Been A Long Diet

Well

It has been forever since I have written a proper blog.  The creative writing class that I took during the spring  made me less likely to blog.

In the class, I had to write small autobiographical stories based on techniques and memory tricks.  I would post them to the online forum and my classmates would add commas.  I am terrible with commas, proper nouns and balancing metaphors.  I had to enlist the aid of an editor.   At first I thought that writing a blog and an autobiographical short story would be vastly different.  I wrote poorly and bored my reader.

Here is an excerpt of my fairy tale.

 

            Once a upon a time, a young family called Hooker with two little girls moved to a modern  castle in the Land of Toledo.  The two little girls fought and argued, disappointing their mother whose relationship with her own sister was stronger than any in the world.  One day the mother called the little girls outside to wave goodbye to their father. The dutiful girls said their goodbyes and continued to live with their mother in the castle.  They had no reason to miss him as he visited regularly. 

 

Awful. I know. 

In this story I wrote about my work experiences.

 

When I began my job, 4 and ½ years ago, there was nothing but an outline of responsibilities and forms.  I had sought training, learned new techniques, adopted curriculum and consulted with experts to improve outcomes.  While I was indulged, my position was ultimately a support function for an essential position in the program.  I felt powerless the day I was overruled during a staff meeting because my suggestion while logical and valid was not time efficient.  At this meeting, I finally understood that my position was the undesired portion of a pivotal function within the program.  There were other occasions where my advice or recommendations were discounted because of tradition or expediency despite it being the best response for the students that we served.  This began a conflict.  The program functioned as a 30 year old machine maintained by mechanics who ignored 30 years of innovation.  Who patronized the new mechanics with their fancy tools and resources by offering to them a doughnut, cup of coffee, and a pat on the head.

 

After my editor helped me with this she suggested that I try humor: 

 

That was when I began to perform well in the course. 

I wrote about my grandfather and his dementia. I wrote about trying to train cats. I wrote about tormenting my little sister with a tub of butter.  I wrote about creating handmade masterpieces that were hidden in basements by their recipients.  I wrote about  roommates, sex and, … well, you read some of it in a previous post.    

I got an A in that course.

 

Since I have written on this wall. Many things have occurred.  I have gained 15 pounds.  That means two dress sizes.  I love it when people pretend not to notice don’t you? I mention that I am overweight and how it is driving me crazy and I get responses like “you are not fat. You are fine” Sometimes my revelation is met with surprise.   I have stated that my weight gain is out of control and I can not figure out its source and I am matter-of-factly told that I am probably just eating too much. 

I want you to think about that for just a moment.  Wouldn’t you have ALREADY RULED THAT OUT. I am 5 4” and I am tipping almost 200 lbs.  I am not obese.  I can get away with saying “thick” with my Black peers but I am not happy.

I am being successfully treating for narcolepsy, SADS, hypothyroidism and allergic rhinitis.  Each of my doctors say that I should not be gaining weight with the treatments.  They are concerned. 

In the 21st Century, we members of what might be the fattest country in the world have access to gazillions of datum related to calories, fat content, carbs and fiber.  There is a new diet on the best seller list each quarter.  Our celebrities are hounded for their diet secrets and ridiculed for the weight gain.  I am a moderately intelligent woman who has taken advantage of my job’s wellness program, which for me includes a coach and an exercise program.  I would freaking just admit it if I were simply overeating………………

 

So

I have had to alter something in my life with my extra baggage.  I got over being completely upset over my belly touching my thighs when I use the bathroom.  I use objects to scratch my back.  I have discovered body shapers. I eat healthy snacks.  I wear more jewelry and make-up.  I look longingly at my size 7 shoe collection.  I can only wear 7 ½’s now. 

I taught myself to knit and walk at the same time.

Okay, you probably read that sentence twice. 

 I found that I can get a moderate exercise routine in while completing some of my craft projects.  No, I do not knit and walk in public although, I might…..

I am determined to get my work-out where ever and when ever I can. 

I wear a pedometer to track my steps each day.  I attend line dancing classes (which is a guaranteed 5000 steps each session.)  I use Calorie Count and a diet journal to track my food and weight.  I measure myself each week. 

I am blowing up.

I have tried reducing wheat and that only seemed to help my heartburn.  I am reducing corn products and I have discovered that corn is in everything.  It is quite sickening how much corn we eat.  I have never been a regular at fast food restaurants but I do watch how much I eat when I eat at sit-down eateries. 

I am on top of this.  But when I climb on that scale it just gives in…….

I am determined to get healthy again.

Besides, I want to try online dating and I don’t want to check “overweight” under the body type category. 

More to come. 

Been A Long Diet

Well

It has been forever since I have written a proper blog. The creative writing class that I took during the spring made me less likely to blog.

In the class, I had to write small autobiographical stories based on techniques and memory tricks. I would post them to the online forum and my classmates would add commas. I am terrible with commas, proper nouns and balancing metaphors. I had to enlist the aid of an editor. At first I thought that writing a blog and an autobiographical short story would be vastly different. I wrote poorly and bored my reader.

Here is an excerpt of my fairy tale.

Once a upon a time, a young family called Hooker with two little girls moved to a modern castle in the Land of Toledo. The two little girls fought and argued, disappointing their mother whose relationship with her own sister was stronger than any in the world. One day the mother called the little girls outside to wave goodbye to their father. The dutiful girls said their goodbyes and continued to live with their mother in the castle. They had no reason to miss him as he visited regularly.

Awful. I know.

In this story I wrote about my work experiences.

When I began my job, 4 and ½ years ago, there was nothing but an outline of responsibilities and forms. I had sought training, learned new techniques, adopted curriculum and consulted with experts to improve outcomes. While I was indulged, my position was ultimately a support function for an essential position in the program. I felt powerless the day I was overruled during a staff meeting because my suggestion while logical and valid was not time efficient. At this meeting, I finally understood that my position was the undesired portion of a pivotal function within the program. There were other occasions where my advice or recommendations were discounted because of tradition or expediency despite it being the best response for the students that we served. This began a conflict. The program functioned as a 30 year old machine maintained by mechanics who ignored 30 years of innovation. Who patronized the new mechanics with their fancy tools and resources by offering to them a doughnut, cup of coffee, and a pat on the head.

After my editor helped me with this she suggested that I try humor:

That was when I began to perform well in the course.

I wrote about my grandfather and his dementia. I wrote about trying to train cats. I wrote about tormenting my little sister with a tub of butter. I wrote about creating handmade masterpieces that were hidden in basements by their recipients. I wrote about roommates, sex and, … well, you read some of it in a previous post.

I got an A in that course.

Since I have written on this wall. Many things have occurred. I have gained 15 pounds. That means two dress sizes. I love it when people pretend not to notice don’t you? I mention that I am overweight and how it is driving me crazy and I get responses like “you are not fat. You are fine” Sometimes my revelation is met with surprise. I have stated that my weight gain is out of control and I can not figure out its source and I am matter-of-factly told that I am probably just eating too much.

I want you to think about that for just a moment. Wouldn’t you have ALREADY RULED THAT OUT. I am 5 4” and I am tipping almost 200 lbs. I am not obese. I can get away with saying “thick” with my Black peers but I am not happy.

I am being successfully treating for narcolepsy, SADS, hypothyroidism and allergic rhinitis. Each of my doctors say that I should not be gaining weight with the treatments. They are concerned.

In the 21st Century, we members of what might be the fattest country in the world have access to gazillions of datum related to calories, fat content, carbs and fiber. There is a new diet on the best seller list each quarter. Our celebrities are hounded for their diet secrets and ridiculed for the weight gain. I am a moderately intelligent woman who has taken advantage of my job’s wellness program, which for me includes a coach and an exercise program. I would freaking just admit it if I were simply overeating………………

So

I have had to alter something in my life with my extra baggage. I got over being completely upset over my belly touching my thighs when I use the bathroom. I use objects to scratch my back. I have discovered body shapers. I eat healthy snacks. I wear more jewelry and make-up. I look longingly at my size 7 shoe collection. I can only wear 7 ½’s now.

I taught myself to knit and walk at the same time.

Okay, you probably read that sentence twice.

I found that I can get a moderate exercise routine in while completing some of my craft projects. No, I do not knit and walk in public although, I might…..

I am determined to get my work-out where ever and when ever I can.

I wear a pedometer to track my steps each day. I attend line dancing classes (which is a guaranteed 5000 steps each session.) I use Calorie Count and a diet journal to track my food and weight. I measure myself each week.

I am blowing up.

I have tried reducing wheat and that only seemed to help my heartburn. I am reducing corn products and I have discovered that corn is in everything. It is quite sickening how much corn we eat. I have never been a regular at fast food restaurants but I do watch how much I eat when I eat at sit-down eateries.

I am on top of this. But when I climb on that scale it just gives in…….

I am determined to get healthy again.

Besides, I want to try online dating and I don’t want to check “overweight” under the body type category.

More to come.

My Exercise Class

My Exercise Class

Update of my story

I was advised to fill-out my story a bit more. 
Enjoy the new edit.
Happy Mother's Day to my Mom

Throughout my life, I have come up with or heard some ridiculous plans, ideas and explanations for the way that things were. For example, in graduate school my friend told me that sex and the single girl become estranged friends after the age of twenty-four.  She was a wise woman.  She also warned me that if you are a bridesmaid at the wedding you not see your girlfriend again.  She was right again.  Women tend to ask old friends to be in their wedding and then everyone disappear.  I have always tended to seek fault in other people for my shortcomings and problems.  I blame my grandmother for being the shortest in my family.  At four foot ten, she ruined it for me.  I avoid conflict by creating and adhering to elaborate non-confrontational rules.  I adhere to the “do not inquire about gifts once given rule” that Miss Manners promotes.  I understand the significance of this rule whenever I glance at the wedding gift that I made for my cousin lying unappreciatively on his couch.  It was designed to be a wall hanging.  Perhaps, I should just stop making things for relatives and concentrate on projects that people request.  Sometimes, my rationale for my habits and life-rules eludes my family and friends.  My aunt cannot understand why I insist on learning to eat with my left hand.  Each of my personal rules begins with a story.

Being that I was the shortest and the smallest in my childhood home, I actively worked  to make my sister feel inferior and insecure.  I still explain to people that I hated my sister because I had not been properly prepared for her addition to the family. After my parent’s divorce, my father’s family would present my sister with gifts on my birthday because her birthday is four days after Christmas and mine is in the summer.  They would always forget that they gave her a gift for both Christmas and her birthday (meaning that she would receive two to my one) and give her another in July.  Clearly, it was not my fault that we did not get along. 

I was quite mean to her.  I broke her bedroom window because she dared to touch mine.  While getting ready for kindergarten, I set up a safety pin in the hopes that she would step on it.  In my rush to find socks for my mint green corduroy outfit (I think that it was St. Patrick’s Day), it was me that needed a band aid. That did not stop me.  Once I placed a small cup of warm water by her foot and set her alarm clock.  When she rose and began getting dressed, I removed the cup and accused her of peeing in her bed.  She eventually learned my trick.  Since she grew taller than I before she left grade school, I knew that I had to rely on more than my wits to stay on top.  I needed strength in case our frequent arguments escalated into violence.  She became more assertive once she entered junior high and I feared a rebellion was coming.  I joined the track team during middle school to have access to weight machines and trainers to become physically equal to my very athletic, taller and bigger little sister.  It seemed easier to build muscle rather than just try to get along with my sister.  Actually, I stopped paying attention to her once I began to focus all of my efforts on selecting a college to attend. 

I also gave up chicken drumsticks because of my sister.  Dinner at my house on fried chicken night had become a battle of wills over who would get the prized drumsticks.  Sometimes, my mother would make extra drumsticks and other times we would make the drumstick undesirable to anyone but ourselves by touching it repeatedly or sneezing on it. Teaching myself to dislike drumsticks meant that I could avoid the dinner table wars.  After one particularly nasty drumstick duel, I declared that drumsticks were for children.  My sister had earned the prize drumstick by appealing to my grandmother.  Her tactic was clearly not fair and I was quite upset with her during dinner.  When she asked me to pass the butter, I said, “Hut, one, two, three…” and threw it at her almost hitting my sister in the head.  I thought that it was loads of funny but my grandmother punished me anyway.  It occurred to me that the adults did not eat the drumsticks only the children ate the chicken legs.  Being the oldest at twelve, I determined that it was time for me to grow up and learn to like white meat.    

In my early teens, I hated making Kool-aid.  I would avoid drinking the last cup in the pitcher to avoid being shamed into making more.  I just wanted to be able to drink it.  This changed for me when I became friendly with a cool, high school senior.  The charming senior shared his wisdom with me when he informed me that Kool-Aid was nothing more than flavored sugar water and as an athlete he drank Gatorade which had electrolytes.  Being a Kool-Aid drinker and an aspiring member of the cool athletic crowd became an issue; therefore, I developed another rule.  I could no longer drink Kool-Aid, referring to it as candy water for kids.  Of course, I did not really stop drinking Kool-Aid, but it did make a good cover story for why I would not make it.  As an adult, I still tell people that Kool-Aid is for children. (I also tell people that White Zinfandel is Kool-Aid for adults, but that is another story.)

Update of my story

I was advised to fill-out my story a bit more.
Enjoy the new edit.
Happy Mother's Day to my Mom

Throughout my life, I have come up with or heard some ridiculous plans, ideas and explanations for the way that things were. For example, in graduate school my friend told me that sex and the single girl become estranged friends after the age of twenty-four. She was a wise woman. She also warned me that if you are a bridesmaid at the wedding you not see your girlfriend again. She was right again. Women tend to ask old friends to be in their wedding and then everyone disappear. I have always tended to seek fault in other people for my shortcomings and problems. I blame my grandmother for being the shortest in my family. At four foot ten, she ruined it for me. I avoid conflict by creating and adhering to elaborate non-confrontational rules. I adhere to the “do not inquire about gifts once given rule” that Miss Manners promotes. I understand the significance of this rule whenever I glance at the wedding gift that I made for my cousin lying unappreciatively on his couch. It was designed to be a wall hanging. Perhaps, I should just stop making things for relatives and concentrate on projects that people request. Sometimes, my rationale for my habits and life-rules eludes my family and friends. My aunt cannot understand why I insist on learning to eat with my left hand. Each of my personal rules begins with a story.

Being that I was the shortest and the smallest in my childhood home, I actively worked to make my sister feel inferior and insecure. I still explain to people that I hated my sister because I had not been properly prepared for her addition to the family. After my parent’s divorce, my father’s family would present my sister with gifts on my birthday because her birthday is four days after Christmas and mine is in the summer. They would always forget that they gave her a gift for both Christmas and her birthday (meaning that she would receive two to my one) and give her another in July. Clearly, it was not my fault that we did not get along.

I was quite mean to her. I broke her bedroom window because she dared to touch mine. While getting ready for kindergarten, I set up a safety pin in the hopes that she would step on it. In my rush to find socks for my mint green corduroy outfit (I think that it was St. Patrick’s Day), it was me that needed a band aid. That did not stop me. Once I placed a small cup of warm water by her foot and set her alarm clock. When she rose and began getting dressed, I removed the cup and accused her of peeing in her bed. She eventually learned my trick. Since she grew taller than I before she left grade school, I knew that I had to rely on more than my wits to stay on top. I needed strength in case our frequent arguments escalated into violence. She became more assertive once she entered junior high and I feared a rebellion was coming. I joined the track team during middle school to have access to weight machines and trainers to become physically equal to my very athletic, taller and bigger little sister. It seemed easier to build muscle rather than just try to get along with my sister. Actually, I stopped paying attention to her once I began to focus all of my efforts on selecting a college to attend.

I also gave up chicken drumsticks because of my sister. Dinner at my house on fried chicken night had become a battle of wills over who would get the prized drumsticks. Sometimes, my mother would make extra drumsticks and other times we would make the drumstick undesirable to anyone but ourselves by touching it repeatedly or sneezing on it. Teaching myself to dislike drumsticks meant that I could avoid the dinner table wars. After one particularly nasty drumstick duel, I declared that drumsticks were for children. My sister had earned the prize drumstick by appealing to my grandmother. Her tactic was clearly not fair and I was quite upset with her during dinner. When she asked me to pass the butter, I said, “Hut, one, two, three…” and threw it at her almost hitting my sister in the head. I thought that it was loads of funny but my grandmother punished me anyway. It occurred to me that the adults did not eat the drumsticks only the children ate the chicken legs. Being the oldest at twelve, I determined that it was time for me to grow up and learn to like white meat.

In my early teens, I hated making Kool-aid. I would avoid drinking the last cup in the pitcher to avoid being shamed into making more. I just wanted to be able to drink it. This changed for me when I became friendly with a cool, high school senior. The charming senior shared his wisdom with me when he informed me that Kool-Aid was nothing more than flavored sugar water and as an athlete he drank Gatorade which had electrolytes. Being a Kool-Aid drinker and an aspiring member of the cool athletic crowd became an issue; therefore, I developed another rule. I could no longer drink Kool-Aid, referring to it as candy water for kids. Of course, I did not really stop drinking Kool-Aid, but it did make a good cover story for why I would not make it. As an adult, I still tell people that Kool-Aid is for children. (I also tell people that White Zinfandel is Kool-Aid for adults, but that is another story.)