Little Things Big Choices

I miss Main Street USA.  I think life was happier and simpler then.  I remember it.

I had a taste of the non-homogenized America when I went to Mystic a couple of weeks ago.  There were so many shops with their own distinct personality along the streets with no strip mall in my immediate line of sight.  It was a piece of Americana that I treasured.

Or maybe it’s just my youth that I miss.

I’ve been on this simplification kick for the past year or so.  I like what I like.  I don’t really care about labels and if I have something that is considered chic or trendy it’s pretty much happenstance – I bought it because the pattern appealed to me or the color made me smile or I swished when I saw it.

I realize that adult life is fraught with choices, but do we really need all of them?  There just seem to be so many and some seem pretty purposeless.  And what or more specifically who are these choices for?  We’re all guilty of it.  The choices in clothes, cars, houses – is often driven by a subconscious need for acceptance.  Who are we unless social?  But social acceptance has somehow morphed into status.  I’ve seen people dismissed because they drive a car that isn’t brand new.  Or their clothes are worn.  Or they work two jobs.  I remember breaking down in tears one day when my daughter ripped holes in the knees of her jeans that I was hoping could last just one more season.  I was a struggling single mother who simply couldn’t afford to buy another pair; and she came home with two holes that became full-blown tears as she jumped down off the last step of the staircase she was on.  So I sold a necklace.  That got her new jeans.  It was a simple choice.  She wasn’t going to go without.  So I did.  Simple.

I bought this yesterday.  Perhaps it was a sense of nostalgia or perhaps it just reminded me of the sense of wonder I had in my youth.  I have the means now to call the shots in my life or to purchase what I want but in the end what made me happiest yesterday was buying a Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker.

 

 

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I’ll Take Asshats for $1000 Alex

I’ve been overheard saying many a time, that I’d like to chuck it all and become a goat farmer.  Sheep farmer.  Turnip farmer……..basically a farmer.  I picture a life filled with purpose and peace and possibly pretzels as they are a portable snack.  I would wear overalls.  I like overalls.  I think they are vastly underrated.

I’ve tried to dupe my friends into going into said farming business with me.  I emphatically declare it to my husband on occasion and get a withering stare in return.  “Sure baby”, he says, “As long as it comes with a 401K and dental”.

I want to make goat cheese.  Goat soap.  On a vineyard, so I can pair wine with said cheese; or at the very least pretend to do an Irish jig (don’t remember how) and kick up some mud on them and then sweetly offer homemade goat soap to wash with.  I want to bake for the masses, as long as they have no say in it.  Basically, I need creative outlets.  I’ve painted my whole house so that’s out.  I feel that I would make an exceptional dinner party hostess as a vocation but I’m fairly sure it doesn’t pay.  I would have to change out of my overalls for this.  Actually, I’d have to buy overalls first and then I could change out of them.  Unless we’re having a cookout on the goat farm.  Goats don’t appreciate high fashion and the overalls prevent burns if I drop a burger.

I don’t know anything about farming.  Not one thing.  Nada. Bubkus.  Could I be any worse than some of the choices or rather outbreaks we have had lately?  E Coli comes from poop.   I don’t poop in fields.  It’s a win/win for everyone.

Which leads to my original my question.  What exactly it is that the FDA does to protect John Q. Public.

We have drugs with a list of side effects longer than my leg (I have a 32 inch inseam sooooo…).  Do we really need a drug for everything?  Doctor I have a hang nail.  Here’s a pill for that.  Doctor I’m old and crotchety.  We have a pill for that.  We already know my thoughts on Viagra.  America has the largest consumption of prescription pills in the world.  We are collectively 5% of the worlds population and we consume 75% of the pharmaceuticals out there.  Do we, as a country, need to man up?

We have superbugs now due to the over-prescribing of antibiotics.  Antibacterial everything has been proven to be a big no no.  At one point I’m pretty sure you could buy antibacterial underwear.

Pause

She’s crazy. Save yourselves. Don’t listen.

Of course you couldn’t.  I’m joking.

E Coli outbreaks are frequent at major grocery and restaurant chains.  One was so kind as to offer free meals after their very public clean up.  Oh hey, that’s sweet.  One way to lose weight, eh?  I’m trying to picture my explanation of that lunacy.  Oh hey girl.  So yeah, here’s the thing Bobbi; I’d love to go shopping but I ate some questionable food for free and now I’ve shat myself and I’m fresh out of antibacterial undies.  Oh yes, for the past six days.  Darn the luck.

Now there’s a listeria outbreak.  Through all of this stands the FDA in the middle like a crossing guard who swallowed a Quaalude the size of a baseball.  Hopefully they approved it’s efficacy first and the side effects won’t cause man boobs or a tail to grow.
We have a government that doesn’t really seem to accomplish much.  🙊🙉🙈  I’m just going to leave that there…

It seems to me that perhaps it would be good sense to be proactive instead of reactive.

But alas, common sense doesn’t sell.  Common sense is as mundane as…………Jeopardy.  I like Jeopardy.

I’ll take asshats for $1,000 Alex.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dealing with Your Dumbass Former Rebel

6/21/16

  


So I spent the afternoon getting scanned.

Mammogram.

Thyroid ultrasound

Lung scan

One was routine, one is because at my doctor’s appointment, I had an enlarged thyroid and the last is because I was a tool for 26 years.

I smoked my first cigarette when I was 9.

I smoked for many many years.  I would have to say regularly from the age of 16 or so.

My doctor is super prepared and believes in a baseline for everything.  I do adore him for this fact.  I’d rather face my past.  I’m lying.  I am full of crap.  No I wouldn’t.  Not at all.  I would like to pretend that I wasn’t a stupid ass.  I would like to pretend that I had it all together and made excellent choices all of my life.  The truth is, I was a moron, enslaved to a thankless cause.

The way I started writing (publicly) was in a journal on a quit smoking website.  That was my debut.  And mystically, people related to it; which dumbfounded me.  I was always told that I was nuts so there was no possible way that anyone else thought the way I did.  Well, I guess I was wrong.  That was probably nine years ago.  Guess what?  It took me seven more years to get my act together.

So I’m in the gown with the back open and on the table and up until this point, the attendants have put me at ease and I feel good.  I feel good about me.  I’m awesome.  I’ve got the world by the butt and wait…..yes ma’am, I smoked since I was 16.  I quit at 43.  Let me take off my shoes to do the big math, but that’s a truckload of time that I willingly put carcinogens in my body every day, twenty times a day at least because once upon a time I thought it made me look badass.   Or I was rebelling against my mother.  Or I was trying to emulate a former neighbor.  Any way you slice it, it was my life, for better or worse for 27 years.  I’d quit here and there but obviously spent the better part of almost 3 decades as a legalized junkie.  With every passing word I felt the weight of my past addiction as my own confessional conversation sat squarely on my shoulders.  

So the scan……back to that.  I don’t know how people do this knowing that something is wrong.  It’s terrifying.

You are swept down a bed on a conveyor belt into a machine.  There are red lights and green lights.  A disembodied voice tells you when you can breathe normally or to hold your breath.  And as you’re in there you have a moment to reflect.  That’s all it takes is a moment to remember.  Why am I here?   What if something is there?  I was asked how long I smoked.  I lied –  a vague dismissive wimp lie.   Twenty mumble mumble years.  Twentyish.  How about that?  I announced that I had quit smoking two years ago proudly and got the obligatory response that I made a good choice.  Kind of like what I tell my husband when he does the dishes.  “Ooooo yay for you!  You want a cookie?”  It didn’t make me feel any better and I wish instead of saying two years I could have said five, ten, twenty.  I’ve got two.  It’s better than nothing.  I had to face some funky stuff when I quit smoking.  It was the ultimate lesson for me.  I learned that I am worth fighting for; my husband taught me that.  He loved me more than I loved myself.  I learned that somehow in writing in the honest and forthright manner (the only way I know how) that I have something worth saying.  I learned that I am worth loving.  I believe that there is an element of self loathing in every addiction.  It robs us of our belief in ourselves; and only once you’re out do you see it for what it really is.

I know I’m not alone and I certainly have ZERO room to bitch and moan when there are people dealing with real disease and this afternoon was more than likely a baseline scan.  I pray.

But it just made me think about the choices we make and the inevitable results that follow.  We all have them.  Some people overeat, some get into drugs, some drink to heavily, some smoke; and we all have to answer for it at one point or another.  My first blog entry was a semi-joke about my husband’s health choice.  Now it’s mine, even though I already made it years ago.  Life is a series of choices.  I had to face being….a supposed rebel.  American badass?  And idiot?  Or a self misguided kid who threw away the map to life because she thought she knew more than her parents. It only took 27 years to realize she didn’t know jack.

I’m still learning.  God willing, I’ll continue to do so until the day I die.

On a sidenote?  Apparently I have a beautiful thyroid.  Small victories.  Also, I’m still a rebel, but a smartass rebel.

 

 

 

Olive My Fedex Dude

The ultimate dude.  Supreme Dudage.

He’s been delivering for my office for 3 years and is utterly fantastic.

I’m a leftie and have the leftie scrawl.  It doesn’t work when I sign the delivery handheld hoomagiggy because….I don’t know why -it just doesn’t.  So I scrawl SATAN in my  drunken toddler writing as the receiving party and he looks at it and says “Shirley Temple.  Got it”.  I know this because I’ve had customers call and say the package was delivered and signed for by Shirley Temple.

We have an exchange of snark at every meeting.   I was eating a salad and took out all of the green olives.   Why?   Because they are the devil’s fruit, but I do like black olives.  As a kid I also wouldn’t eat onions but loved onion rings.

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Devils Fruit
He mocked me.  Full frontal mockage.

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Here’s the exchange
FedEx Supreme Dudage: Why aren’t you eating your olives

Me: They are the devil’s fruit

FedEx Supreme Dudage: Didn’t you take the blacks ones out?

Me: No!  That’s racist.  I love black olives.

FedEx Supreme Dudage: But you won’t eat green olives

Me: No.  They are evil and insipid

FedEx Supreme Dudage:  Isn’t that racist?  Profiler.  What’s in the bottle?

 

Me: Who are you?  Detective Mills?   What’s in the boxxxxx?  It’s olive  oil FOOL.  For food.  I use it on salad with sea salt.  (All while giving a duh look)


FedEx Supreme Dudage: (arms crossed) So you won’t eat green olives but you like olive oil?  Aren’t you just ridiculous?  You’re completely dysfunctional.

Me: (throws devils fruit at him because I’m mature). If by that you mean elegant, amazing, fun, and eerily intelligent-I accept.

FedEx Supreme Dudage: I meant none of that.  Does your husband know you’re demented?  Do you like martinis?

Me: Only if they don’t have olives.  Or onions.  And I fake my own death if I see a dirty martini.  My husband not only knows, he loves me anyway.  (dropped fork in defiance)

FedEx Supreme Dudage:  Good man.

Real exchange.

Names have not been changed to protect the innocent because there aren’t any.

#iain’tsorry #nooliveprofiling #whatsinthebox

 

 

Hashtag My Scale Saw Me Naked

And it didn’t judge me.  As a matter of fact, it’s an appliance, so it can’t.

That’s it.  That was my weight as of 7:38 this morning.  I just did the unthinkable.  I published my weight.

My thighs also touch, but they don’t judge me.  They rub together when I walk.   If I jog I may start a brush fire so that rules that out as a form of proper exercise.  I can’t have that kind of guilt on my head.  As woefully thin as I once was, I don’t know that I ever had a thigh gap.  A twenty-something told me this weekend that she was proud that she finally had a thigh gap.  This statement, this most emphatic statement, was preceded by a refusal to eat.  The inner voice in my head wanted to throttle her and tell her to stop being a hero in a lost cause.  Don’t be the life raft still tied to the Titanic kiddo.  Then I realized the pithiness would have been lost and all she would have heard is Titanic and somehow equate that to her weight and worth. 

So here’s the thing.

We are taught to loathe ourselves for imperfections.  This scale reading, this lack of thigh gap, this junk in the trunk, this…………..this is me , in all of my imperfect perfection.  I put far more value on the fact that I grilled Big Daddy his favorite dinner and took my grandson fishing for the first time.   Four generations were gathered together in love and laughter.  What about my junky trunk?  Oh yeah, self loathing.  Mmmmm busy having a life- sorry. 

I was taught to want the thigh gap, I was taught that my scale is berating me, but I guess that didn’t stick.  I was not taught this by my mother……..but it some ways, the unspoken ways, I was.  She, like me, put on a fair amount of weight in her 40’s.  She dieted and failed and cried and blamed and tried and failed and blamed and cried and failed and blamed……..herself; as if she were wrong or a failure.  Conversely, she also set a wonderful example of breaking herself out of that prison by accepting who she is.  Inside.  Outside is incidental.  But truth be told………my mother was and is beautiful.   

Some people feel free to call women fat.  It’s not gender specific.  So here’s the thing.  For the men that do it, how about I douse you with ice water and then have a running commentary on shrinkage?   How about that?  Can I hit you where you live?  No?  Then stop.  Unless you’ve had five random people run up and declare that you are sheer perfection and they can’t live without you, please go to bed with them posthaste… 

Oh!  That hasn’t happened to you either?  Well then, imagine that.  Maybe it’s time to shush.  And for the women that do it?  Have a sense of respect and compassion and loyalty for your gender.  Seriously.

The movie Eat Pray Love has the most succinct and wonderful line about a healthy outlook.  Well hell, let’s admit, the book and the movie are pure genius.  Liz Gilbert gave strength to so many people with her blunt and so very frighteningly real writing.  It’s not easy to write in such a raw, real, and somehow naked fashion.  It’s not easy to bare the emotional all.  I admire her so deeply for that voice that she gave the rest of us that we are not crazy.  Someone else thinks like us, doubts like us, fears like us and can ultimately triumph….like us. There is a point that one lovely, beautiful, stunning woman says to the main character that she can’t fit into her pants.  They were eating pizza.  You can see the fear and doubt in her eyes.  The response is brilliant and can be summed up by saying that no one should count every calorie so they can know how much self-loathing to take into the shower with them.

So I’ll show you what 165 plus looks like.

 

#damnrightimbeautiful #mommawastoo #soareyou #myhusbandsaidso #betyoursdidtoo  #stophatingyourself #youareyourownbeautystandard #checkthefactsaboutanorexia #teachyourchildrentolovethemselves #myscalesawmenakedandclapped 

#stopthemadness

Feel free to contribute a positive hashtag of your own

You Got the Hooch? I Got the House

I was a bit of a social butterfly this weekend.  I caught up with an old friend on Friday and we discussed the absolute necessities of life; food and travel and soul sustenance.  He is an exceptional talent with a food blog that is divine.  His passion and drive and creativity in photographing food is infectious.  I actually got to see the process in action (to a small degree) and it was like watching Picasso give a smile and a nod before getting down to business.   When he’s ready  – I plan on blasting the name of the blog all over the interwebs…because it’s that good.

I’m having a party in August for a group of people in which some are friends of friends.  Some are becoming friends.  Some are quadrants of my heart and soul.  I love fusing the unexpected together.

So in preparation for this party, Big Sexy Chocolate decided he was going to embark on making sangria.  Over the past few days, he’s dropped hints of what he’s put in there.  No ordinary Sangria is this.  No.  This………..is hooch.  It’s got raspberries, blueberries, snozzberries, oranges, red wine, brandy, lighter fluid, schnapps, a tuft of witch hair, some pixie dust……

We take our parties seriously ’round here.  We plan menus.  Big Sexy conjures up voodoo wine manufacturing.  Bobbi makes cupcakes.  Mr. Magilla micromanages everything.  It’s serious business.

Friday night I got a text from BSC that he drank half a glass and it was really really good.  Or as he put it…..i drAnc some –  it gud.  I think there may have been an umlaut…I dunno.  I smelled it the moment I opened the door; even before I saw his magnificent self with a giant wine box and a smile.

We were supposed to have this soiree at Bobbi’s house but she’s a punk and decided to fake some sort of illness.  So this got moved to my house in the 11th hour.  The movable feast, if you will.

Some of the best times are the ones that aren’t planned or that plans go off on their own little tangent.  There are some times that you wish could linger a little longer.   Oh to be able to suspend the moments of laughter.

This was a much needed remedy to an otherwise tough week.  My husband was gone most of the week.  It was just a rough week.   A lot of bad juju floating around my world this past week.

So thank you to the participants of the movable feast.  Thanks to D for his insight and excellent conversation.  This weekend was the tonic I needed.