Despite my fervent warnings, my 13 year old daughter is going to see her first scary movie today. I suppose I’ll need to make some room in my bed tonight.

It’s possible she will be like her father, who has no problem sitting in a dark house in the wee hours of the night while the TV flashes images unfit for my psyche. cough…Saw…cough. Popcorn and Paranormal Activity are not my idea of a good time.

My guess is that she’ll be more like me and won’t be able to wash the dishes without thinking someone is walking up behind her. Note: Always wash the steak knives last, so they’re within easy reach for a quick stabbing.

Maybe she will walk past a window and be startled by her own reflection, or feel the need to look in her closet and under her bed before she goes to sleep. Maybe she’ll be scared to go in the basement, or take a shower, or walk anywhere after dark. Where’s my Zoloft?

Though, I suppose it would be a good thing for this movie to scare her in the way Amityville Horror did me. I am cautious, aware, and I know how to wield a crucifix.

Not to mention that the last time my husband and I went to the shooting range, I was a way better shot.

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When I was young, I attended a public school and a Catholic church. This meant that Sunday morning found me in CCD, also known as Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, and when I say “known as” I mean not at all. Now, the classes are called PSR, also known as Parish School of Religion, which is most commonly referred to as CCD.

Although I had been decorating shoe boxes with aluminum foil and doilies for years, it wasn’t until the ripe old age of eight or nine, when I colored a picture in my CCD workbook, that I learned Valentine’s Day was originally known as Saint Valentine’s Day.

In CCD class, they don’t talk a lot about how saints become saints. Speaking of beheading, burning, and torture would send young children running from the building, never to return. And we can’t afford for that to happen; we’re running out of priests, yo’.

But, I was curious. Curiosity is also why my cousin and I used to bake cakes with Tabasco in them, which explains how I know that it actually did kill the cat. I digress.

My curiosity showed me that no one knows much about how St. Valentine’s Day came about. There were three St. Valentines and, as far as I know, none of them decorated shoeboxes with aluminum foil and doilies. What I do know, is that all of them were martyred.

Thus, St. Valentine’s Day was born; because nothing says, “Be mine” like extreme suffering and death.

The feast day for St. Valentine was long-ago removed from the calendar of the Catholic church, leaving card companies and florists free to swoop in and make it less a religious holiday and more of a, “Let’s see you flex your romantic muscles or you can sleep on the couch” holiday.

So, today, when you eat from your heart-shaped box of chocolates, tip the caramel-filled square to St. Valentine. It’s really the least you can do.

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I went to the gym this morning to get weighed and measured by my trainer. Let me just say that I am the type of person who gets easily thrown off of the fitness course when I don’t see results.

Although I have made a serious commitment (mentally and financially) to getting healthy now that I’ve reached middle-age, I was still afraid that a lack of weight loss would interfere with my motivation. It doesn’t take a lot for me to throw up my hands and say, “Well, I tried! Let’s go get a beer.”

For the past six weeks I have been working out five or six days a week; thirty minutes of intense weight training and thirty minutes of cardio, every time I go. I haven’t felt this good in years. But, back to those results that could send me straight to a plate of nachos…

The scale? Well, it wasn’t pretty. I have only lost a few pounds and have a lot more to go. Like fifty more. Yeah, if that doesn’t make you want to eat a bag of M&M’s, I don’t know what will.

However, I have lost seven inches. SEVEN INCHES. Three of those were off of my waist. I’ll take that news all day long! *puts M&M’s back on the store shelf*

It’s a small success, but it’s enough to keep me motivated. I’m going to keep on keepin’ on. It’s part of my new, “If I’m able, I will” mentality.

And, for my friends who say they can’t go to the gym because they don’t look good enough, or it’s too intimidating; I say, “Pffft!” This is a picture of me after my workout on Tuesday. I didn’t pour water all over myself; that’s sweat, and lots of it. If I can go to the gym looking like this, so can you.

Though, you may want to invest in some activewear with wicking fabric first. Just sayin’.

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If you’ve been here before, you likely know that my nine year old son is one of a kind. For real. That thing about breaking the mold? He cracked that sucker straight in half.

When other kids would rather shuffle from classroom to classroom without making eye contact, I’ve been told that every time my kid sees his music teacher in the hallway, he greets her with, “La, la, la, la, la!”

He has no problem telling strangers that he thinks they’re pretty, he can convince anyone that he shouldn’t get punished for something and he has a way of wiggling into situations in which he has no business. Last week, when we went to get his new glasses, he got the technician to let him adjust his own glasses with that little heater they use.

He’s a nine year old used-car salesman in the body of a five year old.

Last night at his Cub Scout meeting, the boys played a game where they blew a ping-pong ball across a table. If they let the ball fall onto the floor, they were out. My son lost round after round.

When we were heading to the car after the meeting he said, “That game was fun, but I lost every time!”

I replied, “Well, somebody had to lose. As long as you had fun while you were playing and you tried your best, it doesn’t really matter.”

For a moment he considered my philosophy. Then he said, “Yeah, but I don’t think I could blow the ball across the table because I don’t have enough hot air.”

Really? Because I think you’re pretty full of it.

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