Friday, May 29, 2009

The World Didn't Stop . . For My Broken Heart.



Big came home from school the other day and called for the private meeting.




Perched on the edge of her bed with her bright brown eyes framed with the longest lashes God's given, she teared up and said the words every mom dreads .. . . "Am . . I . . fat?"




And my eyes filled up with tears.


And I swallowed the giant ball of phlegm that filled my throat.




And I heard myself speak and give the answer that I believe. I told her that she is perfect. I told her that we are all made differently. She asked about diets. We talked about healthy choices. She asked about scales. We talked about moving our bodies every day.




And she confided in me that a "friend" at school said she had a big butt.




And I wanted to gouge her friend's eyes out with serving spoons.




In the tender days since then, we've talked alot more. We've spent lots of time talking and walking (she's been tagging along with me on my walks.) Time is healing her heart.




But not mine.




It's left me more tender, more raw and more sensitive . . .for ME and HER than I ever could have started.




It's made me realize the impact and power of MY words when I say, "I feel fat."; "Nothing fits."; "Does this make my ass look big?"; "I'm disgusting."; "I feel like a heffer."; "I look like a hippo."




And wrapped in my sensitive shroud, I've become cognizant of the way we feel (rephrase: the way we allow ourselves to feel), when our "friends" say stupid shit to us. And let me rephrase that. Friends don't even have to say stupid shit TO us to have us beliveing the worst. Here is an example. My friend could say, "damn, girl, you look big as a house . . . . your ass is as wide as the broad side of a barn." This might be painful. It might suck. And it might hurt like hell. That same friend could drive a stake into my heart -- that would be a hell of a lot bigger that would last a hell of a lot longer -- by playing the "look at me" card and saying, "whoa, look at how big my pants are on me . . . I just can't seem to keep up with this weight loss . . I'm gonna need a whole new wardrobe!!"




Interesting, huh? That we don't have to say mean things to SAY MEAN THINGS.




Anyone want to 'weigh-in' on this one?






Contemplating . . .

Seriously contemplating a career change . .



Yes, friends, a career change.



I'm not sure, at this tender moment in time if I am:

a. Just have a temporary psychotic break and have mistakenly taken my madness out on my business and success,

b. Am truly friggin' crazy

c. Am crazed by my colleagues and co-workers

d. Or, am having a mid-life crisis.

I reserve the right to change my mind tomorrow, the next day, or in 20 minutes . . . BUT . ..

Isn't there that pivotal moment in your life (if there hasn't been yet . . there will be) . . where you pause and think "WHAT THE FUCK???"

That moment has been happening for me with alarming regularity for the past several months. Since I'm a big fan of listening to the little inner whisper before it comes a big, fat, throbbing yell . . . I'm at my current state of contemplation.

I have options. None of which I wish to share with you . . . . my farthest away and closest friends. None. Sorry. There will be no unveiling. But, there will be further posts. This, because I feel the need to purge my mind of all contemplations . . . I'm certain such mental purging will make me feel better. Much better.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

The Day of The Bubble










Today, we played with bubbles. Never gets old, does it?? Gave me a great chance to play with the settings on my camera . . . and make some bets on how much bubble juice is safe to consume.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Friday, May 15, 2009

What are you doing this summer?

What . . . are . . . you . . . doing . . . with . . . your . . kids . . this . . . summer?

Little's last day is today.
Middle and Big finish next Friday.
Tinky will be in hog-heavy; she loves them to be home.

But, every summer . . let's be honest . . right at the end of the school year, even though (here I go defending me) . . I'm a good mom and handle them (even in high numbers) pretty well, I have a few fleeting moments of "oh, crap . . they are going to eat me alive."

They need the break from structure (and, lets be honest . . I do, too). Generally, however, that break needs only be the length of one hearty snow day.

We've nicknamed Big "The Secretary". She needs a plan (hmm, wonder where she gets that??). She's seldom through her waffle in the morning before she's swallowing hard and saying, "so, what's the plan??" She requires an hour by hour, play by play agenda for the day. She needs details. She needs to know who she might see, when that might be, what the weather will do, and she requires a back up plan. I know one other family that has a Secretary. Is this common?

And for as much as Big is the Secretary, Middle could care less. She'll happily butcher a box of kleenex with scissors until you hollar, "Middle, I'm not telling you again . . . get in the car." . . And she'll tear up because she "didn't know" we were going somewhere and can't find her left shoe . . . .

Anyway, enough on child temperment . . . I want to know what you are doing. In the honest moments when you are avoiding being bitten and stung by the swarm of angry butterflies, what are you DOING to fill the day???

Thursday, May 07, 2009

Me . . the second . . .

My mom tells this fabulous story from when I was a kid. Apparently, I used the cabinet drawer pulls as foot holds and scaled the kitchen like a rock climber to get a bag of chocolate chips. I proceeded to eat a bunch of them, got caught red handed with my hand in the chips and chocolate smeared all around my mouth . . . then deny and lie, and blame my brother when caught.

Fast forward 30 some-odd years . . .

This morning, I left the kitchen for 26 seconds. Tinky was moving dog food from one bowl to another. Little was practicing light sabre moves in the front room. Seriously. Twenty six seconds.

I came back in to this:



This is the cake Middle & I baked last night for staff appreciation week at school. Um, guess we'll do that again tonight. Tee Hee Hee. Now we have an excuse to eat chocolate cake for lunch!!

Sunday, May 03, 2009

"Minimally Processed"

What does this phrase mean?

I'm making soup. Zuppa Tuscana, to be exact. It calls for sausage. In previous years, months & days, I've liked sausage. But, as you may recall, I've just read Skinny Bitch. And now, I'm not so keen on sausage. So, I was standing before the Jimmy Dean sausage log section in Super Target today, trying to choose sausage. One is spicy. That's out. One is reduced fat. It's 4 ounces less and 2 dollars more. That's out. The last one has nice ecru colored packaging and has "all natural" written on it. It claims to be "minimally processed."

This gave me pause. I stood in the section for a minute. Dumbstuck. Sausage, by defintion, is pig all mushed up and ground together. It has spices blended in with it and it goes through a series of machines to achive the right consistancy before a final machine poops it out into packaging which, essentially, is intestine. Right?

What step or steps could possibly be omitted from that process and have one (namely me, the consumer) still end up with SAUSAGE? If it were truly, "minimally processed" wouldn't it be oinking at me? Woulnd't I be standing at a slop tank?