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Tuesday, December 29, 2015

A letter to the Resolutionists

Dear Resolutionists,

Hey, how's it going?  It's been a while since we've seen you around - like maybe 11 months or so.  Are you really going to do this again this year or do you think you can just skip it?

Don't take that the wrong way.  I'm not trying to be mean.  

Here's the thing: you really just don't care about exercising and health and I don't know why you're pretending to do it because you bought a new calendar.  You're using this momentus occasion to flip the switch in your brain from brownie-eating couch potato to what you hope to be a svelte Ironman.  

You got it twisted, bro (or homegirl).  You're doing it because you ate a gluttonous amount of Halloween candy, turkey at Thanksgiving, and everything in sight at the 4(0) Christmas and holiday parties you attended, and now you're looking at the scale with a horrified grimace, wondering how you got there.  You got there because it's your lifestyle.  It's what you like to do.

If you're not going to adopt exercise as part of your lifestyle instead of a Hail Mary to lose the ten pounds you gained in the last 4 months, what's the point?  

Our society loves quick fixes and pills to cover our real problems.  A healthy lifestyle isn't a pill.  It's your whole way of life.  It's your whole brain and your outlook.  Exercising to lose 10 pounds starting January 1 (cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye) is the equivalent of making your own quick fix.  What about you wanting to live a bit longer than the track you're on?  What about eating for health because it makes you feel awesome, energized, and clearheaded?  What about giving your body real nutrition so you can fight sickness, avoid lifestyle diseases, and live healthy and well (and be able to do what you're supposed to do)?  What about exercising and eating so you can do the things on your bucket list?

Nah, whatever.  What am I saying?  It's just another year, just like the one before it and the one before that.  

One day, however, that January calendar will be the last one you buy.  I hope when you get there, you don't look back with the same horrified grimace.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it.  Life is more than clothes, and the body more than food.  If you don't have that straight, then your whole life is wasted.  But it sure is a lot easier to do what you're called to do when you have energy and endurance.

So, if you don't want to make it a way of life, maybe you should just sleep in.  The regulars like their parking spots, their lockers and their lanes.  

You mad, bro?  You're a Resolutionist.  Man up.  You get one life.  Do it, don't waste it.

Peace, love, and you don't have to wait until Friday,
Ms. Daisy

Sunday, November 22, 2015

I hate the Mockingjay 2 movie

I am about to go off into a flying rage about the Hunger Games: Mockingjay 2 movie.  If you haven't seen it but want to, I am going to include the ending of this movie in this rant so you may want to go elsewhere.

That was your warning.

I watched the first movie whenever it was that it came out and it was horribly disturbing to me.  The thought of sending people to kill each other in a fake weird televised cyberworld for entertainment is so sick and perverse that I couldn't get it out of my head for a week straight.  I wanted to puke when I thought of it.  

On Friday night I saw Mockingjay 2, the last of the Hunger Games trilogy. 

This movie is HORRIBLE.  (I can hear all of the faithful fans screaming, "Why?!")

Peeta.  That's why.

That and the blatant disdain for manly testosterone and the promotion of wimpy pansy pants men with zero cojones, you know, like Peeta.

Ga ga goo goo?
At the end of the movie, Katniss got out of her bed, walked down the hall, climbed into bed with lame Peeta (since he doesn't have a house and she is providing that for him, too), and he said, "You love me, real or not real?"  Now, I have to tell you, up to this point I had no question in my mind that she would eventually marry or be with Gale and that if she loved Peeta it was only because he was like some kind of suffering baby animal.  I figured she was using stupid Peeta (although I had no idea what for, since his positive qualities are: 1. can bake bread, and 2. can plant flowers.  I'm sure that Katniss could take care of figuring out how to get that done herself in about five minutes, so why would she want to hang around sad sack?) or she felt sorry for him since his brain was poisoned by Dictator Snow and she was just making sure to hang around him long enough until she knew he got better and then she could leave and go be with a real man.

Are you keeding me?

 When she said that she did love him, I literally put my hands on my head and closed my eyes.  MIND BLOWN.  What the HECK is going on around here?!  At this point of the movie, I almost got up and left.  I silently began muttering, "No.  You have got to be kidding me.  This is not happening."  The movie was ruined at that point and I could barely recall any redeeming qualities about why I wanted to see this stupid thing in the first place.

Peeta?  You want to be with Peeta, Katniss?  Are you freaking kidding me?  First of all, do you have a sight impairment?  Maybe you're legally blind?  Maybe you have severe dementia?  Yes, I know, looks are not everything.  I get that.  But seriously?  Have you seen Gale?  He's tall and extremely good-looking...and he's a soldier.  He protected your family, he can fight like a boss, he goes out in the woods and hunts with you, and he is capable of taking care of himself and you.  

Just on looks alone, Gale would have to be a murdering, molesting, crack dealer who eats children for breakfast in order for Peeta to even be able to be put into the same ring with him to compete.

And then there's Peeta.  He's short, has weird eyeballs, fluffy hobbit hair, he cries a lot, can't be trusted with any weapons, can't even take care of himself, and his favorite thought is probably, "Save me, Katniss!"  (That had to be said with a scrunched up baby face, pinkies in the air, and hands flapping for full effect.  Try it again.  There.  Now you get the full effect.)  Oh, but he can bake bread, so yeah, I mean, I totally get it.  Sign me up.  Right.  Why would any woman not be jumping at that one?  I'll bake my own dang bread, thankyouverymuch.  He is pretty much the definition of pure 100% unadulterated pansy.

I was literally bewildered at this twist of the movie.  

The complement of a strong woman is not a weak man.  The complement of a strong woman is a stronger man.  Katniss' character showed that she is more than capable of taking care of herself, which is what makes Gale's character so appealing as a match for her.  When you solely take care of yourself, it is even more special to have someone to be able to step in and take care of you.  You don't need it, but it is a gift.  It makes it all the more sweet and precious.  He was going to go with her when he figured out that she was going to go it alone.  He knew her and understood her enough to even see what she was going to do before she did it.  

Instead she picks painter pansy Peeta who we find playing in the dirt planting flowers.  Really?  And then has children with him?  What are you going to do if a bad guy comes to your house?

Peeta:  Katniss!  Help!  There's a bad guy at the door!
Katniss: Peeta, take the children and go hide and pretend to be rocks, I'll take care of this!  I have enough cojones for all of us!

My eyes are hurting from rolling so hard at the pathetic-ness of it.  Somebody give Peeta a lesson on sisu and push him out of a helicopter, please.

Perpetuating wimpiness (in general, but specifically in men) is not something to be applauded or rewarded.  This is perhaps what bothers me most about the movie.  So ugh.

Excuse me, I need to go do some pull ups.

Peace, love, and testosterone,
Ms. Daisy


Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The Hilarious Canadian News

I don't know how you feel about Canada.  Perhaps you feel the same way you do about Canada as you do for Switzerland.  They're just one of those nice countries that doesn't bother the other ones, and even though they are socialists and have universal health care and are generally unarmed, most of the people are considerably more alert and better educated than your average run-of-the-mill type in the United States.

I love to listen to CBC Radio 2 on the way home from swimming in the morning to hear their news, because any propaganda being barfed out on an American station is so insanely slanted and idiotic that I just end up gagging and yelling at the radio, and really - who wants to start their day off like that?  Not me.  So on with the Canadian station it is.

Their national news is about one billion gallons less narcissistic than the American news, and that is grand (Oh wait, there are other countries out there?!  Pish posh, don't be silly, of course there are.  And they are only important as long as they have a direct effect upon us.  Duh.  Talk about those only.  And do it from the perspective of how they probably should work a little harder to benefit us.).  I appreciate that Canadian aspect, but what I really tune in for is the entertainment of their local news.

I live in a place that if I tuned in to local news, it would be the news of Detroit.  Do you know what that looks like?  I just checked.  It looks like this: police officer's trial begins today for beating a motorist in their car, rape kits arrive in Detroit, apartments burn on Detroit's west side, man found dead of strangulation after a fire, woman won't be charged in son's fatal shooting, and cameras capture thief breaking in to gas station.  I am not even keeding.  Those are the headlines for today.  They're pretty much the same everyday, give or take a few rapes and murders.


In Windsor, across the river, we have a different kind of news going on.  It is refreshing and hilarious.

On CBC Radio 2, there is a lovely Englishman, Pete Morey, who subs in for Tom Power when he's out - and everyone likes to listen to a good English accent in the morning, so that's a win.  On the local news, you've got my favorite news person, Peter Dock (he's local to Windsor).  I have no idea what he looks like, but I imagine him to be very serious.  You should hear his voice.  He is so somber, matter-of-fact, and direct, I can barely stand it.  He is my favorite.  He seems so serious that I imagine myself meeting him, sprinting up to him with the most gleeful face, grabbing onto his shoulders and jumping up and down in front of him, gushing that he is my FAVORITE news person in the world.  If I had to guess, I think this would embarrass him, mostly from the overabundance of emotion I would be showing at that point, especially considering his apparent penchant for being excessively reserved.  That right there would make me even happier.  Stir it up?  YES, PLEASE!
What I am about to tell you is not a joke.  This was REALLY ON THE NEWS.  Peter Dock actually reported this this morning.  When he did, I erupted into laughter in the car so vivaciously that even I was amused at myself.

After they reported a building fire, Peter Dock came out with the stunning news that nearly ran me right off of the road.  Please, be seated before you read this.

It went something like this: "A teacher in LaSalle distributed a spelling sheet that included American spellings.  The word 'color' was spelled without the 'u', and the sheet also asked the students what state they lived in (said with much disdain).  The superintendent was notified and has corrected the teacher."

I love you, Canada.  This is the funniest news I have ever heard in my life.  It's sure a heck of a lot better than rape kits and being strangled and burnt to death.

Rock on.

Peace, love, and please do not pronounce Quebec with a "kw" sound (it's "ke-beck"),
Ms. Daisy

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Entertainment: Ms. Daisy Style

I love to laugh.  If you can make me laugh, you will skyrocket to the top of my favorite people list so fast, it will be nothing short of utterly cray.  I can't imagine people not having the same sense of humor as I do, but it does happen.  (I'm married to one such person.  I've tried to reform him for the last 19 years of my life in this area to no avail.)  If you're wondering, my sense of humor falls along the lines of things like Monty Python, The Office, Rocketman, Portlandia, Homestar Runner, and Miranda Sings.  You know, all the awesome stuff.

So I got this great idea while I was driving today that would provide me entertainment and also include an opportunity to test out my friends and family.  What could be better?!  I was singing along loudly and dancing to "If I Had a Million Dollars" when I got the idea to send my brother a text that said, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you an exotic pet."  My brother will not find this strange at all, because nearly all of our communication is in the form of movie, TV, or song quotes.  

Then, I thought, "OH. MY. GOSH.  I am going to send these random texts to various people in my contacts list and see how they respond!"  Hooray.  What a great idea.  So excited.  Let's do this.

I texted my hubby, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a fur coat."

Response: Nothing.  (FAIL)

I texted my friend Amy from high school, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a green dress."

Response:  "I'd buy you a house."  (WIN)

I texted my female rock star drummer, Heather, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a monkey."

Response:  "Could it be an Aye Aye Lemur?"  (WIN)

I texted my sister, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you some art."

Response: "A Picasso or a Garfunkel!"  (YOU WIN SO HARD)

I texted my friend, Deidre, a piano teacher, "If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a nice Reliant automobile."

Response:  "?????"

Me: "It's from the song..."

D:  "Yes, I know, but random..."

Me:  "This text is from me, you know..."
Meanwhile, I am having the time of my life thinking of which lyrics I should send to various people and gut laughing while imagining their face as they receive such special messages from me.

I really recommend it.  You can't just text anyone, though.  You have to find the people with the right sense of humor, or you may get no response, and that will cause you to wonder about them.  (Weirdos!)

In the meantime, here are some things you should laugh at.  Go on, get on it.

Peace, love, and funny funny ha ha,
Ms. Daisy

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

When Life Sucks: The Practical Stuff

We don't have many things guaranteed to us in this life, unless we want to count some trouble, some taxes, and death.  (Woah, that sounds totally discouraging.  Don't take it like a downer, I'm just throwing out the reality.  Chin up.)  Many western thinkers feel that most of life ought to be sunshine and roses (and oh, how I wish it were, wouldn't that be lovely?) with some crap sprinkled in.  I am not sure if the rest of the world thinks that. It seems to me that if you lived with the expectation that life mostly sucks and is mostly a great deal of work with a little play and small trinkets of happiness, you could rejoice in the little joys (not to mention the big ones!) a lot more deeply.

You're probably thinking that sounds really pessimistic, but actually, I am an incorrigible optimist.  I think embracing the fact that most of life might not go the way you want it to allows you to be really happy and appreciative when sunshine pokes through.  Those who figure life better be a herd of happy unicorns dancing on sparkly rainbows are going to get their feelings squashed daily - when someone takes "their" parking spot at Trader Joe's (or at the gym, WHAT THE HECK), when the neighbor's dog takes a dump on their lawn, or when their favorite tea cup breaks (#firstworldproblems).  

But sometimes it just really sucks.  These last two weeks have brought many troubles - people dying too soon, a friend going through a divorce, and an old friend being diagnosed with cancer.  When you have to stand in the middle of that and your world is shutting down and the walls are falling in, you feel the overwhelming sense of being crushed, and the mourning floods in on you.  It presses on your chest, it takes your breath away.  When it hits you, it is gut wrenching, and the sobbing comes from so deep down in your stomach that your brain doesn't think in words anymore, it just rips through feelings, slices your insides and tosses your organs on the table.  You can't imagine doing anything except for curling up wherever you may find yourself (the couch, the bed, the floor, the grass, the glass-shard covered cement), submitting under the weight of the pain, and not getting up (also, someone please, toss a blanket over to cover up my head, no pillow, these shards will do nicely, thankyouverymuch).  

Strong people have gone through some stuff.  They've wrestled this beast before.  You won't be strong if you let it win, though.  

You get to have that time.  You get to eat cake for dinner or skip eating entirely.  You get to lay sideways and wish that you could dissolve into the carpet.  When you have gone through a jarring experience, a wild perspective and life change, I suggest that you take that horrible ride.  But that ride has an end.  You can't spend the rest of your life on that ride.  Yeah, it seems like it won't ever end, and you'll never get off.  That comes with the territory.  It's inherent to swan diving out of your expected reality.  And for a long time out (maybe even ~58.5 years, +/- 10-40), you'll have times when you get hit in the head and the heart and you'll feel yourself falling down again.  It's not weak.  It's a fight.  The weak give up when they're pushed over.  Stand up again and fight.

But how?  What does that look like?

I can't answer that for everyone.  I can only tell you what is helpful to me.  If it helps you, I am glad for it.  

If you've made it off of the floor, get yourself up.  Go exhaust yourself.  Demand extreme physical fatigue of yourself until you have no strength left.  Push your body as hard and as far as it will go until it silences your insides.  Sobbing is optional.  Praying is recommended.

When your body is debilitated, burn through your brain.  Challenge yourself so hard that you can't think straight.  Read crazy stuff, take a class (in a secondary language on a subject you're weak in), write, study, paint, create, bake, work.

And now, when the river floods you, pull out the good.  Bring up the sunshine.  When your brother or child dies, remember their life.  Remember their smile.  Be thankful for the time you were together.  Their memory won't ever go away, and in that they are still with you.  When you walk through a divorce, be thankful that you got to experience a relationship, a marriage.  Remember the good and the sweet from those wonderful times, and be thankful that you shared a life with someone and walked through things together, even though it didn't turn out the way you thought or hoped it would.  Pack them up in a box and tuck them in your soul.  When you stand there and hear that you have cancer, take a deep breath and love on all of the people in your life and be thankful that everything around you has become exponentially more precious.

It sounds disgustingly cliche, but things happen for a reason.  This life is orchestrated.  There is hope.  It's not how you wanted it, but that's not to say life will always be a crapper.  Let it mold you into a person who can be more compassionate because you have walked through the fire.  Let it fuel you to show more love to everyone around you.  Don't waste your pain.

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. (Psalm 34:18)

Peace, love, and a crazy gigantic super long squitchy hug,
Ms. Daisy


Saturday, October 24, 2015

Was my spleen exploding? Or did I just eat too many seeds...

I'm sure that title is something you've likely pondered time and time again in your life, but if it isn't, let me just allow you in for the experience that I'm sure you have always wondered about, but seemed just a little out of touch.

A week or two ago I went on a nut and seed eating rampage.  I think I created more ways to get chia seeds into my body than should even be imagined, and then for good measure, I added in flax, hemp and who even knows what else.  Mmmm, taste the power of seeds.  Oh, I tasted them all right.  I put those suckers in peanut butter (because who doesn't want to do that!) with raw honey, in my kombucha, in shakes, heck, I probably just ate them like candy with the frenzied pace I was on.

Question: How long until I die?
Then, all of a sudden, I started experiencing some strange stabbing pains.  They would come infrequently at first (did I connect this with ridiculous volumes of seed eating?  No.  I just kept it up like a boss.), and then more frequently, with or without movement.  The pain was stabbing and took my breath away, under the rib cage, left side, left of heart.  I did what people usually do (or maybe it's just me), and looked up detailed anatomy diagrams to try to pinpoint what on earth in there was festering and exploding, and then, follow the natural thought progression, try to guess how many minutes left I had of life.

I was quite sure it was my spleen.  This is concerning because those little spleeny things in there seem important and my paternal grandmother died of acute pancreatitis at a very early age, and I am fairly certain that those two organs are bros, thus (logically) I was also likely on my way out.  Write up the will.  Tess gets the white and silver daisy tea cup from Lacko Slott.

Lacko Slott, sorry Swedes, I have no double dots for you.
 Bloody genetics!  

What's worse is that everyone is going to make fun of me for dying!  Right?  No, I know this doesn't make sense to you, but it really does.  Here's Ms. Daisy, all healthy, swimming every minute she can, doing organic triathlons, promoting organic tampons, drinking organic kombucha, eating all her organic bananas and rubbing organic chia seeds into her organic natural peanut butter with hemp and flax, and she dies before she's the ripe old age of 40.  See?  What good is eating that organic crap anyway, look how it worked out for the busted spleen lady!  I'm just going to sit here and suck down a bunch of Coke Zero and McDonald's and live until I'm at least twice her pathetic dead age.  Then they'll taunt my dead soul with, "YOU DIDN'T EVEN WIN AT MAKING IT TO 100."  

This will not be tolerated.  I will haunt you.

And then they'll do my makeup all horrible in my casket so I'll have to come back as a ghost and shut it so you can't look.  Do not even try.  I will spill your stupid Coke Zero so fast your head will spin.

Meanwhile, back on a different level of reality, I got to thinking that perhaps it had something to do with my ridiculously excessive consumption of every kind of nut and seed I could find in the house and maybe I should try just backing that bus up for a minute.  Huh, that's a novel idea.  I had to figure something out as people were starting to threaten me with the idea of actually going to the doctor (no).

The following day after my epiphany, I would say the frequency of my spleen explosions cut in half.  It decreased steadily after that and by the weekend, I forgot I even had a spleen.

Sigh of relief!  Who wants to think about those organs anyway!  Not me!  Back to the organic triathlons!

The moral of the story?  I am pretty sure there isn't one.  Wait, yes there is: Don't drink Coke Zero.

Peace, love, and bananas,
Ms. Daisy

Saturday, October 10, 2015

The best ideas for a facial ever. Not.

If there is a chance for me to do something weird, I'm probably going to do it, unless it involves drastic danger or non-organic foods (let's get real here).  Last night I came upon such a chance and jumped in both feet.  Since this is my life, things did not go exactly as anticipated.

(Case in point:  One time, I bludgeoned my toe INSIDE A SPINNING VACUUM HEAD.  How?  Oh, you know.  I was trying to get that sucker into the other room up on to the carpet, lifted it, and gave it a shove with my foot - and at that second, the 90 degree angle of the vacuum head dropped and that whirling tornado of decapitating death coincided with the swing of my foot and in went the toes.  The yells of torture resonated throughout the house.  The family approached slowly.  ""  They seem to have been anticipating a fountain of blood spewing out of my severed toes based on the instantaneous drop to the floor, fetal position, and howling that accompanied this drastic scene.  I'm good.  It's all good.  Just back up.  Or bring me some ice wine.  Whatever.)
Well, last night I was on pinterest, the land of great ideas that you should try (or just pin and never actually do).  I probably have subscribed to natural or homemade beauty and this pin popped up advertising the creation of those Biore rip-your-skin-off strips.  You know those, right?  I used to use them quite a bit, but now I read their ingredients.  They have some horrible thing in there - either a paraben or a polysorbate, so I dumped them when I read that and haven't used one of those for a long time.  They are kind of fun, however, which made me slightly sad to see them go.

Well, I had to see how you could possibly make a Biore strip.  That just seemed so strange!  Her recipe and instructions were simple enough, and I had the ingredients on hand, so I figured I'd try it.  Your skin will be glowing, they said.  You'll love it, they said.  Just try it, they said.

here is a girl looking radiant
and happy after using her
homemade biore strip
Simply mix a couple tablespoons of milk with a couple tablespoons of gelatin and warm it up, then put it on your face.  Ohhhkaaay.  Her instructions included using a microwave (psh, no, don't have one of those), so I just heated it up on a pot.  It smelled so gross.  Warm milk, ew.  But she promised nice smooth skin, so the torture of stench seemed worth it at the time.

When the blobby mixture was nice and warm, I took it over to the bathroom to minimize my mess that I knew would ensue.  I used a tiny itty bitty spoon to pour the concoction on my face and the back of the spoon to smear it on.  This was kind of weird to say the least.  I had drippy milky gelatin pouring down my cheeks and I was patting my face with a spoon.  Oh well!  Not to be deterred by stench or spoons on my face, I persisted in such weirdness.

All I had to do after was just simply to wait for it to dry a bit, then start peeling.  

So, it's not really drying.  Did I put too much on?  Or does this have too much milk and not enough gelatin?  It's collecting at my chin in a river of grossness.  I have a beard of milk jello.  This is going to be great, I can already tell.  Stay hopeful, it's not over yet.

After several minutes, I supposed some parts of it were dry.  I started peeling the jello beard and it was like I was in elementary school again and had poured Elmers on my hands.  Sort of fun, but not really feeling like it's cleaning pores or anything, it's just a strange science experiment at this point.

And then.

I got to the parts up higher on my face that had a much thinner layer of milk jello (so sick).  These parts were my very sensitive cheeks.  This, of course, dried to a crisp.  It was glued onto my face with vigor.  If I didn't know better, I would have supposed it had fused into my face and become part of it.  I found a corner to start pulling, and the stabbing pain of the pinchy, rippy, torture made my eyes involuntarily water a fountain of tears.  This is great.  My face is turning red from what feels like violently using a dry razor on my cheek.  Or a wolverine slashing my skin off.  Or boiling my face in hot peppers.  Something along those lines.

Now I may not have mentioned it, but just prior to doing this experiment, I saw another great idea on pinterest about using turmeric and rose water on your face to improve complexion and so much I did that right before the skin removal party.  Have you cooked with turmeric?  Touch it ever?  Are your fingers still orange?  Good, because my face was.

So let's see here.  If you follow these good instructions for a special facial treatment, you can end up with:

- an orange face
- ripped off skin

- milk smell/beard
- red skin where you ripped it off

I mean, really - what do you have to lose!

I hope to do it again really soon.

Peace, love, and if you rub turmeric on your face in just the right pattern, you can kind of make an orange beard (and who wouldn't want that),
Ms. Daisy

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Amused at Kombucha Class

What up, peeps?  I was teaching a kombucha class tonight along side of my dear friend, sidekick, promoter, and I'm just gonna say it - agent (you so are, you know it).  

We were talking about the benefits of probiotics and kombucha when one of the ladies asked about the differences between home brewed kombucha and what you can buy in the store.  My personal kombucha is less fizzy than store-bought stuff, I don't know why or how, or if it's better or worse, it just is.  She mentioned how many of the kombucha sold in stores has chia seeds in it (which are a great source of omega 3's).  I said that you could surely put chia seeds in your kombucha (although some people don't like to chew their drinks).

At this, a sweet lady (who is cool - she has chickens.  Enough said.) said, "Chia seeds!  For lunch I had a donut with ice cream, but I put chia seeds on it!"  

I laughed so hard.  

I love this.  

I love this for the humor.

I love this for the irony.

I love this for the thought behind it.

This is a picture of knowing enough about eating well, but eating what you crave, and then maybe feeling a smidge guilty, so toss on some chia seeds.  

That meal is a picture of the United States.

Enjoy the little bits of life.  Be amused where you may.

Peace, love, and chia seeds on everything,
Ms. Daisy

Friday, October 2, 2015

Your food addiction, solved.

Are you addicted to food?  Or maybe you've just got a habit that you are having trouble breaking?  Some people need to cut out sugar, some want to give up pop (especially if it is diet, a.k.a. toxic death poison), others want to scale back carbs.

I would love to see you rehabbed.  It is worth it.

Here is inspiration for you.

After you take a look at this one, you'll need to see how to solve it here, in food rehab.

Well.  Or something like that.

Happy Friday!

Peace, love, and pasta,
Ms. Daisy

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Pinterest = not sympathetic

Rest in peace, Fluff Up
Last night while making dinner, my little offspring came bursting into the house with a crumpled little face and tear in his eye, crying out, "Mom!  A chicken is dead!"  I threw down my spoon and ran outside barefoot to the coop (over many small and pointed rocks, that's how much I love chickens), threw open the door, looked down...and there it was.

A strangely positioned Plymouth Rock hen laid at my feet, foot up in the food dish, head to the side, beak slightly opened.  A traumatic sight for a kid to encounter, I suppose.

I called out for a bag and the hubby and I took care to wrap this stiff bird up into two grocery bags before we had a moment of silence for the chicken formerly known as Fluff Up.  We then placed her delicately into a very large garbage bin.

She must have hit her head because she was well up until that point.  She even laid an egg yesterday, even though she was an old bird.  Poor old girl.

I sought solace in Pinterest later that night and wondered what would happen if I searched the words, "my chicken died".

Do you know what happens when you do that?

Let me tell you.

Pages and pages and pages and pages and pages of delicious chicken recipes.  What?  Is that enchiladas?

Thanks, Pinterest.  You're so understanding.

Peace, love, and baked or grilled?
Ms. Daisy

Monday, September 28, 2015

Run for your life, boys. No. Seriously.

You know those arrow diagrams where you find out the answer to whether or not you should do something?  I have one for this article.  Ready?

Are you male? ----> yes ----> Stop reading.  Abort mission.  Close browser.  Go look out the window.  Go think about something fun, like testosterone.

Are you male?  ----> no ---->Awesome.  I'm going to talk about periods.

And for all of you males who kept on reading, seriously, just get the heck out of here.  I know you kept on reading anyway (you little rebel, you!), and that was your warning flag, but I am about to open up a can of women business all up in here and you should just close up shop and wait for the next article to entertain you.  This one is not it.

Now go away.

Okay ladies, now that we got them out of here, let's behave the way that we always do when we are in the presence of many other women and no boys by waiting four to six minutes before we talk about the really juicy stuff, laughing maniacally, and ordering some ice wine (Oh.  Maybe that's just my divas?  What's up, divas!  You guys, I am crossing into the new level of crunchy granola here.  Just be warned.).

About a year ago I was lost amongst the throes of youtube (pretty much 32 videos in and teetering on the verge of "how to ride whales") when I came across this young girl in England who made her own cloth maxi pads.  I was like, "Wha?  Cloth maxis?  What the what?!"  But the pad had Wonder Woman on it, so I clicked the link and watched her (um, hello.  Did you hear me?  I said Wonder Woman.  Sold.).  I did not even know this was a thing that people do.  And then I thought about how I used cloth diapers on my child and then realized maybe it wasn't something to be necessarily terrified of.

I started the research phase of it, reading up on it and then I came across a site that said they would send you a free trial one (if you swore on your Grandmother's grave that it really was your first time ever using one, cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, and I'm not kidding, I think they said you would get a hex put on you if you lied or something.  These peeps are not messing around.).  Luckily for me, it really was my first time trying one and I didn't have to think about lying to get a cloth pad.  You could pay an extra dollar for organic cotton (SO I TOTALLY DID, DUH), I mean, really, do you want pesticide sprayed GMO frankencrops all up in your lady parts?  No thanks.  I'm set.  So I sent them my address and a dollar, and all I had to do was wait.

Wait I did.  My sort of cute thin pad thingy came in the mail and I was like, oh my gosh, what the heck, am I really doing this?  I had looked up some other pads in the meantime and they were like one zillion dollars per pad each to purchase, which kind of puts a damper on things (start imagining how many pads you would need per period, yeah, no.).  So what genius idea did I come up with?  I know!  I'll just use the pad thing they sent me, make a pattern out of it, and go sew a bunch of them!  I'm sure they have youtube tutorials on how to make them!  Yes, this is a great idea!

I sat myself down and figured out how to make different sizes of these baddies, got some organic cotton, some backing, some snaps, the whole nine, and made a bunch of these things.

Then I called my sister.

Me: Um, do you have ANY idea what I am doing?
Sister:  No.
Me:  This is the crunchiest granola thing you can even ever imagine.  I mean, there's the line, and there's me, twelve miles past it.
Sister:  Oh gosh, what did you do?
Me:  I am...making...cloth...pads.
(Note: My sister is the nicest person in the world.  It is her nightmare for someone to be mad at her.  She promotes peace at pretty much any cost.  She tried kombucha and was disgusted by it, but instead, when I gleefully jumped up and down in front of her and asked her what she thought of it, replied, "I don't...uh...hate it?" with a sweet smile on her adorable face.)
Sister: (LOOOONG PAUSE) That. is. so. unbelievably. gross.  I can't even.  You have crossed the line.
Me:  I know!  Are you surprised?
Sister:  No.

A month or two later...

Me: So, you remember my cloth pad idea?
Sister:  Yeah?
Me:  Uh, yeah, not so much.
Sister:  (uncontrollable laughter) Good.

So I thought that was it for me.  I kind of gave up the idea of being crunchy granola in the period department.  I still wasn't comfortable with using conventional tampons with all their GMO-eyness and their pesticides all up in my business, so I switched to million dollar organic tampons for swimming.  After wearing cloth pads for about an hour, I gave up on the idea - maybe it was because I had a horrible design, or maybe it was just because, OH MY GOSH, SO SICK, CLOTH PADS.  Probably both.  What was I thinking?  Oh yeah, I was trying to save the world.  Sigh.

And then there I was.  Standing in the health food store, buying another jillion dollar box of organic tampons when I glanced over to the left and saw the Diva Cups.  

You do know what a Diva Cup is, right?  It's basically this medical grade silicone squooshy cup thingy that you shove up your hoohah and you don't have to use pads or tampons.

Yes, I've seen them there before, and I was like, no, that is not going to happen.  But today was different.  Today I saw the Diva Cup as a chance to break free from the jillion dollar organic tampons and as another adventure in the life of crazy Ms. Daisy.  I bought it.  I made sure to go to my favorite cashier so I could ask her if she has used it before (and also because she won't judge my weirdness, she already knows).  She hadn't, and we just pretty much stood there in front of some stranger behind me (who likely wishes he could have evaporated from the face of the earth) and talked about periods and our qualms with using such alternative methods (I love my health food store, I mean, just in case I haven't told you that lately) and what happens to your cycles when you're in your 30s. 

This glorious day was a day that I could actually try the Diva Cup (Oh, thank goodness, right?  Yay.  Periods.  Not.), so I took it home and read the instructions cover to cover (well, only in English and Spanish, the rest I ignored) and then focused my determination for figuring it out.

If you have not exactly read through the directions, you may be surprised that they are rather particular.  They offer two folding methods for getting that baby up in there, and then you have to twist it to make it open up evenly so you don't have anything trying to get past to ruin your life and/or your underwear.  It states that you have to spin that puppy in a 360.  A 360?  How can you even tell?  Seriously?  Is this like the triple sow cow of the period world?  I was initially disturbed at having to get up close and personal with my lady parts under these circumstances and a little grossed out that I might end up with uterus on my hands, but it worked out well enough and I was significantly less horrified than I originally thought I would be.  (I swear - if you are male and you are reading this - you deserve to be as grossed out as you are now, I warned you.  You could have been staring out the window thinking of testosterone, completely unaffected.)

After a few hours, I wondered if it was working, so I made a trip back to the bathroom.  It seemed that everything was going well, but being the experimentally minded person that I am, I had to check what was going on in there.  Now you can keep it in there for some absurd amount of time like 12 hours, and perhaps at some point in the future I shall graduate to such bravery, but at this point, I frankly am just not there.  I decided it was time to check on things, and so I had to get it out.

Oh crap.  I have to get this thing out.  There's no handy rip cord like a tampon, and you've got to climb all back up into your uterus (no, not really, but it sounds a lot better than...well, yeah, that), find that puppy and go on a rescue mission.  Hello suction cup to the inside of your body, how are you doing today?  Oh good.  Anyway, fingers crossed, you'll be able to figure it out.  I mean, if you've gone through childbirth and you've had a resident check your level of dilation, you can do this.  (Did you ever wonder in that moment why they didn't just go down your throat since they were reaching up to your esophagus anyway?  STOP CLIMBING IN!  I AM TRYING TO GET A PERSON OUT, NOT ANOTHER ONE IN!)

Meanwhile, back at the farm.  It says that you can do anything while using it - including swimming.  I am not sure if I am experienced enough (or brave enough) yet to try that out in the pool.  Perhaps one day.  But so far, so good.  

I feel a little crunchier already.

Peace, love, and I told you not to read this article, boys,
Ms. Daisy

Saturday, September 19, 2015

The chicken came first, then the egg.

The most amazing, organical itty bitty egg ever made to date.
I don't usually post anything on Saturdays, but this day is special.  Do you even know what just happened?  (Besides the fact that I think I literally just spent an hour watching Miranda Sings and Joey Graceffa on youtube.)

I just walked into the chicken coop to feed my fourteen favorite chickens some brown bananas (because I certainly am not going to eat them and if you think I'm going to make banana bread you are dead wrong.  Have you ever even fed a chicken a banana?  It's so awesome it's kind of ridiculous.) and other kitchen scraps, when... 

What. is. that. right. there!?

Is that a tiny itty bitty baby egg?

When they were young and their lives were an open book.
Did one of my little baby chickens (not really babies anymore, but whatevs, you know) just lay me an egg?


I have only been waiting for this day since like, let's just say, May 6.  But who's counting?  Yeah.  Me.  I was.

Meet Sweetie, my favorite chicken. She's independent and talkative.
Now they are big and stuff their faces.  Aww.
Yeah, I know that this is exactly what is supposed to happen and everything with chickens, but finally the day is here and it makes me happy.

Anyway, it's going to be delitchus.  

Peace, love, and buttery toast,
Ms. Daisy

Friday, September 18, 2015

The Best Workout Evah

Today I completed the best swim workout in coherent memory.  Not because I was fast, but because it was so torturously awesome.  It was the workout that you muster yourself out of the pool more with your mind than with your limp body, and the total physical exhaustion is felt as an entire body calming weight.

Do you work out?  Do you know what I mean?  Do you know that feeling when you spent it all?  It's even better in the water.  You have no idea.  Your whole body is working, pushing, pulling, kicking, and you can't breathe.  It's great.  (So, I just reread that sentence sequence and I realized that you may very well think I'm crazy, and that might be true, but it is what it is.)  

When you're ready to sprint and the time is counting down, 5, 4, 3, 2... your adrenaline is flying through your body - shocking and icy hot, from your chest down your arms and into your fingers, you push off of the wall in a gloriously delicious streamline and your body is moving, smooth, slicing and cutting the water.  The pool is quiet and still in front of you.  You don't care about breathing, you just love the feel of the water on your hands and your legs flying behind you.  Finally you take a breath, and you've got more to go on for your burning muscles.  You flip turn (please don't miss the wall or go sideways).  Another streamline, but this one contracts your chest because of your lack of air.  You'll breathe in a minute, just make it out past the flags.  Now go!  Push it.

As you're coming back, you close your eyes for one second to dig deep, to talk to yourself instead of listen to your body, which is begging you to stop, to quit, to take it easy, because you're almost done.  No.  This is the difference between being good and being great.  Champions are made in practice and displayed in a race.  You see, out of the corner of your eye, people in the lanes next to you - and you need to hold your own.  If they are faster, you need to not drop back any further.  If they are your speed, you need to summon all of your physical strength to punish your muscles into touching them out at the wall.  You know they're thinking the same thing.  Dig deeper.  The temptation at the end is to glide in, but you want that wall to be yours first.  You have nothing left in your body, you can't breathe, your chest hurts, your arms and legs are burning.  Your body starts begging.  Instead of listening, you tell yourself to shut up and keep it up.  Make faces, make noise, whatever, just do it.

It was worth it.

You're sure the workout is done.  You are heaving with a contorted breath and completely physically exhausted.  

And then, oh. my. gosh.

A 200 IM all out is called.  Never mind that you just did a solid set of stroke and IM all morning and you just finished sprinting IM with a whole 4 seconds of rest in between.  You're going to dig beyond the bottom.

You close your eyes, tell yourself you are going to have to kill it and picture yourself doing it.  You concentrate and give yourself a few seconds to summon any adrenaline reserves.  This is it, you tell yourself.  Don't hold anything back.  It doesn't matter.  One stroke in front of the other.  You've got this, make it happen.  They're tired.  Don't be tired.  Be strong.  I'm in charge of this body and it's going to listen to me and do what I demand it to do.

And it starts again. 5, 4, 3, 2...and you hear some other crazy person call out encouragement for everyone - and you hang on to that and it reverberates in your head.  We're all in this together, but I've got to fight for this to the end.  Come on, let's do this.  Let's go.  The echo of someone pushing you combines with your mind to push your body past what you thought was possible.  You are involuntarily making faces (and they're not cute), as if your expression could pull you faster ahead through the intense physical pain that your body is crying out from.  You are running on reserves, but even in that you make it submit to what you need it to do for you to get you to the end.  Your body is shutting itself off - your muscles have long been burning, and you feel like you're moving in slow motion, but even in this you push - you're almost there.  Don't give up.  Go hard or go home.

And you finish.

And it's the most glorious feeling ever.  (Well, besides the fact that you cannot breathe and there is not enough air in the building for you.)  You did it.  You spent it.

If you are a swimmer, this view evokes emotion in your very soul.

You warm down, and as you do, you think to yourself, "I love this!  I can't wait to do this again tomorrow."

That is, if you can climb out of the pool.

Peace, love, and love swimming,
Ms. Daisy