He looks just like you.

“He looks just like you!” I hear that the first time most friends see my son. And truth be told, he does. He has my eyes, my face shape…but he also has my Grandmother’s nose and my Mother’s dimples. It makes me wonder what else he has from us beneath the surface. How similar are we?

If someone from your family also purchases a kit from 23andMe and elects to share their data with you a new world of comparison is revealed. On the 23andMe website you can literally compare genes.

I am currently sharing my information with my Mother and my Grandmother. Within the genome sharing section I can compare all of our genes and compare how similar we are too each other. Compared to my Mother we are 84.40% similar. Interestingly enough I am just a tad more similar to my Grandmother.

I find this scientific spell out fascinating as it pretty much validates a decades long running joke within our family that I am JUST like my Grandmother. We like the same foods, we have the same outgoing personalities, and we both have freakish needs to be early.

I have always thought that since I am like Grandmother that my kid would grow up with a personality like my Mother’s. It would only be fair that she be rewarded with a Grandson that was an adventurous, tree-climbing, barefoot walking playmate when she had to endure years of my annoying clock watching.

But when you are talking genetics, just who will my son favor?  Will he have the same endurance that Grandmother and I have or will his circadian rhythm match my Mother’s?

I am curious about who my son will become, but worry that I won’t let him just be without trying to make every quirk or trait a direct link to someone in our family. Will anything just be his? At what point does uniqueness come into play.

What if he spat into a tube and we sent it off and eventually found out that he has sky-high genetic compatibility with one of us? If he were to know that information would it change the way he grew up?

I will admit that when I was younger being told that I was just like my Grandmother was not an ideal for me. When I was a little girl my Grandmother was an overwhelming force. She was involved with so many organizations, often as the head, and commanded a lot of respect. She loved to cook but hated anyone being in the kitchen with her to slow her down. She was tough, unyielding, and bossy.

If someone told me that I was just like Grandmother I would stop what I was doing and do the opposite. If she was zagging then by Jove I would zig!

But eventually, as I grew into my own person, I was able to see where the overlaps were. Sure she was stern where I was, well, not- but at the core we both wanted to be liked and valued. And while she liked the kitchen to herself and I liked an audience, we both liked to cook and entertain.

I have been thinking a lot about at what point my son should be given this extra bit of information from our genetic family tree. It seems harmless to tell him that he has my eyes, but I worry about telling him about some of the more hard-wired genetic links. I mean at what point do you share the family’s history of depression and dementia? And by sharing do you help or hurt? Does knowing about a genetic predisposition hamper organic growth?

Optimism and me

This weekend my Mother and I watched Michael J. Fox’s special on optimism. Irony of irony we watched it after having a bit of a conversational blowup (my way of saying I instigated a fight) and dripping in sweat. Have I mentioned that our air conditioner has decided not to work? Have I mentioned it happened on late Thursday thus making the next available appointment for assistance to be Monday afternoon? Have I mentioned I live in Florida and that we are currently in a heat wave? As in 90+ five days in a row.

So there we sat, in our den, with the blinds closed tightly keeping out the sun and the ceiling fan whirring around on warp speed. Mother reclined with an ice pack on her chest and I mopped sweat from my everywhere while trying not to pass out from the warmth generated by my adorable baby.

In other words we were in quite the right place for a TV special on optimism.

And wouldn’t you know, as the program progressed, I did find that my mood had lightened. I found that I was not as oppressed with the heat. I found that I was able to talk to Mother without picking a fight. Half way through the program Michael brings up the question about whether or not optimism is genetic. He believes it is and then goes as far as to tell his wife that if his kids aren’t optimistic, well then it is all her fault.

And while 23andMe is still in research mode as far as genotyping a happy gene, they do offer an interesting survey regarding optimism. I took the survey (go science, go!) and now know that, like the majority of other people that took the test that I am of average optimism. But it made me wonder about the 23% that found out that they are more optimistic than average and the 18% that has been told that they are less optimistic than average.

If I told you that I feel like you are just not a happy person wouldn’t that depress you?

When I was pregnant with W I was very aware of when I was optimistic and when I wasn’t. While I was dealing with infertility and having to bounce back after each failed cycle I was told by many people that I just needed to think positive, have hope, visualize success. All things that made me want to scream. But when I got pregnant I worried that if I didn’t exist in a state of permanent glow and bliss that I was going to doom myself with pessimism.

It’s a kind of manic place to be when you are constantly trying to freeze frame a correct state of emotions. And is the person who is freaking out on the inside but grinning on the outside having a better quality of life?

Still I tried to be happy even when I wasn’t. I had this notion that I was passing off my energy via some sort of pregnancy osmosis and that if I laughed the baby would, if I cried so would the baby. It was a logic that I felt was solid based on the fact that other people’s emotions affect me pretty deeply. If I see someone upset I get upset, if I see someone grinning their ass off you can bet I will start to smile.

And now when W is calm or excited a part of me feels like I helped brew him that way from within. And if he grows up optimistic I will be happy. Kind of like how our Moms have always told us, “I’m happy if you’re happy.”

Want to know if how you measure up with optimism? You can find out within the survey section of 23andMe.

It’s more of a turquoise than a blue.

Something you will start to hear about all the time after you give birth is the oddly phrased “Baby Blues”. I have been asked about the BB’s by every health care professional that I have encountered in the four weeks since I delivered WW. The nurse at his pediatrician’s office, the lab techs at my OB’s office – they all want to know how I am feeling, if I have the “baby blues”.

You would think this sort of constant asking would bend towards annoying, but to be honest every time someone asks I feel really relieved.

I have only very recently come to terms with the fact that depression is just going to be a part of my life. It has affected pretty much everyone in my family for as long as I can remember. I managed to delay an actual diagnosis of it until I was fully ensconced in my care giving role for my Grandmother. Then it hit me pretty hard.

We had just moved to Florida and I was dealing with sorrow over my infertility, moving away from good friends, generic malaise over being single in my 30’s, and mostly drained from the tedium of taking care of GM.  I was crying daily and for no obvious reason. I had no desire to leave the house, meet new people, or even change my clothes.

It took a lot of strength to realize that I needed help. When I finally made an appointment to sit down with my stoic family doctor I knew I would not make it through coherently. So I sat down and wrote down everything that I felt was going wrong and how ill equipped, emotionally, I felt to deal with things. Ten minutes into my appointment my doctor had diagnosed me with something called Caregiver’s Depression. The diagnosis came with medication, which I consumed for two months until all of my emotions were numb. Then I stopped taking them.

A year or so later I was again swallowed up by depression. This time I felt pretty aware about the cause- a miscarriage. A miscarriage after an IVF that I had saved and saved for. So with the bleeding came this horrible doom and gloom feeling that I could never afford to try again, that I would never become a Mother. I went back to the doctors (this time a new one) and after listening to me we started a dialogue about depression. We also discussed depression and hereditary- which was oddly calming. This doctor felt that I could possibly determine what medication would be most effective for me based on the medication that other members of my family were on.

So I went on a different medication and within a month I started to feel like I could breathe again. I was still sad, but the sadness was not taking over every moment of my day. I felt like I could make it through. I continued taking the medication (with my doctor’s approval) through my next round of fertility treatments (a frozen embryo transfer).

But once I found out I was pregnant I felt like I needed to stop the medication. Not because someone told me I should, but because I had a desire to make my body as free from medicine as possible.

And I did pretty well for the first and second trimester. I was a bit anxious about all things related to the pregnancy, but it felt like a normal kind of anxious. And then I landed in my third trimester and everything became unhinged. I felt like I was going to be the worst mother ever. I felt like everything was a mistake. I felt like my entire world was out of my control. (This also coincided with Grandmother’s health seriously declining- so I was stressed from all sides of life)

At a routine OB visit around 28 weeks I “confessed” to my doctor that I was feeling really anxious and that I was worried that I would have post partum depression big time. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find any joy in the baby or life as a Mother. I worried about everything. So we talked about the medication that I had been on before and we decided that it might be best to go back on the meds. (The meds are on a safe list for meds to take through pregnancy and breastfeeding)

And again, within a month, I was back to feeling better. I no longer felt like my world was caving in and I felt better equipped to face the changes that were just around the corner.

But once I gave birth I felt like a countdown clock began ticking. Every morning I wake up wondering if it will be the day that severe post partum depression will find me.

I was surprised to discover that my 23andMe genetic analysis did not show a genetic predisposition for depression. Knowing that it is something that I have in common not only with Grandmother, but Mother as well makes me wonder if there is a marker there that just hasn’t been, well, marked.

I am still waiting for post partum depression to find me. I know that it can, even as I arm myself with medication. But in a way I am not as afraid of it as I feared I might be. In every other circumstance depression has blindsided me. Now I feel like I have a well-lit flashlight at the ready to keep the darkness at bay.

But I wonder about other women that have a family history of depression. How do they make it through their pregnancy? Are they just as anxious about post partum depression? I also look forward to 23andMe doing more research on depression and pregnancy.  For now I don’t feel blue. It’s more of a turquoise.

Opting in

One of the reasons that I was so eager to participate in the 23andMe experience should be pretty obvious to you. Living with and caring for a person with Alzheimer’s disease is brutally difficult. You see things and clean up messes that you could never have anticipated. You become close to a person on their most base level – and often that closeness is not something that you celebrate. And while there is not yet a clear “Alzheimer’s gene” to test for I was driven by a desire to know if there were any other long-term scary health variables that I should brace myself for. I didn’t want a surprise. And while I know having an increased genetic risk does not spell out a diagnosis- it does make you alert and aware. And after the sneak attack of Grandmother’s Alzheimer’s awareness was what I wanted/needed.

I think some of the trepidation that people might have about genetic analysis is this notion that the results are relayed to you in a wham bam sort of way. That couldn’t be farther from the reality with 23andMe. The results are displayed in a very, well, almost mellow tone. And nowhere does it ever say something like, “you have cancer”. Instead the reports deal in percentages and averages. You have either an increased risk or a decreased risk- and all of that is relative to what is considered a “normal” risk.

These percentages are all one click away for disease risks for Celiac or carrier status on things like Cystic Fibrosis. But there are some reports that 23andMe understands can be more complicated. There is a vast difference in learning about eye color predispositions than say the BRCA cancer mutations. This is where “opting in” comes in to play.

Opting in is beyond a one-click moment. It is a, “are you sure you want to know?” and then a “are you really sure?” and then a  “ok before you view your data you need to know…” If you have raw emotions about some of the opted in data I wouldn’t click through by yourself. In fact if I had real, on the verge, anxiety about what my genetic analysis would reveal I wouldn’t read any of the reports without a support system.

23andMe tries to brace you along the way and I feel that they do a pretty good job about it. There is TONS of information given and a very active and involved community exchanging comments on a wide variety of scientific and emotional levels.

When I saw that there was an opt in for information on the BRCA cancer mutations I barely even had a moment of pause before I was clicking on through. Tell me! Tell me! I clicked on to the report and was then taken to an informational page about breast and ovarian cancer. The page was extremely detailed in not only explaining what the gene mutations are, but also what it means- and doesn’t necessarily mean. There is also a very detailed sort of checklist to read through to consider before continuing on to read your personal genetic data.

At the very bottom of this checklist page is another place to click to progress forward with the revealing of the information. I read through all of the things on the list and felt confident that I could handle the knowing of such potentially scary information. And then there it was, my results, and it was ok. No copies of the three early onset breast and ovarian cancer mutations were identifiable. Huge, massive, fantastic moment of exhale there.

But it did make me wonder- what if I was a carrier or at an increased risk? Would I then be obligated to share this information with my son? Maybe “obligated” isn’t the right word- but I would certainly share any and all information with WW once he is of age to comprehend genetics and health. If anything this information is just another thing to be on the look out for. While I don’t seem to be a carrier of the BRCA mutations, I am a carrier for something called hemochromatosis. And already that awareness has come into play in connecting some of the dots in the liver health of my family (both Mother & GM have unusual liver issues which are believed to be genetic).

Knowing that I need to be aware of my liver health is a sort of power. It has empowered our family and it will continue to be information passed on to my son.

And while we are still waiting for the science to catch up in terms of pinpointing an Alzheimer’s gene everyone in my family is hyper aware about being prepared for the disease. We tease each other about eating brain food and doing crossword puzzles to keep sharp. We may not have the research reports yet, but our awareness to be at the ready is in full force.

New research reports are filed all the time within your 23andMe health and traits section so you know that as soon as the research is ready it will be available for viewing.

Marked for life

The first few months of my pregnancy were filled with deep thoughts about how to be the healthiest version of myself as possible. I ingested prenatal vitamins with a fantastic fervor and diligently added extra doses of folic acid and dhea. I watched what I ate and watched my hair turn white as I piously avoided the siren call of tawny auburn hair dye. I cut out the fully loaded giant mug of coffee and walked briskly past the wine aisle at my local grocery store. If a magazine article or cable television show endorsed a product for a pregnant woman I was all about checking it out.

I was maybe in my 8th week of pregnancy when I became caught up in the quest to avoid stretch marks. Every prenatal magazine in the OB’s office and every other commercial on women’s health television shows featured multiple images of pregnant women with flawlessly smooth and beautifully perfect bellies. Not a stretch mark could be found.

I purchased several different tubes and jars of goop and rubbed my ample gut morning, noon, and night in the hopes that the pink lines would fade away and no more would emerge. I researched on line with the all encompassing, “how to prevent stretch marks” google search and found several suggestions to help keep the marks at bay: don’t gain more than 25 pounds, wash the area that you wish to avoid stretch marks vigorously with a body brush, drink buckets of water, take your vitamins…

The weight gain was an oddly easy thing to check off my list- for some odd reason I was losing weight (perhaps a perk of starting out bloated from fertility treatments?) Gold star for that. I scrubbed my gut and thighs thoroughly to increase circulation- another gold star. I drank giant vats of water all day- couldn’t get enough of the stuff and, as I already bragged, I was all about my vitamins. Surely I would make it to the end of my pregnancy with a picture perfect and photo ready belly.

And then the due date message board that I frequented started filling up with threads looking to share “belly shots”. I clicked through image after image of thin women with round and taut and immaculate bellies. I lifted up my already plus sized shirt and grimaced at the faint beginnings of something that I would soon become fascinated/horrified over. Stretch marks- they had found me.

And if I said that I instantly embraced them, well, clearly you know I would be lying. I had struggled for so many years to achieve a healthy and viable pregnancy that I found myself almost expecting the experience to be the complete opposite of the emotional agony of infertility. I felt, oh hell, I will admit it, entitled. I wanted perfect skin, I wanted to glow, I wanted strangers to coo and fuss over me. Instead I managed to make it almost to my due date before people started noticing I was pregnant and not just packing on the holiday pounds.

Of course I knew the stretch marks would find me. But I had hopes. Sadly like my wide hips and alabaster complexion I knew that I would end up with the same pregnancy body tattoos that all the women in my family had. By the time I was starting my 3rd trimester most of my hips and stomach were covered in rips and ripples of varying shades of pink stretch marks.
I continued to pine over the smooth and rippleless pregnant bellies that mocked me everywhere. But at some point, I can’t even remember when, I began to stop caring. There was this sort of mental shift that’s sole purpose was to act as a vacuum cleaner sucking up the foolish bits of anxiety that I had been carrying around. I stopped apologizing to the nurses and doctors that examined my stomach during my prenatal care. I stopped gooping my gut with creams and lotions and started caressing my expanding growth with love and anticipation.

The stretch marks are now a tactile link between not only my son and me, but also a genetic connection with my Mother and Grandmother. With so many other anxieties that found their way into my mind during pregnancy I hate that I wasted so much energy on the vanity of stretch marks. I wish I had just accepted that they were inevitable from the get go and gone on about my business. And by business I mean lusting after soft cheeses and Belgium beer.

The fantastic thing is that 23andMe is all about researching many of the not so fun accessories of pregnancy. Sure we are told by books and magazines and even our own Mother’s that stretch marks will happen, but 23andMe is about the science of it all.

Leafing out the Family Tree

So I’ll be the first to admit it, my family tree is a bit lop-sided. The top of my tree is incredibly leafed out and present, but once you climb on down to my branch the limb is a bit sparse and empty. I owe the lush bit at the top to all of the work my Grandparents did in researching our genealogy. They spent years and years tracking down our ancestors and then beautifully compiled all of their data and research into many thick binders. These would be the very binders that I went to for the selection of various pet names and then later to research a good and unique family name for Snork.

Usually a person can look up in their tree and see two strong and hearty limbs above them, the mater and the pater limbs. In my tree I have just the one limb, the mater. And while I don’t feel like half of a person for not knowing my Father, I do feel a sense of missing when it comes to genetic information. Back at my tree I look down and see that Snork will have the same missing limb situation and I cringe with worry.

I think this is a huge reason why I was so drawn to the data that 23andme could provide. And then this is where I confess how let down I was that when my data was available to view it didn’t provide any paternal genetic information. According to 23andme, “Because paternal ancestry is determined by the genetics of the Y-chromosome – there is no way to trace a woman’s male lineage using her own DNA.” And that was utterly deflating.

But then I began to wonder how I could begin to sketch in my missing tree limbs so when 23andme offered to send tests for Mother and GM I was ALL OVER it. Once their data is in I could use some sort of genetic data math to glean what was from my maternal line and what was from my paternal line. And even better once Snork is born and able to spit into a test tube he will unlock data about my Father as well as his.

Mother was extremely thrilled to get involved with this bit of genetic fun and took to spitting with excellent gusto. With all of the health drama she has endured (epic long battle to get a proper diagnosis for her MS springs to mind) she has a unique perspective on the power of information.

Then it was time to get Grandmother involved and I have to tell you I was all kinds of anxious about that. I mean, seriously, imagine presenting a test tube to your genteel Grandmother and telling her to hawk up some spit for science! Mother and I brought the test with us to the nursing home and together we explained what it was and what it could reveal. You should have seen her face light up with interest! It was like the perfect mixer to combine her two most favorite things: ancestry and science.

However the spitting was a bit of an issue. She didn’t quite get what we were after and an amusing demonstration from Mother and I simply, well, amused her. After, I kid you not, thirty minutes, she was in the swing of things and making a dent on filling up the tube to the marked spot. And damn did she feel triumphant about finishing!

We sent the tubes off to 23andme and should have results in several weeks. I have already clicked on a link within their site that will connect (share) the genetic data once it is ready. And just typing that made me a weird sort of giddy.

The thing is, I don’t often talk about my feelings about not being raised with a father. I mean it is no secret that I owe all that I am to my amazing single Mother and my very present maternal Grandparents. My Grandfather, especially, was actively a part of my life and most likely filled any unseen gaps that I might have had in terms of paternal influence. He was the ideal male role model in every way and it makes me terribly sad that he isn’t here to see me pregnant.

I am also sad that the Snork won’t have either a Grandfather or a Father. When I learned that Snork was a boy this was one of the first things I thought about- how there isn’t really a solid source of maleness for him to learn from. And then I wonder if I would have had this feeling if Snork were a girl…

I know that genetics don’t determine all that we are or all that we can be, but just the not knowing feels off balance. Having some guides, clues and answers from the genetic analysis will hopefully make my tree fuller.

A Southern Girl Learns to Spit

As a properly raised Southern girl I was never educated on the delicate way to spit. Even during times where spitting would be moderately acceptable (bad food, flu epidemic, or dentist visits) I just never got the hang of it. Growing up in a world where little girls spoke only when spoken to and always minded their elders, spitting was a gateway into a world of ick.

I remember an afternoon in an Alabama summer sitting in the backyard with Grandfather. He had grown a fantastically sized watermelon and we were not allowed to consume it inside the house. Oh the mess! So we trotted out to the secluded backyard, me with a roll of paper towels clutched to my chest, and he with a well sharpened knife. He carved out a hunk and we both applauded the mess. And then we sat there, side by side, munching. And when a seed was met we both took great care to not indicate it. There was no boisterous contest to launch the seeds from our mouth- it was dignified and clandestine removal.

So when I decided to participate in a very exciting genetic experience I realized, with a bit of a groan, that I would have to spit. Plus side: I could do it in private. Minus side: I would have to do it.

But I have to say once I began the spitting into the cute tube that 23andme provides I kind of got into it. It was, dare I say it, liberating. Fun even. I kept wishing there was a cartoon sound effect that the classics used to use when a character would launch expelled tobacco into a spittoon. Spit-DING! And in under 3 minutes I had filled the tube to the indicated mark. Me, a dutiful and mindful full-time Granddaughter, SPIT. And liked it.

The kit is really nifty. It arrived at the beginning of my 23rd week of pregnancy, which I found to be amusing. It comes in a brightly colored box that looks like it might contain fancy chocolates. (alas, it does not) You would think that the collection process of a DNA test would be overwhelming and full of complicated steps. But that was certainly not the case. If anything the entire thing unfolds in a very simple and easy to understand way.

Here I am with my kit. It comes with your name and a claim code # on it.

see?! Isn’t it cute? And yet no candy is inside…

step one, before spitting fun, is to claim the kit on-line and set up your account. Takes under 2 minutes.

You see how everything is explained? Written directions, illustrations, labels.

Oh me, oh my, here I am SPITTING!

After adding the mixing liquid I check the contents out. Hello DNA!

The tube goes into an included bag which then goes into an included shipping pouch. Easy!

And in several weeks I will have answers and insight into parts of me that I have only dreamed about. I am hoping that I can connect with other people looking for the same kind of information. Who are we?

worth it

This toy from Haba, the Click Clack Ball Track, costs a lot of money but he has played with it every single day since Christmas. He would have been happy with the holiday if all he had received were his guitar and this. If you are rolling in it or looking for a beautiful, well-made, worth-it toy for your toddler, this fits the bill. And rolling balls down the tracks is strangely meditative for adults, too.

“Oh World, You are Beautiful Without Me”*

On Friday we packed a bag, threw our Unbelievably-Cranky Kid (UCK) in the car, and headed off to Moab, UT, for the Moab Folk Music Festival. First, though, we dropped the UCK off at her grandparents’ house.

We had been in Moab just a month before for a friend’s wedding, and while there we saw posters for this music festival. We were intrigued, because we love open-air music festivals, but when we saw that the headliner was GREG BROWN!!! we just had to go. We love Greg Brown so much that if he were to so much as crook his little finger in our general direction we’d dump Mallow in order to try to have Greg’s baby (good thing Mallow would treat little Greg or Gregina Jr. the same as Sassa).

The festival was set up so that at night there were concerts in two indoor venues (same artists at alternating venues so everyone could see them if they wished), with the daytime containing concerts at the ball field. Moab is quite a bit south of SLC, so the weather was warm enough to be outside if you dressed well, and we were informed that rain, shine, or snow, the band would play on. We packed sweaters and jackets and hats and gloves and blankets and umbrellas. In our minds we were really going to to see Greg, and the indoor concerts were bonus.

Moab is a 4 hour drive from SLC, through windy mountain roads, and we’d been late in leaving, so we arrived in Moab about an hour and a half later than we wanted. We’d wanted to see Christine Lavin, and we got there half way through her set. The will-call booth was closed, and as I’d bought our tix on-line, we were empty handed when we arrived at the hall. We could hear her singing from the lobby and didn’t have tix in hand, but luckily I was wearing this shirt (and yes, I know that link uses my real name, it’s ok), so the guy at the door just let us right in.

Christine was great, so we listened to the rest of her set. There were no seats, though since we were so late, and we were hungry (or, Klove was hungry as I no longer need to eat) so we left to go forage for food.

This is the part where I break in and talk about how great it was that I was in such a great mood this whole weekend. Klove and I were able to really get closer, have deep conversations, laugh, and have fun again. We haven’t just let go in a long time. The last time we went on a romantic weekend away we ended up in the car accident that let to the Unbloggable…

The next day we slept in and then wandered around Moab for a bit. Now, Moab is a very popular tourist attraction because of its proximity to Arches National Park and Dead Horse Point National Monument, as well as all the slickrock biking, rock climbing, hiking, and 4 wheeling. But strangely enough, their tourist season is in the summer. I say “strangely” because Moab is hotter than hades in the summer, and yet during the spring and autumn the weather is beautiful, the town is deserted, and you’ve got the trails to yourself (mostly, since locals know the secret). Not that I want people to come ruin our sublime springs and falls here.

Saturday night we were scheduled to see Ferron. Now, I love Ferron, but had never seen her in person. We were interested in seeing her, but it, again, wasn’t our primary goal. But. BUT. But. She was freaking amazing. She was so personable, so funny, so unpretentious. And that morning she’d done a jam session with Karen Savoca and Pete Heitzmann and apparently it had gone so well she’d invited them to play wiht her that night. I had intended on getting up and seeing that jam session, but was distracted that morning and didn’t. I’m so glad that Ferron is confident enough to share her gig with someone else, because the three of them on stage together was mind blowing! I had the hugest grin on my face and kept screaming and clapping and squeezing Klove. It was audio ecstacy and I transcended. It ended way too soon.

After they left the stage, there was no way the next guy could compare, so we left, too, and wandered back to our hotel room.

The next day was Greg Brown day. But right before him Karen Savoca and Pete Heitzmann played again. Again, I was transfixed. Such amazing sounds! The concert was full, but not packed, and most of the people in attendance were locals (meaning from 6 hours or so in each direction… Utah can’t claim sole ownership of Moab even if we’d like to). There was dancing and kids doing cartwheels. The sky was grey and glowery but it couldn’t keep us down.

Then Greg Brown came on. Now, like I said, we love Greg Brown, but he seemed a little flat and low-key. And then he made comments about how you had to be careful of partying with Ferron and we understood that he was hungover. His stories from the night before had me cracking up. Ferron stole the show even after she’d left!

Still, Greg Brown is amazing even when he’s off, so the day ended with us being in a fantabulous mood and a determination that next year we’ll come back, bring our UCK and as many friends as we can crowd into the city, rent a house, and party hard with the folk singers. We sent in a huge list of people we hope they can get, and I want to tell any of you who know any muscians (coughgirlymancough) that the energy is rocking and Moab is unlike any other place in the world. Everyone should come… as long as I still get good seats and a shot at Ferron.

* Main refrain from a new Karen Savoca song that will be released on a CD next spring. I just can’t get it out of my head. It was so beautiful

The consumer whore report on healthy eating

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, (and by “you” I mean my fellow consumer whores who believe in supporting local business but are continually lured by the Siren Song of the Starbucks drive-through) but your friendly local international coffee chain is trying to go healthy. Are you familiar with the new menu items? Oatmeal with dried nuts and berries? The multi-grain roll? A dash of protein powder for your skinny latte? I am a regular drive-through customer, and I cherish the occasional morning commute that includes a one-on-one with a venti latte and an old-fashioned doughnut. But I’ve been reading up on health issues for my age group (holy shit, I turned 34 and I didn’t even mention it here!) and it occurred to me that my twice-weekly doughnut probably wasn’t the best medicine for my increasingly middle-aged organs. So last week I tried a few of the “healthy offerings” in lieu of my sugary little friend, and before you place your order for a fruit stella with its “juicy baked berries and omega-3s,” let me give you a Grade Adler-style woman-on-the-street review of the new menu: EW.

I like my latte, and I don’t care what you say about the tastelessness of protein powder–adding a dash of healthy to my java changes the way it tastes. And the multi-grain roll? I should not have to worry about breaking a tooth on a whole grain while experiencing the sensation of chewing 8-hour-old gum. The oatmeal wasn’t bad, but really, it would be difficult to screw up instant oatmeal. And what exactly IS a stella? Does calling it a stella make it more appealing than what it actually is, a pricey chewy fruit granola bar?

I find myself on the horns of a dilemma, and I have to say, I’m kind of used to sitting atop these particular horns. I know I should eat healthier food–more fruit and fewer mini Snickers bars, more whole grains and fewer doughnuts, more water and less diet Coke. But I don’t want to, plain and simple. It is an effort for me to plan ahead for this kind of eating. I like fruit, but it is messy and has to be cleaned; I have never had to wash a mini Snickers bar before popping it in my mouth, and while I actually LIKE drinking water, there is nothing quite like an icy cold diet Coke in the late afternoon. With a mini Snickers bar.

And yet. I want my daughter to have healthy eating habits. I want her to like eating fruit. I want her to prefer water over soda. She has never actually ingested soda (except for that one time when she was about 7 months old and leaned over and swigged a swallow right out of my straw, but that was not my fault becuase I was not aware she could drink from a straw!). She loves grapes and blueberries and apples. She drinks only milk and water, not even juice, and even though she has a serious ice cream addiction, I limit her consumption severely. I manage to set a good example by restricting my own bad eating habits to the car or my office, but I feel sort of like a scam artist. Okay, very like a scam artist. And I’m telling you about it because admission of a problem is the first step to fixing it, right? So I’m going to publicly declare my devotion to healthier eating, because a month from now, when I talk about how good that old-fashioned doughnut was on the ride to work, I fully expect one or more of you to make a snarky comment along the lines of, “Huh. I guess that healthy eating thing didn’t work out for you.”

But let me make one thing clear: I will not be adding protein powder to my occasional latte, and I will not be attempting to eat any more of those horrible rolls, and I can make instant oatmeal myself for a fraction of the cost. And also, just so you know, I will not be throwing out my mini Snickers bars, and when I break down and eat a handful at the end of a long day, I certainly won’t be talking about it here.

This post has been brought to you by our very first Guest Blogger, hd, from One Small Corner of the Universe. If you would like to be a guest blogger let us know!