6710 Grand

The question I keep getting, am I going to let Ivy eat meat, is no big shock to me. The answer, no I'm not going to feed her meat, seems to be a shock to people who ask. Once the shock wears off, I get this question: "Well, you're going to have Thanksgiving turkey, right?" Again, the answer is no. I'm not going to preach on the merits of vegetarianism. Nick and I are both at the point where eating meat makes us physically sick--not because we're so nauseated by the idea of eating dead cows or soup made with what's left over after boiling a chicken, but because our bodies are no longer able to process the enzymes present in meat. Trust me, it's not pretty. So, our precious little Ivy will be raised on a veg diet, including Thanksgiving. So, then, what's on our menu? Oh, let me share! We'll be having the standard mashed potatoes. In the place of turkey gravy, I'm making a veggie version from vegetable broth. I have my mom's recipie for t

Yes, that’s right—I’m back in my size 2. Ok, so I’ve never been a size 2, but that’s beside the point. I’m in my real clothes again! After only ten days post pregnancy, my jeans fit—sort of. They’re on and they’re buttoned and zipped. I can sit, stand, and do anything else I want in them. That’s all that matters. I still have a bit of a jelly belly, but now that I can work out again, I don’t think it will hang around. Ivy has had a busy three weeks of life. She’s met both sets of grandparents, been a tourist in downtown Chicago, and been on her first airplane ride. What an ordeal it is to get through airport security with a baby! I’m not sure I could do it alone. It was just a short jaunt to St. Louis and back, so we decided not to check any bags. MISTAKE! We were then carrying two roller bags, my purse, Ivy’s diaper bag, the stroller, the car seat and our coats. The smart thing to do would have been to check as much as possible. Now we know. Since Ivy is so little and does not yet hav

I’ve survived the first week—actually, the first ten days. So far, this mom thing is a piece of cake. Maybe I have an exceptionally good baby. Little Ivy sleeps at four hour increments at night, waking only once for a short feeding and then it’s back to bed for all of us. It doesn’t make sense to me for Nick to get up with her. He can’t feed her (not yet anyway) so why should we both be awake? He’s the one who has to go to work the next day, so I take on all of the nightly responsibilities. Labor was easier than I thought too. After nine hours of pitocin induced contractions, I caved and asked for an epidural. Three hours later, I pushed for half an hour and out she came. The worst part of giving birth was the stupid blood pressure monitor! Mine was high, so they took my vitals every fifteen minutes. That sucker clamped onto my arm so tight I thought it would pop off! Hospitals are horrible places. This was the first time I’d ever been admitted to a hospital. Sure, I’d been to the emer

Yes, that’s right, someone out there thinks I can write! Ha ha! Fooled them! No, really. My obsession with nutrition is paying off. After sending numerous versions out to numerous magazines, The San Diego Family Magazine is publishing my article on cardiovascular fitness. Whoo hoo! I’m expecting it to show up in the November issue. If it doesn’t make it there, the January issue is all about health and fitness, so it should be in that one. Either way, I don’t care. I think they’re paying me for it and I’m expecting all of about $5. (Do I have to declare that on my taxes?) So, if anyone out there in America’s Finest City is reading my crap, the SDFM is a free publication, available in most grocery stores. Enjoy!

I didn’t become a vegetarian until a little over two years ago. I used to think it would be absolutely impossible for me to do—I’m in love with chicken! Can’t give that up. No way. Well, clearly, I did give it up (although so many non-vegetarians say things to me like “you eat chicken, right? Chicken’s a vegetable.” Um, no.). I often encounter someone that is unaware of my food lifestyle and after the initial shock wears off, they want to know if I miss meat. The answer is a resounding no. I hardly notice it at all. I won’t go into why I don’t eat meat (not now anyway). There are different types of vegetarians. I am what is known as a lacto-ovo vegetarian—I eat eggs and diary but nothing that used to crawl, swim, walk or fly. No chicken, no cow, no pig, no lamb, no fish. (Nick and I went to a restaurant today that basically wanted to know how you want your beef cooked, but did include two of what they called “Meatless sandwiches”. They included fried fish and baked fish.

I was jittery on opening night. This could be the moment to make or break us. How we did tonight would determine the success or failure of our plan to cure boredom. I didn’t expect to wipe it out in one night, but a disaster on our first night would mean we’d wasted our time. At least that’s what I thought. Crazy Angie was not so pessimistic. She was jubilantly sweeping the floor. “I think I’ve finally got this down, Robin. Take a look at all of my piles!” She was so proud, I hated to burst her bubble. “That’s great, Angie. Now, if you can sweep them together into one big pile, we can put them in the trash.” She frowned. “Why would I do that? If I got rid of the dirt, I’d have nothing to sweep up tomorrow.” She went on sweeping. I decided not to respond. I didn’t want to ruin her good mood. Nick seemed equally in good spirits. Why shouldn’t he be? It wasn’t his business on the line. “Stop worrying. We’ll be fine,” he said. “I hope so. I just keep thinking no one will come. I mean, we c

No, not the baby. Sorry. Fall! Whoo hoo! I have missed the fall. The day after Labor Day, traditionally the end of summer, brought fall to Chicago. Maybe this will be enough to alleviate some of my dislike for my new home. Maybe... It's been raining and chilly--even a few tornado warnings today. Our leaves aren't changing yet but I know it's only a matter of time.

Nick and I like to spend time sitting at Barnes and Noble, sipping coffee and reading books we wish we had the spare cash to buy. I came across one on Wednesday that WILL be my next book purchase. It's called 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die . I'm always hesitant to try a new author, mostly because I'm afraid I'll hate the way he/she writes and will feel like I've wasted valuable reading time when I could have been reading something worthwhile like The Great Gatsby or Moby Dick. I will try a new author if one is recommended to me by someone I trust (which happens all the time) and I'm always glad to have found a good contemporary read. That's how I found Nicholas Sparks and Isabelle Allende. I suppose I just don't trust my own judgement when it comes to new authors. I've often found myself at the library, craving a new story and just unsure of where to look. Generally, I end up finding a classic--can't go wrong there. But even the classics

Last Friday, I attended the ten-year high school reunion of Central Visual and Performing Arts High School's Class of 1996. What a blast! It's really a fluke that I even got to go. The reunion committee couldn't find me. They were looking locally and under my maiden name. They didn't find Amy, my best friend, either. She was local, but now a Smith, and therefore a little tough to find. A friend of ours just happened to be at an event that used the same photographer that I used for my wedding. The photographer posted the photos on his website. When my friend went looking for her own photos, she found mine. Not many Schleichers around, so when she saw that name, she must have recognized me. There I was, in all my wedded bliss. We'd been emailing ever since. The reunion committee found her, I guess, and she found me. Isn't it funny how things like that happen... It was more fun than I'd thought to see everyone and hear about their lives and familie

About three or four months into my vegetarian lifestyle, Nick and I went to my grandmother’s house for a family gathering. Just about everything served had meat in it. No big deal. We were new at this and a lot of people simply weren’t aware of it. I was sitting with one of my aunts and my older brother, eating when my aunt took notice of the lack of meat on my plate. When I told her I was a vegetarian, she said, “You can’t do that.” My brother laughed. “Don’t tell my sister she can’t do something.” He’s right. It only makes me more determined. I am my own person and no one knows me better than me. A close second is my husband, followed shortly by my mother. I suspect that she doesn’t like me at times, but at least she knows me. Isn’t that true of all mothers? I also don’t think she’s worried that I won’t love my children or that I won’t be able to cope with labor or motherhood. She knows how tough I am. She knows that I won’t let anything get in my way. (Mom, if you’re shaking your he

My alarm went of at 3:00 in the morning. I jumped out of bed and smacked Tweety on the head to shut him up. I crawled to the bathroom and stepped on the scale. 152 pounds. Almost there. It was December 11, 2003. I had five days to loose those last two pounds. I was going on a cruise to Mexico with my boyfriend, Nick and his family for Christmas. I’d never been on a cruise or to Mexico and it would be my first Christmas that I wasn’t spending with my parents, but it had motivated me to get off my butt and into the gym. I was certainly not bikini ready in December. I’d gained about 30 pounds since college and had lost 28 of it in the last several months by prying myself out of bed at the butt crack of dawn and limiting myself to an insanely restrictive diet—but it was working. I ate 1000 calories a day and burned 1000 calories on the elliptical every morning. My apartment complex had a 24-hour gym and I usually had it to myself in the mornings. Sometimes I’d run into a Europ

This is my favorite photo of Nick and me. His brother, Danny took it at the beach on Thanksgiving Day in 2001. I was living in Kansas then. I miss the West. I miss the beach and the smell of the ocean. My high school creative writing teacher would be laughing if he read this now. I once wrote a poem about how much I hated the ocean. I miss the palm trees and the seagulls (though we do have seagulls in Chicago). I miss the mountains and the dry dessert and the purple sunsets. There's a kind of romance about going West that I think only American's can feel (unless there's some other country out there with a frontier history like ours). Coming back to the Midwest feels like a step back--like tucking my tail between my legs and retreating. That's not what happened, of course, but that's how it feels--suffocating and heavy. I am not a Chicagolander. I am not a Midwesterner anymore. I may not be a Californian but I am definitely a Westerner.

Pregnancy requires a lot of tests. First one to find out if your pregnant. Then another to find out if the first one you took was accurate (sometimes a third to confirm the second). Next is a blood test to confirm the previous two or three you took. Yep, you're pregnant. Ok. Now the real testing begins. Vial after vial of blood is sucked out of your arm which will be tested for everything from anemia to HIV. A few weeks later, more blood to test for a barage of genetic tests--this one you have to agree to take. Finally, comes the fun part--the ultrasound. I was 13 weeks pregnant when I had my first. By this time, I was still looking like myself. I had a bit of a tummy, but not much. I had, however, experienced the frequent running to the bathroom every half a glass of water. I wasn't holding my liquids well. So, the doctor telling me to drink a litre of water within an hour of my ultrasound was a bit frightening. But, I managed it. The test itself was exciting.

Our new apartment in Chicago is quite different than any I've ever lived in before. It has lots of windows with very wide windowsills. The cats are big fans of those windows. They remind me of my grandfather with their ability to simply look out the window for hours. We live on the first floor, which is where I've been fortunate to live for the past three apartments. Wildlife in Chicago, and the Midwest in general, is quite different than in San Diego. In San Diego, the only things I remember in abundance were the snails and the seagulls. We have neither of those here. What we do have are squirells, robins, and bunnies. They're crawling all over our lawns and are therefore highly visible when anyone or any cat looks out a groundfloor window. My desk sits just in front of one of these windows. We have blinds that cover the windows, but of course, that doesn't stop the cats from trying to get as close to the glass as possible. It's a bit noisy, listening to them try t

I'm trying to add a picture. Is this working? Whoo hoo! It worked. This is Nick and me at Disneyland about two years ago. I think it's the Alice In Wonderland ride or something.

That's what I need! That's it! That will make my desk more compelling. Sure. That's what I tell myself. This isn't new. And it's not my unique problem. All writers face this, I'm told. Sure, when we're young and full of ideas, nothing can keep us from the solitude of our minds and the privacy of our journals. But now, as an adult, faced with more time that I want to have, I have nothing to say and no desire to write it down. I want to have written, not to do the actual writing. I used to dream about what it would be like to stay home and do the cooking and cleaning and have all of this time for my writing. Now, since I've stopped working, I HATE IT! I'm bored most of the day, hoping that something interesting will be on the Food Network or that my old faithful, re-runs of Law and Order will be on USA or TNT. Most of the time, they don't disappoint me. I have hours of time in which I could be writing. I have a part-time work-from-home job that

I've been married just about a year and a half. I know I've said it before, but it's truly the best thing in the world. I recommend marriage to anyone who's found someone as fabulous for them as my husband is for me. In our early newlywed days, people were always asking us how we liked being married, and when they heard how wonderful things were, they were quick to rain on our proverbial parade. "That won't last." "I remember those days." "The first year is like that." Well, I'm here to say that if the first year is the hardest, then the rest is smoothe sailing. The second year is so far, better than the first. We're still deleriously happy. Much happier now than even a few months ago--we're having a baby. To put it bluntly, our lives are completely different now than they were when we got married. Nick is in an entirely different career now (airplanes and not books) and I'm not doing much work at all. Our Chicago

The last time I drove across the country, I had company--Nick and my kitties, Jean-Claude and Oberon. This time, it was just me and the cats. Moving to Chicago has been an adventure. So many changes! As I packed up my car on my final Friday afternoon, I felt horribly lonely as I closed the door to my apartment for the last time. Nick should have been there with me. But he was already hard at work making our new life better for me when I got there. He hated the idea of me driving all of that way by myself. Not only was I a girl (and therefore unable to ward off strange men and all other forms of danger) but I was ten weeks pregnant (surprise!). Not to worry, I told him. I have the attack cats to protect me. I'll be fine. After all, I'd survived this move before, not to mention a whole other host of life experiences including car accidents, flat tires, dead batteries, getting lost in unfamiliar places, assault, unwanted sexual advances, dog bites, mosquito bites, bee stings--what

My husband has moved on to Chicago. I’m staying here in San Diego until the end of the month or until I find a job. In the mean time, the movers have come and carted away all of our belongings. I’ve saved a few things to make this last month more liveable. I kept one of our TV’s, the VCR and a DVD player. A tea kettle, a set of silverwear, a cookie sheet and two skillets that I plan to toss when I leave (they’re falling apart anyway), a trash can, an air mattress, blankets and clothes. I also have a few books and of course, my kitties to keep me company (the movers wouldn’t take them—we tried). I thought I had everything I needed. The refrigerator was still full of food, and all things I liked and should be eating. Orange juice, eggs, milk, bread, cheese, a frozen pizza, pasta, and a few random things that I should have made use of when I was still cooking for two—a block of tofu, a box of spinach, a jar of jalapenos, and an unusually large amount of spicy mustard. Oh well. My

My mother says I'm nomadic. I think she's right. Aside from growing up, I haven't ever stayed long in one place. One summer in college, I moved every six weeks, from one dorm to another. During my five years at SLU, I lived in four different dorms, two different apartments and two different houses. After college, I spent only two years in Kansas City. Now, after three years in San Diego, I'm moving again. Nick has been transferred to Chicago. We're packin' up! Actually, we're not. His company is paying for EVERYTHING. They gave us a lump sum of cash to pay for 30 days of temporary housing, food and rental car, hired movers to pack us and ship all of our crap...uh, valued posessions... and towed Nick's car. Our new home is in a little village called Downers Grove, Illinois. It's very midwestern. If you've never been to the Midwest, you can't possibly understand that term and I can't possibly explain it to you. You'll just

Nick works nights.  It’s not something I’m in favor of, but he’s just not a morning person.  Someday I’ll describe the morning routine that gets him out of bed.  For now, let’s just say, it’s not pretty.  Thankfully for him, Southwest has an afternoon shift, which he gratefully signs up for.   I’m a morning person myself.  With my early start, I’m usually dead by 9pm.  If I am awake, it’s more of a zombie-like wandering around with mere slits for eyes, my arms outstretched searching for invisible structures or obstacles.   Despite my inability to stay up late, I spend Saturday nights at the airport with my husband.  That’s right—3:30 to midnight on Saturdays, I have my favorite little spot in the food court at Lindbergh Field (right next to the Starbucks) where I park my carcass.  I call it bum glue.  I apply it liberally to the seat of my pants, plant my fanny firmly in a large booth and stay there for eight hours.  It is the most productive eight hours of my week. I could be home fli

It's Monday. Just another day. I can't say I relate to people who hate Mondays. I don't mind them. I actually feel like a slug on the weekends, not getting up before the sun or working out. I do get a nice fulfilling Saturday evening when I go to the airport with my husband for eight hours and apply some much needed bum glue (that's another entry all together). But my day doesn't start until sometimes 8 or 9 o'clock! That's at least four hours later than a typical weekday. FOUR HOURS!!! I'm so ashamed... Monday is the start of a new week. A reason to get out of bed (that, and the coffee). On Monday, General Hospital returns to my day (I just have to know what's going on in Port Charles!). Monday's are days of accomplishment--they set the tone for the week. If I can pry my lazy butt out of bed on time on Monday, I'm more likely to do it again on Tuesday. Don't get me wrong--I don't wish every day were a Monday. I like we

My department is moving this week--from one side of campus to another. I'm going from office to cube, from lamps to cold flourescent lighting, and a host of other negative alternatives. As I got up this morning at my usual 3:40am, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to read day 2 in The Purpose Driven Life . I'm not an accident, it says. Well, that's certainly refreshing! That's the whole point of the book--to figure out what I'm here for. I went to they gym and pounded away 659 calories on the eliptical trainer, reading the February issue of Vegetarian Times. I felt so proud of myself for being able to check off four things on my giant to-do list, all before 6AM. It's been a difficult week, though this week isn't much different than other weeks. The office move has been stressful on just about everyone. We're all thinking of the things we'll miss about our old space and how demoralizing things have been over the past six months while

When I graduated from college, I got a job in Kansas City. Moving there from St. Louis was no big deal other than that it was my first apartment far away from home. My boyfriend, Nick had another semester and would then be going home to San Diego. We’d only been dating for about six months. He was struggling to become a pilot in a post 9/11 world. I drove the four hours back to St. Louis almost every weekend to see him. In October, he’d finally finished all of his flying courses and was heading back home. We decided to have one last weekend together. I drove to St. Louis to pick him up and we drove back to Kansas together. He would fly out of the Kansas City Airport the next afternoon. During our last few hours we went to a nearby Wal-Mart to pick up snacks for his long flight. Right at the entrance was a display of rings, proudly displaying their price: $9. “I should buy you a ring,” he said. Amused and pleased, I picked out a purple one—my favorite color. It was very sim

When my husband's Uncle Rick died more than two years ago, we discovered an entire library of books on writing. Of course, I was drooling over them and since no one else really wanted them, they came back to Kansas with me in a very heavy suitcase. One of my goals (not a New Year's Resolution) is to read one of them every week. I took so many classes on creative writing in high school and college--I thought I'd learned all there was to know. The rest is just practice, right? Maybe...maybe not. I had a favorite series when I was in high school. Actually, the author has written several series, all historical pioneer-type stories. They all have a Christian theme and most have women as the main character. I'd gotten the first one at the library and spent many months trying to find the second. Then, one day, my grandma came over with the entire series. "I've just been waiting for you to be old enough to enjoy these." What luck! I dove right in and devoured them

One of the things I do as a way to try to get people to read my crap is write nutrition articles for magazines. I'm all out of quality (ok, so if it's so great, why is this blog the only audience I have?) fiction so you're gonna get a taste of my nutritional knowledge. I'm somewhat of a nutrition junkie--loaded with information that I'm unable to use for myself. But if someone wants health tips, I've got my share! I tried to become a runner. It did not last five minutes. My lungs were about to burst, so I abandoned running for the familiar eliptical trainer, where I still workout for an hour each morning (except Sunday, when I rest). But, nevertheless, I wrote an article on running for beginners in hopes that it would help. Mabye someone can use it. It looks so easy—you just go—just run. One foot after the other. That’s simple, right? You give it a try. Lacing up your shoes, you head off down the street. After a few seconds, it seems, you