Tomorrow, I start another 30-day challenge of keeping excessive, delicious carbohydrates out of my diet. It's called the Sweet Fire Challenge , lead by nutrition education Mary Toscano. I completed another of her 30-day challenges in August . My poor eating and non-exercise habits began creeping back a few weeks ago, so when I learned about this new challenge, I decided to jump in before I gain back the pounds and inches I've lost, as well as lose all the sensibilities I've gained. I'm doing the extreme challenge, which requires that I follow three simple rules from November 11 to December 10: 1. No food or alcohol after 7:30 p.m. 2. No foods with flour or with more than 20 grams of sugars per serving 3. Do 30 minutes of exercise, or do 7,000 steps, every day. Soooooo, today, I ate sourdough bread and a maple old-fashioned doughnut for lunch. I'll probably have a bit more sourdough bread for dinner, along with three or four mini mini-chocolate-chip-c

Yippeee! One more week to go with the 30-day health challenge. Have I lost weight? I don't know. I decided not to weigh myself when I started because I get very disappointed that I've lost only half-a pound or gained 2 pounds when I think I must've lost a gazillion pounds. Both the Husband and the Mama said I looked smaller today.  This past week I was missing bread. Rice or quinoa with peanut butter, pesto, or brie doesn't quite do it. Next week, I'll be searching for sourdough bread and maybe jalapeño tortillas. Not to worry, I won't go overboard. I decided to do an additional two weeks, but I'll modify the challenge by allowing myself to eat one kind of floured item each day, if I feel like it. My workouts changed this week. One morning, I woke up feeling too tired to bicycle so later that day I walked. I don't like walking because my knees hurt afterwards, which the Husband says is because I don't pick up my knees.  That day I discovered

"Wouldn't you like some potato chips with lunch?" I asked the Husband, as we waited for the light to turn green. "Sure." He's such a sweetheart. "Beer would taste good with potato chips. Shall we get some beer, too?" "Absolutely!" I made a left into the supermaket parking lot. "But, can you have chips?" he asked. I was on my second week of the 30-day health-and-fitness challenge. "Yes, as long as they're not made from flour," I answered, easing the car into a parking spot far away from the door. "You can't have beer then," he said. I was momentarily bummed out. And, all this time we'd been driving around town doing errands, I'd been thinking of a gin and tonic. Not that I'm a big cocktail drinker,  But, today, I've been desiring an alcoholic drink. Then, my brain cells kicked in. "Alcohol is okay, as long as it's not past 7:30 PM." "Are you sure? B

Tomorrow starts the 30-Day Sam Farr Challenge for me. Sam Farr is my representative  in the U.S. House of Representatives and last week he decided to take health educator Mary Toscano's invitation to a 30-day healthy lifestyle challenge. In so doing, he invited his constituents to join him. In a nutshell, from tomorrow, July 12, until August 12, I will follow these three rules: No food or alcohol after 7:30 PM. No foods with flour (including gluten-free flours) or more than 20 grams of sugars (per serving). Complete 1 hour of exercise of 10,000 steps daily. I feel confident that I can handle rules #1 and #3 quite easily. Thirty days without pasta, bread, cereal, ice cream, cookies, and pie? That will be the toughie for me. It's the primary reason I decided to take the challenge. I've slipped back into the habit of eating desserts, rolls, pasta, and such, knowing full well that they aren't good for my eczema, estrogen dominance, and right-at-the-border diabe

Free! That's how I feel when I pedal my clunky bright pink bicycle. Being short, I've got a lot of power in my stubby legs, so says the tall Husband, who sometimes huffs and puffs after me. "That's okay," I tell him. "I can't keep up with you when we walk. Since December 31, 2013, I've pedaled nearly 320 miles on my pretty cruiser.  I'm rather proud about that. Several days a week, I take off before breakfast and pedal up and down and through the flat and hilly neighborhoods or trace a perimeter around town. Because I'm alone, I generally follow the streets and roads. Now and then I forge quickly across a field or ford the dry riverbed. The Mama is almost used to me going out on my own early in the morning. Just when I think it's not a big deal for her that I'm out roaming alone, she'll say something like, "Do you go far away?" "What takes you so long?" or "Aren't you afraid to ride by yourse

"Boo!" "What?!" The Husband jumped. I got him twice already. "Stop scaring me," he whined in a fake scaredy-cat kid's voice, after he stopped laughing.  "Stop scaring me." Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I'm feeling loosely-goosely right now. Almost floating on air. It's the ibuprofen speaking.  I took one of them red pills a few minutes before I surprised the Husband the first time. "Boo!" I'd taken 3 of them before going to bed last night. "Boo!" I'm getting ready for a big OW! later on today. An endometrial biopsy. The doctor said it would hurt a little Hah! I know better. I've had two in the past several years. The second one was the worse and I had self-medicated myself before then. Let's just say two ibuprofen pills doesn't do it for me. The Husband said he could hear me from the waiting room. Until yesterday, I thought I was a wimp, a weenie, a baby for not having been able to

No, I haven't forgotten to write Part 2 about buying birthday perfume for the Mama . Yesterday afternoon while looking for a bookmark I found the envelope containing all the tags and bits of information about the perfume samples that I got her. So, part 2 is a coming. One day. These days, it just takes me a long while to get around to doing the fun writing. Something called writing deadlines get in my way, as does making meals for the crew and doing the minimum housecleaning that I can get away with, which generally means when we're all sneezing. Not to say trying to stay half a step ahead of the Mama and remember to go water the flowers and chayote vines before they wilt. Oh, and other stuff, whatever they are. By the way, is anyone out there flinching with my grammatical errors yet. I'm sure they're there. "They" referring to errors. I ought to be sleeping. I've got only 15 minutes left of the sleep cycle for my liver to regenerate itself. I read somewhe

Really? It's been almost a month since I posted a post. Wish I could say I was traveling or wandering in wonder lust. Nope. Just getting on with life. Dusting and vacuuming a bit more often to keep my facial eczema from flaring so awfully awful that my eyes become swollen. How swollen? The recessive epicanthic folds of my eyelids show themselves. An advantage for me. Nobody thinks anything is wrong with my eyes. Celebrating the husband's 60th anniversary of being born. Every 60-year-old child should have a birthday party complete with bubble wands, darts, and other games. And lots of his favorite food. Finishing a deadline and starting another one. Sigh. I'm boxed in until 12/12/12. So, by golly, the world better not end on 12/21/12! Working on my 40th high school class reunion. The husband doesn't believe me when I say this is the last time I work on a reunion. "Absolutely," I say. "Uh-huh," he says. So, that what has kept me me away from writing

Today's letter is B . For more B posts, please click here . Bleeding. Definitely not to be taken lightly. Postmenopausal bleeding, in particular, for us mature ladies. Still, there's some humor to be found. Hold that thought. Serious stuff first: The medical experts say that postmenopausal bleeding refers to any bleeding (light or heavy) occurring after one full year of no flow. There could be various reasons that a post-menopausal woman may suddenly start bleeding, from benign cervical polyps to yuck! cancer. So, dear ladies, you know who you are, do not hesitate, do not pass Go . Make an appointment to see your gynecologist tout de suite. Okay, back to that held thought. Humor. Let me take you back to 2006. Then was my first bout with postmenopausal bleeding. Lady-Doc (and my gynecologist is a she) found a rather huge, very ugly hot potato of a polyp. She twisted that baby off and sent it to the lab. Ladies, the things our gynecologists must see and do. They're well wort

Alphabe-Thursday , hosted by Jenny Matlock at Off on My Tangent , is staring a new round of the alphabet. Whoo-hoo!   To read more A posts, click on over to here . Of course, that's after reading my A post. ~ Su- sieee ! Mac Getting older is a learning experience. Duh. If someone gave me an operating manual for aging, I doubt that I would open it. That would be like finding out what date and time slot death has assigned me. No, thank you. I'm happy to grumble and gripe, cry and cringe, and mumble and moan through the aging process. The physical aspect, that is. Seriously, I don't think I am at all that old until I happen to glance into a mirror. Fortunately, we still haven't put up another mirror in the bathroom since the old one broke last New Year's Eve.  So, what I don't see, well is what I don't see. Though a few weeks ago, someone asked me ever so sweetly and with much concern, "Are you sick?" Huh? Heck, no. Knock on wood. 

Today's letter is Q . For more Q posts, click here . A couple of letters ago, O to be exact , I griped about the high medical bills we got for the 10 stitches in the husband's finger at our local emergency department. They amounted to over $3,000 for about 45 minutes of medical attention. And, we were there for five hours. The doctor's bill was over $1,600. Man! I thought it would be about $300. After getting the doctor's bill, we questioned all the charges, including the hospital's, which we had already paid. I talked with the emergency department director, who after trying to feed me the corporate line finally listened and understood my complaint. She became outraged at how much the emergency medical service, with which the hospital contracts, was charging. She told me that if we write a letter, she'd be sure to investigate our case. So, that's what we did. We did our homework and learned that the contractor pays temporary emergency doctors who work at

Today's letter is O . A forewarning: I'm in an ornery and outraged mood. So, if you'd rather check out other "O" posts, I understand completely. Please click here to head over to Alphabe-Thursday, hosted by Jenny Matlock at Off on My Tanget. The husband and I don't have health insurance. We're self-employed writers in our late 50s, so the cost of monthly health insurance payments would truly put us into deep debt. Fortunately for the past 10 years, we have been able to afford our medical bills and prescriptions, which comes to about a third of what it would be to pay for health insurance. Ornery, the first, about which I am. Some people think we're taking a big risk by not having health insurance. What if, heaven forbid, one of us needs to go to the hospital? Ornery, the second, about which I am. A few weeks ago, the husband and I spent five hours in the emergency department at our local hospital. Nothing major, as some of you, dear readers, know .  A

Reflections, March 2010 It has been three days that we've been without a mirror in the bathroom. Not that I look at the mirror that much, but still I am surprised when I look over the sink and see a yellowish wall. That's another surprise. Without the mirror, both the husband and I realize that off-yellow is the color of our bathroom walls. These past seven years, we thought we were looking at dingy off-white walls. So, what happened to the mirror? First, you need to know that ants  invaded the bathroom last Thursday. The damn ants actually knocked out a bit of tile from a corner of the sink. That day, they kept scooting from behind the cabinet that rests on the counter. The husband's stitches! That night, just after 11 p.m., the husband decided to pull the cabinet forward so he could get at the ants. The next thing we knew, the mirror slipped, broke diagonally, and as the top part fell, it sliced through the husband's right forefinger in two places. Deep enough to cut