Looking at labels on food products has become my reading of choice lately. It seems that there is just no getting around it. Calories, fat grams, sodium. Who would have ever guessed that a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich would need a calculator and a note pad laying nearby? Journal entries, adding this and replacing with that. The thrill of victory when the numbers balance at the end of the day. The groans of agony when they don't. I don't get this riled up when the checkbook doesn't balance. But let my intake be greater than my recommended allotment and well....it can wear a girl out.
Watching my weight has almost become a new pastime for my husband and I. It is almost like a hobby that we share together. Who knew something so seemingly mundane as a diet, could bring us even closer together? We share intimate conversations daily now. You know.....like " Wow honey, did ya notice the fat grams in that thing?" Or, "how can anything as light and fluffy as popcorn possibly have that many calories!" We spend lazy afternoon together, slowly strolling down the aisles of the grocery store, side by side, gazing lovingly at the ingredient labels. Who would have guessed that the prime of our lives would have come to this.
You see, I am married to the informer. If you need to know anything about anything, he either knows it, or by gosh he can find out. He has the memory of an elephant in full regalia when it comes to my calorie and water intake for the day. He knows exactly how many glasses I should consume and he's not afraid to share that information. It's almost like he has this little calculator inside his head and pushes the memory button whenever I am in the kitchen. "You gettin' some water while you're there girlfriend?" he will joyfully holler from another room. In fact, just to spite him, I will pour myself a full glass of water and drink it down. So there. Take that mister. You're not gonna tell ME what to do. After all, I do know what's best.
Since math has never been my strong suit, I guess it is pretty convenient to have a mobile calculator at my fingertips. He can tally the score in his head for anything on the menu at a fast food restaurant long before I have made up my mind as to what I am even going to have. Now mind you, he never ever makes a recommendation of one "delicious" verses more "nutritious". While I am deciding, he just wants to have the information on hand in the off chance that I might inquire. Like I didn't know that un-sweet tea is better for me than sweet tea. Come on, I am a Texan now. We drink sweet tea by gum. Or that a chocolate milkshake probably will count for ALL of my intake for the day. Well duhhhh!!! BUT......that milkshake would taste so good on a hot Texas day right? I can make up for the extra intake numbers later right? Like tomorrow? Or maybe next week?
It's a shame the ole diet thing doesn't really work that way. Eat it today, wear it tomorrow. Cookies at night, bring bigger shadows by day. I am not quite sure what a good metabolism is, but I didn't inherit one from my family. I don't know if I can buy a good metabolism but I am willing to have a garage sale to finance it. Hey, wait a minute. What really goes well with a garage sale?????? Donuts and coffee in the morning while you set everything up and of course pizza at night since you are too tired to cook. Anybody with me????
Friday, May 28, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Come on Baby Light My Fire
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right? Even when they do some of the most hair brained things. Not only do they attempt to DO these things, they then get together and brag to each other about the latest and greatest accomplishments they have done with no earthly idea how the really smart ones, we women, are viewing them.
Case in point. Starting a fire. Oh not just any fire, but one that is in the house, in the fireplace. Or that is at least where it should be. Let me take you back to a cool night of November. We have cooked and eaten the wonderful Thanksgiving feast that I have lovingly slaved over all day. All in about 30 minutes after sitting down, I must add. I am in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. My husband decides that he is going to start a fire. Ok. I know what you are thinking. "What could possibly be wrong with that?". Oh friends !!!! A fire starter he is not. It just doesn't seem to come naturally to him. Some people know exactly how to bunch the paper up nice and tight so that you have good kindling. I don't think marrying a Eagle Scout is a necessity, but where fires are concerned, let's just say being prepared would come in handy.
After several attempts to get the kindling to catch, my husband got a wee bit frustrated. What do husbands do in a case like this? They holler for their wives to come and give them a hand of course. Well, I only made it to Brownies in my scouting life, so my fire starting experience is limited. As a matter of fact, I normally use those logs that just kind of light magically by themselves. Rolling up newspaper is just so dad gummed messy too. Black ink all over your hands.....well that's a different story.
Anyway, after a few lights, relights and words that a lady won't mention, he gives up. I offer to go to the store and buy a "log" but with a gleam in his eye, he says that won't be necessary. He knows exactly how to get it started. On goes the coat, and out to the garage he goes. He returns in a few minutes and begins the process all over again of scrunching up newspaper. Full of new confidence that my wonderful husband will soon have a toasty fire going I wander back to the kitchen to resume my task. In my mind I am thinking how nice it will be to sit down by the fire with our feet on the coffee table relaxing and just having a nice quite evening when "WHOOOOOSH!!!!"
Out of the corner of my eye I see something go shooting into the dining room. I grab the kitchen towel (it's never a good idea to drip water on the clean floor, just ask Martha) and make a dash for the dining room. There on the floor is a singed and smelly version of my husband, smoke still floating around him. He is daintily wiping his now almost gone eyebrows with a sheepish look on his face. His sweater, the new one I had just gotten him, is the most awful pukey brown color. Honest to goodness, I just stood there. I didn't even know what to say. I really didn't even know how he got over there. And then it hit me. I slowly turned and looked towards the fireplace. A huge roaring fire was crackling away. "Pretty cool huh?" is all he said.
You see, lighting the fire the old fashioned way was just taking too long. So? Why not speed things up a bit. And what better way to get a fire going than to use the white gas that you have stored in the garage for all of those family camping trips? Duh! Why didn't I think of that??? I'll tell you why. Because SANE people don't use white gas to start a fire in a fireplace that's why !!! It seems that in his rush to get the fire started, he got a heavy handed with the gas. It kept putting the matches out. Sooooooo, when he finally got it to light, the gas fumes formed a ball of flame and shot him across the room, thus making that whooshing sound.
Fast forward to Sunday morning at church. Everyone meeting and greeting each other. Talking about the holiday weekend, football, big turkey dinners. The normal stuff. Then I noticed all the menfolk gathered around my husband listening to him like he was offering up some well meaning advise. All of a sudden, they all start high fiving him and patting him on the back, shaking their heads and making that grunting sound that made television history. He has retold them the story of the white gas!!!! And he is now their hero. They marvel at him. The do a little victory dance in the parking lot. They gather him into their fold. He is now one of them.
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right?
Case in point. Starting a fire. Oh not just any fire, but one that is in the house, in the fireplace. Or that is at least where it should be. Let me take you back to a cool night of November. We have cooked and eaten the wonderful Thanksgiving feast that I have lovingly slaved over all day. All in about 30 minutes after sitting down, I must add. I am in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. My husband decides that he is going to start a fire. Ok. I know what you are thinking. "What could possibly be wrong with that?". Oh friends !!!! A fire starter he is not. It just doesn't seem to come naturally to him. Some people know exactly how to bunch the paper up nice and tight so that you have good kindling. I don't think marrying a Eagle Scout is a necessity, but where fires are concerned, let's just say being prepared would come in handy.
After several attempts to get the kindling to catch, my husband got a wee bit frustrated. What do husbands do in a case like this? They holler for their wives to come and give them a hand of course. Well, I only made it to Brownies in my scouting life, so my fire starting experience is limited. As a matter of fact, I normally use those logs that just kind of light magically by themselves. Rolling up newspaper is just so dad gummed messy too. Black ink all over your hands.....well that's a different story.
Anyway, after a few lights, relights and words that a lady won't mention, he gives up. I offer to go to the store and buy a "log" but with a gleam in his eye, he says that won't be necessary. He knows exactly how to get it started. On goes the coat, and out to the garage he goes. He returns in a few minutes and begins the process all over again of scrunching up newspaper. Full of new confidence that my wonderful husband will soon have a toasty fire going I wander back to the kitchen to resume my task. In my mind I am thinking how nice it will be to sit down by the fire with our feet on the coffee table relaxing and just having a nice quite evening when "WHOOOOOSH!!!!"
Out of the corner of my eye I see something go shooting into the dining room. I grab the kitchen towel (it's never a good idea to drip water on the clean floor, just ask Martha) and make a dash for the dining room. There on the floor is a singed and smelly version of my husband, smoke still floating around him. He is daintily wiping his now almost gone eyebrows with a sheepish look on his face. His sweater, the new one I had just gotten him, is the most awful pukey brown color. Honest to goodness, I just stood there. I didn't even know what to say. I really didn't even know how he got over there. And then it hit me. I slowly turned and looked towards the fireplace. A huge roaring fire was crackling away. "Pretty cool huh?" is all he said.
You see, lighting the fire the old fashioned way was just taking too long. So? Why not speed things up a bit. And what better way to get a fire going than to use the white gas that you have stored in the garage for all of those family camping trips? Duh! Why didn't I think of that??? I'll tell you why. Because SANE people don't use white gas to start a fire in a fireplace that's why !!! It seems that in his rush to get the fire started, he got a heavy handed with the gas. It kept putting the matches out. Sooooooo, when he finally got it to light, the gas fumes formed a ball of flame and shot him across the room, thus making that whooshing sound.
Fast forward to Sunday morning at church. Everyone meeting and greeting each other. Talking about the holiday weekend, football, big turkey dinners. The normal stuff. Then I noticed all the menfolk gathered around my husband listening to him like he was offering up some well meaning advise. All of a sudden, they all start high fiving him and patting him on the back, shaking their heads and making that grunting sound that made television history. He has retold them the story of the white gas!!!! And he is now their hero. They marvel at him. The do a little victory dance in the parking lot. They gather him into their fold. He is now one of them.
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Hunched Back of Noted Dame
Right up front I want to admit that I am not a girly girl. I do not "shop until I drop", nor do I make it my life's quest to have an "ensemble", much to the fashionista's chagrin I must say, but hey, I am over 21 now and can make up my own mind where my fashion loyalties will be. I don't need to read every magazine about the colors of the season, what's hot and what's not, or when it is acceptable to wear white pants in public. I mean, come on now, we ALL know the rules concerning the proper etiquette where white pants are concerned right? Try, as I may to conform, the little rebel comes out in me and I always find a reason to wear my white pants before Memorial Day. Muhahaha!!!!!
Another thing I have never really taken a shine to, is changing purses to go with that oh so perfect ensemble. I am a woman of many needs. Most of which I carry in my purse. I have my little lipstick bag, just in the off chance I decide to actually wear the stuff. There is the semi small bottle of hand lotion, and coupons, just in case I stop at the store. A butter knife for all those times that I might have to cut a sandwich in pieces for the little ones. Those "little ones" now have little ones of their own. Kleenex, handi-wipes, mints. You name it. If you need it, I probably can find it in the bottom of my purse. I carry the current years calendar booklet as well as last years. You never know when someone might need to know what you did last year. The measuring tape with the itty-bitty flashlight came in really handy when I dropped my cell phone in my purse and I couldn't find it. A good purse, with all of the basics, is what a woman of my stature needs. She also needs a good chiropractor.
I recently saw a photo of myself in a group of smiling friends. We girls had been out to dinner or some other fun thing and someone in the crowd snapped a picture. I looked as though I was trying to walk in the Ghost Town's Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm. Why in the world was I leaning to the left so much? All my friends were standing up straight and tall and I appeared to need a really quick refresher course on good posture. And then I looked a little closer. What in the world were all the little sparkling dots at my waist? It was the bling from the strap of my purse twinkling in the flash of the camera. All of those essentials in my purse were actually causing me to look like a drunken sailor on a Saturday night.
That night when I got home I did the old twist and turn in the bathroom mirror. I turned from side to side over and over again to try and get a view of the enormous muscle in my shoulder from totin' around this suitcase. Hot dang man, I looked like a whiter version of the Incredible Hulk from the left. Believe it or not, I really thought about getting on the scale and weighing myself with the baggage and without. When did my purse become a weight lifting event for the Olympics? I should be getting a gold medal for carrying this thing around everyday.
I decided that it was time to clean out the old purse. So I sat at the dining room table and my husband brought me the kitchen trash can, so that I could do the "toss and go". I figured it would probably take me just a few minutes to clear out some of the necessary things that might be the cause of the chunkiness of the purse. You know, the actual non-essentials. Receipts for things that I couldn't wear again if my life depended on it. Gum wrappers from all those times that there wasn't a trash can close by. Pens that had run out of ink years ago. Little scraps of paper that must have had important notes on them at some point, but were now no more than smudges of ink. There. I had done it. I had cleaned out my purse. All that was left in the wake of this cleaning would be those important things. The must haves. The things that come in handy in a pinch. The things that still weight a ton. I decided that a clean light purse was not in my near future, so yes, you know it, I have learned to carry it on the right side, and soon I will be a balanced woman again.
Another thing I have never really taken a shine to, is changing purses to go with that oh so perfect ensemble. I am a woman of many needs. Most of which I carry in my purse. I have my little lipstick bag, just in the off chance I decide to actually wear the stuff. There is the semi small bottle of hand lotion, and coupons, just in case I stop at the store. A butter knife for all those times that I might have to cut a sandwich in pieces for the little ones. Those "little ones" now have little ones of their own. Kleenex, handi-wipes, mints. You name it. If you need it, I probably can find it in the bottom of my purse. I carry the current years calendar booklet as well as last years. You never know when someone might need to know what you did last year. The measuring tape with the itty-bitty flashlight came in really handy when I dropped my cell phone in my purse and I couldn't find it. A good purse, with all of the basics, is what a woman of my stature needs. She also needs a good chiropractor.
I recently saw a photo of myself in a group of smiling friends. We girls had been out to dinner or some other fun thing and someone in the crowd snapped a picture. I looked as though I was trying to walk in the Ghost Town's Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm. Why in the world was I leaning to the left so much? All my friends were standing up straight and tall and I appeared to need a really quick refresher course on good posture. And then I looked a little closer. What in the world were all the little sparkling dots at my waist? It was the bling from the strap of my purse twinkling in the flash of the camera. All of those essentials in my purse were actually causing me to look like a drunken sailor on a Saturday night.
That night when I got home I did the old twist and turn in the bathroom mirror. I turned from side to side over and over again to try and get a view of the enormous muscle in my shoulder from totin' around this suitcase. Hot dang man, I looked like a whiter version of the Incredible Hulk from the left. Believe it or not, I really thought about getting on the scale and weighing myself with the baggage and without. When did my purse become a weight lifting event for the Olympics? I should be getting a gold medal for carrying this thing around everyday.
I decided that it was time to clean out the old purse. So I sat at the dining room table and my husband brought me the kitchen trash can, so that I could do the "toss and go". I figured it would probably take me just a few minutes to clear out some of the necessary things that might be the cause of the chunkiness of the purse. You know, the actual non-essentials. Receipts for things that I couldn't wear again if my life depended on it. Gum wrappers from all those times that there wasn't a trash can close by. Pens that had run out of ink years ago. Little scraps of paper that must have had important notes on them at some point, but were now no more than smudges of ink. There. I had done it. I had cleaned out my purse. All that was left in the wake of this cleaning would be those important things. The must haves. The things that come in handy in a pinch. The things that still weight a ton. I decided that a clean light purse was not in my near future, so yes, you know it, I have learned to carry it on the right side, and soon I will be a balanced woman again.
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