My very selfish attempt at time travel

I while back I wrote a letter to my teenage self that was featured on this awesome site. My letter was well received by my friends and family and even brought some of them to tears (or so I am told). For that, I am humbled.

But now I want a do-over. I would like to write a new letter to myself that says this and only this:

"Get off your lazy ass and listen to the doctors when they tell you to take care of your back."

My back problems started at the ripe old age of 13. I think I was in Junior High the first time I threw it out from tying my shoe, sneezing or something else equally as embarrassing. My back went into spasms, my pelvis tilted to the side like a teeter-toter and I was out of commission for several days. It was painful but I did get to miss school and I recovered within a few days so I went on with my junior high life of bad fashion choices and hormonal cry-fests. But that first time was all it took; it was the proverbial straw that broke, well, my back. About once or twice a year, from that point on, I suffered from one of these episodes. I remember one time it happened while on vacation at our family cabin in Washington state. It was probably around '96 or '97. Those little butterfly clips were all the rage which meant my sister had roughly 37,000 of them in all the shades of an iridescent rainbow. She would twist and twirl her hair and attach about half of them to various places on her head every morning, the colors always corresponding to the "outfit" she had chosen for the day. The clips, colorful eye shadow combinations and silver, platform clown shoes were just her version of a giant neon sign with arrows pointing to her head and flashing "Look at me! Look at me!"

But I digress...

In a simultaneous effort to embarrass and make us laugh, my father thought it would be funny to attach the little clips to various parts of his face and body. When the clip he placed on his eyebrow proved to be a bit to painful and he yelped like a four-year-old girl, everyone at the table started to howl in laughter. I just started howl. Apparently laughing was just enough to send my back into those painful spasms I had grown all too accustomed to. I was so twisted and in so much pain that I couldn't put any weight on my feet so my family dragged a mattress from the bedroom into the kitchen so I could sleep right there on the floor. It took me nearly a half an hour to get from the chair down to the mattress. Once I finally made it down there I said, "And now I have to pee."

My aunt, who is an occupational therapist, said to me, "You know what honey, I deal with this all the time. If you want, I can go find and empty jar and we can do this right here."

"I'M UP!" It's amazing what a little motivation can do for you, especially if that motivation is to avoid showing your lady bits to your family members. Somehow I found the strength to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom and drag my body up onto the toilet. The next day I was still pretty uncomfortable but my dad located a back brace and some pain killers at a local drug store and after a day or two I was enjoying my vacation again.

We tried to figure out why I had a back that appeared to be made out of construction paper and macaroni noodles. I had xrays, MRIs, was taken out of PE classes, and sent to Physical Therapy. My diagnosis was basically that I was very tall for my age and had weak core and back muscles. I needed to exercise in general but more specifically, I needed to work those areas of my body to prevent this from happening in the future. However, the problem was that I stood in the choir and looked pretty. Exercise was bothersome, sweaty and made my make-up run. Basically, I didn't do it and now, at 30, I would do just about anything to go back in time, shake some sense into myself and do few crunches here and there. Because chronic back pain with a 20-month-old is no joke. Try doing crunches now with a kid who thinks by being on the floor, you want to wrestle and so he throws his body on top of yours and says, "Sit on Mommy!"

So I was at physical therapy the other day (which is now a normal part of my life, at thirty) and I told my therapist that the pain seemed to be moving into my mid back and sometimes I feel numbness. I am no doctor but I am pretty sure this is not a good thing. He felt around and told me I was quite tight in that area and he wanted to try a technique on me that will "probably bruise" but should help. At this point I am willing to be stabbed repeatedly with knives if someone promises me it will help so bruise away! He had me lie face down and with some kind of poking device, which in retrospect is probably better that I didn't see, started massaging. It literally sounded like he was crushing Cheetos on my back.

"Yeah, do you hear that?" He asked.

"Um, yes."

"This is not a new problem. You have years of damage in there which has basically caused scar tissue to form on your muscles. That is the crunching sound you hear." Oh thank God! Because I thought that sound was because my back was actually made of a gravel driveway. But it's not that! It is just YEARS AND YEARS of damage! Hooray!

He also told me that another side effect of this technique was addiction and many of his patients want him to do it every visit. "Ha ha. That is funny. I wonder why?" I said as innocently as I could, and then decided it was probably best to refrain from asking him to come home with me, live in my bedroom and do that to me everyday. Because whatever he did helped tremendously and if I am being totally honest, I have not felt this good in months.

But don't tell my teen self this. No, no, no. Because this does not mean I am "fixed." The truth is, I am finally (begrudgingly) starting to accept the fact that this is more than just a tweaked muscle. This is going to be a lifelong battle I will have to fight. So I am telling you, teenage me, find something active that you like to do and freaking do it. Stretch and do some crunches every day. Trust me, your post-baby abs will thank you for it anyway. And maybe, if you do all of this, you won't be in pain all the time. Maybe you won't be scared every time you bend down to tie your shoe or pick up something you drop on the floor. Maybe you won't feel like you can't do your fair share of the housework. Maybe you won't have to quit doing things that you used to really enjoy. Maybe you won't worry every time you reach down to pick up your son. Also, if you don't listen to me now, you will have zits all over your face on your wedding day.

Ok, that last part might not be true.

Big Ole' Bowl of Thanksgiving Goodness

A few weeks ago I made this soup. I actually instructed you, once you you finished reading the post, to stop what you were doing and go and make the soup. If you are sitting here reading this now and have yet to make the Butternut Squash and Bacon soup I have a question for you:

"Why do you hate yourself?"

Not to fear; I have another option. Some of my fellow foodie friends put me up to the challenge make a pureed butternut squash soup. There was mention incorporating candied pecans and cranberries. Also, bacon. Always bacon.

Here is roughly what I did. (I never measure and often drink wine when I cook so, yeah.)


Half, seed, season and roast the butternut squash in a 375 degree oven until tender.


Melt about a tablespoon of butter, two tablespoons of brown sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon in a pan. Throw the nuts in. Toss and cook for a few minutes until they start to caramelize. Pour them out onto a nonstick surface to cool.


This next part will BLOW YOUR MIND. My dear friend Toni is wonderful for a countless list of reasons but one of my favorite things about her is the girl will put sugar on anything she can get away with. This includes bacon.

Mix approximately 1/4 cup of brown sugar and about 1/2 teaspoon of chili powder (more or less to taste of course). I happened to use chipotle powder. Dredge the bacon in the sugar and chili mixture on both sides and roast in a 400 degree oven for about 20-25 minutes. You will never look at bacon the same again.


Dried cranberries, chopped candied pecans and spicy candied bacon. This is the garnish for your soup. If you want to skip the soup part and just mix the contents of these bowls together to form THE BEST TRAIL MIX EVER I will not judge you.

To make the soup, saute a chopped onion in butter (or bacon fat...whatever) until translucent in a large stockpot. Dig out the butternut squash from its shell and add to the cooked onions. Sprinkle with a bit more chipotle powder and cook until the squash is heated through and starts to break down.

Honestly, I have no idea how much chicken broth to add. A box? Two cans? Enough? A wine glass full? Bring to a boil. After it boils, you can either transfer it to a food processor or blender, but that sounds like a second degree burn waiting to happen. Might I suggest investing in one of these handy things for all your pureeing needs? Hit it with some half and half at the end for richness.


This is the end result. It tastes like freaking Thanksgiving in a bowl. The only person in my house who didn't like it was Charlie. But I wouldn't trust the opinion of someone who will eat cheerios that have been in the bottom of his car seat for two weeks.

Charlie Chicken

Because there soon will come a day when he insists on being a ninja and only a ninja every freaking year.

Soup Weather

I am very much aware that The Onion is a jokey-jokey-fun-time news site where things are parodied, the stories are fake and hilarity ensues. However, last February, I read this article about soup and thought to myself, "What is so funny about this? This is some solid news reporting going on here!"

There is nothing I love more about fall than soup and it is my absolute favorite thing to make in the kitchen. I like it so much in fact, that I will find any excuse to make it. For example, here, when I logically went with beef stew because it was easy and would feed a lot of people. I forgot the fact that it was June and about 47 gabillion degrees outside. So, when it actually becomes fall and the leaves begin to turn on the tree outside my window and the evenings start to feel just slightly cooler than they were the week before, IT'S SOUP TIME!

The other night, I made a soup so amazing I am almost willing to lie and say that I made it up because I am just that awesome. Because only someone awesome would put these ingredients in a soup:



You can find the full recipe here. (It's the second soup recipe down on the page. I have yet to try the first one.)

How do you think I did compared to the picture on the website?


If the picture is not enough to convince you to make this soup right now let me tell you this: The broth tastes like bacon. BACON! Seriously, go now.

Obviously, my first soup of the season was a huge success and I am so excited for more. Broccoli Chedder, I'm coming for you next, bitch.

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #1

I got a bachelors degree in Child Development because I thought I wanted to be a teacher. A preschool teacher, to be exact. So right out of college, that was my first job. Now, I don't know if you know this but kids are really annoying. Especially 24 of them, all in the same room together, high on juice and play dough fumes, and only 21 of them are truly "potty trained." But, I loved children so the fact that I wanted to lock half of them in the bathroom everyday was shocking to me. Since I wanted to continue to love children, I decided it best I get a new profession. So I did, and I loved it. While I didn't work with them directly, it still involved helping kids just with a lot less boogers and tempura paint on my jeans.

Even though I couldn't cut it as a preschool teacher, I am super thankful for my child development background now that I am mom. I am no expert and would never claim to be one. I am very aware of the fact that I am making mistakes (probably daily). I even do things I swore I would never, ever do. In college, I would be willing to bet I uttered the phrase, "What kind of mother would allow her child to watch television under the age of two??"

Well, who has two thumbs and needs a GODDAMN MINUTE TO COOK DINNER???

This mom. (Gasp! She what?? What a hypocrite!)

Okay, OKAY!!! I get it and it honestly goes against a lot of what I believe in but since my child insists on standing under my legs while I am at the stove cooking, (food that is meant to keep him ALIVE, mind you) it becomes a matter of safety. Twenty minutes of "Dinosaur Train" is a hell of a lot better than an irreparable face burn. At least that is how I talk myself out of feeling guilty.

Television is not the only activity I do with my son, of course. For the love of God, I was Child Development major. Which is why I know how important it is to develop fine motor skills. What I have for you, my mom and dad friends out there, is a step by step guide for a DIY fine motor skills activity.

Step 1.

Obtain an empty bottle. Might I suggest a handle of Segram's or perhaps a jug of Carlo Rossi merlot? Oh who am I kidding! Those are made of glass! How inappropriate of me to suggest such a thing. An empty water bottle like this will do just fine.

Step 2.

Drink a lot of wine. Save the corks.

Step 3.

Look at the magic of coordination happen right before your eyes!


Never has a child been happier to be playing with something that was intended for the trash.

You bleed on it, you buy it.

You know, all I needed was some pajamas for Charlie. But there I go, insisting on browsing the clearance rack.

I made a bold choice and walked into Old Navy with Charlie not in his stroller. When we walked in his facial expression seemed to say something like, "Those neatly folded sweaters have no idea what they are in for." We headed to the back of the store to pick out a few pairs of ridiculously cute jammies and on the floor in the kids section was a bucket of brightly colored balls. Charlie proceeded to take all of them out. It was clearly time to go and the pajamas in my hands were just going to have to do. (I happened to be holding dinosaurs and monkeys driving cars so he's lucky I wasn't holding the cupcakes or "Daddy's Little Princess.")

But there I go, walking past the clearance rack and a shirt caught my eye. I grabbed a couple sizes and said in an overly excited tone, "Charlie, want to go to the dressing room?!?!"

"Dessing roon?" He repeated.

"Yes, the dressing room. It is going to be so fun in there!" I know, I know, I am horrid. But, come on, it's not like I said, "and there will be puppies, too!"

In the dressing room there were only two things that Charlie wanted to do: bang on the walls and roll around on the floor, neither of which are annoying or unsanitary at all.

And then it happens. Charlie trips and first his mouth and then his forehead hit the bench that's inside of the dressing room. I, of course, already have on the shirt I was trying on.

I picked his little body up and said, "Oh honey, that hurt didn't it." When I turned him around to face me and he was doing that thing where his mouth is wide open but no sound was coming out. About 30 seconds go by and then comes the scream. But it actually wasn't as loud as you would imagine because it was being muffled by his mouth pressing into my shoulder that is covered in a shirt that I don't even own yet.

I knew what I would see when I peeled his little face off of my shoulder. Yup, a blood stain.

He calmed down and I said, "Well, mommy is going to go ahead and get changed and were are going to buy these pajamas and apparently, this shirt!" which fits ok and is only sort of cute. Let me put it this way on a scale of 1 to 10, it gets a solid 6 (with a blood stain on it.) But I could not, in good conscience, put it back on the rack. Maybe if I decide I really don't like it when I get home I can just wad it up and keep it in my diaper bag to use as a rag the next time this inevitably happens again.

"Did you find everything you were looking for today ma'am."



"Yes! And then some!"



And look how nicely I match the pumpkin patch?

Wherein I risk losing at least three loved ones from my life thanks to what I'm about to say.

I like mayonnaise.

To clarify, this is shocking because if you know me, I have lead you to believe I did not like mayonnaise.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I was trying to mislead you. But the truth is my hatred of mayonnaise was not an inborn trait that I inherited from my parents and there was a time when I did like it. While I don't think it was a necessity on my sandwiches like syrup is on my pancakes, or a six pack of Smirnoff Ice on my Friday nights in college, it wasn't like I refused or asked for my burgers without it.

But then came the day that mayo turned on me. There I was sitting in the beach, trying to enjoy my Togos sandwich to the sound of the crashing waves and something about it didn't taste right. There was a pungent and almost "stingy" quality to the sandwich that reminded me of blue cheese. I know I didn't order blue cheese on my sandwich so I figured the only explanation was bad mayonnaise. Not willing to risk food poisoning, I opted to throw the sandwich away and from that day forward, I had no interest in eating mayo on anything.

I began to rekindle my relationship with mayo while I was pregnant. I found myself craving it. Really, I was craving sandwiches in general which apparently you are not supposed to eat because of the nitrates that can be found in lunch meat. Actually, you can eat lunch meat as long as you heat it in the microwave until it is steaming. Mmmmmm, hot, steamy lunch meat. I wasn't about microwave my cold cuts and since my brain is convinced that mayo is "gross" the baby must be wrong; I couldn't possibly want to eat a sandwich. Then one day at a birthday party, hugely pregnant and ravenous, I was presented with two choices: pre-made deli sandwiches and some kind of Thai peanut chicken satay. Normally I'm a fan of chicken satay but turns out the baby was not and suddenly I was very much aware that there was a peanut dish being served and not in a good way. So I said screw it and took a sandwich, baby poisoning nitrates and all. (Gasp! She what?? I know, I'm very irresponsible. But as far as I can tell he seems fine without any sort of noticeable twitches.)

The sandwich? DELICIOUS. But it was probably just a pregnancy thing, right? Turns out, not so much. There is an adorable little market down the street from our house that makes sandwiches so amazing that it makes me want to cry. But there's was something about the first sandwich I had from this place that was different and was even better than any of the sandwiches I had enjoyed before. Then I realized what I had done: I forgot to ask for no mayo.

So there you have it people! I LIKE MAYONNAISE!!! And I am not afraid to admit it anymore. Really, I am not all that surprised. Could I really blame the mayo for my bad sandwich? No. And how could I when it was my fault that I chose to purchase food from from a restaurant that I have actually used to describe how gross something else is that is not that restaurant (i.e. "Ugh. Nasty. It smells like a Togo's in here.")

Do I wish that it wasn't mayo that I started to like again and something slightly more healthy like say raw fennel or wheat grass smoothies? Sure. And you know, maybe I will come around on those things too someday. I wonder what they would taste like with mayo on them?

(Stay tuned for my next post which I shall call, "Why Heather is Sad and Needs to Exercise More.")