Hello. My Name is B and I'm a Peanut Butteraholic

I recently read a fitness blog that really made me mad. Then it made me think. Then it made me empowered.  It was a well-written post about personal accountability as it relates to fitness and fitness goals.  In a nutshell, it said (and I'm paraphrasing, here), 'Stop bitching about your weight if you're not going to stop filling your pie hole with bacon double cheeseburgers!'

I don't think any of those actual words were in her post, but that was the message I got.

At first I thought, "What the hell?!  Who do you think you are, calling me out like that?!  Not all of us are super-hero-fitness-icons who can spend countless hours at the gym, little missy!!".

Of course, we don't know each other and she doesn't even know I read her blog because I happened upon it while stalking someone else's FB profile.  But I was pretty sure she was writing TO ME! 

Do you ever get that feeling that an article is written to you?  YOU!  I knew she was addressing me because I complain of every pitfall, sin, and excuse she wrote about. I bitch about working out till my legs snap off at the knees and then lament about why I can't 'seem' to lose this 10 lbs... While I shovel peanut butter in my mouth in a cool, dark, pantry.  I marvel at other people's muscles and physiques and then fail to 'find time' to work my own muscles.  It was as if she's been standing behind me, listening to me cry in my bottle of wine for years!! 

Every sentence she wrote - I queued up a solid, steadfast retort that was sure to justify my actions... Until I read the next sentence she wrote where she shot down my excuse with a more superior rebuttal. "Damn her!  I know she's wrong. Somewhere in here, somehow... She's WRONG!!  I need to step away from this and come up with a doosie!" (Is that how it's spelled?)

So I stepped away. I thought. I dissected. I came up empty-handed. I finally accepted that she was right. It was like a condensed 12-step program. I kinda felt like I needed to apologize to her or something. Isn't that one of the steps? 

She was right about consequences, owning my actions and the reactions, controlling myself, blah blah blah.

But it's sooooooo haaaaaard to doooooo!!!! (Yes, I'm whining!) 

When that peanut butter, cake, or french bread calls to me; it sings so sweetly.  It promises me salvation. The peanut butter whispers in my ear, "It's okay, baby. I'm NATURAL peanut butter. I'm not gonna hurt you."

How do I fight that?  Keep my eye on the prize?  Visualize the attained goal?  Don't buy the shit in the first place? 

Whatever. I feel more empowered as I look my sins in the eyes and 'admit I have a problem'. 

Sometimes I'm successful and walk away from the bad options.

Sometimes Satan the peanut butter, cake, and warmbutterycrunchychewy french bread wins.

So. My response?  She's right. I'm human. I'll keep trying. I'll tone down the whining (somewhat).

Interested in reading her very good blog and then feeling like you've been called out but ultimately knowing she's right?  Here's a link to it. (Hopefully, I'm allowed to link to her blog):  Pride

-B(Sting)

Face Value

"Are you on Facebook?  Me, too.  I'll look you up when I get home and friend you!"

The Facebook frenzy has taken hold and I love it!  My alarm clock goes off at 5:45am, signaling the start of another school day.  But before I can start my day, I reach for the BlackBerry to read the status updates.  I know exactly where I can stop scrolling/reading -  at the last update I read last nite before I fell asleep. Check my notifications, comment where applicable, and I'm ready to swing my legs out of bed and rouse Dot from her slumber. 


I live for and through my friends' status updates (and pictures, wall posts, videos, links, etc).  I feel closer to people than I ever did 'in person' because I know them more.  I can read them.  Not just their updates but them! I can learn a lot about a person by how they write and what they write.  It's almost like reading their journals (with their permission, of course).  

My personal Facebook philosophy is such that I friend only those people whom I am interested in stalking.  And let's be very clear about something... if you are my FB friend, I am stalking you (in a non-threatening way).  Don't pretend you don't like it.  I know you do.  I do, too.  You... we... are perfectly normal.  There's a little voyeur in all of us. Which is one of the reasons FB is so popular, in my (unprofessional) opinion.  We want our friends to know us without having to say, "Yo!  I want you to know me!"  And this is why the FB Status Update has gone viral. 

At dinner, tonite, my brother-in-law noted that he didn't have the usual catch-up questions and conversation starters because he already knew from my daily updates how the family is doing, how work is going, and even how the weather has been.  But this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  We did not all sit at the restaurant in silence and awkwardly stare at each other.  In fact, the updates became the conversation kindling!  I suspect this is the case for many people.

"Did you read Lou's update about..."
"Oh my GOD!  YES!  Did you see what Jane commented???"
"No!  I had to do something more important but less fun get to work!  What did she say?"

And before you know it, you're talking about topics that actually have your undivided attention rather than mundane commentary about the freakish snowfall, wishing Spring would spring, and blah, blah, blah.

Once, a friend posted that she was waiting at the doctor's office.  One of her friends asked if she was pregnant.  BAM!  VIRUS LAUNCHED!  Not a menacing computer trojan virus.  I'm talking about the update/comment virus!  Before she could get back to her Facebook page and catch up, friends were swarming all over the possible pregnancy.  Congratulatory comments were flying.  Comments of surprise flooded the thread.  Her own family was wondering what the hell was going on in that girl's uterus!  And when she did (finally) sign on, she saw the wildfire that she had to put out.  No, she wasn't pregnant.  She was at the pediatrician with her child, waiting to see the doc.  Nothing more. 

Our Facebook words do not get lost in the ether of space.  Not long ago (today), I updated (ranted) about the Face Book Fan Page phenomenon.  I wondered (in writing) what their purpose was, how many fans justify a page, and (most importantly) why didn't I have any fans?  In response, a friend created a fan page for me.  It was a joke, but it was so awesome!  My friends hopped on the fanwagon and posted on the wall and I felt like a celebrity for a few hours!  Soon, however, I realized fan pages do have a purpose for businesses or (real) celebrities with zillions of actual fans.  While I like to pretend I'm a celebrity, the reality is I don't really have a need for a legitimate fan page.  And my 'fans' were already my FB friends with whom I maintain a 2-way dialogue.  I could never handle having fans.  I want to have friends.  So we deleted the page and I got over myself. 

My point is that people are reading what we write, they do care, and our Facebook pages are being taken at face value.  Some have complained (myself included) that FB is a time-waster.  But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it's not a waste of time at all.  It makes us feel good, cheers us up when we need it, makes us laugh, and most importantly... it keeps us connected. 

Do you consider these things time-wasters?

-B(Sting)

Come To My Window

Being a mom has put me in touch with my inner paranoid schizophrenic.  Or maybe just getting older has done this to me?  No matter.  It's done.

Not long ago (or maybe it was long ago, but my obsession keeps this event fresh and new) our house was egged.  Not once... but twice in 1 week.  It terrified my young daughter because she couldn't understand why someone would do that to us.  Did they hate us?  Were they trying to hurt us?  And if so, why with eggs... a healthy source of protein?

When I realized how much she internalized the egging and how much it upset her, it was game on for me.  I was livid.  Of course I knew it was some "punk" showboating for his/her friends, it  wasn't personal (most likely?), and they clearly didn't value the health benefits of eggs.  I was so pissed off that since then, I have developed bionic ears.  I can hear and sense punks a mile away (or so I think).

My bionic ears kicked in at 3am last nite (I know I should say "this morning", here... but it doesn't feel right).  I heard the iron gates of our fenced backyard creak outside my bedroom window.  Remember Jaime Sommers from the Bionic Woman and how she'd push her long blonde hair back, cup her hand around her bionic ear, and lean in a little to hear things miles away?

 
That was me!  I strained to hear the source or some follow-up sounds.  Then I (thought) I heard the gravel shift a little on the path that leads from the gate into the backyard.  "Mother-F'in PUNKS!  I will beat your asses!!!"

I slinked out of the bed and crouched down real low.  Didn't wanna tip em' off that I was on to them, right?!  I was like Hidden Dragon Crouching Tiger... or Crouching Dragon Hidden Tiger... or Crouching Middle-Aged Woman Hidden Mental Issues... whatever!  You get my point.  I was STEALTH!  I slooooooowly pushed the sheer aside and peeeeeered out the side of the window.  My face pressed against the glass, my hands cupped around my eyes to eliminate the glare; and then I heard it....

Nothing.  No "Shhhh!  Shhhhh!  She'll hear you!"  No movement in the shrubbery.  I strained my eyes to activate my super-human night vision.  Still nothing.

Well, I did see something, actually.

I saw the reflection of a pathetic, paranoid woman behaving like Gladys Kravitz, the nosy busy-body neighbor on Bewitched.  "ABNER!  I heard something out there!!!"

Ashamed, I went back to bed.  "Oh my God!  I'm SUCH AN IDIOT!!!  They're not going to LET me see them!"

-B(Sting)

Short and Sweet

No, no.  Not me.  I'm not short and sweet.  I'm tall and more than a little bitter.  I'm referring to websites, this time.  I think I suffer from internet-induced ADD (no 'H', tho.  I'm not hyperactive.  Hyperactivity assumes there is at least activity). 

I feel calm and at peace when I am visiting a website that is fairly linear.  I can start at the top and work my way down.  Then I can look at happy little tabs from left to right.  I don't need a map to get around or a stack of post-it notes to remind me where I was or where I may want to go, next.  If there are too many links and branches, I get lost and over-stimulated and eventually shut down the whole damned computer. 

Does this ever happen to you?

Scene:  You're at your computer, looking at a website or reading an article.  You're calm, relaxed, reading.  And then there is a sentence or a word that is blue and underlined right in the middle of what you're reading.  Oh, you know what that is.  It's A LINK!  The anxiety starts to build a little bit.  What should you do?  What should you do?  Finish reading what you've started?  You know you want to get to the end of what you're reading.  But that blue, underlined text taunts you.  "Click me!  Click me!  Here I am!  Click me!  Click here!!!  Hey!  Hey!  HEEEEEEY!!!!"  You try to ignore that blue, blue text.  You keep reading.  You're old school and you have been trained to finish what you've started.  But that link calls to you.  You're still reading, but you're not really absorbing what you're reading anymore because instead you're OBSESSING about that link.  So you rush to the end.  On your way to the bottom of the page, there is another link.  Oh no!  What are you going to do now?  Now there's TWO links (or more) for you to follow up with.  And you know damn well that each of those links will contain MORE LINKS!  It's gone viral!  You're desperately clicking around, being redirected there, are you sure you want to leave here?  Click here to go back.  Go back where????  Where did you start?  Did you take notes before you clicked away???  Where are you?

You're in Oz, now.  Just Click (your heels) three times to get (redirected) Home.  Wherever the hell that is.

So.  Does that ever happen to you?  No?  It's just me?  I need stronger meds, don't I.  Fair enough.

-B(Sting)

Channeling Mommy Dearest

There was this one time (at band camp?) that I thought I wanted to be a teacher.  I can explain very complex concepts and create all sorts of tips and tricks to help people learn new things.  Thankfully, I did not take myself seriously.  In reality, I can teach adults.  I have patience with adults.  I can connect with adults.  ADULTS.

Now that I have a 5-year old daughter to raise and teach, I see I have truly missed my calling.... as a deranged serial killer. 

In the beginning, I was ready for the challenges that awaited me.  I just had to stick to my guns, be the alpha dog, firm but loving, "be the crane" (fellow SpongeBob aficionados will know what I'm talking about with that last reference). You can stop with that 'knowing' laugh and put your eyebrows down.  I know (now) how wrong I was. 

She became her own little person.  Which turned out to be strikingly similar to the little person that I was... am.  Stubborn, lazy, funny, procrastinator, dilly-dallier extraordinaire, chatty, crowd-worker, people-pleaser. 

Potty training was good times.  Like that one time when I had her running amok sans diaper thinking she'd realize there was nothing to catch her emissions and she'd use the potty.  Instead she shit in the playroom and just moved herself and her Pretty Little Ponies over a bit, away from what looked like a giant dog pile.  "Really?" I asked her.  "You really don't think there's anything wrong with that????"  Rubbing her nose in it was obviously out of the question.  So after several failed attempts, I abandoned ship and decided I'd let her college friends handle the potty training.  Then about a month later, as I reached for a diaper, she said, "No more diapers, Mama.  Panties."    And that was it.  She never looked back.  She essentially potty trained herself.  I should have known that was the beginning of a pattern and the end of my sanity. 

Same scenario with colors:  "What color is this?"
"PINK!"
"Well, that's the most goth shade of pink I've ever seen.  It's black, baby.  BLACK!"
I gave up and she taught herself her colors.  Including turquoise and chartreuse.  Don't ask me.  I have no idea. 

Now we're in Kindergarten and reading/writing has really brought out the Mommy Dearest in me.  I get so frustrated and have these out of body moments where I can see myself with my hair pulled back, a thick layer of cold cream on my face - but not around my delicate eyes and mouth - hovering over her, "What sound does the letter M make?  What do you mean 'hhhhh'????  The letter EMMMMM!  Do you hear 'hhhh' in the letter EMMMMMM????  REALLY????"  Fortunately, I catch myself before I go off the deep end like that.  While I may abruptly excuse myself, quietly mumbling about needing a cigarette, a bottle of wine, and a Xanax; I do not wield wire hangers... or even use cold cream, for that matter.  And when she does throw me a bone and count to 100 in increments of 5, it's ice cream for EVERYONE!!!  FOREVER!!!!  That child's not dumb.  She's a player.  A mama-playah!  And she learns according to HER agenda, not mine.  Where does she get this from?  (Zip it, smarty pants!  I know the answer.  Her father!  Haha... okay, okay.  It's me.)

Once or twice I've gone to her school.  One hour in that place, and I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out with (sterile) melon ballers. God bless our Kindergarten teachers who basically start at ground-zero with a room-full of wild animals.  It must be like herding squirrels.  They take a group of children with varying levels of knowledge, skills, and self-control and *voila!* by the end of the school year, we have a group of nicely institutionalized members of society. 

And now Dot's writing sentences, doing math, counting money... all because some other super-human teacher did NOT miss their calling!  Thank you, Super Teacher!

You know, I believe Mommy Dearest really did love her children.  Just not the "children" part of them.  ;)

-B(Sting)

Text It and End It!

I am a serial texter.  I do not like the telephone.  If I cannot communicate with you in person, then I will email or text.  Do not call me.  Do not expect a call from me.  And if, by the grace of God, you do get me on the phone; don't expect a warm body to be on the other end of the conversation.  For some reason, I go blank on the phone.  I become a cold, dead fish.  I have nothing to say.  It's just awkward and painful (for me and the other person).

Is it my turn to talk?  No?  It's your turn to talk?  No?  What did you say?  I was still talking.  Okay.  You go.  No.  Me?  So... how 'bout this weather?  Nothing new here.  You?  Okay.  Well, that's all I got.  Can I hang up the phone now?  (that was painful just to read, wasn't it?)

But text or email?  You can't get me to shut the hell up (see the irony here?).  It's sort of like the "No, you hang up first" syndrome.  If you respond, I will respond.  Every. Single. Time.  It's like I can't stop.  Someone will send me a text and I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  See?  I can't even stop explaining the responding!  I can't seem to find the natural stop point.  I can always think of something more to text.  Even if it's just an expression like, "HA!"  or "Nice!" or "D'oh!".  I'm just trying to tell you that I have not abruptly abandoned you.  I CAN'T STOP! 

I know I need to just text it and end it, but there's always something else I can write.  Maybe because I'm a writer?  Maybe because text and email allows for an acceptable (and non-awkward) pause that gives you time to think of something more to "say".  Sometimes, I'll see a good stop point and will try to not respond.  But then I worry.  I worry that the person with whom I'm texting will think I'm mad or didn't respond because of some sinister reason.  So I'll respond with something like, "Well, I better get back to work" or anything that basically says, "The End"... but in a nice, conversational way.

But wait!  There's more worry!  I worry that my lame 'The End' is too trite and empty.  Like the person KNOWS I don't really have to get back to work, I just want to end the 'convertextsation'  (I just made that word up.  Whaddya think?).  So then I'll text something MORE... something more believable and funny to fix the previously attempted and awkward closing.

Maybe going forward, we should all text "Done" which loosely translates to "I don't have anything more to say or I'm tired or I'm driving or I'm going to go do something else and don't take it personally but I'm done with this text or email string.  Talk to you later.  No I'm not mad or upset.  I'm just done, here.  But I still love/like you very, very much.  And see?  I'm even having a hard time wrapping up what "Done" means.  So.  Done."

Oh dear GOD!  Do you see what's happening here?  I can't even end this blog post with a clean break!  I don't want you to think I'm insensitive about your thoughts or commentary.  I don't want to leave you wondering what happened or if I ran out of things to.... Oh hell!  DONE.




-B(Sting)