Diet & Wisdom Appetizers

“Or don’t you know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God? You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price. So you must honor God with your body.” I Corinthians 6:19-20 (NLT)

October is nearly over and so are the days remaining in Breast Cancer Awareness month. I get my mammogram done religiously every year and have since I was in my mid-30s when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I’m trying to set a good example for my daughters so I drag myself to the clinic once a year erring on the side of precautionary procedures because of my family history. Given my propensity for procrastination though I’d very likely “forget” to have a mammogram done were it not for regular reminders.

For years I went to the same clinic for my mammograms. It was a great place to go because the woman who took care of me had that little extra special “bed side manner” necessary for such an awkward job. God bless her, she took the time to pre-heat the machine by placing a warm heating pad on the booby trap prior to each test, thereby eliminating that feeling that your hoo-hah’s are being squashed by a vice that’s been left over night in a sub-zero deep freezer. I’m not sure if she learned that trick in Breast Smashing 101 in Mammography school, but she should get extra jewels on her crown someday for that little secret.

This year I pushed my mammogram aside for an extra month since I’d had a change in insurance carriers and had to go to a new clinic. No big deal – or so I thought. Once you’ve had your twin sisters pressed between two large plexiglass plates, you figure one mammogram is the same as all the rest. And for the most part, this one was.

The room was adorned with the standard issue mammogram cartoons designed to relieve internal fears. There’s the one with the husband backing the mini-van over his wife’s breasts as she lies down on the garage floor. Or the one with the woman who takes a number from a machine in front of a salvage yard with a sign that reads, “Mo’s Auto Crushers and Mammograms.” You get the idea. While the cartoons are designed to make you smile, there’s no denying the inevitable that your ta-ta’s are going to be smashed to within an inch of their very existence.

The procedure began and the technician adjusted my girls just so. She quickly retreated doing that duck and cover thing behind the protective shield to flip her switch. I let my mind wander and started wondering if anyone ever wakes up thinking, “Gee when I get older I want to smash breasts all day for a living.” My brain barely had time to ponder the unusual career field as all rational thought and reasoning became nigh too impossible with each passing second. I teetered on tippy toes as the machine pressed down while pulling me all at the same time with the increased pressure. I did my best to “hold my breath and relax” as ordered but let’s face it, that’s the most ridiculous request on the planet when your body parts are being pressed and pulled beyond recognition!

Now it’s usually at the point where the pressure increases just so making you think your eyeballs are going to explode out of your skull from their sockets that the x-ray is mercifully over and the machine starts to release you from it’s death hold. Not so with this new girl. I suspect she must have been nurturing a darker, more sinister side to her personality as the machine continued to squeeze and press past the usual “flat as a pancake stage.” In fact we bypassed the “rolled pasta” stage and raced past the “flatter than is humanly possible” stage before she finally released the machine from the jaws of terror.

I gotta give it to her, this new girl takes the all time prize in mammography for introducing me to the legendary, but rarely achieved state of “Tortilla Flats.” It was at the pinnacle of tortilla flat, I felt the oxygen leaving my brain and I think I may have blacked out for an instant. By the time we moved on to the second x-ray on the same breast to shoot it from a new angle, I distinctly heard a choir of angels singing all around me. Thankfully the technician switched to the other breast before I had a complete out-of-body-experience. Although, I’m pretty sure before we were finished I saw a bright light beckoning me forward through a long tunnel and Jesus himself calling me home!

To say that my annual mammogram was a religious experience would be stretching it a bit, but I definitely did some serious praying throughout the entire procedure. The most intense prayers being, “please God let these films come out perfect so I don’t need to have retakes!”

If you’ve not had a mammogram yet and I’ve scared you into thinking you’re never going to have a mammogram – please don’t listen to me! I’m a writer and I have a tendency to embellish ever so slightly. Plus bear in mind that I’m a woman in a serious dating relationship with menopause so “the old gals” are easily frightened these days and a bit on the squeamish side. (I’ve got all I can do just to keep them out of my lap when I sit down most days. They seem to be in a race with Mr. Gravity and Father Time – and so far the sisters are sagging behind – literally!)

Mammograms are a necessary procedure if we’re going to be responsible for these weak vessels that God has entrusted us with. Women need to have annual mammograms if you’re over 40, as well as a standard well-woman check up and exam (including a Pap smear). Remember mammograms aren’t always 100% reliable for detecting cancerous lumps, but they are still considered one of the most useful tools in the early detection of breast cancer. And yes, while they are uncomfortable and slightly painful (depending on your breast size) there are definitely things in life that rank far higher on the pain meter. Things like childbirth, root canals, death, dismemberment, divorce and foreclosure to name just a few.

Hopefully my experience brought a smile to your face – but more importantly, I pray you’re inspired to become proactive when it comes to your own health. Don’t delay!

Breast wishes for a long and healthy life!

Thank you Lord for modern day technology that gives us an advantage when it comes to our health and bodies. Help me never to take for granted what you died to give me and help me always to take care of myself so I can live a long and healthy life. This is the only chance we get this side of Heaven, Lord … help me to live responsibly every day. In your name I ask all these things, Lord. Amen!

“Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him; for God’s temple is sacred, and you are that temple.” 1 Corinthians 3:23 (NIV)

Typically I tend to be a bit skeptical when it comes to trying new things. I’m not a risk taker by nature and rarely give in to fads, crazes or gimmicks. I’m rather jaded and somewhat cynical about things that are classified as cutting edge and state-of-the art and consider myself to be a “wait and see kind of girl.” I’m a firm believer in the old adage that if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

So no one was more surprised than me when I got talked into going to see an acupuncturist. I confess I’m completely in the dark about the ancient Chinese art of healing with needles. In fact, prior to my visit with the acupuncturist, sticking needles in my body on purpose fell into the category of stupid things to do before I die. I’m not a needle-phobe by any stretch of the imagination so the needle thing really didn’t scare me - much. I’ve given birth to three children after all - without the benefit of epidurals, mind you. And it’s nigh to impossible to survive natural childbirth without raising your pain threshold a few notches, you know? By the time a person reaches my age, (which is old enough to remember Howdy Doody and the Beatles but still too young to collect social security), the body has been subjected to its fair share of root canals, Pap smears, mammograms and blood tests so what’s to fear from some tiny little needles. Right? Throwing caution to the wind I thought, “What the heck, let’s give ‘er a go and try this acupuncture thing! You never know.”

I actually did no research on acupuncture before I had my first appointment, which may or may not have been a wise thing. I didn’t want to load my subconscious mind up with what this “miracle treatment” was supposed to do for me. I wanted to go in blindly with a “prove it to me” kind of attitude. It’s like when you read a story about someone with a rare disease whose only symptoms are muscle twitches and painful gas … by the time you finish reading the article you think, “Hey - I’ve had those symptoms,” and your brain somehow convinces you you’ve probably got the same disease. Or wait … is that only me? Anyway, I didn’t want acupuncture to be that way. I wanted an honest unbiased reaction to my first treatment.

I felt an immediate rapport with “Dr. John,” a gifted physician who’s been in the business of poking people with needles for 11 years. His desire to serve God by helping others with his gifts and talents calmed my fears instantly. “I’m just a tool,” he told me. With his gentle demeanor and caring bedside manner, I was putty in his hands, which made the needles seem less frightening and probably helped make the insertion of the needles somewhat easier. Or then again, maybe that extra layer of protective body fat I have made the needles slide in easier. Who knows?

Dr. John set aside a 2-1/2 hour block of time just for me, which is not something a “regular” doctor does in this day and age, so right away I was impressed with him. His first question to me was, “So what brings you here today … what are your health concerns and issues?” To which I replied, “how much time to do you have???” Seriously … I’ve got issues out the wazoo – too many to list in one appointment (or one blog post for that matter).

It goes without saying that a woman my age has acquired a few issues, don’t you know. Weight gain and the subsequent depression that piggy backs on that chronic complaint; old age aches and pains, thyroid issues, high blood pressure issues, receding gums, crows feet, weird skin thingies (oh wait, I think those are age spots), and of course, let’s not forget … surviving menopause without seriously maiming or injuring anyone! Pick one, Doc – any one, and we’ll start there!

After a lengthy question and answer period which brought me to tears as I confessed all of my ailments, concerns and worries (there really are a lot of them), Dr. John smiled and with a twinkle in his eye told me he was excited to get started with me. Maybe a little too excited to pierce my flesh with his magic needles if you ask me! I’m afraid my natural inclination to doubt reared its ugly head at that moment. Excited? But whatever for???

“Because I KNOW I can help you,” he grinned.

You’ve got to admire a healer who has absolute confidence in his skills and abilities and Dr. John fairly oozed with both. And the best part … Dr. John assured me acupuncture is a great tool for helping with weight loss – which for a woman like me is like winning the lottery. Needles for weight loss … heck yeah! Sign me up and use as many as it takes. Poke me till I look like a panicked porcupine!

I do want to go on record though, as saying it’s pretty hard to relax when someone is about to stab you with needles. It’s sort of like when your gynecologist asks you to scoot your bottom down to the end of the table and then says “Relax, Honey” as she’s forcing your knees apart and about to reach her arm up inside you all the way to your tonsils … It’s a LOT like that.

Somehow, relax I did though … eventually. The first few needles, which went into my forehead, were a “nails on a chalkboard” kind of feeling. You know how your face gets all scrunched up when you hear that sound? That’s the kind of reaction my face had. But thankfully, each needle got a little easier. All total, Dr. John used 22 needles on me, which is about an average number. He explained that each patient is different, depending on his or her health issues. Some patients need more needles … some need less. Forty-eight needles was the maximum he’d ever used on a patient, so I felt lucky to need less than half that amount.

I’m a card carrying member of the “what you don’t know can’t hurt you,” club so I vowed I’d keep my eyes closed throughout the whole process and not look at the needles. I didn’t need to see needles sticking out of my forehead and stomach or my arms and legs to know they were there. (Although when Dr. John left the room, I confess my curious nature got the best of me and I peeked. Oooooh – creepy!)

Not knowing what to expect with this treatment, I made good use of my time alone (maybe 30 minutes or more … I lost track of time … uh oh … is that supposed to happen?) I spent some time in prayer and meditation reflecting on why I have so many issues – both emotional and physical. Before I knew it, I was blubbering like a baby for no apparent reason. When the doctor returned to check on me (which he did at regular intervals) he asked if I’d been crying. (I think it was the mascara running into my ears that gave me away.) Embarrassed, I confessed I had, but admitted I wasn’t even sure why. The needles didn’t hurt and I wasn’t in pain. Maybe he stuck a needle in something that was directly connected to my tear ducts – I don’t know. The tears seemed to materialize all on their own. Apparently tears are fine during acupuncture and considered a good release. Dr. John assured me I was normal. Well that’s good to know.

When all was said and done, the needles were removed without me uttering nary a scream or a curse word. Needles without pain – go figure. Because I’d done no research though, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be feeling when I was done. Quite honestly, I was a little disappointed. I left there feeling pretty much like I had when I went in. No feelings of euphoria, no instantaneous weight loss. (Boy wouldn’t that have been nice?) Same old crows feet, gum tissue and age spots. No immediate change in anything. Bummer!

Even though I’m pretty sure acupuncture isn’t supposed to cure anything instantaneously … a girl can hope, can’t she? I did leave feeling very relaxed and I felt kind of like I’d just woken from a long nap and just a little on the foggy side. So I was very relaxed, to say the least.

The one thing acupuncture did do for me? It gave me a reason to hope. When I got home I finally did a little research on the subject. It turns out acupuncture dates back 3500 years and is part of the traditional medicine based on the Chinese theory of ‘Qi’ (prouounced “chi"). According to this theory, Qi is the force or energy that controls the mind and the body. It is believed to flow through pathways in the body called meridians.

Acupuncture points are points in the body where Qi can be stimulated to restore body system balance and health. Specific points are believed to stimulate specific organs and bodily functions.

(http://www.health-emark.com/acupuncture-for-weight-loss.html)

Well who am I to argue with 3500 years worth of tried and true treatment? Will I be going back to the acupuncturist? If it will help me achieve optimum health and finally conquer my weight loss issues … you bet your needle nose, porcupine pointy quills I am! Poke me till I pop – skewer me like a shish kabob! If being stuck with needles will help me live a little longer or a little healthier – or heaven forbid, live with a little less of me, then sign me up. But, don’t take my word for it. This is just one woman’s opinion. I urge you to do your own research and seek out a qualified acupuncturist for yourself. Who knows … maybe a puncture really is worth a thousand words!

Thank you Lord for knowledgeable individuals who seek to serve you by using their gifts and talents to help others find healing and wholeness. I thank you for my willingness to try something new and I pray for success with this new treatment opportunity. It is my desire to serve you for as long as is humanly possible, and by taking care of my mind, my body and my spirit I pray that you will grant me a long and healthy life! In your name, I ask these things, Lord … Amen!

“My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge …” Hosea 4:6 (KJV)

Once the school year is in full swing, I start feeling like the weeks and months are passing at a faster than normal pace. Almost like life is passing me by in dog years. Just this morning I glanced at the calendar, and whoosh … a whole month has passed since the kids started school. Unbelievable!

Somehow in this flurry of warp speed time travel, I managed to squeeze in time for my least favorite activity: my annual visit to the doctor for my ladies check up. (Yuck, shudder, wretch and gag!!!) Or as my circle of gal pals refer to it … the annual Scrape and Squish appointment.

This is the yearly exam where a woman’s body is subjected to unnatural poking and probing of private body parts and cavities that are better left covered and where no human eyes should ever venture, especially if the body in question is over the age of 40 and has birthed more than one baby. Trust me, it’s not a pretty sight!

The Scrape and Squish appointment ranks high on my “Things I Hate To Do” list like root canal surgery, public speaking and a Brazilian bikini wax. I’m sure for my gynecologist, my yearly exam is just another day at the office – one that barely gives her pause for concern. But for me, the appointment is a maximum stress inducing procedure of epic proportions.

My pre-appointment stress meter starts its rise a full two weeks before the actual appointment. I have so much pre-appointment stress, that by the time the actual appointment day arrives, I’ve eaten my weight in Oreos adding a few extra pounds to my already bulging menopausal midriff. Of course the extra stress weight has a tendency to cause my already borderline blood pressure to ratchet up a few more notches once it’s measured at the doctor’s office. I think they call that a White Coat Syndrome thing. I just call it gynecology stress.

The interminable waiting in the examining room is truly an experience beyond compare. It’s in this sub-zero climate controlled room where I perch on the end of an examining table with sanitary paper clinging to the back of my sweaty legs and creeping into my Nebraska-sized bottom, that I’m forced to wait in my flimsy paper half gown (open at the front) and a paper sheet barely covering my lower half. To add insult to injury the only available reading material are graphic brochures and pamphlets detailing the horrors of STDs in full living color.

I’m not sure which part of the exam I detest the most. It’s a toss up between the thorough manipulation and painful pinching of my tender 36-double “D’s” and the probing of the cavities in my nether regions. It’s a tough call, but I’d probably have to go with the cavity probing. It’s the glaringly hot bright spot light and sharp metal instruments that put it over the top.

Each year as I scoot my Nebraska-sized bottom down towards the end of the table while maintaining a chimpanzee like death grip on the metal stirrups with my sweaty feet, one warped thought always bounces around in my brain like a little silver ball in a pinball machine. No wait … make that two thoughts actually.

Number one … I wonder why I don’t have six-pack abs and buns of steel from all the clenching and squeezing I do, since clenching and squeezing is the only thing I can do during my exam to keep the tiny air bubbles that are forming inside my stomach held prisoner until the doctor leaves the exam room. (Why do the air bubbles always choose the worst possible times to form anyway?)

And secondly … I wonder what the good doctor would do if, as her elbow is disappearing inside the deepest darkest center of my nether regions I were to belt out a stanza of “Ohhhhhhhh, Ok-la-homa, where the winds blow blah, blah, blah, blah.” (Sorry, I can’t remember the rest of the words because there’s a stranger’s arm inside my nether regions scraping the tender walls with a metal shovel!)

Logically, I know that I shouldn’t complain about the necessary preventative poking, probing, scraping and squishing necessary to promote optimum health, early detection and longevity. But, hey … I’ve been doing this preventative stuff for three decades now so I think I’m entitled to at least a little complaining!

Being the “glass half-full” girl that I am, when I look on the bright side of Scrape and Squish appointments, I can’t help but reassure myself that maybe I’ll find something humorous to write about amidst the pain and humiliation of annual exams. Boy, it makes me eager to hurry up and schedule a colonoscopy appointment!

And you never know, next year might be the year that I work up enough courage to actually belt out my rendition of “Oklahoma” as I lay there clenching, squeezing and exposing my nether regions. Until then – I say … don’t delay, make a Scrape and Squish appointment today. It’s one of those “for your own good” kind of things! Besides, I’ve always heard painful experiences are easier to handle when shared with others. And besides … I don’t want to keep all the fun stuff to myself!

Thank you Lord, for the knowledge available through preventative routine exams. Help me not to complain overly much and approach the whole experience with a good attitude! In your name I ask this … Amen!

“Your heavenly Father already knows all your needs, and he will give you all you need from day to day if you live for him and make the Kingdom of God your primary concern.” Matthew 6:32-33 (NLT)

I did something two weeks ago I swore I would never do again, this side of glory … I joined a gym! The gym membership became a necessity when my treadmill (two years past its warranty), suddenly and without warning, suffered a major and fatal breakdown.

I did the gym thing back in my twenties, for a very brief period when I was hopelessly single and looking for love in all the wrong places. I promised myself I’d never resort to that type of public humiliation again, since I couldn’t hold a candle to most of the women members who looked like Barbie dolls in spandex thongs and tights with silicone breasts and big hair. Lucky for me, times have changed and big hair and spandex thongs are a thing of the past.

My gym is a medium sized community facility with a variety of activities offered to attract families. I spend my time upstairs in the state-of-the-art gym where bodies are twisted and stretched with machines resembling medieval torture devices. The workout area is a huge mirrored room where the sweat flows freely and buns of steel are sculpted and molded. Flat screen plasma TVs are mounted throughout and tuned to the latest daytime programming. Giant overhead fans whir and hum blowing on the energetic participants, dispersing the smell of hard work evenly throughout the space.

I’d like to go on record as saying, I love going to the gym! I wear my baggy workout pants and a big tee shirt to camouflage the ravages of middle age, cellulite and excess menopausal weight gain and nobody cares. I take along my MP3 player and listen to my favorite music. I’m never without a good book to read, which can be conveniently propped on a Plexiglas book holder that attaches easily to any of the exercise bikes, elliptical machines or treadmills. Before I know it, 90 minutes have passed and I’ve worked at 85% of my maximum heart rate (according to the heart sensors). Rather than concentrating on my erratic breathing and oversized thighs that feel as though they are going to explode out of my skin, I’ve passed the time involved in a juicy novel to the sounds of Lynard Skynard, The Doobie Brothers and of course - Casting Crowns. My gym time is my new favorite time of day.

I haven’t missed a workout in two weeks (except for Sunday’s, because even God rested on the 7th day) and I’m quickly becoming a regular early morning gym junkie. I’ve gotten used to seeing the same people everyday who are single-minded in their focus as well … who have made getting into shape an early morning priority.

Because I’ve gotten used to seeing the same faces daily, I’ve started giving my gym buddies their own special gym names. For instance, there’s Jumbo McStinky who is a rather large man who clearly works very hard during his workout, although he’s somewhat irregular in his gym visits, for which I’m profoundly grateful. There is Skinny Sue and her cousin, Skinny Marie. If they workout any harder, I believe they’re likely to shrivel up and disappear altogether. Betty Barely Moves is a faithful every other day member who is severely overweight, but I applaud her commitment to show up and move on those days. One of my favorites is Tina Talks-a-lot who puts in an appearance for about 30 minutes a couple of times a week and can’t seem to put her cell phone down long enough to do more than make a dozen or so slow, casual laps around the indoor running track, yakking all the while.

Randy Reader gives me competition on who can read the most material during our workouts. He prefers to use only the elliptical machine for about 45 minutes and manages to read the entire AZ Republic during that time. It didn’t take me too many days to learn to stay away from any of the machines near Percy Perspirator since he goes all out and is pretty drippy by the time he’s finished. Nasty!

Since I tend to be a bit of a germ-o-phobe, I’m a stickler for wiping down all the machines I use (before and after) with the anti-bacterial wipes provided for just that purpose. For that reason, I tend to avoid the machines vacated by Victor VanDerSweaten since he doesn’t believe in using the wipes. Yuck!

There a few young guys I’ve dubbed as Biff, Ironman and Meat whose sole gym purpose is to pump and strut. And they do if spectacularly well, I might add. There is an older married couple that shows up dressed in their matching warm up suits. Too cute! And there’s an old hippie guy with a long white ponytail that works at a slow but steady pace and is as fanatical as I am about the antibacterial wipes. There are a few assorted oddballs like Cowboy Bob in the 10-gallon hat and jeans who refuses to acknowledge the “No Jeans Allowed” rule, but hey … if he can sweat in his jeans and not be bothered by it, it’s okay with me.

After two full weeks, I’ve gotten into a familiar groove and I smile and offer salutations to the assorted members and gym employees. Perhaps at some point I’ll learn their real names, but probably not, since I didn’t join a social club. I just want to work out. For now, I love the anonymity the gym affords me. Although, I find myself speculating on what my fellow gym patrons have dubbed me. I imagine my gym name is probably something like Frieda Frumpy or who does she think she’s kidding? Personally, I don’t care what they call me, just as long as they call me regular … or how about, just plain Gym Junkie!

I give you praise and thanksgiving, Lord, for allowing me the luxury of belonging to a gym. I thank you for a body that can still handle hard, physical exercise and I thank you that I can say with all honesty, that I love it! Give thanks unto the Lord in all things! Amen.

“Always be joyful. Keep on praying. No matter what happens, always be thankful, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (NLT)

It’s hard to be thankful when you’re sick and feeling a bit under the weather. I was attacked this week with what surely must have been a bad case of Whooping cough, Tuberculosis, Black Death or perhaps just old-fashioned Consumption. It was some sort of ailment that caused me to feel like I was hawking up gigantic pieces of lung tissue with every hacking cough. In reality, I suffered from nothing more than a common cold with a nasty, wicked cough. (I’ve not been sick in several years and, well … I lean towards embellishment.) On the bright side, I think I’ve finally achieved those much sought-after Abs of Steel from all of the isolated stomach crunching I did with each fit of convulsive coughing.

My illness was such, I was forced to cease and desist from all normal activities and duties for the better part of the week. That inactivity brought with it a certain amount of guilt. My natural inclination is to be a “doer” when “doing is what’s called for. Don’t get me wrong … I can veg-out and be a slug with the best of them. (That’s what Saturday’s are for.) For some reason, vegging-out on a normal, non-holiday weekday always makes me feel inanely guilty. I suspect it’s residual guilt resulting from two decades of being a full-time stay-at-home wife and mother. (There are certain cynics who labor under the misconception that full-time child rearing is synonymous with fat housewives who laze about watching soap opera’s and binge-eating doughnuts all day. Hmmm! I won’t even dignify that with a response.)

Day one of my self-imposed convalescing and all I could be “thankful” for was napping in the recliner wrapped in yards of terrycloth and fleece, cuddling with my faithful furry lap dog. The cuddling and napping were occasionally interrupted with trips to the kitchen for cough syrup, Tylenol and massive doses of ginger ale and toast – Mother’s cure-all for everything. Thanks, Mom!

Day two dawned with much of the same, but was punctuated with mindless channel surfing of the big screen. It didn’t take me long to discover – there is very little quality programming to watch on daytime TV. Even with dozens of channels to choose from, I’m ashamed to admit I got hooked on an all-day marathon on the Bravo Channel. I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I spent eight hours glued to my set voyeuristically watching The Real Housewives of Orange County. It took me the entire day to finally figure out which housewife was paired with whom and which children were fathered from what number marriage, and so forth. Eight hours of watching these women drink themselves stupid behind the safety of their gated communities, vacationing in exotic locations, driving luxury cars, wearing $40,000 Rolex watches, making million dollar real estate deals, having their breasts filled with silicone and their faces injected with Botox and … well, let me tell you … that’s eight hours of my life that I’m never going to get back! About halfway through the first episode I knew that nothing good would come from watching this show, but somehow – the same way little boys are attracted to puddles – I just couldn’t seem to help myself. I know my time would have been better spent if I’d watched the Discovery Channel or even HGTV all day. At the very least I would have come away with first-hand knowledge on the gestational habits of the Wildebeest or learned how to fashion a perfect cornice board from scrap wood and leftover material. After eight hours of Housewives, and all I’ve got to show for it is my “thankfulness” at not having lips like a blowfish.

By day three, I was “thankful” my whooping cough was improved enough to drag myself out of my bathrobe and into the shower, which was followed by two hours of errands. I started with the post office and then tackled the grocery store at the Supercenter where the only thing keeping me upright was my death-grip on the shopping cart I stumbled behind. Wheezing, sniffling and hacking my way through produce and frozen foods I mustered my strength for a detour in the shoe department. (Somehow, there’s always strength for shoe shopping.) By the time I made it home to unload groceries, my body screamed for fleece, my cuddly dog and the remote. But eyeing the overdue video and the notice from the DMV regarding the registration renewal and required emission test on my husband’s pickup (which had been left home for that specific purpose), I forced myself back into the “Errand Zone.” In spite of the hot, pulsating thunder burning in my chest like molten lava spewing from Mt. St. Helens, I dropped the video off and made my way to the Emission Testing Center. Forty minutes of stopping and starting the ignition, inching forward, breathing car exhaust from the diesel truck ahead of me, cursing my luck at having picked the slowest line and … well, a relapse was not only expected, but imminent.

On day four, I was “thankful” the rumbling hot lava in my chest had subsided enough to mimic Old Faithful with only sporadic wheezing eruptions. The mountain of laundry, neglected housework and piles of paperwork littering my desk would only be ignored for so long and took precedence over phlegm and mucous. In my weakened condition resulting from days without restful sleep and no appetite for anything but crackers, I was beginning to feel a bit like one of those contestants on the reality show, Survivor. Trying to stay positive and “thankful,” I consoled myself with the knowledge that at least I must be wasting away to nothing from not eating all week. A case of whooping cough ought to be good for at least a ten-pound weight loss. Who knew there would be such a silver lining to hawking up lungs all week?

Day five and reality hit me hardest where it hurts the most. Coughing, hacking, loss of appetite, etc. amounted to no substantial weight loss at all! Apparently, I’ve got one of those metabolisms that defy all human logic. I imagine if I were ever to be on that show Survivor, I would be voted off at the end of the month for not losing any weight at all. All the other contestants would accuse me of smuggling food. I’m “thankful” I’ll probably never have to test that theory.

I suppose all in all, the week wasn’t a total loss. I’m “thankful” I did get to spend some quality time with my loveable pup. He earned his weight in Milk Bones for never leaving my side and showering me with unconditional puppy love in spite of bad breath and bed head hair. I also got to find out first hand that Drew Carey will never be able to fill Bob Barker’s shoes as the host of The Price is Right. And of course, the Housewives of Orange County taught me that too many Botox injections really does minimize the use of your facial muscles. I’m “thankful” my husband and children know how to fend for themselves and know where to get the best deal on take-out food, and of course … I’m ever “thankful” for a warped sense of humor that continually keeps me grounded and helps me to maintain a “glass half full” kind of attitude - even when I don’t feel well.

Thank you, Lord that even when I’m sick you are with me and will never leave me. Thank you for your continual mercy. Amen.