So here’s the question of the day (and maybe this will inspire some comments): how do you know it’s the right time to start trying to have children? Notice I do not say “the right time to get pregnant”. I work in the adoption field. I know that when you start trying and when a baby shows up are often two VERY different times. It boggles my mind when women think they can choose the month they want their baby born in…of course, some fertile myrtles can.

My husband and I have been married for almost a year, and I’m constantly haunted (as most women in America are) by the TIME article a few years ago with the depressing nose-dive fertility/age chart. We’re financially stable, healthy, love kids, blah, blah, blah. And then there’s the cons—only time in our life to be carefree, big chunk of disposable income, time away from each other, blah, blah, blah. So I guess my question is, “how do you know when the scales have tipped?” Is it an earth-shattering moment? A quiet peace? Of course, there’s the couples that have oopsies and God answers the question for them. And then, there are the delusional/stupid on pregnancy boards: “my fiancé and I have started trying…does anyone know of a good empire waist wedding dress company?”

And granted, I am surrounded ALL THE TIME by babies and baby-related topics. Tends to color my thinking light pink and baby blue, but I don't consider myself to be baby crazy. So just curious…how did you know?

So sorry it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. My sister has even demoted me to a “non-daily blogger” in her links. Hrmph.

I have a good excuse. I was in Florida at a friend’s wedding. It was loverly, and a good time was had by all. It’s been a long time since I had a girls’ week—just laying out, talking about all things wedding-related, and reading trashy magazines filled with celebrity gossip. I was so braced for one of the women there to be “that girl”…the one that throws a wrench in the system and can’t get along with this person or that person, and to my very pleasant surprise, no one emerged in that role.

I felt very fresh in Florida. I have no other way to describe it. I did things that were completely unlike me. I craved (and mostly ate) fresh fruit and salads. I wore cute, strappy sandals and strapless sundresses. I laid out everyday in the bikinis that I was sure would never again be used after I arrived home from my honeymoon. I danced on a bar where it was prohibited. Heck, I danced on a bar, period. I drove down to South Beach with my father-in-law on a whim (long story). In short, for just a few days, I think I was actually fairly cool.

It’s a bizarre new concept for me. I’ve always been the frumpy, dependable one. Of course, on the actual wedding day, that’s who my friend wanted me to be—the bossy, dependable heavy. And I came through with flying colors, if I might say so myself.

But the other 6 days of compliments on my shoes were heavenly.

the things we do for love...

so guess whose husband, on a whim, decided yesterday that he and his wife needed to purchase rollerblades? the same rollerblading activity that i am HORRIBLE at and dislike to no end...and told him so.

and guess which wife ended up crashing into the grass and dirt (thank goodness not the asphalt or approaching bridge, at least) at the park? oh, me!!

i now have a swollen lip (lower lip, not in the least angelina jolie-esque), tender nose (at least not broken), and very sore hip (looks like really bad rug burn, but at least the bruising isn't too bad...oh, yeah, just in time for my friend's wedding in florida, complete with all her ever-so-tan friends).

am trying to focus on the positive of "i'm glad i have a husband that enjoys doing stuff with me and trying new stuff." HE, of course, picked up rollerblading as if he skated out of the womb. after much discussion yesterday, we figured out which kid we each were at the rolling rink growing up. he was the kid "shooting the duck" under the limbo pole and dreaming of the day when he could be the one wearing the ref shirt and blowing the whistle. i was the kid eating cotton candy at the snack bar and scooting around in the turtle corral.

so which kid were you?

Hello 3 day weekend! Normally, 3 day weekends hold much joy and relaxation for me. What could be better than fireworks, family and food? (Not necessarily in that order.)

Hmmmm…perhaps not having to spend the entire weekend halfheartedly packing your house up not knowing if/when you’re going to be able to close on the sell of it? Yes, that would do nicely. My husband and I are now living exclusively in two rooms of the house, the kitchen and the bedroom. And the only thing in the kitchen is his office equipment and plastic tableware. Our refrigerator holds provolone cheese and a Kaiser roll, and the freezer has one ice cream bar that I very seriously doubt will be there by the end of the day. Ditto with the 2 swiss cake rolls left in the pantry.

Happy, happy news. My friend Shelli closed with her husband on their new home. My hubby and I went to the furniture store with them to see their new living room set. Very sassy and sophisticated. I can’t wait for fun movie nights and playing board games over there.

Sad, sad news. My request to cut my hours at my job in order to have one day a week off (don’t think I actually mentioned it blogging, but this past week has been filled with tense board and boss discussions over this) has been denied. There was a concession made to change my work schedule to work a couple days out of the house. I agreed to this with the understanding that I would be getting some HELP in my job as soon as possible. Otherwise, it’s just putting a band-aid over a bullethole. Right now, I’m flying solo in the office, and this has resulted in many a night of sobbing into my husband’s shoulder. I felt a bit vindicated as I asked my boss to research how other single-person offices do it, and every single one of them was like, “oh, no! After a year, we weren’t able to do it with a single person any more. We hired a second person.” So at least I know that I’m not crazy or just whiny.

Ahh, the wonderful smell of meat in one’s car the first thing in the morning.

When I got into my car this morning, I took a double-sniff. There was a distinct “meaty” smell wafting about. I looked over into the passenger seat to make sure that Hubby had not left McDonald’s bag from last night in the car. It would be very uncharacteristic of him, but as we’re moving in 2 days, and everything is chaos, stranger things have happened. I believe that my older sister once found a perfectly preserved fry in her car that she estimated had to be at least a few years old. Or perhaps it was my younger sister…but I digress.

Meat! I figured it was just leftover McD’s smell and went to get my allergy shot (which does not seem to be working at all, and I just reached the maximum dose, so I’m a bit depressed about it, but again, I digress). Got back in the car after the shot, and it was STRONGER! Lingering smells do not get stronger. Must investigate. Look at back seat. Nothing. Just two Wal-Mart bags…filled…with…dog food. Sweet Ol’ Roy Moist’n’Meaty dinner packets. Sonny refuses to eat any other kind. He even turns his nose up at the more expensive Purina brand. Must be Ol’ Roy. Stinky, meaty, yucky Ol’ Roy.

Am now disturbed that McDonald’s and dog food smell so similar.

So I was listening to the True Hollywood Story of Carmen Electra on E! News Radio this morning, and her real name is Tara Patrick. When she became Prince’s protégé in 1990 (or was he the unpronounceable symbol at that time?), he insisted that she change it, and she decided on Carmen Electra. Obviously to reflect her demure and simple nature.

So I started thinking about stars who change their names. Do they think of themselves as their real name or their stage name? Does Carmen Electra wake up every morning and look in the mirror and see “Carmen” or “Tara”? I’d put my money on “Tara”, but then again, she’s been “Carmen” for such a long time. And does her big Iowa family still call her “Tara”? What about her husband? I’m sure she was introduced to him with her stage name, but if she wakes up every morning and sees “Tara”, she probably wants him to see “Tara” as well. It seems like I remember from their reality show that he has a pet name that he calls her.

The whole name change thing is just something that I don’t get. When my parents named their children, they specifically chose names that could not be shortened, changed, or cutified. And if you can think of a nickname for Karen, please let me know. I’ve always been curious.

My husband Bill was “Billy” growing up, and whenever we’re in his hometown, that’s how he thinks of himself. At first, it weirded me out, but now, when we’re in his hometown, I sometimes think of him as “Billy” too. But I don’t call him that unless I’m joking and using a hick southern accent and drawling it, “Bill-lly”.

I babysat for one little girl who decided to change her name the first day of school when the teacher was taking roll.

Teacher: “Katie?”
Girl: “No, it’s Beth.”
Teacher: “I’m sorry. It says ‘Katie.’ I’ll change that, Beth.”

Two months later at the parent-teacher conference, after 10 minutes, her parents finally stopped the teacher and asked why she kept calling her Beth. The teacher (much confusion!) explained, and let me tell you, there was a lot more explaining to do when the parents got home.

But she’s Beth today. I respect 1st graders who know their true name. At least she didn’t change her name to Carmen Electra.

Okay, again with the creepy:

I’m watching the local news last night, and the top story was of an elderly woman who had been missing for over a year, and her granddaughter had just confessed to killing her. Well, apparently, she (the granddaughter) decided to cooperate with the police and lead them to where she buried the body. Which just happens to be under the garage of a house that Bill and I looked into buying a few months ago. Needless to say, I squealed and ran in to tell Bill. Could this really be the same house? Best to drive over and investigate.

Sure enough—there was the overpriced Tudor-style with a good floor-plan and excellent school district being torn up with jackhammers and excavation equipment surrounded by the local ABC and NBC affiliate’s news vans. It used to be just a big cowfield, and apparently the construction companies managed to plant the house directly over the dead body. Bill and I actually stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac that the house is located on (seriously, if it had had trees and no dead bodies under it, it would have been perfect) and prayed and thanked God for saving us from all that. It also doesn’t help that developers just put up “high-end” storage units directly behind the house. I don’t care if you put a brick façade over the sheet metal and have fancy scrollwork on the security gate, mini-storage is mini-storage.

Those poor people will never be able to sell their house. Much like the three other houses on the block that are for sale as well. As I said, mini-storage is mini-storage.

At least the elderly woman will get a proper burial.

I love cemeteries. I know, I know. Creepy girl, creepy girl! But the fact is that as a Christian, I don’t find them depressing. Not so much a resting place…more like a pit stop for the body while the soul goes ahead to check into the party. (on a side note, my boss recently asked me what I thought Heaven would be like…a close family member of hers had just died, and I said, “y’know those moments when you say, ‘it absolutely can’t get better than this’? I think that those are the moments that God gives us a taste…and then He’s going to prove that we are gloriously wrong.”)

So anyway, I rather enjoy cemeteries. It provides a peaceful place to walk with good reading to boot. I like to make up little stories about the person’s life as I pass their gravestone. I still go to the grave of one of my best friends who died in high school. The sapling that his family planted at his burial is now a full-blown tree. I’m not saying that his death was a happy thing or that I don’t still miss him and have little pangs of mourning, but the cemetery doesn’t hold him any more than this earth could. And the memory of all those flowers that covered the grave still makes me smile a little.

In truth, I’ve only seen one thing in a cemetery that truly depressed me. It was a grave marker of a man who died at a rather young age, in his 40s, and his wife (also in her 40s) had put up her grave marker at the time of his burial. I knew this woman as an acquaintance and she’s so vibrant and, well, alive. It seems wrong for her gravestone to be sitting there, ready and waiting. And all I know is that if I were her 12 year old kid, I’d be pretty freaked out.

But maybe it gives her some peace. I know that they were linked at the heart. Maybe to heal she needs them to be linked in stone as well.

It’s official. Bill’s and my entire honeymoon itinerary is cursed. The disappearance in Aruba, the death at Epcot. Even the killing rampage in Atlanta a few months ago (though technically, we just had a really long layover there, so I’m not sure that should count).

I’m especially sad about Aruba. It’s getting a bad name, and it really shouldn’t be. Granted, I was not aware of all the drug trafficking that apparently was taking place under my very nose without me having any clue. But the entire time that we were there, I felt very safe and welcomed. So if we encountered any drug traffickers, apparently, we only encountered the very polite, helpful kind. Hmm…perhaps that was not actually powdered sugar on the poffertjes that I ate every morning for breakfast…okay, and dinner. When else do you have the excuse to eat what amounts to funnel cake anytime you want and call it ethnic cuisine?


On a completely different note, I am probably going to get a kitten in 2 weeks. I begged my parents for a kitten for every Christmas since I can remember and always received the same answer, “maybe.” Which may have meant “yes” or “possibly” from your parents, but from my parents, it meant a big fat “NO.” I want to get a small white, female kitten and name her Adelaide from “Guys & Dolls”. Of course, she may end up being non-white since I’ll walk into the shelter and fall in love with the first one that I see.

My husband’s family had an amazing 6 cats growing up (all at one time), all inside/outside, and apparently, some of them looked a lot alike and his dad never knew that they had that many. They’d just rotate in and out. As a child, my husband liked to have a cat sleep down at his feet on the bed at night…not particular about which one…so when he’d go to bed, he’d yell, “Mom, bring me a cat!” And she’d scoop up whichever cats were nearby and plop them on his bed. That story cracks me up.

there is a magical, magical word in our house.

that word is "carride!"

for those of you who have never met my doggy, sunny, he can be quite stubborn. especially when he is somewhere that he wants to be and i don't want him to be. one of his favorite activities is "stare at mommy until she stamps her foot because she's so frustrated then run to another spot and roll in my own poo".

but not when i yell the magic word. the world stops. sunny runs to the garage door and i have his FULL attention.

the magic word must be used sparingly lest it lose its effect. and every so often i have to follow up on the offer, usually just open the car door and let him jump around in circles then open it again to let him out--he thinks that he went on a 16 hour road trip.

On the way out to run some errands last night, hubby and I saw two men standing at the intersection down the hill holding a cross. I’ve seen a number of such people in my life carrying a cross as a witness tool and symbol of their Christianity. I had not, however, ever before seen a cross on wheels.

It was a big wooden cross, about 6 feet tall made of sturdy, rugged lumber with what looked like children’s training wheels attached. My first thought was, “how bizarre!” followed quickly by “how lazy!” chastising myself quickly with “how judgmental, Karen!” But I do have to say that it did seem a bit odd. The whole point of carrying a cross was (I thought) to exemplify how Christ suffered on the cross to destroy the great sin divide between us and God. And since last night, when I’ve tried to envision that long walk to Calvary, I find myself desperately trying to mentally remove two metal wheels from that vision.

My husband, ever the pragmatic, said, “If I was going to push a wheeled cross around, I think I’d make the wheels detachable so I could at least hide them.”

So I tried to think deeply about how it could be a symbol of how as disciples of Christ we are called into training to be like Him. In essence, He is the perfect Man, we are little men with training wheels. But, no, I still just think it was odd.

The way my office is set up at work, it used to be just me on the lower floor and a law office on the upper floor. My only real issues with this arrangement were that I had the good bathroom downstairs with the loud fan and thick door so it was/is frequented by everyone in the office building (see blog archives for full ranting).

But now I have a new issue. One of the lawyers is running in a statewide political race. My quiet little downstairs haven is now campaign central. And I don’t think that I would be too bothered by it, but there are all these campaign managers and volunteers coming and going. Someone is ALWAYS on the phone. Sometimes on two phones at once. And I could swear that someone was smoking in there yesterday.

And the person running for office has come into my office a few times wanting to discuss politics. I don’t discuss politics. Especially with a politician. And especially with a politician who I have a very strong suspicion I disagree with heartily on almost all issues.

So I totally won something the other day on the radio. Granted, I listen to a small non-syndicated radio station, so the prize was two passes to a movie theater in a nearby retirement community (which closes at, I kid you not, SIX O’CLOCK) and a gift certificate to a restaurant that I’ve never heard of (which doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s bad, but it does leave me a bit skeptical). I won on Wednesday, and the question was, “What movie released on this day in 1977 to lackluster sales?” And thanks to my love of VH1 and my husband, I knew that it was Star Wars! And I actually got through to the radio host, and we had a nice little chat, and I won.

But, of course, no one that I know was listening. Hubby was helping a friend of ours move and said, “That’s nice!” And all my other friends were at work or out of the station’s broadcasting area (as I mentioned, it’s a small station with a small tower). And it was actually the second time that I’ve gotten through to the host. The first time, they asked who Crispin Glover played in Back to the Future, and I accidentally blurted out “Biff….no! Wait…the dad! The dad!! George McFly!” They may be a small station, but they do insist on correct answers. The host made me spell out the whole title to Star Wars: “Episode 4, Star Wars: A New Hope”, but I think he could tell that he would look like a nerd on the air, so he edited it out when he played the tape. But even with the whole small station thing, I was still quite impressed with myself because I’ve never won anything before in my life.

That’s not entirely true. In 3rd grade, I won a “Great American Trivia” game for beating out a classmate (Suzanne…nyehhh) in the schoolwide spelling bee. It was similar to Trivial Pursuit, but not as interesting, fun, or challenging, and rather than filling a pie, you filled a flag. But I liked to invite Suzanne over to come play it and rub it in her face that I knew how to spell “iridescent”, and she didn’t.

My husband and I have put almost all of our rarely (or never) used junk in storage in preparation for a theoretical/probable future move. It's actually been a very good thing to do as I've realized that we don't need any of it. In fact, he has suggested a couple of times, "Why not just throw everything in the storage unit out rather than move it?" My reponse: NO!!! There's sentimental stuff in those boxes. And that's only half true. The things I would miss are my childhood Gund stuffed animals (I got one every year for Christmas from my parents, and they're still in pristine condition, so I want to give them to potential future children) and my Dolly Dingle paperdolls (much beloved international paperdoll set introducing me to fun paperdolls like "Beppy" the little Dutch boy). That's really it. In fact, I can't with full certainty tell you what's in any of the other boxes.

But I have a sneaking fear that we will instead move everything to a new house, put it in the "junk room" until we slowly unpack the boxes and they seep back into closets and drawers and false sentimentality.

My main goal is to not get as bad as my grandma (loved the woman very much, did not love her habit of saving EVERYTHING and writing "precious--keep" on it in pencil). After she had died, my mom and aunts found a butter tub with rocks in it that had a little piece of paper attached that said "precious--keep; these were the rocks that girls played with in June of 1954 and pretended they were food for a tea party."

I want to store my treasures in Heaven and take the rest to the dumpster. Except Beppy and his fun friends.

i've been thinking a lot about fear lately.

fear of change. fear of the unknown. fear of thunderstorms (i bring this up as it is storming outside and my VERY fearful dog is squinched up under the bed panting in terror, as if i would ever tie him up to a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm--although that's where his fear comes from: he was found abandoned, starving, tied to a tree. now he has a dog bed for every room of the house and a mom that coaxes him to eat when he's upset by burying treats in his food). fear of fire (that was a big one as a child). fear of moving. fear of not moving. fear of a whole lot of crap that i can't control.

what is it that yoda says? fear leads to anger and anger leads to the dark side. well, it's true. in episode 3, fear is what turns anakin into darth vader (well, it's a bit more complicated than that, but i don't want to ruin any plot points for the 5 people in america who haven't already seen it.) but it's true that fear comes to no good. and it seems so silly that i should operate under the veil of fear when God distinctly instructs me to NOT be afraid and i know that He'll take care of me no matter what. but still i sit here, ruminating on all the things that must be done this week, all the horrible things that could happen this week. all the horrible things that did happen last week. and i want to crawl under the bed with my dog, just like Much Afraid in "Hinds' Feet". so silly.

am going to the new star wars movie tonight at midnight with my hubby, the singing banker (www.thesingingbanker.blogspot.com), her hubby, and a teenager that my hubby mentors and his new girlfriend. the singing banker and i will be painting a red streak down our lips in honor of the soon-to-be dead senator padme. such is life. i'm trying to keep my hopes down. i was disappointed in episode 1, horrified by episode 2, and haunted by the wonderousness that can't be duplicated that is episodes 4, 5, and 6 (aka "the real star wars")

i have reached new levels of anxiety at work. it's gotten to the point where i've been having trouble sleeping at night because i can't get work-related junk off my mind. i work in a high-stress field, and i work in a lone-ranger (just me) office, a bad combination for an extrovert who gets stressed out when she can't decide what to make for dinner. and the thing is that i know that i'm not doing all the things that i should to de-stress: exercise, practice relaxation techniques, focus on hobbies that relax me. my thoughts: WHO has time for hobbies and fun? i'll do that later. and then later never happens. and i always have this imaginary timetable in my head of when things will improve: things will calm down after we get back from our honeymoon...after christmas...after my niece arrives...after we sell the house...after this next birth, home study, placement, stack of paperwork, fundraiser, phone call, bigger stack of paperwork. you get the picture.

and then some dang inspirational moment happens and it keeps me going for a few more hours/days/weeks (the last one was a 3 year old who walked into my office with pennies that he'd been saving for the babies we help find homes for--how sweet is that?)

ehh. i'll just enjoy the movie tonight with a wonderful husband and great friends and re-write that script that's floating around in my head where i tell my boss that i'm changing to part-time.

how fun is this? as i am sitting here typing this, husband is sitting behind me rubbing my back. he is nice. i like him.

here is a short list of things i am thankful for at this very moment:

-husband (see above)
-house
-strawberry shortcake pajama pants that are long enough for me
-my electric toothbrush
-my niece anna and nephew owen
-the color orange
-good friends who made husband an "emperor's cup" trophy after he didn't win the "governor's cup" competition
-fun lamps with beaded fringe (okay, now i'm just looking around the room)
-not having to take care of a pool
-potluck dinners
-really, anything with beaded fringe on it
-ice cold glasses of water
-long Sunday afternoon naps
-movies that don't end the way you think they will but end the way you know they should (a la "in good company")
-sex

This post is for a (rather bold) Miss Sarah who…insinuated that she would like more frequent updates. And now that I have a comment to motivate me, here goes (perhaps my sister will even add me back in as a link: www.sugarintheraw.blogspot.com ):

My dog is a persnickety pee-er. We finally broke him of urinating repeatedly on the same tree right next to the deck. A.) it was starting to smell bad and B.) the lower branches of the tree were starting to die. He’s going through a great deal of trauma right now because we are trying to sell our house (which is a whole other kettle of fish), and he’s not allowed up in “his” office anymore (Bill’s home office over the garage that’s recently been repainted and recarpeted where Sunny used to spend the majority of his time). We also took away his favorite dog bed in the living room, and to protest that, he went to the corner of the yard to roll around in his own poo. All this to explain why he’s not allowed out in the yard unsupervised anymore in the mornings.

So that is what led me to be standing out in the middle of the yard, holding my dog on a leash this morning, pleading with him to pee-pee as he stared at me defiantly. I know for a fact that he had to pee as he hadn’t been out for over 8 hours. But it’s like he has decided that that is the one area of his life that he can still control, when he chooses to relieve himself.

He has also taken to putting his paw up on the baseboard in the living room and licking the walls. I have NO idea what that’s about.

So that got me thinking about stupid things that I do out of defiance. When I was little, I would refuse to get out of the car when we got home, and I’d just sit in the stuffy car in the garage. Who was I punishing? Myself. As an adult, I curl up on a chair downstairs and half-fall asleep at night even though it’s not quality sleep, and I know that I should just go upstairs and get ready for bed. Who am I robbing of precious slumber? Only myself. And then there’s the really stupid stuff: refusing to watch the movie “Tommy Boy” because everyone in college used to quote it all the time and said that I “had to” see it; using Kleenex instead of toilet paper when it wasn’t my turn to buy t.p. with past roommates (I was especially stubborn on this one as I would always be the one to buy expensive Scott t.p. that lasts forever, and they would buy the cheapy stuff that lasts 2 weeks); and my personal favorite, as a child, refusing to take the training wheels off my bike even though I didn’t need them because I was lazy and didn’t want to have to bother balancing. And who got mocked? Me.

I miss Aruba. Bill and I went there for our honeymoon, and I miss it. I have a mouse pad with a picture of our hotel’s private beach island on it sitting next to my work computer because I thought that it would make me happy to look at it. But it doesn’t. It makes me sad that people are there right now, and I am not one of them.

We also went to Disneyworld on our honeymoon. I’m also sad to not be there, but I know that we’ll be going to Disneyworld at some point in the not-so-distant future. Either with his family to watch the wondrous look on our nephew’s face as he thrills at the Buzz Lightyear ride or with my family to watch the wondrous look on our soon-to-be-born niece’s face as she gazes at the newly refurbished Small World ride. Meanwhile, I will be over at MGM watching the look on my husband’s face as we ride Aerosmith’s Rockin’ Rollercoaster.

Sigh. In reality, I am watching the arrogant smirks on overpriced SUV owners' faces as they drive by through slushy snowflakes and sleet coming out of the sky.

well, my niece is due to pop out of my older sister any day now, and i can officially say that i am getting antsy. i can't imagine how ellen's feeling. it's not like your wedding day where everything goes higgledy-piggledy for 72 hours then returns back to normal (or at least your normal combined with another person's normal) when you get back from the honeymoon. no--childbirth has no honeymoon. it's higgledy-piggledy pain to get her out then no sleep and worry and responsibility for another little person. I should worry that ellen will read this and freak out, but (a) she's not really the freaking out kind and (b) i doubt she has the energy to turn on the computer.

my dog is very upset with me right now. he was chewing on his rawhide really hard and his gums started bleeding, so i took away the rawhide. now, he's giving me the evil eye....and now he's wandered off to get a drink of water. he has the attention span of a 2 year old.

on a completely separate note, it's doubtful if there are any raw foodists reading my blog, but if there happen to be: how the heck do you find time for a raw food lifestyle??? i've started juicing recently, and by the time i clean the fruit, set up the juicer, cut it into juiceable chunks, juice it, clean the juicer, and put it away, that's a good 2 hours. of course, i juice ahead, so i'm usually juicing 5-6 glasses of juice. but still! all the same, that fresh, real juice is so dang addictive.