Lisa Gerardy's Blog, page 27

My Writing Assistants: Boy Siri and that VW Biotch

She tells me when it’s too cold out, but she won’t text me.

Someone in a blogging group posted a question about writing schedules.  I don’t have a regular writing schedule mostly because I’m not Stephen King.  I don’t have a naptime and a ten-figure income.  I have a husband, a son, a full-time job, and five pets.  I don’t get to keep a regular writing schedule and sleep.  So, I write when I can since I’ve grown fond of sleeping ever since my son became an independent teen.  Don’t be jealous elementary school parents.

They need to invent a note pad you can use in the shower because I get my best blog ideas when I’m showering, or cooking, or doing anything not writing friendly.  When I get an idea in the shower, instead of trying to write it on the shower door with a soapy finger (Boy, does that NOT work), I rinse quickly and get out so I can grab my phone with out electrocuting myself.  I try to avoid that since I already have frazzled, middle-aged lady hair.

I’m an Apple junkie, so I use Siri to “draft” a blog in my email program. Then, I copy and paste the blog from email to a Word doc.  This is when the fun begins since I have to figure out what the heck I was saying because Siri always messes up a word or fifteen.  If he (I chose the male voice) were a real assistant, he would be out there in the snow looking for another job.  My cat could probably take better notes.

When I wrote this recent blog about the bloggers that I read daily, Siri recorded “broadcasters” instead of “Bloggess.”  I was sitting there, trying to type the blog going, “Broadcasters? Why the hell would I be talking about the TV and Radio people?  Was the bathroom too steamy post shower?  Did I maybe fall and hit my head?  I finally figured it out, but it took a few minutes.  I don’t have that kind of time.

I also get a lot of ideas while I’m driving, but I usually don’t have time to pull over and jot them down.  Since my phone is usually in my purse, I don’t attempt to pull it out and use Siri while driving.  I’m not suicidal, even though you would never know this if you observed my eating habits.  I have attempted to use my VW’s hands free system, but the VW Bluetooth Biotch is worse than Siri.  Ms. VW tells me I don’t have my own cell phone number and that she can’t text me, and other such nonsense. Again, if she were a real person, and not a beautiful sporty little car, she would be fired.  So, usually, by the time I got home, the super fast creative brain has dulled and I end up grunting out two sentences in a Word doc and making more tea.

I usually end up revising and posting a blog while standing in the kitchen, with the laptop on the counter, and stirring something on the stove, sometimes with a glass of wine nearby.  If you have read any of my blogs, you should not be shocked that alcohol may or may not be involved.  I do it all.  I write. I cook. I drink wine, and maybe a little vodka, and scotch, but not at the same time. I bring home the bacon, and I fry it up in a pan. Here’s a video to explain that last part for anyone under forty.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Bloggess, Enjoli, Siri, VW

Bite Me, Polar Vortex!

I have had Life in a Northern Town, the original version not the countrified remake, stuck in my head for a few weeks.  The same two lines, over and over:

He said in winter 1963

It felt like the world would freeze

Only I change it to:

In two thousand and fourteen

It felt like the world would freeze

Because this winter has sucked.  Well, every winter has sucked since 2008.  I willingly moved away from South Florida, where I spent the first 35 years of my life, and moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana in January of 2007.  It was magical.  The snow looked like glitter.  Since our house backed up to the woods, deer would walk through our yard.  I felt like I lived in the North Pole.  I loved it.

That crap got old in 2008.  I was done with shoveling the driveway so I could leave the house, driving with sweaty palms at speeds of barely 25, and waking up early to make breakfast for my son only to find out there was a two hour delay or cancellation.  Sometimes the school board makes a decision the night before, but most of the time it is at the last possible minute.

EVERY winter, I kick myself for leaving Florida.  I miss the weather and I miss my family and friends.  In order to maintain my sanity living here in the freezer, I must constantly list the things I do NOT miss about Florida:

 Tourist Season – We don’t have one in Columbus, OH.  I can get a table at my favorite restaurants ALL YEAR LONG.  So, there, Hollywood people!


 Seeing homeless people use the restroom on the sidewalk or in the middle of the street –  Let’s face it; it’s too cold to drop your pants in public here.  When I lived in Hollywood, FL, I saw a woman defecate on the sidewalk, and a man pee in the middle of the street.  I don’t miss that.


 Having newspaper vendors and other people come up to my car at red lights to sell me crap –  This does not happen here.  It is too cold and I think there are actually laws against it.  You can sit in your car, drink your latte, and play with your satellite radio in peace at the red lights in this northern town.


 Having a huge house for less money –  I live in a five level split house and it costs less than anything I could get down in hurricane land.


 Hurricanes – Yes we have snow.  No, I do not live in Tornado Alley (That is up the center of the country), but we get them here occasionally. The thing is, hurricanes used to stress me out because the weather people talk about them for DAYS.  “Buy canned goods! Get water! Put on your shutters!”  That is all you hear down there.  Then, usually, the hurricane veers off course and you prepared for nothing.  That is a lot of stress.

So, for the time being, I will stay here in Ohio. I will continue to loathe going out the door from October through April.  I will keep complaining and hating snow.   And I will keep listing the five reasons I don’t miss Florida, over and over and over and over….

It’s either snowing, super cold or both.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Dream Academy, Florida, Life in a Northern Town, Polar Vortex

Facebook Makes Tea Kettles Whistle

LOVE!

It may be time to put me in a home.  It is good that I prepared my son for this.  He has been instructed that it needs to be a nursing home with cats.  I cannot live without cats.  Even if I don’t know my family, my own name, or that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are the only milk chocolate candy remotely worth the calories (dark chocolate is SO much better), I will still know that cats are cozy little fluff balls of love.  I’m only 42, um 28, but clearly my concentration skills are going.  If I were a school-aged child, I would be on some medication with a high street value.

Friends, readers, scoffers, I am pretty sure that I have chronic Internet Induced ADHD.  I’m also pretty sure that I just made that up.  I wasn’t like this before I left the brick and mortar classroom and started working online, ten years ago. In fact, I was still super focused and organized when I first began working via the interwebs.  It all started to go downhill when social media became popular.  Then, I could get my work done and find out which of my high school friends had a good day, a baby, or the flu at the same time.  I could find out who was at the gym and who went to a bar.  Sometimes, people did both.  This is stuff I NEEDED to know.

Then, I figured out how to have multiple tabs open in my browser.  I’m not sure when this became possible.  I remember a simpler time, when Punky Brewster was still on the air and kids ate Care Bear cereal, when you could only view one web page at a time.  How deprived were we?  Now, I can have my work email, work calendar, personal email, blog email, blog, Twitter, Facebook, and the Today Show tabs open at the SAME TIME.  So, if I’m waiting for a page to load, or just taking a water cooler break, I can bounce through all of those tabs like Tigger.

This can get dangerous.  The other afternoon at about two, my natural “I would so take a nap if I didn’t have a full-time job” time of day, I decided some strong, black tea was in order.  So, I filled the kettle and put it on the burner.  I waited for the water to boil for about a minute and got bored.  Since my computer was on the coffee table in the living room, right next to the kitchen, I went to check email.  I figured it would only take a minute.

Sophie needs attention.

Well, while I was squatting next to the table, with one hand petting Sophie the Dane/Lab to keep her from laying her big head on the keyboard and the other moving the cursor down my email list, Facebook dinged at me.  Judging by the 2 on the Facebook tab, I knew I had 2 notifications.  Look at me doing math! So, I clicked on the Facebook tab, and I’m glad I did.  I learned that D is still a die-hard Republican and N likes a Most Interesting Man in the World meme.  I clicked on the meme so I could see the entire thing because you can never see the punch line in your news feed.  Then, out of nowhere, a screeching sound came from the kitchen.

I jumped up from my spot near the table and said, “The hell?”  I said this out loud, to Sophie, Lola, and the cats.  I talk to animals.  I really do need to be put in a home.  Plus, I had NO CLUE what that sound was.  Then, it hit me.  I was making tea! Crap! I totally forgot about that.   And that is why kettles whistle.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: ADHD, Facebook, middle age, pets, WAHM, work online

When I Grow Up

Ah, the Duke boys.

I’m not talking about height here.  Unless I come into contact with some sort of Hulk radiation, I will never grow taller than my 5 foot nothing frame.  I’m talking about growing up mentally.  I have wanted to be a writer since I was about 7.  I used to sit in front of the old, clunky TV, after adjusting the antenna a bunch of times, and write my own stories while watching Saturday morning cartoons.  Young people, there was a time, long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the world and I didn’t need bifocals, when we did not have cartoon network, or, gasp, any cable, satellite, or internet channels.  Terrifying, isn’t it.  Well, that was why I sat and wrote my own stories.  Clearly, there was nothing good to stare at. I’m lying; we had Bo and Luke on the Dukes of Hazzard.  Nevermind.  

No, really.  I just wanted to write.  I always loved writing, except when my third grade teacher made us write a million sentences with our spelling words.  I guess I should say I always loved CREATIVE writing.  So, now that I am 42 going on 28, I’ve decided to focus more on writing.  I wrote a YA novel called Misfit Academy, and I am working on a second novel called The Lizard King Club. While I love writing fiction, I love blogging just a little bit more.

Having a blog is like having a newspaper column, but better.  Bloggers don’t have a stodgy editor with a cigar hanging out of his mouth.  In fact, most of the time, bloggers are their own editors.  This is great because they keep the interesting, fun stuff IN the blog instead of deleting it because it might offend someone.  Yawn. It’s like not having a filter when you speak, but only in writing.  Since I practice unfiltered verbal communication, I hope to blog like these people some day.

I became acquainted with Jennifer Lawson, AKA The Bloggess, in the Orlando airport. No, I did not actually meet her, but I do have dreams like that.  I was in the bookstore looking for something to read because I had forgotten my iPad.  Since I am thinking about writing a memoir of my unconventional childhood, I was looking for someone else’s unconventional childhood memoir. I wanted to find a way to write about my childhood without embarrassing what little family I keep in touch with.  Then, I saw Let’s Pretend This Never Happened sitting on the shelf.  Jennifer Lawson definitely had an interesting childhood in rural Texas. Her parents, like most, were not always perfect.  She found a way to write about her up bringing with honesty and humor. That is what I hope to do some day.  For now, the memoir is on the back burner.

I found Her Royal Thighness when a former co-worker posted a link to her blog on Facebook.  Parri Sontag, the woman behind the thighness, is truly someone real people can relate to. Her tag line is “Torn Between a Little Waist and a Little Debbie.”  Who doesn’t want to be trim AND eat cake?

Her Royal Thighness was kind enough to list her favorite blogs.  This is how I found My Life and Kids by Anna Luther. Anna is unfiltered, yet not in a scary way.  While she did post a picture of the vomiting and diarrhea calendar (the family has been super sick), she did not give too many details about the Pure Romance party.  I’m looking forward to meeting Anna, and other great bloggers, when I attend the Blog U conference this summer.  I have a reoccurring dream where I have to go back to college and live there, even though I am slightly older than college-age and a married mom.  I hope this dream stops after I go to Blog U.

I started reading Michelle’s blog, Rubber Shoes in Hell, after she commented on my blog.  I liked her instantly.  She is sarcastic and she is not afraid to drop F-bombs.  My boss sometimes reads my blog, so I AM afraid, very afraid, but I admire that Michelle is brave.  She can swear for both of us.

Well, there you have it folks.  Those are the blogs I read every week.  Who are your favorite bloggers? Post links if you got ‘em.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Bloggess, Blogging, Her Royal Thighness, My Life and Kids, Rubber Shoes in Hell, The Dukes of Hazzard

Claustrophobic Cheesecake Factory Nostalgia

My husband and I had a gift card for Cheesecake Factory so we decided we should go out for lunch, by lunch we meant martinis and cheesecake.  When we got there, I knew we were in trouble because it was SOOOO crowded.  If you read this blog ever, you know I LOVE to be smooshed in a crowd of people. (That was sarcasm.)  Being five foot nothing, I usually can’t see anything but torsos in this situation. There was a 20-minute wait for a table and the hostess did not have a microphone or any of those vibrating “your table is ready” things.  So, we had to stand (no place to sit) and wait for the hostess to yell for us.  By yell I mean whisper, or at least that is how it sounded to me.

I had to pee, and I was thinking about going to the bathroom, but I didn’t because I HATE public bathrooms, I didn’t have to go that bad, and my husband ended up ducking out to take a phone call.  This left me and only me to stand there and wait for the hostess to whisper our name.  So, I just held it.

Finally, the happy moment arrived.  I was standing right next to the hostess stand, as I have the hearing of an 85 year-old, and she whispered something that sounded like “Chris, party of two.”  So, I asked her, “Did you say Chris, party of two?”  She nodded and smiled.  Score! I waved at my husband to come back in.  He followed us to our table, still on the phone.  It was a business call, so I will forgive him.  I was so relieved to get out of the crowd.

The tables were not hermit-friendly.

The hostess led us to a tiny table that was about four inches from the table next to it.  I am exaggerating; it was a foot from the next table, but it really felt like I was going to have to sit on the lady’s lap at the next table.  I barely had room to set my purse and coat next to me.  I scooted as far over to the left as I could, without going through the wooden partition.  It was one of those tables where you basically share the booth seat with strangers.  Hermits don’t like sitting with strangers.  So, I did the only thing one can do in this situation; I ordered a drink.

Our waiter came to the table soon after we sat, and he looked really familiar.  There was something about that dark hair, and prominent brow. It hit me. He looked like a younger, less Cro Magnon Brett.  Brett was someone I used to do stand-up comedy with back in the late 90’s.  Now, he is out in LA, doing stand-up and scoring some tiny roles on TV shows.  For example, he was a Eastern European thug on Weeds a few years ago.  I always found Brett to be funny, but sort of arrogant, especially after he gave me a mini speech on how I should have chosen my marriage to my first husband over stand-up comedy.  I’m holding my fingers in W formation on my forehead and facing west. Whatever, Brett!  I was kind of hoping that Hollywood had spit him out to wait tables at the Cheesecake Factory in Columbus, Ohio. Yes, I fully understand that this is very non-Buddhist of me.

So, back to that much needed drink. I ordered a Cosmo, my usual poison.  I’m just not that adventurous.  My husband pointed to a dirty martini on the menu, and tried to get off the phone.  Once his call was over, we ordered appetizers, too, because by this time, we wanted more than cheesecake and drinks.  The food was delicious.  We were long overdue for some greasy, salty food. Fried zucchini and mini burritos go great together and they are full of fat and gluten. Plus, we got cheesecake.

As you may know, my husband had his throat melon-balled on December 17.  So, we haven’t been eating fried bar food at home.  We’ve been sticking to things that don’t irritate the husband’s throat.  Without giving you too much TMI, I will tell you that my husband had to dash off to the bathroom shortly after polishing off his cheesecake. My apologies go out to the other gentlemen in the men’s room on Saturday.

I stayed at the table until Brett Jr. brought the check over.  I signed, tipped generously, and gingerly squeezed out of my seat, trying not to knock over the drinks on the table next to me. Two Cosmos and a full bladder later, I decided to check out the bathroom.  Surprise.  It was really crowded and stinky.  It seems that if a bunch of people eat a bunch of cheesecake, odds are that someone is going to have a lactose intolerant attack in the bathroom.  Oddly enough, this person was not me this time. I just had to pee REALLY BAD, but I didn’t.  The smell was overwhelming, so I opted to wait until we got home.  When we walked out to the car, the crowd in the waiting area had tripled.  We had gotten out just in time.  I think next time we will just get a cheesecake to go.

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Cheesecake Factory, Hermit, IBS, UPPP

Biggest Bachelor Failure Ever

Every year when I watch The Bachelor, I list the reasons why I would be TERRIBLE on the show. First of all, I have a fear of heights and water, which would interfere with 95% of the dates.  Also, I’ve got this whole hermit thing going on, so that would make it tough to live with all of the drunken drama AKA the other bachelorettes.  There are SO MANY reasons I would fail to find “true love” on The Bachelor, but I think the top reason, other than the fact that I am married, would be my IBS.  It’s hard to be sexy and adventurous when you are always looking for a bathroom. IBS is not something you can really hide, for long, and since I am the queen of TMI, I would probably lead with the whole poop issue. After watching the premier, I started to imagine what I would do and say when I got out of the limo.  Here’s a possible scenario.

I would be the last to arrive, of course.  I would follow all of the tall, lovely young women in their jewel-toned gowns.  I would shove my short, size 8/10 middle-aged body into a brown dress.  I would wear pantyhose with my dress because I’m not a fan of the whole bare leg look, especially with my Dublin stubs.  As soon as Juan Pablo saw my short, stubby legs, with clunky flat shoes (I hate heals) exit the limo, he would sense that I was special.

When I walked up to him, I would say, “Hi, I’m Lisa.  I’m wearing brown because poop is brown.”  Juan Pablo would look frightened, and maybe do a nervous laugh. I would keep going though.  This is me.  Since a lot of the girls hand the bachelor small gifts when they first meet him, I would hand him a box of Gas-X strips. He would look at the box in his hand, and look down at me (because I am five foot nothing, not because I have issues) and ask me, “Is this for Camila?” in his adorable accent. The strips do look like children’s medicine.

I would chuckle, roll my eyes, and say, “No. If I eat gluten, dairy, anything fried, foreign food, or too many cruciferous vegetables, and I look like I’m in pain, like this (I would clutch my stomach and make my best lemon-sucking face), put one of these on my tongue.”

Juan Pablo would look at the box, and look around, for help, and nod his head slowly at me.  I would go on, “I should be fine. I have IBS, you know irritable bowel.  So, just don’t make me eat strange, foreign food, nothing with curry, for sure.  And I’m so not eating a bug or any weird seafood.  Don’t take me to places without indoor plumbing.  I’m not a port-a-potty girl, and I can’t really hold it.  Also, I refuse to share a bathroom with anyone,  especially one of those drunk tramps from the limo.  I will NEVER ride in a helicopter or rappel down a building.  I could get the stress poops, and who wants to see that on TV.”

“What? The stress poops?” Juan Pablo takes a step back and nearly trips over a plant.

I nod, and step forward so I can hear him better.  His accent makes it tough.  “Yep.  When I get nervous, I get sick to my stomach. Don’t worry. I took pills before coming here.  Also, I’m only 42, I mean 28, but I have the hearing of an 80 year-old.  So, lose the accent and talk louder.”

After that, Chris Harrison would walk out of the mansion, stand next to Juan Pablo, and say, “Juan Pablo, Lisa, that was the final limo this evening.  It’s time to come inside for the cocktail party.”  Chris holds his hand out, in the direction of the mansion.

I nod and walk past Chris and Juan Pablo, towards the mansion, without wobbling as I had the good sense to wear flats.  Chris and Juan Pablo follow behind me, probably checking me out. I’d probably get the first impression rose.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Bachelor, Chris Harrison, IBS, Juan Pablo, TheBachelor

The First Annual Award Show for People Who Should Give Their Money To Teachers and Firemen, Etc.

It’s that time of year again, kids.  It’s time for the endless stream of shows where people who play dress-up for a living are celebrated.  Seriously, these people do nothing more than “play pretend” like we all did when we were little.  The only difference is that they get paid millions and billions of dollars to do so.

I don’t mean to say that these actors, directors, singers and whatever elses don’t deserve their money. OF COURSE they deserve millions and billions of dollars for putting on costumes and pretending to be other people. They are performing a valuable service to humanity.  I mean, without actors we wouldn’t have movies, or TV shows.  Then, what would we do while we sit on our couches and scarf down KFC straight out of the bucket.  Without constant visual entertainment, we may have to talk to each other, or, gulp, even exercise.

I hear you. “But, Lisa, celebrities contribute a lot of time and effort to a variety of charities, and they adopt poor foreign children.”  Yes, I too have seen the fabulous news stories about celebrities raising cash for the poor.  I wonder if they would put the same amount of energy into these things if they actually had to work every day, for a normal rate of pay, without a bunch of positive publicity for every charitable thing they do.

There are people who help others every day, who do not make oodles of money, or have fabulous awards shows.  They are called Firefighters, Paramedics, Teachers, Nurses and Volunteers.  Most of them earn barely enough to pay their bills, and volunteers earn NOTHING.  They do not get to borrow fabulous jewelry and gowns, or parade around on a red carpet to be adored by all.  They simply do what they are driven to do – help people.

So, instead of having another stupid award show every 32 seconds, let’s just have one show every year.  It can run for 24 hours straight, or even the whole weekend, if necessary.  We can call it The First Annual Award Show for People Who Should Give Their Money To Teachers and Firemen, Etc.  All proceeds from advertising will be given to people who work hard and actually do something, oh say, real.  All gowns, jewelry and trophies will be sold and that money will also be given to folks who do not find it necessary to air their dirty laundry in various bars around LA.

And that is today’s rant.  Tune in later when I go after the Stupor Bowl.

Note: This post was previously published on my old Salon blog.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Awards, Celebrities, Golden Globes

Perfectly Posh: A Hermit’s Best Friend

Free samples!

A couple of weeks ago, I left the comfort zone and went on a scary trip to Bath and Body Works during one of their sales.  It was terrifying and I blogged about it here.   A kind soul named Olivia saw my Tweet about the blog and reached out to me for my mailing address.  Now, I don’t normally just give my address to strangers, but she was offering beauty product samples, DELIVERED to my home.  I would not have to pay for them or leave the house to get them.  Win-win.

Olivia sent Perfectly Posh samples, along with detailed instructions on how to use them.  Before trying them, I read more about the products, and I was thrilled to learn that they are all cruelty-free and as hypoallergenic as you can get.  While people can be allergic to just about anything, Perfectly Posh really tries to use gentle ingredients.  So, since is a Sunday, a typical shower and put on different pajamas day for me, I decided to try everything.

Here’s what I thought of the products I tried:

Best Friend Forever Face Wash (BFF): I usually shy away from scrubs, as they tend to irritate my Irish girl pasty skin.  This one did not.  It left my skin feeling super clean, and better than when I paid $95 for a facial at the spa.  Yes, I was dumb enough to do that.

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The Stripper “tingles.”

The Stripper D-Tox Body Mud Mask:  My skin tends to be sensitive, as you may have gathered from my pasty Irish skin comment. Olivia told me The Stripper would “tingle” and feel “slightly warm.”  She also told me “Don’t panic.”  It’s like she knows me.  I’m glad she prepared me because the first 10 seconds were more HOLY MOTHER OF GOD than tingle.  After that, I was fine.  I even painted my toenails while waiting for the mask to dry.  This mask can be used on your entire body, but I would only put it on my face.  I can’t imagine having my whole body “tingle” for 10 seconds.

Sweet Young Thing:  This is a creamy serum.  It’s light; I didn’t feel like my face was suffocating, like I do when I use the carrot oil stuff I paid $35 for at the spa.  Since a little goes a long way, I still have enough serum to use for at least 4 days.

Moisturizer 911: This is a great face moisturizer.  It’s light enough to use morning and night.  It can be used alone, or with Sweet Young Thing.

Sugar Fix: I’m not really a body scrub kind of girl due to that whole sensitive skin thing I have going on.  Sugar Fix is really gentle, though.  I used it in the shower, and I even washed my face with it.

You Can Call My Candy:  This is a body lotion.  Posh calls it a Slather.  I only had a little sample, so I just did my legs.  It was light, and natural.  It didn’t make my legs itch like some other products.

Hey Honey Hand Creme:  This is by far my favorite Perfectly Posh product.  Hey Honey Hand Creme instantly takes away that winter, skin splitting, dry feeling.  It even made my hands look smoother, and therefore younger.  It lasts through a few hand washings, too.  So, I wasn’t constantly reapplying it like with Bath and Body Works products.

Overall, I loved the Perfectly Posh products I sampled.  My favorite thing about them is that they are affordable, and they really are made of mild, natural ingredients.  As advertised, they are paraben  and paraffin free. All of the products smelled nice, too, but not in that scary artificial “Party Dress” way.  Cough Cough.  Bath and Body Works.

If you want to learn more about Perfectly Posh, take a look at Olivia’s web page.   As with most folks who do not live in caves, you can also find Olivia on Facebook.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Bath and Body Works, Beauty, Hermits, introverts, Perfectly Posh

Raw Hot Dogs and Dough

In the Duplex on Taylor

Back in the late 70’s, I was a latch key kid who had a list of chores and a healthy fear of her fierce single mom.  I was given strict orders to do my chores and homework (they didn’t kill elementary kids with homework in the 70’s), and stay in the apartment and not answer the door, which was easy for a young hermit.  At the time, we lived in a duplex on Taylor Street in Hollywood, FL.  Since I was not supposed to go outside or have friends over, I did a half-assed job on my chores and then turned on the TV.   This was before cable. So, I had to find a station with cartoons, and then move the antenna around on the TV until the static cleared enough for me to see Hercules or Deputy Dog.  Young people: antennas were skinny metal rods that used to be on top of TV’s – the fat, heavy TV’s – never mind.

At some point, usually during a Publix commercial, I made a snack.  I didn’t reach for fruit, even though we usually had apples and bananas on hand – not bad for a single parent household, eh statistic people?   Nope.  I would eat things that are gross to me now.  Once, I grabbed a cold hot dog out of the fridge and sat on the floor in front of the TV, just munching away.  Most of the time, I ate a serving bowl full of some sort of Captain Crunch type cereal.  A bowl is a serving, right?

Drugs!

Once I got into middle school, AKA the most miserable time in my life, my snacking got weirder.  One afternoon, after learning about protein, or “muscle meat” as my sixth-grade health teacher called it, I grabbed a leftover cooked chicken breast and ate it cold, with my hands, over the sink.  It was like I was in a zombie trance.  Must eat muscle meat.  That same year, I tried to make cornmeal mush afterschool.  No, I’m not sure why. Since we didn’t have Google or live in the Deep South, I just dumped corn meal, flour, salt, and milk in a frying pan with melted butter.  Boy, was that a nasty snack.  I ate it right over the frying pan; it was salty and carby.  I started eating cookie dough about that time, too, sometimes homemade, but mostly the Pillsbury kind in the roll.  I still do this and it scares my husband.  He’s worried about raw eggs, or something.  Carbs are like drugs to me.

My downfall is pasta.  It’s a gateway drug for me, or a trigger food, or whatever the cool kids call it.  It makes me eat like a killer whale. Once I start eating pasta, especially with pesto, it’s like I can’t even see.  I think this is called disassociating, but I didn’t end up majoring in psychology.  Carb-induced disassociating is probably the cause of many restaurant and grocery store thefts.  People eventually run out of pasta, so they must go out and steal more.  It’s only logical.

MMMMM

I wish I could say that all of this is behind me, but it’s not, not totally. I have found that if I eat mostly low carb things, I do better.  Every so often, I have a weird craving.  Today, it was salt.  It started out innocently enough; I was having an apple with peanut butter, and I sprinkled a little salt on the apple.  Then, when the apple was gone, I wanted more salt.  So, I just ate like a quarter of a teaspoon of pure table salt.  I’m glad there are no cameras in my house to witness things like this.  Actually, I could probably make a lot of money if I had my own reality show.  TLC, are you reading?

Note: I was inspired to write about my own dance with food by this great article by an old school friend.  

Lucky for Amy,  she never witnessed my strange eating.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: 1970's, eating, introverts, overeating, Publix, TLC

My CATS have more sense than Mary Kay Letourneau.

YUCK!

When the whole Mary Kay Letourneau story originally broke in March of 1997, I had literally JUST given birth to my baby boy.  I sat there holding him and watching the news, and shaking my head.  Only one thought crossed my mind, “If a creepy almost middle-aged teacher ever has sex with my son when he is 13, or any age less than like 30, I will cut her. She would not even make it to court, or jail, or out of the back seat of her mom minivan, because I would stab her.”  Those were my exact thoughts, folks, because I am a mama lion.

Seeing as how I sit home in my jammies and talk to cats a lot, it can be assumed that I spend a LITTLE time on Facebook.  It’s where my friends “are” and it is where I get most of my news.  Earlier today, in my newsfeed, I saw that Mary Kay was arrested again.  It was for something dumb like driving without a current license, but you know where my mind went. I immediately wondered whose innocent little boy she was trying to get to impregnate her now.  Why can she not get run over by the Polar Vortex or something?

I know that was mean, and very not yuppie Buddhist, but Mary Kay just never stops being icky to me. She had babies with a middle schooler, you guys!  Think about that. I used to be a middle school teacher.  I never found my students to be possible, um, partners. Not only is it sick and morally wrong, but also middle schoolers are just not sexy.

First of all, have you SMELLED a middle-schooler lately?  They either smell like rotting lumberjacks or cheap car wash deodorizer.  It’s the age when parents have to force them to shower! You have to hold them down or roofie them to get them to put on deodorant.  When they do take an interest in their own scent, they fumigate with Axe.  Really, Mary Kay?  That is what you found irresistible, lumberjack armpits and greasy hair behind a fog of aerosol?

If the odor doesn’t get you, the attitude will.  I would rather sit outside in the negative whatever temperatures we have had here in Ohio than hang out with middle schoolers ever again.  Ever.  They are the most obnoxious individuals.  I know this because I was one.  Back in the day, before caller ID, cell phones, and helicopter moms, my BFF and I used to torment dorky kids and old folks with prank calls.  Seriously.  Mary Kay, did you sit there and laugh when Vili called your elderly neighbor to see if his refrigerator was running. So hot.

The barely teens are also big betters and darers, especially the boys. They dare each other to drink hot sauce and eat bugs.  I hope Mary Kay drew the line when her lover wanted to make her son eat a jar of horseradish.  Things get weird when your almost pseudo step-dad is in your class.

Mary Kay, I get that Vili is 30 now, and supposedly it’s no longer icky, but he became your, I’m going to vomit just saying this, LOVER, when he was 13.  Why and how did you ever find him sexy?  Was it because there was no Match.com back then?  Please stay out of trouble, girl.  I get the barfy chills when I see your name in my newsfeed.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: introverts, Mary Kay Letourneau, Middle School, Sex offenders, Vili Faulaau