I am back from the Yoga Journal Conference in Estes Park, Colorado.  I wish I was still enjoying the high after four days of yoga, but Newark Airport took care of that for me.  Let's just say that at midnight I don't want to hear that the baggage conveyor system is jammed, nor do I want to wait over an hour for it to be fixed, especially when the wait caused me to miss the three trains that would have gotten me home before 3 a.m.  Oh well, reality bites.

I had a great time in Colorado.  All the yoga classes I took were wonderful, but the yoga and rock climbing intensive was the best.  We started with an Ashtanga practice in the morning, then hiked up a steep path to the rock walls we were going to climb.  Even if I hadn't climbed, it was worth hiking up there just for the views. 

I did climb, though.  Rock climbing is much harder than it looks on television and in magazines.  The people in those magazine pictures are never sweating.  They are not bleeding from "rock kisses".  Their fingers are not raw from trying to grip the rock, and they do not have blood blisters on the ends of their toes.  There were two climbs I could not finish because I just couldn't figure out where to put my hands and feet next.  It was challenging both physically and mentally.

All that good yoga breathing comes in handy when you are hanging on the side of a mountain.  There were a few times when I had to fight panic.  Even though I couldn't fall far, thanks to the rope held on the ground by very capable (and very patient) young men, when I started to loose my grip my first instinct was to grip harder and hang on like my life depended on it.  It was quite an adrenaline rush.  Then I had to relax, breathe, and calmly look for someplace to put my feet. 

After we were finished climbing, we did another, gentler, yoga practice on top of the mountain.  We were without our mats, just barefoot on the rocks.  We even attempted headstands, leaving our hair full of tiny stones.  For savasana we just laid still, each of us touching another, and listened to the sounds of the wind rustling the aspen leaves, insects buzzing by, and breathing.  It was pure heaven.

I met some very nice people rock climbing, and spent more time with them at meals and in some of the classes.  Some of the women live not far from me, and we are hoping to get together next spring to try rock climbing again.  In the meantime, I plan on spending some time at the indoor rock climbing facility nearby, because I need some practice.  I am hoping that next year I can go back to Colorado and do the intensive again.

I am still trying to process everything I learned in the conference classes.  I tried to balance classes for my own practice with things I can use when I teach.  Interestingly enough, some of the classes I chose for myself provided the most ideas for my teaching, and the classes I chose for teaching gave me the most insight into my own practice.  I strongly believe that the universe always provides what we need, as long as we are open to receive it.  I am glad I approached all the classes without expectations for what they would teach, so I didn't miss the real lessons.

I came back from Colorado with a nice new meditation cushion, some good books, a few t-shirts, and lots of gratitude for the teachers who gave me so much while I was there.  Blessings to all my new friends.  I hope your trip home was better than mine.

In three days I'll be in Estes Park, Colorado, for the annual Yoga Journal conference.  I am bursting with excitement.  About ten years ago, I started telling myself that someday I was going to the Colorado conference.  This year, I stopped saying "someday" and said "now". 

I was supposed to go with a friend, but when the time came to register she decided she wasn't going.  I thought about waiting until next year, so I would have someone to go with, but then I realized anything could happen in the next twelve months.  I didn't want to miss this chance, so I am going by myself.  I will admit I'm a bit nervous about knowing no one, but I'm sure someone will talk to me.  I'm looking at it as an opportunity  to make a new friend or two.

This will be my first time in Colorado.  Seeing the Rocky Mountains is one of my "bucket list" items, so I'll get to check that off.  The first day I am taking a yoga and rock-climbing workshop.  Rock climbing is also on the list of things to do before I die, so I'll be making another check.  I've always wanted to rock climb on actual rock, since I've only ever climbed those walls with the screwed-in hand holds. 

Rock climbing feels like something I should be doing.  Whenever I see pictures of someone clinging to the side of a mountain in a magazine or catalog, in my mind I am right there with them.  My first time on the fake rock wall, I felt like I already knew what to do.  At the top, when you have to come back down by just sort of sliding down the rope, bouncing your feet off the wall, some people panic and freeze for awhile.  Not me.  Down was more fun than up, and I thought up was pretty fun.  Now, I am going to get to play on real rock.  The ten-day forecast promises sunshine.  I will actually be clinging to the side of the mountain, no longer having to imagine it.

I signed up for the conference on the first day of registration, because one of my other dreams is to take a class with Shiva Rea, and I'd heard her vinyasa classes fill up quickly.  She is on my schedule, as is John Friend, the founder of Anusara yoga.  I have a notebook with me so I can take notes right after the classes, to help me remember everything I learn from these master teachers.  I also have a class on handstands, because learning to do a handstand without using the wall is one of my yoga goals.

By this time next week, if all goes as planned - and it will - I will be on the plane heading for home and trying to think of some new goals for my yoga practice, and my life.  Now, I need to go put a couple pairs of yoga pants in my suitcase, and zip it up.  I am ready to go.  I just have to get through the next couple of days (one of which is my birthday!) without exploding.  Breathe, baby, breathe.

My camera is packed, and I promise pictures when I get back.

They say the bad stuff always comes in threes.  Friday night I was watching CNN's coverage of hurricane Ike and they broke in occasionally with the story about the train wreck in California.  That was two on the same night.  What would number three be?

Saturday morning CNN reported a plane crash in Russia.  Number three came.  The loss of life is awful, but at least we're off the hook for a bit.  I hope we are, anyway.  My thoughts are with the Texans who lost their homes and the Californians and Russians who lost loved ones.  I am reminded to be grateful for what I have. 

This evening I saw an update on the state of things in the Galveston area.  They were talking about the tremendous amount of resources being put into rescuing the dumb-asses who ignored the evacuation orders and are now trapped in flooded homes.  How many of these storms do we have to have before people start listening?  Why should my tax dollars be spent rescuing them now?  If they'd left, and it wasn't as bad as predicted, what's the worst that would have happened?  They would go home the next day and go on with their lives after a minor inconvenience.  Instead they stayed, and it wasn't as bad as predicted, but still pretty bad.  So now they are sitting on their roofs waiting for someone to fly by in a helicopter and pull them off.  Thousands and thousands of dollars are being spent to save their sorry asses.  That money could be much better spent feeding and sheltering the families who had the sense to get out.

I'd tell them to start swimming, but the flood waters are full of sewage, debris, snakes, rats and - gulp! - alligators.  I wouldn't wish snakes and alligators on anyone, even the dumb-asses.  So I guess they will have to be plucked off their roofs. 

Today I also heard the theoretical cause of the train wreck.  Apparently, the engineer was busy texting when he should have been watching for the signal that would have told him a freight train was coming the other way.  He gave his life for that lapse in judgment.  It's unfortunate he had to take 24 others with him.  Engineers everywhere, please put down your cell phones and drive the trains.

I didn't hear anything more about the plane crash.  Apparently what's happening in Russia isn't as important as what's happening in the U.S.  I'm sure there's some coverage on the BBC, but I'm not going to look for it.  I don't want to hear that the pilot was looking at porn on his iPhone or whatever.  I'll just assume that engine failure or bad weather was the cause of the crash.

Otherwise I'll know that stupidity also comes in threes.

Last week the kids went back to school.  I am mourning summer's passing, but enjoying the excitement of the kids' new adventures.  My oldest started high school and my youngest started kindergarten, so they are both having new experiences.  Of course, back-to-school brings piles of work for me.  There are forms to fill out, homework needs to be checked, and mornings get frantic while I try to get everyone out and onto the right bus.  I thought I knew which bus was which, but my son thought otherwise.

During the summer, my soon-to-be-kindergartener got to go to "school bus orientation".  This was an hour at the elementary school where they taught the kids about being safe at the bus stop, told them what would happen when they arrived at school, and let them take a ride on a bus.  For my son, and the other kids who had been in daycare, riding the bus was no big deal.  They've been on a bunch of field trips and are quite familiar with the inside of a school bus.  So the first day of school arrives, and he's up the steps and into the bus without even a look back at me.  I was happy with how easy that was.  I should know better.

We only have half day kindergarten, so he rides another bus over to the day care center for the afternoon, and I pick him up there after work.  When I picked him up that day, the first thing my son says is "Mommy, did you know you put me on the wrong bus?"  My stomach immediately starts to flip as I run through the morning again.  I was sure I'd checked the bus number, and the other kids all seemed little.  The bus driver surely would have said something if I put a really small kid on the middle school bus, right? 

So I asked, "Didn't that bus take you to kindergarten?"

"Yes, I went to kindergarten, but there were BIG kids on the bus."

Ahhh.....  I'd found a flaw in their school bus orientation program.  They never told the kids that they'd be riding on the bus with the rest of the elementary school kids.  My son assumed that the bus would only have other kindergarteners, and was freaked out being on the bus with a bunch of kids who were taller than him.  It had to be the wrong bus.

The first thing out of his mouth the next morning was "Mommy, I hope you don't put me on the wrong bus today."

I tried to explain that it was the right bus, and the bigger kids were okay.  He shook his head. 

"What's wrong with the big kids?" I asked.

"They stared at me.  And some of them said HELLO."

Oh, the horror of it.  It was hard not to laugh. 

We stood on the bus stop, and my son seemed okay.  When the bus pulled up, he took one look at the kids behind the line of windows and ran the other way.  I caught him, and had to carry him onto the bus, put him in his seat, and strap him in with the seat belt.  At least he wasn't screaming.  The bus driver was chuckling as I got off the bus and he made some comment about my son's mastery of passive resistance.  I watched my son through the window as the bus pulled away.  He never even looked up.  I spend the day feeling guilty.

That was Friday, so, with a weekend to think about it, I expected my son to be more creative in his resistance Monday morning.  The bus pulled up, and he climbed right on, then smiled and waved as the bus left.  I was stunned.  He is so fickle.  He must get that from his father.

My daughter missed the bus the second day of school, but we were able to catch up with it at the next stop, so it wasn't a big deal.  It took her three days to figure out how to open her locker.  She has piles of homework already.  At least she isn't complaining about the big kids.  I imagine it won't be long before she is dating one of them.  I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

I am fairly certain I am not sane.  My husband agrees, and so does my mother.  I've always been alittle off, but turning 40 seems to have pushed me over the line into the "clearly insane" zone.  I'm not complaining.  It's much more fun over here, and the last eleven months have been more interesting than the 40 years that came before.  In case you don't believe me, here's what I've been up to.

After fifteen years of thinking about it, I got a tattoo.  It's on my back, by my shoulder, and not very small.  I couldn't see any reason to go through the trouble of getting a tattoo if it was going to be some teeny, hidden thing.  I chose a butterfly with a crescent moon, to commemorate this very transformative year.

This picture was taken a couple of hours after it was done.  It doesn't look quite so gooey now.  It didn't hurt nearly as much as I had expected it to.  I focused on my breathing, and for awhile I was close to going to sleep.  The tattoo artist, Jamie, was very gentle, and she has a very comfortable table.  I think she does great work.  You can check out her stuff here:  www.jammerdesignz.com.

I've taken on a second weekly yoga class.  The second class is on Sunday mornings, and it is very gentle and meditative, which is a very different style for me to teach.  I find that I have to be more creative with the gentle class than I do with my regular hatha class, to keep it interesting while limiting the asanas to the easier twists and stretches.  I've been trying to come up with a theme for each class, tying the mediation and asanas together.  So far I think I'm doing okay. 

Working full time and teaching two yoga classes a week should be enough, right?  Well, it's not.  I miss the pressure of yoga teacher training, and I need some kind of challenge to motivate me to exercise.  This week I came up with it.  In 2009, I am going to do a triathlon.  I've put together a training plan for the next ten months, which I think I can squeeze in with everything else.  For the first one, I'm not hoping to be competitive; I just want to finish.  So next week, I start running again.  In a couple of weeks, I will add biking once a week.   The county college where I teach yoga has an indoor pool which I can use for $10 a month, so I'll add the swimming in a month or two.  When I am running 2 miles, twice a week, biking five to eight miles a week, and swimming 200 yards without stopping, I can move to the beginner triathlon training plan I found at www.trinewbies.com, which is the best site I found for a beginner.

My husband told me to go for it.  He'll be on the sidelines, cheering me on.  I am looking forward to the workouts, now that I have a goal in mind. 

In less than a month, I'll be 41.  The day after my birthday, I am flying to Colorado for the Yoga Journal Conference.  I'm going a day early for a pre-conference all-day intensive - yoga and rock climbing.  I've only climbed on an indoor rock wall, and I've always wanted to try on real rock.  I can't think of a better way to usher in the next year, which I know is going to be great.  More transformation and growth is on the way, and maybe I'll slip further into the insanity zone.  Sorry Mom, but sane is just way too boring.

After a week of much needed vacation, followed by an unwelcome, but probably also needed in some weird way, bout with a stomach flu, I got back to cleaning out.  This time it was my daughter's room - that scary teenage place behind a door that's been closed since she left for camp.  The first thing I had to do was open the door.  This was not the mental or emotional exercise you might expect.  I actually had to shove the door against the pile of old notebooks, laundry and who-knows-what-else on the floor until it opened wide enough for me to get in.  That accomplished, the next challenge was deciding where to begin.

It took me ten hours and four very large garbage bags, but the bedroom looks like a bedroom now.  The bed is made.  The closet doors and dresser drawers close.  From the bottom of a pile of what I suspect were clean clothes, I recovered three pairs of my socks, and a pair of pants which are a bit too big for me and therefore would fall down around my daughter's ankles if she actually tried to wear them.  I spent a few minutes contemplating why I hadn't missed them sooner.

It is always difficult for me to decide what goes and what stays in her room.  I know she has memories attached to some things, including many I am not aware of.  She also hoards things just to have them.  I could tell, by how thick the layer of dust was, how long it had been since she'd touched some things, yet I felt sad adding them to the garbage bag.  These things represent a childhood that is rapidly coming to an end. 

I tossed cotton candy pink lip gloss and sparkly silver eye shadow.  These remnants of playing dress-up have been replaced by black eyeliner and lipsticks in more sophisticated colors.  Into the bag went old stuffed animals and leftover accessories for dolls that have already been passed to younger cousins.  In one drawer I found her cassette walkman, which hasn't seen the light of day since the iPod was invented. 

I wasn't heartless.  There is a row of stuffed animals smiling down from the shelf in the closet.  I resisted flipping through the various journals I came across, and tucked them into the drawer next to her bed with a few pens, so they'd be ready when the first boy breaks her heart.  I didn't remove a single book from her room, instead finding storage for them all in a trunk that used to house beanie babies and crayons.  Letting go of books is a difficulty we share.  We will have to discuss the book from the school library, though.  I believe it's a bit overdue.

When I was finished, I flopped onto her bed and watched a swallowtail flit from flower to flower in the butterfly garden outside her window.  The stale air that had been trapped behind the closed door was moving out, replaced by a breeze blowing in the open windows.  The room smelled fresher, felt more open, and looked brighter.  I know she won't appreciate it when she comes home, and will probably have it messy again in a few days, but for the next two weeks I get to enjoy looking at it.  And maybe, just maybe, she will make her bed once or twice, now that she can see it.

Tonight I taught the last yoga class of my first 10 week session at the local community college.  We start another session in September, but in the meantime I am already missing my students.  Many are coming back for the next session, but some, for various reasons, aren't available.  I hate to lose any of them; I love them all.

When I think back to the beginning of the session, I remember how nervous I was.  They had all committed to 10 weeks, so I had to make sure they didn't hate me after the first class.  None of them hated me, as far as I know.  They all showed up every week and brought their laughter and questions and eagerness to learn.  The group made it so easy for me.  I challenged them, and, if the asana was too much for them, they sat there and laughed.  As the weeks went on I watched them settle into meditation.  I got them to chant "om".  It was such a joy to work with a group of beginners and see them improve.

Three students showed up early tonight and brought me a present.  I was so touched, I was afraid I would cry.  Have I mentioned how much I love my students? 

I truly believe that the universe gives you what you need and all you have to do is be open to receive it.  The universe brought me the perfect group of students to get me started on my yoga teaching journey.  For that, I am extremely grateful.

In August I'm taking over a Sunday morning class at the yoga studio.  I am looking forward to teaching there, but I am counting the days until my community college class starts again.  I guess the first one will always be dearest to me.

Last weekend we had two days that were relatively unscheduled, for a change.  It was too hot to do much outside, so I started on one of the jobs I've been putting off for months - cleaning out.  We have a finished basement that is the kids playroom as well as our office area and the laundry room.  For the past year or so, I've dealt with the mess down there by not looking at it.  I couldn't take more than a few steps into the room, anyway, without stepping on toys that littered the floor.  I understood why the kids never cleaned it up.  They had way more stuff than they had places to put the stuff, which to me says "too much stuff".  (George Carlin, rest in peace.) 

My husband calls the way I deal with a mess like this "cleaning with prejudice".  If I don't instantly see a reason to save it, out it goes.  There were many toys which even the little one has outgrown.  Those went to the curb, before garbage day, and are now spread around the neighborhood, probably into houses where there are also more toys than storage space, but at least they are out of mine.  Next, a huge bag was filled with anything broken, cracked, torn, incomplete, duplicated or just utterly useless.  The few things that remained went were they belonged.  Books went back on the bookshelves.  Tapes and DVDs back in the entertainment center.  Craft supplies went into their labeled containers.  After all that, I had an amazing discovery.  There is carpeting on the floor.  It had been so long since I'd seen it, I'd forgotten it was there.

Now I was on a roll, so I sent my husband to take our son to a birthday party, and started on my son's room.  There I learned an important lesson - when you ask a 4 year old to clean his room, make sure you are very specific about what gets cleaned up to where.  When I emptied his toy box, I discovered why he'd been running out of socks every week.  When he put things away in the toy box, everything on the floor went in the toy box.  After I cleaned out the floor of his closet, I had an entire load of laundry to do. 

When his room was done, the garbage cans were filled to overflowing and I had more old toys sitting out on the curb.  Before you decide I'm a terrible mother for throwing all my kid's stuff away, let me tell you about the giant plastic tub full of toys that had been my daughter's, which we had been saving until our son was old enough to play with them.  I put those toys in my son's room, so when he came back his room was clean AND had a bunch of "new" toys in it.  He was in heaven, and has been so busy playing with the new things that he didn't even notice what was missing. 

While my son is enjoying new playthings, I get to enjoy standing in neat, uncluttered places which had been chaotic last week.  I love the energy in clean rooms.  It's like the rooms are bigger and have more air in them, or something.  I can walk around without stepping on anything but the floor.  This is my nirvana. 

Another week of work, then we go on vacation.  When I come back, I should be rested enough to tackle my daughter's room.  She is gone for the rest of the summer, so I have time.  For now, I'm just leaving the door closed.

This past weekend I took my daughter to camp.  She'll be away for three weeks, have a week vacation with us, then spend three weeks with her grandparents at the lake.  I am so jealous.  I want to go to camp.

The camp she goes to is a quick seven hour drive from here.  (Yes, the "quick" part was sarcasm.)  Usually we try to work the trip in with a stop at our cabin, but with work schedules this year we couldn't work that out.  So I left my husband and son at home and made the trip with my fourteen year old.  I can't believe I'm writing this, but we had a blast.

My mother is a big Danielle Steel fan, and passes on audiobooks so we have something to listen to on long rides.  We were down to the bottom of the pile, and had to choose between Steel's Bungalow 2 and one that was guaranteed to make us cry.  We went with Steel, since usually her stories are somewhat entertaining.  Bungalow 2, however, is the worst piece of drivel I have come across in a long time.  The main character seemed to have the same thought over and over and over again.  We spent most of the ride yelling at the story, telling the woman to get over herself and move on already.  We could have turned it off, but we were having way too much fun criticizing the characters and predicting what would happen next.  By time we got to the motel Saturday night, we were a mother-daughter team, having bonded in our mockery of a poorly written story.

We settled into our room at the Best Western and, while we contemplated where to have dinner, my daughter booted up my laptop to test the wi-fi.  It worked, and she decided I needed to see some videos of Jeff Dunham, a ventriloquist, on YouTube.  He may be the funniest comedian I have seen in a long time.  I was doubled-over, tears streaming down my face.  We watched clips for two hours, then decided we really should eat, and ventured into the outskirts of Utica, NY, in search of a vegetarian dinner. 

After driving around for half an hour, and not finding anyplace that didn't have neon beer signs in the window, we gave up and headed back towards the hotel and the McDonalds next door, thinking we could at least eat salad and french fries.  Right before we reached the hotel, we stumbled on a pizza joint carefully hidden on a side street, and picked up some wonderful stuffed eggplant, mozzarella sticks, and pizza.  We ate in our room, watching more Jeff Dunham and trying not to choke. 

We flopped on our beds and my daughter flipped channels until she came across some gross real-life emergency room show, which she left on just to hear me say "ewwwww".  In the morning, we slept until 10, checked out, and headed to Denny's for breakfast. 

Denny's has wi-fi too, so we watched parodies of Shakira videos on my iTouch, sharing the headset, while we waited for our food.  I'm sure the people at the surrounding tables were wondering what was so funny.  The waitress gave us plenty of odd looks, especially after we told her to hold the bacon and sausage.  I don't think that happens often in Utica, but maybe I'm wrong and all the cows we passed on the way in are just there for the tourists to look at.

After Denny's we get back in the car, and back to mocking the story, and head towards camp.  Fifteen minutes later the rain started.  No drizzle, no summer shower, we got a downpour.  My daughter turned the story off at one point when we could no longer see the road.  She didn't want me to be distracted.  She's big on self-preservation.

The rain followed us all the way to camp, and it continued to downpour as we unloaded her bags and checked her in.  She abandoned me at registration to say hello to friends, and the reunion never came inside.  By the time I was finished, they were all soaked through, but didn't seem to care as they hugged and laughed and caught up on the year since they'd seen each other last.

I had to ask for a hug before I left, but I wasn't told to leave NOW, so I'm considering that a major breakthrough.  I said good-bye to my daughter and her dreadlocked counselor (this camp is such a cool place) and put the heat on in the car so my clothes would dry.  Then I set out in the rain for the seven hour drive home alone.

I wanted to stay.  The kids were having a great time, despite the rain.  I want to sleep in a cabin and gab to the other girls half the night and paint my toenails funky colors.  I want to flirt with the boys and swim and canoe and backpack.  I even want to pull leeches off and scratch mosquito bites until they bleed.  I want three weeks of something that feels more like freedom than being home, but, alas, someone has to pay for camp, so today I was back at work, missing my daughter more after the fun we had on the trip there. 

Tonight I am alone with my son; my husband is working late, again.  He's playing knight, and has converted the sectional into a fort, a process which involves every cushion ending up somewhere besides where it belongs.  A plastic spear just flew through the living-room, and the dogs are cowering under the dining-room table.  I no longer want to go to camp, but I am counting the years until he can go. 

Last week was a kick-ass week, in every sense of the phrase.  I took part in a 5-day Bryan Kest-style power yoga intensive.  I was at the studio at six a.m. every morning for a two hour yoga class in a very hot, very crowded room.  It was awesome.  We worked on advanced asanas I never see in any other classes, and, once my thighs stopped burning, I felt great.  Until Friday, but I'll get to that.

Work was crazy, which was annoying because it's not supposed to be crazy in June.  June is our quiet month, before it gets crazy in July.  I didn't appreciate the preview.

On top of that, I taught three yoga classes this week, including a level III vinyasa class.  I've never taught at that level before, so it was a bit scary, but I did okay.  It was practice so I can sub for my teacher when she is on vacation this summer.  The vinyasa class was Thursday night.  Friday morning, I woke up with a sore throat.

My husband has been working very long hours, due to a big system conversion scheduled for July 1st.  I haven't seen much of him over the past four weeks, and last week was the worst.  The only night he was home at a reasonable time was Tuesday night.  He was asleep before I got home from teaching, because he had a nasty cold.  Being the giving person that he is, he shared this cold with me and the kids.   I'll have to thank him when I start talking to him again.

Friday morning I dragged myself out of bed, with my sore throat and a low-grade fever, and made it to the last day of the yoga intensive.  It was probably my best practice of the week.  Apparently having a fever in a hot room really loosened up my muscles, because I have never been as open as I was on Friday.  Then I dragged myself to work, where the rest of the usual cold symptoms kicked in, and I alternately worked and blew my nose until five, when I went home and fell asleep.

Saturday's agenda was scrapped in favor of more sleeping.  By then the kids had the cold as well.  While my husband worked still more hours, we napped.  This morning I had to teach.  Luckily the Sunday morning class is very gentle, and we did a series of twists to wring this disease out of me.  My voice was hoarse, and at times gave out completely, so it was a quiet, meditative class.  One of the women said she found my scratchy voice very soothing, but I suspect she was just being nice.

My plan for this afternoon is to take another nap.  I am totally and completely wiped out.  I should get on my mat and continue the twists I started in class.  I should also eat some good food and drink some herb tea, but instead I downed an entire box of Girl Scout cookies and a pint of chocolate fudge Rice Dream (that's ice cream for the lactose intolerant).  Why do my healthy habits all disappear when I need them most?  My husband, who is home for a change, has gone out to buy some real food, since I didn't get it that yesterday.  While he's gone, the kids and I are going to make some orange Jell-O....for the vitamin C.....really......