Detox Day 3.

As it happens, the food I'm eating for this thing is really, really good. And some of it is actually going into our normal rotation, like the carrot and ginger dressing (just like at the Japanese place!), the broccoli and arugula soup (delicious, ridiculously easy) and the miso soup (never knew how to make this, now I do and it's easy.) This morning, I had steel-cut oatmeal with rice milk instead of water. I cheated and threw a few raspberries in, which isn't really cheating since there are raspberries in the diet anyway. I had forgotten how much I adored steel-cut oatmeal. Much like deviled eggs, I love it so much I need you to love it, too. Call me and we can talk about it. Steel-cut oatmeal is not like that gluey stuff other people call oatmeal; the consistency is closer to grits and I love me some grits.

And I bought a juicer, the cheapest one at the store, the Juiceman Jr. I like the Juiceman Jr. and, let's face it, I may never use it again after this week. My first juice, cucumber, basil and lime, was a winner. When this week ends, vodka will perfect it. The second juice, made of kale, celery, ginger, pear and lemon, was not quite so delicious, but did not in any way induce gagging. But all of this is kind of boring, isn't it?

Monday afternoon, I had a headache, which I chalked up to caffeine deprivation, until I slept for eight hours and it didn't go away. And was joined by a sore throat, achy bones, scratchy ears and malaise. The thought of teaching a 9:30 am Pilates class filled me with dread. Once I realized there was no way I could do it without every single person in the class complaining and cancelling their gym membership, I texted, emailed and called each one of my fellow Pilates teachers and, much as I would have done, none of them responded. This is my payback for claiming that flu is an invented illness and not for grown-ups. Finally, someone saved me and volunteered to teach. I spent the rest of the day at home and found it easy enough to stick to my diet, which was heavy on soup and actually quite soothing. My regular sitter showed up and I explained that I would be hiding in my room, slowly dying, while she wrangled the Tank, who had just gone down for a nap. The sitter kindly offered to let me off the hook and come back on Thursday, which sounded great. Until the Tank woke up less than an hour later. I cried.

I cried some more and called my husband to beg him to cancel his tennis match for the evening. He said no. I cleaned up the forty-third mess the Tank made and called him back, screaming and crying and begging him to come home after work instead of playing tennis. He still said no. We called each other several times, I felt even worse and he finally agreed to come home, which he did around 5 pm. I promptly fell asleep, even though the feeling of the sheets against my aching skin was excruciating. Really, I brought this on myself. I never should have mocked people when they claimed to be sick.

What I really hate is the sick voice. You know the one.

"...ahhhh...i can't...unhh...come to work...i'm...ahhhh...really sick..."

I refuse to do the sick voice. I don't care if you just vomited, you can still muster up a semi-normal voice. Really. But here's the thing, my husband wouldn't help me until I threw a full-on fit. I'm too old to be a thrower of fits; those days are past or they would be, if people would just believe me the first time.

And what about after a sick day? Abs class was on my schedule this morning and, even though I still felt like crap, I didn't want to impose on my fellow teachers yet again and figured I could muddle through, which I did. But I saw the look one of them gave me, the look that said, "Sick? Really? You look fine to me." I suppose it would have been better if I had languished another day or so. And sick is as sick does, so I probably would have been sick for a week, just so I could prove I really had been sick. How silly is that? And I'm still sick, so feel sorry for me, d*mnit!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Next time you are sick, I recommend you follow Day 3 of lovely Gwyneth's detox diet, which seems to have excellent healing powers. I promise not to mock you behind your back.

Sick days are fun!

I'm lucky, because my kids rarely get sick and, when they do, they don't get very sick. They've mastered the art of getting just sick enough to stay home, but not so sick that they can't hang out and have a good time. Everybody needs a slacker day once in a while, right? I can't be the only mother who's ever taken a "sick" child out to lunch and the mall, talking loudly about fictitious homeschool projects, so no one will know the child is just playing hooky. Y'all have done that, right?

Last night, we went and watched the Super Bowl at my parents' house, because they have a television and yummy snacks, two essential things for a Super Bowl party that we lack. We also went there because we like them. That, and they had beer and wine, two things you can't get on Sunday 'round these parts. I couldn't have cared less who won (wanna' make something of it? I don't!), but I do enjoy a close ballgame. My husband and pleading children persuaded me to stay until the end, even though it was long past the kids' bedtime. There were all sorts of promises made about stellar morning behavior, blah, blah, blah. It didn't take much convincing, because I was lying on the floor, full of chips, dip, fried chicken and Champagne.

Apparently, all the excitement was more than O. could take, because he woke up in the middle of the night and threw up. He must have been concerned that we would send him to school, because he made sure to throw up again right before it was time to get dressed and have breakfast. Don't tell him, but I was going to let him stay home anyway; the second upchuck was overkill. Since my kids rarely miss school, it doesn't take much for me to let them stay home. Unlike my husband's parents.

When he was about ten years old, he woke up one morning feeling out of sorts. Like any child, he told his parents. Like any parents, desperate for a break, they convinced him that he was just fine and got him ready for school. All was well until, on his way out the door, poor A. coughed once and vomited up a four foot long worm. Which his father, master of infectious diseases, proudly put into a jar to show his colleagues at the hospital. They did let him stay home from school, but he had to put on a performance worthy of an Alien movie. But that was the seventies.

I didn't require that much drama, so O. is in the kitchen, happily watching reruns of The A-Team, at my suggestion. Did you know you can download The A-Team from Netflix and watch it immediately? Well, you can, and it's making one nine year old very happy.

Namasté, y'all!