A few weeks ago I was on a hot search for butter. Yeah, I said it. Butter. Look, readers, butter is not the horrible enemy you think it is. Let me tell you what is - veggie oiled based faux butter is your worst enemy. That Fabio-endorsed crap with the apropo title is your worst enemy. Let me tell you why.
A year ago, a co-worker hipped me to a little food logic that has been sticking with me through this whole rebuilding process. If a product has more than 5 ingredients, none of which you can pronounce without a science book, then this should not go into your body. Wow! Simple and yet it makes a whole lot of freaking sense.
So, fast forward to the Wal-mart's butter section where we join our heroine (yours truly) in a search for real butter. People, I spent 10 minutes reading the back of every butter tub and every one I picked up sickened me to no end. I picked up every variety of butter brand there could be (the Blue Bonnet, Smart Butter, I can't Believe it's not Butter, Wal-mart 'Good Sense'). First off, practically all those butters had 100 calories per 1 tablespoon! One hundred freaking calories! And these were the "health conscious" ones. Seriously! Oh, get this, every single one of those I picked up was a veggie-oil based spread with stuff like homegenous-something something for chemicals.
What the eph am I eating, Butter Bureaucrats?! Laymen terms, puhleeze! The oleo one really freaked me out, because nothing goes better with your bran muffin than crapping your pants. There's a WARNING LABEL, people! A WARNING LABEL on a FOOD PRODUCT! Something is wrong with that.
However, it all makes sense now. Have you ever left butter out of the fridge? Do you ever get around to studying the melted mess? It has an oil ring on the butter dish. I mean leave it by the oven and you got the Exxon Valdez spill on your kitchen counter. Yowsers! Oh, and by the way, real butter is made from cream, which means you can't leave it out for too long or it spoils (learned that the hard way). Also, if you can spread it easy right out the fridge, you have an imposter. Real butter is not easy to spread out the fridge unless you let it sit for a minute or two.
So, what did our heroine do? I actually came up on a tub of Land o' Lakes Unsalted Sweet Cream butter. Already jaded by the last 10 tubs of butter (one of them being a package of LOL SPREADABLE butter), I had lost all kinds of hope, but to my immediate surprise the tub of sweet cream fulfilled my want. Get this, all the ingredients on that back of the tub were sweet cream, milk and natural flavoring. Really?? Oh, wait, I compared it to the LOL Spreadable butter, which listed Canola Oil as an ingredient. So, what was the calorie count on the lovely spread of the Unsalted Sweet Cream, it was only 50 calories per 1 tablespoon. FIDDY, people!
Why, in a sea of "healthy" butters, did I have to turn to an original butter source for the fewer calories? And it cost me two dollars cheaper than those other liars! This is just more proof that just because Corp U-S-A has a cracker jack marketing team throwing the words "healthy", "low-fat", "reduced calorie" on ev-very-thang we eat, doesn't mean it's good for ya. This is just another lesson I've been learning as I learn to read labels.
Seriously, people. I mean you can look at an apple and know what it is and what's in it. Packaging is food camoflage that we have to strip down and figure out. Jim Gaffigan made a great joke about packaging, where he described a great meal of "savory chunks of beef in a savory sauce" and turns out it was dog food. He ends the bit with, "Thank God for packaging." Well, sometimes we have to go one step further and read the back of the label to see what the hell makes up some of this stuff.
Foods got to be useful, not hindering. I hope y'all have a butter moment in your local grocery store. Pray for me, y'all!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Soapbox: Fat Children
I was a fat kid.
Recently, I peeped old photos of me when I was about six or seven and I noticed that I was real husky. However, upon further inspection, I saw that I was not a sloppy fat kid, but a solid fat kid. I was in a situation where mom coulda (and don't think she didn't try) withheld a Ho-Ho or two. In fact, the whole family remembers (and resents) the low sodium diet she had enforced that fateful summer back in the 80's.
I was just one of those children who ate a parent out of house and home, but apparently worked some of the stuff off. Lil' Debbie's could not stay in the cabinet without my having consumed every last cake; much to my sister's dismay. However, I was also a child that played a lot outside. I rode my bike in the tiny thatch of driveway allowed me like a hamster in a wheel. I loved jumping rope (for real, not fake). And I nearly tumbled my parent's livingroom to the basement with my "dancing" (ask mom about the Lassie statue).
Fast forward to the new millenia, I was walking around the store the other day and was just freaking horrified by the site of this little girl. She couldn't have been more than 8 years old, but she looked bloated and round like when Violet in the 70's classic Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory turned into a blueberry. Her lil' belly was poking out the bottom of her stretched out pink shirt, her face was tired and haggard, and her feet - ugh - she was killing a pair of ballet slippers. I wasn't sure where her ankle ended and her thigh began. Dear God, she had a thankle!!! She's too young to carry all that. It made me so scared for her. Then I saw her brother and was equally scared. WHY!?!?!?
What has happened to the food we are giving our children? Something is wrong out there. Seriously! I peeped old school class photos of friends and myself and was hard pressed to find that same lil girl and her brother in the photos of my classmates. In the last couple of years, fat kids have started to look gross. It ain't baby fat no mo', it's grown folk fat strapped on a lil' body. As I try to work on myself and rebuild my own ruins, I can't help thinking, how do I make sure this doesn't happen to my Ockie Diddles?
People, I actually have nightmares about this stuff. My husband and I are both children of fat. Big Man used to be called Fat Pat as a child. I held the honored distinction of Miss Piggy through elementary and junior high. Sure, I'm getting control of myself, now, but I'm a recovering fat kid, who is struggling to make sure her son doesn't fall victim to the same addiction. It is not encouraging to see the younger generation surpass our fat numbers.
Beat me in intelligence. Show me up on the basketball or football field. Learn the newest gadget. But, for God sakes, don't beat our fat stats.
I was actually tempted to ask the kids' mom about it. But fear of a sound thrashing and a "how dare you point that out" kept my mouth shut. But mothers out there with this problem, what do you do? How do you deal with this? Do your children come home crying from being teased? Do you argue with the children about what they're eating? Do you know what their school gives them access to? Do you feed their habits at home? How do you fight this battle without feeling like a horrible person? Do you blame yourself? I got questions and I'm scared of the answers.
Nowadays, life is not like 1985. My mom would come back from work, cook us dinner, let us play outside (cause Nintendo was not in the house yet), and get us ready for bed by 8:30pm. Now, a "normal" house looks like mom buying some KFC, hours of XBOX or Wii, and bedtime is like whenever. I know this, because there are some days I live like this. Where the eph did we go wrong? How do we get on track again?
I remember when my mom saw that my weight had gotten out of control. She had placed the entire family on a diet, not just me. She made it a family problem. She worked her hardest to get my weight down considerably, because she had felt responsible for putting me there and didn't want me to suffer for it. But she also let me know that I had a fair share of the blame as well. She stopped buying snacks or actually took to hiding them from me. Folks, my mom went as far as locking the freezer door so I could not get ice cream without her permission. Was I mad? Yeah, I was. Do I appreciate her efforts? Yes I do. Now.s
Sometimes, I wish parents would take the Ulda route with their fat kids. Lock up your fridge. Educate your children about fruits and veggies. Don't make them out to be bad things. I commended a woman on the train who was feeding her 8 month old peas like potato chips. I try to do that with Diddles and cucumbers. Some days I win, some days I loose, but I at least try. I almost disgusted when I see a hefty lad or lass mowing on a chocolate Hostess cake like it's a scene out the Cantina in Stars Wars. (I don't have to say which character their playing. You can guess.)
All I guess I'm saying is don't feel bad about taking away horrible snacks. Doritos are not a part of the food pyramid. There is a big difference between Fruit Juice and Fruit Drink (see Dave Chappelle). Scare your children. It's embarrassing to admit, but I have heard rumors that family members have told they're children, "Don't eat too much or you'll be fat like Cristy..." Yoswers! Now, I don't know if that is clearly a deterrent, but I do know that several close family members, who may or may not have received said advice, are not as "voluptuous" as myself.
If you are offended by what I am saying, good. Maybe it'll get you to think. Our future is gonna be riding a motorized scooter to school because they're too fat to walk a block. Save our kids! I'm begging you. Please. Pray for me, y'all.
Recently, I peeped old photos of me when I was about six or seven and I noticed that I was real husky. However, upon further inspection, I saw that I was not a sloppy fat kid, but a solid fat kid. I was in a situation where mom coulda (and don't think she didn't try) withheld a Ho-Ho or two. In fact, the whole family remembers (and resents) the low sodium diet she had enforced that fateful summer back in the 80's.
I was just one of those children who ate a parent out of house and home, but apparently worked some of the stuff off. Lil' Debbie's could not stay in the cabinet without my having consumed every last cake; much to my sister's dismay. However, I was also a child that played a lot outside. I rode my bike in the tiny thatch of driveway allowed me like a hamster in a wheel. I loved jumping rope (for real, not fake). And I nearly tumbled my parent's livingroom to the basement with my "dancing" (ask mom about the Lassie statue).
Fast forward to the new millenia, I was walking around the store the other day and was just freaking horrified by the site of this little girl. She couldn't have been more than 8 years old, but she looked bloated and round like when Violet in the 70's classic Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory turned into a blueberry. Her lil' belly was poking out the bottom of her stretched out pink shirt, her face was tired and haggard, and her feet - ugh - she was killing a pair of ballet slippers. I wasn't sure where her ankle ended and her thigh began. Dear God, she had a thankle!!! She's too young to carry all that. It made me so scared for her. Then I saw her brother and was equally scared. WHY!?!?!?
What has happened to the food we are giving our children? Something is wrong out there. Seriously! I peeped old school class photos of friends and myself and was hard pressed to find that same lil girl and her brother in the photos of my classmates. In the last couple of years, fat kids have started to look gross. It ain't baby fat no mo', it's grown folk fat strapped on a lil' body. As I try to work on myself and rebuild my own ruins, I can't help thinking, how do I make sure this doesn't happen to my Ockie Diddles?
People, I actually have nightmares about this stuff. My husband and I are both children of fat. Big Man used to be called Fat Pat as a child. I held the honored distinction of Miss Piggy through elementary and junior high. Sure, I'm getting control of myself, now, but I'm a recovering fat kid, who is struggling to make sure her son doesn't fall victim to the same addiction. It is not encouraging to see the younger generation surpass our fat numbers.
Beat me in intelligence. Show me up on the basketball or football field. Learn the newest gadget. But, for God sakes, don't beat our fat stats.
I was actually tempted to ask the kids' mom about it. But fear of a sound thrashing and a "how dare you point that out" kept my mouth shut. But mothers out there with this problem, what do you do? How do you deal with this? Do your children come home crying from being teased? Do you argue with the children about what they're eating? Do you know what their school gives them access to? Do you feed their habits at home? How do you fight this battle without feeling like a horrible person? Do you blame yourself? I got questions and I'm scared of the answers.
Nowadays, life is not like 1985. My mom would come back from work, cook us dinner, let us play outside (cause Nintendo was not in the house yet), and get us ready for bed by 8:30pm. Now, a "normal" house looks like mom buying some KFC, hours of XBOX or Wii, and bedtime is like whenever. I know this, because there are some days I live like this. Where the eph did we go wrong? How do we get on track again?
I remember when my mom saw that my weight had gotten out of control. She had placed the entire family on a diet, not just me. She made it a family problem. She worked her hardest to get my weight down considerably, because she had felt responsible for putting me there and didn't want me to suffer for it. But she also let me know that I had a fair share of the blame as well. She stopped buying snacks or actually took to hiding them from me. Folks, my mom went as far as locking the freezer door so I could not get ice cream without her permission. Was I mad? Yeah, I was. Do I appreciate her efforts? Yes I do. Now.s
Sometimes, I wish parents would take the Ulda route with their fat kids. Lock up your fridge. Educate your children about fruits and veggies. Don't make them out to be bad things. I commended a woman on the train who was feeding her 8 month old peas like potato chips. I try to do that with Diddles and cucumbers. Some days I win, some days I loose, but I at least try. I almost disgusted when I see a hefty lad or lass mowing on a chocolate Hostess cake like it's a scene out the Cantina in Stars Wars. (I don't have to say which character their playing. You can guess.)
All I guess I'm saying is don't feel bad about taking away horrible snacks. Doritos are not a part of the food pyramid. There is a big difference between Fruit Juice and Fruit Drink (see Dave Chappelle). Scare your children. It's embarrassing to admit, but I have heard rumors that family members have told they're children, "Don't eat too much or you'll be fat like Cristy..." Yoswers! Now, I don't know if that is clearly a deterrent, but I do know that several close family members, who may or may not have received said advice, are not as "voluptuous" as myself.
If you are offended by what I am saying, good. Maybe it'll get you to think. Our future is gonna be riding a motorized scooter to school because they're too fat to walk a block. Save our kids! I'm begging you. Please. Pray for me, y'all.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Runnin'... Runnin'! And I'm not tired yet!
I was running late for the train this morning. After a restless and sleepless night, I had kept hitting the snooze like it was a buzzing fly. Bolting out of bed, I tried to hurry through the "beauty" routine. By the time I had left the house it was 7:10am and I needed to get money at the ATM and get coffee to make change to park. Mind you, my train was at 7:22am and it takes a minute to get there. That's when I decided to go to the next station, hoping to out run the train.
Lord knows, I was sweating worse than an alcoholic in a bar at happy hour. After fighting through a weird flow of traffic, I finally arrived at the station. As I parked my car, I was dreading having to scurry. Prior to working out, I had never been able to run fast enough to make the train. In fact, there had been a couple of times where I had plumb given up before even making the effort. It was rough. It was sad. It was heartbreaking.
Today, however, I had no time to dwell on the past. I had to get on that train. Grabbing my bag and my coffee, I quickly locked my door and proceeded to book it down the row of cars. My steps were even as was my breathing. Nothing felt tight or hampered. All I kept thinking was make this train, make this train. I dumped my dollars into the slot and proceeded to run across the street to the set of stairs that so often foiled me. Rounding the corner and up the ramp, I made it onto the train with seconds to spare.
That's when I took stock of a few things.
Each step I had taken was a run. I didn't drag behind. The breathing I was doing was neither a huff or a puff, it was even. My chest didn't heave nor did my heartbeat slam into my breastbone as it had done many times before. To sum it up, people, I wasn't dying like I had before. It was daunting not to feel that way. It was a scary relief knowing that I could actually run and not feel like I was going to drop. Wow.
It is moments like these that I am so thankful for getting off my ass to rebuild myself. They seem insignificant to so many in the world, but it is big for me. Pray for me, y'all.
Lord knows, I was sweating worse than an alcoholic in a bar at happy hour. After fighting through a weird flow of traffic, I finally arrived at the station. As I parked my car, I was dreading having to scurry. Prior to working out, I had never been able to run fast enough to make the train. In fact, there had been a couple of times where I had plumb given up before even making the effort. It was rough. It was sad. It was heartbreaking.
Today, however, I had no time to dwell on the past. I had to get on that train. Grabbing my bag and my coffee, I quickly locked my door and proceeded to book it down the row of cars. My steps were even as was my breathing. Nothing felt tight or hampered. All I kept thinking was make this train, make this train. I dumped my dollars into the slot and proceeded to run across the street to the set of stairs that so often foiled me. Rounding the corner and up the ramp, I made it onto the train with seconds to spare.
That's when I took stock of a few things.
Each step I had taken was a run. I didn't drag behind. The breathing I was doing was neither a huff or a puff, it was even. My chest didn't heave nor did my heartbeat slam into my breastbone as it had done many times before. To sum it up, people, I wasn't dying like I had before. It was daunting not to feel that way. It was a scary relief knowing that I could actually run and not feel like I was going to drop. Wow.
It is moments like these that I am so thankful for getting off my ass to rebuild myself. They seem insignificant to so many in the world, but it is big for me. Pray for me, y'all.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Lost Weekend
So, I was all geared up to talk about how I had gone wrong this past weekend, when God and his infinite wisdom pulled the plug on my story and crashed the Blogger server. It was then I had to take a minute and decipher what I really wanted to get out. On my weekly visits to Mamai and Papai's, I usually get on the scale to check my progress. I was scared to do so this week, because I had gone buck crazy this past weekend.
But when I stepped back and thought about my merciless shenanigans, I began to realize I didn't go crazy. I actually ate like a normal person would during a party. For my anniversary, sure I went for broke and ordered Crab Rangoon, but I paired them with Steamed Pork Dumplings. For Diddles' birthday, which made up my lunch and dinner, I had three slices of pizza, two chicken wings and a small helping of General Gau. I practically worked that off in the bouncy and walking around (alright gimping around) and chasing children.
Even during the week I had written my trainer, Jay (shout out to Exercise Solutions RI), telling him I feel like I was backsliding. He set my ass straight by saying I can't cheat on myself. I needed to get a hold of me. Folks, you gotta know, all my life, I've lived by that stupid sin, Gluttony. I always felt like I have to eat that hole chocolate mousse pie. I must inhale that Cool Whip sandwich dunked in Kool Aid. Yes, I must eat the entire box of Lil Debbies thwarting my sister's snacking. Oh, wait, why bring home half that pad thai, when I can finish it now? Ooooooh, Reese's Peanut Cups, mmmmmm! I never realized how to stop or savor a treat.
These last couple of months, it began to sink in that I can eat like a normal person is supposed to eat. A friend of mine, whom I have lunch with everyday (shout out to M. Frank), when I first started the restructure, kept mentioning the portions I was eating weren't enough. I began looking at the meals and started doubting what Mr. Jay had mapped out. Maybe this wasn't enough. I felt full, but was it enough? I had snackies, but were they enough? Hmmm. Then I gots to reading and doing and realized, crap, this is enough.
Still a bit doubtful, I sat down and wrote out an old menu of things I would have in each sitting in one day, then did a calorie count of those things. After I was done, I almost had a breakdown. In fact, I cried by myself.
If you have weak constitutions, I suggest you turn away, folks. This can get a lil' gross:
Breakfast:
Fried egg with the yolk, cheese, pork sausage on a bagel/English muffin - Tim Ho's (540 calories), DD (490 calories), McDonald's (452 calories)
Large buttered caramel coffee with extra cream and sugar - 125 calories
Total caloric intake between 665 - 577 calories
Lunch at Rock Bottom:
2 Titan Toothpicks - 612 calories
Classic Mac N Chicken - 1,430 calories
Total caloric intake was 2,042 calories
Dinner at Apsara:
8 Crab Rangoons - 560 calories
Green Curry Chicken with a bowl of white rice - 512 calories
Dessert from Friendly's Reese's PB Sundae - 1,330 calories
Total caloric intake 2,402
Total Daily intake for just one day was approx. 5,109
Folks, do you feel your heart lurching? Is there bile pressing up against your gums and burning your teeth? That was ONE day in my life of eating. That was me destroying my insides, because I didn't know how to just say, "Stop!" No wonder I was so mean and cold-hearted. NO wonder I was so huge. No wonder my body ached. No wonder I was going for broke week after week. If I could do that to myself, WTF! Breath, breath... Sorry, y'all, I went there again. I sometimes have moments where I get really mad at myself. It's kinda hard to look at the mirror every morning and realize you are your own domestic violence case in one body.
These last 12 weeks have shown me a new look at life and food. It's made me have a new relationship with how I treat myself. I began to learn that whatever I eat made up my framework. I noticed that the more high protein my diet became the more toned I got. The more fruit and water I ate and drank the more my skin looked clearer and rosier. Dude, I looked like I was fit for a coffin - I was so pale. Actually, the cast of Twilight called and wanted me to join. I declined. Thanks.
The more veggies I scarfed the more regular I felt (that's right, I said it - poop happens, deal with it!) . I didn't miss white rice (once and awhile in my sushi was all I needed). Fried foods began to actually taste oily to me. Let me tell you, I paid for those Crab Rangoons with a couple of worships to the porcelain temple for two days.
And, can I just say, the right foods can make you feel sexy. I love sashimi! Especially, salmon. After eating that, I feel like I can do a photo shoot for Italian Vogue - naked (with a satin blanket). Yes, I have thought about it. Anyway, the only casualty to this restructure thing has been my hair from all the sweat I've doused on it, but that can be fixed with a trip to Ms. Shanna's hair studio.
As I continue with this internal redecorating, be aware, I am 2lbs less (I finally did brave the scale), 24lbs lighter overall, 8lbs to my wedding weight, and have elliviated 144lbs of pressure from my knees (thanks, Jay, for teaching me that) . My RA bothers me, but I can actually fight it better. My hope is rising. My relationships are better (I can play tag with Diddles and that is awesome). The house is starting to look good, too.
Over three months ago, I was so scared, people. I hated everything (no really, I did). I dreaded waking up. I dreaded walking. I hated taking my meds. I hated my clothes. I hated my skin. I was so done with it, but humans are quirky. Sprinkle a little tragedy and cellulite on'em and some of them just bounce up ready to brawl. I'm glad I'm fighting and I know a lot of y'all are fighting with me. Thanks. Pray for me, y'all.
But when I stepped back and thought about my merciless shenanigans, I began to realize I didn't go crazy. I actually ate like a normal person would during a party. For my anniversary, sure I went for broke and ordered Crab Rangoon, but I paired them with Steamed Pork Dumplings. For Diddles' birthday, which made up my lunch and dinner, I had three slices of pizza, two chicken wings and a small helping of General Gau. I practically worked that off in the bouncy and walking around (alright gimping around) and chasing children.
Even during the week I had written my trainer, Jay (shout out to Exercise Solutions RI), telling him I feel like I was backsliding. He set my ass straight by saying I can't cheat on myself. I needed to get a hold of me. Folks, you gotta know, all my life, I've lived by that stupid sin, Gluttony. I always felt like I have to eat that hole chocolate mousse pie. I must inhale that Cool Whip sandwich dunked in Kool Aid. Yes, I must eat the entire box of Lil Debbies thwarting my sister's snacking. Oh, wait, why bring home half that pad thai, when I can finish it now? Ooooooh, Reese's Peanut Cups, mmmmmm! I never realized how to stop or savor a treat.
These last couple of months, it began to sink in that I can eat like a normal person is supposed to eat. A friend of mine, whom I have lunch with everyday (shout out to M. Frank), when I first started the restructure, kept mentioning the portions I was eating weren't enough. I began looking at the meals and started doubting what Mr. Jay had mapped out. Maybe this wasn't enough. I felt full, but was it enough? I had snackies, but were they enough? Hmmm. Then I gots to reading and doing and realized, crap, this is enough.
Still a bit doubtful, I sat down and wrote out an old menu of things I would have in each sitting in one day, then did a calorie count of those things. After I was done, I almost had a breakdown. In fact, I cried by myself.
If you have weak constitutions, I suggest you turn away, folks. This can get a lil' gross:
Breakfast:
Fried egg with the yolk, cheese, pork sausage on a bagel/English muffin - Tim Ho's (540 calories), DD (490 calories), McDonald's (452 calories)
Large buttered caramel coffee with extra cream and sugar - 125 calories
Total caloric intake between 665 - 577 calories
Lunch at Rock Bottom:
2 Titan Toothpicks - 612 calories
Classic Mac N Chicken - 1,430 calories
Total caloric intake was 2,042 calories
Dinner at Apsara:
8 Crab Rangoons - 560 calories
Green Curry Chicken with a bowl of white rice - 512 calories
Dessert from Friendly's Reese's PB Sundae - 1,330 calories
Total caloric intake 2,402
Total Daily intake for just one day was approx. 5,109
Folks, do you feel your heart lurching? Is there bile pressing up against your gums and burning your teeth? That was ONE day in my life of eating. That was me destroying my insides, because I didn't know how to just say, "Stop!" No wonder I was so mean and cold-hearted. NO wonder I was so huge. No wonder my body ached. No wonder I was going for broke week after week. If I could do that to myself, WTF! Breath, breath... Sorry, y'all, I went there again. I sometimes have moments where I get really mad at myself. It's kinda hard to look at the mirror every morning and realize you are your own domestic violence case in one body.
These last 12 weeks have shown me a new look at life and food. It's made me have a new relationship with how I treat myself. I began to learn that whatever I eat made up my framework. I noticed that the more high protein my diet became the more toned I got. The more fruit and water I ate and drank the more my skin looked clearer and rosier. Dude, I looked like I was fit for a coffin - I was so pale. Actually, the cast of Twilight called and wanted me to join. I declined. Thanks.
The more veggies I scarfed the more regular I felt (that's right, I said it - poop happens, deal with it!) . I didn't miss white rice (once and awhile in my sushi was all I needed). Fried foods began to actually taste oily to me. Let me tell you, I paid for those Crab Rangoons with a couple of worships to the porcelain temple for two days.
And, can I just say, the right foods can make you feel sexy. I love sashimi! Especially, salmon. After eating that, I feel like I can do a photo shoot for Italian Vogue - naked (with a satin blanket). Yes, I have thought about it. Anyway, the only casualty to this restructure thing has been my hair from all the sweat I've doused on it, but that can be fixed with a trip to Ms. Shanna's hair studio.
As I continue with this internal redecorating, be aware, I am 2lbs less (I finally did brave the scale), 24lbs lighter overall, 8lbs to my wedding weight, and have elliviated 144lbs of pressure from my knees (thanks, Jay, for teaching me that) . My RA bothers me, but I can actually fight it better. My hope is rising. My relationships are better (I can play tag with Diddles and that is awesome). The house is starting to look good, too.
Over three months ago, I was so scared, people. I hated everything (no really, I did). I dreaded waking up. I dreaded walking. I hated taking my meds. I hated my clothes. I hated my skin. I was so done with it, but humans are quirky. Sprinkle a little tragedy and cellulite on'em and some of them just bounce up ready to brawl. I'm glad I'm fighting and I know a lot of y'all are fighting with me. Thanks. Pray for me, y'all.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Curse of the Cardio
So, for the passed two weeks, my trainer, Jay, has stressed I need to get into cardio routine. Logically, I know the man is right, but emotionally and mentally I hate it. I have never been the runner. For physical fitness tests at school, I failed any running relays. During recess, when friends would play tag, it took me way longer to catch anyone. That's why I never volunteered to be It. Lord knows, if I went walking with either my sister or father, someone needed to bring an oxygen tank or else I was on the side of the road gripping my side and huffing myself blue.
It was a psychological trauma when anyone would say the word run. I was defeated before I even started and worst of all, I just felt like everyone looked at me like, "what a shame" or "you lazy ass." Pretty much, I fell into the roll and never got out of it. Now, here was Jay saying, "C'mon, Che, you got this."
No, no I don't got this. I want to hide behind lifting weights and beating my muscles up. Leave my lungs and heart alone. Don't shake your head at me. Tell me you don't feel the same way when you get strapped to a treadmill. Ok, I sound like a punk, but breaking from a characteristic that has pretty much been you is not easy. Sigh.
I guess everytime I've ever made a valiant effort to run or do step or whatever other cardio exercise thrown at me, I have felt hedious. You heard me. Hedious. God forbid if I was doing this with my sister - Queen of the Long Distance Run. Ugh. I just could not keep up and felt useless trying to.
I know I am having a moment right now.
The only time I never felt this way was when I danced - alone. I can remember long hours of leaping from one end of my parents house to the other in graceful swirls. That livingroom was my stage and I owned it. Each step I choreographed was in sync with the music and I told a story with my hands and feet and body that I could never tell anyone else. I created a character that broke all the previous models of the lazy me that my family were more than well-acquainted with. In those moments, I could run and my heart didn't beat too quickly or my sides didn't kill nor did my lungs burn. That's why my calves looked the way they did. That's why my stomach was relatively flat for a big girl. And that is why I had a tabletop for an ass.
Now, you're probably wondering, "Well, Che, why don't you take that up again?" Simple, I'm ashamed to try. Can you imagine me leaping from one end of my home to the other? Creating a story with my hands and feet to the latest Kanye or Nicki Manaj joint? Sigh. I guess the Wendy inside me grew up and killed off my internal Peter Pan, because I more than just a Lost Boy right now.
You wanna know the real truth. I still do it. In my head anyway. Since starting the temple restructure, I began listening to songs and coming up with routines that harken back to my old days. Robin Thicke's "Sex Therapy", T-Pain's "Reverse Cowgirl", Alicia Keys' "Trying to Sleep with a Broken Heart" have all received a mental choreography. I'm just afraid to actually spark up the CD player, shove the couches to the side, and just get on my tip toes. Those puppies hurt.
I'm also afraid to look ugly. Ugh! I can't believe I said that. But it is so true. I feel so ungainly and even when I do the simple stuff Jay gives me, I feel like a fool. I sweat and not that cool Flash Dance sweat. It's more like the fat guys from the "Physical" video. The other fear that trumps the looking ugly thing, failure. I am afraid to eph up. I am afraid to make a mistake because then that's it - game over. And worst of all, I am afraid that I will go through this shame and still not get to where I want to be.
So, there you have it. Need cardio to drop the pounds, but I'm too vainly stupid to just deal with it. Sorry to be a downer, guys. Just, pray for me, y'all.
It was a psychological trauma when anyone would say the word run. I was defeated before I even started and worst of all, I just felt like everyone looked at me like, "what a shame" or "you lazy ass." Pretty much, I fell into the roll and never got out of it. Now, here was Jay saying, "C'mon, Che, you got this."
No, no I don't got this. I want to hide behind lifting weights and beating my muscles up. Leave my lungs and heart alone. Don't shake your head at me. Tell me you don't feel the same way when you get strapped to a treadmill. Ok, I sound like a punk, but breaking from a characteristic that has pretty much been you is not easy. Sigh.
I guess everytime I've ever made a valiant effort to run or do step or whatever other cardio exercise thrown at me, I have felt hedious. You heard me. Hedious. God forbid if I was doing this with my sister - Queen of the Long Distance Run. Ugh. I just could not keep up and felt useless trying to.
I know I am having a moment right now.
The only time I never felt this way was when I danced - alone. I can remember long hours of leaping from one end of my parents house to the other in graceful swirls. That livingroom was my stage and I owned it. Each step I choreographed was in sync with the music and I told a story with my hands and feet and body that I could never tell anyone else. I created a character that broke all the previous models of the lazy me that my family were more than well-acquainted with. In those moments, I could run and my heart didn't beat too quickly or my sides didn't kill nor did my lungs burn. That's why my calves looked the way they did. That's why my stomach was relatively flat for a big girl. And that is why I had a tabletop for an ass.
Now, you're probably wondering, "Well, Che, why don't you take that up again?" Simple, I'm ashamed to try. Can you imagine me leaping from one end of my home to the other? Creating a story with my hands and feet to the latest Kanye or Nicki Manaj joint? Sigh. I guess the Wendy inside me grew up and killed off my internal Peter Pan, because I more than just a Lost Boy right now.
You wanna know the real truth. I still do it. In my head anyway. Since starting the temple restructure, I began listening to songs and coming up with routines that harken back to my old days. Robin Thicke's "Sex Therapy", T-Pain's "Reverse Cowgirl", Alicia Keys' "Trying to Sleep with a Broken Heart" have all received a mental choreography. I'm just afraid to actually spark up the CD player, shove the couches to the side, and just get on my tip toes. Those puppies hurt.
I'm also afraid to look ugly. Ugh! I can't believe I said that. But it is so true. I feel so ungainly and even when I do the simple stuff Jay gives me, I feel like a fool. I sweat and not that cool Flash Dance sweat. It's more like the fat guys from the "Physical" video. The other fear that trumps the looking ugly thing, failure. I am afraid to eph up. I am afraid to make a mistake because then that's it - game over. And worst of all, I am afraid that I will go through this shame and still not get to where I want to be.
So, there you have it. Need cardio to drop the pounds, but I'm too vainly stupid to just deal with it. Sorry to be a downer, guys. Just, pray for me, y'all.
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Decade of P and Che
September is a very huge month in the house. Not only is it our son's 2nd birthday or our 3rd wedding anniversary. It is our tenth year together as friends. I know many of you have heard the bumbling, oftentimes mad rantings of a possessed woman when I've referenced P in my blogs. Lord knows, he has never been shown in the best of light. And, true, he has done some stupid, callous things that have incurred my wrath, but (and don't tell him I said so, because I will deny it) I am no perfect angel to his flawed saint.
What has made me and P work for this long? Honestly? P has. In all my years of letting people walk in and out of my life (and sometimes not even giving them a thought once they've gone), P is the only person I cannot see my life without. Even when he gets me boiling mad, there is that part of me that wants to hug him and love him.
So, I want to actually take this blog and exalted Mr. P on the several things I never blogged about him that I think people should know:
Giving his last dime
P is generous to a fault. I can remember this one time when I had been ranting about money and not being able to pay my car note. I was panicked and couldn't turn anywhere else for the shame of it all. P drove to the bank and pulled out all that he had (which hadn't been much) and dumped it in my account without a single "pay me back..." When I asked him why he would do this, his response, "I'd rather let my account go dry then see you stressed like this."
You can't imagine how that made me feel. He was giving me all he had to make me feel secure and stress free. Statistics always reference that money is one of the main killers of a relationship. Couples quibble over a dollar and everything else falls apart around them. Hell, I even read how one guy ended his engagement because his fiancee had $170K worth of debt. Dang! But no matter our money woes, P has always stuck to his word and we've worked together to figure out how to get by. I guess we get the part about, "for richer or poorer."
He's No White Knight, But He'll Do
Many know the story of my Tercel loosing control on 93S. But it was the after effects that stick in my head. P had gotten me back to 63 Merriam and I was a wreck. Crying, sobbing , ranting like an idiot. And he held on to me. Finally, when it had hit me that he had said nothing the whole time, I looked up and he was crying. He just looked at me, stroking my braids, tears rolling down his cheek and he uttered, "When you're phone dropped and the last thing I heard was you scream, I thought I lost you." He said how he racked his brain trying to figure out how to get to me and couldn't. He said he felt lost. That's when I knew. If I could make this 6 foot giant of a man breakdown into tears and express his vulnerablity, I knew I meant a whole lot to P.
Tragedies can bring couples close together, but they can also test the bounds of their love. The one thing I know about P is that no matter what tragedies befall us, great or small, I am assured he will be my shoulder to cry on. I guess we understand, "For better or worse."
Road to Anywhere
Before P, I had only known the four corners of the New England area. I was reluctant to walk outside the lines and see what the other side looked like. But P took my hand and dragged me places that has given me great stories. I will never forget our first road trip to Washington, D.C. to pick up the infamous futon. It was a one day trip, but it was chocked full of adventures. The Intrepid rental that didn't have pull down back seats. P and Jacques trying to load it in. The State Trooper at the gas station, after seeing P held prisoner by the futon in the back seat, commenting, "That's the way to keep'em, girlie. " Driving back in the rain with the window open.
From that first, we knew we'd have an adventure everywhere we went. From ATL to San Fran, there's more fun to be had. Oh, by the way, we still have the futon frame.
Um... Happy Valentine's Day... Daddy
For those of you who know P, he is the talker. He forever has something to say about anything. But there was final one time I was able to silence him. It was Valentine's Day 2008. For a week now, I had suspected something was up with my womanly systems and had decided to do a check. Before we sat down to eat dinner at home, I dipped the stick and left it there. I didn't even mention to P what I had suspected, because a part of me didn't believe it. We joked at the table as we usually did, then I proceeded to clear the table. That's when I remembered, "Oh crap, the Test." I ran into the bathroom and checked the results. "Oh my," was all I thought, then laughed to myself.
Walking out into the livingroom where P was watching TV, I plopped down on top of him with test in hand. He was already talking some mess about something else, when I said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Daddy" and showed him the big ol' positive. P was silent. He was shocked. His mouth hung open. I was in hysterics laughing.
Once he regained his composure and tongue, he couldn't stop yapping about his son and he still is. I don't think I could top another Valentine's Day present.
Loving me for who I am
Many folks have told me how sweet and friendly and charming I am. Some folks have called me a bitch, tempermental and overly dramatic. But no one has truly accepted me for me, like P. He is never afraid to let me know when I'm being mean or need to reel in my claws. But he also reminds me on occasion that I have a tender, loving side and that I really am a good person. I truly cherish the rare moments when he steps outside himself and tells me how my skin is the softest he's every touched or that he loves loving me or that my hair looks nice or that that outfit is sexy.
He ain't romance novel romantic, but he lets me know I am special to him in his own P Diddy way.
On this September 14th, P and I celebrate the first time we said, "I love you." I know it's cheesy y'all, but it is this day that is the most important, because this is the day that we let each other know with three little words that "I can't live without you", "I miss you when you are gone", "I'm broken, fix me", "I can see you having my kids", "I can see being with you forever." And yes, I love you, Big Man. Pray for us, y'all.
Happy Anniversary!
What has made me and P work for this long? Honestly? P has. In all my years of letting people walk in and out of my life (and sometimes not even giving them a thought once they've gone), P is the only person I cannot see my life without. Even when he gets me boiling mad, there is that part of me that wants to hug him and love him.
So, I want to actually take this blog and exalted Mr. P on the several things I never blogged about him that I think people should know:
Giving his last dime
P is generous to a fault. I can remember this one time when I had been ranting about money and not being able to pay my car note. I was panicked and couldn't turn anywhere else for the shame of it all. P drove to the bank and pulled out all that he had (which hadn't been much) and dumped it in my account without a single "pay me back..." When I asked him why he would do this, his response, "I'd rather let my account go dry then see you stressed like this."
You can't imagine how that made me feel. He was giving me all he had to make me feel secure and stress free. Statistics always reference that money is one of the main killers of a relationship. Couples quibble over a dollar and everything else falls apart around them. Hell, I even read how one guy ended his engagement because his fiancee had $170K worth of debt. Dang! But no matter our money woes, P has always stuck to his word and we've worked together to figure out how to get by. I guess we get the part about, "for richer or poorer."
He's No White Knight, But He'll Do
Many know the story of my Tercel loosing control on 93S. But it was the after effects that stick in my head. P had gotten me back to 63 Merriam and I was a wreck. Crying, sobbing , ranting like an idiot. And he held on to me. Finally, when it had hit me that he had said nothing the whole time, I looked up and he was crying. He just looked at me, stroking my braids, tears rolling down his cheek and he uttered, "When you're phone dropped and the last thing I heard was you scream, I thought I lost you." He said how he racked his brain trying to figure out how to get to me and couldn't. He said he felt lost. That's when I knew. If I could make this 6 foot giant of a man breakdown into tears and express his vulnerablity, I knew I meant a whole lot to P.
Tragedies can bring couples close together, but they can also test the bounds of their love. The one thing I know about P is that no matter what tragedies befall us, great or small, I am assured he will be my shoulder to cry on. I guess we understand, "For better or worse."
Road to Anywhere
Before P, I had only known the four corners of the New England area. I was reluctant to walk outside the lines and see what the other side looked like. But P took my hand and dragged me places that has given me great stories. I will never forget our first road trip to Washington, D.C. to pick up the infamous futon. It was a one day trip, but it was chocked full of adventures. The Intrepid rental that didn't have pull down back seats. P and Jacques trying to load it in. The State Trooper at the gas station, after seeing P held prisoner by the futon in the back seat, commenting, "That's the way to keep'em, girlie. " Driving back in the rain with the window open.
From that first, we knew we'd have an adventure everywhere we went. From ATL to San Fran, there's more fun to be had. Oh, by the way, we still have the futon frame.
Um... Happy Valentine's Day... Daddy
For those of you who know P, he is the talker. He forever has something to say about anything. But there was final one time I was able to silence him. It was Valentine's Day 2008. For a week now, I had suspected something was up with my womanly systems and had decided to do a check. Before we sat down to eat dinner at home, I dipped the stick and left it there. I didn't even mention to P what I had suspected, because a part of me didn't believe it. We joked at the table as we usually did, then I proceeded to clear the table. That's when I remembered, "Oh crap, the Test." I ran into the bathroom and checked the results. "Oh my," was all I thought, then laughed to myself.
Walking out into the livingroom where P was watching TV, I plopped down on top of him with test in hand. He was already talking some mess about something else, when I said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Daddy" and showed him the big ol' positive. P was silent. He was shocked. His mouth hung open. I was in hysterics laughing.
Once he regained his composure and tongue, he couldn't stop yapping about his son and he still is. I don't think I could top another Valentine's Day present.
Loving me for who I am
Many folks have told me how sweet and friendly and charming I am. Some folks have called me a bitch, tempermental and overly dramatic. But no one has truly accepted me for me, like P. He is never afraid to let me know when I'm being mean or need to reel in my claws. But he also reminds me on occasion that I have a tender, loving side and that I really am a good person. I truly cherish the rare moments when he steps outside himself and tells me how my skin is the softest he's every touched or that he loves loving me or that my hair looks nice or that that outfit is sexy.
He ain't romance novel romantic, but he lets me know I am special to him in his own P Diddy way.
On this September 14th, P and I celebrate the first time we said, "I love you." I know it's cheesy y'all, but it is this day that is the most important, because this is the day that we let each other know with three little words that "I can't live without you", "I miss you when you are gone", "I'm broken, fix me", "I can see you having my kids", "I can see being with you forever." And yes, I love you, Big Man. Pray for us, y'all.
Happy Anniversary!
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Most Beautiful Day
I know most girls talk about having an Ugly Day. You know the one. The kinda of day where that back fat looks a little more pronounced or that front flesh, fanny pack is hanging lower than normal. You get so caught up in that ugliness that it practically runs your day. Your shoulders slump, your feet drag, your lips pout. You get to thinking, "Ugh! I got to expose this to the world. WHY?!"
But then there is the Beautiful Day that no one dwells on or talks about. You hide it behind a sleek little smile and coy blush. It's that day that you wake up and feel the sexiest you've every felt. The kinda of day where you hear Prince crooning, "Could you be, The most beautiful girl in the world."
I'm having that kinda of day.
I woke up feeling big on myself. As I rose from my bed, after cuddling with the Big Man, I sauntered (that's right, sauntered) into the bathroom to get ready for work. For a split second, I caught my reflection gleaming back at me from the wall mirrors. Then I really looked. It was the first time, in a long time, that I stood in front of the mirror to admire the stock I possessed. It had definitely rose overnight, prompting me to think, there was no way I was trading or selling it.
My skin glowed a gorgeous light caramel with tiny tinges of rose hues in the right places. My eyes were the perfect shade of Brazel (lil light brown/lil umber). My second chin had taken leave and just the one chin remained, jutting out haughtily. My hips were like the S curves on I-95. Swervy. My thighs were smooth with the right amount of roll. My booty was breaking zero gravity. I was fit to make love to myself, I looked and felt that good.
Now, this was no passing fancy. Even after I clothed myself, it felt like my swag got deeper. I strutted (that's right strutted) out my house got into my truck to head to the station, playing LL Cool J's "'Round A Way Girl" in my mental. As I lounged on the train ride, I could feel all eyes on me (in a good way). The eyes kept following me right off the train, on to the escalator and on to the Orange Line.
At this very second, clicking away on my keyboard, I'm still feeling like the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. I hope you all do to... Pray for me, y'all!
But then there is the Beautiful Day that no one dwells on or talks about. You hide it behind a sleek little smile and coy blush. It's that day that you wake up and feel the sexiest you've every felt. The kinda of day where you hear Prince crooning, "Could you be, The most beautiful girl in the world."
I'm having that kinda of day.
I woke up feeling big on myself. As I rose from my bed, after cuddling with the Big Man, I sauntered (that's right, sauntered) into the bathroom to get ready for work. For a split second, I caught my reflection gleaming back at me from the wall mirrors. Then I really looked. It was the first time, in a long time, that I stood in front of the mirror to admire the stock I possessed. It had definitely rose overnight, prompting me to think, there was no way I was trading or selling it.
My skin glowed a gorgeous light caramel with tiny tinges of rose hues in the right places. My eyes were the perfect shade of Brazel (lil light brown/lil umber). My second chin had taken leave and just the one chin remained, jutting out haughtily. My hips were like the S curves on I-95. Swervy. My thighs were smooth with the right amount of roll. My booty was breaking zero gravity. I was fit to make love to myself, I looked and felt that good.
Now, this was no passing fancy. Even after I clothed myself, it felt like my swag got deeper. I strutted (that's right strutted) out my house got into my truck to head to the station, playing LL Cool J's "'Round A Way Girl" in my mental. As I lounged on the train ride, I could feel all eyes on me (in a good way). The eyes kept following me right off the train, on to the escalator and on to the Orange Line.
At this very second, clicking away on my keyboard, I'm still feeling like the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. I hope you all do to... Pray for me, y'all!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Ebonics and the DEA
Approximately 13 years ago, the word Ebonics fell into our culture like a lead brick. Websites dedicated to urban slang terms popped up like gang busters, a school district in California lobbied to make it a language taught in our schools, and everybody and their momma was using the Jive Dictionary to be hep. I have to admit I had done a whole news article dedicated to informing folks on the "new" school of speaking, which later was picked up by a radio station that announced a Slang Word of the Day for at least a month.
However, with Ebonics, there came a serious debate. Were we teaching our children to dumb down their speech? Was Ebonics a smarter way to communicate with our urban youth? And mainly, why was urban slang such a target when every youth group had their own lingo (i.e. skaters, goths, jocks)? It kind of reminded me of that scene in the slapstick comedy, Airplane, where the stewardess couldn't understand the two black passengers. Suddenly, another brother popped up and said, "Excuse me, I speak Jive." Then he proceeds to translate the quandary. Part of me laughed, the other part of me said, "What are you saying? You mean you can't understand us?"
Now my cackles have risen once again as I learn that the Drug Enforcement Agency is looking for 9 expert Ebonics translators (you heard me) to help them decode language used by drug dealers in the Southeast region of the country. Seriously? Fo' real? I don't know if I'm angry or just dumbfounded.
I am notorious for utilizing slang in my everyday life. Those who are fortunate (possibly unfortunate) enough to carry on a conversation with me know that I crisscross slang and SAT-type vocabulary like a double dutch pro. I love soaking up new words. I've read the dictionary because I never wanted anyone to use a word I could not translate. I was glad to take Latin in high school, because it taught me to breakdown language. I speak a language which, in itself, is a dialect of five to ten other languages. You would think I would be glad that there was a branch of the government utilizing this language for the good of the people.
Not necessarily.
I think what has me annoyed about this prospect is that once again our world, our culture, our lifestyle is being singled out for scrutiny. I rarely, if never, hear about how the government's need for translators who can interpret Neo-Nazi propaganda language or special code used by Wall Street-types embezzling our hard earned dollars. Aren't they just as dangerous? Don't they have their own lingo and slang terms to be deciphered and broken down?
Much as I hate to admit it, you got to give credit to the drug dealers for coming up with a language so hard that the DEA has to budget a portion of its $2.6M to crack it. What I find even more annoying is that the DEA shoots itself in the foot by making such a request because now those same dealers will know their codes are being tracked and will switch it up like a well phrased verse in a freestyle. So, they're translators will be obsolete before they even get started, which means once again our tax dollars are wasted.
The sadder fact is the DEA may be stifled in their efforts because those who know the language best may live by the code of no snitching, which means they will never tell no matter the pay you give them. It's the age old duel between authority and rebels, which leaves the folks in the middle ducking and weaving to avoid the crossfire.
It's a battle of words, everyone. Where do you stand? Pray for me (us), y'all.
However, with Ebonics, there came a serious debate. Were we teaching our children to dumb down their speech? Was Ebonics a smarter way to communicate with our urban youth? And mainly, why was urban slang such a target when every youth group had their own lingo (i.e. skaters, goths, jocks)? It kind of reminded me of that scene in the slapstick comedy, Airplane, where the stewardess couldn't understand the two black passengers. Suddenly, another brother popped up and said, "Excuse me, I speak Jive." Then he proceeds to translate the quandary. Part of me laughed, the other part of me said, "What are you saying? You mean you can't understand us?"
Now my cackles have risen once again as I learn that the Drug Enforcement Agency is looking for 9 expert Ebonics translators (you heard me) to help them decode language used by drug dealers in the Southeast region of the country. Seriously? Fo' real? I don't know if I'm angry or just dumbfounded.
I am notorious for utilizing slang in my everyday life. Those who are fortunate (possibly unfortunate) enough to carry on a conversation with me know that I crisscross slang and SAT-type vocabulary like a double dutch pro. I love soaking up new words. I've read the dictionary because I never wanted anyone to use a word I could not translate. I was glad to take Latin in high school, because it taught me to breakdown language. I speak a language which, in itself, is a dialect of five to ten other languages. You would think I would be glad that there was a branch of the government utilizing this language for the good of the people.
Not necessarily.
I think what has me annoyed about this prospect is that once again our world, our culture, our lifestyle is being singled out for scrutiny. I rarely, if never, hear about how the government's need for translators who can interpret Neo-Nazi propaganda language or special code used by Wall Street-types embezzling our hard earned dollars. Aren't they just as dangerous? Don't they have their own lingo and slang terms to be deciphered and broken down?
Much as I hate to admit it, you got to give credit to the drug dealers for coming up with a language so hard that the DEA has to budget a portion of its $2.6M to crack it. What I find even more annoying is that the DEA shoots itself in the foot by making such a request because now those same dealers will know their codes are being tracked and will switch it up like a well phrased verse in a freestyle. So, they're translators will be obsolete before they even get started, which means once again our tax dollars are wasted.
The sadder fact is the DEA may be stifled in their efforts because those who know the language best may live by the code of no snitching, which means they will never tell no matter the pay you give them. It's the age old duel between authority and rebels, which leaves the folks in the middle ducking and weaving to avoid the crossfire.
It's a battle of words, everyone. Where do you stand? Pray for me (us), y'all.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Don't Rush. Flush.
This month Ockie started potty training, but before the tyke was even a year old, he was flushing the toilet like a pro. Sah-wish! Unfortunately, it seems grown folks have an issue with this simple act of kindness. Namely, folks at my job. On my many adventures to the lavatory to handle mine, I am bombarded with the visual evidence of some people's poor house training. You know, the Elmo Potty DVD is not just for kids, grown ups can take some notes, too.
Do you realize not flushing a toilet is a gateway act to other impolite stuff, like no hand washing, nose picking (possibly eating), public belching, pooting? I know the bathroom is the right place to relax, but it is not the place to shirk your duty to your fellow co-workers. How hard is it to pull the handle? I mean we work in a theatre, for God sakes! Those are industrial Johns we're sitting on, made to handle whatever the public throws at it.
I am not ashamed to admit that I check and make sure my business has evacuated the building before I step out my stall. Some cats don't even know the damage they're leaving behind, but poor Maria (our trusty, yet disgusted cleaning lady) does and she is not pleased. And, people, this is not the time, nor the place to be green. A double flush is just necessary. Forget the water bill, forget the planet, people's sensibilities are at stake! We all can't afford to be Sheryl Crow in this piece.
And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to know that it's that Special Time for my co-workers. I already picked up on your PMS last week and really didn't need the confirmation this week, thanks. That's why the job supplied you with a bucket. Use it.
So, in closing, I impart to the nasty-ass individuals at the job a simple motto that I think can help. "Don't Rush. Flush. Take a Moment after a Movement."
This has been a public service announcement of the Lady's Relation Blog. Pray for me, y'all!
Do you realize not flushing a toilet is a gateway act to other impolite stuff, like no hand washing, nose picking (possibly eating), public belching, pooting? I know the bathroom is the right place to relax, but it is not the place to shirk your duty to your fellow co-workers. How hard is it to pull the handle? I mean we work in a theatre, for God sakes! Those are industrial Johns we're sitting on, made to handle whatever the public throws at it.
I am not ashamed to admit that I check and make sure my business has evacuated the building before I step out my stall. Some cats don't even know the damage they're leaving behind, but poor Maria (our trusty, yet disgusted cleaning lady) does and she is not pleased. And, people, this is not the time, nor the place to be green. A double flush is just necessary. Forget the water bill, forget the planet, people's sensibilities are at stake! We all can't afford to be Sheryl Crow in this piece.
And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to know that it's that Special Time for my co-workers. I already picked up on your PMS last week and really didn't need the confirmation this week, thanks. That's why the job supplied you with a bucket. Use it.
So, in closing, I impart to the nasty-ass individuals at the job a simple motto that I think can help. "Don't Rush. Flush. Take a Moment after a Movement."
This has been a public service announcement of the Lady's Relation Blog. Pray for me, y'all!
Monday, August 16, 2010
I'm Slippin, I'm Fallin'.....
So, Friday the 13th was a jump off of minor catastrophes. Aside from having to deal with the RI bureaucracy that can work the late Mother Teresa solid, I had weakness like you wouldn't believe. Like a wino to drink and a crackhead to pipe, I fell for my addiction - and wicked hard. As most of you know, I am on this journey to rebuild the Temple of Lady Cheena. This is not an easy undertaking and so with it comes many challenges. But I found myself completely derailed this weekend, so much so that I don't know how to even explain what happened. So, if you are reading this, Jay, I humbly accept any and all punishments for my behavior this coming Tuesday.
Below, I kindly recount how I fell from grace and continue to hear the DMX song, "Slippin", on repeat mode in my head.
Fall from Grace #1: A 'Naughty' Breakfast
So there I was standing at the counter of the Tufts cafe waiting to put in my order. Everything is smelling like roses, or better yet, home fries and sausages. Steve, my breakfast man, is asking me what I would like. I step up and say, "Steve, I am feeling naughty today. Whip me up some egg whites, spinach, mushrooms, CHEESE and BACON!" I bolded the last two to stress I should not have had that in my damn omelet! Steve, ever the proficient cook, makes my meal to order and I bounce on my way. What could possibly go wrong on a sunny day like this?
An hour and a half later, I get a call from hubby telling me indeed something can go wrong on a sunny day like this. With paperwork in hand and some cussin' and carryin' on in the other, I rush back to RI to verify that I really am Mrs. Desir. After my lovely stay in the Social Security office, I took Mr. Desir to work. But, wait, let me rewind and discuss what happened in the drive. P decides that he is hungry. sounds fine with me because I am too. He keeps throwing out these restaurants people have suggested (buffets, mostly). I'm not too keen on those options, but hey! Realizing he doesn't have much time to dawdle, he decides to take me to this restaurant close to his job. Why not?
Fall from Grace #2: Give me all the Calamari
So, while at the restaurant, P and I decide to share a grilled chicken salad with balsamic vinegar on the side. Let me describe the dressing to you. It looked like pudding. I'm not kidding. Pudding! Yet, I used it. Munched up my salad like a pro and that should've been the end of it. Oh, but no! Did I neglect to tell you that I also put in an order of FRIED calamari with banana peppers and marinara sauce? Yep! Having gazed at the picture and witnessing a plate sail by me, I placed the order almost by rote. I'll have about 4 oz., no biggie. Folks, I hang my head in shame when I say I ate just over half of the damn plate. What happened? Why did I do that? Did I mention I also jacked a wing of P's plate? Ugh!
After that shameful fiasco, you'd think I'd decline doggy bagging the rest. Oh no, pack up those bad boys that was dinner tonight! And true that, I had calamari in my mouth at din-din.
Fall from Grace #3: What do you mean you ain't got Flatbread!?
Saturday morning, I was determined to right my wrongs. However, not really. I got my work out on by cleaning out our bedroom closet, tossing old clothes into a sack for the donation bin. Feeling a bit famished, I decided to take a break and get some cafe. I strolled over to the Tim Ho's up the block and ordered coffee... hot, EXTRA CREAM, butter caramel and no sugar. My usual nowadays was an iced, butter caramel, no sugar and extra skim milk. Why the other? 'Cause I felt like it!
Drove over to the DD (yeah, I know I left one coffee shop for another, no judging) to order a flatbread sandwich. The gal on the intercom kindly informed me that THIS DD did not have the flatbread but they did have plain egg whites, instead of the nasty veggie egg whites the other DD had. Sighing, I ask for the sandwich with ENGLISH MUFFIN and CHEESE. Get off me, there was no flatbread! And since I already fell, why not keep going?
Fall from Grace #4: Burned bad at Fire and Ice
As I sat in the Fire and Ice at Providence Place Mall, I wondered how I ever got here. Oh, yeah, P wanted to go there and I thought, should be safe. I make my own portions, I can avoid rice and pasta and bad things. Unlimited salad. What could possibly go awry? So, my first meal went on without a hitch. I had some broccoli, cabbage, mushrooms, and chicken (approx. 4-5 oz.), seasoned with some Thai red curry sauce. Did I mention that was my FIRST meal? Yep, that did not seem to stop me from going up on Round Two and picking up a 1lb slab of BURGER with mushrooms and Greenberg Teriyaki and, of course, SWISS freakin' CHEESE.
I had the sense to decline the bun, but yet none to decline the meal. I sat at the table and just mowed (rhymes with ow) that puppy until I could feel my discipline snap. P, in trying to be supported, said, "Honey, you didn't do that bad." Oh, God, that meant I was going to hell. I was even too ashamed to plug that into my Lose It! Sigh.
Fall from Grace #5: The Final Freakin' Straw! Put down the damn sandwich!!!!
Sunday had pretty much started like Saturday, with the exception that I was working myself crazy with the plan Jay had laid out for me, hoping to God that I was redeeming myself. P and I were heading to Boston to do some marketing for my father-in-law, when for breakfast I inhaled a FLATBREAD EGG WHITE AND CHEESE sandwich from DD and a Tim Ho's iced coffee (with skim milk this time). I seemed in control. Until later on in the night, when P made me a STEAK and CHEESE sandwich with a BUN. WTF!!!! I hoovered that puppy like a Death Row inmate.
For the love of God! Why was I on this tear? Who was working the gears back there? I sat on my couch post-food coitus and thought, "I got to stop this beast before it reeks havoc in the temple." I could feel the bread in my esophagus choking my dignity and filling me with shame. DMX kept playing in my head: "Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I can't get up. Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I can't get up. Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I gots to get up. Get me back on my feet so I can tear sh** up!”
I hear you, X… Pray for, y’all!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
When the spring breaks...
Every girl has her favorite hair-bob. Some have a trusted do-rag they wrap about their head at night, holding them like a lover. Some have a much loved barrette with Swarovski crystals that tells the world, "I'm fancy and polished." Others have the all important scrunchy (clothed or unclothed), caked with what hair product you had on that day. My mother has her set of old school rolls that have seen more curled follicles than a stylist and have gone through at least three presidents. For me, it was my black Clippy.
My black Clippy made me feel secure. She held my unruly crop in place like a fist. It was like an eagle claw with a squirrel in it. My curls would bounce behind my head confidently, proudly, away from my face to allow whatever expression I chose to don to shine unfettered my a stray strand. She was my ace in the hole. My salvation, when the club got to hot, my neatly done do would not be wrecked by sinful sweat. She was my beach buddy, making sure that after I had frolicked merrily in the sun and sand, I could wrap that nest about my head into something presentable.
Well, on Sunday, Clippy met with an unfortunate demise when her trusted spring crumbled attempting one last hold. Snap! and she tumbled into hands, spent. My mouth hung open in sadness. My eyes stared in disbelief. Sure I knew this day would come, but... I thought I had time! Sigh. 'Fraid not, Cheri. She has gone to the hair exchange in the sky, leaving me with my curls hanging in shame and uncouth.
For those of you who know my hair's fame, may know that not just any clip can tame these locks. I've recently been trying to find a hair-bob replacement, but have been coming up with goose eggs. I tried the bear claws, but the stupid things can't even latch on let alone grip. My hair laughs at it talons and moves on in disdain. I've tried a scrunchy but it takes me back to my more unfashionable decade where my retainer reigned my oral region and my eyebrows asked, "What the hell is Threading? And why are you suggesting such a thing?"
Alas, my search is on and I am desperate. For now, I've been hiding my hair beneath do-rags and ProStyle gel hoping to get to a Sally's or BeautyWorks to find a new hair-bob that can withstand the strands of Lady Cheena. Pray for y'all.
P.S. What is you favorite hair-bob? Do you recommend any good ones?
My black Clippy made me feel secure. She held my unruly crop in place like a fist. It was like an eagle claw with a squirrel in it. My curls would bounce behind my head confidently, proudly, away from my face to allow whatever expression I chose to don to shine unfettered my a stray strand. She was my ace in the hole. My salvation, when the club got to hot, my neatly done do would not be wrecked by sinful sweat. She was my beach buddy, making sure that after I had frolicked merrily in the sun and sand, I could wrap that nest about my head into something presentable.
Well, on Sunday, Clippy met with an unfortunate demise when her trusted spring crumbled attempting one last hold. Snap! and she tumbled into hands, spent. My mouth hung open in sadness. My eyes stared in disbelief. Sure I knew this day would come, but... I thought I had time! Sigh. 'Fraid not, Cheri. She has gone to the hair exchange in the sky, leaving me with my curls hanging in shame and uncouth.
For those of you who know my hair's fame, may know that not just any clip can tame these locks. I've recently been trying to find a hair-bob replacement, but have been coming up with goose eggs. I tried the bear claws, but the stupid things can't even latch on let alone grip. My hair laughs at it talons and moves on in disdain. I've tried a scrunchy but it takes me back to my more unfashionable decade where my retainer reigned my oral region and my eyebrows asked, "What the hell is Threading? And why are you suggesting such a thing?"
Alas, my search is on and I am desperate. For now, I've been hiding my hair beneath do-rags and ProStyle gel hoping to get to a Sally's or BeautyWorks to find a new hair-bob that can withstand the strands of Lady Cheena. Pray for y'all.
P.S. What is you favorite hair-bob? Do you recommend any good ones?
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Bundchen and Her Boobs Need to Cool It
In my daily perusal of the news, I came across supermodel, Gisele Bundchen, trending on Yahoo! Por qua, I thought. Little did I know that both me and my boobs would be raped of our womanhood. Gisele, in her high on mommy hood soap box, declared [insert snooty, Brazilian accent here], "I think there should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breast-feed their babies for six months."
Well, Gisele, write me up a ticket or toss me in the local pokey, because, unfortunately for me, I cannot breastfeed. That's right! Not because I don't want to, but because the doc's told me I can't. I take certain medicines that could be potentially harmful to my child and so I was banned from lending my kid the boob. But that makes no never mind, my mother never breastfed me or my sister, by choice. I have a friend who cannot breast her child 'cause the bugger won't latch. Are they all subject to the New World regime according to a high-paid supermodel? Heck no.
See, this is why I hate celebrities who all of a sudden caught on to being a mom like it's new. They start talking mess like "breastfeeding helped me get my shape back" or "look at me, I just popped out home skillet last week and now I'm in Playboy." F-You! Where's Brook Shields to keep it real right now? I'm crawling out of damn near two years of post traumatic self-loathing and bodily crashes. Currently, my son is a bouncy toddler with the stamina of the entire New England Patriots teams - and just as strong - without a teat.
Don't get me wrong. I can understand the benefits of breastfeeding. There are the immune benefits, the vitamin benefits, cancer fighting benefits, weight-loss benefits, the bonding between mommy and child benefits, etc. But let's also not forget that latching that pup to your boob has some adverse effects mentally and physically to you. First off, there is the pesky leakage that can happen anywhere, anytime when you forget to bring the pump or child (i.e. working moms who breastfeed). Second, the biting - enough said. Third, the misshapened, almost barely recognizable thing that used to be your nipple. That is gonna take a while to comeback, gals. Fourth, shenanigans in that area will never be what it once was with hubby or boyfriend until you've both gotten over the trauma. I've got stories - mine and others!
Believe it or not, there are mammy farms out there for women like me who have issues breastfeeding but would like their kids to benefit from it. You can check out Craigslist for it, I heard. Don't know how I'd feel about grabbing boob milk from someone else, but then again we drink regular animal milk without personally knowing Bessie the cow. But formula is not the evil empire, despite charging like they are. You just have to make sure you are feeding your child the right stuff and have a good report with your doctor to make sure Lil' Johnny or Lil' Susie is on track. DON'T TAKE PARENTAL ADVISE FROM CELEBS! CALL YOUR MOTHER OR AUNT OR GRANDMOTHER. SOMEBODY WHO HAS HAD A CHILD MORE THAN A FREAKIN' DAY.
Another part of the article that worked my solid was how Ms. Bundchen dared to claim [once again, insert ditsy, Brazilian accent here], “I think breastfeeding really helped me keep my figure.” No ma'am, that contract with Victoria Secrets kept your body in check. Although breastfeeding has been linked to weight loss, it doesn't work for everyone. Plus, it helps to be a high paid celeb with access to the best trainers (her husband's a football God for goodness sake!), best food, best doctors (plastic or otherwise), and best support system money can freakin' buy. Let me tell you something, Gis. We all ain't got it that way! Nor need to have it that way.
My son is doing just fabulous sans the breast milk. I respect, even envy gals (a little mind you), who breastfed their kids, but I think my boy is right on track to take Gisele's man's job in 2028. Til then, please just shaddup, enjoy your boy and stop working the rest of mothers.
Well, Gisele, write me up a ticket or toss me in the local pokey, because, unfortunately for me, I cannot breastfeed. That's right! Not because I don't want to, but because the doc's told me I can't. I take certain medicines that could be potentially harmful to my child and so I was banned from lending my kid the boob. But that makes no never mind, my mother never breastfed me or my sister, by choice. I have a friend who cannot breast her child 'cause the bugger won't latch. Are they all subject to the New World regime according to a high-paid supermodel? Heck no.
See, this is why I hate celebrities who all of a sudden caught on to being a mom like it's new. They start talking mess like "breastfeeding helped me get my shape back" or "look at me, I just popped out home skillet last week and now I'm in Playboy." F-You! Where's Brook Shields to keep it real right now? I'm crawling out of damn near two years of post traumatic self-loathing and bodily crashes. Currently, my son is a bouncy toddler with the stamina of the entire New England Patriots teams - and just as strong - without a teat.
Don't get me wrong. I can understand the benefits of breastfeeding. There are the immune benefits, the vitamin benefits, cancer fighting benefits, weight-loss benefits, the bonding between mommy and child benefits, etc. But let's also not forget that latching that pup to your boob has some adverse effects mentally and physically to you. First off, there is the pesky leakage that can happen anywhere, anytime when you forget to bring the pump or child (i.e. working moms who breastfeed). Second, the biting - enough said. Third, the misshapened, almost barely recognizable thing that used to be your nipple. That is gonna take a while to comeback, gals. Fourth, shenanigans in that area will never be what it once was with hubby or boyfriend until you've both gotten over the trauma. I've got stories - mine and others!
Believe it or not, there are mammy farms out there for women like me who have issues breastfeeding but would like their kids to benefit from it. You can check out Craigslist for it, I heard. Don't know how I'd feel about grabbing boob milk from someone else, but then again we drink regular animal milk without personally knowing Bessie the cow. But formula is not the evil empire, despite charging like they are. You just have to make sure you are feeding your child the right stuff and have a good report with your doctor to make sure Lil' Johnny or Lil' Susie is on track. DON'T TAKE PARENTAL ADVISE FROM CELEBS! CALL YOUR MOTHER OR AUNT OR GRANDMOTHER. SOMEBODY WHO HAS HAD A CHILD MORE THAN A FREAKIN' DAY.
Another part of the article that worked my solid was how Ms. Bundchen dared to claim [once again, insert ditsy, Brazilian accent here], “I think breastfeeding really helped me keep my figure.” No ma'am, that contract with Victoria Secrets kept your body in check. Although breastfeeding has been linked to weight loss, it doesn't work for everyone. Plus, it helps to be a high paid celeb with access to the best trainers (her husband's a football God for goodness sake!), best food, best doctors (plastic or otherwise), and best support system money can freakin' buy. Let me tell you something, Gis. We all ain't got it that way! Nor need to have it that way.
My son is doing just fabulous sans the breast milk. I respect, even envy gals (a little mind you), who breastfed their kids, but I think my boy is right on track to take Gisele's man's job in 2028. Til then, please just shaddup, enjoy your boy and stop working the rest of mothers.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Secrets Suck... Live open!
I've noticed a distinct social networking site backlash in the last month that seems to be growing. My father recently begged of me and my sister, "Why don't you like secrets?" Which cracked me up a bit, because what he was really trying to say was, "Why on earth do you kids keep telling the world your business?" The other night, a friend, in his own words, was "paranoid" about a recent photo post I had made that could possibly be taken out of context. My sister was slightly annoyed that her dog got put out on front street for some bad behavior. And, you know what, they may be right, for God sakes - mostly.
I had recently posted a photo of my son in my sister's dog's cage, which I thought was hysterical, because he had put himself in there and closed the door behind himself. Once I had posted the photos, I actually had a moment where I thought, "Good God, did I just do that? What will people think?" Then I quickly got over myself with a horrible flashback of my parent's own photo albums of me frolicking nakey in the bathtub with my tickle-biddies exposed. Now, that photo album has been seen by just about everyone who was handed the dreaded collage (friends, family, boyfriend (now husband), his family, his friends, bosses, etc.). Do people think my parent's are pedophiles? Heck no! Matter of fact, their parents will share the same embarrassing photos with me. Sigh! Wow, I never knew Lil Bob dressed up as Wonder Woman that Halloween, explains a lot.
Now, when I log onto my FB page, I am bombarded by how everyone is feeling and their own personal thoughts on whatever is happening in the world. Sometimes their thoughts mirror my own and sometimes they don't and I move on. But I can tell you, I've learned more about my family in the last year and a half then I have in freaking 32 years of my life going to their houses for visits. I feel like I know when kids are being born, people are getting engaged or married (wondering maybe why I wasn't invited?), the death of a loved one, someone falling ill, etc. Heck, I have kindled a friendship with family clear across the U-S-A that a phone would never have done. However, sometimes, there are times you just don't want to know that Uncle So-and-So is currently at the doctor's for a colonoscopy and the scope is in. That's just way too personal. Lord knows, I am a habitual offender (sorry, people). But I do want to know that his test results came back great and maybe off-line I'll check in, if I am so curious.
Nowadays, I think people want to be so open, yet they want absolutely no one knowing about them. It's the classic Go Daddy.com case, they reveal just enough of themselves before they say "Ah, I'm not gonna show ya!" I hate those people. They get you all kinds of emotionally involved and then they tell you nothing when you begin to probe for answers. Damn it, don't hustle me. Either come with it or shaddup!
I'm an open-book, sad to say. Not to say I don't know when to cram my pie-hole shut. But I know when to make an observation or reveal something about myself that I deem funny or just plain wrong (mostly funny). As many of you know, I discuss my Rheumatoid Arthritis openly. Not cause I want you all in my diagnosis, but it is in the hopes that someone, who maybe suffering in silence with their own chronic illness, may feel consolation that if you can have a bad day and freakin' laugh at yourself after you've shed some tears, then the situation ain't so bad. It's not a disaster if your left arm goes dead, you still got the other one - and sometimes maybe not.
My dislike is people who suffer in silence. I can't tell you how many of my family members suffered from pretty hardcore stuff and only when they pass on you learned, "Oh so-and-so had this" or "So-and-so had been ill for so long". Then you feel the proverbial guilt because, dang, I could of helped them through this or hey, wait, I have that illness maybe we can gab about it. So, I feel my daddy's pain about keeping secrets, but I look at it this way, stories have a way of coming out. Whether we cough up the gritty details over Holiday dinners, parties, etc., someone is bound to know about that one-time in the attic with the cigar or that trip to the Foxy Lady that one or more times.
People, here is my advice to you all about these FBs, MSs, Tweets, Linkdins: just keep talking about yourselves and no one else, be real, know your boundaries, keep it kosher (no swearing or get creative with that), block your co-workers, and remember, in a hundred years we'll all be mentally and telepathically connected anyway so nothing will be hidden from anyone. So, enjoy your edited version of the story and stop second guessing yourself. Pray for me, y'all.
I had recently posted a photo of my son in my sister's dog's cage, which I thought was hysterical, because he had put himself in there and closed the door behind himself. Once I had posted the photos, I actually had a moment where I thought, "Good God, did I just do that? What will people think?" Then I quickly got over myself with a horrible flashback of my parent's own photo albums of me frolicking nakey in the bathtub with my tickle-biddies exposed. Now, that photo album has been seen by just about everyone who was handed the dreaded collage (friends, family, boyfriend (now husband), his family, his friends, bosses, etc.). Do people think my parent's are pedophiles? Heck no! Matter of fact, their parents will share the same embarrassing photos with me. Sigh! Wow, I never knew Lil Bob dressed up as Wonder Woman that Halloween, explains a lot.
Now, when I log onto my FB page, I am bombarded by how everyone is feeling and their own personal thoughts on whatever is happening in the world. Sometimes their thoughts mirror my own and sometimes they don't and I move on. But I can tell you, I've learned more about my family in the last year and a half then I have in freaking 32 years of my life going to their houses for visits. I feel like I know when kids are being born, people are getting engaged or married (wondering maybe why I wasn't invited?), the death of a loved one, someone falling ill, etc. Heck, I have kindled a friendship with family clear across the U-S-A that a phone would never have done. However, sometimes, there are times you just don't want to know that Uncle So-and-So is currently at the doctor's for a colonoscopy and the scope is in. That's just way too personal. Lord knows, I am a habitual offender (sorry, people). But I do want to know that his test results came back great and maybe off-line I'll check in, if I am so curious.
Nowadays, I think people want to be so open, yet they want absolutely no one knowing about them. It's the classic Go Daddy.com case, they reveal just enough of themselves before they say "Ah, I'm not gonna show ya!" I hate those people. They get you all kinds of emotionally involved and then they tell you nothing when you begin to probe for answers. Damn it, don't hustle me. Either come with it or shaddup!
I'm an open-book, sad to say. Not to say I don't know when to cram my pie-hole shut. But I know when to make an observation or reveal something about myself that I deem funny or just plain wrong (mostly funny). As many of you know, I discuss my Rheumatoid Arthritis openly. Not cause I want you all in my diagnosis, but it is in the hopes that someone, who maybe suffering in silence with their own chronic illness, may feel consolation that if you can have a bad day and freakin' laugh at yourself after you've shed some tears, then the situation ain't so bad. It's not a disaster if your left arm goes dead, you still got the other one - and sometimes maybe not.
My dislike is people who suffer in silence. I can't tell you how many of my family members suffered from pretty hardcore stuff and only when they pass on you learned, "Oh so-and-so had this" or "So-and-so had been ill for so long". Then you feel the proverbial guilt because, dang, I could of helped them through this or hey, wait, I have that illness maybe we can gab about it. So, I feel my daddy's pain about keeping secrets, but I look at it this way, stories have a way of coming out. Whether we cough up the gritty details over Holiday dinners, parties, etc., someone is bound to know about that one-time in the attic with the cigar or that trip to the Foxy Lady that one or more times.
People, here is my advice to you all about these FBs, MSs, Tweets, Linkdins: just keep talking about yourselves and no one else, be real, know your boundaries, keep it kosher (no swearing or get creative with that), block your co-workers, and remember, in a hundred years we'll all be mentally and telepathically connected anyway so nothing will be hidden from anyone. So, enjoy your edited version of the story and stop second guessing yourself. Pray for me, y'all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Luckiest Man in the World
So, last night, Big Man and I were laying on the floor in the family room laughing like little kids. He was telling me about how he and Diddles (my son) had been laying pretty much the same way laughing at one another for about an hour. Now, if you can picture this scene, you would giggle, too, because my husband is a six-foot beast of a man with long dreadlocks. He looks like Mark Henry from WWE sans the unattractive man-o-tard. Very intimidating to most adults, but kids love him, for whatever reason.
Well, as we lay there discussing the day and what went down. He begins to tell me how he feels like the most "luckiest guy in the world." He is so proud of the relationship he has with his son. How Diddles loves him. How he would be so lost if anything ever happened to him. My husband is not one to reveal such tender things, but hearing him say those things made me feel like I was the luckiest wife in the world. I helped give him his son, this joy.
Look, I know this is too damn syrupy sweet for y'all, but it's hard to find a man so in love with his kid(s). Not to say they aren't out there. It's just some guys often times treat their love for their children on a peripheral level. It's that "yeah, I love my kids" mentality, but Daddy is clueless about Lil' Susie's goings on.
I see an almost different approach to Dad-dom from Big Man. He knows Diddles' favorite shows. He makes a point to learn the theme songs. He knows how Diddles likes to take his bottle. He's up early taking care of him, even when he's had a long night at work. He rolls on the ground with him. He tickles him till they are both out of breath from laughter.
What is most telling of all is how he carries Diddles around like the ultimate trophy - and how people notice right off the bat.
Grandpa Dede (Big Man's dad) gets a big kick out of watching his son and grandson roll about like two kids. He is simply amazed by how much love his son shows to his grandson - and is so touched by it. Sometimes he even gets into the action. Carefully, though, since Dede is 85. Even Papai (Diddles maternal grandfather) gets a good laugh when Diddles does a spot-on impersonation of Big Man on the phone talking to hockey folks. He gabs, he laughs and then, Diddles tries to put the phone in the side pocket of his imaginary sweatpants like Big Man does. OMG, I remember one day when he got a hold of Big Man's earpiece and put it on. It was hysterical.
You can even see just the exchange between them in the eyes and how they look and watch each other. When that 5 o'clock hour hits at Mamai and Papai's, Diddles is so happy to see Big Man he can't control himself. If he knew how to back flip he would. The squeal and giggles are endless.
As I watch Big Man reveal all of this to me, my heart swells just a little more. Even though we have rough days and can be snippy and curt, and the bills pile up, it's moments like this one that remind me I've got something good and I've helped make Big Man feel like the Luckiest Man in the World. Pray for me, y'all.
Well, as we lay there discussing the day and what went down. He begins to tell me how he feels like the most "luckiest guy in the world." He is so proud of the relationship he has with his son. How Diddles loves him. How he would be so lost if anything ever happened to him. My husband is not one to reveal such tender things, but hearing him say those things made me feel like I was the luckiest wife in the world. I helped give him his son, this joy.
Look, I know this is too damn syrupy sweet for y'all, but it's hard to find a man so in love with his kid(s). Not to say they aren't out there. It's just some guys often times treat their love for their children on a peripheral level. It's that "yeah, I love my kids" mentality, but Daddy is clueless about Lil' Susie's goings on.
I see an almost different approach to Dad-dom from Big Man. He knows Diddles' favorite shows. He makes a point to learn the theme songs. He knows how Diddles likes to take his bottle. He's up early taking care of him, even when he's had a long night at work. He rolls on the ground with him. He tickles him till they are both out of breath from laughter.
What is most telling of all is how he carries Diddles around like the ultimate trophy - and how people notice right off the bat.
Grandpa Dede (Big Man's dad) gets a big kick out of watching his son and grandson roll about like two kids. He is simply amazed by how much love his son shows to his grandson - and is so touched by it. Sometimes he even gets into the action. Carefully, though, since Dede is 85. Even Papai (Diddles maternal grandfather) gets a good laugh when Diddles does a spot-on impersonation of Big Man on the phone talking to hockey folks. He gabs, he laughs and then, Diddles tries to put the phone in the side pocket of his imaginary sweatpants like Big Man does. OMG, I remember one day when he got a hold of Big Man's earpiece and put it on. It was hysterical.
You can even see just the exchange between them in the eyes and how they look and watch each other. When that 5 o'clock hour hits at Mamai and Papai's, Diddles is so happy to see Big Man he can't control himself. If he knew how to back flip he would. The squeal and giggles are endless.
As I watch Big Man reveal all of this to me, my heart swells just a little more. Even though we have rough days and can be snippy and curt, and the bills pile up, it's moments like this one that remind me I've got something good and I've helped make Big Man feel like the Luckiest Man in the World. Pray for me, y'all.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Restoration of the Temple of Lady Cheena
It has been damn near a month since I started this restoration movement. I cannot tell you how much of a difference this has been for me. Hell, there are days now where I wake up and cannot believe I only have a minor pain or a stiff foot or two. I can't tell you how scared I was when Jay (my trainer) first came through the door with all those do-dads and said, "Let's get started."
I had let my fear and depression over my post-pregnancy, RA crashes get the better of me and pretty much let the temple of Lady Cheena fall to ruin. And I mean, ruin. It had become the most uninviting place on earth. The foundation had become this sloppy mass of deflated skin draped over stumps of spindly, ashen legs. The valley that had sat supple between the nethers and mountains was in a sad, post mudslide state. The mountains. Let's not even discuss this, only to say that the peaks were no longer high. The facade had grown gray and lifeless with an ever present furrow locked in place.
The exterior was not the only place that had fallen victim to the dilapidation. Interiors began to crumble with the mold of pity, anger and self-loathing. It was like I had no happy internal thoughts or nothing that could restore the hope that kept eroding with each passing rumble of pain. I didn't like me (and sadly, no else did either). It was becoming a pretty lonely existence and I was scared to live in it alone.
So, having gotten dun fed up with myself, I began to look into the possibility of restoring the old temple. Even with the fear was holding me back, my desire to be shiny outweighed it. If you've ever listened to the intro to Alicia Key's The Element of Freedom, she recites a poem that reflected my sentiments exactly. She stated:
And the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to bloom. This is the element of freedom.
This was the restoration of Lady Cheena. It was right painful being this ruined temple. It was getting so hard to lug it around back and forth everyday. My worst moments were when my 72 year old, oxygen-tank inhaling mother carried my son to my car, because I had no strength to do it and, of course, that moment when I had a horrible RA crash post-nodule surgery, when my husband had to clean me up because my "good" hand hurt me so much I couldn't even clean myself.
Ugh!
So, we are into week four of this process, let me give you a tour of the temple. After sweeping out the pity and shame, the interior has been bolstered by a new sense of self-confidence and strength in joy. That rotted flesh smell is fading away, giving way to a fresher, almost lemony scent. This was due impart to the new intake of veggies and fruits and good ol' H2O. The exterior has had some resurfacing and restructuring as well. The ashen, furrowed facade has been replaced by a bronzed and rosy face. The spindly legs have become more defined and stronger (and less dimply, I might add). I actually get up in the morning with barely a wobble. Yay! And that sloppy valley is starting to shape up. Hell, even the mountains are rounding out just nice.
Let's see what the next four weeks bring.
I had let my fear and depression over my post-pregnancy, RA crashes get the better of me and pretty much let the temple of Lady Cheena fall to ruin. And I mean, ruin. It had become the most uninviting place on earth. The foundation had become this sloppy mass of deflated skin draped over stumps of spindly, ashen legs. The valley that had sat supple between the nethers and mountains was in a sad, post mudslide state. The mountains. Let's not even discuss this, only to say that the peaks were no longer high. The facade had grown gray and lifeless with an ever present furrow locked in place.
The exterior was not the only place that had fallen victim to the dilapidation. Interiors began to crumble with the mold of pity, anger and self-loathing. It was like I had no happy internal thoughts or nothing that could restore the hope that kept eroding with each passing rumble of pain. I didn't like me (and sadly, no else did either). It was becoming a pretty lonely existence and I was scared to live in it alone.
So, having gotten dun fed up with myself, I began to look into the possibility of restoring the old temple. Even with the fear was holding me back, my desire to be shiny outweighed it. If you've ever listened to the intro to Alicia Key's The Element of Freedom, she recites a poem that reflected my sentiments exactly. She stated:
And the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to bloom. This is the element of freedom.
This was the restoration of Lady Cheena. It was right painful being this ruined temple. It was getting so hard to lug it around back and forth everyday. My worst moments were when my 72 year old, oxygen-tank inhaling mother carried my son to my car, because I had no strength to do it and, of course, that moment when I had a horrible RA crash post-nodule surgery, when my husband had to clean me up because my "good" hand hurt me so much I couldn't even clean myself.
Ugh!
So, we are into week four of this process, let me give you a tour of the temple. After sweeping out the pity and shame, the interior has been bolstered by a new sense of self-confidence and strength in joy. That rotted flesh smell is fading away, giving way to a fresher, almost lemony scent. This was due impart to the new intake of veggies and fruits and good ol' H2O. The exterior has had some resurfacing and restructuring as well. The ashen, furrowed facade has been replaced by a bronzed and rosy face. The spindly legs have become more defined and stronger (and less dimply, I might add). I actually get up in the morning with barely a wobble. Yay! And that sloppy valley is starting to shape up. Hell, even the mountains are rounding out just nice.
Let's see what the next four weeks bring.
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