Thursday, June 30, 2011

The USA Government: "We're Not Your Babysitter"

In a vote of 7-2, the United States Supreme Court ruled that a merchant cannot be punished for selling a video game with a Mature rating to a minor.  Such previous laws regarding this matter were considered "nanny laws" and listed as vague and confusing.  Imposed fines, in certain states, could have reached a maximum of $1000 if a merchant were caught selling a prohibited game to a minor.

Well then what's the point of rating the games?  Justice Antonin Scalia alluded to violent fairy tales such as Hanzel and Gretel.  I hardly see the comparison.  To be fair, I must point out that Justice Stephen Breyer was quoted, "It makes no sense to legally block children's access to pornography yet allow them to buy or rent brutally violent video games....What sense does it make to forbid a 13-year-old boy a magazine with an image of a nude woman, while protecting the sale to that 13-year-old boy of an interactive video game in which he actively, but virtually, binds and gags the woman, then tortures and kills her?"

Here, here!  Justice Breyer and Justice Clarence Thomas were the only two to vote against the decision.  And this may be a good place to quote an AP article:  "This decision follows the court's recent movement on First Amendment  cases, with the justices throwing out attempts to ban animal cruelty videos, protests at military funerals, and political speech by businesses."  The key here is that they threw out attempts to ban heinous things.  When is it ever OK to be cruel to another living thing?  What about the right to bury a loved one without being harassed?  What about the freedom to live peacefully?  We're so adept to protect a child's "freedom of speech" but it's seems quite alright to exploit the torture of a living creature. We're not even talking about "virtual" situation here!

Shawn & I have both played games with fair amounts of gory violence and pixelated sexual situations.  However, we are adults, buying items intended for adults.  Children are desensitized to violence.  One small measure was taken to prevent them from buying one form of it and everyone cried that the First Amendment of free speech was being violated.

Years ago, Tipper Gore tackled the music industry and their general distaste for nice language.  Granted, she went a little extreme attacked John Denver, but the end result was a warning label on records that parents could use as a guide.  It was not unlawful for a parent to purchase the music for their own child.  A parent can still legally buy many things not suitable for minors and give those items to their own minor children.  But apparently, this violates the right of free expression.

Local and state governments awarded various software companies $2.1 million in legal fees.  This is your money as well as mine.  This money for education.  This is money for filling pot holes on our streets.  I don't really think it's needed that I say anymore about this ridiculous move.

The First Amendment was created so that the common man would not be stifled.  It was written so that every citizen should have a voice.  It was born out of the idea that a nation's people should be able to speak out against its government when they were wronged.  It has nothing to do with allowing minors to buy certain materials.

The last article I read on the matter was an editorial in a local newspaper.  "While we do not advocate games such as Grand Theft Auto and Postal...." the writer went on to explain what a victory this was and quite frankly, I'm so disgusted I don't even know what else to say.  So I wrote a short note to the editor and clicked "send".

Funny, I don't remember the record companies or the porn magazine publishers crying that they lost money on prohibited sales to minors.  Funny, I don't remember the government paying Big Tobacco $2.1 million for any reason whatsoever.  Is it considered "nannying" to keep a minor from purchasing liquor? Here's a suggestion: Let items that are marketed toward adults be for adults. 

Diet Soda Makes You Fat

I've read this a few times in magazines and always blew it off.  The claim is that the fake sugar tricks your brain or messes with you somehow that you end up eating more.  I've also read the claim that it causes cravings for sweets.

I've always blown it off for a couple reasons.  A) I don't want to give it up, and B) I know people who drink gallons of diet soda and are neither overweight, nor t=do they crave sweets.  Let's use my momin this example.  She keeps bowls of candy out in the kitchen.  She does, after all, have four grandchildren so let's giver her a break.  She can keep those bowls out and not eat any.  I cannot do that!  If I had a bowl out, it be just that:  A bowl.  There would be candy to speak of in it.

My mom is 5'4" and around 120 pounds, I'm guessing.  She's small.  AND to top it all off, she keeps a bag of candy she really loves int he fridge and eats only one bite now and then.  She has, what we call in the scientific community, "Self-Control".  I write that in quotes because many of us have never heard this term.  I think I used to know what it meant.

Upon turning on my computer this morning, there's a big article on diet soda.  In it, I rea dthat researchers in San Antonio have studied this fact for a decade.

....tracked 474 people, all 65 to 74 years old, for nearly a decade, measuring the subjects' height, weight, waist circumference, and diet soft drink intake every 3.6 years. The waists of those who drank diet soft drinks grew 70 percent more than those who avoided the artificially sweetened stuff; people who drank two or more servings a day had waist-circumference increases that were five times larger than non-diet-soda consumers.

I actually do not agree with this because it does not compare the findings to the fact that EVERYONE in America has a growing waist line.  Where's the control group?  The problem with this country is that even if you are poor, you will most likely be overweight.  The lower priced foods are very unhealthy and fatty, often laden with fat, salt and sugar.  Other countries make fun of us for it.

The article also claimed that the taste buds cannot tell the difference between genuine sugar and artificial sweeteners. I don't know about you, but I sure can tell the difference between Sweet & Low, Splenda, and sugar cane.  There is a HUGE difference in taste.  The other claim regarding this was that our brains perceive these sugars differently.  I can tell you about my own personal taste buds, but I don't have an MRI machine in the closet so I can only give my opinion on how our brains react.

The idea is that your brain knows it's not real sugar, that you're trying to play a trick on it so you crave something that will fell like a full reward.  It also suggests that, "the sweet taste could also trigger your body to produce insulin, which blocks your ability to burn fat."

I'm not a medical doctor but I don't understand how fake sugar forces the body to produce more insulin.  I suppose it kind of makes sense, but if it's not actual sugar, why does the blood react?  When I eat Greek Yogurt, it tastes like sour cream, but my body doesn't pack on fat thinking that I've eaten a tub of fatty sour cream.

One study involving 2500 people concluded that people "who drank diet soda daily had a 61 percent increased risk of cardiovascular events compared to those who drank no soda, even when accounting for smoking...."

I would hardly compare diet soda to smoking!  Again, we're leaving out the fact that most of these people are overweight because they are Americans.  I decided I would not even bring up the issue of Aspertame.  During certain times of the year, I try to limit my intake of diet soda because it's costly.  Granted, I buy store brand, generic soda, but tap water and tea are practically free by comparison.

So, does all this change my mind about diet soda?  I am conflicted.  April, a diet soda fan does not crave sweets, ever.  My mom is small.  Whether the fake sweeteners cause aches and pains, sugar cravings, I really do not know and I'm convinced that anyone who thinks he does, doesn't really know either.

To be fair, one doctor was quoted in the article as saying that one or two diet sodas per day probably wouldn't hurt you.  This is how the article is concluded and it severely contradicts itself.

So, to sum up what I believe but do not yet practice.....
Everything in moderation.  Period.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Little Miss Ray 'O Sunshine

It's 8pm here in the "great" state of Texas and my toolbar says it's 97 degrees.
Yep....I said PM.  Ppppeeeeee--eeeeemmmmmmm.  At night. 


At least the desert gets a break at night.  It's not this hot in the desert at night.

At Wit's End

I haven't been sleeping.  It finally caught up to me today.  I was at that point where I wasn't sure if I was awake or dreaming.  I operate heavy machinery and play in chemicals so I decided to over-caffinate.  Then I just felt weird.  I was anxious, still tired, but a little wirey.  I felt like I was a little high but all I had a was a 20 ounce Coke Zero.

After I made supper for Shawn, there was only one tortilla left so I decided to brown it in a pan as a snack for myself.

It burned.  I forgot about it.  That first picture?  I had never even flipped it.  It cooked from underneath.  You could play frisbee with this thing.  Or hammer a nail.  Or substitute a brick if you were building a home.

I got kind of upset last night because for a while, a month at least, Lucy hasn't sat in my lap.  Not even once.  She'll follow me from room to room, she'll sit in Shawn's lap, on his pillow, but she won't sit on me.  Even when I'd lay on my stomach, Lucy used to climb in between my reverse lap, just below my butt.  Shawn would occasionally place his hand on my rear end to mess with Lucy and she would nudge his hand away.  She hasn't done that for a while.

I was feeling extra lonely last night.  Lucy didn't want anything to with me.  Shawn came home from school early and I mentioned this to him.  I cried with perfect silence as I got Lucy her night time treat and straightened her bed.  Eventually Shawn caught me and I just cried and cried because I felt like I had lost two dogs.

Shawn seemed genuinely helpless.  "I wish I could do something for you," he said.
"I know," I replied.  "That's why I don't talk about it because you can't do anything; you can't say anything.  I'm still just having a really hard time with this!"

Lucy is the only dog I've ever had that doesn't play.  Every now and then we play a game of I'm Gonna Getchu around the doors to the hallway but it only lasts a minuet.  She has never played with toys in the five years that she's been here.  I know this isn't her fault; she must have had an awful life before I found her.  But I miss playing tug of war.  Prissy would latch her teeth onto a certain toy and I'd drag her around the living room.  I could throw the same ball four hundred times in a row.  Sometimes she's bring it back to me, sometimes she tricked me into playing fetch.

Prissy would garb certain toys and shake them like a rag with should vigor and growl and snarl in the process.  She loved her Taz doll.  This doll was as big as her and weighed almost as much.  It had a button on the hand that make Taz start shouting gibberish and his tongue would spin.  Every once in a while, Prissy could bite the hand just right, just perfectly and she'd seem so proud of myself.  Her little black eyes lit up as if to say, "Look!  I did it!"

I don't mean to compare.  I just wish Lucy played.  At the very least, she snarls at the cat when she walks through the living room.  She's not playing though.  Lucy hates that cat.  I need a dog in my lap right now.  I need to throw a ball for someone.

There's more good news.  I got an envelope from Shawn's dentist int he mailbox today.  I decided I wouldn't open it until tomorrow when I might be in a better mood.  And then I opened it.  Apparently we owe almost $300.  Shawn comes home and tell me that since the value of the US dollar is dropping, food is going up because, stupidly, it's a commodity.  Corn will go up 25% and Pepsi will go up 4%.  He just kept going on and on.  Oh, please do go on because this news makes everything better.  Gas goes up, the dollar drops.  The unemployment rate is something like 9%.  Food is already expensive because of gas prices.  All that stuff rides around on trucks, is grown and fed by people driving trucks, cars and van.  Now they wanna raise prices because the dollar has dropped so much.

It makes zero sense.  I read in the paper a quote by some political fascist who said something about people falsely thinking "we're still in a recession".  We're not just thinking it....we're saying it because IT'S TRUE, YOU DOLT!

What a cretin.

Next up....I will rant and rave about what the Supreme Court did about video game ratings.
This day just keeps getting better & better.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

FABULOUS!

Money's been a little tight lately and I needed laundry detergent last week.  Here's the thing.  See, when I smoked, it didn't matter what crap I washed my clothes in because everything smelled like an ashtray no matter what.  When I quit smoking, I was bound and determined that I would buy only name brand detergent because I deserved it, dammit!  Since then, I've bought nothing but ALL.  Alas, Gain is still to pricey for me, but occasionally I sniff it at the store to make myself feel better.

So far for the month of June, we are $400+ over budget and $500 less has come in due to loss time at work and me sliding on keeping up with my overtime because it's 120 to 130 degrees at work and I really do not care at this point in the summer about stupid overtime.

How's that for a run-on sentence?  Anyways, I put myself aside and grabbed at a $3 bottle of detergent with a coupon glued to the front label.  I did the sniff test and it smelled pretty good.  I washed Shawn's clothes in it and everything smelled like an ashtray, as expected.  I washed my own clothes today and after opening the dryer a scent hit me in the face.  I've smelled this before on other people's dirty laundry at work.  I never could quite place it.  Now I knew.  It's like a combination of curry and dirty socks.

And it's all over my clothes.

Sigh.  Soap is soap, essentially, I mean, so why is it that generic detergent can never smell good????  If it's the fragance that costs so much, then water it down some more, because I know you will.  Another Grand Question of the Land is why does it smell so freaking different on my clothes than in the bottle??!!!  I've experienced this with shampoos and body washes galore.  I don't get it.  WHY CAN'T YOU PEOPLE MAKE THINGS SMELL GOOD?  There's pictures of flowers on the label but I do not smell any flowers or anything even remotely resembling flowers!!!

I made up my mind that after payday, I would buy some ALL and save the Fab (oops!  I named it; shame shame!) detergent for Shawn's clothes.  He won't be able to smell it anyhow.

Um.....I dunno

I keep scraps of paper at work.  I write down little reminders of things to put on the grocery list, things to write about, things to do.

I wrote:
write dove

Or maybe it's:
write clove

I'm really not sure what this means.  This doesn't mean anything to me, nor does it stir any memory of what it should mean.  Many times I write a word or two and know exactly what it means, shell out a half page and I've made my point, my joke or my rant.

write dore?
write done?

I have no idea.
I must be out of things to write about....WAIT!  There's the newspaper!

A Single Tidbit

A coworker, Martha told me her son had taken her a nice restaurant in Austin.  It was off the lake and had a swimming pool inside the building.  She gave me an impression that it was opened up to the lake so people could get in a swim, then come inside for some drinks or what have you.

"I didn't like it!" Martha said.  "I call it The Crack House because when you look up from your plate, all you see are cracks.  Everywhere, there's cracks!  It's disgusting!  All those little girls running around in their thongs with their butts showing.  Disgusting!"

Martha is a Christina but nothing really surprises her.  She raised four boys and was always finding all kinds of stuff under their beds.  However, let us all please take note that Martha does not enjoy looking at butt cracks while she eats an expensive meal.

No one looks good in a G-String.  No one.


I should have ended the post right there but I remembered a funny story.  We had gotten HBO for free for one weekend and I recorded Walk The Line on VHS.  It started around bed time so I just let the tape run.  I lent the movie to Martha and she told me there was a dirty movie afterward.  I WAS SO EMBARRASSED!  I apologized over and over, explained about bed time and I was sorry it was there. 

Martha laughed out loud.  She wanted to see what movie was next and it was all about sex, she said.  I think she was laughing more about how embarrassed I was.  I thanked her for telling me because I was planning on lending the tape to my mother.  And that is how I came about recording pure static on the end of the tape that contained Walk the Line.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Hoarders

I think it's easy to say that I've become quite sensitive over the last month and three days.  Sensitive might be putting it a bit mildly.  We were watching "The Soup" on Friday night and Joel McHale related a joke to the movie "Marley and Me" and said that in it, the dog dies.

"I've never seen that because I knew the dog dies.  No one ever told me that the dog dies, but it's a dog movie and the dog always dies.  I've always heard it's a really good movie, but I've refused to see it."  I stated this to Shawn, missing the next pun in our TV show.
"I've heard a lot about it but I didn't know what it was.  Yeah, I don't think that's for me," Shawn replied.

It's kind a given that if there is a dog to be loved in a film, the dog will die and the writers and director will revel in the fact that they've made you cry, meaning their work is done here.  I watched "My Dog Skip" once and only once.  I couldn't watch it again.  As cute and funny as it was, I just couldn't see it again.  That was years ago.

There's an episodes of "Futurama" that has an ending like "My Dog Skip".  I watched it twice and I cried each time.  Suffice it say that I've watched each episode of Futurama approximately forty-three times (give or take a nap here and there), all but one episode.  It's such a moronic and stupid show, I was really surprised when it made me cry.

I've never seen "Hoarders".  I've seen commericals for it and they make fun of it on "The Soup".  I've watched "Animal Hoarders" a couple times so I got the gist of the program.  The ads for the show horrify me and I didn't think it was something that would ever interest me.

As a teenager, I was constantly rearranging my furniture to gain the maximum amount of empty floor space.  I arranged the items on my dresser so that the top of it displayed the most vacant space as possible.  Items were neatly arranged against the mirror and everything had it place.  I've relaxed a little since then, but those tendencies are always very present.

While flipping through the Dish Network on-screen guide, I passed "Hoarders" and read the description of the current episode.  It said that a man was being run out of his own home by rats.  Curious, I flipped to the station and caught the last 15 minuets of the program.

As much as I had missed, I gathered that the man's wife had heart problems and he had found her dead.  He had serious issues with life and death and it was quite apparent that he didn't deal with his emotions properly.  His home was overrun with grown rats and he refused to have them killed.  A team of people caught them by hand.  They tore out cabinets and ripped into sheet rock.  They sawed into the bathtub and cleared every possible space. Rats literally poured out of the walls.

I've never seen anything like it.  By the end of the episode, they had estimated 2,000 rats to have been caught.  The man was having a hard time dealing with the rats that were found dead.  A therapist was on hand to talk with him and console him.  This man had become dearly attached to these rats; he cared for them the way most of care for a beloved cat or dog.

The therapist explained that while it was hard for this man to see the rats dead, he was going to have to face it regardless.  On screen, they showed these dead animals, recently dead and had been dead for a while with flies buzzing furiously about them.  Thick, heavy tears welled up in my eyes but I would not cry.  A vet laid an injured rat on a little towel and explained to the man that its injuries were too severe and he'd like to put the animal out of its misery.  The man nodded.  The vet explained they would give the rat a shot that would "make her go to sleep". 

The pitiful creature shook on the towel.  It was beaten and chewed and probably near death before the injection was even given.  This poor man showed such amazing compassion for these creatures that most of us consider as vermin.  I'm a sucker myself.  As the sheet rock was pulled from the studs, the camera demonstrated the tunnels the rats had built all throughout the house.  Their little black eyes and rounded eyes do make them cute.  Even when we had our own mouse problem, I was keen to capture as many as I could as humanely as I could and I'd set them free in the alley.  If they found their death in nature, then so be it.  I didn't feel right about setting out poisons.

This man had grown particularly accustomed to one rat specifically and eventually it was caught.  He decided he would keep this one single rat whom he'd named "The Commander" and had even bought an elaborate cage with tunnels and toys.

The rats were placed in bins and taken to pet store where they would not be sold as feeder rats but as pets.  Each was checked for health and by the time of final editing, 500 had found homes.  The man had captured and given away 350 more rats in the weeks after this massive crew had left.

As the extra long semi-truck rolled away, the man finally broke down.  His nose snorted and stuck as he attempted to stifle his pain.  The therapist rubbed his shoulder and a woman came over to hug him.  The man finally, finally gave in and began to quietly to cry.  He said that he was really going to miss them.  Afterward, he did seek counseling.

What really got to me was seeing those images of the dead animals.  What got to me again was seeing such empathy from a man who hadn't allowed himself to openly feel.  Even as I wrote this, I teared up again but I did not cry.  This poor man had seemingly not dealt with his wife's passing and found comfort in the rodents that invited themselves into his home.  I am sure this was not without its nastiness, but in the end, it forced him to face some things that had been put off for so very long.  For that reason, it was a very good thing that the rats showed up in that man's home.

Tidbits

I have $43.67 in my checking account.  I have a trip to Wal-Mart before payday.  This is so stupid.  I know my parents where in this boat at the age of thirty and thirty-seven respectively.  But at least they had two kids to feed, and 74 stray cats at any given time.  I don't really know why we always had so many cats around.  I guess that's just a staple of country living.  They came by, got pregnant, and just never left.  If my parents were smart, they would have fed us the cats and told we were eating deer or squirrel meat.  We wouldn't have known any different.  My Dad makes an awesome homemade barbeque sauce.  You 'd never know if you were eating roadkill.

Imagine the savings.

Speaking of cats, ours is the meanest on the planet.  This was due to Shawn's rough housing with her as a kitten.  It was his way of generating "a good mouser".  Of course now the cat has no reason not believe that every arm, foot, leg and hand is her personal play thing.  This poses a problem for the home's inhabitants.

We were both unable to sleep last night.  We both tossed and turned as The Office played on DVD.  I thought Shawn might be falling asleep as I laid there with jealously burning. 

"Mmmmrrrow!"  I felt a gentle nudge on the mattress.  Naw, it couldn't be.  That cat never comes in here at night, never!  I lifted my head my pillow, cautiously.  The cat stood on the floor beside the bed, on my side.  She lept up to the mattress again.  "MMMMRRRROOOUUUU!" she cried. 

"Play dead," I hissed at the back of my husband's head.
Shawn lifted his cranium from the plethora of generic bird down.  "I said, PLAY DEAD!" I hollered. 
Laughter emulated from one end of the mattress as the cat made her way.  'Is she in the bed?!" Shawn asked, almost shocked by the thought.
The cat positioned herself next to Shawn's chest as he gently stroked her back.  As soon as it had begun, she turned to face the floor, placing her rear end right in Shawn's face.  She slowly, cautiously, very slowly made her way to the floor, all the while pointing her anus at Shawn's direct line of sight.

"I have the most beautiful butt hole in the world!  Look at it!" I laughed.
"Stare at its glory as I SLOWLY jump off the bed and put it right in your face!" Shawn laughed.

Bored, Evil the Cat finally left the room and we continued to toss and turn.  Shawn got up to smoke a few cigarettes, have a snack.  I found myself making a small sandwich and reaching for nicotine gum.  Sometime after 11pm, we both slowly drifted our way to dream land as the voices of Dwight, Pam and Michael quietly faded away.  And as far as I know, the cat never came back into our bedroom. 

She was probably insulted that we made fun of her fabulous butt hole.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Attack of the KIller Dust Bunnies

I had read in a couple different magazines about the dust that accumulates in our homes.  By these publications, I was told that a whopping 90% of the dust that lands on furniture surfaces comes from our shoes.  I find this ridiculously hard to believe. 

If I were walking in with sneakers that looked like I had just dragged them through the inards of a vacuum cleaner bag, then sure, I could buy that.  I am sure I bring in a little dirt, much bacteria and a bit of dust on my shoes, but ninety percent?!

Come on.  If you could see my ceiling fans, you'd be wondering too, how 90% of the dust adhered to the blades came from my shoes.  How could the dust on the bottom of my shoes get all the way up there?  And why does it attach itself to the blades likes there's some kind of glue there?  Those blades are turning pretty much all the time; how does the dirt even stick to it?  This is one of those mysteries like how does my arm hair know that I've cut it and it should should growing again.  I feel like this is another one of those things I'll never understand until the day I die and I can ask God all these annoying questions.

Certainly, He must find it amusing that I actually spend time wondering what triggers my arm hair to grow and how dirt sticks to a turning ceiling fan blade that is blowing downward. 

I had also once heard that a large amount of the dust in the house came from dead skin cells.  Alright, that's just kind of gross, but I still have a hard time beleiving that all the dirt behind the TV came from my body shedding dead skin.  If I were behind the TV, having a party everyday, maybe.  I could buy that.  But the truth is I actually never find myself sitting behind the TV or even anywhere near the thing as I have a remote control that I can use from 15 feet away.  So please tell me how that inch thick layer of dirt came from my skin (or shoes) and settled on every possible surface in the house. 

I have stuff in a closet that is dusty.  The closet is rarely opened.  I look in that closet only about twice a year because I don't want to be crushed to death by the stacks of junk inside.  The stuff on top of other stuff has a thin layer of dust on it.  Am I to believe that dust--contained within a space my sneakers have never been--came from the bottoms of my shoes?!  Or maybe it was just a dry skin day the last time I went in the closet and I shed so much that I left an entire layer of dusty DNA on everything in there.

Fighting Fat

Getting back to the health portion of this program I'd like to happily announce that I gained only one pound.  All things considered, with everything that's happened, I don't think that's too bad and I was not devastated over it.  I have not weighed myself for a while and I had just finished up a fiber-induced shadoobie so I figured it would be a good time to weigh in. 

On Thursday, I felt so horrible I came home from work and slept for three hours.  This is particularly unusual coming from a person who usually does not take naps.  On Friday, I felt pretty good at work, then horrible once I got off work.  I came home and slept some more.  I've been trying to slide off the evil diet soda.  I did have one on Friday at 4pm but that was only because my head was minuets away from exploding all over the bedroom walls.

Even if the Aspartame in the soda isn't bad for me, I've been reading so much about how diet soda makes us crave sugars and carbohydrates.  I'd always written this off as hookum because I never really wanted to even try to give up my precious soda.  I did after all quit smoking, what more do you people want from me?!  To say whether I crave these things because of the soda I drink is beyond me because I crave everything all the time.  We shall see.  If I can eliminate soda and find that I crave sweets less, then consider me a believer.


My elliptical has gathered quite a bit of dust, but I have every intention of getting back on.  Maybe after summer.  The heat at work is brutal and I usually feel crap on a daily basis.  Speaking of feeling like crap, a co-worker, Angel suggested Tonic Water.  She said she heard Doctor Oz say this is good stuff but Angel blew it off.  Her own doctor suggested it so she took it up.  She was having problems with leg cramps and other things and after a few days of drinking 8oz each night, she began to feel better.  She suggested it to her sister who has joint issues and she too, feels less pain and problems.

It's on my grocery list.  I'm pretty desperate to try anything right now.  Everyone I know swears Doctor Oz knows everything about everything so if he says tonic water, then I shall try the tonic water.  I personally have never seen Doctor Oz's TV show, but I know he is well respected in the community of People I Know.

When I was younger, I swore up and down I'd never be like my parents.  I would do stuff on the weekends, go places, play games, have fun.  What I did not realize back then is what a blue collar job can do to your body in the summer.  If becoming a zombie in front of the TV were an Olympic event, I'd take the gold metal for sure.  Not that I'm proud of this.  I would still like to do things, go places on the weekends but that takes energy and money that I simply do not have.

Right now, I'd settle for gaining the energy to do things--any thing.  If I can get back to eating right, exercising, sleeping better, maybe the energy will follow suit once we're out of triple degree weather.  And once again, we shall see.  I am currently wishing I could just wake up feeling halfway decent.  I hate waiting.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Storage Wars

First of all, I find that the more I write about myself and people I know, the more trouble I seem to cause myself.  So I'm gonna stick with I know:  Getting upset over things that do not matter.  To anyone.  Ever.

It has come to my attention that there are three, count 'em, THREE series on television about storage units.  Yes, you heard me correctly.  An entire half hour block is somehow dedicated to people's storage units and the crap they keep inside them.  Some of these shows auction off the units when rent is not paid.  I could tell you more but I haven't actually viewed any of these programs.

Flipping through the TV guide that Dish Network provides on screen, I happened to notice a show titled "Parking Wars" and the description would lead me to understand that the program is about people placing parking tickets on the windshields of cars and placing boots on their tires.  Fun stuff, indeed.

There are about a half dozen shows (at least) about pawn shops, the people who run them, and the people who expect to become millionaires after bringing in something they found while cleaning out the attic.  There's a show about a so-called cat whisperer, people who fix up folks' dire bathrooms and people who collect cats and dogs in the hundreds (really) for fun.

Who's idea was it to put this crap on TV?  And more importantly, who's watching this crap?  The Food Network used to feature shows that explained how things were made.  They took you inside the creation process and the factories.  Alton Brown gave me an understand of chemistry because he related it to food.  Me--chemistry!  Imagine!  The only programs ever scheduled on Food Network are contests to become the greatest chef, the Next Food Network Star, and Who Can Make The Best Cup Cake In The World Not Than Anyone Cares.

"They" say it is illegal to allow the picking and choosing of specific channels by consumers.  Whoever "they" are need to shove it.  I have no use for fourteen ESPN channels.  I have never in my life, watched the Lifetime Channel.  Why do they bill me for this?  Charge me a single US dollar for each channel I choose.  I'll save money, you'll keep me as a customer and I will no longer be subjugated to watching scripted realty shows.  because you they are.  Scripted, I mean.  No every repo-man runs into trouble like the repo-men on TV run into trouble.  Please.

Will Write For Money

Sure I'd love to write for a job.  I used to fantasize about being Dave Barry.  I don't mean I'd be a middle aged humor columnist working for the Miami Herald, just that I could write for money and make people laugh while doing it.  Besides, I hear Florida is just as hot and has bugs just as big as in Texas.  No thank you.

The problem is I don't think I'm very good.  I know I'm no good at fiction.  I don't know how to think for fictional characters.  I once wrote a fictional story that I never shared with anyone.  I thought it was hokey.  It was an X-Men story.  I created my own character and everyone eventually tangled with Magneto, a common occurrence in the comic books.  It was, to put it mildly, horrible.  But hey, at least I can honestly say I don't have a Star Trek fan script.

I once thought I could write about our family history.  It was going to be a collection of short stories from folks in my family, true events that I found interesting or funny.  It turned out to be a lot of work, too much research (I hate research) and none of seemed like it would be that interesting to people on the outside.  Like, to tell the story of why Mom had parked her car on the rail road tracks when pulled over by a cop, I'd first have to go into all this prologue of her abusive first husband, his family, blah, blah, boring, boring, boring.

When Mom told this story it was some thirty years after the event and we laughed over the fact that she had been dumbfounded to find herself parked on the rail road tracks.  I realized I didn't know how to put this on paper, this laughter between mother and daughter.  I gave up on the short lived project because I had no idea how to convey this laughter outside of verbal form.

And then the blog was born.  I became interested in the notion of making money but then found out how highly competitive it was and that by comparison, I wasn't really any good.  Anyone can be a writer.  Anyone can be a dancer or a singer but only a tiny margin, a select few actually make anything of it.  This is usually determined by luck of the draw or who you know.  Many of us know very few people in the entertainment business.  I came close once by getting bitched out by the local weather man at a Labor Day carnival.  I was unsure of where to park and he sat atop a horse and hollered at me.  It was dark and what lights were lit were confusing me.  So sorry, dude.

For now, what can I do with it besides hash out my feelings on stupidity?   For now, all I can continue to do is hash out dirty laundry and stick it out until something better comes along.  I seriously doubt I'll ever be Dave Barry.

Working On Myself

I had gotten sick of looking at all the junk we had collected over the years.  I was tired of cleaning, sorting, taking photos and pricing it all to be listed on eBay.  I decided I was not going to do it for a while.  Let the piles sit there for a bit, and I would work on myself.  I would spend my alone afternoon time, the time between getting off work and the time Shawn arrives from his job, and just focus selfishly on myself.  I decided I would take up a hobby, read, exercise, research anti-depressants and healthy foods that would make me feel better.

And then I just never did it.

The problem is that it's overwhelming.  It's like looking into a hoarder's house.  I've read about people who were crushed to death by stacks of newspapers because they refused to throw anything into the garbage.  That sounds like a personal nightmare to someone who has a compulsive need to organize the entire planet.  I've seen these people's homes on television.  It reminds me of my head.

In my head there are stacks of newspapers to the ceiling, things I don't want, things I don't need, things that have collected and were never dealt with.  When I see those homes on TV, I think to myself, Where would you begin?  It seems it would be easier to just move to a new house.  It's easier to just not deal with it because I am so overwhelmed by the stacks in my mind.  Where to start?  I dunno.  I'm frustrated, so I give up.

There's a reason I don't have any friends.  I'm a little nuts.  I'm abrasive and manic-depressive.  Yeah, I do have times of mania.  I don't think highly of myself, but these bits of mania make me focus on everything negative about a person or several people.  And by placing those people so low on the totem pole, I go through a bit of mania as though they are doing nothing and I am doing everything.  It's ludicrous!  I don't want to put these people down; I feel like I cannot help it. It very rarely comes out of my mouth but that's not the point of it.

There's a lot of fear there.  We go to Roller Derby bouts and I yes, I'd so LOVE to go to try outs.  But I've never played on a team before.  I never played sports in school.  It's very difficult for me to speak to new people.  I'm worried what's gonna fly out of my mouth.  Something stupid comes out of my mouth and I dwell on it for days.  You think the other person dwells on it as much as I do?  I go in expecting to not be liked, to not be accepted.  What if I'm not any good?  What if everyone hates me, as they eventually will?  What if I do like someone on the team, but they turn out to cut me to pieces behind my back, making a fool of me? 

The equipment is probably too expensive anyway.  We don't have extra money to spend on frivolous things.  Shawn would need the car on Monday's which is a practice day.  I haven't skated since I was a small child, and that was on skates from the seventies.  I wouldn't be able to satisfy my nicotine carving with a mouth guard in place.  I am hard to get along with, they probably wouldn't want me anyway. 

So I make excuses.

So it's just easier to not deal with it.  I go to the bouts.  I root for the home team.  Every single time, Shawn says I should try out.  Of course this mean to me that it'll give him an excuse to peer at the short shorts and cleavage spilling out only more often.  Another made-up excuse.

No one can fix all of this but me.  I can't wait for someone to come along and fix me; that's just not going to happen.  I have to do it myself.  I open the door, which cannot even be opened but a few inches for all the junk.  God, where do I even begin?

If I don't clean it out, I am yes, quite aware that eventually the junk will spill over on top of me and kill me.  Maybe not literally, but at least in a sense.

The Biggest Douche Bag In The World

My nieces friended me on Facebook.  I only know this because it showed up in my email.  As far as Facebook goes, I'm kind of illiterate.  I confirmed them as friends and one niece, Kristin messaged me.  She said, "You posted that you were going to start writing again.  That's cool."

Kristin, at only fourteen, writes herself.  My eldest nephew says her short stories are good, but of course she doesn't want me to see them until the final drafts are completed.  I get that.  So I answered back, "Did I?  I don't remember posting that."

I checked my profile and sure enough, there was the link to my blog.  My profile was public.  Any person who ever wanted to visit my Facebook profile could have read any part of my blog.  ...Including my boss.  He sent me a friend request a month or two ago and I simply ignored it.  My heart dropped to my stomach as I came to the sudden realization that anyone at anytime could could have read anything I've written here.  I meant for this to be simply a place of storage.

I know what happened.  When I first started the blog, I meant to write about observations, kind of a dry, cynical Seinfeld-esque style on daily life.  Then I got bored with all that and quit writing.  When I came back, I was determined to write about healthy eating.  I had discovered healthy foods that tasted guilty and I wanted to share that.

Then I went a little off the deep end.

In my old blog, I was very strict to write about family, but never "about" them.  If someone hurt me, I would not write about it.  If someone offended me, I kept it to myself or simply communicated it verbally.  I did not write about it.  I know I've done that at least twice here.

I thought about that argument I had with my boss.  I did, in fact write about it.  What was I thinking?  Did he read that?  Could he have?  My stomach churned at the very thought.  I thought about all the crazy stuff I'd written about myself.  No wonder no one from high school has contacted me.  They probably either remember what I was like back then or read this blog and ran screaming for the hills.  Oh God, I never meant to advertise to the entire world how crazy I am.

I went to bed thinking about it.  I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about it.  I felt like such an asshole.  I woke up this morning practically with my heart racing, I could feel a panic attack only two crazy thoughts away.  If I was to dwell on this too hard, my heart would pound and flutter, I'd sweat profusely, and I'd hyperventilate.  Even as I write this, my stomach is flip-flopping, my heart is racing and my hands shaking.

What an asshole.  What right do I have to vent every frustration and every offense?  How could I allow this?  I haven't gone back and read anything I had written.  It's almost like I'm afraid to, like I'd be opening some form of a Pandora's Box.  It might be the thing to finally push me over the edge.  Let's face it, it's not like I think too highly of myself and every time I do or say something stupid I cannot get it out of my head.  This goes beyond that.  How many people have read anything here?  Family, co-workers, acquaintances from way back when?

For a very brief moment I thought others might have read the things I have meticulously typed out and thought to themselves, "Hey, I'm not the only one of my kind.  I'm not the only one that's Bat-Crap-Crazy."

This is not the pages of The Uncanny X-men and I do not have a cool super power.  I feel like the biggest douche bag in the world.  Why did I put that link on my profile?  Why did I start writing about all this?!  Why didn't I stick to dry humor about road rage and gas prices?  I can't change it and I can't take it back.  I have no way of knowing who and how many people read anything here. 

I feel like I might throw up.  What an asshole.  Well, that it's then.  I'm done.  I'm not going do this anymore.  I allowed my place to vent, my only form of therapy to be shared with God knows how many people.  I did this to myself.  I'm done.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Maybe

Maybe I don't wanna sort laundry anymore.
Maybe I don't wanna cook only for Shawn to not eat anything myself.
Maybe I'm sick of making turkey sandwiches.
Maybe I'm sick of staying home on the weekends.
Maybe I'm sick of taking the same route on I-35 to work each morning.
Maybe I'm sick of making grocery lists, price comparing, and coupon clipping.
Maybe I don't want to analyze every cent that is spent.
Maybe I want to go out to a nice meal and eat something I didn't prepare.
Maybe I want friends.
Maybe I wish I could have a cigarette, just one soothing, delicious drag.
Maybe I don't want to eat whole grains anymore and instead eat an entire cake in one sitting.
Maybe I'm sick of feeling like this.
Maybe I'm tired of being cynical and depressed.
Maybe I want my F----ing dog back.
Maybe I just really hate poetry.

We're Born, We Get Cancer, We Die

That seems to be the current purpose of life these.  Shawn saw on Fox News yesterday morning a segment on Aspertame.  This is an artificial sweetener used in many drinks, sugarless gums, sugar replacements, etc.  The report stated that Aspertame turns to formaldehyde once it reaches 86 degrees.  A long time lover of diet soda, I decided to investigate it myself. 

http://www.snopes.com/medical/toxins/aspartame.asp

Yes, this link will lead you to Snopes, but it describes a lot of things I had read  in other places on the Wide Wide World of Web.   Do you really believe that shipping trucks are kept at a reasonable temperature in the summer months of Texas?  I doubt it, too.  After reading, reading, and more reading, I made the decision to get off diet soda as of last night.  I had one yesterday morning, and that's the last I'm intending to drink (at least until Autumn--Ha, ha).

Of course Shawn called his mother, a diabetic and told her the news, that I also printed some information of the whole disgusting subject.  I'd even let know I'd been using Truvia' another artificial sweetener, but it contains no Aspertame.  Whether or not it'll slowly kill us, I cannot say for sure.  It really is such an atrocity that Aspertame is still used.  Trace amounts or not, this is not right.  The year is 2011, the same year that Shawn watched this report on the news.  If you'll notice, the article that I pointed you to above, is from 1998.

I called my mom, a diet soda addict, to tell her the devastating news.  I was frustrated by all this.  I've been frustrated with myself, with work, the fact that I've quit smoking & never feel any better.  I was frustrated that even if I give up diet soda, there's pesticides in each bite of produce and loads of antibiotics in the beef.  The chicken sit in their own poo as they grow, never to get out of the poo.  Even the bread is laced with preservatives and chemicals; water contains amounts of God knows what.  What am I supposed to do?

The frustration and agitation in my voice was escalating and Mom new it.  "I wish I could help you, I wish I could do something for you," she said.  We were connected and separated by thrity miles of telephone wire.  She sounded truly genuine.  I felt like I was treading water in Lake Frustrated.  I felt stuck and I told Mom so.  Even if I went to school to learn how to do a job, what guarantee is there that that job will be there when I finish the school?

Mom's first suggestion was to "find the right pill".  She is a walking advertising for Prozac and should be paid.  Mom's doctor placed her on Prozac to help deal with the effects of menopause, which she was rudely thrown into around the age of forty after a much needed hysterectomy.  A couple of times, she'd let the prescription run out and found herself becoming very "down" as she put it. 

Pills are not my thing.  I've done too much reading int hat area and I am afraid the side effects would most often outweigh the intended benefits.  Besides, I don't have enough in my short life to try this one,t hen that one, then that other one, and hope one works but doesn't make me gain forty pounds.  Forget that.

Mom's second suggestion:  "You need to go to church."  She used to say this to me just about every time we spoke on the phone.  After years of this I finally asked her to stop.  To my astonishment, she did.  Until yesterday.  I snapped back at her, "I listened to Joyce Meyer on my headphones for a year and it did no good!"

Yikes.  Did I sound that nasty in written form?  I knew it sounded  nasty when it came out my mouth.  I hadn't meant for my tone to be so harsh.  Once again, frustration set in and went flying out all over my caring mother.  Would I find God in a church?  I'm sitting right here, why doesn't He come to me?  Why doesn't he talk back to me?  Me & Shawn can have a two-way conversation.  When I speak to God, it's me talking.  That's it.  And I've become angry and bitter over it.

Stuck indeed.  I don't know what I want out of life.  I know I would like to feel as if I had a purpose to being here, a point to all this.  I would like to be happy and healthy.  All I can focus on is how much I hate my face and my body, my job, my daily life.  I'm so sick of cooking.  I'm so sick of making the same turkey sandwiches for the next day's lunches.  I'm so sick of watching TV simply because there's nothing else to do.

Movies would tell me I should leave behind everything and everyone I know and flitter away to some other country.  Society would tell me to buck up, deal with it; this is life, you have it good.  The way I feel anymore, what I would tell myself is that I am not afraid of death because there's probably something a lot more exciting going on over there on that side.

You go to work, you do the chores at home, you die.  I've accepted that.  I've been doing it for thirteen years.  Why change things now?

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Unjustifyably Polictally Correct

Awaiting for more stuff from my Pocket History Nerd but she says, yes indeed the war over Texas was fought in the winter/spring of 1836.  I KNEW IT!!!!  These guys were smart enough to know that there's not enough water here in the summer to sustain two armies.

This brings to mind an interesting local event.  I've always been taught that during the American Civil War, each side had their own flag to represent themselves.  You had the Union, which was against slavery.  And of course you had the Confederates, which were pro-slavery.

All over the south you will find Confederate flags on bumper stickers, waving from a pole in front yards, on T-Shirts, and bandannas and so on.  This is only allowed because we have in place The Freedom of Speech, which people too often take to mean literal.  PERSONALLY I've always associated the flag with what the Confederacy believed in because they flew it to identify themselves.  So, PERSONALLY I've always associated the Confederate flag with the idea that there is nothing wrong with enslaving an entire race or hating them simply because their skin is a different color.

This is only my own, PERSONAL opinion.  But many others might tend to agree with me.  In a local cemetery, atop a large flag pole, waved a Confederate flag.  It was stolen, never to be seen from again.  Letters to the Editor in the local newspaper have been back and forth on this debate.  Some say the flag represents those who died while fighting for the Confederacy and therefore, the flag should be replaced to honor them.

Well, gee whiz, by all means, lets give HONOR to those who fought and died for the right to enslave men, beat their African children and separate their families.  But that's just my own, personal opinion.  (both sides have been made examples of in the paper, both for and against the disappearance of the Confederate flag)

Can we please settle on one American flag and fly it over one, single nation?  I mean, what is this, Berlin?  Should we construct a great stone wall to divide the north from the south because at one time, very long ago, we held different beliefs?  Slavery was abolished and therefore the flag that represented the side that fought to keep it ought to be ablished as well.  Over two-hundred years have passed and it's about time, dammit!


For the record, I am whiter than white.  I'm European-Mutt-White.  And I hate that people will hate another people because their skin is another color.  I am not superior.  I don't even have blue eyes.  (Settle down; that was a joke)

Only Stupid People Are Breeding

....the cretins cloning and feeding.

It never ceases to amaze me what people will bring into a dry cleaners.  Occasionally I get a shirt that someone spilled washing detergent all over.  They send it to me to "save" it.  Um, have you tried the rinse cycle?  Usually does the trick for me.  After dealing with customers however, I've discovered that I know nothing.  They know everything and how it should be done.  And they tell me so, quite often.

I've been corrected by my history buff (history nerd!) cousin.  Apparently the terrain in Texas in 1836 was different from today's version.  I am assuming 1836 is the year everyone was fighting for this God-forsaken land.  I'm not real sure because I sucked in History class.  (That was my appointed nap time)  Apprently the fighting was going on in the spring because no one in their right mind would fight over it in the summer.  Why the Mexicans wanted it so badly is beyond me.  I would have said, here, take it.  We don't need no stinking mosquitoes anyhow.  Quero Tequila!  (congratulatory gunshots are fired into the air)

My Spanish lesson podcasts are taught by a Scottish man named Marc.  Some Brits were having a hard time rolling their R's, understandably so.  They really do not use the letter R in Britain.  It's there, they just don't use.  It's a like treadmill bought in January only to have it collect hangers and laundry.  Marc explains that if you listen to the American accent when the words with a double T are used, it's very much like rolling an R.

In his most horrible version of an American accent (which amuses me so) Marc says the words, "Otter, butter, flutter, bottle..." and so forth.  He explains that we Americans pronounce it as almost like a soft D.  I have never realized this before!  I've been speaking for nearly all my life and never noticed that.  Here, I'll say it for you:  "Budder."  Yep, there it is!  Now you try.  I think you'll find this quite amusing, depending on how bored you are.

Let's try another one....Ofden.  HA!  That's crazy!!!  And there's not even a double T in that word!

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Dog Brown There Over Ran

I feel so dumb when I try to learn Spanish.  I always thought I was at least normal-smart.  Maybe I only thought I was smart because that's what my mother always told me.  Mothers will lie to your face, you know.  That's why their always telling us we can be anything we want, we're beautiful, blah, blah, blah.

I try to understand it, I try to remember it, I try so hard!  My head hurts so badly and I feel so utterly stupid.  I think I should give up and remember how the audio lessons help pass the time at work.  The people on the podcasts are pleasant enough, it's not their fault I was born half retarded.  I really hate that phrasing.  My heart truly goes out to anyone with a learning disability.  Truly.

I read so much on this extreme couponing jazz.  I read pages and pages and for some reason I'm still not getting it!  I was so frustrated Sunday morning, I felt like crying.  Why couldn't I understand this?  I watched a marathon of "Extreme Couponing" On Saturday, read everything I could on Sunday, and it still was not sinking in.  For Pete's sake, this is not rocket surgery!

I asked Christina, a coworker, if she found English easy.  She scrunched up her face, shook her head and replied, "No!  No, Meeesteee!"  I love the way she says my name.  I know to speak slowly to Christina, she understands more easily when I speak slowly.  Her English has improved so much recently.  She told me she's been working with her eldest son.  He told her she will understand so much in twenty years.

"I listen and listen and listen..." I said.
"Escuchande," Christina says.  (I think)
"Yes, but it is not there!" I say pounding my head.  "Not there!"
Christina agreed with this statement.  I say there's too many little things, "Poco cosas!" I stammer out. 
"Ahhhhhh!  Poco cosas, yes!" replies my Mexican friend.

I don't feel so stupid now.  Maybe it's just as hard for her as it is for me.  It doesn't mean I won't continue to be frustrated with it.  I gotta watch the movie "Spanglish" again....

The Universe is Cruel

I don't know what kind of joke this is.  I've never had great skin to begin with but this is ridiculous.  Shawn has been so stressed out he made himself sick.  DO you think he gains weight around his middle?  DO you think his face erupts like a fourteen year old's?

No, of course not.  Don't be silly.  I am the one of the relationship who is more concerned about personal looks so OF COURSE I am the one to have skin worse than when I was in high school and OF COURSE I am the one to have the spare tire, stretch marks, and cellulite.  You think Shawn, a guy, a dooooode, has stretch marks?

No, of course he doesn't.  He doesn't have a single pimple on his bloomin' face.  In a week or two, my skin may calm itself down, enjoying a period of no trauma and no drama.  Then the electric bill will arrive in the mail.....

Outdoors Time

In prison systems, there is such a thing as Outdoors Time.  An episode of  "The Office" told me so.  This is a privilege.  It must be earned and the reward of fresh air can be taken away.  In Texas prison systems, Outdoors Time is actually a punishment.  The inmate is placed outside, within a screen in area.  Buckets of water surround the inmate.  The stagnant water is used for breeding mosquitoes.  The inmate then succumbs to many days of furious scratching and misery.

Alright, I made up that last part.  But it's a good idea, yes?  Not only do I have to travel in the heat, work in the heat, supervise my four pound dog in the heat, but I have to put of with little bugs that serve no purpose on this piece of dirt other than make my day extra miserable and spread malaria. 





This isn't the greatest picture because my camera is only 3.2 mega pixels.  I will be demanding a new camera for this Christmas as I really need to replace this antique.    I don't even spend that much time outside.  And if Lucy really needs to go, I supervise her from the window.  She isn't quite as needy as she was a couple of weeks ago and my blood supply is running low.  Lucy isn't too keen on hanging around out there anyway.  It's too friggin' hot!!

If man can develop viruses in a lab to wipe out all of mankind, why can't we do the same for mosquitoes?  Oh!  The Eco-system, the Eco-system.  Please.  You should check the Eco-system of my backyard.  The trees are dead, the grass is dead, even the wasps have relocated.  Everything is dead except for the mosquitoes.  I don't even know where they are coming from since there isn't any water anywhere for miles and miles.  There is something very wrong about it all.

Fortunately, we have plywood under our mattress, instead of a box spring.  I say fortunately because the raw cut edge is on my side of the bed and I use it scratch the backs of my legs at night.  The back side of my legs have gotten to know that plywood very well.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Flashbacks

I don't know if I'd call them flashbacks exactly.  I don't know what it is.  Lately, I've been seeing images in my head, almost as real as something in front of me. 

When I get home, the first thing I gotta do is pee, as we all know I have a bladder the size of a peach pit.  Prissy, so very excited to see me home, finally after all those long hours, could not wait for me.  She'd always follow me into the bathroom and even as I'd do my business, she'd stretch her front feet onto my knees and pull her back taught and long.  I'd scratch her ear and shoo her dwon because her nails were digging into my bare knee.

In the times I did not wait for Prissy, during a Potty Emergency, I'd shut the door behind me and wait for the inevitable scratching from the other side.  It always made me laugh.  The door is well within reach from the toilet, so of course I'd let her in.

Today, after a grocery trip, I let Lucy outside and immediately hurried to the toilet.  As I passed through the threshold, I saw Prissy anxiously following me from behind.  Now, I do not mean, I actually saw her, like she was there, as though I could reach out and touch her.  She was in my mind's eye, so to speak.  I could still clearly see the pattern in her fur, a neat combination of white and tan, with a few stray hairs of black.

I worry that soon, I will be unable to remember these things.

Lucy would rarely follow me to the bathroom.  As she adjusted to the loneliness of workdays, she would occasionally follow me when I returned home.  Today she did not.  As I reached for the toilet paper, I remembered that was Prissy's signal that we were done and she would scratch at the door from the inside until I let her out into the bedroom.  She would bolt, nearly hitting her body against the door and run just as fast as she could, then back again.

I missed that terribly.

As I did my business, as it were, I saw a tiny little shadow moving back and forth at the door's crack.  "I see you!" I chimed sweetly.  The shadowed moved to the left, back to the right as if in anticipation for something grand and exciting.  "I see you!" I rang again.

Once I was done, I opened the door and Lucy sat on the rug looking up and me and whining, just slightly impatiently.  She, in her loyal companionship, followed me from room to room to room as I put away laundry, groceries, and made dinner.  She seems to become tired after following me around and dealing with my attention deficit and strings of "oh yeahs".

It happened again later.  I made a huge salad and Lucy became very excited.  I crumble whole grain crackers over my lettuce to replace croutons and Lucy always knows to expect a tiny bite of cracker at the end.  As my fork scraped the bowl, I saw my lost companion in front of me once again.  Her eyes swelled in size, with exaggeration and anticipation.  She knew the bowl was nearly empty just by how the fork sounded against it.  It always amused me how Prissy could hold her composure while I ate.  It seemed to take every ounce of energy in that little body to keep still.

As the fork or spoon, or even my finger rubbed and scraped against the plate or bowl, Prissy seemed to wiggle and squirm as though she could not take it a second longer!  And just when it seemed as though she were about to burst, I reached into the bowl and plucked out one small bite I'd been saving all along.  And she knew it.  She knew I'd saved her a bite.  As I'd reach out with my soft and fragile fingers, Prissy would gently take the bite between her teeth and swallow it whole.  She'd immediately begin the search for more.  She knew she could draw blood from my fingers.  It had happened more than once, purely accidental.

I had begun to place Prissy's dental sticks on the floor and let her take them on her own.  Too many times, she'd bit into my hand out of excitement.  The adrenaline always to rush right through her very teeth at the sight of that little store bought bag. 


As I scraped the metal bowl with the metal fork, I saw my dog in front of me, waiting patiently and still, her eyes wide and hopeful.  Her mass of brown and wide, trembling, unable to contain herself! 

I shook it off and looked to Lucy, who sat on her belly, ears too big for her head (and much out of proportion) and eyes widened.  I turned back down to the bottom of the empty bowl, empty save for one tiny piece of cracker with just a bit of salad dressing.  I picked it out with my fingers and handed it to her.  Lucy gobbled it up as if she may never eat again.

Interesting, But Not Interesting Enough

I thought the little thing about Texas I wrote was good.  Not let's have you publish a book good, but good.  I was trying to be cynical, a bit funny and I was a little proud of it.  Not, look Mom I tied my shoes for the first time proud, but moderately prideful.

As I wrote, Shawn sat in the chair nearby playing his PSP.  He plays in here because it is known as a "smoking room".  It is a room where I am less likely to be when he's home so he can smoke it up without bothering me.  Until I need to email someone, that is.  For anyone's future concern, the bedroom is also a smoking room as soon as I go to work.  Of course. 
"Can I read this to you?  I think it's kind of good," I said.
"Sure," Shawn replied.  I commenced to reading with an astounding tone of sarcasm, one of my best known speaking traits.  He never so much as paused his video game or looked up.  "What do you think?" I asked. 

"It was....Okay," he replied, never once looking away.  The Guy-to-Woman tranalation for that is: "I wasn't really listening, but I'd better say something here."

What really bothers me about this is that Shawn will stop me from doing things to tell me the same story for 3,964th time.  In the same day.  He makes these awesome, complicated plans for selling things on eBay, for creating things in the garage, to make a trip to the friggin' moon and he tells them to me over and over an over and over and over and over and goes on and on and on and on and on and on.

Just this afternoon, I sit here, dying for a cold shower after working 9.5 hours in God-awful heat, spending the next 2.5 hours grocery shopping, bringing in the groceries, preparing lunches for the next day, cooking his dinner, doing dishes, getting his school stuff ready--all that jazz so I can shoo him out the door and get myself into pure cold water.

I downloaded some fresh Spanish lessons for work tomorrow and I did so, Shawn spoke of another plan, and went on for approximately twenty minuets.  At least some of it was new stuff but not much was stuff I didn't already know.  Some of this was information everyone knew.  I thinking to myself, go to school!  I want to shower & eat my single serving of ice cream!

I hate to sound as though I am being so ugly toward Shawn.  It's not exactly as though I'm just waiting for him to go to school, to leave.  It's not like that at all, please do not misunderstand me.  I'd love it if I could shower and he could chat to me all night about new and exciting things.  What bothers me about this is that he is making himself late for school to tell the same story again and again but could not take three minuets to listen to my short take on why people actually fought over the land of Texas.

I got a bum deal.

Unrealism

You know what I'm sick of?  Unrealistic women playing real women.  In "Julie & Julia" Amy Adams, the actress, cooks from Julia Child's cook book and in one scene is claiming to have gotten fat.  I doubt Amy Adams, the actress has ever been fat a single day in her life.  Maybe the real Julie gained a bit of weight eating all that butter.  I doubt Amy Adams did.

Julia Roberts did it in "Eat Pray Love".  Her real life character flitters off to Italy to "find herself" and eats, eats, eats.  Her friend says she cannot eat the pizza because she has gained ten pounds and now has a muffin top.  Julia Roberts smiles and says she also has a muffin top.  Neither of these women has any kind of anything around their middle.

These are true stories brought to life by Hollywood and I'm staring at the screen having Julia Roberts in all her training trying to convince me, the viewer, that she has a muffin top.  Please.  Maybe the real life Liz Gilbert gained a muffin top.  I doubt Julia Roberts did.

Charlize Theron gained quite a bit of weight for her in "Monster".  Would it be too much to ask for these women to put on a measly ten pounds for a role?  Muffin top, indeed.  Pbbbt.  Julia Roberts has never been anything but tall and slender.  Very tall and very slender.

Why do I watch these movies?  Because they are on.  Dish Network raised our monthly bill by five dollars but gave us all the Starz movie channels for "free" for one year.  It's mostly crap from the eighties and chick flicks.  Horrah for summer.

"Eat Pray Love" bothered me because it was a real life memoir about a women who hates herself and her life so she flitteres off to Italy, Calcutta, Bali.  We should all be so lucky.  It reminded me of a magazine article on marriage.  A woman chef and her husband were ALWAYS fighting so they flittered off to France for several months where they cooked together, ate together, and enjoyed the French countryside together. 

Most of us cannot even afford Date Night, which "they" all say is so very important.

Does is seem reasonable or even doable that most of us could just flitter away to a foreign country every time we had a problem?  No, of course not.  I could not even cook my way through Julia Child's cook book if I wanted to.  Who can afford all that cheese and lobster?

 I am really hating my life right now particularly because it is triple digits and I work in what is essentially a sweat shop.  I imagine all the factors, all the possibilities that may have placed me in another place or another time.  The government expects me to wait until I am 72 to retire because there is no money left in social security.  It might be fine for them, sitting in air conditioned offices.  I'd like to have them do my job and ask where the retirement age sits. 

Right now, I'd like to flitter away to a whole new life in a another climate.  I wonder what gorgeous Hollywood actress would play me?  At least everyone would see me as a beautiful, sans muffin top.

In fact, I may just insist that the actress gain a muffin top.  Let it be her badge of honor for playing a "real" person.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Remember the Alamo

Men fought and died for this land.  They had their own men killed over the very ground I pay a mortgage on.  For what?  Did they even realize that there is nothing here but mosquitoes and scorpions?  Did they know that there is nine months of summer here?  Or were they simply claiming the land as some kind of poor man's trophy?

Is was 105 yesterday.  One-Hundred and five degrees.  My people did not fight for this land.  If my people had fought for any sort of land, it might have contained green grass, green trees and land that was somewhat farmable and not an otherwise crap shoot.  My people came to this land on a boat, escaping the hardships of potato famine, harsh taxes so cruel they starved to death, and the threat of being called "coward".

I am the epitamy of the American Melting Pot.  I am the result of miscellaneous Europeans intermarrying with other miscellaneous Europeans.  My people would not flee harsh conditions to settle in some desolate land where the trees are brown.  I would expect my bloodline to have been smarter, to have settled somewhere where the wind blows and it does not resemble a hair dryer on the high setting.

If Texas were still part of Mexico today, I might be sending my mortgage payment to the big name bank in California from some lush part of the nation.  But instead I sit here, in what is now known as Texas.  Most women slather their bodies in luxurious lotions after bathing as they desperately try to trap moisture in their skin.  I slather my arms and legs with cortizone cream and attempt to lure my mate with the wretched scent of menthol.  All because my European forefathers settled in a land that blood was shed for.

I ask again why these men laid claim to such a worthless piece of dirt covered with thorny mesquite and poisonous snakes.  So I can sit here, their grand-daughter of revolution, rightly so, covered head to toe in mosquito bites.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Highs and Lows

I accompanied Shawn to his follow up appointment yesterday.  When I got off work, I had just enough time to swing by Petco before I went to the clinic.  Shawn was laughing at me.  He could not believe I had actually purchased dog toothpaste.  I had a hard time believing it myself.

"Well, it's cheaper than the hundred dollars they want for cleaning Lucy's teeth and I hate to see her get anesthesia; she's so little," I said.  Shawn did agree about all that.  We'll see how well he still agrees when he has to hold Lucy as I attempt an at-home impromptu teeth cleaning.  And, PS--the lumps seem to be shrinking.  Hoorah!  God did hear my cries.

All of Shawn's blood work was perfectly fine.  The doctor admitted that he didn't know exactly what happened when Shawn's vision suddenly went blurry and he got confused and dizzy.  "We could do a jillion tests and still not know," the doc said.  Of course he did say that if it happened again, it would be cause for concern and a round of a jillion tests.  Personally, I think Shawn was just having a meltdown from the stress and not being able to deal with the stress.

I asked about cholesterol.  This was scheduled for next week as Shawn had to fast for the test.  "If it's sky high, I've got news for you," I announced to Shawn.  'We're cutting back on those french fries!"  Not that I've haven't been trying to do this already

Shawn's mood swings are out of control and he's been taking the bat to me most recently, so to speak.  "I've been like this with everybody," he said.  "I'm not everybody!" I returned.  We talked a good bit about this because he's been quite hurtful toward me.  He admitted that he's been going into a rage over "things that don't matter, stupid stuff."

"I KNOW!" I said.  Boy, do I know.  Mom suggested to me that Shawn have his thyroid checked, which of course is something I didn't consider at the doctor's.  Duh-duh.  Dad was like this a while back.  He'd become almost hateful and that was so not Dad.  Dad has been calm, cool, mellow.  He just kinda goes with it and blows stuff off.  Almost overnight he'd become a woman on her worst period ever.  He was snapping at everyone, VERY grouchy and downright mean over the slightest irritations.

Dad had also gained a little weight very quickly.  His thyroid was out of whack and a tiny little pill corrected everything.  He even lost ten pounds without even trying. He and Mom get along great now!

Of course Shawn is not gaining weight.  He never gains weight, or gets a zit, or a crazy craving for cake.  So not fair.  He's never been cool and mellow, but he is menopausal currently.  I gotta call the doc and see is a thyroid test can be added.  At least his blood pressure was normal.  That's a plus.

As for myself, on certain days I can actually hear the voice of Joyce Meyer in the recesses of my brain.  "The best thing Dave ever did for me was to stay calm during my fits."  Sometimes I tell the voice to shut up, sometimes I say to myself, "I will not let this bother me or ruin my day."  In this current scenario, if I am supposed to play the role of Dave and Shawn is supposed to be Joyce....We're gonna wind up killing each other.

The Coupon Craze

I decided to check out this coupon thing on eBay.  Type "coupons" in the search box and you get over 700 pages.  Sifting through that would take the rest of my life so I decided to start by looking up one single item I would need to buy within the next month.

I started by searching Palmolive dish washing soap.  I found on eBay, an auction for 10 coupons worth 75 cents each.  The bidding was up to $6 plus shipping.

If the winner of this auction wound up paying a total $7.50 for this auction, this entire action would be null.  Does it make sense to pay someone 75 cents for a 75 cent coupon?  Even if you have double coupon day at the grocery store, you're still only getting 75 cents off. 

Suffice it to say, I'm still not understanding how all this work.

On the advice of one of the ladies on "Extreme Couponing", I wrote to many, many companies.  I've done this in the past and came up dry so I gave it another shot.  I visited the websites of every name brand I think of that was contained within my home.  On some websites, right on the contact page was a bold statement about the company not providing mailers for coupons by email request.  In others, don't bother; we ain't mailing you nothing.

After contacting the rest of the companies on my list and explaining how I love specific products, I got in return, no reply emails, or emails saying that the company provides coupons in magazines, newspapers, etc, but no mailers.

How the woman on "Extreme Couponing" got a voucher for 100% free bacon, I'll never know.

I will say however, that a year or two ago, I wrote the makers of Eucerin and they sent me, in the mail, real paper coupons, a whole stack of them.  However, the coupons weren't fabulous and the generic version was much cheaper without a coupon.  I'm still working on a tub of hand lotion bought in 2003 so I'm good.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

One Bad Day

Last night, Shawn laid his head on my stomach.  I announced that this is the worst period I've had in a long time.  If any of you guy readers are groaning, get over it.  I don't cater to you; I write for me.  And also, it's a fact that women get periods.  And you guys poop.  And scratch (in public, no less).  And belch loudly and stinkily.  This is not something we can control so you fellas can just deal with it.

"It's like I got two periods at once.  My stomach and my back, all the way around are hurting SO bad!" I said.

This is a good time to say why I said this.  What I am really saying is that I feel like doo-doo.  And I still went to work, still chopped down trees, still made you dinner.  And also, your head weighs like, forty pounds; please remove it.

"Well, your stomach sounds like it's making a turd the size of your arm!" he says.  Hello, Mr. Sensitive.


Today followed suit.  I've been nothing but a great big ball of stress for a month.  My body knows this.  I don't know who told my body, but it knows.  I leaked through to my pants at work, had to filter into Wal-Mart afterward, and had some major issues at Sam's as I worked an attempt to purchase some nicotine gum.

Why they card me for nicotine gum, I'll never know.  There was a problem with my driver's license.  The check didn't print.  Managers were involved.  And here's the thing; I  had line hopped!  The line was shorter but it had a faulty printer for the personal checks, and while I was in line there, something nagged at me to pay cash but I didn't listen!

I was standing aside, out of the way when a Sam's employee passed me.  He looked like the goofy sort that picked at everyone.  "Cheer up," he said as he walked.  "It can't be that bad."

You don't know the month that I've had, I thought.  My stomach was bloated and cramping so badly that I couldn't comfortably stand up straight.  I made it to the car quickly, hoping I wasn't about to cry.  I sure felt like it.  All day long, I felt real crappy like you've got the flu.  My stomach pinched and spiked all day.  And my pants!  I was wearing paper thin, khaki colored capris. 

I hopped in the car and checked my bag of cold stuff on the front seat.  Good, the ground beef had not yet turned into fully cooked hamburgers.  Everything felt cold to the touch and I was on my way home.  And then I started crying.  Sigh. 

I did get a bit of good news though.  I found out that a book Shawn needs for school is going to be $20 less than I thought.  And Mom said one of her dogs gets lumps soon after getting shots.  Lucy had her shots exactly a week ago today.  I am hoping it is the shots that caused the lumps and that they'll just go away.

Things were looking up but then Shawn came home extra grouchy and apparently didn't like what I made for his dinner.  Oh well, there's a Subway and a McDonald's near the school.  Let him eat that, then.  I may just have a big bag of popcorn of dinner.  Because I can.

One Bad Mamma Jamma

Yes, I can work a power tool.  I can also take apart a toilet and reassemble it with no problem.  I don't understand why other maintenance wives aren't like me.  Oh, well probably because their husbands do the husband work around the house.  Lucky bastards.

The scraggly, no name weeds called bushes on the side of the house were out of control posing a threat to our precious air conditioner.  They needed to be trimmed so that The Precious could work to its fullest efficiency.  The weeds concerning all other areas of our yard were also out of control.  Enter:  The Reciprocating Saw.

I stepped onto the porch, wielding the saw like a large semi-automatic rifle, sunglasses in place.  I looked across the street to The Dog That Never Stops Barking and said, "Shuddap."  The dog stopped barking.

I hacked trees, took out entire bushes, chopped down whozits and whatzits.  I mashed and mangled.  I dragged, I pitched, I threw.  I also got a nice tan.  (and several horrible scratches and ant bites, but that's beside the point)

Nothing makes me feel more tough than holding an over sized power tool.  A pack of teenagers flocked down the street, whooping and hollering.  I thought to myself that if any of them messed with me, I had a nice weapon for defense.  This, of course, was absurd.  Teenagers aren't that annoying.  I mean, it's not like they were in Wal-Mart or anything.  Still, I bet folks would be keen to get out of my way if I did have a saw in my hand.  I need a REALLY long extension cord....

The Post That Will P*** Everyone Off

Why do I think this post will irk you?  Read on, dear readers, read on!  Americans have been deemed fat and this may very well be a mere generalization of her inhabitants due to fact of there being a McDonald's parked on every corner.

Of course one could also assume that all French people are cowards, all Japanese are smart, that all Russians are tough as nails, that all Irish are drunks and American-Irish are fat drunks.  The latter might actually have some truth in it.

We did have a bit of a scare with Shawn and his over the top blood pressure.  He admitted that he hadn't been taking care of himself in general.  Upon weighing himself, he announced that he had indeed lost weight.  Of course working in the heat, he and I both tend to lose five pounds each summer, only to regain it in the winter.  This is how nature protects us from the bitter cold of Central Texas.  Har, har.

Standing at 6'5", Shawn now weighs in at 140 pounds.  In kilograms, that would be.....oh, who the ---- cares?!  It would be easier for the rest of the world to convert to our obscene measurement system than for me alone to convert to metric.

As I was saying, Shawn has always been thin, and once he even tried the McDonald's Everyday Diet.  It worked for that slob in the documentary who ate it three meals per day for thirty days.  Call me Unamerican, but that sounds like my personal hell.  So every day for lunch, instead of eating the sandwich or Hot Pocket I had packed for Shawn, he ate at McDonald's for nearly a month and didn't gain an ounce.  (I'd be willing to bet that his arteries were screaming in agnoy, though)

We should all be so burdened, I'm sure.  I've been very slowly incorporating healthy foods onto Shawn's plate.  Once in a while, I am able to see him spoon in one--one single--bite of brown rice.  Well, it's a start.  I'm not expecting him eat plain old brown rice.  I season, season, season, then I over season since he smokes and his taste buds are shot to hell.  That bite of brown rice is BURSTING with flavor, I assure you.  But it's not french fries.

Now, dear friends, allow me to tell you the tale of the french fry.  When we first moved in together, our first appliance bought was a small deep fat fryer.  I thought this was a ludicrous purchase as there was never such a thing in my home growing up.  In fact, I didn't even realize such a thing existed!  Shawn thought I was half retarded.  I've always been the cook of the house.  Occasionally, it bothers me that I cannot be cooked for, that I must cook each and every meal.  This is one of those things that you either deal with and accept, or just grumble about because it ain't gonna change no matter what you do.

It's like the dishes.  He's done the dishes THREE times in our thirteen years of togetherness.  Why only three?  Because a) he just won't do it, and b) when he does do it, the dishes are still dirty and must be rewashed anyway.  It's like dealing with a smart child who knows if they do it wrong, eventually you, the parent, will do it for them because it is just easier.

But I digress.  Cooking is similar in this way except instead of having to merely rewash the dishes, there are extra dishes (as in fifteen spoons for use in one pot) and an ENTIRE kitchen to clean.  It should go without saying at this point that even though I do ALL the cooking, I also do ALL the dishes and ALL the counter cleaning, oven wiping, and so forth.  Suffice it to say, the kitchen is MINE and MINE ALONE.  If I should happen to fall ill, there is usually a frozen pizza from 2004 in the freezer.

Shawn absolutely hates veggies, and I did too for a long while.  Often, about five times a week, I made french fries as a side with supper.  They're cheap, quick and easy and Shawn doesn't really like anything else so he was happy with that.  In my mid-twenties I got sick over the smell of fries and even now, I rarely eat them.  Over the last two years, I have been slowly doing away with french fries.  I try really, really hard not to make them more than twice a week.  With Shawn in night school, it's throw some supper down his throat--he just got off work and he's hopping into the car for school--hurry!  What's quick and easy?

I can actually list what sides Shawn likes:  FRENCH FRIES FOREVER!  Corn on the cob, mac & cheese, Mexican rice (fried, and only made by certain area taco shacks) and....I think that's about it.  Once I set out a bag of potato chips with hamburgers and he griped about it.  Sigh.

How can any other American eat this way?  I can't explain it!!  You can't explain it!!  Won't someone please explain it??  Weight gain issues aside, Shawn should have had a heart attack by now from the amount of ingested fat and oils!  It's uncanny!

I told Shawn he needed AT LEAST 2,000 calories per day.  I read an article that same afternoon.  In it, a doctor said that if you are moderately active to multiply your weight by 13.  If you wish to maintain that weight, eat that number in calories per day.  To lose or gain, simply add or subtract a few hundred calories.  140 times 13 equals 1820.  I told Shawn that he should eat 2500 calories per day.

I weigh 112.  Multiplied by 13 is 1456.  I probably consume 2500 calories per day.  No kidding.

The next day I kept tabs on what Shawn ate during the day.  It was a Monday and I saw half his sandwich left behind in the fridge.  He said he had a McDonald's (shocker, there) sausage biscuit for breakfast.  He ate half a bowl of spaghetti and one piece of whole grain bread smeared with margarine.  I guessed his daily intake around 1,000 calories and nagged him.  "Oh yeah?  Watch this!" he declared as he marched into the kitchen with his chest puffed outwardly.

He opened the newly acquired pint of chocolate ice cream and whole milk.  He scooped out 1/4 a cup (who does that, honestly?!) and poured in about 1/2 cup of milk.  "How much is that?" Shawn asked.
"That's about 150 calories," I stated.
"There's no way I can eat 2500 calories!"
"Do you understand how stupid this is?  You're doing it backwards!" I said.  "Most people are counting up so they have a stopping point--that's when they say they cannot and will not eat any more today.  Most people don't have a problem with not eating enough, it's eating too much!  What is wrong with you?!"

It doesn't seem fair.  I struggle every day not to overeat and am not successful most days.  He's trying to eat more and just cannot do it.  The poor thing.  Oh, boo-hoo.  Do you have any idea what I or most people would give to have his problem?!  I should be the one to be too thin and he should have the pudge around his middle; this is so friggin' wrong!  I fight and argue with myself all day, everyday and here he is trying to eat more.

I could write literally, pages on how unfair and cruel the universe is regarding this matter but i believe I've made my point.  Speaking to Patti at work, she suggested sprinkling a protein powder in Shawn's meals.  "He'd never even notice," she said.
"Yes, but I've have to be VERY careful not to get the bowls mixed up.  Otherwise, I'd gain 200 pounds in a single month!" I laughed.

I'm in the process of research.  I know what foods are healthy, which are filling, and which are best to eat if you are trying to lose weight.  I know which foods are off limits from our house and which I can safely chow down on (broccoli, anyone?) without feeling guilty.  This is a new frontier.  This is uncharted territory for me.  I've no idea what to make for dinner to make Shawn safely gain weight.  If the french fries didn't do it, a bowl of brown rice sure as hell ain't gonna cut it!

I want to be really clear about one thing.  It is not Shawn's body I am concerned with.  If I wanted a muscle head, I would have dated, lived with, married, signed a mortgage with a muscle head.  Looks, body, all that stuff--none of it ever really mattered to me.  I am concerned about Shawn's health.  I am concerned that his body is starving and maybe that is contributing to his level of absurd crankiness each day.  Seriously, he's got a major case of PMS.  Like, all the time.

Of course when MOST people get stressed, MOST people participate in stress eating.  If you are living in an area of the world with an abundance of food, this is most likely true.  Shawn, on the other hand, eats less when he is stressed out.  He doesn't feel like eating much in the same way most of us don't feel like eating straight after a funeral.  Again, we should all be so lucky to have this problem.

He doesn't eat because he is bored, because there is plenty, because he depressed, stressed, or passing time during the commercials.  He eats till he's full and leaves what is left--EVEN if is only one bite.
"I'm full!"
"It's ONE bite, just eat it!" I prod.
"But I'm full!"
"So what am I supposed to do with it?  Wrap it up in a tupperware for ONE bite?  Of course I can't throw it away so I'm gonna eat it," I argue.
"So eat it," he answers.
"I don't want to eat it!  I want you to eat it so I won't eat it!"

And so it goes.

Add this to my list of New Problems.  I have to figure out how to lose weight while cooking for Shawn so he will gain weight.  Sigh.  I wonder how protein powder tastes in meatloaf?

That's exactly what'll be going through my head as I nibble fiber-laden Triscuit crackers.  Life is grand, ain't it?