but wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. There were no children yet.

And so after that happened, this happened. I planned the bulk of our wedding in just five weeks so my brother could attend. We all thought he was going to be sent to Iraq and since he's my only sibling (you know you've got like seventeen, you could spare one or two) he had to be there. You were so adamant about not seeing me before we met in the church that when my dad drove me over there before the ceremony to drop something off and I saw you coming out of the building as we were pulling up, I screamed and hid as far on the floorboard as I could; my seventy three layers of tulle and organza sticking up like an unrolled roll of toilet paper out of the window. We danced, laughed, drank, and were merry. And then you took me away from my mother and father and I spent a large part of that first night crying, feeling like I had been torn apart from people I loved so completely, never to return. Oh, if only I had known then how many times I would return to that place.

HONEYMOON! We ate too much, drank too much, did too much other stuff and were generally exhausted from our hedonistic glutton-fest. As we lay on the bed on the last day of our honeymoon sharing the worst hangover I can ever recall from a $500 bottle of champagne (you'd think at that price it would leave you feeling like you had super powers and a six pack) we still managed to laugh and decided that if we ever started a band (because that's highly likely, right?!) that we would call it Champagne Hangover and I would play the triangle, or maybe the cow bell and you would wear tight leather pants and just generally be hot. It. Would. Be. Epic.

In true Jeremy and Jill (well maybe more Jill) fashion, we picked up a stray on our honeymoon. But how could you blame me? She was all a lonely, and she was SWEDISH! She stuck with us for most of the night through shenanigans untold and then somewhere in my search for J-lo and P-Diddy or whatever his name is now, we lost her. We will never forget you, Little Blonde Swede, and you are totally an honorary member of Champagne Hangover. You can play tambourine.

After all that excitement we had a couple of relatively quiet years. And then...

This happened. It pretty much shook the foundations of our world, but only momentarily. In the midst and shortly after that, so many dear people were lost. It was like we were being hammered into the Earth, each new blow striking us harder than the last. You never really know what a relationship is made out of until it faces a trial. And in the midst of all of the heartbreak, I learned that outside of God, you are my rock, and I am yours. In the darkest hours of our lives we held on to each other and held each other up. I'm sure that last paragraph was enough to make you mad, OVERSHARING! But, like picking up stray people along the way, it's what I do best. LOVE ME FOR IT, not DESPITE it!

The next couple of years were kind of a hazy, pizza colored blur. In a nutshell: We bought a house, it was so empty that we played rocket ship on the living room floor and laughed like little kids. We decided life was too short and uncertain to wait any longer and so I got pregnant. You helped with that. Thanks, umm, for that. I got really huge and unrecognizable, you still pretended to be attracted to me (LIES!), We had a baby, or rather I had a baby as you watched in horror what the female body is capable of. Yeah, that scarred me for life too, except only it literally did. TAKE THAT! TMI! Then so soon after that, you were deployed and I returned home to my parents...again. I got skinny again, you worked out a lot. And finally after eight long months:Reunited and it feels so good. There is your baby (and dude, she is soooooooo your baby) looking at her daddy for the first time in her memory. Small tears.
We became three instead of two and life changed in a much more solid and responsible kind of way. Funny how kids do that to you. We spent the remainder of our time in Mississippi becoming in large part who we are today: a family. We moved to D.C., and then we moved again to a little apartment the size of a shoe box. We rode the metro all the time and felt like big city kids. We saw the White House, The Smithsonisns, walked the National Mall and stared into the huge stone face of Abraham Blinkington much more than once. We endured blizzards, blindness, and the terrible two's and threes of our first child. And in the middle of it all, I remember laughing with you the most. Because even though after all those years when I look at you, I still find you undeniably attractive, that's not what keeps my heart a flutter (OK, so it is partly) it's the way we laugh together that I love the most. On the couch, making fun of the TV, in bed in the dark, laughing about our children, and in the car on any of the very, very long road trips we are so fond of taking. And somewhere in the midst of all the laughter and metro riding and temper tantrums...
I looked at you kind of like this, and then...

this happened. Our little lion. As I type this she is sitting in time out after she got a spanking for throwing a HUGE tantrum because I wouldn't give her a bowl of shredded cheese for breakfast. The scene resembled something like a patient trying to escape their ward on the floor for mentally ill people in a hospital and I was the orderly prying her fingers off of the fridge door as she kicked and screamed and hurled toddler sized obscenities at me. So sweet and so difficult. The child who made us rethink the prospect of having any more. Yet it's funny how despite all the challenges she presents to us, we still manage to laugh about it, because girl is FUNNY, even if she is so so bad. She does take after her mother, after all.


And now here we are, living on a beautiful island, in the middle of the sea. I will limit my public sap to this, and I will even put it in manly terms you can understand and appreciate: You are my best friend...something, something, grunt grunt, point at my heart. I also think you're hot even after all these years, more grunting, here have a beer. You let me buy you pink shirts and you even wear them! For that I will cook you meat over an open flame and pretend to find football interesting!

Seriously though, I know I get pissed off about your seeming inability to put your dishes in the dishwasher and put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket...I mean, C'mon! It's like two feet away from where you threw them on the ground! But in the big picture and in truth, I will pick your underwear up off the floor gladly for the rest of my life if it means we can keep laughing and sharing in this crazy, unpredictable life together. But...I will NOT empty your pockets before I wash clothes, I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere. Even I have standards.

One day, hopefully a very, very long time from now, we will be gone from this Earth. But because of this, in some way, we will live on through these little people we made. And they will continue to tell The Story of Us after we've gone. That's heavy and yet it gives my soul wings.

Thank you for choosing me to be your travelling companion on this journey. I'll wait until right before you fall asleep and then I'll whisper in your ear all of the other stuff I have to say, because I know just how much you love that. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!

Merry Island Christmas My Loves!

As I sat and compiled this slide show and all of its photos, I sifted through the last year of our lives in technicolor freeze-frame. I saw the photographic chronicles of our adventures (and what adventures they have been), and I remembered the phrase: It's not the years in your life, but the life in your years. (I think that was Ye Olde Abraham Blinkington as Ellie would call him.)

The laughter we have shared, the love, the music, and the tears. The depth of this human experience is only quantifiable in guttural pangs of the heart that can only be mutually understood if you've been there yourself. And now, as we stand on the doorstep of a new year, ripe with unknown possibilities and adventures, I can't help but imagine what lies ahead for this merry band of voyagers on the ship of Life. I expect more laughter, more heartbreak and eventually more tears, but in the midst of it all, I pray I remember to stop and soak all of those moments in; tucking them gently into the soft corners of my mind. ( Wow, that last sentence was lengthy enough to impress Faulkner!)

Today was our first Christmas on Guam and as I sat watching my children bounce on their new trampoline in the golden, pink-edged haze of sunset; I felt the temperate breeze on my skin and took several deep and heady breaths. I felt a sense of resounding satisfaction and completeness in my soul and despite the mess of boxes and paper inside, I was intensely happy. Even though I know our time here has an expiration date and tomorrow may be wrought with trials unknown, I am hopeful and excited for whatever lies ahead. Even if it is a wall scribbled in sharpie and crayon mashed into the carpet. (PLEASE remind me of that tomorrow when I'm screaming about the sharpie and the crayon.)

Merry Christmas to all of our friends scattered across this big, beautiful world. And may the coming year find you well and blessed, but whatever trials you may face, may you grow stronger and stand taller in their wake.

"God bless us, every one."

The Dude

When we found out we were moving to Guam, one of the only things I could say to my children (read: Ellie) to keep them from fuh-reaking out and melting into a puddle of tears and hysteria on the floor was to yell out: PUPPIES! KITTENS! You can have one of each! And after several moments of describing awesome rainbow, fairy dust sprinkled, and glorious adventures to be had with said puppy and kitty, I could eventually talk her off the preschool aged ledge that leads to: The Tantrum of No Return. Of course these fantasies were perfect and in them everyone was wearing wrinkle-free clothing and had perfectly glistening smiles while we played in slow motion in the afternoon sun with our equally perfect puppy and kitty. Because that's how fantasies work, right? Kind of like what you imagine it will be like to have a baby before you actually have one and then you have that perfect baby you imagined and one day some weeks later in a sleepless haze, wearing a breast milk and poop covered shirt you look in the mirror, don't recognize yourself and go: WHOA. This is not exactly what I had envisioned. And then that adorable ball of eating and pooping and sleeping flesh coos at you and bats its glorious eyelashes and you fall in love again and forget your reflection for at least thirty minutes.

So what did we do when we got to Guam? Plan? Shop? Budget? Make lists about goals for our future? Bahaha! WRONG! Well, I just wouldn't be me if I didn't rush right out and immediately locate all the nearest animal-bearing facilities. I found a pet shop and an animal shelter and I scoured the paper every day for weeks looking for the perfect puppy and kitty. The only SNAFU was that we didn't exactly have a house yet. ONE CAN DREAM AT LEAST! At the very least it was a good diversion for my kids while we spent weeks at the hotel waiting for a house. And it kept me away from the pool bar. Side note: As I just typed that I accidentally spelled poop bar instead of pool bar. I can only imagine what THAT would have been like.

Eventually after looking at several pure bred puppies here we decided to rescue a dog from the local shelter. There are a lot of packs of feral dogs roaming around Guam and often times they're in pretty bad shape. We decided it would be better to save a life than have an overpriced pedigree. So we looked and we looked. I walked up and down rows of cages in the scorching sun, sweat dripping down my back, staring into mournful eyes, many of whom I knew would not live to see the next full moon. It broke my heart and I wanted to take them all home with us, but I knew we were only allowed two animals and by God Ellie was getting that KITTEN! So we looked and we looked, in the sun and in the rain. And then one day...I saw him. A fat black puppy too big for Ari to pick up but still little enough to have all the adorable qualities that puppies possess.

When we talked to him he lowered his head sheepishly and licked his lips. We took him to the play area to "test" him out (but in my heart I already knew). He was so well mannered. He didn't jump up on the kids or act aggressively, he was just so gentle. He followed us all around the yard and before we put him back in his cage, I looked into his face and said: You will be mine, oh yes you WILL be mine. He licked his lips and I think he even blushed a little. He watched us walk away with those sad eyes and all the fantasies we had envisioned played out in my head like clips from an old movie. Rainbows! Fairy dust! Sparkling teeth!

We had to wait for a week before our house was ready and we could pick him up. During that time, we discussed potential names. I voted for Stinky Ass Hippie, which Jeremy promptly vetoed citing improper use of profanity. The kids came up with some good ones that I would have loved to see Jeremy yell out angrily as the dog ran in the opposite direction down the street. Names like: Fluffy Buns and Unicorn Head, Poopy Pants and Fart Smeller. While amusing, they just weren't right, although, I may have agreed upon Dingleberry but no one else was going for that. Eventually it was decided that we would go for an old favorite. Jeffery Lebowski, or The Dude. And so he became... Dude.

Just like that fantastical newborn baby, it was all rainbows, fairy dust, and puppy breath at first. And then somewhere between him eating my favorite flip flops like they were a tasty bit of bacon and having explosive bouts of diarrhea for nights on end which resulted in us caring for him through the night like he was a newborn baby I just lost that lovin feeling. I had to remind myself for several days as I spray cleaned the crap out of his kennel through the night that I, we, wanted this gastrointestinally challenged beast with a voracious appetite for things that are not made for doggies to eat. I will now compile a list of his sins for your amusement. As you read this, please (If you have ever seen The Big Lebowski) affect, in your head, the voice of Maude Lebowski.

Bad, Bad, Very Naughty Things The Dude Has Done Since He Became Our Dog:

1. Chew the laces out of Jeremy's very overpriced and waterproof hiking shoes. BAD DOG!
2. Hump my leg in your puberty stricken frenzy while I was trying to take a nap on the couch. BAD, BAD DOG!
3. Sneak into the pantry and eat the crap out of the car's litter box. I CAN SEE THAT LITTER ON YOUR FACE, JEFFERY! You're not fooling me! BAD DOG!
4. Chew countless toys that did not belong to him. Pink does not suit you, Jeffery, you should really stick to colors that flatter you best. Like, beige.
5. Bark incessantly at the creaking of my bed on a Friday, Saturday, or perhaps even a Wednesday night. NO ONE IS GETTING HURT, DUDE. I know it may sound like it, but I assure you, everything is juuuuust fine. BAD BOY!
6. Run away to say hello to the neighbors dog early in the morning while I was still in my robe, thus causing me to run through the grass barefoot and half-clad screaming: DUUUUUUUUDE! YOU ASS! COME BACK HERE!
7. You made us think that little patch of missing hair on your ear was just a scratch from your prior, wild life. But, no Jeffery, it turned out to be RINGWORM! Which you gave to my children. What did I tell you? To see my Doctor. He's a good man. And thorough. BAD, BAD, DIRTY BOY, DUDE!

I have since come to terms with this animal, though the initial honeymoon may be over. We have come to an understanding, rather I have come to an understanding of him. He's just a Dude, doing things the way dudes do, and I promise to try my very best to love him. We don't want another Jack Johnson on our hands do we? I might even let him lick my hand. Maybe. As long as he hasn't eaten any cat poop recently.

On Christmas

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

~Arthur O'Shaughnessy

I remember myself a child, full of wonder, eyes sparkling like diamonds in the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. In my bed, on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep for all the anticipation inside my little body. It had been building for weeks, Christmas and all of its magic. My brother and I would search the house over for hidden presents before the big day. Our mother became better at hiding and we became better at snooping. I once asked Jeremy if he and his siblings used to look for their Christmas presents before Christmas, he looked at me, seemingly horrified, and said, "No. Why would anyone ever do that?" And that right there folks is a very good example of just how opposite two people can be and still find each other strangely attracted. I blame Pheromones. The armpit ones. Not the pee ones. That would just be gross.

Anywho, I was a kid, getting all jittery about Christmas, slapping my brother around if he didn't do as he was told, which was: let me sleep with him on Christmas Eve, until he was like fourteen. Now, he may end up denying this, and I will say, he put up a good fight, but until he hit his twenties, I could easily have crushed him, and like I've said before, I lorded my seniority and size over him with an iron fist. And yes, if you were wondering, that HAS in fact come back to haunt me. When he picked up and basically tossed me across the room, I pretty much knew it was time to let him be king for awhile.

You see, Christmas Eve was a very special time for us as little kids. My parents, who were perhaps procrastinators, liked to lock us in a room so they could wrap and put together toys. The reason they locked us in was because they were keenly aware of our stealthy ninja-like super human Christmas spying skills and they knew in order to keep Christmas a surprise we would have to be corralled and locked up like tigers pacing in their cages. But, do not be alarmed Dear Readers, (Awwww, wookie there! Did you miss that? I haven't called you that in awhile.) because this room contained more than just padded walls and straight jackets. Oh yes, we had a TV and a bed in which we were supposed to go to sleep. HA! We laughed in the face of sleep! Sleep was for the weak and less excited, not us.

Usually, after we were locked in our cages, er, I mean, sent to bed, we would occupy our time by generally annoying each other. I might tickle him until he threatened to pee himself, and then when I let go he would inevitably elbow me in the face and I might cry and punch him. Then, there would be tent making with our feet and the covers, maybe some shadow puppets with dirty senses of humor. These shenanigans were intermittently interrupted by some Christmas cartoon watching and our father knocking on the door to give us updates of where Santa had been spotted. Apparently he was getting this information from the news. Which is precisely why I don't believe anything I hear on the news to this day. It was probably CNN. Oh, Amanda, I kid, I kid.

"They've spotted something flying over Chicago," He would yell through the door.

"It's probably an airplane!" we would yell back as we grew older.

And then before long he would return, "Looks like he's getting closer, sleigh bells were heard in Gary, IN. You kids better get to sleep or you're not gettin shit tomorrow!"

"Those were probably gun shots! You know all those people are on the naughty list!"

Ok, so that last conversation probably never actually took place, but in my mind it would have been a whole lot funnier if it had.

Oh how my father loved to see us believe in the magic of Christmas. His eyes would sparkle with mirth as he told us about his childhood Christmases. "You kids are spoiled! When I was your age we got an orange in our stocking and our stocking was just that, a SOCK! Now here we are, stuffing toys inside of them. When I was a kid, a piece of fruit in the winter WAS like candy. Now, gimme some of those chocolates."

And yet despite his miserly talk, he never spared any last thing we wanted, whenever he could. He would watch us open our gifts, making us drag it out one at a time so as to prolong the magic when all we wanted to do was tear into them like animals. He was and is one of the best gift givers I know, truly thinking of the person when making his selections. Daddy, if you're reading this, I appreciate that very much. When all the packages were opened and the mess cleaned up, (because he is an artist with OCD tendencies after all, there could be NO MESS. That would ruin the magic of Christmas!) we would play with our toys and he would play with us. And then we would most likely watch a movie. During what I refer to as "My Dark Period" I suggested Scarface or The Godfather. He obliged and my mother would just go to the kitchen and clean something instead of subjecting herself to that debauchery and violence on Christmas. In more recent years we have begun watching Going My Way with Bing Crosby. It makes for a much more festive holiday movie, and yes, my mom stays in the room to watch it.

And now, here we are, here am I. Years and oceans apart from the memories I made, the memories they made for us. Here I am grown, with a husband, a house and a family of my own. The baton has been passed; we are now the music makers and the dreamers of the dreams. I stand on the other side of the curtain, the one pulling the strings and making the magic happen.

We are the secret keepers,

telling them to shut their peepers.

The early morning wrapping sweepers,

and the unbridled childhood -joy reapers.

I watch as the anticipation I once held for this day now runs through my children just as surely as my blood. My anticipation now lies in wait for the looks on their faces as they open their gifts and squeal with delight. I will tell them about my childhood and how once we were so poor all I got was a hamster and Uncle Gordon too ( and he named it King just like he named ALL his other hamsters), but how we were happy because we were together. And one day, many Christmases from now, their father and I will pass the baton and they will do the same for children of their own.