Like many women my age, I struggle with my weight. I exercise most days, and try to make healthy food choices. Okay the optimum word there is try, because if I am at a
restaurant it is difficult to forgo the fries. I realize it is not actually the potato that appeals to me in those situations but the salt that coats them. I know this, because there have been times where I have eaten cold, limp, grease laden, fries all the while asking myself why I continued to eat them. It was the salt that kept my attention.
So, given the fact that I make mostly healthy food choices by day, I was surprised when last night I had a dream, and healthy food choices were the furthest thing from my mind. I was riding my bike at the airport, okay that in itself is rather bizarre but let’s stay on topic here. I was hungry, and the next thing I knew I was eating a hotdog. I don’t know where the hotdog came from. It was a dream, it just appeared. The point is I do not eat hotdogs. I have maybe two or three hotdogs a year, and that is normally when we are out and there are no other options. I am not only eating this hotdog, but I am enjoying the heck out of it. I have no doubt that I even moaned in my sleep while eating this hotdog. I give my dreaming subconscious credit, because after taking that first delicious bite, I actually questioned whether I should be eating that. Even in my sleep I knew I would balloon up something fierce, but my hands chose to ignore my subconscious and continued to feed my face.
The dream was very vivid, and even now, I remember every scrumptious bite. So much in fact, my mouth actually watered while writing this. Does it count that all the while I was enjoying that sodium filled cylinder, nestled in that soft white bun, that I
was still riding my bike? Probably not, beings I was heading to the store to purchase other forbidden items.
Yes, there was a small store along the road at the airport, it was a dream remember? I arrived at the store and went straight for the sodas. This is yet another thing that is on
my no no list. I do not drink sodas. Okay, I do allow myself to have the occasional Canada Dry Ginger Ale when we order a pizza, and I have to have one or two big red’s when I go to Kentucky. Big red soda’s, Moby Dick fish, and Mike Linnigs are my Kentucky guilty pleasures. But other than those occasions I do not drink or even purchase sodas. Just ask my two oldest grandchildren, who just spent a month at my house, they were going through withdraws, as Gamma did not buy them sodas! Okay, they would say pop, they are being raised in Michigan, it is a northern thing.
So I am in this store and I ask for a coke. I am not sure if it still holds true as I no longer purchase sodas, but as a child growing up in the south when you asked for coke
they always asked you what kind. You rarely said coke and actually meant you wanted a coke.
Next I am at the counter and they are handing me a Pepsi. I am not, nor have I ever been, a Pepsi girl. Luckily even in my dream I held fast on that, telling them that I had not ordered a Pepsi. The lady pulled the bottle away and asked what it was I had wanted. Before I could answer she said Big Red and I agreed that, yes that was what I wanted. Okay, while sodas are a poor choice at least I was drinking the right one.
I then proceeded to the chip isle, which again is a rare treat for me. Once again
I bought my favorite brand, only I did not buy the small individual bag, I know I have to, in order to limit my intake, no I opted for the largest bag of Cheeto’s they had, knowing I would eat them all.
Next I bought a snickers bar. I never buy snickers bars! While I never actually ate anything except the hotdog I know I was going to.
I woke this morning thinking of that hotdog and am still fighting the urge to run to the store and purchase ballparks for breakfast. But what I was most concerned about was getting on the scale this morning, fearing that somehow the sodium would have wreaked havoc on my body during the night. Thankfully that was not the case. But it got me to wondering, do I always eat during my sleep? If so, is this my body’s way of rebelling against its daily intake of salads and chicken? Maybe my weight issue is caused by the choices I make in my sleep, and not the ice cream I have after dinner each night. Is there a way to control our dreams? Can we train our subconscious to make healthy eating choices in our sleep? I think I may have I just figured out the next big diet fad. I should write a book! Hey wait, that is not such a bad idea. People are desperate, looking for excuses and always searching for the easy way out. Just take a peek at my book
shelves, I speak from experience. I must go now; I have another book to write. Coming soon to bookstores near you, Dreaming Your Way Thin…finally, something that will get me on the morning talk shows!
As the summer wanes I find myself thinking about my fall wardrobe. In going through my closet I’ve found Capri’s, jeans and white pants. My first thought was to switch my white pants to my summer closet as I’ve always heard don’t wear white after Labor Day. But I do so love my white pants, having only gravitating toward them since losing weight last year. I like the lighter look as I am one who is often referred to as the lady equivalent of Jonny Cash. Not because I can sing, but because I am often dressed in black from head to toe.
The climate here in Virginia, is often muggy and much more conducive to shorts than their longer cousins. Since it doesn’t cool off in this area until well after Labor Day, most of my cute white pants and capris remain in my closet for most of the season. Therein lies my dilemma. Should I adhere to the centuries old tradition and banish the white, or do I say phooey, and welcome the new season with my beloved white pants? To answer that question I did what I always do, I turned to the internet for answers. To my surprise, I found I am not the only one who has asked that question of late. I
discovered post after post from women, who were just as contradicted as I. More
to the point, I found post after post of women not yet willing to let go of their favorite accessory, be it white pants, blouse or even blazer.
The funny thing is, there is no real clear reason for not wearing white after Labor Day. It seems as though it is one of those things that got started, and gained support, without any real reason to do so. One article suggested it was something started by the elite socialites, as a way of insuring that the up and coming members of society adhere to a certain standard of dress, in order to show their social class.
I on the other hand wonder if it was instigated for a simpler reason. Back in the day, when water had to be drawn from a well or hauled in from a creek, people were more apt to wear clothes more than once before washing. Water was more prevalent in the summertime, allowing for more frequent washing, and harsh weather may prevent laundry from being done on a daily basis. Maybe it was easier to mask dirt when wearing dark clothes, thus allowing a person to wear a garment for multiple days before washing, hence no wearing white after the water started to ice over. It is just my theory, but
you must admit it makes sense.
Whatever the reason, it seems the old custom is just that, an old, outdated, custom which more and more people are ignoring. I am of a mind to leave the white in my closet, and pair it with darker colors as the chill takes hold. In an age where it has become acceptable to wear your pants below your backside, pajama’s to the mall, and house shoes to Wal-Mart, I doubt my white slacks will cause many tongues to wag. Of
course if I am wrong I will just smile and say, it’s okay, I own a washing machine!
Why is it when you look your worst you get unexpected visitors? I worked in my yard for three hours recently, trimming the hedges, pulling weeds and pulling even more weeds. After the first hour in the sweltering heat, looking less than presentable, the pest guy, who was spraying the house next door, caught my attention asking the status of my children’s book. I let him know it was out, and of course I have copies, to which he said
he wanted one. I went in, washed my hands, retrieved the book, and signed it for his three children. It just goes to show that I never turn down a chance to sell or talk about any of my books!
I went back to work on the yard, and after about an hour the neighbor kid drove up and
decided to come over and say hello. This is rare, as he normally has blinders on and goes straight from the car to the house and back again, without a doubt still numb from the blare of his stereo. But not this time, no this time he walked over to say hello. Keep in mind by now I’d been working in the heat for over two hours. He told me the yard was looking good and I told him no, it is looking less bad. After chatting several moments he went inside and I got back to work kneeling in the dirt pulling weeds.
Two separate people stopped to ask me where the yard sale that was, three houses down, closed for the day, back open in the morning. At the three hour mark I am now totally covered in dirt, the sweat is causing the dirt to run in streaks down my legs. On a scale of one-ten I am pretty sure I was a minus seven on the sexy meter. I looked up and another neighbor who’d purchased a Goblin book the day before, had seen me outside and decided to bring the kids by and let me know they loved the book! The kids had a ton of questions and comments about the book. I answered them all, told them I was
happy they loved the book, and made further small talk until they were ready to leave.
I have few friends in the area so it is rare that I get company, yet today when I looked the worst I’ve probably ever looked I had plenty of eyes upon me. It is funny that even though I looked as though I had walked through a garden hose and wallowed in the mud, not one person made any comment about the state of my appearance. Were they just being polite or were they afraid if they made mention of how hard I was working that I might ask them to help? I guess I’ll never know…
I don’t remember exactly how old I was but from the picture in my mind I would guess my age to be around ten. My parents had taken us to a farm. I am sure it was a farm belonging to a distant relative, but again just who that may have been escapes me. So you may be wondering why I would chose to write about something I don’t remember that well, but that is the thing, while I do not remember my age or where precisely we were, I do remember what happened that day so many years ago.
My brothers and I were watching the farmers harvest the crop. They were using a machine which had a long shoot and loading a semi with soybeans. After they were finished they shut down for a bit and all of us kids got to climb right up into that semi trailer and play in that bed of beans! We had such a grand time. I firmly believe that the inventor of the air filled bouncy house must have got the idea while playing in a semi bed filled with soybeans.
Oh what fun it was walking on that bed of beans, our feet sinking, and disappearing, into the tan colored pellets. Often our shoes would slip off and we would have to dig to recover them. That in itself was fun because as we dug the beans would cave in around the hole, in such a way of playing in a sandbox of loose flowing sand.
After digging for shoes lost its allure we finally took them off and tossed them unceremoniously out of the trailer. After that we discovered a new joy. Oh what fun we had sinking our toes into the countless tiny balls. They were warm from the heat of the sun and kept their heat when poured into the large steel trailer which was covered to help contain the beans. It was open at the end which allowed for the hopper to spray
the beans into the truck and also the route we traveled to climb down into the
In a time before cable, or video games, there was no better time than we had that day.
Unfortunately that joy was short lived. The chute appeared in the opening and
started filling the truck. At first it was fun getting pelted with the tiny
balls but soon the fun nearly turned deadly. As those beans flew into the truck
a whirlwind effect started, and soon we found it very difficult to breath. Our
lungs were filling with husks, dust, and whatever else was being forced into the
truck. I think that is the first time in my life I actually worried that I was
going to die. For what seemed like forever, however in reality probably only
lasted a few moments, I had a fear of being buried alive. I don’t know if they
suddenly remembered there were children playing inside of the trailer, or if we
just got lucky but we all survived. I remember not being able to breathe very
well for a couple of days but in that era you didn’t run to the doctor just
because you inhaled a bit of soybean dust.
My husband has always said children grow up in spite of us not because of us. I am not sure where the quote originated but looking back, I think the statement is so very true…
Yesterday I decided that the weeds in my yard were
causing me too much anguish. While I felt guilty not being in the house writing,
I felt that the stress each time I looked at what needed to be done in the yard,
was not doing me any good.
So I decided to allow myself one hour of weeding. Well I
enjoyed myself so much that the one hour turned into 3.5 hours. I got a lot
accomplished and can now look out the windows without cringing.
One of the other things I have been neglecting is my
exercise routine. It is not that I do not want or need to exercise it is just
that I get so caught up in the editing/writing mode that I have blinders on,
and feel guilty when I do anything not related to writing.
The problem is if I take an hour to pull weeds and an
hour to exercise then that is two hours out of my precious editing time.
Well this morning it appears I may have found an answer
to this, a way to cut that time in half. You see while I was pulling weeds I was
squatting, bending, reaching, and pulling (some of those buggers require a bit
of muscle to remove). I did not realize is at the time but I was getting a full
workout doing what needed to be done. I know it was a workout, as today I have
winced more than once at the pain from yesterday’s “workout.” Surely knowing I
am completing two tasks at the same time it will ease my guilt at being in the
yard for an extended time.
That new revolution has changed my outlook on simple
tasks that I have on my “to do” list. I can now mop the floors, scrub the
counters and clean the bathrooms all while knowing that I am indeed multi
tasking. Not only will I get my exercise in, but my house will look well kept in
the process. Instead of mopping the floors I can hand scrub them, bathrooms will
now be cleaned while squatting, not bending and kneeling. Scrubbing the
counters will be done in long deliberate motions. Yes, the possibilities are
I hope to
get to the point where my neighbors think I have writers block. Surely if I have
so much time to maintain my yard and house I could not possibly be getting
anything else done!
Yes, that is the plan, but for now I am going to get back
to editing as all of this talk of house work and lawn care is really wearing me
After seeing recent photo of my blinding white legs I have decided I am in need of a bit of sun on my lower extremities. So for that reason I have taken to lying out for an hour a day. I have found that if I lay out early in the day it is a bit more tranquil and I can toss around storylines
in my head. In case you didn’t know a writer is always writing, even when they look like they are not.
Today was no different. I was laying there enjoying the suns warmth when my tranquility was interrupted by the sounds of the neighbor’s dog. “Quiet you beast,” I called from the recesses of my mind. He continued to bark, and bark, and bark. What an annoying little brute I thought, wishing him to be more like my Oliver. My good, quiet little boy who was lying at the base of the shed, quietly willing one of the new little bunnies to come out and play.
Once again the neighbor’s dog started blaring a round of
woof’s when suddenly I realized that my Oliver, my quiet little gentleman had
joined in on the tirade. I called to him but he ignored me. This was not like
him. After several moments and many more woof’s from both sides of the fence I
decided it was time to investigate. I slipped on a shirt, so as not to frighten
the neighbors, and made my way to the back of the property.
As I approached the fence Oliver, who until this time had
played the spectator, grew bold and began lunging at the fence. What had gotten
the two into such a state, but a tiny little opossum who was clinging to the
top of the fence, holding on for dear life!
My first thought was to try to help it make it to a
nearby tree. My second thought was to look around for the little guy’s mother as
it was without a doubt too young to be on its own.
As Oliver lunged once more the baby bared its teeth
leaving no doubt that it would use them if further provoked. Gone were the
thoughts of picking it up and helping it along its way. Besides growing up in
the country I have seen the damage these little buggers can do when cornered,
which is why I did not follow my maternal instincts in the first place.
Still I could not just leave it there quaking in its grip
on the fence post. So I reached through the fence and picked up a long, thin,
log from the firewood pile, and was able to maneuver it so that the baby would
take hold of it.
My thought was to get the baby onto the log and then move
the log close enough to the neighboring tree for it to get out of harms way. A
plan that worked well for the first few seconds as the opossum decided it would
much rather be on the high end of the stick, you know the end where my fingers
were. At that point I had no choice but to quickly lean the log against the
fence post, which once again allowed the baby to climb up to the top of the
fence. Luckily though this did take it several posts away from its original
position, and a bit further from the clamoring dogs, who by now had seemed to
tire of this game. I retreated to the house, sun and tranquility forgotten, and
the dogs followed suit. Once again the neighborhood is quiet, and the baby
opossum has lived to see another day.
It seems to me that the newest catchphrase is “bucket
list”.It seems as though everyone I speak to has one. I have even seen several
news posts on Facebook of late referring to bucket lists, so much so that it
made me wonder if I am the only one left that has not made a bucket list of my
own. I had to ask myself, what exactly does one put on a bucket list? I have
been accused of over thinking things and this bucket list problem is no
different, as I worry about what to add to my list. I wonder about the outcome
of reaching the end of your list. Do you keep things simple so you are sure to
achieve everything on your list? If that is the case then what happens when you
reach that last item on your list. Can you add to it or is that the end of the
road for you and your list? I am not sure I want to find out.
In order to prolong things do you reach for the stars and
take the chance of leaving this world with unfinished business?
Could that be worse than accomplishing everything on your list? These are
just a few of the questions that are plaguing me as I contemplate starting a
bucket list of my own. As I sift through the cobwebs in my mind and determine
what things are significant enough for me to add to this very important “to do”
list I would like for you the reader to weigh in and tell me do you have a
bucket list of your own? Did you keep it simple or reach for the stars? Are you
making a valiant attempt to cross off everything on your list or are you
constantly adding to it? Do you keep your bucket list private or do you share it
with others? If so what is the most outlandish thing you have on your list?
One day last week while I was out I had a craving for
Plaza Azteca, a local chain of authentic Mexican cuisine. I looked at my watch,
decided I have been behaving so I could afford a splurge, and pulled into the
parking lot. It was fairly early in the day so I got there just before it
started getting busy. I walked into the restaurant, held my chin up high and
with as much bravado as I could muster said “only one.”
I must admit it took me a long time to get to this place
in life. There was a time when I would have opted for something from the
drive-thru, not having the courage to dine alone in a family restaurant. Still,
as I followed the hostess to my table I had this thought in my head, look
at the loser eating alone! Realizing what direction my mind had taken I got
angry and shot back um, no I am a
confident woman who has the courage to eat alone. Yes, that is right folks,
not only was I dining alone I was also arguing with myself. Yea, sure, that
shows you how sane I am!
As I sat there eating my chips and salsa I started
counting the benefits of dining alone. I wrote them down so that I could share
them with you.
You get to pick where
you get to eat.
You do not have to
share the chips and salsa (of course if you are limiting your starches, this
could also be listed under cons)
You don’t have to
worry about double dipping.
You can check your
cell phone without worrying about being rude to your dining companion.
They serve you in a
hurry. (I think that is to get you out of there so that they can give your table
to a larger party. Larger party=larger tip)
When you are finished
you get to leave. (No waiting around for others to
If you make a mess on
your shirt no-one will notice.
The waitress will
keep checking on you. (Surely you must look pitiful to her sitting alone at a
booth designed for four)
You get the pity
party invite. (um no, just because I am eating single does not mean I want to
sit at your table)
Drum roll!!!!!!!!!!!! The best
advantage or eating alone is….
When you eat too much
there is no-one there to chastise you!
So the next time you feel like eating out and wish you
had someone to go with you, go by yourself. You might just enjoy it. If not… at
least you will be able to waddle out to your car in silance!
I have a love hate relationship with my dashboard navigator. On most days I love her and appreciate the ease in which she guide me to where I need to go; I turn her on and trust that she’s got my back. On the rare occasion that she drops the ball I find myself talking to the screen asking “are you kidding me?” Okay I normally insert a major expletive between the you
and the kidding but hey, this blog is rated G.
On one occasion my husband and I were looking for a Home Depot when right smack in the middle of the interstate she -my navigator- announced “you have arrived at your destination.” Um…unless there is a Home Depot truck follow us on the interstate I don’t think so.
Yet another time on our way home from North Carolina, my husband had a taste for chicken. So I hit the search button, punched the go button and we were off. Once again She
took us to a field out in the middle of no-where and said “you have arrived at your destination.” My husband and I both started laughing as we realized there was no chicken in that field and if there was it most certainly had not been cooked!
Today my navigator dropped the ball yet again however, to be fair, it was not really her fault. You see the drawbridge was closed for repair so the exit she wanted me to take was blocked. Normally if you miss a turn she will re-route you and today was no exception only each time it was her goal to re-route me to the same exit which I could not take.
This happened three times before I decided to try and take an alternate route. The problem with taking an alternate route is, I had no idea where I was going. I had an address
but having never been there I did not know where the school was. I only thought
I did. So I took my own route which nearly gave my navigator a nervous break
I will give her credit though since, even though I was not listening to her, she never lost her
cool. Sadly the same could not be said for me. At one point I realized I was speeding and all I could think of was good maybe I will get pulled over and I can
ask the police officer for directions!
If I wasn’t heading to a book
signing today I would have been content to return home, curl up on the couch
and have a pity party but alas, I had promised myself and others I would attend
so I continued on my route. The long way that I decided to try did not work and
I have to admit to screaming obscenities and laughing out loud when, after
taking a forty minute sightseeing excursion, my navigator announced yet again
that she wanted me to exit the highway at the closed ramp. Seriously how did we
get back here?
I am happy to say that after I finally pulled over and studied the overview of where she was trying to take me that I was able to make it to my book signing, albeit 20 minutes late! My
navigator was also pleased as she shouted in triumph “you have arrived at your
destination.” She was so proud of herself… bless her little heart…