PH: Going Bananas

I have a confession.

I’m trying the banana diet.

Apparently, Japan is having a shortage of bananas all thanks to dieters trying this latest fad diet.

It consists of eating a banana (as many as you want) for breakfast, with warm water. You don’t eat anything until lunch. Then you can eat nearly anything you want for lunch, snack and dinner, but it has to be before 8 p.m. You cannot eat anything after dinner, including sweets. Then, you have to go to bed before midnight (This part is killing me. I rarely get to bed before 1am).

I am also eating healthier(ish) and incorporating exercise of course.

Hopefully I’ll see some results.

The Moto G Pure: A Budget Smartphone

In an era where smartphones have evolved into pocket-sized supercomputers, each new release often comes with a barrage of bells and whistles designed to entice tech enthusiasts and gadget aficionados. However, amidst this sea of innovation and sophistication, the Moto G Pure stands out as a refreshing departure—a smartphone that champions practicality and affordability above all else.

While it may not boast the flashy features or jaw-dropping specs of its pricier counterparts, the Moto G Pure has carved a niche for itself in the market by adhering to the philosophy of simplicity. Here, we explore why this unassuming budget smartphone might just be the ideal choice for those who value functionality over extravagance.

Design: A Classic Look

One of the first things you’ll notice about the Moto G Pure is its classic design. It doesn’t attempt to win you over with a flashy, ultra-modern aesthetic. Instead, it sports a clean and timeless look that exudes durability. The plastic build feels sturdy, and the textured back cover provides a secure grip, making it perfect for those with active lifestyles.

Display: Noteworthy Realism

The Moto G Pure’s 6.5-inch HD+ display might not match the pixel density of flagship devices, but it offers pleasingly accurate colors and decent outdoor visibility. Whether you’re scrolling through social media, watching videos, or playing casual games, the screen provides a satisfactory visual experience that doesn’t strain the eyes.

Performance: Efficient Enough

Under the hood, the Moto G Pure is powered by a modest MediaTek processor and 3GB of RAM. While it won’t break any speed records, it handles everyday tasks with ease. You can browse the web, send messages, and run essential apps without experiencing significant slowdowns. For a device in its price range, it’s more than adequate.

Battery Life: A True Workhorse

Perhaps one of the standout features of the Moto G Pure is its battery life. The 4000mAh battery keeps the phone chugging along all day, even with moderate to heavy usage. This longevity is a lifesaver for those who don’t want to be tethered to a charger or carry a power bank everywhere they go. Also you can get moto g pure network unlock code free.

Camera: Capture Memories

The camera setup on the Moto G Pure is straightforward—a 13-megapixel main shooter and a 5-megapixel selfie camera. While it won’t rival flagship devices in the photography department, it’s more than capable of capturing decent photos in well-lit conditions. It’s perfectly adequate for snapping everyday moments and sharing them with friends and family.

Software: Near-Stock Android

One of the Moto G Pure’s strongest selling points is its near-stock Android experience. Motorola has wisely opted for a minimalistic approach to software customization, resulting in a clean and bloatware-free user interface. This simplicity not only makes the phone snappy but also ensures timely software updates.

Blinking. It’s Overrated.

I haven’t mentioned this before, but Dadisodes and I have a little a side business. During the week, normal life ensues with him feverishly plugging away at creating video games, and me attending to our daughter and home. However, on the weekends, we all tend to a seasonal operation in our very home.

Every year, hundreds of individuals with extreme levels of carotene approach us for assistance. Each one suffering from a tragic deficiency of facial features, a total lack thereof.

Since Dadisodes and I strive to lead philanthropic lives, we’ve agreed to assist 1 of these needy individuals each year free of charge, and then celebrate their transformation with friends and family.

Last weekend we unanimously agreed upon a most deserving individual, and immediately began his life-changing procedure.

As Dr. Mad Dadisodes and our 3rd year resident scrubbed in, I prepped the patient and set up the operating room accordingly. Once the patient became unconscious, a deep surgical incision was made along the frontal lobe.

Sponge Cake

Toddlerhood presents a flurry of new adventures for a parent and child. Between potty training, preschool, and balancing on a scooter, a day in the life of a toddler requires a constant flow of energy.  On top of that, they are also in perpetual “sponge mode.” Alright, perhaps that’s not really the technical term for it, but in essence, that’s what they do at this stage- absorb aspects of the life around them.  And every child is different in discerning which information they allow to soak in.  Some will mimic actions- like how to use a fork, or fold paper- and some will mimic speech…

Dadisodes narrowly misses hitting a car while abruptly changing lanes at 65mph

Me: *irrationally gripping armrest for dear life*  Geez!  Slow down!  You’re driving like a maniac!

 *screaming from backseat*  Yeah daddy! You drive like maniac!


And of course, now all of her preschool teachers and friends are well informed on his maniacal driving.

However, it is not so much the parroting that annoys impresses me.  It is the signs of deductive reasoning.  Evidence that a toddler is learning to digest the absorbed information, and then inferring their own conclusions.

Several hours after a meal.

Babisodes: Mommy, am I going to be as big as you?

Me: Yup, you’ll probably will be as big as me one day.

Babisodes:  Soon?

Me: Well…not exactly soon. When you’re older, in a few years.

Babisodes:  But I want to be big now!

Me: Why?

  So I can have big dessert like you.

Time Capsule

One thousand and ninety five days later, she finally discovered them.

After 3 long years, Babisodes’ interest in toy vending machines has finally piqued. Inside of an Asian market cafeteria, unexpected vending machines fell perfectly into her line of sight while standing at a food counter. The loud bustling lunch crowd grew silent as the colorful, encapsulated treasures within each machine begged for releasing from inside.

Pictorial diagrams out front displayed the bounty that lied behind each glass case, each one offering an array of exciting opportunities. Half moon coin slots peered open loose change. Her index finger felt alongside its happy faced edge. She stared intently at its size. A long pause passed, and finally, she looked up at me and smiled.

“Mommy, may I haf a quarter, please? I want a Hello Kitty. *points* Dat one.”

Looking down at her, I delay a bittersweet smile. A film reel of the past 3 years, flicker in fast-forward through my mind- A top view of my growing belly. A fetus turning on an ultrasound screen. Tiny fingers. Fine, baby black hair. Rolling over. Stepping forward. Asleep on my chest. Running with arms wide open, eyes closed, clear into my arms. – I blink quickly in effort to break up tears blurring images reflecting in her big, brown eyes.

With only one corner of my mouth raised, the other finally joins. She arms fling open and wrap tightly around my knees as if she already knows my reply.

“Sure honey. You’ve been so good. Why don’t we use one of the quarters you saved inside of your backpack.”

Together our fingers guided the coin into a slot. My hand over hers, I offer some added force while turning the dial.

*Click. Click. Click.*

Her eyes widened in suspense.


The plastic prize dropped behind the metal door, and a reality pierced through the white noise of Chinese dialects.

No matter what lies behind the door for us each day, we will be fine. With this 3rd anniversary of her life, my hands struggle to piece together something tangible in order for her to understand how much she has changed my world, my life, and my heart.

But rather, I lead her tiny hand to the metal door and allow her to open it, explore, and discover a new fleeting moment on her own. And as she stares in wonderment through the clear, plastic dome, I sit beside her hoping that she will always know that she is my greatest prize.


1. Day #3 of my mom’s 3-week visit, and I caught her snooping through my fridge. Where she proceeded to yell at me for not throwing out expired food. *Arghhh* I like to wait for trash day!

2. I CANNOT eat lobster if I’ve seen it alive. Looking at me. Through a fish tank.

3. Same with crab.

4. And fish.

5. But I’m cool with shrimp.

6. And I love eating them all.

7. I am quickly remembering some of the reasons why I wanted to runaway from home when I was 15.

8. I am seeing a new girlie doctor tomorrow for my annual check up. I’ve seen so many ob/gyn’s in recent years because of moving, I think there’s now over 2 dozen professionals out there who’ve seen it all.

9. Babisodes’ birthday is this weekend. I have not finished her birthday gift, yet. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for the next few days.

10. I have no idea what I’m posting for her birthday. I am drowning in visitors and family gatherings right now. Will I get the “World’s Worst Mom Award” for posting- Happy 3rd Birthday?

11. I am in desperate need of some alone time. Just silence. Last night while everyone was in bed, I tip-toed into the kitchen and ate leftover Chinese food. In the dark. By myself. Straight from the take out box.

12. “Trying” every month is becoming very frustrating. I can’t help but feel as if there is something wrong.

13. I think Aunt Flo is coming to visit…again.

Shh. Follow me this way…

*Bends fingers up and down to direct you*

Want to see what’s outside of my bedroom window?

*Pulls shades open ever so slightly*

Take a gander at my daytime view….

Okay, perhaps this isn’t exactly the view. Our neighbors are not painting their house the color of the sun, and I’m not that creepy to snap random photos of people from my bedroom window. But imagine if you will that shirtless male painter….times three.

Wait. Uh….what was I saying?

*Shakes head*

Oh yes, the view. So these kind gentlemen are all outside painting our neighbor’s house in the daytime. Throughout the day my daughter and I often go in and out of the house to run errands. The inquisitive and blatantly honest toddler that she is immediately blurts out while climbing into our car 5 feet away,…

“Mommy! Why those man’s nekkid?”

*Dies a little inside*

Me (softly but matter of fact): Silly girl, they’re not naked. They’re just not wearing any shirts.

Babisodes: But why they not wear shirts?

Me (closes door quickly and starts engine): Because it’s hot outside. And when it’s hot, sometimes boys and men, and ONLY boys and men, will take their shirts off.

Babisodes: Okay mommy.

*Sigh of relief*

We continue on with our day of errands. After a few hours of driving around town, I stop at an intersection to allow a few cyclists and joggers to cross the road.

Babisodes: Mommy, why all doz man’s wearing shirts?

Momisodes: What do you mean? People are supposed to wear shirts.

Babisodes: But they man’s. They need to be nekkid.

*Unclear whether to laugh or cry.*


The night has always fascinated me. For as long as I can remember, I have never been one to fall asleep early. Some of my most primitive memories are of the nighttime sky peering through a window, or watching trees shadows dance along my bedroom walls. Even as an adult, I find that I am most productive and in-tune with my senses later in the day.

So when I began my career as a nurse, working the night shift seemed like a perfect fit (besides, it was the only shift available). However, now that I’m a full-time stay-at-home mom without a clock to punch out, I’ve been forced to flip-flop my schedule in order to accommodate two high-maintenance in house patients- Dadisodes and Babisodes.

It’s been over 2 years since I last worked the graveyard shift, but in all this time it’s been a struggle adjusting to my new schedule. I had to wean myself of my regular midnight-2am lunchtime, and sleeping while the sun was out. All of these tiny nuances took months and months to overcome. And last week, I noticed the greatest progress yet. I began feeling tired around 10pm.


You have to remember that for years, by this time in the day, I had not even had lunch yet. This was a huge breakthrough. Or was it?

Several days later I woke with a nasty head cold (which I still have). Could my body have been trying to fight off something? Possibly. But I was sort of eating well, going to bed earlier. What went wrong?

On Friday night, I climbed into bed beside Dadisodes. My eyes squinted at the alarm clock across the room to see the time reading 10:37pm. “Yes!” I said to myself as I lay down on my side and pulled the soft, worn comforter over my body. Beside me, Dadisodes lay flat on his back already drifting off.

I leaned in closer to his body for warmth and placed my head right on the inside of his shoulder. In the gap perfectly suited for the side of my cheek. As I closed my eyes I whispered, “Good night, night. See you in the morning,” as I always do. I lay still for a few minutes with my eyes closed. Feeling his heartbeat beneath the palm of my hand. And then, I turned over onto my other side, curled up, and fell fast asleep facing the other way.


I can only cuddle for so long. I can never fall asleep that way.

Hours passed through the night as we both slept. While lying on my side I felt the urge to curl up more and bring my chin to my chest. My eyes still closed, I began to shiver. My right hand slowly drew up my left forearm to discover it freezing! I creaked my eyes open at the green alarm clock light reading 4:28am.

Directly in front of my face were both my knees and arms, curled up into a fetal position. None of the blankets were on me anymore. I sat up in shock in the cold, dark room and looked over the edge of the bed in search of covers. The floor was barren. As I turned to my side Dadisodes laid still, tightly bound inside all of the covers. His cocooned body all snuggled and warm, unyielding even an inch of fabric.

I nudged his shoulder with my finger.


Violently shook his shoulder with both hands.


His blanket force field was too strong. So I grabbed a sweater from my bedside table, put it on, and feel back to sleep.

Wash, rinse, and repeat for an entire week, and I find myself alone in the house with this nasty cold. I’ve heard it is common for older couples to sleep in separate beds. Could this be why? Would it be wrong to start in our 30’s? I tried starting the night with 2 separate blankets, but my covers still end up stolen.

Perhaps I need to stay up later in the night. Watch the shadows of trees dance on my bedroom walls. And then, slowly…pilfer all the covers to create my very own cocoon.

Roll Out the Red Carpet

Since when was toddlerhood the time when kids transition from Jekyll to Hyde? I thought I had 13 more years until that happened.

For the past 2.5 years there has been no stopping Babisodes. She came out the womb with a fist in the air (many stitches my friends), super-man style, and has circled our world ever since. She’s faster than a speeding crawler, more powerful than Thomas the Train, and is able to leap tall crib railings in a single bound. She’s always been one tough cookie. Bonks on the head while learning to crawl? No problem. Shots at the pediatrician? Piece of cake. Up until she witnessed Chuck-E-Cheese in person, she rarely found anything to make a fuss over. Being a crybaby just wasn’t part of her repertoire.

Until Sunday.

This past father’s day Babisodes woke with an occasional cough. Since then the cough has developed into hacking, blue-in-the-face episodes with a prolonged gag finale. The innate nurse within me immediately reacts to any oxygen-deprived scenario. I find myself stifling my urge to yell “suction!” while reaching for an O2 mask. So instead I sit on the sidelines, consoling and coaching her to cough it up and spit. It’s. NOT. working. Feed this kid some spinach- Insta-spit. Give her some toothpaste and ask her to spit- Negative.

Her inability to follow direction and expel the root of her congestion (sorry if TMI) is prolonging her recovery. However, she has caught on quickly to my consoling. It appears that the kid who happily ran around like a monkey even with a 104°F temperature is slipping away. Four days of coughing, sneezing and me running over to verify she’s still breathing, has seemingly loosened that super-hero cape.

A Jill of No Shades

I may have walked on a runway. I may have even immersed myself in a hip, fashion forward city once. However, when it comes to piecing together an outfit? I may as well be asked to figure out calculus find the cure for cancer.

All of my life, my fashion sense hinged upon ideas from things around me. A fitted, ultra chic ensemble in the window of Banana Republic, I’ll run inside to try it on, only to confirm my body shape is nothing like a mannequin. A soft, multi-colored pastel sundress from a friend’s closet, I try it on, only to find that it accentuates my narrow shoulders and king-king size arse.

So what’s a girl to do?

I run and hide under my fallback jeans and black shirt. Or black pants and black shirt. Or black dress and a black pashmina.

See a pattern here?

No, I am not in perpetual mourning, nor am I color blind. On the contrary, I am merely benevolent to public eyes, and avoid blinding everyone with my poor color coordination.

However, my father-in-law IS colorblind. He purchased a new Black automobile years ago, drove it home, only to find his family completely baffled at why he would buy a Purple car. His son, Dadisodes? He’s no help either. Up until last year, he thought wearing brown shoes with a black shirt was kosher.

*Insert head shake and eye roll*

My daughter is swimming in a color handicapped gene pool!

Thankfully I am fully aware of this issue and are taking steps to avoid raising a Wednesday Addams. While purchasing clothes for my daughter, I avoid black at all costs. I’m aware of the habit-forming possibilities. I am also fortunate enough to have a niece older than my daughter, who regularly sends colorful hand-me-downs. And recently, I’ve asked Babisodes to help pick out her own outfits in the morning.

Friday morning we were in a bit of a hurry. I opened up Babisodes’ dresser drawer and instructed her to pick out pants and a shirt to wear. In a flurry, I donned my usual jeans and shirt, Babisodes in her chosen outfit, and then ran downstairs to put on shoes.

In the distance I hear, “Mommy, wait! I gots to get my purse and stings!”

*loud clamoring of plastic toys*

Me: “Okay! Hurry up! Get your shoes on and let’s go. We’re late!”

Babisodes: “ Ahwite mommy. I ready to go! I gots my stuff. We can go now.”

*Enters room wearing this*

I believe she’s all set to swim in that defective gene pool now.