Eating Like a Lady

It's almost the New Year, and ya'll know what that means.  Time to turn over a new leaf and swear up and down that I'm going to do all of the things that I was supposed to do this year.  Namely, that means taking care of my body. 

I used to be so good about this.  Anal retentive in fact.  In early college, my glory days, I worked out like a maniac and got myself down to a size THREE.  I'll repeat that for posterity.  A SIZE THREE.  And guess how many pictures I have of that period of my life.  O.  Because my mother never got that film developed, and who knows where it is now. 

Eventually, time to work out grew thinner (no pun intended), and I still maintained a decent exercise and eating routine, but when I started working, the spread began.  And then when I started grad school it got almost unmanageable. 

So when I was flipping through some old photos and ran across this one, I almost spit out my coffee. 

This photo was taken almost four years ago, and this was not the thinnest I've ever been, but when I saw it, my jaw hit the floor.  I cannot believe that I was ever this person, and then I realized that I need to make more of an effort towards physical health not only for personal reasons but also so that when Justin and I eventually do start a family, my body will be a temple of health for a baby. 

So I've been thinking about eating habits and observing the plates of women around me, and a thought struck me.  I need to get back to eating like a lady.  Avoiding portions intended for lumberjacks or construction workers.  Asking myself as I load my plate, "Would a LADY eat this?  Would a LADY eat this MUCH of this?" 

This may seem horribly stereotypical to envision a delicate Southern Belle complete with hat and gloves, but it just may be the ticket to retrieving my body from the dumpster to which I've relegated it.  

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In Which I Ride a Freight Train to Hell

I'm worried that any type of following I may have gathered has drifted off into the great unknown. 

It's that time of year, folks, and for the past month, I've found myself choking on insane amounts of paper, whether that be in terms of grading or in grad school work.  Even though the end is in sight and the light at the proverbial end of the tunnel looms, this train just isn't moving quickly enough for my tastes.

I'm certain that once the semester has reached its end and I have time to reflect on my year, I'll have much to give thanks for, but for the moment, I want to bury my head in the sand and either scream or sleep for the next week and a half. 

I graded ten essays tonight to bring today's grand total to fifteen.  I should feel proud, but when I consider that I have two more class sets of analytical essays, a class set of definition essays, a class set of definition essay timed writings, a class set of personal narratives, three class sets of poetry anthology projects, one class set of a cumulative portfolio, and four sets of final exams to grade, my brain gives this weird little flutter, and I begin to wonder if I've just had a slight anuerism. 

I'm having nightmares about human-sized green ink pens chasing me through a cemetery in which staplers and calculators burst through cracked earth in some type of zombie blossoming.  I wish I was kidding. 

This is the part where I praise my wonderful husband for the vast amounts of help he has given me in the past three weeks as I've ran around the house babbling about where I left that one sheet of paper with the marks on it?  You know... the one with the red ink that says something about the due date of a manuscript?  To which he has cleaned house, helped me retrieve and wrap a bridal shower gift, helped me clean out my car, and brought me lunch.  So sweetie, thank you for the Subway and the dishes. 

Needless to say, my own work has fallen to the wayside, and now I have two short stories floating in my head (one of which is halfway finished) and the novel to complete as well.  I'm wondering exactly how much writing one can fit into a week and a half long period.  I can imagine that it's not enough. 

In incredibly exciting news, my article, which was published in Free Inquiry magazine is out!  You can read it here.  Wow.  That's my name up there. 

And on a final note, a rant towards Atlanta.  My dear city, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE CULTURALLY RELEVANT!! YOU KNOW.... HIP AND ALL THAT JAZZ!!  HOW IS IT REMOTELY POSSIBLE THAT YOU ARE NOT INCLUDED IN THE LINE UP FOR LIMITED RELEASE FILMS THAT I'M DYING TO SEE????  Could we do something about that? 



Missed you guys.  Promise I'll be better.  Promise.

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The Black Cat

*This is an exercise in creative nonfiction*

On the day my grandmother died, there appeared a black cat, darting to and fro among the fall leaves without regard for the life extinguished just inside.  My brother sat on the ground, picking at his cuticles, lost in his own thoughts, his hat pulled low over his eyes  The cat made its way to him, roping around his crossed legs, its meow echoing through the empty fall air. 

He patted the cat, and it rolled onto its back in ecstasy.  While we waited for the funeral home to come for the body, we all watched the cat in silence and wondered "What do we do?  Who can answer all of the questions?  How should we feel?" and the cat chased a leaf down the small driveway, the answers to his own questions out there somewhere in the infinite. 

"They must be lost," we said as we waited, the sun dipping behind the trees and casting our faces in shadow, the tears growing cold on our cheeks and surprising me.  I hadn't realized I was still crying. 

"They must be lost," we said not wanting to admit that we were the ones who were lost; "We don't know what to do," we told the officer who responded, but his shift change had come and passed, and he grew impatient, his indifference hardening around him. 

And the black cat continued to play around our grieving family unaware of the thoughts flittering through us, the things we should have said, the things we should have done scattered in the atmosphere like many seeds, floating and displaced, never to take root. 

"It's not her," we told ourselves, "That isn't her lying in there.  It's just a body." these words we feed ourselves in these moments, hoping that they will provide comfort, sustenance in our time of need, but outside, the world moves forward, and the black cat continued to move about, slinking among our legs as some beast. 

"It's not her," we said.  "It's just a body." 

My mother repeating to herself, "I can't feel her here.  She isn't here; I would feel her if she was."

She is not here.  The black cat continues to roam; he will grow cold as winter creeps upon us.  But she is not here, and she will not be cold.

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The Power of Radio & NaNoWriMo

An enormous thank you to Cocktails with Patrick for pimping my blog yesterday.  My lil' ole blog got close to three hundred hits in the span of three hours!  To those of you who visited yesterday, I hope that you enjoyed reading! 
NaNoWriMo is fully underway (if you don't know what that is, check it out here), and I spent a good chunk of my night in front of my computer furiously typing the mandatory 1,667 daily word count.  I was excited about the entire writing process for about fifteen minutes, and then that witch of an internal critic kicked in with things like, "Whom do you think you're kidding writing a novel?  Read over what you just wrote.  Seriously, who would EVER want to read that?"  and I promptly broke into the cold sweats of a recovering alcoholic, shut my computer, and cried for awhile.  This is what she looks like in my head. 

And she speaks in a horrifically elevated form of the Queen's English and smells like a combination of death and Chanel No. 5.  I'm hoping that since she's so old that at some point she'll finally keel over...maybe choke on a scone or something.  


I know that the entire NaNoWriMo process is supposed to be about shutting off the critic and not constantly judging what you've written.  "It's about quantity, not quality," they say, but since I actually want to DO something with this manuscript (you know like sell the thing when it's finished), I can't bring myself to let go of the quantity over quality ideaology. 

And it's just day two of the month long process.

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Bob Barker Would be so Proud

I love the month of October.  Now, I know that plenty of people say things like, "Oh, October is so great!  I just really love fall!  Or "Autumn is my favorite season!" 

I respond to these people by punching them in the stomach all while screaming, "TAKE IT BACK!!! NO ONE LOVES OCTOBER AS MUCH AS MEEEE!!" 

Don't ever tell me you love October because I WILL challenge you to a fight to the death, and have I ever mentioned that I don't lose?  Because I don't.  I win at life, and that includes your measley sense of affection for my beloved month.  Just kidding.  Sort of.

Because ohmygod, what could be better than the profusion of pumpkin-flavored stuff available in October?  I MEAN EVERYTHING! FLAVOR EVERYTHING WITH PUMPKIN!!  And don't even get me started on the weather, and the color, and the breeze, and the crazy blue sky that makes me think God must have done a ton of hallucinogens and is going nuts with some finger paint in heaven, and the smell of smoke in the air, which doesn't smell good any other time of year, but for some reason is making you hot for your husband.  Like you look at your significant other and want to tear him right out of that college hoodie he is wearing.  Or the perfection that is CHILI and APPLE CIDER and RED WINE. 

You know what else is in October?  The best holiday of the year.  My countdown to Halloween starts on the 1st, and I faithfully watch every horror film on television in preperation.  And on the actual glorious night, I pray that It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!  will be on t.v. and then I pass out in a glorious sugar- induced coma. 

But this October is a little different because Ms. Savannah hit the six month mark and since we are conscientous citizens, we knew that this was the month she would need to be fixed.  I plead ignorance here because our other two dogs came to us pre-sterilized with no worries of crazy dog humping and bastard litters of puppies to be handed out for free at the local supermarket.

I had no clue exactly what the process was, but when we picked her up yesterday, I was reading through the paperwork they gave us and, ya'll.....they take out EVERYTHING.  It's a puppy hysterectomy, and while I was reading, my insides were literally squirming with a level of uncomfortable I had never experienced before.

So the past day has been an adventure in "No, don't run.  No, don't jump.  No, don't play.  No, dont bark too hard, or walk too fast, or do anything that might remotely lead to tearing your sutures because I think I might possibly come unglued and then cry so please, please, please just stay still and be quiet until everything is healed and that weird mark on your abdomen is gone because every time I look at it I get roller coaster style queasy." 

Thank goodness there is still a week till Halloween.  I don't think my love for October has been tainted....much.

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The Return

This was the weekend that my husband and I have been waiting for.  After a year of living apart and scheduling phone conversations to catch up, he finally made the sixteen hour drive from Odessa back to Atlanta permenantly.  (Or semi-permemantly.  Who knows what could happen in six months?)

And so this weekend has been strange because the past weekends when he has been home, we've raced around feverishly trying to fit in every moment of fun and necessity we could before the Monday deadline when he had to get back on a plane and fly back. 

But it's Sunday now, and I'm still trying to quell that intense desire to rush, to hurry, to get in everything we can before he leaves again.  Because tomorrow, he doesn't have to leave.  Tomorrow, he will still be here when I wake up and get ready for work.  Tomorrow, we can have our coffee together, talk while we are in the shower. 

Tomorrow, I will have help taking care of the dogs before leaving.  For that alone, I could cry from sheer relief. 

And then he will be home Monday night, and Tuesday night, and Wednesday night..., and when I think about that, I just don't know what to do with myself. 

There is a degree of sadness that I feel so overwhelmed by the fact that I get to actually live with my husband.  I don't feel that I should be in so much shock that he will physically be here when I get home, and my heart still breaks for those wives who go even longer than I have with even less communication.  I cannot say that the reasons for these absences are not worth it, but the entire situation strikes me as strangely inappropriate. 

But as I sit here typing this while he is in our driveway washing his car, I'm still marveling over the fact that he will physically be here in the coming weeks, and I'm incredibly thankful.   Thankful to have had this man by my side for the past ten years without wanting to dismember him.  Thankful for our home, which we thought would never be possible.  Thankful for our friends who have kept us sane throughout this ordeal, and whom we will repay in November with quite possibly the biggest party this house has ever seen. 

This is a rambling post, I know.  But I'm too full right now to not let some of it out. 

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I think I might be somebody's mom...

In the past week, I've had both vomit and poop on me simultaneously.  I think I can officially call myself a mother. 

No, there is no DeMeester bun in the oven (although that sounds like it would taste delicious), but after the week I've had, I can't help but wonder if I've stepped off of the cliff into the deep abyss of semi-motherdom.

To my mommy readers- I absolutely understand that I will never know what it's like to be in your shoes until there is a Justin 2.0 running around my home, but until then, I feel that I've earned an honorary mommy badge. 

Please allow me to introduce the hellions:

This is Hank the Dog.  The sunglasses say it all. 

My husband got Hank during college, and needless to say, Hank grew up in a fraternity house and never learned any manners.  What does Hank do best?  DESTRUCTION. 

At various points in his lifetime, he has had all of the following pass through his GI tract (do dogs even have those?): dry wall, linoleum, remote controls, cell phone chargers, cell phones, shoes, ties, a dress, all manner of soft doggie toys, a child's plastic ring that topped a cupcake, cupcake wrappers, cupcakes, half of a birthday cake intended for my brother in law, any other type of pastry he can get his teeth on, a green ink pen (disastrous), portions of our Christmas tree (ornaments, branches, and light cord), DVD cases, DVDs, the back of a couch, and three sets of blinds.  I'm certain I'm forgetting some items. 
How he manages to digest all  of these items with no apparent problems baffles me.  I'm convinced the doggie gods graced him with a trash compacter instead of a stomach. 

This is Charlotte.  She's a Chihuahua; therefore, she's got attitude to spare. 

Charlotte is 100% my baby, and she knows it.  We got her during an afternoon run to Petsmart for dog food.  We didn't get the dog food, but we did come back with Miss Sassy Pants here.  Poor Justin didn't understand the power a cute little dog can have over women like me.

Charlotte's favorite things?  Feet wearing fresh, white socks, sleeping in blankets, eating everything she can find, kicking her dad's ass at play fighting, acting like a diva, and generally being a boss.  If you cross her, she'll let you know with a well timed growl and squeak.  It's pretty funny to watch her chew someone out in her own little way.

But Charlotte is also a surreptitious pooper.  If she has an accident in the house, you won't find it until weeks later when you go poking your vacuum into some corner that doesn't usually see the light of day.  

And this is Savannah, our in-resident tomboy.  She looks awfully cute, but she's a terror.

Savannah was a whoops baby.  A happy accident, if you will.  When we got her, she was six pounds and the vet estimated she wouldn't grow to weigh more than fifteen.  Currently, she weighs about twenty-five.  Good call, doc.  Despite a complete lack of blood affiliation, Savannah takes after her brother.  If she was a human, she would like to climb trees, play with frogs and bugs, and get in fights with boys at the playground.  I'm constantly pulling her out of something she shouldn't be doing.  There is a distinct possibility that she might also think she is a cat.  I've never seen a dog rub against people's legs the way she does.The biggest frustration, however, is her insistence that she pee and poo all over my nice hardwood floors instead of using the lovely grass that is provided for her OUTSIDE.  But LOOK AT THAT FACE.  HOW CAN YOU BE ANGRY AT THAT FACE!?

So last Monday, Charlotte was acting strangely mopey, and I was a little worried at her less than perky attitude.  I had gotten down on the floor with her to hold her in my lap.  Five seconds after picking her up, I found out why she was moping.  She desperately needed to vomit, and guess who took the brunt of that force?  You got it.  Yours truly.  You know that overwhelming feeling of relief you get right after you throw up?  That look was written all over her face. 

My reaction was pretty comical.  Here I am covered in fresh dog sick, doing my best to keep it from leaking onto the floor, petting my dog and telling her "It's okay, sweetie, it's okay," the same way you're mother did when you were a kid and had a belly ache. 

After establishing that she was fine, I went rushing to the bathroom to rinse myself off, and as I turned the corner to go into the bathroom, I slipped and fell into...you guessed it, a rather large pile of dog diarrhea.  I sat there for a moment because the fact that I had all sorts of dog fluids on my body hadn't quite sunk in, and then, I started to laugh.  Because the old me, the me that hadn't yet learned what it's like to love something selflessly, to get up for 3 a.m. potty runs, to cry when you're scared to death that a being you love is having seizures and you are powerless against this thing that you don't understand, would have been disgusted at this situation.  But this new me could only laugh, get in the shower, get the paper towels, the Clorox wipes, the mop, the Febreze, and go back to my dogs without caring about the rather nasty things I had been covered in. 

And in that moment I knew...in a unique way, I'm somebody's mother. 

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