Sex Ed 101

I am always shocked at what I'll write to elicit a good laugh. It's time once again for my monthly "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing. Let the embarrassment commence! Enjoy.

Porn Free

I have been sick for over a week ever since returning from my trip to Denver for the International New Age Trade Show. (I never seem to learn the lesson that I need to rest just a teensy bit before diving back into life's craziness.) Today is the first day that I am starting to feel a little better, but I am still not quite ready to create brand new blog mats. However, I thought I'd share with you the latest installment of my monthly column called "Sex and the Suburbs" in Creative Loafing newspaper. If I think too much about what I write, I find myself blushing beet red from the embarrassment. Suffice it to say, this is one of those blush-worthy items. Enjoy!

The Importance of U and I

Kids never miss anything their parents say. Just ask my trucker-mouth hubby.

Ever since the birth of our daughter seven years ago, Michael and I have been very careful about the language we use around her. The only 'bad words' we sometimes used in her presence were hate, idiot, and stupid. In fact, my daughter was unable to recognize true dirty words for years because she never heard them. I recall one occasion in the car when someone cut me off and almost caused an accident. I yelled, "I fucking HATE when people do that shit!" My daughter gasped in her car seat and cried, "Mama! You said a bad word! You said HATE!" Whew! That was a close one. Despite that terrible (yet totally forgivable) slip-up, our word choices around the wee one have been decidedly PG rated.

However, after seven years, our attitude on semantics has gotten a little lax, and shit happens. So does fuck.

Those two popular expletives are the favorites of both my husband and I when the appropriate situation arises. Whereas in the past we have been cautious about dropping the F-bomb around the child, we have been caught blurting it out more often than we care to admit. Recently, my husband let a few of them rip when he discovered a large scratch on his precious Passat and when his computer crashed just as he desperately needed it for a big work project. My outbursts are usually related to spills on clothes, computer mishaps, and traffic dramas.

Imagine my husband's embarrassment yesterday when our cherub asked him in her sweetest Cindy-Lou Who voice, "Daddy, why have you been saying fuck and shit lately?"

To his credit, Daddy fessed up to his crimes without giving some weak-ass excuse like "Because I'm the adult, that's why!" He simply apologized for his poor choices and thanked Emma for lovingly bringing it to his attention. When he relayed the story to me later, we both agreed that part of Emma's desire to ask her daddy about his slips of the tongue was to be given the opportunity to say fuck and shit without getting into trouble. Smart kid. I don't blame her; I would have done the same thing when I was her age.

I, on the other hand, rarely say those foul words. When something swear word-worthy happens, I either do a weird Yosemite Sam rant ("Rassafrassindabnaggitriggidnutter!") or simply say the naughties WITHOUT including vowels. I growl, "Fcckkkkk!" or "Shhhtttttt!" I have convinced myself that my vowel-free profanity is totally acceptable. Without the U and I, I am free and clear to say exactly what I want without being labeled as a foul-mouthed, bad mommy, right?

I mean, there's no WAY my daughter would figure out what I really meant to say.

(Such is the rationalization of a deluded, imperfect, yet totally human mom.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever let a doozie slip in front of the little ones?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read an excerpt from my book, Opening the Kimono!

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Paternal Influence

My seven-year old daughter knows every word to Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water", and I have two men to blame: Michael Rose and Jack Black.

No matter how much classical and New Age music I play in the Rose house (and it's a fair amount), my daughter's penchant for headbanging has not abated. Ever since she saw the movie School of Rock with Jack Black, she has taken it upon herself to thoroughly study the bands described in the rockomedy. The child has watched The Stones' documentary by Martin Scorsese called Shine a Light and enjoyed "She Was Hot" the most. She begged to have "Smoke on the Water" downloaded to her iPod, has memorized all of the lyrics through dozens of repeated listenings, and belts the entire number out in unison with her father on multiple occasions (much to her mother's chagrin). Believe me, there's nothing quite like seeing your second grader sing about Frank Zappa and the Mothers. One of her latest musical fascinations is Aerosmith's "Dream On", courtesy of her father's car satellite radio. Just last night she asked me if we could go on my computer so she could google Robert Plant. Robert Plant, for crimeny's sake! She's SEVEN, folks.



However, it isn't all bad. It makes me laugh to think that my kid knows every word to "Dream On" but doesn't own any Britney, Taylor, or Kelly (However, she does own far too much Miley. When will that chick's 15 minutes expire already??) My husband, beaming with pride at the rock prowess of his spawn, said, "I'll take her listening to Aerosmith over Britney any day of the week."

I gotta admit, it's especially adorable when she belts out the Steven Tyler scream at the end.



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For your consideration and/or comment:

What music did you listen to as a child?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Tit Parade

Last Saturday night, I dragged my hubby to a fancy-schmancy formal fundraiser. Needless to say, he got more than he bargained for.

It was a celebration of cleavage. Nearly every woman, young or old, was popping out of her dress (his wife included). I don't know when this fashion trend started, but somehow prominently displayed titties became the newest way to accessorize. Honestly, some of these chicks looked like they were gonna need ankle weights to keep them from floating to the ceiling. My darling husband looked like he was going to pass out, pop a chub, and die of embarrassment all at the same time. At one point he muttered, "Must. Maintain. Eye. Contact. Don't. Look. Down." Poor guy. It must have been hard. I can only imagine how challenging it would be to attend a party where every man was totally hot and had perfectly round, eminently touchable tushies. I would be distracted too.

Hubby barely survived the endless parade of gazongas while my self-esteem barely survived the self-induced comparisons (hers are bigger! hers are perkier! hers look so much better than mine!). Upon returning home, I proceeded to dismantle myself, taking off my royal blue party dress, flicking off the uncomfortable heels, unpeeling my Spankz, unsticking my stick-on bra, removing the layers of warpaint, and brushing the red wine off my pearlies. Fresh and clean, I climbed into bed wearing my favorite powder blue nightie and cuddled with my man.

That was when he showed me which ta-tas he loves the most. ;)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your Cleavage Quotient: melons, grapefruits, or grapes?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Little Big Things

I was interviewed by a major Tampa news anchor yesterday to discuss my book, Opening the Kimono. Guess what I was most freaked out about: answering her questions intelligently, coming across as engaging, or how my hair would look. Yep, you guessed it.

Contrary to what movies would have us believe, all TV studios are not the same. There were no artsy hair and makeup people scurrying around to make me look beautiful. Any beautification would have to take place in the confines of my own bathroom two hours before the interview. Upon waking at 5:30 in the morning, I said a quiet prayer to myself...

"Dear God, please let today's interview go well. Please help me to say the right words in the right way. Please help me to deliver my message of power and healing to as many people as possible. And for goodness sake, God, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE help me look pretty."

I then got out of bed, stumbled toward the bathroom, and proceeded to check on the first potential landmine: my complexion. Mercifully, the zit I acquired on Thursday evening after eating two minuscule bites of chocolate cake at the fancy shindig hubby and I attended had nearly disappeared. The concealer usage would be a minimum. YAY! Victory Number One.

After having a healthy breakfast, I hopped in the shower. After the suds, shampoo, and shave, I emerged feeling fresh and perky. It was now time for the next challenge: the makeup application process. With a surgeon's precision, I applied my foundation, eye shadows (all three of them), liquid eyeliner, mascara, blush, lip liner, and sassy new mocha lipstick I purchased for just this occasion. (My typical hot pink lipstick was not recommended by the media coaching books I recently devoured.) Happily, I had no cosmetic catastrophes to deal with; no mascara on the lids, no errant eyeliner. Everything looked as if I actually meant to do it. YAY! Victory Number Two.

Next, it was time for the Big Kahuna: taming my lion mane. Some days my hair looks wonderful, and other days it looks like I stuck a finger in a wall socket. I have lots of hair, and it's as curly as all get-out. Depending on the moon cycle and the generosity of the Follicle Fairies, my hair can go from sexy to scary in record time. Yesterday, I towel-dried my hair, noticing that it had the delightful texture of cooperation. After squirting liberal amounts of goop #1 (Redken Ringlet 07) into my hand, I added a ribbon of goop #2 (Redken Glass 01) and mixed them together. Attempting to mimic my hairdresser's amazing techniques, I grabbed, scrunched, and twirled my highlighted locks for several minutes until they looked ready for the final primping. After dispensing a quarter-sized dollop of goop #3 (L'oreal Fluid Intense) into my hands, I finished up the scrunching exercise and was ready for the climax: Hair spray (L'oreal infinium 4). Lots of it. This sh#t needed to keep my hair in place through an hour's drive to Tampa and my inevitable pre-show anxiety attack. After all product was applied, I was ecstatic to see the results: A Good Hair Day. YAY! Victory Number Three.

Finally, I put on The Blouse. This wasn't an ordinary blouse; it's one specifically designed to be TV-friendly. (Thanks, Stein Mart!) It is a jewel-toned, solid, button-down number made of stiff material which can hold a lavaliere mic. (It is nothing I'd actually wear in real life; I'm more of a flowy, patterny, hippy blouse kind of chick.) After donning The Blouse accompanied by my tailored black pants and cute black Liz Claiborne shoes, I eyed myself in the mirror. Lo and behold, I didn't look (or feel) as big as a house! In fact, I went so far as to say I felt...dare I say it?...PRETTY. YAY! Victory Number Four.

I was officially ready for the trek to Tampa.

As far as the interview itself went, I think I did pretty well. Honestly, I can't remember most of what I said, except I do remember mentioning my sex life with my husband. (Won't he be thrilled to see that on the news?) My publicist assures me that I rocked it, calling me inspiring and having great energy. Who knows? We'll see when the thing actually airs. It's one of those opportunities for me to trust that I did well instead of automatically assuming that I sucked ass. Unfortunately, self-judgment is a hard habit to break.

One thing is for sure: God answered my prayers yesterday morning and gave me the Little Big Things I so desperately needed.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What Little Big Things (hair, skin, clothes, makeup) help you feel the most attractive?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Fashionista

Below is one of the many fashion ensembles my seven-year old pulled together yesterday while dancing to "Everybody Dance Now" by The C&C Music Factory ad infinitum. Emma is wearing her swimsuit top, a periwinkle pair of capris, a white apron originally acquired for her Laura Ingalls Wilder oral book report, and her Raggedy Ann wig from two Halloween's ago.

The chick certainly has her own style...

Laundry Mishap

I was hurriedly doing laundry yesterday while attempting to do seventeen other things. Here is the result of me not paying attention.



In my haste, I had inadvertently caught one of the spaghetti straps on my black tank top to the hook on the dryer door. By the looks of how tightly it was twisted, my strap had remained caught in the door throughout the entire cycle. When I opened the door and untangled the web of blackness, I discovered the strap was now twice as big as it's partner.

At first, I was pissed when I saw my shirt. But then I thought of two things: 1) I paid $3 for the thing at Bealls Outlet a year ago (I think I got my money's worth), and 2) I didn't really like how it looked on me anyway, as it made my woman's sized boobs precariously pop out from the top (I bought it in the Junior's section).

Oh well. Another laundry mishap to log into the books. Yet another reason why I shouldn't be allowed to perform that odious task.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever had a laundry mishap? What happened?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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I Love You, Paul Rudd

I have got a serious thing for dorky dudes.

This weekend, my hubby Michael and I were without child -- our seven-year old daughter was visiting her adopted grandma/my BFF Jean FOR THREE DAYS! It was delicious. Yes, I love that li'l peanut of mine, but it was very nice to have some unadulterated quality time with the Spousal Unit. I need not say how some of the time was spent (nudge nudge, wink wink), but some of it was also spent doing our second favorite pastime: seeing movies.

We saw two flicks, I Love You, Man with Paul Rudd and Jason Segel, and Duplicity with Clive Owen and some chick. Oh right, Julia Roberts. We enjoyed both movies very much, but I must tell you that it brought into sharp focus my penchant for geeks.

Paul Rudd is simply the cutest thing on the planet. I adore the way he us utterly fearless in his comedy -- that guy will do absolutely ANYTHING for a laugh. He combines vulnerability with courage; sappiness with sexiness; junior high bathroom humor with touching romance. Throughout the entire move I wistfully stared at Paul with a school-girl grin plastered on my face, fantasizing what it would be like to be with The Goofball Prince.

Of course, Clive Owen is nothing to sneeze at. That man IS The Incredible Hunk. Describing Clive as cute is a gross understatement: it's like calling The Eiffel Tower pretty. Ummm, yeah, he's cute. He's also debonair, exotic, masculine, charming, and built like a brick sh#thouse. Needless to say, it was not unpleasant to see Clive drop his towel and crawl into bed naked with What's Her Name.

But, you know what? I'd take Paul over Clive any day of the week.

Call me crazy, but there's something incredibly sexy about a funny, self-deprecating guy. When one of them stutters and stammers, boldly throws himself into an embarrassing situation, and emerges with messed-up hair and an impish grin, my legs grow weak. I get all tingly-wingly inside. My fantasies of nerd fornication begin.

My list of favorite adorable goofs is long and varied, but here are the top ten in no particular order: Paul Rudd, Jason Segel, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Steve Carell, Vince Vaughn, Jim Carrey, Owen Wilson, Will Ferrell, and Seann William Scott. George Clooney is an Honorable Mention, but he is just too damn gorgeous to be included in the same category with these guys. Running into any of these men in person would make my life.

However, there is one dorky dude that tops the list: the one and only Michael Rose. My hubby has got the killer one-two combo: Humor and Hotness. He does this kooky dance to the Comedy Central promo that makes me practically pee my pants whenever I see him do it, and I've seen it dozens of times. Some of comedy bits that he did when we were dating fourteen years ago still make me giggle. I have spit liquid out of my nose from nutty things he has done. The guy is friggin' hilarious.

(Plus, he's as cute as Clive. At least he is to me...)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Who is your favorite dorky dude?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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She Goes To Extremes

This morning I witnessed a highly-unusual sight in my 7-year old's room: something folded.

As I wrote in my book, my daughter's room often looks like a post-apocalyptic Toys-R-Us. Everything, absolutely EVERYTHING, is strewn about. This is an AFGO for her beleaguered mother (Another F@cking Growth Opportunity). However, I'm getting much better with accepting her slobbiness as-is. At least I've deluded myself into thinking that I've gotten better.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw two (nearly)perfectly folded beach towels with two sets of swim goggles perched atop them. This rare act of organization didn't seem to fit in Emma's room. Then I remembered: She is having a swim date with her new best friend Madison who lives down the street. For the last two weeks, my daughter has been inseparable with this chickadee. My little urchin has yelled the word "Madison!" more than a U of W mascot.



It touched me this morning when I saw how gingerly Em folded her towels for her upcoming liquid soiree. Her careful attention showed me how much she values this new arrival into her life, and for that, I am grateful. Friends are important to a gal...far more important than any made bed or organized shelf.

(Although I may need an extra-large glass of Chianti to deal with the onslaught of "Madison! Watch this!")

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Was your room messy as a kid? Do you still keep it messy?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Weekend Update

On Friday night, the three Roses attended the downtown Bradenton art walk at the Village of the Arts to support two gorgeous gal-pals.

One was my new friend MC Coolidge, who is the cutest li'l quasi-incendiary blogger I've come across in ages. Her book, Sideways in Sarasota, is a literary gem, and I bought yet another copy of it last Friday at MC's book signing at The Village Bookshop. The other artiste magnifique we had the pleasure of seeing is Michelle Donner, a sassy Club Kimono regular who is an AWESOME photog. (She is a Facebook friend of mine; check out my page to find her.) Emma was particularly taken with Michelle's up-close shots of an owl. (Em not-so-secretly adores anything remotely associated with Harry Potter.) We ended up buying several of Michelle's prints she had for sale at Charisma Cafe. It was delightful to enjoy the crisp night air and see two gutsy and beautiful women expressing their Mojo for the world to see.



Now I bet you're asking yourself, "How did Theresa's detox end up?" (Even if you aren't asking yourself that question, you're gonna get the answer...)

I felt fanf#@kingtastic after it was all over! My body was feeling cleaner, healthier, and dare I say, tinier! In fact, I can almost, almost get into my 'skinny' jeans (I use that term liberally). I'm not quite ready to wear them out of the house, nor do I know how they'd feel if I actually sat down in them -- they may very well cut off the circulation in my torso. While I definitely have some time to go before they are public-friendly, I got into 'em and did a full zip-up! :) YAY ME!

Not only did my bod feel better after the cleanse, my mind (eventually) became much sharper. I received clearer visions on what I want to accomplish in my career, and my priorities became a lot easier to recognize. As a result, great things started to transpire last week. It really feels like The Universe is aligning with my desires. The perfect people are coming into my world, and I am able to recognize the signs that are pointing me in the right direction. YAY ME AGAIN!

Last week's challenge reminded me of the power of focus and determination. It reminded me how precious my body is and how it wants to be cared for. Most importantly, it brought me to a deeper integration with mind, body, and spirit. I feel more PRESENT. I feel more JOYFUL. I feel more GRATEFUL.

(Plus the post-detox bedroom romp with hubby was phenomenal.)

Sometimes I need a five-day digestive cleanse which empties my insides to remind me of how full my life really is.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What activity helps you get into your body?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Day 3 of the Detox

Slowly but surely, I'm crawling out of the nightmarish hole I dug for myself called the Digestive Cleanse.

Today brings me to Day 3 of the Detox, and I'm a little more human than I was over the last 48 hours. Wow...I miss food. Food is good. It's yummy. It smells good too. It feels good in the mouth. It gives you a nice full feeling in your belly. I've had precious little of it for the last three days, subsisting mostly on my superfood drink, red juice, water, colon-blow tea, an apple a day, and a tablespoon or two of raw almonds a day. I'ze hungry.



Yet, even with the perpetually grumbling stomach and the throbbing temples, I am feeling a little better. I think I am past the killer decaf-caffeine withdrawal and the state of near-psychosis I found myself in yesterday. I can actually string a few words together to make sentences. That's a good sign. This morning in the shower I could have sworn there were fewer squooshy parts of me (although that could be the remnants of the quasi-hallucinations I had last night at the thought of devouring a large Filippo's Hungry Man pizza). Whatever the case may be, I'm feeling better, but not get good.

Fasting isn't new to me; I have done this as part of my spiritual practice on several occasions. It is a powerful form of devotion and one that connects me more fully to my body, my thoughts, and my spirit. I got a taste of this foodless bliss during this morning's meditation. I could feel Spirit fill me in the empty spaces, and I received a great deal of guidance about the areas of fear and insecurity that are facing me. I was fed by the energy and light of the Divine, and for 45 minutes, I forgot how damned ravenous I was. Now it's up to me to feel that way the other 23 hours and 15 minutes.

While I can't yet do a lot of quality work - i.e. writing, planning, making calls, etc. -- I am IN my body once again. I am so very grateful for it and the delicious energy that the Earth provides.

All things considered, Day 3 is a good one so far.

(Although I still can't rid myself of my Filippo Fantasy.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your relationship to food? Is it only an energy source, or does it serve a bigger role?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Starting Down Detox Lane

I started a 5-day detoxification cleanse this morning, and I am already cranky, hungry, and feeling like a hammer got taken to my temples. It's gonna be a lonnnnnnnng week.

My first craving hit about 10:30 this morning. I was pining for my decaf coffee, preferably a Grande Decaf Light-Whip Mocha at Starbucks. Mmmm....frothy, sweet, chocolatey....my throbbing headache revealed to me the insidiousness of caffeine and how it has found its way into my system. Damn you, Buckys!

My tummy is growling, even after drinking my superfood concoction followed by a 2 ounce shot of some red juice that is supposed to be good for me. Honestly, I don't feel very healthy right now. Instead, I am starting to feel a wee bit psycho. I'm blabbering. Sentences are difficult to formulate. The work I was going to do today has gone out the window in favor of busy work whose priority lies somewhere between getting the oil checked and reorganizing recipe cards. Let's put it this way: my 7 year old now has an Airtran frequent flyer number.

Let's all I got today. This is what Day One of the Detox reads like...

Rallying

I just finished an hour-and-a-half enhanced interrogation session performed by our tax accountant. In one hour, I need to be ready to do a speaking presentation. Eeesh...I'm playing Emotional Pong again.

To all those CPAs out there, I apologize, but your ilk drives me loco. No matter how I do things, it never seems to be accurate or sufficient. I always end up getting a lecture on proper ledger entry, chart of accounts, expenses vs. capitalization, and other mind-numbingly boring topics that I couldn't give two rabbit turds about. Our CPA is a perfectly charming woman who only tries to help, but I can't help but act like a petulant child when I am in her midst. Like a grown-up Bart Simpson writing "I promise to dutifully manage my books" a hundred times before the dismissal bell rang, I squirmed in my seat, waiting not-so-patiently to be released from the mahogany-appointed Hades as quickly as freakin' possible.

I am now slurping down a Decaf Mocha from Whole Foods after inhaling some combo of taboulleh, bulghar, and some other ethnic goop that I would undoubtedly misspell. Somehow in the next hour I need to release the tax albatross from my neck and tap into my currently-AWOL juju. There will soon be people in front of me wanting to hear from a powerful, successful, enthusiastic, and articulate woman who will share her inspiring story of creating Opening the Kimono. Since she is nowhere to be found at this moment, I guess they'll be stuck with me.

Of course, it's not as bad as all that. With every passing minute (and every typed word) I can feel myself releasing more and more of my odious, noxious attitude in favor of Little Miss Mojo. I am letting go of my whiny baby attitude and embracing the fact that I have chosen this life, and what a wonderful one I have! Eating some food helps. Drinking some chocolate coffee really helps. Blogging through my annoyance really, really helps. Most importantly, realizing that I am so very blessed to be given another day on this big, blue, beautiful planet really, really, really helps.

Pish posh on my taxes, ledgers, and chart of accounts! Ain't none of it bigger and badder than my own bad ass.

I daresay that the audience who is about to see me won't be disappointed after all. I think I've all but released my WhinyGirl pissiness in favor of some good ol' fashioned Theresa Rose sassiness.

Whew! That was close. And I've even got 40 minutes to spare...



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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you handle the yearly tax nightmare, er, process?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Cruel Arrival of Backfat

I have been sick for over a week (hence, no blogging). Thankfully, I am nearly back to health, save for one nasty offshoot: I swear I've gained at least 10 friggin' pounds.

It's not that I've gone overboard on the food consumption front (I've certainly done much more damage over my lifetime of binge eating). Yes, I've eaten slightly worse than I normally do -- I admit to a Haagen-Daaz single scoop cone of Chocolate Peanut Butter, two slices of Filippo's delish Pizza Margherita and a glass of wine, more than one of those evil Decaf Mochas from Starbucks that I just can't seem to kick, and a few extra handfuls of my tasty home-roasted cashews and almonds. I ate and/or drank these delectable extras because I was sick, dammit, and I deserved it. (Oh yeah. I also pilfered my daughter's Valentine's Day box of goodies, unbeknownst to her.)

Combine my diet wagon-diving with a total absence of physical movement, and what did I get? A nearly instantaneous arrival of BACKFAT. This morning, I was greeted by a larger-than-usual roll at my backside that wasn't there two weeks ago. WTF???? Can I not have a moderate therapeutic slide down JunkFood Lane without my body immediately responding with the unpleasantness of a bloated bellly and tight jeans? Criminy! Life isn't fair sometimes.

I guess that's what I get for getting older and getting more in touch with my body. Somehow I have arrived at a point where my body is now used to eating healthy and being moved on a regular basis (Who'da thunk it?). So when I shuck the healthy lifestyle thing in favor of comfort food and growing roots on furniture, it responds with physical reminders of its displeasure, a la Backfat.

I'm in the middle of the "Boo-hoo, poor-poor-pitiful-me, this-sucks-ass" phase of weight gain. However, I have also decided to eat a healthy lunch today, avoid the beckoning call of Haagen-Daaz and do a little booty-shakin' in the hula hoop later. My deepest wish is that my body will be so happy to be back in the groove of health, that it will remove my Backfat roll just as quickly as it took putting it there.

Do you hear me, my beautiful body? I promise I'll be nicer to you...

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is the first change you notice on your body when you gain a little weight?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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God Bless Nitrous Oxide

I had my first Laughing Gas high this morning at the dentist. :) 'Twas good.

The dentist's office and I have a love/hate relationship; they love to take my money, and I hate them with a bloody passion. I had dental trauma several years ago after getting into a serious car accident, and I've never been able to get over it. Every time I set foot in that wretched office, my palms start to sweat, my jaw clenches, and my shoulders hike up around my ears. Every second is torture. Even with my trusty iPod playing my favorite tunes in my earbuds, I still can't shake the near-paralyzing anxiety. By the time the plastic sucky-thing is put into my mouth and I'm told to open wide, I morph into a certifiable raving ninny.

Today was different, because I saw a different dentist -- a female dentist. After she saw me have a total freak-out in the oh-so-comfy horizontal chair, she looked at me with compassionate eyes and said knowingly, "I think you're a candidate for Nitrous." I didn't know what a candidate for Nitrous looked like, but I was pretty certain that I looked like a petrified cat with its claws stuck in the ceiling tiles. I was ready to try anything to get through this nightmare without having a full-blown panic attack.

Within a few minutes, they had strapped a doo-hickey onto my face and instructed me to breathe through my nose. After a few minutes, my arms and legs started getting heavvvvvvvvvvy and I entered the coveted "Twilight Zone" for which the dentist prepared me. After a couple of quick shots of Novocaine, I was off to HappyTown.

For the next 45 minutes, the dental hygienist pinched, poked, stabbed, scraped, sandblasted, powerwashed, and vac-dried my mouth, and I didn't give a crap. I was off offf offfff into my own fabulous world.

I'll be honest: I had fantasies about boys. Cute boys. Famous boys and local boys. Boys I knew and boys I didn't. Singer boys (i.e. Jason Mraz), and actor boys (Zac Efron). Boys with big shoulders and cute butts. Boys with open hearts and soft lips. Boys. Boys. More boys.

I was blissfully swimming in a sea of testosterone when I heard my iPhone ring, temporarily pausing my Jason Mraz Playlist. The ring tone was "You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate. Only one special person is assigned that ring tone: Mr. Michael Rose, hunky husband to the fantasizing almost-middle-aged woman who was currently hyped-up on Nitrous.

It was then that I got the biggest high of all; I realized that I met and married the boy of my dreams.

Mmmmm...'tis good indeed. I can't wait for my beloved to come home to me!

Maybe I'll feel my lips by then.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you handle visits to the dentist's office?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

The Tao of Granola

There are profound lessons to be found in our cereal bowls.



My seven-and-a-half year old doesn't like raisins. In fact, she abhors them. Yet, ironically, when the Rose clan goes to Richard's Whole Foods to pick up our edible necessaries, Li'l Miss EmmaBean picks out a variety of granola (Ultra Natural Country Pumpkin Spice or something like that) that is peppered with the wrinkly objects of her derision. I've had numerous discussions with her about it, but she simply refuses to select a different granola. Whenever I surreptitiously pick out a different kind and sneak it into our cereal container, she sternly admonishes me. She is the Princess and the Raisin.

This morning, we all broke our fasts with the aforementioned granola. Emma ate hers with almond milk, while Michael and I had fruit and yogurt with ours. (Emma is still boycotting the fruit-as-breakfast option; she prefers to slurp her first meal of the day.) When she finished, a pile of neglected raisins sat at the soggy bottom of her bowl. She briefly reflected on her raisin remnants and cheerfully said, "Isn't it cool how you can eat around the stuff you don't like?" She looked so proud of her accomplishment.

Aha! THAT'S why she chooses to eat granola with raisins, even though she hates raisins. She has made eating her breakfast a meal, a test of skill, and a game all rolled into one yummy, humming delight.

I can take a cue from this grain game of hers. Life inevitably has raisins mixed in with the granola; my raisins are fear, doubt, and insecurity. The trick is to know how to get around the bad stuff, delight in the good stuff, and celebrate our victories no matter how small.

Thanks to the wisdom of The Bean, I'm gonna do my best today to joyfully leave my raisins at the bottom of the bowl.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What are the life raisins you want to leave behind?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Online Rejection Slips

This morning I read the latest entry on a blog I recently started following on Blogger. In her post, the author was gently yet tactfully asking me who the hell I was.

At first, I got my knickers in a twist when I read her piece. I thought, "Hey, honey, you've got 40 Blogger followers, and I've got one. Stop your bitching already!" The question she posed on her blog was "Are you using it as free advertising space?" Hmmm. That's a good question. I must admit that part of my desire to follow blogs is to get connected to others. I like to read the musings of other writers, see what everyone else is obsessing over, and generally get simpatico with other happy humans. And in the midst of all of that goodness, if a person or two finds my Serious Mojo blog and likes what they see, then all the better. If you want to call that "using it as free advertising space", then I guess I'm guilty as charged. Although one would wonder what the point of utilizing a social networking tool like Blogger is if you aren't intending to, um, network. Oh well. Different strokes for different folks.

After stewing in my own self-righteous juices for a few minutes, I realized how similar Li'l Miss FancyPants is to me. I must admit that I get a little miffed when people on Twitter suddenly start "following" me, only to find that they don't tweet at all, but merely have a single page advertisement that they want to hornswoggle unsuspecting readers like myself into viewing for those first critical decision-making seconds. That is guerrilla marketing at it's worst (or should I say Gorilla Marketing, as most of those unscrupulous hacks pound their chests, drag their knuckles on the ground, and generally make a stinky mess of the online world.) Just yesterday I had to send another flame-gram email to "R&P" (I'll be magnanimous and protect their vile reputations) to demand that they remove me from their email lists. I get stupid, silly promotional emails from them every day, all from new email addresses, so I haven't been able to block them (which I have tried multiple times to do). It's a violation, pure and simple, and there is an especially putrid room in Hades just for Spammers like them. Tsk, tsk, tsk!!

I'm not trying to use anyone by starting to follow them; I'm merely trying to get plugged into the community. I want to find funny, interesting people, enjoy their words, and hope that people cool enough to follow funny, interesting people may get a chance to see that I'm (sometimes) funny and interesting too. This latest digital dis' that I experienced is not unlike the social scene of the seventh grade. Either you were part of the "In" crowd or you were sooooooo "out". This morning, I felt like I knocked on the front door of a more popular girl's house for her birthday party, and she answered by snarling, "What are YOU doing here?" It didn't feel good back then, and it sure doesn't feel good today.

The good news is that I don't have to see FancyPants at school the next day, secretly wishing I could disappear into my locker so I don't have to endure any more gut-wrenching humiliation. Instead, I can do what I just did ten minutes ago: I can stop following that stuck-up bitch.

Blog this, sweetie! :)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Do you add friends on MySpace, Facebook, Blogger, or other networking sites that you don't know? Why did you choose to?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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