Ms. Karma

Me thinks I am obsessed? Or what the heck is it? Everywhere I turn, ---forces greater than I - have me thinking, touching, asking, or playing with food. Is it bad Karma, that constantly has me placed with food?
Really? --That's all karma can come up with? -- All I've earned is food purgatory?

Mzss. Karma -- if you're out there -- I want you to know I scrubbed all the toilets in our house today. And to a spit shine, at that. ( . . And did I mention, Karma, --that I live in a house of all boys ~ using those toilets?!) If that can't buy me a little karma-relieve, I don't know what can.

Last night at a dinner party we played a game where the prize was candy.

First thing to do when I got up this morning? Eat. A few hours after that? A belated birthday present . . of lunch.

Read about an author today, who's new book sounds good. I check out her blogsite . . . and the blogsite name? Orangette! Blog's topic? Recipes.

Bags of fermenting future loaves of Friendship Bread piling up on my kitchen counter? Four. I don't even like Friendship Bread (but Hubby does) . . . . And I don't like pushing fermenting bags of cake batter on my friends (but Hubby does).

Tonight for date night, we are off to the high school snack bar . . I mean volleyball game.

I have the sniffles . . so I'm checking calorie content in a pouch of Emergen-C and tablet of Airborne.
Someone's dinner plate from last night sits in front of me, waiting for dishes to be done. I go outside and our fruit trees are dripping, heavy with calories.


Remember now, -all I have to do is quit thinking about food.

As room mom, when youngens' were still in elementary school, --a teacher informed me there'd be no more cupcakes and food treats for birthdays or class parties. My first impulse was to pull her hair, put tacks on her chair, and call her UnAmerican. But wisdom prevailed, and I lasted a whole year planning celebrations and holiday activities without introducing hoards of edible treats.
I know I can accomplish the same now if I really put my heart into it.

So, ~~in honor of my attempt at tricking Karma into liking me, I hereby vow the next two blogs will have nothing to do with food. Count'em . . . next two whole blogs! (Be patient with me if all I can come up with for topics is, like, cuticles or putty-colored shades.)


So -
Take that Karma-Warma! . . .

"And look! Karma! What's there behind you??!!!"
(Ha! Food, food, food, food, food.)
(Okay . . . needed that one last release. Now I'm ready.)


Here's to other interests :)

If You're Thinking What I'm Thinking . . .

I'm not so sure my new book The Complete Beck Diet for Life is going to work out. Even without finishing it, I've decided it sounds like a bunch of poppycock - best I can tell.

Basically the premise is that I need to get better at telling the voice in my head how to behave, and then practice listening to it, --the voice in my head. Fancy pants Dr. Beck call this Diet Cognitive Therapy.

Now the voices ~~
(yeah, 'voices.' --figures my voice would have to be a schizo')~
are not that easy to control, first let me just say. I mean they've had the run of things for a very long time and I doubt they are going to want to give that up now --even if I do try talking nice to them.


'Please, please little voices in my head. Can't we stop all this talk of food, and eating too much. Can't we all just get along? Me, you, and Dr. Beck?'
No. And if you keep talking to us like we're a little baby, we're leaving.
'You can't leave.'
Oh yeah? - Watch us.
'Okay, okay. --I'm sorry. Please don't go. I need you in my head. If you leave the only voices left will be Oprah's, Hubby's, Dr. Laura's, and Obama's. --Please, I'm sorry, don't leave.'
Okay than. But don't try anything fancy . . .
and we were wondering, -are we going to visit our new friends soon?

Oh, I should know better than to talk to myself - I'm not reasonable.

And b'sides, --I have bigger problems. The Wednesday morning servers at McDonalds have started thinking that they are my buddies. I don't want to be friends with the employees at McDonalds. I don't want them to recognize me, I don't want to hangout with them, and I don't want to share stories. I just want my hotcakes and diet coke!

Basically, those friends are like my pusher and I'm the junkie! There's no reason to be 'friendly' about it. If the drive-through girl really was a 'friend' - she would slap my hand when I reach out for cholesterol and carbs, --and tell me to go away.

But no. She's a total enabler - and with friends like that . . . well, you know . . .

My 'diet' book promises:
"If you've struggled with dieting in the past, it's only because you never acquired these essential cognitive skills . . . and learned to think differently."
I might as well just cut me off-at-the-pass (cognitively speaking) and tell my brain, "don't start with me!" --Because now I'm noticing Dr. Beck's suggestion would never work anyhow. ---'Cause I'm not someone who's 'struggled' with dieting, 'in the past'; there's nothing 'past' about my struggle at all. My struggle is on a continuous loop . . . like a laughtrack that never ends. The voices in my head have no intention of telling the voices in my head to stop acting like they want to eat.

If reincarnation does exist --in my previous life I was a cow ('cause do they look like they give a heck that all they do is eat and sometimes make milk?) ~~and in the life after this one, I bet I'll be a HomeTown Buffet. It's just my luck. I know it. (And then some bratty girls from my old high school will come in, and one of them will say to me "OmG!! Didn't you use to be Bliss, from our high school?!!)

Ick!!

Okay, okay. I'm not saying I've given up already. I can't. I smell summer, --and some dang pool party hostess is going to demand I get in a bathing suit. (My friend at McDonalds would never demand I do such a thing. She'd just, "There, there now," to me. "Have another quarter-pounder, and don't worry that other people can't look away when they see you in a bathing suit. It's all the more to love, you know? Who wouldn't love you? Huh?? Look at those cheeks!" --Yes. She means those cheeks.


Oh, it's all a mess, I tell you.
My life as a dieter.
I need a good dose of Dieter's Zen.
You know - my happy meal . . . I mean Happy Place!!
Happy place. Happy place. Happy place.

Le Langue De Amour

Compared to my husband I feel like a potty'ing machine. I'm always goin' - and he's
always waitin'.
Last weekend during date night at the movies, I learned a new word. While using the potty at the theater, a gaggle of girls came in. One went into a stall and I heard her shout to her friend, "Don't you want to go pepe' too? Before the movie starts?"
Well, imagine my delight, first, -at hearing a word come out of a random teen's mouth that I didn't have to cover my ears for, and second, that was spoken instead of text'ed, and third, that was as fantastic a word as pepe' is!
How cute is pepe' ?
Say it after me, "pep-e' " ~ Rhymes with kep - a ~~


I raced back to share with Hubby the happy news -- my New Word. (Granted while it might not have been as exciting to him as me - I still felt sure pepe' was going to make me sound way darlin'er and less bladder-worn than the usual I have to go to the bathroom again, wait here.)


"Guess what word I just learned?" She asks.

"What?" He answers.

"Pepe'." She says-
"Pepe'?" He asks -
"Yup. In the bathroom, a bunch of girls came in, and
they used the word pepe' for going potty." She answers.
"Umm," He grunts.
"What was the name of that french-lover-skunk guy in the old cartoons? --The one that was always trying to get the girl cat to love him?" She asks.
"Pepe' Le Pew," He answers.
"Yes, that's it!" She exclaims.
"Oh yeah," He -
"Pepe' is my new word," She -
"Okay," He -


How does one partake in a conversation about "pepe' " - and not hear it?


I would so remember a conversation with someone that included the word pepe' in the place of going to the bathroom.
I would so remember a conversation with someone about the word pepe'.
I would so remember a conversation with someone.
I would so remember conversation.
I would so.
I would.
I.Pepe'.



After the movie I see the group of girls, my new compatres, leaving the theater.

"There they go," she says.
"Who?" he asks.
"That group of kids from the bathroom," she answers.
"What group of kids?" he asks.
"The ones we talked about," She -
"Who?" He -
"The 'Pep-A' girls," She -
"What??" He -

I don't want you to think I'm a total potty mouth, so here's another example:


"I have got some mammoth splinters in my hand from that plywood!" He -

"Geez, wow . . yeah," She -

"There's no way around it, --I'm going to have to dig them out," He -

"Ouch. Okay. Say, - we have a billion tweezers around here . . . there's one in the kitchen, boy's bath, and our drawer. Just don't use the metal ones in the medicine cabinet, k?" She -

"Mm." He -

(The medicine cabinet ones being the 'special' ones she uses to pull and pluck things from her body. And by 'special' - she means expensive. And by 'things from her body,' she means tiny unladylike hairy grotesque imperfections.)


One hour later she stumbles upon the surgery counter - and the 'special' metal tweezers with zero fine tip left. He must have scraped roof tar with them after splinter-to-the-bone digging.


She - "Hey - remember when I said any tweezers but these?" (Holding up the 'these.')
He - "No?"


~~~~

One time out of the clear blue we got a coupon-flier in the mail, good for One Free Hearing Test.
("Hot dog!" She says. "Whatever," He says.)
She makes him go.
He would fake offense, --except that it was free.
He'd go to a leg-breaking, if it was free.

True Story:"Hello sir," woman at hearing test office says.
"I'm here for my free hearing test," He informs.
"Have you been having problems?"
"No."
"Did your doctor send you?"
"No."
"Why are you here?"
" --My wife made me come."
bored pause - "We get that a lot. --line forms to the left."

and his test results? ~~ " . . . with flying colors!"



I've decided free hearing tests are bogus.
Like swampland in Arizona.

And that there is a conspiracy I will never get to the bottom of.
And even if I did get to the bottom of it, --only girls would listen to me.

So okay fellas, here it is,
--I give up.


(Ah, and if only you had heard me . . .victory would have been sweet . . . )