Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Diet Diary- Entry #7
Dear Diary,
The holiday season is not doing a thing to assist me with my fitness endeavor. Of course, neither is my lack of motivation. Every time I turn around, someone is shoving cheesecake, or cookies, or some other tasty goodie in my face. It would be downright rude to decline. Being well mannered has its price!
This morning, I came out of the bookstore to discover a truck parked very close to my driver’s door. It was parked in the opposite direction, so the driver was sitting next to my car door as I carefully tried to open it without hitting his truck. He rolled his window down.
“I didn’t mean to squeeze you out there.”
“Thankfully it’s before the holiday, so I can still make the squeeze.”
“Now, you would have to eat a LOT to mess that up.”
I smiled politely and said thank you, but since he was a black man- and black men like women with junk in their trunk- I didn’t really consider it a compliment.
The holiday season is not doing a thing to assist me with my fitness endeavor. Of course, neither is my lack of motivation. Every time I turn around, someone is shoving cheesecake, or cookies, or some other tasty goodie in my face. It would be downright rude to decline. Being well mannered has its price!
This morning, I came out of the bookstore to discover a truck parked very close to my driver’s door. It was parked in the opposite direction, so the driver was sitting next to my car door as I carefully tried to open it without hitting his truck. He rolled his window down.
“I didn’t mean to squeeze you out there.”
“Thankfully it’s before the holiday, so I can still make the squeeze.”
“Now, you would have to eat a LOT to mess that up.”
I smiled politely and said thank you, but since he was a black man- and black men like women with junk in their trunk- I didn’t really consider it a compliment.
The Gift that Keeps You Going
“Thanks for the Reader’s Digest subscription, by the way.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Everyone needs a Reader’s Digest to read in the bathroom.”
“Well…. I normally don’t spend an extended amount of time in the bathroom.”
“You will now that you have a Reader’s Digest!”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Everyone needs a Reader’s Digest to read in the bathroom.”
“Well…. I normally don’t spend an extended amount of time in the bathroom.”
“You will now that you have a Reader’s Digest!”
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Random Saturday Celebrations
A couple from Jon’s church hosted a Christmas party yesterday afternoon. Nothing quite conveys festive cheer like a house full of geriatric Lutherans, in their slacks, Christmas sweaters, and walking canes, boozing it up at the wine table.
I was only one of two non-Lutheran attendees, so I didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations about all things Lutheran. I’m not sure I could have held an attention span long enough to engage in any lengthy conversations though. I was too busy counting the number of times this gray-haired woman in a bright blue sweater with sparkly Christmas balls came back to get more wine. “Nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer,” I overheard her say as she topped off her fourth glass before going outside to smoke. When she wasn’t around, I was watching the only other person in the room under 60, a male college student sitting between two women who were discussing their ailments. I have to give him credit for enduring without alcohol.
I wish I could have stayed to witness more, but I had to get home for my own festivities- sloppy joes, poker, and a white elephant gift exchange. Nothing says “Christmas” like loose meat sandwiches, gambling, and stealing gifts from each other!
I was only one of two non-Lutheran attendees, so I didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations about all things Lutheran. I’m not sure I could have held an attention span long enough to engage in any lengthy conversations though. I was too busy counting the number of times this gray-haired woman in a bright blue sweater with sparkly Christmas balls came back to get more wine. “Nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer,” I overheard her say as she topped off her fourth glass before going outside to smoke. When she wasn’t around, I was watching the only other person in the room under 60, a male college student sitting between two women who were discussing their ailments. I have to give him credit for enduring without alcohol.
I wish I could have stayed to witness more, but I had to get home for my own festivities- sloppy joes, poker, and a white elephant gift exchange. Nothing says “Christmas” like loose meat sandwiches, gambling, and stealing gifts from each other!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
What We Call the Funky Chicken
One thing is a given during the holidays- entertainment is always provided.
And some are better than others.
And some are better than others.
Ready for Christmas?
“Are you ready for Christmas?”
That’s the question I keep hearing from people. By “ready” they mean, have I done all my shopping. Have I spent my money, marked off my list, wrapped my gifts? I can’t blame them really. This is after all the consumer-driven, materialistic society in which we live. Sure, those of us who are Christians will attend services, we’ll sing, we’ll proclaim the “reason for the season,” but we’ll end up askers of the same two questions:
“Are you ready for Christmas?” and “What did you get for Christmas?” This is the end result of our celebrations.
This year, I can’t seem to find the motivation to participate in the mass commercialism of Christmas. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t like shopping, or crowds. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m trying to learn to budget my money better. Maybe it’s just rebellion against the consumer mentality. Or maybe… maybe it’s perspective. I can’t think of Christmas, or any other holiday, without thinking about my brothers who sit in prison. My brothers, who can’t receive gifts, and who would probably trade them anyway for the opportunity to experience what most of us will take for granted this Christmas- a sense of home, being surrounded by family, good food, feeling the embrace of someone who loves us. I wonder if my brothers have forgotten what it feels like to have someone hug them. Maybe it’s easier for them to not think about such things, and in forgetting, it lessens the pain of being without it. I wonder how many times I will half-heartedly hug someone this Christmas, or how many times I will take for granted the experience of being with those I love. I wonder how much I will fail to love those around me. Love is, after all, what we ultimately got for Christmas. How many of us will actually be “ready” for it?
That’s the question I keep hearing from people. By “ready” they mean, have I done all my shopping. Have I spent my money, marked off my list, wrapped my gifts? I can’t blame them really. This is after all the consumer-driven, materialistic society in which we live. Sure, those of us who are Christians will attend services, we’ll sing, we’ll proclaim the “reason for the season,” but we’ll end up askers of the same two questions:
“Are you ready for Christmas?” and “What did you get for Christmas?” This is the end result of our celebrations.
This year, I can’t seem to find the motivation to participate in the mass commercialism of Christmas. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t like shopping, or crowds. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m trying to learn to budget my money better. Maybe it’s just rebellion against the consumer mentality. Or maybe… maybe it’s perspective. I can’t think of Christmas, or any other holiday, without thinking about my brothers who sit in prison. My brothers, who can’t receive gifts, and who would probably trade them anyway for the opportunity to experience what most of us will take for granted this Christmas- a sense of home, being surrounded by family, good food, feeling the embrace of someone who loves us. I wonder if my brothers have forgotten what it feels like to have someone hug them. Maybe it’s easier for them to not think about such things, and in forgetting, it lessens the pain of being without it. I wonder how many times I will half-heartedly hug someone this Christmas, or how many times I will take for granted the experience of being with those I love. I wonder how much I will fail to love those around me. Love is, after all, what we ultimately got for Christmas. How many of us will actually be “ready” for it?
The Season of Giving... Math Lessons?
Last week I had a conversation with a friend over our shared desire to “refresh” on basic knowledge… you know, stuff we learned in jr. high, but haven’t thought about since. Capital cities, basic geography, stuff like that. After arguing with a sales associate that 50% of $79 was $35, she decided she needed a refresher in basic math. I agreed. She does.
We were in the car together last night.
“Quick- what is 9 + 7?” I asked.
“Oh, uhhhh. I don’t know! See what I’m talking about?”
“Okay, here’s a trick with nines. Take one from the other number, 7, add to nine to make ten, then add the 6 that’s left.” (This should be a split second process.)
“Oh, my gosh! Why didn’t my teachers ever tell me that?? YOU HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE!!”
I do what I can. I like to think I’m making the world a better place, one addition at a time.
We were in the car together last night.
“Quick- what is 9 + 7?” I asked.
“Oh, uhhhh. I don’t know! See what I’m talking about?”
“Okay, here’s a trick with nines. Take one from the other number, 7, add to nine to make ten, then add the 6 that’s left.” (This should be a split second process.)
“Oh, my gosh! Why didn’t my teachers ever tell me that?? YOU HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE!!”
I do what I can. I like to think I’m making the world a better place, one addition at a time.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Men at Work
People often ask me if I like working at my church. On days when I get to work and have to empty the trash, wipe up coffee grounds and spills, and clean up after groups who have used the office, I don’t. On days when every church member calls and asks me for a phone number- when last I checked, the White Pages is still printed and delivered to every household in America- I don’t. On days when someone walks in the door every five minutes, or the phone rings every two minutes, or someone is at my desk every ten minutes, and with each occurrence I have to stop what I’m doing and I can’t get any work done, I don’t.
There are however, things I do like about my job. The hours, the atmosphere, the low amount of stress, my co-workers. Sure, there is a huge discrepancy between the testosterone and estrogen levels in the office, but the guys treat us two women like equals. For instance, today I made a trip to the store and came back with a carload of supplies. I made four trips from my car to the office with my arms loaded with supplies, each time walking within two feet of two male co-workers who were sitting at a table. Just when I was done, one of them asked, “Hey, do you need some help?” "Hmmm. I think I've got it at this point."
To their credit, they are men. And as any man will tell you, they can't be expected to read the mind of a woman. I mean, how would they know I needed help unless I told them?
There are however, things I do like about my job. The hours, the atmosphere, the low amount of stress, my co-workers. Sure, there is a huge discrepancy between the testosterone and estrogen levels in the office, but the guys treat us two women like equals. For instance, today I made a trip to the store and came back with a carload of supplies. I made four trips from my car to the office with my arms loaded with supplies, each time walking within two feet of two male co-workers who were sitting at a table. Just when I was done, one of them asked, “Hey, do you need some help?” "Hmmm. I think I've got it at this point."
To their credit, they are men. And as any man will tell you, they can't be expected to read the mind of a woman. I mean, how would they know I needed help unless I told them?
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
If the Shoe Fits...
Lately, I have been in desperate need of shoes. I’m not one of those women who drool and obsess over footwear. My expressions of longing and affection are usually reserved for living, breathing beings. Well, and chocolate cake. You also won’t find me very knowledgeable about fashion and trends in footwear. The truth is- I just don’t care. I’m practical. I’m not going to replace all my shoes every year to keep up with the endless, vicious, cruel, never-ending cycle of trends. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t stick out like a pimp at a Promise Keeper’s conference. I at least wear stuff from this decade.
With Christmas approaching, I find it incredibly difficult to justify spending money on myself. There seemed to be only one way to meet my need without the guilt. I went to Target. My first trip was to the new Target in West Nashville. As I scanned the shoe aisles, I spotted the perfect pair. Perfect, except they were a size 5. Since I’m not an elf or a fairy, and I have four other toes that would need to get in the shoe, I despaired over my find… that wasn’t really a find- only a realization that the perfect shoe I was looking for was taunting me like some cruel neighborhood kid, riding by on his bike, eating a Snickers when I’m sitting on the porch sipping water and nibbling on a grain of rice. One pair. Size 5.
As any self-respecting person would after being taunted in such a manner, I squealed tires out of the Target parking lot and spit my gum at that bullseye on the side of the building. Some woman chased after me, shouting expletives. If she hadn’t been so ornery, I might have been nice enough to tell her that peanut butter is good for getting gum out of hair.
I headed to my usual Target- the one closest to my house. Imagine my excitement when I spotted several boxes of the same shoe. I happily pulled a size 8 from the shelf and tried it on. It fit, but I thought a 7.5 would be much better. Perfect probably. I looked around. No size 7.5. Still holding the size 8 box in my hand, I discovered one lone shoe on the shelf… size 7.5! This was going to be my day! I looked around for its mate. Hmmm. How hard could it be to find one shoe that was by itself? I looked up and down the shelf, then on the shelf behind me, then the next aisle… and the next. Ten minutes passed. Where the hell was that shoe? There I was, holding a shoe box in one arm and one shoe in the other, walking back and forth down every aisle, three or four times, trying to find one shoe. I squatted, thinking a new angle would help. Nothing. Then it hit me… that’s why they put those little elastic bands around the shoes. Normally I mumble obscenities as I waddle down the aisle in tiny steps, trying to walk in shoes that are tied together. Do they fit? Well, I’m not sure. They fit if I’m going to walk like a Geisha. Perhaps someone had tried on those 7.5 shoes and decided to walk in normal strides, snapping the band and thus set on course my shoe shopping frustrations. Stop the madness people!
With Christmas approaching, I find it incredibly difficult to justify spending money on myself. There seemed to be only one way to meet my need without the guilt. I went to Target. My first trip was to the new Target in West Nashville. As I scanned the shoe aisles, I spotted the perfect pair. Perfect, except they were a size 5. Since I’m not an elf or a fairy, and I have four other toes that would need to get in the shoe, I despaired over my find… that wasn’t really a find- only a realization that the perfect shoe I was looking for was taunting me like some cruel neighborhood kid, riding by on his bike, eating a Snickers when I’m sitting on the porch sipping water and nibbling on a grain of rice. One pair. Size 5.
As any self-respecting person would after being taunted in such a manner, I squealed tires out of the Target parking lot and spit my gum at that bullseye on the side of the building. Some woman chased after me, shouting expletives. If she hadn’t been so ornery, I might have been nice enough to tell her that peanut butter is good for getting gum out of hair.
I headed to my usual Target- the one closest to my house. Imagine my excitement when I spotted several boxes of the same shoe. I happily pulled a size 8 from the shelf and tried it on. It fit, but I thought a 7.5 would be much better. Perfect probably. I looked around. No size 7.5. Still holding the size 8 box in my hand, I discovered one lone shoe on the shelf… size 7.5! This was going to be my day! I looked around for its mate. Hmmm. How hard could it be to find one shoe that was by itself? I looked up and down the shelf, then on the shelf behind me, then the next aisle… and the next. Ten minutes passed. Where the hell was that shoe? There I was, holding a shoe box in one arm and one shoe in the other, walking back and forth down every aisle, three or four times, trying to find one shoe. I squatted, thinking a new angle would help. Nothing. Then it hit me… that’s why they put those little elastic bands around the shoes. Normally I mumble obscenities as I waddle down the aisle in tiny steps, trying to walk in shoes that are tied together. Do they fit? Well, I’m not sure. They fit if I’m going to walk like a Geisha. Perhaps someone had tried on those 7.5 shoes and decided to walk in normal strides, snapping the band and thus set on course my shoe shopping frustrations. Stop the madness people!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Sometimes Funny is Embarrassing
I called Jon at 9:00 p.m.
Jon: “So, are you headed to get in a quick workout?”
“Well, not if I’m going to see you.” (It had been three days.) “I’m choosing you over exercise…”
“… ‘cause I was going to say…”
“What? That you would choose you over exercise too?”
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause exercise can’t give you lovin’, but I can give you exercise.”
I laughed out loud. “That’s quite a line there, Jonathan Stadler. Now I have to figure out how to blog about this in an innocent way.”
“Yeah, good luck with that one.”
Why bother trying?
Jon: “So, are you headed to get in a quick workout?”
“Well, not if I’m going to see you.” (It had been three days.) “I’m choosing you over exercise…”
“… ‘cause I was going to say…”
“What? That you would choose you over exercise too?”
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause exercise can’t give you lovin’, but I can give you exercise.”
I laughed out loud. “That’s quite a line there, Jonathan Stadler. Now I have to figure out how to blog about this in an innocent way.”
“Yeah, good luck with that one.”
Why bother trying?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Holidays + Hannah = Humor
Here are just a few of the entertaining moments my six-year old niece provided during my recent trip home for Thanksgiving.
Who IS This FREAK?
After the five-hour drive home, I reclined on the couch for a little rest. Hannah Grace walked over and stood beside me. I wiggled my ears at her. She walked away and whispered something to my sister (her mom), who laughed out loud.
“What did she just say?”
“Mom, Aunt Jennifer is freaking me out.”
Right. Next time I’ll cover up my third eye before going home.
Our Lip Gloss Be Poppin’
I applied lip gloss in the car one night, then put some on Hannah’s lips. She smiled, then leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“Let’s not tell anyone we have lip gloss on, okay? It will be our secret.”
“Okay.”
She leaned over again.
“Just act normal.”
Got it! I won’t act like I have lip gloss on. ??
Monday, November 19, 2007
Muffin Psychology
My thirteen-year old niece is in town with me for a few days. She is an infamous picky eater, so I thought it would be a bad idea to let her know that the muffins I was making Saturday morning were low-fat cranberry and orange. I mean, I might as well have told her they were made with bird poo. I hid the box after dumping the ingredients and as soon as I had folded the cranberries into the mix, she walked over beside me.
“Yum, strawberry muffins! Strawberry is my favorite.”
“Good.” No lie on my part. I think it’s good that strawberry is her favorite.
I watched as she started to eat the muffin.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
I noticed a collection of cranberries on her plate.
“Did you pick those out?”
“Yeah, they taste funny.”
“It’s because they’re cranberries…”
*a look of surprise on her face
“… and, they’re low-fat muffins.”
*now a look of disgust
Like I said, bird poo.
“Yum, strawberry muffins! Strawberry is my favorite.”
“Good.” No lie on my part. I think it’s good that strawberry is her favorite.
I watched as she started to eat the muffin.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
I noticed a collection of cranberries on her plate.
“Did you pick those out?”
“Yeah, they taste funny.”
“It’s because they’re cranberries…”
*a look of surprise on her face
“… and, they’re low-fat muffins.”
*now a look of disgust
Like I said, bird poo.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Diet Diary - Entry #6
Dear Diet Diary.I decided today that I will start counting Weight Watcher points. I start off each day with a set number of points. Every food has a point value, so it's like shopping for what I can afford to eat with my points. So, I have to write stuff down, keep track of how many points I'm spending, etc. I mean, I hate shopping and balancing my checkbook but for some reason I thought this would be a good idea. Go figure.
Exercise earns me extra points. Like, if I exercise at a high intensity level for two hours, I can eat half a piece of cake- right after I regain consciousness.
I didn't join the WW club. That costs money. Why would I want to pay someone to tell me what I can't eat and then watch me step on a scale each week? Why don't I just run down the street naked, throwing wads of cash up in the air? Of course the running would earn me extra points. Something to think about.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
"Gotta go"
I think I must have a bladder the size of a hummingbird. If only I could say that about my thighs! I’m amazed when friends tell me they only go to the bathroom two or three times a day (why I have these conversations with people, I don’t really know). Seriously? Two or three times A DAY? I’m worried these people may be considerably dehydrated. I go that many times an hour. (Is this one of those TMI moments? … Too Much Information?)
There are benefits to frequent restroom use. Like, I can tell you the places in town that have the nicest and nastiest bathrooms. Maggianos… they have a really nice bathroom. If it weren’t for hygiene issues, I’d be fine having my meal served in there. The Las Palmas on Hayes Street… I could skip all together. This is a single bathroom that always has some lingering smell. Plus, it’s right next to the kitchen. There is something very wrong about that. Ironic I’d say, since I just said I’d take my Maggiano’s meal in their bathroom. I digress.
Remember that commercial, “gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now,” as the woman dances around trying not to pee her pants? I empathize. I think she has a hyperactive bladder though. At least “their” solution is some kind of drug. Or maybe it’s for adult diapers. Either way, I don’t need either. I just drink a lot. Like that whole up/down deal, what goes in, must come out.
I guess it’s really not that big of an inconvenience… well, unless I’m on a road trip, or in a movie, or a meeting, or horseback riding, or too broke to afford the extra toilet paper. But, other than those times…
Monday, November 12, 2007
Four Fingers Pointing Back at Me
Perfect people must be lonely. How else would they live in such disillusion? Surely if they were in relationship with others, they would be waist deep in the mire of reality… acutely aware of every single flaw of their own personality. It is after all, relationships that reveal how very imperfect we are.
How would I realize what a self-righteous driver I am without the jerk who pulls up on a yellow light to block the intersection so that no one can turn? Or, how prideful I can be without the condescending tone of someone who presumptuously assumes that I’m an idiot? And, how on earth would I know how incredibly judgmental I can be without my boyfriend’s habits to cause me to roll my eyes and sigh in that exasperated ‘seriously?’ kind of way?
I don’t think that Jon and I could be better suited for one another, but we certainly have our differences. Admittedly, I have some OCD tendencies. As soon as I turn off the alarm in the morning, I start making my bed. Once I notice dirt on the carpet in my room, I just can’t proceed with life until it’s vacuumed. That would be crazy. And clutter in my room might as well be a sharp pencil jabbed in my eyeball. So, you can imagine it’s hard for me to relax at his house when we have to clear a place to sit on the couch among the papers, books, and random clutter. Maybe that’s why I usually end up looking for alcohol at his house? Hmmm.
Right after I met Jon last August, someone stole the spare tire off the back of his CRV. Every few days after that, he would mention that he had to call the Honda place to check on a replacement. Those days turned into weeks, into months, and a year and three months later… well let’s just say if he gets a flat, he’s up a creek without the proverbial paddle. The thing is, actions like that cause me to form an opinion. I point a finger and label him (and others) as unreliable, undisciplined, and unable to get things done. The judgment sears out of my eyeballs like a light saber. Rolling them sometimes helps.
And then I have to laugh…at myself. It’s the irony. The irony that I am just as flawed and imperfect as those I judge. Or, hypocritical if you will.
I bought a new car last January. Something was wrong with one of the tires when I test drove it, so they replaced it with a brand new one a few days later. After a week or two, I realized that the new tire had a very slow leak, probably due to a bad stem. I aired it back up until I would have a chance to take it back to the dealership. That was ten months ago. It’s really not that big of an inconvenience. I just have to remember to check the air in it every week or so. I’d take it back to get it fixed, but I can’t find the Mazda dealership for the plank in my eye.
How would I realize what a self-righteous driver I am without the jerk who pulls up on a yellow light to block the intersection so that no one can turn? Or, how prideful I can be without the condescending tone of someone who presumptuously assumes that I’m an idiot? And, how on earth would I know how incredibly judgmental I can be without my boyfriend’s habits to cause me to roll my eyes and sigh in that exasperated ‘seriously?’ kind of way?
I don’t think that Jon and I could be better suited for one another, but we certainly have our differences. Admittedly, I have some OCD tendencies. As soon as I turn off the alarm in the morning, I start making my bed. Once I notice dirt on the carpet in my room, I just can’t proceed with life until it’s vacuumed. That would be crazy. And clutter in my room might as well be a sharp pencil jabbed in my eyeball. So, you can imagine it’s hard for me to relax at his house when we have to clear a place to sit on the couch among the papers, books, and random clutter. Maybe that’s why I usually end up looking for alcohol at his house? Hmmm.
Right after I met Jon last August, someone stole the spare tire off the back of his CRV. Every few days after that, he would mention that he had to call the Honda place to check on a replacement. Those days turned into weeks, into months, and a year and three months later… well let’s just say if he gets a flat, he’s up a creek without the proverbial paddle. The thing is, actions like that cause me to form an opinion. I point a finger and label him (and others) as unreliable, undisciplined, and unable to get things done. The judgment sears out of my eyeballs like a light saber. Rolling them sometimes helps.
And then I have to laugh…at myself. It’s the irony. The irony that I am just as flawed and imperfect as those I judge. Or, hypocritical if you will.
I bought a new car last January. Something was wrong with one of the tires when I test drove it, so they replaced it with a brand new one a few days later. After a week or two, I realized that the new tire had a very slow leak, probably due to a bad stem. I aired it back up until I would have a chance to take it back to the dealership. That was ten months ago. It’s really not that big of an inconvenience. I just have to remember to check the air in it every week or so. I’d take it back to get it fixed, but I can’t find the Mazda dealership for the plank in my eye.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Bombing by Spinach
As Jon was opening a bag of spinach leaves last night, the bag tore suddenly. That’s my description. Or, one could exaggerate and say the bag “exploded.” That’s his description.
“Ugh,” he said, wiping something off his face.
“What? What is it?”
“Spinach shrapnel.”
Guys.
“Ugh,” he said, wiping something off his face.
“What? What is it?”
“Spinach shrapnel.”
Guys.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Did I miss a career opportunity?
My sister called this morning to share a conversation she had with my six-year old niece while they were driving in the car. There was no lead in to the conversation, Hannah Grace just asked out of the blue,
"Mom, did Jennifer used to be in the circus?"
"What?" my sister replied.
"Did Jennifer used to be in the circus?"
"Hannah, why on earth would you ask me that?"
"Cause she can wiggle her ears without touching them."
That's right folks, I have mad skills!!
"Mom, did Jennifer used to be in the circus?"
"What?" my sister replied.
"Did Jennifer used to be in the circus?"
"Hannah, why on earth would you ask me that?"
"Cause she can wiggle her ears without touching them."
That's right folks, I have mad skills!!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Diet Diary- Entry #5
Dear Diary,Why is motivation so selective? The moment I set my mind to eating well or exercising more is the very moment I start to crave chocolate and feel like vegging out on the couch and watching TV. What’s up with that? I don’t lack motivation. Seriously. Sometimes I get a craving- cake, fries, chip ‘n salsa. I don’t always have those things readily available at home. So, I have to get up, drive to the store and get them. Do you know how much motivation is required for that alone? Selective motivation, that’s what I call it. I need to get to the bottom of this… figure out how to redirect that motivation to more positive endeavors. I think I’ll ponder more on that as I eat some Smarties. Surely that will help.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Rodent Taunting Ends in Death
There are few things in life that scare me. Walking alone at night, operating power tools, haunted houses, talking to strangers… these are all things I can handle with courage and confidence. If I hear a noise in the house, I usually seek it out, not hide from it. Why then does the sight of a mouse in the pantry send me into jittery convulsions, running like Freddy Kruger is in the kitchen? I’d be fine fighting off a human attacker, or running a chainsaw, but a mouse brings out my inner scaredy-cat. This is a creature that is a third the size of my hand. Imagine how frightened he must be of the giant girl who just caught him raiding the food shelf. That is, until she runs off screaming in fits of fear. Then I’m sure he gets a good laugh and soon all the mice come to the pantry for some free entertainment. That’s how I imagine it.
Well, I refuse to be the butt of mouse jokes anymore. Today, there are no mice laughing in our house. Instead, their little mice minds are reeling over the murder of two of their gang members, whom Allison and I un-affectionately named George and Eddie. At some point during the night last night, there was a walk-by snapping and George and Eddie were murdered in health defense.
Well, I refuse to be the butt of mouse jokes anymore. Today, there are no mice laughing in our house. Instead, their little mice minds are reeling over the murder of two of their gang members, whom Allison and I un-affectionately named George and Eddie. At some point during the night last night, there was a walk-by snapping and George and Eddie were murdered in health defense.
There are some things I just don't need to know.
So, there’s a pregnant woman working at an undisclosed Exxon station who apparently wants to have her tubes tied. How do I know this, you wonder. Glad you asked.
Because as I was getting my morning caffeine on my way to work, I stood between two store employees who were having a very un-private conversation across the store… literally across the store. The pregnant woman was discussing her OBGYN appointments and how someone she knows is trying to dissuade her from having her tubes tied.
I glanced around the store. Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?
“Well, she can’t force me to have another damn baby,” she stated.
Seriously, are you having this conversation… here? Now?
The girl working the register was relatively quiet and I made the assumption that she was just as appalled at the unprofessional behavior on display. That was, until she started spouting off expletives as she joined their conversation after she finished my transaction.
I guess the upside is that they weren’t talking about menstrual cycles or their sex lives. But then again, there aren’t really levels of inappropriateness. It either is or isn’t.
And, if talking about your female doctor visits and medical procedures on your reproductive organs isn’t inappropriate for that situation, I don’t know what is.
Because as I was getting my morning caffeine on my way to work, I stood between two store employees who were having a very un-private conversation across the store… literally across the store. The pregnant woman was discussing her OBGYN appointments and how someone she knows is trying to dissuade her from having her tubes tied.
I glanced around the store. Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?
“Well, she can’t force me to have another damn baby,” she stated.
Seriously, are you having this conversation… here? Now?
The girl working the register was relatively quiet and I made the assumption that she was just as appalled at the unprofessional behavior on display. That was, until she started spouting off expletives as she joined their conversation after she finished my transaction.
I guess the upside is that they weren’t talking about menstrual cycles or their sex lives. But then again, there aren’t really levels of inappropriateness. It either is or isn’t.
And, if talking about your female doctor visits and medical procedures on your reproductive organs isn’t inappropriate for that situation, I don’t know what is.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Diet Diary - Entry #4
Dear Diary,I’m starting to realize what a psychological battle this whole fitness goal is. There’s a saying that “age is a state of mind.” I wish fat were that way… you know, “fat is a state of mind.” Maybe I’ll start using that phrase. Surely it will catch on. Today I feel like “fat is a state of mine.” I refuse to be defeated by attitude though. If I’m going down, it will be under the oppression of donuts and cake, not a self-pitying attitude. I think I will set goals each week, starting now. This week’s goal- lose at least three pounds in the next seven days. A lofty goal considering PMS is just around the corner and my body will soon go into camel-like behaviors of water retention. I think I can do it though. Of course, this probably means I’ll need to exercise this week. Sometimes I think this fitness goal requires too much of me.
The Power of Personal Touch
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a fan of e-mail. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s free, and it’s immediate. And because of its convenience, it has all but replaced the hand written letter. I love e-mails. I love that I can easily store them in a folder and just as easily retrieve them for future readings. But, there is something impersonal about e-mail. Maybe it’s the type, or the uniformity of it all, of the cyber delivery of it. Maybe it’s the realization that it takes such little effort to send it that lessens its value.
I’ve been slowly unpacking boxes after my move a few months ago and I recently came across a box of cards and letters. As I was sifting through a stack, my heart stopped as quickly as my hand. I sat motionless for a moment, unable to move, to blink, to breathe. Tears welled up and I knew that any effort to stop them would be in vain so I let them flow. My hand shook as I lifted three letters from the stack, letters addressed to me from my older sister who died ten years ago. I hadn’t even pulled the letter from the envelope and already I was paralyzed with emotion. There was something about holding the envelope, knowing that it had once been in her hands as she thought of me. There was something about seeing her handwriting, imagining her hand moving along the lines- knowing she was tired or in a hurry when the letters slurred. It was personal, it was tangible, and in a way it was a small piece of her. Through the years, it’s gotten more difficult to clearly recall the image of her face and the sound of her voice- and with each failure to do so, there is a slight feeling of another loss. As I sat there reading, I felt those letters bring her back to me for those fifteen minutes.
When I finished, I safely tucked them away right next to another stack of letters- love letters that my dad had written to my mom before they were married. Since my parents divorced when I was six, I never witnessed the love that once existed between them. Sometimes I sit and read my dad’s letters and know that at one time, things were as they should be. I’m comforted by that fact.
It’s difficult to reflect on the past and not think about the future, knowing that today will one day be ten years ago. Often when Jon leaves town, I will try and send a few cards and notes with him to read while he’s away. For his last trip, I decided to write him a love letter… a letter that will one day hopefully be even more meaningful than it is now.
I’m aware that in an age of computers and technology, I often take for granted the power of personal touch. It’s much easier for me to type a quick e-mail and get on with the day than it is to take the time to hand write a note or card for someone I care about. I know from experience that there is no promise of tomorrow. Someday, I’ll be gone. People will forget my face and the sound of my voice will fade from their memory. But hopefully, those I love will one day sit and hold something personal from me… something as seemingly insignificant as a letter or card- and the one thing that won’t be forgotten is how I loved and thought about them.
I’ve been slowly unpacking boxes after my move a few months ago and I recently came across a box of cards and letters. As I was sifting through a stack, my heart stopped as quickly as my hand. I sat motionless for a moment, unable to move, to blink, to breathe. Tears welled up and I knew that any effort to stop them would be in vain so I let them flow. My hand shook as I lifted three letters from the stack, letters addressed to me from my older sister who died ten years ago. I hadn’t even pulled the letter from the envelope and already I was paralyzed with emotion. There was something about holding the envelope, knowing that it had once been in her hands as she thought of me. There was something about seeing her handwriting, imagining her hand moving along the lines- knowing she was tired or in a hurry when the letters slurred. It was personal, it was tangible, and in a way it was a small piece of her. Through the years, it’s gotten more difficult to clearly recall the image of her face and the sound of her voice- and with each failure to do so, there is a slight feeling of another loss. As I sat there reading, I felt those letters bring her back to me for those fifteen minutes.
When I finished, I safely tucked them away right next to another stack of letters- love letters that my dad had written to my mom before they were married. Since my parents divorced when I was six, I never witnessed the love that once existed between them. Sometimes I sit and read my dad’s letters and know that at one time, things were as they should be. I’m comforted by that fact.
It’s difficult to reflect on the past and not think about the future, knowing that today will one day be ten years ago. Often when Jon leaves town, I will try and send a few cards and notes with him to read while he’s away. For his last trip, I decided to write him a love letter… a letter that will one day hopefully be even more meaningful than it is now.
I’m aware that in an age of computers and technology, I often take for granted the power of personal touch. It’s much easier for me to type a quick e-mail and get on with the day than it is to take the time to hand write a note or card for someone I care about. I know from experience that there is no promise of tomorrow. Someday, I’ll be gone. People will forget my face and the sound of my voice will fade from their memory. But hopefully, those I love will one day sit and hold something personal from me… something as seemingly insignificant as a letter or card- and the one thing that won’t be forgotten is how I loved and thought about them.
Friday, October 12, 2007
I'm With Stupid
Jon recently rear-ended another car, altering the front of his in such a way that his hood will not completely latch. So, when he had to leave for a conference last night, I offered to let him drive my car to Atlanta. I’m leaving town on a camping trip today, so I decided to get up early this morning, pack up my gear, return some movies to the store, grab some breakfast and still be at work on time. A plan that seemed to be successful until I tried to start Jon’s car. No luck. Maybe I’m doing something wrong, I thought- since he had warned me about a security feature, having something to do with how you unlock the doors, use the clicker remote, etc. So I got out of the car, locked the doors, unlocked the doors, and got back in to try again. Nothing. After a few expletives and some strong “sighs,” I tried to call him. His phone was off. My roommate offered to help with the process and I decided to try Jon again. He answered in his I’ve been awake for two minutes kind of voice. “How are you?” he asked. I decided to skip the pleasantries. “Well, I’m okay except I can’t get your car started.” After a few minutes of speculation (doors ajar, dome light left on, etc.) he suddenly said, “OH!” At this point a slight feeling of relief rushed through me as I anticipated some secret method of operation. Maybe his CRV was more high tech than I thought. Perhaps a retinal scan or finger print analysis was required for the ignition. I felt sure the solution was coming. “You have to hold the clutch in when you start it.”
(We’ll pause here to let that one sink in.)
I bit my lip and decided to let that one go. He’s stressed and tired, I thought to myself. He probably didn’t mean to call me a moron (implied) and he doesn’t need me to blow that remark out of proportion. Though apparently we need to spend more time together if he thinks I’m that stupid.
My roommate and I got the car jumped off and as I was driving to work, I started thinking about my experiences as an assumed idiot.
I remember when I started my job at the church. One of my co-workers asked me for an average Sunday attendance from the previous year. As he started to walk away from my desk, he said, “You do know how to do averages, don’t you?” Hmmmm. Well, aside from the fact that I did attend college (where I got an A in statistics), I also graduated middle school. So, yes- I know how to do an average. This was my own silent conversation of course. To him, I just politely nodded my head and tried not to roll my eyes.
I guess I should be thankful that it happens on occasion because it reveals my pride… the pride that causes my jaws to clench and my skin to tingle when I try to restrain myself from verbally assaulting the offender. It’s also a good lesson in self-control. And, I’m also acutely aware that it is that same pride that causes the problem in the first place… the same pride that causes me to treat people as though I think they’re idiots… the same pride that made the “I’m With Stupid” tee shirt so popular.
(We’ll pause here to let that one sink in.)
I bit my lip and decided to let that one go. He’s stressed and tired, I thought to myself. He probably didn’t mean to call me a moron (implied) and he doesn’t need me to blow that remark out of proportion. Though apparently we need to spend more time together if he thinks I’m that stupid.
My roommate and I got the car jumped off and as I was driving to work, I started thinking about my experiences as an assumed idiot.
I remember when I started my job at the church. One of my co-workers asked me for an average Sunday attendance from the previous year. As he started to walk away from my desk, he said, “You do know how to do averages, don’t you?” Hmmmm. Well, aside from the fact that I did attend college (where I got an A in statistics), I also graduated middle school. So, yes- I know how to do an average. This was my own silent conversation of course. To him, I just politely nodded my head and tried not to roll my eyes.
I guess I should be thankful that it happens on occasion because it reveals my pride… the pride that causes my jaws to clench and my skin to tingle when I try to restrain myself from verbally assaulting the offender. It’s also a good lesson in self-control. And, I’m also acutely aware that it is that same pride that causes the problem in the first place… the same pride that causes me to treat people as though I think they’re idiots… the same pride that made the “I’m With Stupid” tee shirt so popular.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Diet Diary - Entry #3
Dear Diary,I fear that I’m losing motivation. It’s been three weeks and I’ve only lost three pounds. I’m starting to think that the discipline and sacrifice aren’t worth it. Sometimes a Snickers really doesn’t satisfy, but they are easier to eat on the elliptical. Cake crumbles and then people look at me funny because it makes a mess. Maybe I should get a part-time job at the Y. Then I could say that I spend a lot of time at the gym. That impresses some people. I have a lot of good ideas. I think a vending machine would be good in the locker rooms. Everyone likes a good snack every now and then. I AM glad they put those new TVs on the cardio equipment… and those little salsa cup holders are a great idea. I still haven’t found a good place to put my chips. Maybe I’ll fill out a suggestion card. They can’t be expected to think of everything.
Statement of the Week - One
Jon's response to my teasing about his feminine-looking journal:
"It's not girlie, it's sparkley!"
Right... that's a good defense.
"It's not girlie, it's sparkley!"
Right... that's a good defense.
Monday, October 8, 2007
This is Why I Don't Carry a Handgun
Dear Driver,
I’m curious- did you wake up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off? Maybe it wasn’t your goal per se. Maybe you can’t help being a jerk anymore than I can help being easily irritated by idiots. We all have our faults. I’m usually willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. I mean, I suppose those road signs that read, “Right lane ends, merge left” are a little ambiguous. And maybe you suddenly didn’t know what to do when those dotted lines ended and the two lanes became one. Most people probably would have fallen in behind the car that was obviously already in front of them, but I can see how panic may have been your reasoning for speeding up and trying to pass on my right where there obviously was no longer a lane (or space for that matter). Of course I wanted to move over into the lane on my left to give you the space you rightfully deserved, but other motorist were using it. Slamming on my brakes seemed to be my only option. Laying down on the horn and throwing my hand up in the air was an optional reaction however. I’m sure I’ll see you on the road again tomorrow, driving another car. Maybe then you’ll be demonstrating how to not use a turn signal, or how to effectively block an intersection. My response will be the same. See you then.
I’m curious- did you wake up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off? Maybe it wasn’t your goal per se. Maybe you can’t help being a jerk anymore than I can help being easily irritated by idiots. We all have our faults. I’m usually willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. I mean, I suppose those road signs that read, “Right lane ends, merge left” are a little ambiguous. And maybe you suddenly didn’t know what to do when those dotted lines ended and the two lanes became one. Most people probably would have fallen in behind the car that was obviously already in front of them, but I can see how panic may have been your reasoning for speeding up and trying to pass on my right where there obviously was no longer a lane (or space for that matter). Of course I wanted to move over into the lane on my left to give you the space you rightfully deserved, but other motorist were using it. Slamming on my brakes seemed to be my only option. Laying down on the horn and throwing my hand up in the air was an optional reaction however. I’m sure I’ll see you on the road again tomorrow, driving another car. Maybe then you’ll be demonstrating how to not use a turn signal, or how to effectively block an intersection. My response will be the same. See you then.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Diet Diary- Entry #2
Dear Diary,
Water retention is a cruel curse on the female body. I see no need for my body to store up excess water. Nashville is not a desert climate. There is no drought. I’m not a camel. At an intake of at least three liters a day, there is no need for my body to think that more water won’t be coming. Why? Why? Why? On a positive note, I have given up M&Ms and french fries on my commute to the YMCA. I am cooking and eating healthier meals and snacks. Still, I only have two pounds to report. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered the fried appetizer combo platter for my meal at dinner last week. I DID eat the vegetable plate at a local meat ‘n three for lunch, but I guess fried okra, mashed potatoes, and creamed corn were not the healthiest choices. That “vegetable” thing can be tricky.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Hands Off My Hoagie!
Can someone please tell me why the employees at the White Bridge Jersey Mikes do not wear gloves? Why does the guy who stands over the counter, writing my order with a pen that inevitably has been in someone’s mouth, then reach into the cooler and handle the turkey that is going on my sandwich? No gloves, no hand washing, nothing! He tosses the meat onto the slicer, catching the shreds of turkey in his bare hand before placing them on my bread that he already man handled in the same process. I stand there trying not to think about where his hands have been, wondering if I can muster up the appetite to even eat now. With his job done, he slides my sandwich on to the next person in line, a young girl who bare-handedly grabs my sandwich and starts tossing on tomatoes and lettuce. “What else?” she asks. How about some mustard and sanitizing gel? After wrapping up my germ-laden sandwich, she turns and operates the register, touching money, along with the hands of every previous owner of those bills and coins. I pick up my diseased meal and watch as the process is repeated with no sink visits and no trips to the glove box sitting in obvious sight behind the counter. Why didn’t I eat at home?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Singles and Showers
I just realized the title of this entry could be misleading. Before you jump to conclusions, let me clarify that this is not about bathtub brothels. Though that would be an interesting piece, I surprisingly have no experience on the matter.
Instead, I would like to openly and honestly discuss an issue that has long needed to be addressed. Over the years, I have consistently discussed it in circles of single friends- each of us bearing the burden of guilt over the emotional turmoil of it all. That ends today. Today, the milk gets spilled. The diaper rash is revealed and no amount of Desitin can relieve the burning truth that single women DO NOT enjoy baby showers.
This is where our married with children friends are offended. WHAT? You don’t enjoy discussions about pacifiers, butt paste, and non-drip bottle nipples? Shockingly, NO… we don’t. We don’t enjoy sitting in circles with a group of moms discussing breast-feeding, while passing around baby paraphernalia that only reminds us of how very single and childless we are. The moms discuss ergonomic rattle handles and with each shake of the rattle, all we can hear is the ticking of our biological clock… that, and the crackling of our drying uterus.
But we continue to go, putting on happy faces as we unroll those six sheets of toilet paper to wrap around our pregnant friend, while sticking a few in our pockets for the cry fest we’ll have later. We pretend it’s the most fun we’ve had all weekend when honestly, most of us would rather be home in our pjs, on the couch, eating cereal and watching reruns of the Golden Girls. Yeah, it’s THAT much fun. But, we are called to “rejoice with those who rejoice,” so we sit, and laugh, and smile, and “ooooh” and “awwww,” waiting for a break when we can go to the bathroom and check the vertical drop from the window.
Guilt is often our motivator for attending. Tacky…inconsiderate…selfish…a bad friend- all labels we fear being branded if we don’t attend. And I’m talking about the showers of personal friends, not mere acquaintances. I’ll be honest, if I don’t hang out with you on a social basis- odds are, I’m not coming to your baby shower. Don’t invite me. Why do people do this? I continually get invited to weddings and baby showers of people I hardly know. Just for the record, I’m not that nice. I understand these people may be trying to be considerate by inviting me, lest my feelings are hurt by being excluded- but seriously, do me the favor. I’d much rather have my two hours, good mood, and twenty dollars.
I realize one day my tacky, guiltless, and insensitive self will be one of these married, pregnant women- and what friends I have who are still single will willingly sacrifice themselves on the baby shower altar on my behalf. They’ll attend my shower with hugs, smiles and well wishes, bearing the most amazing gifts with the cutest wrapping (are you taking notes?) and they’ll pretend there is no other place they’d rather be on a Saturday morning. The difference? I will understand the emotional façade. The liquor will be in the bathroom closet, girls!
Instead, I would like to openly and honestly discuss an issue that has long needed to be addressed. Over the years, I have consistently discussed it in circles of single friends- each of us bearing the burden of guilt over the emotional turmoil of it all. That ends today. Today, the milk gets spilled. The diaper rash is revealed and no amount of Desitin can relieve the burning truth that single women DO NOT enjoy baby showers.
This is where our married with children friends are offended. WHAT? You don’t enjoy discussions about pacifiers, butt paste, and non-drip bottle nipples? Shockingly, NO… we don’t. We don’t enjoy sitting in circles with a group of moms discussing breast-feeding, while passing around baby paraphernalia that only reminds us of how very single and childless we are. The moms discuss ergonomic rattle handles and with each shake of the rattle, all we can hear is the ticking of our biological clock… that, and the crackling of our drying uterus.
But we continue to go, putting on happy faces as we unroll those six sheets of toilet paper to wrap around our pregnant friend, while sticking a few in our pockets for the cry fest we’ll have later. We pretend it’s the most fun we’ve had all weekend when honestly, most of us would rather be home in our pjs, on the couch, eating cereal and watching reruns of the Golden Girls. Yeah, it’s THAT much fun. But, we are called to “rejoice with those who rejoice,” so we sit, and laugh, and smile, and “ooooh” and “awwww,” waiting for a break when we can go to the bathroom and check the vertical drop from the window.
Guilt is often our motivator for attending. Tacky…inconsiderate…selfish…a bad friend- all labels we fear being branded if we don’t attend. And I’m talking about the showers of personal friends, not mere acquaintances. I’ll be honest, if I don’t hang out with you on a social basis- odds are, I’m not coming to your baby shower. Don’t invite me. Why do people do this? I continually get invited to weddings and baby showers of people I hardly know. Just for the record, I’m not that nice. I understand these people may be trying to be considerate by inviting me, lest my feelings are hurt by being excluded- but seriously, do me the favor. I’d much rather have my two hours, good mood, and twenty dollars.
I realize one day my tacky, guiltless, and insensitive self will be one of these married, pregnant women- and what friends I have who are still single will willingly sacrifice themselves on the baby shower altar on my behalf. They’ll attend my shower with hugs, smiles and well wishes, bearing the most amazing gifts with the cutest wrapping (are you taking notes?) and they’ll pretend there is no other place they’d rather be on a Saturday morning. The difference? I will understand the emotional façade. The liquor will be in the bathroom closet, girls!
Friday, September 21, 2007
A Family Affair
We don’t have family heirlooms in my family, but I’ve always liked the idea. A sentimental or valuable trinket from the past, serving as a continual reminder of those who have gone before us. Perhaps great aunt Effie’s cameo necklace, great grandfather’s pocket watch or pipe, mawmaw’s snuff can (sometimes it’s the little things), a mummified baby you keep on the bureau. Oh, how I wish I were kidding!
And I thought burial or cremation were my only options!
And I thought burial or cremation were my only options!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Diet Diary- Entry #1
Dear Diary,
Today is the second day of my new diet and fitness plan and already I feel discouraged. I weigh the same as I did yesterday and I’m beginning to wonder if the hours of discipline are really worth it. I’m curious- how long should I wait before rewarding my discipline with say…. oh… a piece of cake? I should probably wait another day or so to see how it goes I guess. I’m also beginning to think that I should exercise. I don’t want people calling me a fitness fanatic, so I think I’ll ease into that. I'm drinking more water, but I need to find out if carbonation, high fructose corn syrup, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, and caffeine affect the nutritional value.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Food, Fitness, and a Fear of Failure
I have a new goal- I’m going to be fit. Well, maybe it’s not a “new” goal since I have tried it once before. Or twice. Or several times, but who’s counting. My point is, I’m recommitting. I put some thought into it this morning as I was doing some lunges. Okay, technically I was stretching out my jeans, but let’s not get caught up on details. In order to clearly define this goal, I think it’s important to recognize what it does not mean. It does not mean that I will obsess about my body. Not wanting to cry and go for a drink after pants shopping would be a good start though. And, by “fit” I don’t mean skinny. Britney Spears will never be classy and I will never be skinny. Some things just aren’t meant to be. So, what do I mean by “fit”? For starters, I’d like to be able to run around the softball field without needing oxygen. Pulling that tank around the bases really slows me down, plus it makes me look silly. Basically, I’d like to feel stronger, leaner, and less depressed when I shop for pants. This may also help me drink less. These are the goals I will keep before me. And, as with any goal, baby steps are important on the road to achievement. Baby step #1- I will stop eating M&Ms on the way to the gym. Baby step #2- I will stop getting french fries at Wendy’s when I leave the gym. For the past month, I tried not going to the gym in order to change these habits, but I don’t think that was the most effective approach. I also think accountability is key to success. I will consider the shame and humiliation of failure after having blogged about my goal as enough motivation. I’ll keep you posted in a new series of blog entries titled “My Diet Diary.”
Odd Encounters - #1
As I was leaving the produce section of Kroger today (this is where you take note of my healthy shopping habits), I stopped my cart abruptly before a head on crash with a seedy looking man, who's picture I would imagine being posted on the Sex Offenders Registry.
“Ladies first,” he said politely.
“Thank you,” I smiled and proceeded.
“Want to hear a story?” he asked from behind me.
“Um, sure?” I sensed this was a rhetorical question and the story was coming just the same. I stopped and turned around.
“There is this young girl who works in my office with me. One day we had a similar thing happen and I let her go first. She didn’t say ‘thank you’ like you did. You know what she said?”
The suspense was killing me. I nodded.
“She said, ‘you’re awesome sweety'.”
I stood there with a blank look on my face, obviously confused.
“Did you want me to say ‘you’re awesome sweety’ instead of ‘thank you’,” I asked.
“No, no. I just thought you’d like to hear a story.”
Huh. I think I’m still confused.
“Ladies first,” he said politely.
“Thank you,” I smiled and proceeded.
“Want to hear a story?” he asked from behind me.
“Um, sure?” I sensed this was a rhetorical question and the story was coming just the same. I stopped and turned around.
“There is this young girl who works in my office with me. One day we had a similar thing happen and I let her go first. She didn’t say ‘thank you’ like you did. You know what she said?”
The suspense was killing me. I nodded.
“She said, ‘you’re awesome sweety'.”
I stood there with a blank look on my face, obviously confused.
“Did you want me to say ‘you’re awesome sweety’ instead of ‘thank you’,” I asked.
“No, no. I just thought you’d like to hear a story.”
Huh. I think I’m still confused.
A Tipping Point
I believe in tipping people who provide me with an “extra” service. A bellhop who carries my bags, a valet (not that I ever use valet), a waiter who continually comes to my table to serve my needs and meet my requests- these are all valid opportunities to tip. I’m not opposed. I could indeed carry my own bags, or park my own car, or eat some place where I can serve myself. In these instances, I am tipping someone to do something for me.
I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively generous tipper. To me, a tip is a gesture of gratitude- a “reward” of sorts for going beyond the standard duty. That’s why I’m confused about the sudden expectation to tip anyone who’s working. I’m talking about the tip jars on the counter at Moe’s, at Baja, at any given coffee house. Am I missing something? These are places where we are at the counter getting our own food/drink. No one is coming to our table. If we need something, we have to get up and get it. Why are we tipping these people to do their jobs (prepare our food/drink)? Isn’t that the purpose of a paycheck? We don’t tip the cook at a restaurant. But, there the tip jars sit, beckoning our change at the register- exposing us to shame if we don’t contribute. We somehow feel like we give those friendly faces the shaft if we don’t tip them. What will the people in line behind us think if we don’t? Cheapskate. Once again, guilt prevails and we are manipulated into acting without considering the reasoning. We have to live with being a cheapskate or a sucker. Which will you choose?
I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively generous tipper. To me, a tip is a gesture of gratitude- a “reward” of sorts for going beyond the standard duty. That’s why I’m confused about the sudden expectation to tip anyone who’s working. I’m talking about the tip jars on the counter at Moe’s, at Baja, at any given coffee house. Am I missing something? These are places where we are at the counter getting our own food/drink. No one is coming to our table. If we need something, we have to get up and get it. Why are we tipping these people to do their jobs (prepare our food/drink)? Isn’t that the purpose of a paycheck? We don’t tip the cook at a restaurant. But, there the tip jars sit, beckoning our change at the register- exposing us to shame if we don’t contribute. We somehow feel like we give those friendly faces the shaft if we don’t tip them. What will the people in line behind us think if we don’t? Cheapskate. Once again, guilt prevails and we are manipulated into acting without considering the reasoning. We have to live with being a cheapskate or a sucker. Which will you choose?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
No Habla Espanol
The following is a conversation that I have on a weekly basis with my friend Tammy.
My phone rings.
“Hola, Senorita Suggs.” (That’s how I have her creatively stored in my phone.)
“Hola, chica. Como estas?”
*Silence
“Uhhh… umm… (insert a light snicker)…. Hmmmm.”
*More silence
“Why do you do that?! You know I don’t speak Spanish!”
My phone rings.
“Hola, Senorita Suggs.” (That’s how I have her creatively stored in my phone.)
“Hola, chica. Como estas?”
*Silence
“Uhhh… umm… (insert a light snicker)…. Hmmmm.”
*More silence
“Why do you do that?! You know I don’t speak Spanish!”
Ringing Thoughts in My Head
As I sat in my car at the drive-thru at Mrs. Winners, I read the note beside the roped bell. “Ring Bell if Your Service Was Great,” it suggested.
My arm moved… wait a minute, that’s stupid. I stopped. I feel manipulated. I hate manipulation. Are they counting on my guilt? Maybe I don’t feel like ringing the dumb bell. Is this some kind of experiment to see how many people will ring the bell? I’m not falling for that. Even if my service was great, I don’t want someone telling me how to respond… what to do. I just want my chicken, no side of guilt or manipulation please.
I drive away.
Should I have rung the bell? Did the girl at the window get her feelings hurt because I didn’t? Maybe she gets tired of having that bell rung in her ear (assuming others are more easily manipulated). What if she thinks I thought she didn’t provide good service? Dang it, why didn’t I ring the bell? Maybe I should just stop eating fried chicken- then I wouldn’t have to worry about guilt or my expanding waistline. Let’s not get drastic… next time I'll just ring the damn bell.
My arm moved… wait a minute, that’s stupid. I stopped. I feel manipulated. I hate manipulation. Are they counting on my guilt? Maybe I don’t feel like ringing the dumb bell. Is this some kind of experiment to see how many people will ring the bell? I’m not falling for that. Even if my service was great, I don’t want someone telling me how to respond… what to do. I just want my chicken, no side of guilt or manipulation please.
I drive away.
Should I have rung the bell? Did the girl at the window get her feelings hurt because I didn’t? Maybe she gets tired of having that bell rung in her ear (assuming others are more easily manipulated). What if she thinks I thought she didn’t provide good service? Dang it, why didn’t I ring the bell? Maybe I should just stop eating fried chicken- then I wouldn’t have to worry about guilt or my expanding waistline. Let’s not get drastic… next time I'll just ring the damn bell.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Circle K and a Difference of Opinion
First, let me say that I’m not opposed to rules. I’m generally a rule follower, unless of course my pride leads me to conclude that any such rule is utterly ridiculous and by such realization feel no need to acknowledge it. Tonight was a similar experience. My friend “T” and I went to Bonjo Java for some reading. We carefully selected a non-sticky table on the deck, located underneath a lovely laminated sign that prohibited outside food or drink. Obviously someone’s inconsiderate decision to bring Starbuck’s coffee to Bongo Java had prompted such a prohibition, as displayed by the crossed out picture of a Starbuck’s coffee cup. Oh the irony that would have followed had that particular table not been so wobbly. We moved to another.
Bags unpacked and books lain out, I went in to buy us two Diet Cokes. I patiently waited in line to ask if they had any Diet Cokes since there were none on the cooler. Nope. They were out of Diet. As I walked outside, there it glimmered, only 30 yards away- a beacon of promised refreshment, the Circle K.- any sized fountain drink for .79 cents. If only Bongo Java had adequately stocked their drinks, I would not have been so inclined to adamantly ignore their “rules.” With two Styrofoam fountain drink cups (with straws long enough to raise a flag on- signaling our rebellion), we sat at our table next to the front door- probably not the smartest location for a rule-breaker to be on display. Beloved Hindsight.
About two thirds through my Diet Coke, or forty-minutes (depending on how you want to measure it), some man, whom I can only assume was associated with Bongo Java since he commented with such authority, said we couldn’t sit there with “those cups.” In my kind and self-justified kind of way, I informed him that I tried to purchase my Diet Coke at Bongo. It’s not that I thought their “No Outside Food or Drink” rule was stupid, I quite understood his point of view. I did, however, desire for him to understand my misinterpreted rebellion. “Well, you can’t bring something in just because we don’t have it,” he stated. “That’s like bringing in steak because we don’t serve steak.” Hmmm. I wish people would think through their examples sometimes. They serve Diet Coke. I wanted Diet Coke. They were out. I brought in my own Diet Coke. Seems simple to me. We exchanged our views. He went inside and I went back to drawing a picture of myself with grillz (don’t ask) and drinking my Diet Coke. He returned about ten minutes later, setting two clear cups on the table, stating that “those cups have to go- it’s advertising.” Finally! an argument that makes sense. Yes, I quite understand that Bongo Java patrons, approaching the door for their daily $5 cup of coffee might see our Circle K cups and suddenly say to themselves, “you know what I really want… a Circle K drink instead of Bongo Java.” Yeah, right.
Bags unpacked and books lain out, I went in to buy us two Diet Cokes. I patiently waited in line to ask if they had any Diet Cokes since there were none on the cooler. Nope. They were out of Diet. As I walked outside, there it glimmered, only 30 yards away- a beacon of promised refreshment, the Circle K.- any sized fountain drink for .79 cents. If only Bongo Java had adequately stocked their drinks, I would not have been so inclined to adamantly ignore their “rules.” With two Styrofoam fountain drink cups (with straws long enough to raise a flag on- signaling our rebellion), we sat at our table next to the front door- probably not the smartest location for a rule-breaker to be on display. Beloved Hindsight.
About two thirds through my Diet Coke, or forty-minutes (depending on how you want to measure it), some man, whom I can only assume was associated with Bongo Java since he commented with such authority, said we couldn’t sit there with “those cups.” In my kind and self-justified kind of way, I informed him that I tried to purchase my Diet Coke at Bongo. It’s not that I thought their “No Outside Food or Drink” rule was stupid, I quite understood his point of view. I did, however, desire for him to understand my misinterpreted rebellion. “Well, you can’t bring something in just because we don’t have it,” he stated. “That’s like bringing in steak because we don’t serve steak.” Hmmm. I wish people would think through their examples sometimes. They serve Diet Coke. I wanted Diet Coke. They were out. I brought in my own Diet Coke. Seems simple to me. We exchanged our views. He went inside and I went back to drawing a picture of myself with grillz (don’t ask) and drinking my Diet Coke. He returned about ten minutes later, setting two clear cups on the table, stating that “those cups have to go- it’s advertising.” Finally! an argument that makes sense. Yes, I quite understand that Bongo Java patrons, approaching the door for their daily $5 cup of coffee might see our Circle K cups and suddenly say to themselves, “you know what I really want… a Circle K drink instead of Bongo Java.” Yeah, right.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The Power of Suggestion
A commercial about fried chicken; a billboard for Cinco de Mayo; the smell of grilled hamburgers wafting through the neighborhood; blogging about cake- how little it takes to convince ourselves that we “need” something. On Thursday, I wrote a short entry about cake. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the kitchen baking.
Last night, Jon and I went to Shakespeare in the Park. We picked up sandwiches from Jersey Mikes (I wasn’t even that hungry.), found a seat among the masses, and ate our dinner. The pre-show had ended and some lady got up to talk about what a wonderful benefit it was to have done these productions for the past twenty years. I started browsing through my brochure and her voice phased into a mumbling similar to the teacher on Charlie Brown as I concentrated on reading the play synopsis. I would occasionally hear phrases like “t-shirts for sale” and “donations are accepted by anyone with a bucket,” as she droned on and on. Suddenly, the word “M&Ms”. She had captured my undivided attention. Chocolate beckoned. What? I can get M&Ms at the park? I turned to Jon. “I wonder where they are selling those M&Ms.” Quickly followed by, “Okay, seriously, I don’t need M&Ms. I HAVE to stop eating.” I went back to my brochure. Our ten-minute intermission came and Jon scampered off to find a restroom while I sat and people-watched. Someone walked by with a sno-cone. They have sno-cones? I love sno-cones! Jon walked up with M&Ms in hand. There is a reason I love this man! I had the bag emptied before the intermission ended (I shared- don’t judge!). But then I was thirsty. Oh, the double-edged sword of chocolate (the other edge having something to do with my expanding hips)! I blame the M&Ms for making me get a sno-cone.
Last night, Jon and I went to Shakespeare in the Park. We picked up sandwiches from Jersey Mikes (I wasn’t even that hungry.), found a seat among the masses, and ate our dinner. The pre-show had ended and some lady got up to talk about what a wonderful benefit it was to have done these productions for the past twenty years. I started browsing through my brochure and her voice phased into a mumbling similar to the teacher on Charlie Brown as I concentrated on reading the play synopsis. I would occasionally hear phrases like “t-shirts for sale” and “donations are accepted by anyone with a bucket,” as she droned on and on. Suddenly, the word “M&Ms”. She had captured my undivided attention. Chocolate beckoned. What? I can get M&Ms at the park? I turned to Jon. “I wonder where they are selling those M&Ms.” Quickly followed by, “Okay, seriously, I don’t need M&Ms. I HAVE to stop eating.” I went back to my brochure. Our ten-minute intermission came and Jon scampered off to find a restroom while I sat and people-watched. Someone walked by with a sno-cone. They have sno-cones? I love sno-cones! Jon walked up with M&Ms in hand. There is a reason I love this man! I had the bag emptied before the intermission ended (I shared- don’t judge!). But then I was thirsty. Oh, the double-edged sword of chocolate (the other edge having something to do with my expanding hips)! I blame the M&Ms for making me get a sno-cone.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
It's My Cake and I'll Eat It Too!!
I like cake. If you know me, that’s not a newsflash. Something else that’s not a newsflash- if I have cake, I expect to be able to eat it. That’s a natural response isn’t it? Then why when we think people are expecting too much, do we say “they just want to have their cake and eat it too”? OF COURSE THEY DO. I guarantee you that if I go to a party and someone hands me a slice of cake, I’m not going to just sit and look at it and think, “Well, I have my cake, that’s enough. I really don’t need to eat it too.” If I have the cake, I’m eating the cake! We really should rethink some of the things we say. (Now I’m hungry.)
Riding the Turnip Truck
We have a lot of sayings in the South that don’t make much sense to me. “Ugly as homemade sin” for example. Now I know in context it means that someone (or something) is real ugly. It’s the “homemade sin” part I don’t understand. And since when is the plain term “ugly” (defined as: very unattractive or unpleasant to look at; offensive to the sense of beauty; displeasing in appearance) not enough? Why does “ugly” need comparisons? I digress. This is not my point… my point is just related by another common statement, “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” Translation: “I ain’t stupid.” Although I don’t understand the whole falling off the turnip truck connection to being an idiot, that saying goes through my head when I’m treated like one, which happened recently. Don’t you just love it when someone assumes that you’re as “dumb as a stick”? (Do I even need to touch that one?) Perhaps if I were more humble, such insults to my intelligence wouldn’t be so irritating. Ah, the curse of pride!
My most recent experience was last week when I was asked to give away a conference table we had in the office. I’m a fan of Craigslist, so I listed the table and chairs under the “free” category. Within fifteen minutes, I had received approximately 17 e-mails from people who wanted to come get the table. I responded to the first one, who agreed to come get it. I also took the time to send a quick response to the other 16 people, letting them know it was no longer available. Isn’t this when you’d let it go? Not one guy. He wanted to know if he was even close to getting it, then went on to tell me that he likes to get stuff for free on Craigslist and sell it cheap to people who need it. He said (and I quote), “I know there are some people on there who do it to make a profit. I just want to help people who need it.” Seriously? Well what a ministry… taking free stuff that people who need it could get, then turning around and selling it to them. Now, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. That sounds like a profit to me.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Name of the Game? Bocce!
I have a new passion, at least on Friday afternoons. For the past year, Scott (my boss) has been saying that our staff needs a Friday ritual- something to celebrate the end of the workweek. I thought leaving work on Friday was a big enough celebration. But, who am I to argue against more celebration? Cigar smoking was mentioned, but not everyone was keen on that idea. I was willing to bring in a blender for some margaritas, but once again… Then it happened. On my way out one Friday afternoon, I stopped by the youth room to ask Steve a question and I spotted the Bocce balls. We decided to play a quick game before I left. We gathered a couple of other staff members and got our game on. Now, every Friday is Bocce day. The winner gains weekly control of the trophy (a Lithuanian flag on a wooden pole- personalized for our “staff competition” – a $1.00 treasure from Goodwill). We have our share of trash talking, taunting, etc., all in the name of competition. We justify setting aside 20 minutes of our afternoon to play Bocce by using words like “teambuilding” and such. Aside from the “anonymous” threatening voice mails I have received, I’d say it’s a success in bringing us together as a staff. If people ask, we say it’s our collective smoke break (without the smoking of course). Unless you count the fact that I win most of the time. I guess there is some smoking involved!!
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Outback or just "out"?
We all know what it’s like to crave something. A commercial, a magazine ad, someone mentions cookies, or chips ‘n salsa… or a shot of tequila- and suddenly you can’t think of anything else. You know the feeling. You pick up the phone, call a restaurant, drive over and you don’t even have to get out of the car. Ah, the beauty of curbside service! (This does NOT apply to shots of tequila. Drinking and driving is NOT cool!)
My friend… oh let’s call her “Cece” (name changed to protect identity), knows the power of a good craving. Cravings that stick- sometimes for days. She recently had such a craving and called Outback for some curbside service. Salmon, a side of steamed veggies, and an order of mushrooms. I’m sorry, I think I used the plural form "veggies". At least that’s what she ordered. What she received was two slices of zucchini, two mushrooms, a piece of tomato, and about an inch wide piece of onion (see picture below). Since when does this constitute an order of veggies? Who was it in the kitchen who put those in the container and thought, “okay, that’s enough”? Were they just short on veggies that day? Did they think no one would notice? Seriously. Some people want to get to heaven to ask Moses what it was like crossing the Red Sea, or find out about the statement that Enoch “was no more.” I just want to drive over to Outback and ask this person what they were thinking. Another one of life’s mysteries!
My friend… oh let’s call her “Cece” (name changed to protect identity), knows the power of a good craving. Cravings that stick- sometimes for days. She recently had such a craving and called Outback for some curbside service. Salmon, a side of steamed veggies, and an order of mushrooms. I’m sorry, I think I used the plural form "veggies". At least that’s what she ordered. What she received was two slices of zucchini, two mushrooms, a piece of tomato, and about an inch wide piece of onion (see picture below). Since when does this constitute an order of veggies? Who was it in the kitchen who put those in the container and thought, “okay, that’s enough”? Were they just short on veggies that day? Did they think no one would notice? Seriously. Some people want to get to heaven to ask Moses what it was like crossing the Red Sea, or find out about the statement that Enoch “was no more.” I just want to drive over to Outback and ask this person what they were thinking. Another one of life’s mysteries!
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Fair Time is Fun Times!
Grab your halter tops, your Pepto, and your deodorant- the county fairs are opening their gates this month! Whether it’s the rides, the people watching, the funnel cakes, or the hog races, county fairs serve up fun times. The Williamson County Fair is August 3-11. I've never been to this one, but I’m trying it out this year. They have a human cannonball. Who wouldn’t want to see that? Perhaps the most popular local fair is the Wilson County Fair (August 17-25). I try to make this fair an annual tradition. If you go, be sure and check out the popular hypnotist show. Not only is it entertaining (for lots of reasons), it provides an often much needed rest from roaming through the fairgrounds. Even if you’re not the biggest fan of the rides, paying the $6 entry fee is well worth the “people entertainment” you’ll get. I think I’ve been to the State Fair once in my nine years in Nashville. I remember paying too much to walk through the gate, but then spent three times that as I ate my way through the fair. Some people like to ride the rides- I like to eat my weight in funnel cakes and roasted corn. To each his own, I say. I can’t say that I’ll be back at the State Fair this year, but you’ll definitely catch me at the county fairs. I'll be the one covered in powered sugar. Hope to see you there!!
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Traffic Drives the Nature of Humanity
I have road rage. There, I said it. It's true. There are few things that tip my boiling point like traffic. Before you judge me, know that I'm a relatively passive road rager. Not that those blatant horn honkers are bad people, I just prefer less obvious expression... like yelling expletives in the car. Thankfully I don't drive a convertible! Traffic really does bring out the worst of my nature and I wish there was some consolation in knowing that I’m not alone. There isn’t.
Last week, Jon and I got trapped on I-40 in a massive traffic jam. We approached the wall of brake lights with mild groans and no visible exit. As we idled along the interstate, we chatted, listened to music and started making alternative plans for the night. There was, after all, nothing we could do about the situation.
A glimmer of hope appeared after thirty-minutes, an exit sign- freedom in only one mile! Other drivers were surprisingly courteous as I crossed three lanes of traffic to prepare for our “escape.” I felt okay. We were forty-minutes in and I had not once scanned the car for sharp objects. Then it started. A car passed on the shoulder of the road. Then two. Three. Suddenly it was the Daytona. Apparently there were some VIPs behind us. These people had no time to wait. They had somewhere to be, unlike the rest of us who were just out for a Friday afternoon drive on the interstate. They were special enough to pass the rest of us who were patiently waiting our turn to exit. Others suddenly started having epiphanies that they were special too. Cars in front of and behind us started pulling out of line to drive down the shoulder. Now, I like to think that I’m a fairly good citizen, so in times like this I feel the need to stand up for the injustice of it all. So, I pulled over on the shoulder. And stopped. I moved along with the traffic, but not ahead of my place in line. I watched cars approach in my rear view mirror. I watched faces tense up as they had to stop behind me… and I don’t think they were singing when I saw their mouths moving. Thankfully, no one was driving a convertible! Horns honked. Hands flew up in disbelief. I was making a point and standing my ground. If they wanted to go around, they would have to take the grass. They did. And, with every car that passed, my blood pressure went up ten points. It was every man (or car) for himself. There were no more common courtesies. It had been over an hour and people were no longer patient, or kind. The selfishness of man was revealed… each person was more important than anyone else. I had lost the battle, both with the traffic and with my nature. With forty yards to go, I became a VIP.
"Thought Makes Everything Fit for Use." Ralph Waldo Emerson
A random thought can pass without recognition or we can capture it with our attention. Any thought entertained is a personally relevant thought. However random, however seemingly insignificant, the things we think about affect us in some way. They make us happy... they make us sad. They make us open with expression... they make us quiet in contemplation. We learn from life when we consider it. Random thoughts become relevant when we merely take time to think on them. This is where you will find my random, personally relevant thoughts.
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