Procastination?

...Well that's my middle name. My first one too.

I've known about a speech I have to give at BOTH church services tomorrow (less than 12 hours away) for a month -- at least. Here I sit, with no idea what to say. I've been "guided" in a topical direction by both the pastor and by a member of the Stewardship Committee, yet have no exact words on the tip of my tongue; no type flowing from my fingers -- save this entry, of course.

I have a crap load to say, unfortunately none of what flows through my head is suitable for a speech at church.

I should take some advice from one of the shows Adrien watches and just Think, Think, Think. But I can't.

It's been an eventful day, to say the least, and I'm quite frankly pooped. All I can think of is I bought ice cream sandwiches. I bought ice cream sandwiches. I did buy ice cream sandwiches.

I've eaten one. Now I think I may eat another.

Food for thought.

And then there's this little (tiny, insignificant) thought floating about in the chasm of my temporal lobe:

I'm praying to God saying, "Please Lord, don't let me start any other day with a call to 911 because my son's leg is wedged between the vertical slats that make up his crib. Because, God, ya know? When I had to start today that way it really put a damper on my poor little son. It put a damper on me. I cannot stand, for my son's sake, another bout of hysterics whereby my son is trapped in any way and cannot be free, save by four medics at 8:43am. No, Lord, I cannot have visions of the jaws of life cutting through my son's crib again (when in reality it was solved by an allen wrench), for it is that those visions and his pain were far too much, indeed. Thanks for everything else, though. Thanks for sending the medics in such a speedy manner. Thanks alot...really. Oh, and I think Adrien would like to thank you for creating men to in turn create chicken nuggets and ketchup. Thanks for ketchup. Amen."

See? Procrastination. And yes, that's a true story. I'll blog on it fully, later. And no, there were no jaws of life.

Blatantly B

So, I feel like my writing is slipping. A recent post by Candace at not that i don't love my kids has put into perspective my motives for writing. Of course I love getting hits, etc. But now I'm paranoid that I'm trying too hard. I believe I'm over thinking my posts -- most likely in this case too.

Anyhow, as a result, I was reviewing some of my older junk...the stuff I was writing like 70 some-odd posts ago. When I had literally 2 or 3 readers.

And here it is, Blatantly B. Blatantly bitchy, in most cases.

Here.
Sheila
Attack of the UberMom
Corn Syrup = Poison
The Next Jane Goodall

I mean, all of my stuff rocks your socks, I know. But I've tried to boil it down to my utter best.

(Belly laughter ensues, followed me assuring you that I was JK, Yo!)

...sure.

Pop Culture Counterpart...or not

Husband: Isn't that Bruce Springsteen?

Me: That's Elvis Costello.

Good Credit Report Vital to Good Mothering

Dear Lady in my play group:

I would like to know why, when responding the question of the week via message board, you felt the need to elaborate far too much.

When asked what the sequence of events would be like after you'd won the lottery, you -- as many of us did -- replied pay off debt. That is not an abnormal answer at all; very logical, indeed. It was what came next that was a little puzzling to me. You felt the need to follow "Pay off debt..." with "...under 3k". Now, why you felt the need to make that teeny tiny amount public knowledge is beyond me. I view you as a better mother due to your low accumulation of debt.

I believe -- as an organizer -- it is only fair that we allow mothers with good credit reports into our little group.

PS: I would also like to know how it is that your daughter escaped the play area and made her way fully up the escalator the other day at the mall while both you and your husband were present; neither of you missing her until some lady caught her and was screaming "Who's baby is this?!?" on her way up the escalator.

Sincerely concerned,

Me

Ode to food

I'm so flippin' hungry, but I've already eaten a meal...almost four hours ago. I want to eat. Not just eat, I'd like to binge eat. I think that all too often I daydream about all the stuff I want to eat. When I get there to eat, my appetite is so small that I can barely fit down half my plate of food. I guess that's alright. But what's a girl to do when she likes to clean her plate? It's such a satisfying feeling to eat. I love eating. It wasn't always that way, and still ebbs and flows as the weeks, days, hours and minutes of my life pass. My relationship with food is sticky. A little crusty around the edges, possibly. Taboo-ish, maybe. I don't hide the fact that I used to struggle with an eating disorder from anyone. And you -- yes YOU -- you may even have that little snippy thought in your head when you see me: Oh, she must never eat. But I do. I assure you that I do. And I eat a lot...or I used to.

Growing up I never had to watch what I ate. I know, you hate me. But blame my father's genetics. I could eat nearly everything in site (and most often did) with nothing to show for it. I was always an active child, and for some reason I actually liked to eat healthy. I remember disliking candy when I was little...I'd ask Santa for fruit rather than candy in my stocking. Nearly all of my Halloween candy would go uneaten, and only half of what was eaten was consumed by me. The rest was the work of my father's sweet tooth. One of my mom's favorite anecdotes is of me gnawing on broccoli through the plastic bag at the grocery store. She swears that it was my voracious appetite for veggies as a baby that drove this event and not my voracious need to chew on whatever I could get my infant hands on. Whatever the case, it was a parable of my early years. I was pretty healthy with my food choices...food wise, anyway. It's not to say that my emotional reasoning behind eating or not eating was healthy.

When I was 14, I was introduced to the word diet. I had a modeling contract. I had inches to lose. Places to tighten. A 14 year old being sent to a personal trainer. Then came emotional eating. When your own mother snaps at you about the carbs in a cracker you dig out of the pantry as a snack one afternoon, eating in secret becomes the norm. Guilt ensues. Calories are counted. And somewhere along the way, I ate (or rather didn't eat) my way to a lifetime of disordered eating. In retrospect, my eating was most likely always disordered. But that is another post entirely.

I remember the scary lady who was my "personal trainer" for a day. I remember all too well the words she said to me the one and only time my mom took me to her gym: You should view food as fuel for your body and nothing more. Nothing more? I started to bawl and the trainer was confused. She didn't understand why this had upset me so. It upset me because the thought of eating as a mere way to give your body fuel to burn took away this huge comfort. Eating was the teddy bear I had clung to in hard times. I love the way eating makes me feel. I love the food. I love the tastes. I love the smells. I love the social aspect; having that steak and eggs with my dad at that tiny country diner when I was 11 was so nice. I remember reporting valiantly to him that I'd cleaned my plate and eaten all of it. I love the memories food created in my mind. Looking back throughout my life, my memories are often earmarked by the food that was consumed at that moment. I can remember the taste of my Gran-gran's potato salad like it was yesterday. The mustard, the relish, the feel of the boiled egg in my mouth. She passed away long ago, and I'll never be able to physically taste her divine potato salad again, but the exact flavors and feelings are there; etched permanently in my memory. I love the way food fills you. It fills your senses; it fills your tum. It's instant gratification personified. I love food. Even through the tides of my hatred of food within my lifetime, I've loved it. For without true love, there is no true hate.

And so, here I am. It's nearly midnight and I just polished off a big fat sugary bowl of cereal. I'm not sure if I was truly feeling hunger at that moment, or if I just wanted something to fill a void within me. As with any vice, some is never enough and more just leads to that vicious cycle again. I never trust my hunger. I don't even know what true hunger feels like. That feeling was gone long ago -- either ignored long enough or filled up enough to never appear fully. For it is, I think, when I do feel hungry I am confused. I'm disoriented by my own silly relationship with an inanimate object that seems so alive in my mind. I often wonder what eating is like for people with normal relationships with food. Moreover, what's it like to not even have a "relationship" with food? What's it like to give fuel to the machine only? To stop when full? To eat when hungry? To recognize hunger as need? To recognize hunger at all? I wonder. Daily.

I love food and I love to eat. Right now I could eat and eat...and eat. I don't think it's hunger that's driving this urge. Whatever it is, I feel compelled to eat myself out of house and home. Everything. I resist, however, because I know better. A lifetime of restricting and recent illness has left me incapable of doing in excess the thing that I look to in these times. It's not to say that it's a bad thing...it's more to say that I'm mourning the current space between myself and food. My appetite is shrunken due to my shrinking stomach. The bad gallbladder that left me vomiting for a week has now betrayed my innermost yearnings: to eat enough to fill all the holes I have inside my heart. Since it's not quantity I am currently able to go after, it must be quality I've sought out. Instead of eating tons of food, all I crave are all the horrible things one should never want to begin with. Junk food.

Yes, I suppose, everyone's got their vice.

Shame, shame, shame

Shame on me, actually.

I'm just really paranoid now, since I've had some pretty nasty comments left in the past.

I would like to thank all of my loyal readers, though.

And I sincerely apologize if I offended any of you. I hope not.

Please visit the comments for this post and see any reply I may have made to you.

(That means you, Momof3! :-D ) I hope there's no hard feelings.

Seven things meme

I've been tagged by Missy at The fill in the [prefix]-est thing I saw today to write seven things about myself. I will then, in turn, tag seven others. The other seven people I'd like to tag are:

not that I don't love my kids
Kelly's Korner
Much to do about nothing
Baby Love Slings
mix'd equally
The Things we do
Would you please date my friend?

So that was kinda difficult -- rounding up all the blogs I read. So here we go -- 7 things about me:

1. I really can't stand laundry that is clean, yet goes unfolded...however I hate folding it and am generally the one that lets it sit.














That is a basket of unfolded laundry sitting in my bedroom at this very moment.


2. I love Vans shoes. But I hate how much they cost.














Me and Adrien's shoes. Daddy has some too -- but they're at work right now.

3. I really don't care what I eat or how fat I get most of the time -- until I start to gain the weight.

I thanked my husband for bringing me a pint of Blue Bell's Rocky Road Ice cream the other night. I want to get fat, I assured him.

4. I like to indulge in girly things, but I'm a total tomboy.

I'd like to get a pedicure and then afterwards, I'd like to go camping.

5. I like really loud rock and roll music. My favorite memories are from being front and center at concerts...

That's a friend and I outside of a concert -- a very long time ago. I'm the one on the left.

6. I am a painter and I consider myself somewhat of an artist.

If you don't like that painting, please feel free to -- take a deep breath and...blow it out your ass.

7. I never wanted children -- EVER. I never wanted to get married -- EVER. But I couldn't imagine my life any other way and I thank God every day for my wonderful husband and superb son. I love you guys!