Mint Coleslaw and THE Yoga Nightmare

Happy Star Wars Day, friends!

clone-meme

 I should probably start by telling you all how rich I am. I won big yesterday at a Kentucky Derby party. Like, take your whole family to Starbucks big. $22 after betting on Danza, who came in 3rd place and two winning rounds of wind up horse races. Needless to say, I’m feeling pre-hetty good about my finances today!

How things have changed since Thursday! This was the night when the unthinkable happened. Let’s walk through it together. Here’s an ideal yoga class (below), lots of space between mats, beautiful light, live dj, best teacher ever…all things good. Now, lets try another scenario.

yoga

Dim lights, still great music, still best teacher ever, but now the heater is cranked to 90 degrees after an actual 90 degree day. Every time you drop your head down to your feet, which is every 30 seconds or so, you are blinded by your own sweat. This time, mats are just six inches apart. No time to think, just keep pushing on. You have almost made it to the end of a tough class, you can taste the end nearing, you can smell it. Wait, Oh My God, Oh My God, that’s not what you are smelling. What you are smelling is the 90 pound girl bending over in front of you. We are all turned sideways on our mats to save space, still just inches apart. Miss little thang in front of you is posed just like this:

wide-leg-forward-bend-pose

I lifted my head to change positions and deepen my stretch, instead, I experienced what no human should ever have to, a funked up smell and a little puff of air in my face. All her cute little yoga gear couldn’t hold in what she felt like sharing. The rest of the class I alternated between breathing only out of my mouth and holding in my laughter. Talk about feeling violated. 

You know what, though? This whole week has been strange. We had a few health scares at home, which turned out to be nothing major. We’ve also done what I would have never expected, we’ve fallen in love with our new family Chiropractor. Think what you will about Chiros, but this guy has total Jedi powers. We all feel better and you can’t trick a three year old into behaving better, there’s no power of suggestion at play in his brain, he’s acting totally different. 

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On the subject of kids, the little guys at preschool have full blown spring fever. I wish I could record everything they say, it’s just too much. The things they say just aren’t heard in any other arena. Picture yourself at your work place or at a volunteer meeting or some other place where adults gather. Have you ever, EVER, heard another human say any of the following:

1. No, don’t! Stop looking at my poo!

2. My Daddy stands up to pee and he tells me to don’t look at his pee. 

3. If you touch that, you’ll get dead.

4. Look at my butt! Look at it! Look at it! Look at my butt!

5. When asked what students loved about their moms, I heard these replies: 

  •  Nothing. I don’t love her.
  •  Lollipops.
  • She drives and her likes food. 

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 It’s like working around short, amateur comedians! They also whine and tattle a lot, but it’s cool. It totally justifies trying out fun cocktails on the weekend. This was an attempt at whipped cream flavored vodka mixed with black cherry soda, topped with whipped cream. It’s looks prettier than it tastes, hence the teeny photo. Not a recipe to share!

 black cherry whipped cream drink

 Before I do share my newest recipe, I need to be sure to wish my sweet boy a very happy year as a seven-year-old. I always worry about not having my scrapbooks up to date and not having special letters written to the boys, in case something ever happens to me (which it won’t, so calm down, mother). Then I remember that I have a blog! If they want to know how much I love them, they can scroll through all my social media. Except for Twitter, because I actually use that for adult commentary. So boys, don’t read Mommy’s Twitter feed, m’kay? Between Instagram, Facebook and this blog, they’ll have plenty of opportunities to hear my voice. I love you Dallas, you are so kind and loving and wonderful. Here’s the only picture from your birthday with Mommy actually looking at the camera, face bloated from post-Easter sugar. You and Max only really care about the cake in front of you. Eh, whaddaya gonna do?

Dallas bday

  Now for the food! I brought this to the Kentucky Derby party and thought it would be good enough to share with you. It’s an easy coleslaw that would work well for any warm weather potluck. I found all the ingredients at the farmer’s market and made my own mayo, which you totally don’t have to, using the Nom Nom Paleo recipe. However, I’d suggest you try it. It was easier than driving to the store for a jar of not-so-fresh mayonnaise and way tastier. 

coleslaw

Mint Coleslaw
Serves 6
Fresh coleslaw with mint and garlic, not too sweet and perfect for warm weather.
Write a review
Print
Prep Time
15 min
Cook Time
30 min
Total Time
45 min
Prep Time
15 min
Cook Time
30 min
Total Time
45 min
152 calories
13 g
5 g
10 g
2 g
1 g
218 g
148 g
3 g
0 g
8 g
Nutrition Facts
Serving Size
218g
Servings
6
Amount Per Serving
Calories 152
Calories from Fat 84
% Daily Value *
Total Fat 10g
15%
Saturated Fat 1g
7%
Trans Fat 0g
Polyunsaturated Fat 6g
Monounsaturated Fat 2g
Cholesterol 5mg
2%
Sodium 148mg
6%
Total Carbohydrates 13g
4%
Dietary Fiber 4g
18%
Sugars 3g
Protein 2g
Vitamin A
74%
Vitamin C
110%
Calcium
9%
Iron
8%
* Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet. Your Daily Values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.
Ingredients
  1. Small head of cabbage (1 to 1 ½ pounds), finely shredded
  2. 2 medium carrots, finely shredded
  3. 1/2 medium onion, finely shredded
  4. About 1/3 cup white wine or cider vinegar
  5. Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
  6. 2 to 3 tightly packed tablespoons of fresh spearmint leaves
  7. 1 to 2 large garlic cloves
  8. 3 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar, or 3 tablespoons cider vinegar and 1 tablespoon or more of sugar
  9. 1/3 cup mayonnaise, or to taste
Instructions
  1. In a large bowl, combine the shredded cabbage, carrots, onions, the vinegar and salt and pepper to taste. Let stand 30 minutes. Then squeeze out most of the slaw's moisture into its bowl and put the squeezed portions in another bowl. Add about 1/4 cup of the liquid back to the slaw.
  2. In a food processor or by hand, mince together the mint and garlic (add the next amount of vinegar if using the processor). Turn it into the slaw along with the second quantity of vinegar if it is not already in the mixture. Toss together everything so it's thoroughly blended, then stir in the mayonnaise. Taste for enough sweet/tart balance (it should be subtle), enough mayonnaise, and for salt and pepper.
  3. Refrigerate the slaw for anywhere from 3 hours to several days. It's best the first day when the fresh mint flavor blossoms up.
beta
calories
152
fat
10g
protein
2g
carbs
13g
more
Food it Forward http://fooditforward.com/
 Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, folks. Drop it like it’s hot. Unless it’s a pan of something hot, then don’t drop it, it will probably ruin it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love in San Francisco – Part Two

squirrel lady

There’s just no way I can talk about anything in San Francisco until I tell you about my family’s new, special friend.

I want to introduce you to the crazy squirrel lady. You can find her in Berkeley, where people who are just a little crazy are green lit to go full-force bananas. She frequents the marina, where the squirrel gather to eat her treats. Now, before we get into those treats, Id like to tell you why she says she feeds a population of rodents. You see, she’s pissed. The city of Berkeley plans to exterminate all the squirrels in the marina area, because they are digging holes near the water and sewage is seeping into the bay. This may of course, all be in her head, I have no idea.

For their last meals, these squirrels are treated to a healthy diet of shortbread Girl Scout cookies. The cookies are broken into two or three pieces and held out for the little squirrels to come and bite. She offered to let my kids feed the animals, an opportunity which they obviously jumped at, while I cautiously watched.

Here’s a special Bay Area kind of crazy for you, show the rodent population love with carbs! They are going to die, so she takes special care to not let them die without experiencing diarrhea.

Now, on to San Francisco. When you visit, you won’t want to look like a tourist, caught in a tank top on a foggy, windy day. Take fashion advice from this local gal (below) and dress in layers. Heck, bring like four purses too.

layers

San Francisco is a small city by comparison, but still too vast to walk everywhere, so my weekend involved a few cab rides. I have a video of my. Our driver was from Yemen and apparently had cloudy vision. He absolutely expected us to recognize songs by Tom Jones and other singers of his era. We obviously only look 25, so he was clearly drunk.

Ok, here’s where stuff kinda hits the wall. I LITERALLY, no, like, literally have a film degree. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Motion Picture & Video. Yet, I didn’t think about turning my phone to take this video. I also don’t know how to change it, so you’ll have to make like you are eating a taco and tilt your head.

Our happy (and drunk) driver had windows down and ABBA blaring. He also kept doing some creepy finger popping trick, which the camera just missed.

Our taxis were all summoned through the app Uber. If you haven’t heard of this, listen up, it’s awesome. You simply request a taxi or Limo, depending on your wallet and sense of self-worth, with a tap of a phone button. Uber locates you, finds a driver and notifies you of both the driver’s phone number, car ID and a photo of their face. The driver has your picture too, so no one will be stealing your ride, pal! You are given the fee in advance and pay through Paypal, including tip. No need to worry that your driver might take the long-cut to get to your destination. The only possible way I can see this being a bad idea is if your driver is a murderer, in which case, I’m sorry I recommended this app to you. Hope you are in heaven.

Speaking of heaven, this girl is in it. Not me, I’m at my desk and see NO signs of iced coffee fountains and still have frizz. I’m talking about the girl below, in the little hobbit-like house. She works at Juice Shop, a tiny closet of a shop that sells freshly bottled juice. Other than being kind of boring, how sweet of a job is this? You can people watch all day, you’ve got your refreshments next to you and no one is going to steal your favorite pen from your desk. Also, she could probably sell drugs and totally supplement her income. Juice Shop: 1994 Union St. juice collage

“But Kim,” you ask, “What if I find myself in the middle of the Tenderloin, needing a healthy breakfast after a long night of bad decisions? Well, have I got just the thing for you. Walk yourself a few blocks to the edge of Nob Hill at the TenderNob, which is slang for “Who are we kidding, this is still the Tenderloin” and visit Farm Table. Go early, like maybe 3 am, if you are hoping for a table. There’s just one. They totally aren’t joking with the name. The store isn’t much bigger than the hobbit house juice store I just showed you, but it’s pretty good. It’s tough to find a place downtown with homemade yogurt, gluten free foods, organic everything and an almond milk for your coffee.  Farm Table: 754 Post St. 

farm table

Lunch time? Got you covered there, too.

pica collage

These are snapshots of our food at Pica Pica, a Latin inspired eatery which specializes in these little corn pockets called arepas. They are grilled on the outside and moist on the inside, perfect for holding together some tasty meat. I ordered the grilled chicken, which was marinated in love or something, it was SO good. The fat fries in the photo above are Yucca and tasted the opposite. Yumma, fat and dense fries for this chick. The restaurant is 100% gluten free, which is awesome for all you GF peeps.

If you have some Brazilian pals, tell them you are going to Pyka Pyka. One of our other cab drivers was surprised at our lunch location. Apparently, in Portuguese, pica means something really, really different than lunch. Oh boy, it is killing me not to insert joke here. Pica is also the name of a disorder where people are compelled to eat dirt, chalk or things of the sort. Maybe next time the Pica Pica folk open a restaurant, they can consult with a marketing firm.

I only had one dinner in the city, so you’re on your own for the next meal. Or, how about this for a segue…head over to Fresh & Easy, they have some changes in store. (Ba dum dum – cymbal sound). Which is JUST what I’ll be chatting about next go round. Also, I’ll add some funny photos in case you aren’t that interested in grocery stores. Happy Easter weekend to those who celebrate. Those who don’t, happy regular weekend!

Finding Love in San Francisco

Some nights, when I’ve run down my list of songs and the kids still aren’t asleep, I dig deep. After seven years of Disney songs, the patriotic stuff, the standard lullabies, made up jingles and camp chants, I’ve looked to songs of my past. My kids know the words to songs by Julie Andrews and one chorus of one song by Journey.

When the lights go down in the City, and the sun shines on the bay

Oh I wanna be there, in my city, oh oh h, oh oh, oh. 

That’s all they know, because that’s all I know!

Bay Area

If you find yourself visiting the Bay Area, you may want to bring some elastic waist pants. Perhaps some stylish jeggings or just go full mama and bring a giant belt to wrap around your snuggie. We have so much good food. While we may not fry it all up, don’t be fooled by the abundance of avocados. There are so many ways to go wrong. I would know, I am have been full since Sunday, after 32 or so hours in San Francisco. It all started at the edge of town…

port

You know what you can find in that there building? Calories. They live there and they want to overtake you. There is literally a cheese melting station, where (for the low-low price of $6.75), you can have a slather of bubbling Asiago spread over some carbs. Look, here’s the cheese lady! Don’t worry about the face she’s making. That’s just the way her face looks when she’s dropping snobbish sales pitches on curious onlookers. The moral of the story, be nice to everyone. You never know who is going to blog about you. I know that was wrong, but it still feels kinda good.

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Are you more of a meat lover? (Insert San Francisco joke here). Then folks, grab yourself a meat cone. Yep, a cone full of meat. The Mortadella in the left photo brought back too many memories of fried bologna sandwiches (my brother ate them, not me), so I asked for a cone full of salami. I’m not as manly as I thought I might be (which is not that manly at all), so I ate a measly few strips of salami before tucking it away in my purse.

Nope, don’t need to go back and read that sentence. It said, I put salami in my purse. It was $5 for my specialty cone guys. You would have totally done the same.

Meat Cone salamicone

Totally not sure how to segue from meat cones to oysters. But I’m pre-hetty sure there is a good joke in there somewhere. Instead, I’ll go with the unfunny. If you like good oysters, San Francisco has some. What’s the website for amazing writing, again? Feel free to go nominate me for somethin’.

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Gluten free folks need love too. We found ours at Mariposa Baking Company. Awesome salad dressing, super tasty sandwiches.

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Travel a wee bit further down the plaza and….

ferry plaza

You’ll find the exact spot where many a folk have left their heart…Blue Bottle Coffee’s cafe!

blue bottle list  

The New Orleans style iced coffee is so delicious. Not overly sweetened and so fresh.

Blue Bottle 

The plaza is full of so many treats. but a girl’s jeans can and should only hold so many calories in! Before I continue on with my photo tour of the weekend, let me show you what a mom getaway looks like.hotel

See any toys on those comfortable beds? Neither do I. Does the middle photo look like a restaurant that offers a kid’s menu? Nope, not to me either. Spot my boys running down that long hall? No way. A la, mom getaway.

It would just NOT be a mom getaway without chocolate, right? Let me show you the monstrosity of a store my friend, Jody, introduced me to. It’s divine, in every sense of the word. Also, it’s mind blowing how much some of the stuff costs. Jody bought three pieces of chocolate for around $7. Not like chocolate bars, like small, small chocolates. A box of chocolates to bring home for your mom? Bring at least $85, for the cheapest assortment. Remember though, she birthed you. She wiped your butt, she has dealt with so much crap from you, literally. Stop being so cheap and spend the $150 on a box that says I love you enough to buy you chocolate that was painted on with gold flecks.

There’s totally a scent of snobbery in the air, coming from what I (at other stores) would call the cashiers. However, these people sell expensive chocolate, so maybe I should call them chocolatiers? I don’t know. Doesn’t his look just scream, “Hey girl! I’m pleased as punch you came to my chocolate store. I’d love to help you!”?

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Dirty mug me all you want sir, because your goods are worth it. I’d let him slap me around if it meant I could have a few pieces of free chocolate. The store is a chocolate importer, bringing in bits of deliciousness from around the globe. CocoaBella and its glorious employees are on Union Street and I plan to visit every time I am slumming through that ritzy hood.

COcoabella

Speaking of poor people. We watched a hilarious comedy show at The Purple Onion, which is in the cellar or Kell’s Pub.

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We were cracking up like mad women over a few of the comics. Which may totally be because we had just finished a couple of cocktails. Either way, there are some funny comics trying to make a go of it. I would probably cross to the other side of the street to avoid them during daylight hours, but that’s just me and my suburban issues.

The point of this section? Kitty-corner or catty-corner from Kells is a Basque restaurant called, well, Bask.

Still stuck on catty/kitty. Here’s what University of Wisconson asked 10,000 people and came up with:

76. What term do you use to refer to something that is across both streets from you at an intersection (or diagonally across from you in general)?
a. kitty-corner (49.53%)
b. kitacorner (0.09%)
c. catercorner (1.34%)
d. catty-corner (30.38%)
e. kitty cross (0.00%)
f. kitty wampus (0.13%)
g. I can only use “diagonal” for this (12.31%)
h. I have no term for this (3.68%)
i. other (2.53%)
(10706 respondents)

I REALLY, really wish that kitty wampus was a part of my vocabulary. But, on to the paella. I’ve been dying for an awesome pan of paella since I watched snooty bomb-booty Gwenyth cook some up with Mario Batali, a good seven or so years back. I’m talking about on tv here, in case you thought I was way more famous that I actually am. Have you seen the photo of me at 18 with David Hasselhoff? Let me show you again. 

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Bask is authentic Bask food. Check out my freakin’ paella, pals! Heck yeah!

paella

Now that I have upped my street cred a bit more. I have to remind you to visit Philz Coffee!  We trekked the length of the city just to visit the original Philz, deep, like DEEP in the heart of the Mission district. If this were the Hunger Games, this district would come pretty darn close to killing the Tenderloin (aka ghetto) district’s butt. It’s the wild west over there. You aren’t in the suburbs anymore, little spoiled girls. There’s no city ordinance about blaring music out your low-riding window. Wait, that happens everywhere except my white-bread valley? Oh. I miss life outside of my bubble. 

Anyway, the heart of the Mission holds Philz. It’s fantabulous and I think I even liked my Ecstatic Iced Coffee (regular iced) better than the Mint Mojito Iced. It’s worth the trip to try it. Even if you can’t get a cab to come pick you up. Even when you try using your special app called Uber, like 30 or 40 times. philzSo there it is, some San Francisco food love. I toyed with putting up the photo of us we took in The Purple Onion, but the sparkle in our eyes is definitely induced my a bit of rum.

In hopes of reducing eye burnage, I have split this post into two. Come back Friday to read about my breakfast. I know, your pants are LITERALLY blowing off of you right now. I still haven’t got to Pica Pica, which by the way, please do not enter in the Portuguese to English translator box. I’m talking about the Spanish translation of Pica and not about the heart of the Castro District.

Well, I’ve noticed that it’s been a month since I have blogged. What a sad state of blogflairs. Luckily, you are already dying to read about picas. Talk soon, my little baboon! Love ya!

 

Fear and Yoga-ing. Plus, Guest Blogging Funny Man, Mr. T!

I’ve never really been afraid to do my own thing. I’m not worried about being the first to try something, or about taking on a new adventure. Over the past seven or so years, that part of me went really quiet though, while the mom in me was busy, so busy at work.

Before I was married, I’d love to grocery shop at midnight in San Francisco. Happily, I’d drive up the interstate at 2 a.m., to get to a far away friend’s house. Lake Tahoe to the Bay Area and back in a day? No problem. I even went out dancing at my favorite bar one night, alone. No friends wanted to go out, but that didn’t stop me!

After getting married, I became accountable to more than just myself and things changed. I changed.

While I am happy my husband introduced me to a healthy dose of fear, I took it too far. Grocery shopping at midnight? Not anymore. Driving home from the mountains at 2 am? Not a good plan either. My false sense of invincibility was taken from me, which is obviously a good thing. Like I said though, I took it too far. I started being afraid to do anything new, anything outside of my comfort zone, anything that involved a little risk. Not a fun way to live.

Want to know what changed it all? Well, who changed it all? Her.

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This is Malia. She’s my yoga teacher and my friend.

Here she is (far left), pre-yoga days. sfmalia

Can you spot me? I have a (real) tan that would make an Oompa-Loompa cry with jealousy. And nothing says awesome curly hair, like bangs, right? Woo-baby! This was the day that Malia took one for the team and yelled at the man on the corner who preached “Jesus thinks women who wear lipstick are whores.” Rock on girl!

So how did Malia stop my growing fear? With hot yoga, that’s how. The first class I went to was her Thursday night level 2/3 Power Vinyasa class. Mama say wha? I had no idea what I was in for. She just told me that my body would remember my cheerleading days, and I’d do just fine.

The class was hot from the second I laid down my mat and my fear was intense. Standing up and going through a couple of poses, I could think of nothing but excuses and ways I could slip out the door and into my comfort zone. I was afraid. I hadn’t done yoga in five years. I was worried about every minute that was going to follow. Afraid of the 90 degree heat that was building, afraid the class would be too hard, afraid to fail.

Malia kept me on my mat, though. She praised my efforts. About ten minutes later, something did walk out the door. It was my fear. The rest of the class was torture. So hard. So, so freaking hard. Like, laughable hard. Between the bass of the rap, the dance music or the grunts of the 20 year old Lululemon girls, I somehow made it through. A new me was waking up.

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This past week, I felt the same sensation as that first night in class. I made it into a pose I had always been to afraid to try. When I pushed my limits and lifted my feet from the ground, letting go of the fear of falling on my head, I felt about 8 milliseconds of pure bliss. I did it! Reminding myself  that the power of releasing fear is so invigorating and freeing was such an amazing experience I was able to go through, for the second time.

Next weekend, I’ll be spending all Saturday at a Yogathon! Malia puts on this amazing event to benefit children’s charities and I am thrilled to be joining in. I’m not excited to ask for donations, but I have to! Otherwise, how will the children of Children’s Hospital & Research Center Oakland, UCSF Benioff Children’s Hospital and Africa Yoga Project benefit? I’ve gots to get some dough, yo!

If you can help in any way, please click the picture below to help raise money for three different organizations that truly need it.

So, like it or not, releasing fear has it’s downsides too. I’m not quite as happy in my small, bubbled corner of the world. It’s safe and every inch is landscaped, but I’m a little um…itchy. I have a horrible case of wanderlust. Before kids, I would have told you that my dream job already belonged to Samantha Brown.

Samantha_Brown_cocktail

No, I had no interest in wearing a bikini on TLC, but I sure did want to travel the world and report back on all the different amenities and excursions different locations had to offer. I dreamed of travelling, collecting travel magazines and taking road trips wherever and whenever possible. The car was once my best friend. A perfect day would involve a long drive with good music and fresh air.

Then it all went away. I stopped wanting to go anywhere. I didn’t want to fly. No trains, no bridges. No thanks. Right here, in the small valley I live in was right where I wanted to be. My dream job was now in front of my home computer and absolutely nowhere which involved a commute.

Thankfully, that feeling has been shaken off of me and I am more than ready to venture again.

More thankfully, I work with three year old children who don’t mind at all when I speak in silly voices, dance around or sing a song about using a napkin. They even encourage me to drink coffee. What could be better?

I had a whole post ready about cupcakes, but that will have to wait until next time, I’ve written enough. For now, you can enjoy some funnies from Mr. T. He’s a super secret guest blogger. His name is not Mr. T. though, it’s Travis. So, he’s no longer a real secret. Also, while trying to disguise him, I made him look a bit like Kim Jong-il. Sorry, Trav. I’ll do better next time.

Travis

So Travis is funny. Like, really, really funny. His post however, is rated R. If you are easily offended, Mormon, my grandma or the parent of one of my students, you may want to skip the section below. Otherwise, enjoy! He proposed a podcast, which I think I’m going to get going as well. So, stay tuned for so much more non-food related blogging, pals! Love you, love your show. Muah!

bessie

Wabbits

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dad

touche

Girl Got Problems

*For those who did not understand my Charlie Chaplin meme from the last post. Let me break it down for ya. The man in the picture was (is) Charlie Chaplin. Hey Girl is a “famous” internet meme, which uses the face/abs of Ryan Gosling. As such:

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Before you read on, I’d like to clarify two things

  1. For the purposes of this post, FWP is the acronym for First World Problems.
  2. *My friend, shall remain nameless.

Enter all, ye who are not prone to rolling their eyes. I warned ye. Uh, yer. I warned you, ok. 

I’d like to tell you about  a couple of FWP I have struggled with over the past 36 hours.

If you aren’t familiar with FWP, let me help you understand. First, begin with the rap.

Next, look to history to explain

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fwp2

Get the drift? Good, now you can listen to my own FWPs!

I had two, count ‘em, TWO run-ins with major cases of baby soft hands.

First, came those of the lovely lady who performed my pedicure. Despite her total stink-face, she was awesome. I thought maybe she was mad that it was so late in the day and she had to work on yet another set of toes. But no, that was just her “look”. It was her hands that did me in though. Ugh, smooth hands. It is really distracting to feel hands which seem to have zero friction, like a newborn’s.

Baby hands on adults really bother me. What happened to all their skin? Have they massaged it all away? How do they open jars? Forget about rock climbing. Now, I’m not talking about regular, soft hands. I’m talking about hands that have possibly burned all their fingerprints away. Like, creepy soft.

FWP

Next baby hands belonged to the awkward receptionist/masseuse who gave me a totally relaxing, yet extremely unnerving massage today.

Let’s back it up for a second. 

I’ve mentioned before how my husband is the nicest guy. Like, ever. He had his heart set on seeing American Hustle, but knew I wasn’t super into it. We had left the babysitter, driven to the theater and were walking in when he let me change the course of our afternoon. Sushi and massages? Yes, yes, please.

There are these new reflexology/massage shops that have popped up all over the place. $35 for an hour foot massage, $30 at some places. It’s more than just a foot massage, they basically start from your head, massage down to your feet, flip you over and start again. It’s kind of a too good to be true thing. *My friend believes they are all money laundering houses. What do I care? I’m all about striking the iron while it’s hot, and these deals are smokin’!

I’ve always been massaged at these shops by women and have preferred it that way. *My friend seems to always get the men, which comes with its own special issue. They seem to stand near her in just a way where she can feel more than she bargains for. So, when the receptionist came over to start my massage, I wasn’t super excited. To begin with, he looked about 15. I’d like to bring you along on my massage journey. Please, step into my thoughts, as they streamed along through the course of 60 minutes. I started out pretty negative, but I can’t edit my thoughts for you. I MUST be honest with my FWP.

  •  Oh my God, he has baby hands, too?
  • Why is he shaking? This isn’t good. He can only be shaking for one of three reasons. 1. He has never done a massage before, he’s only the receptionist. 2. He’s never touched a living female before. 3. He has some neurological disorder. I hope it’s number three. Wow, that’s really selfish. I want him to have nerve issues? Seriously, why is he shaking though?
  • Holy crap, stop it with my hair. You’re totally messing it up.
  • Ew. You are essentially a stranger with your hands on my face. I didn’t SEE you wash your hands. Why do they keep their sink in the back room? Ugh.
  • Three analog clocks going at once? Why did no one think to buy a digital clock? The ticking is going to kill me.
  • Oh my God, I can smell your breath. Stop breathing on me. It’s not bad, it’s just breath and it’s gross.
  • I wonder if I can breathe through one nostril? Nope.
  • I’ll breathe through my mouth.
  • I wonder if he thinks it’s weird that I just opened my mouth.
  • I wonder if he can smell all that hummus I ate?
  • Ok good, moving down to arms.
  • Please stop holding my hand to massage my arm. Your baby hands are so creepy.
  • Ok, this is good. I’m relaxing now.
  • Oh my God, you are shaking again. Stop it.
  • He knows what he’s doing with feet. This is good again.
  • Seriously? How long is the leg massage portion going to be? You are a little too into this part. Ok, you are a lot too into this part. Leave my leg alone.
  • You are shaking again. Please don’t let me be the first female leg you’ve touched since your mother’s.
  • Again, good with feet.
  • My husband is snoring. I wonder if his masseuse (who is wearing a puffy black vest) is annoyed. Maybe it’s kind of a compliment?
  • I need to wake him up, I don’t want him to feel like he wasted his money.
  • I wish I wore something besides a tank top under my sweater. I think I’m encouraging my receptionist.
  • Why am I being so vein? He’s a professional?
  • Ok, it’s over. That was good.
  • Nope, not over. I have to flip over.
  • Oh man, my hair is crazy.
  • I can’t fit my face through this chair-hole right.
  • Oh God, my nose itches.
  • Don’t open your eyes. You can’t see his feet.You’ll die. Wait, he’s wearing shoes. Still, keep them closed.
  • Holy crap. He’s a shiatsu-ninja! This part is awesome.
  • No more shaking, maybe his confidence is growing. Maybe he’s just only good at backs.
  • Pressure point. Yes!
  • Nope, shaking again.
  • I hope he does that crazy hitting sound that I always hear *my friend get.
  • Oh God, the hitting. Not good, just painful.
  • Ok, it’s over. How can I slyly sit up and get this sweater back on?

I’m willing to bet there is someone out there, reading this, who is willing to pay for my ticket to a village in a remote area, where I have to worry about eating only non-poisonous insects and I have to sew my own clothing out of yak skin.

In an effort to keep this blog  loosely tied to food, here is my recommendation for easy Paleo pumpkin pancakes, straight from Practical Paleo.  The ingredients are super basic; pumpkin, mashed banana, eggs, baking soda, cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice and butter. These don’t need syrup, but add if you’d like. Until next time, I promise to try to be a better person and care more about second and third world problems and less about baby hands.

pancakes