My sis turned 45 this Saturday. She and I and a few of the Bunco Babes met for biscuits and gravy (ohmy) at the local eatery. My sis wore a blinking rhinestone birthday tiara. Very fun. We then went back to my house to organize for a morning garage sale hunt. While there, Sis made a comment about the length of Husband's grass (my husband, not hers) ... about how long it was, and if he was holding out for me to do the mowing.
That was Saturday morning, around 10:30.
My husband is still not speaking to me.
He sucks. Male pouting is disturbing on so many levels.
My neighbor friend, Nancy -- also a teacher -- theorizes that Husband is pouty not just because his male ego was hit, but because I'm out of school for the summer and he still has to work Monday through Friday. There is definitely a transition time, that's for sure.
***
I've decided to start going to Overeaters Anonymous. Yes, I, Kate, am an overeater. I've been an overeater ever since I discovered bologna with the red string and Miracle Whip. So what was I ... four or five? I have a particular fondness for sandwiches, and all the goodies that go into the construction of a good sandwich. ... A local hospital hosts the OA meetings on Saturday afternoons. My sis (birthday sis) says she'll go with me. We talked briefly about stopping for breakfast first, but then we laughed at the same time and decided against that.
One of these days I'm going to write a memoir about my food addiction. For years I just thought I liked to eat, and then it occurred to me that my issues with food weren't just food related. It's that old "It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you" philosophy. Sometimes I'll cook just to cook, as I love it so, but generally, I cook because I feel a compulsion to spoon warm bread pudding into my mouth at midnight. It's figuring out what triggers the compulsion that I need assistance with addressing. I'll let you know how the OA meeting goes, only I think I have to post anonymously or something ... I remember reading somewhere that what happens at an OA meeting must stay at an OA meeting, under punishment of death.
***
I am currently feeling compelled to sell my house and buy another, which is a stupid thought because the economy is in the toilet and real estate is suffering. Who might buy this house in particular when there are 467 other homes in the area available?
***
Yes!!!!! I just discovered one of my favorite writer's Web site: Elizabeth Berg. You'll have to check it out if you're a Berg fan: http://www.elizabeth-berg.net/.
Happy perusing!
Showing posts with label weight gain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weight gain. Show all posts
Monday, June 1, 2009
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Not doing well eating well ...
Considering school starts OFFICIALLY Monday, Aug. 18, it occurred to me very recently that my new students might, just might, given the size of my newest upper abdominal fat roll, think their communication arts teacher is a pregnant communication arts teacher.
Seriously. I look about six months along, unless I'm exhibiting a strategic suck-it-in maneuver and standing straight on, no profile view. Where this fat roll came from I have no clear idea.
I have several foggy ideas, however, and these explanations have mostly to do with cheese. Vast cheese consumption, as a matter of fact. I love cheese -- in any form (cubed, shredded, melted) and in most any flavor (cheddar, mozzarella, provolone). Pretty much I've visited the Cheese World most of this summer and sampled about six thousand bites.
Is there time to look, maybe, say, four months along? Is it even possible to lose fifteen pounds in eighteen days?
Feeling panicky.
Seriously. I look about six months along, unless I'm exhibiting a strategic suck-it-in maneuver and standing straight on, no profile view. Where this fat roll came from I have no clear idea.
I have several foggy ideas, however, and these explanations have mostly to do with cheese. Vast cheese consumption, as a matter of fact. I love cheese -- in any form (cubed, shredded, melted) and in most any flavor (cheddar, mozzarella, provolone). Pretty much I've visited the Cheese World most of this summer and sampled about six thousand bites.
Is there time to look, maybe, say, four months along? Is it even possible to lose fifteen pounds in eighteen days?
Feeling panicky.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Of cavities and old-lady glasses
Ruh-roh!
At my (yearly) eye exam today I was informed oh-so-delicately that I am in need of bifocals. I suppose I knew this day was coming; still, it smarts a bit on the inside to digest what this really means: half glasses on a beaded string. Won't I just be the marmy schoolteacher? Next thing you know I'll have to buy five pairs, like my Uncle Terry: one for every important room, including the car, which isn't exactly a room, per se, but you know what I mean.
I think it's true that the body starts to decay -- I mean, fall apart -- once forty hits. I clearly remember my dentist telling me that very thing back when I was eleven years old, sitting in his uncomfortable green plastic chair, having eleven cavities filled. Yep, that's right: ELEVEN cavities. (After all the smoke and drilling, the dentist went into the waiting room and yelled at my mother, and then I got yelled at in the car during the entire ride home, which would have been fifteen minutes, only Mom stopped at Zarda Ice Cream to get herself a rootbeer float, to deal with her "nerves." Of course, I got nothing, what with my ELEVEN cavities and all.)
But anyway, the dentist, Dr. Cox, told me these words, exactly: "You'd better take good care of your teeth now, Young Lady, because once you turn forty everything starts to go downhill." He then cited several health concerns that appeared following his fortieth birthday, chief among them a predisposition to "throw his back out," which meant nothing to me because I was, after all, eleven years old and limber in every way possible.
So, to recognize all that ails me now that I am in my 42nd year, prepare to be either impressed or distressed. I present, then, a list of my bodily decay:
1) need of bifocals
2) propensity to "throw back out"
3) new fat roll (upper abdomen)
4) breast sagginess
5) gray hair, kinky and stand-straight-up at the hairline
6) parentheses wrinkles around the mouth
7) need to have fourth crown put on (related, I'm quite certain, to those eleven cavities all those years back)
8) random heart palpitations (although, I'm glad to report, since I started taking a magnesium supplement those have gone away ... )
9) complete inability to understand the lyrics to 75 percent of the songs kids listen to these days
10) acute awareness of my bowel's performance and knowledge of every bathroom location within a thirty mile radius
11) forgetfulness, especially when it comes to words ... so, so many words these days are "on the tip of my tongue"
***
I'm sure this list could grow, but my bladder is beckoning. That and I need to go walk the dog ... she's over forty too.
At my (yearly) eye exam today I was informed oh-so-delicately that I am in need of bifocals. I suppose I knew this day was coming; still, it smarts a bit on the inside to digest what this really means: half glasses on a beaded string. Won't I just be the marmy schoolteacher? Next thing you know I'll have to buy five pairs, like my Uncle Terry: one for every important room, including the car, which isn't exactly a room, per se, but you know what I mean.
I think it's true that the body starts to decay -- I mean, fall apart -- once forty hits. I clearly remember my dentist telling me that very thing back when I was eleven years old, sitting in his uncomfortable green plastic chair, having eleven cavities filled. Yep, that's right: ELEVEN cavities. (After all the smoke and drilling, the dentist went into the waiting room and yelled at my mother, and then I got yelled at in the car during the entire ride home, which would have been fifteen minutes, only Mom stopped at Zarda Ice Cream to get herself a rootbeer float, to deal with her "nerves." Of course, I got nothing, what with my ELEVEN cavities and all.)
But anyway, the dentist, Dr. Cox, told me these words, exactly: "You'd better take good care of your teeth now, Young Lady, because once you turn forty everything starts to go downhill." He then cited several health concerns that appeared following his fortieth birthday, chief among them a predisposition to "throw his back out," which meant nothing to me because I was, after all, eleven years old and limber in every way possible.
So, to recognize all that ails me now that I am in my 42nd year, prepare to be either impressed or distressed. I present, then, a list of my bodily decay:
1) need of bifocals
2) propensity to "throw back out"
3) new fat roll (upper abdomen)
4) breast sagginess
5) gray hair, kinky and stand-straight-up at the hairline
6) parentheses wrinkles around the mouth
7) need to have fourth crown put on (related, I'm quite certain, to those eleven cavities all those years back)
8) random heart palpitations (although, I'm glad to report, since I started taking a magnesium supplement those have gone away ... )
9) complete inability to understand the lyrics to 75 percent of the songs kids listen to these days
10) acute awareness of my bowel's performance and knowledge of every bathroom location within a thirty mile radius
11) forgetfulness, especially when it comes to words ... so, so many words these days are "on the tip of my tongue"
***
I'm sure this list could grow, but my bladder is beckoning. That and I need to go walk the dog ... she's over forty too.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Too many ribs ...
,I have gained upwards of three pounds these last few days; a new fat roll has surfaced.
I blame it on the ribs. And the barbecued chicken and potato salad and beans and slaw and all the accompaniments to a Kansas City cookout.
Holyfrijoles I am a pig. Guess "you are what you eat" rings true.
Basically I've eaten the world this entire month. Memories of this time last year have surfaced and I've turned to the fridge. Last May I was taking care of the parentals, watching one wither away to cancer (stupid cancer); the other in intensive care with a multitude of coronary/pulmonary difficulties.
Mom lived; Dad didn't.
This time last year he was still sitting in his brown corduroy chair. I was feeding him pancakes dripping in butter and full-calorie syrup. Half a pound of bacon each morning. Orange juice. Five pills on his tray. "Let me break this one into two pieces, Dad," I'd say, picking up the Vicodin tablet, heavy between my thumb and forefinger.
I hate cancer. Stupid cancer.
One day, last May, maybe mid-month, I took Dad his morning coffee, only to notice (like a blaring neon sign: "I've changed! Look at me! I've changed!) a different dad sitting in the brown corduroy chair. A slighter man. Overnight, the muscles in his forearms had vanished. And that little hunk of muscle that only guys have, that half dollar sized chunk of meat above the kneebone, that had left in the night, too. Dad's bermuda shorts showcased the absence.
Stupid cancer.
The anniversary of his death approaches, and while I await it, I have eaten the world.
Salty or sweet, no matter. I've consumed it. Gumdrops, licorice, Cheetohs (what kind of a grown woman binges on Cheetohs?). Potato chips. Dip #1, Dip #2, Dip #3. Ice cream. Sorbet. Frappuccinos. That disgusting fake dairy QuikTrip "malt" you mix yourself and then pay the cashier $2.49 to consume.
Stupid cancer.
I blame it on the ribs. And the barbecued chicken and potato salad and beans and slaw and all the accompaniments to a Kansas City cookout.
Holyfrijoles I am a pig. Guess "you are what you eat" rings true.
Basically I've eaten the world this entire month. Memories of this time last year have surfaced and I've turned to the fridge. Last May I was taking care of the parentals, watching one wither away to cancer (stupid cancer); the other in intensive care with a multitude of coronary/pulmonary difficulties.
Mom lived; Dad didn't.
This time last year he was still sitting in his brown corduroy chair. I was feeding him pancakes dripping in butter and full-calorie syrup. Half a pound of bacon each morning. Orange juice. Five pills on his tray. "Let me break this one into two pieces, Dad," I'd say, picking up the Vicodin tablet, heavy between my thumb and forefinger.
I hate cancer. Stupid cancer.
One day, last May, maybe mid-month, I took Dad his morning coffee, only to notice (like a blaring neon sign: "I've changed! Look at me! I've changed!) a different dad sitting in the brown corduroy chair. A slighter man. Overnight, the muscles in his forearms had vanished. And that little hunk of muscle that only guys have, that half dollar sized chunk of meat above the kneebone, that had left in the night, too. Dad's bermuda shorts showcased the absence.
Stupid cancer.
The anniversary of his death approaches, and while I await it, I have eaten the world.
Salty or sweet, no matter. I've consumed it. Gumdrops, licorice, Cheetohs (what kind of a grown woman binges on Cheetohs?). Potato chips. Dip #1, Dip #2, Dip #3. Ice cream. Sorbet. Frappuccinos. That disgusting fake dairy QuikTrip "malt" you mix yourself and then pay the cashier $2.49 to consume.
Stupid cancer.
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