In progress.

I’ve found that it’s easiest to be frustrated with change when it’s disappointing.

 

I had, like everyone does, a picture of what I expected from my life at whatever point. This point. Three years from now.

 

I wouldn’t be upset if, say, I were a millionaire this time next year. That’s not in my plan, but I think I could handle it.

 

(On a completely separate note, I’m watching the State of the Union and DAMN MY PRESIDENT HAS BALLS. Just saying.)

 

It’s when things go wrong that I don’t handle things well. 

 

When there’s less money than I need.

When a little girl looks at me to make it feel better and I can’t.

When I’m presented with a fourth grade math problem and I have no clue ho to begin it.

When the house looks like a cotillion of hobos took it over the night before.

 

I know I sound like a whiny brat. A pampered little simp. I suppose I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I am totally at a loss. A loss of drive and fervor, a loss of confidence and security.

 

I suppose I need to buck up. Have a backbone.

 

I’m working on it.

My first two-part series. Thanks, Netflix

This has been a weekend full of eating. It’s a good thing I didn’t make any resolutions to eat less or lose weight, because I would pretty much have already sabotaged myself.
We’ve been doing a good bit of Netflix-watching over the past couple of weeks. Saturday night we went to see our friends Marty and Erin in Tennessee, because Josh has this kickass beef that he’s started making and they had yet to eat any. So we went.

Whenever we go to Adamsville for dinner, Josh and Marty wait until we arrive to buy any of the preparations. We get there, we unload into the house, and the boys immediately leave to go get groceries for the meal.

And go to GameStop. And Taco Bell. And buy pies at the nearby gas station.

So Saturday night while the guys were gone, Erin and I decided to watch a movie (much to Lucy’s chagrin – she would be happy to watch the Birthday episode of Yo Gabba Gabba for the rest of her life).

Erin chose a documentary called Dive! which, in a nutshell, is about a bunch of people (and their families) in California who live primarily off the food they retrieve from dumpsters behind grocery stores.

I know, right? I think Erin chose it because she thought they were going to talk about dumpster diving for furniture or clothes or whatever – I know that’s what I thought.

But yea and verily, I was wrong. It was TOTALLY about food.

Initially I was grossed out. But then they showed the food they were retrieving…bread, meat, produce. All tossed out because of a cracked egg or a looming sell-by date. Stuff that was top-of-the-line shit…and perfectly fine. It just happened to have come out of the store by the back door, instead of a reusable shopping bag.

My snobbery started to wane when I realized that these people were eating organic, free-range, antibiotic free meats and veggies and most of the time I don’t even look at that stuff because it’s so expensive.

Then they started talking about the amount of waste the US produces and I felt like a greedy asshole.

Did you know that the US wastes 96 billion pounds of food a year? One year of our waste could feed the entire population of Haiti for like five years.

Yet, because we don’t share, and because everyone is so focused on profit, we still have hungry people in our country. That’s so bizarrely wrong on so many levels.

It’s sobering to be told things like that. Stuff we all know in the back of our mind and don’t really think about.

So while I won’t be scaling the dumpsters behind Kroger anytime soon (I totally would, by the way – but Josh said it was too close to the sheriff’s department and so he refuses to drive the getaway car), I am now actively searching for ways I can help do my part and reduce this terrible deficit between what we have and what we use – and what we need.

You can sign the online petition to Trader Joe’s here. It’s a start.

Tomorrow, I’m talking about catfish…kind of.

Friday night glam

Josh and I have said countless times how we were going to go to high school football games.

The weather’s perfect, football’s great, lalala.

We have maybe gone to one high school football game (aside from when we lived in Jackson and we were ALWAYS at those damn private school games).

Last night we intended to go, and then we went to eat and Lucy would have none of anything but coming home and going to sleep.

So that’s what we did. Josh worked on a website and I knitted, and after we were finished wringing the dregs of life from our Friday night, we went to bed.

Sometimes I think we’ve turned into such duds.

I mean, where’s the zing? The romance? The spark?

Is there a female alive who would turn away a little bit of corny sap from the person they love? No. However, I happen to be married to Ray Barrone and his mind apparently doesn’t work that way.

And then I realize that twenty years from now the kids will (maybe) all be gone and perhaps we won’t still live with Dan, and we’ll have all the time in the world for zings and sparking.

So for now, I think it’s okay. I’m saving up to buy stock in blue pills and bathtubs to put out in the forest and on the beach.

Antisocially awkward

I have no clue when my life became so disconnected.

Obviously not “disconnected” in the sense of being offline or off the grid or anything like that, because that would be, you know, a travesty. I mean, if I didn’t know when Suzy Jane was irritated with some random coworker whom I’ll never meet or know, then…my god, my eyeballs might bleed for sheer lack of knowledge.

I mean I can go days and days and only come into real human contact with my kids, my husband, and Dan, and I only realize that it’s weird after the fact.

I keep up with people via Facebook and twitter, and while it’s great and I love it, I wonder what it’s actually doing to my ability to interact with flesh and blood people.

Not that Twitter and Facebook people aren’t flesh and blood people. It just becomes easier to overlook their flesh and bloodliness since they’re behind a screen/phone/whatever.

It’s easy to make a shitty life appear shiny and flawless if you don’t actually have to interact. I find myself glossing over a lot of things, especially on Facebook. It’s not that I’m being dishonest, it’s just that I don’t want to say, “Boy today sucks,” and then be bombarded with “O no watz wrong? :(” or “You’re in my prayers,” or directed to read 1 Davinia 4:11 by some chick I knew in 1993 because it will certainly cure all my woes.

If my husband’s being a shit, I can’t say that because it’s like I’ve posted an ad for amateur marriage counselors and evaluations of my relationship when in reality, I’m being too touchy or he’s just being grumpy and before the bytes have crackled to the online we’re already back to normal.

I’m not knocking the caring or sincerity of the Facebook community, but…you know.

So I wonder if we’ve all been lured into thinking we live in some storybook universe, just because people interact by being removed. We have a false sense of what’s normal, what’s not.

I don’t think enough people are honest about their problems. People fight. People make mistakes. People get annoyed with the people they love most. And then people get over it.

But the Internet doesn’t get over it. The Internet has a long memory.

Maybe I just need to get out more.

Confessions about ice cream

According to a calendar I saw, today is national ice cream day.

I know it’s trivial. But I love ice cream. Ice cream and French fries.

Cheesecake, too.

Iqqqass (Lucy’s typing again. Damn kid.)

I know everyone loves ice cream and that’s no big deal, and I don’t claim to love it more than anyone else. and please spare me the laments that you don’t like ice cream and sweets aren’t your thing. Forgive me, but it is the right thing to do, enjoying sweets. Why else did Jesus serve Welch’s to the disciples?



I do realize, though, that when it comes to being an adult and controlling consumption of things like ice cream and cake, candy, bacon, and things like sugar sandwiches (that’s a joke. Kind of.), I am woefully inadequate.

I would eat ice cream for every meal and dessert.

Josh and I have gotten into this habit of buying two half gallons when we buy groceries. Kroger is obviously plotting my demise, what with their damn 2-for-$5 deals on their delicious ice cream.

I mean, a responsible adult eats ice cream for dessert, maybe once a week.

I ate it for breakfast twice last week.

It’s not that I set out to be an idiot about the things I eat, but it’s the perfect food. Creamy. Cold. Exactly the flavor I want. It’s even useful as a cold compress.

Hippies and smart people say that your body is your temple and you have to take care with what you input. Especially if you’re worried about your gut, and I know they’re right. That’s pretty much why I’ve stopped complaining about my gut.

Even if I’m on a diet.
I just can’t help it.
It’s a sickness.



Fourth of Porkly

My dad makes barbecue. Well, I say “makes” but I guess really he just puts the components together. Composes barbecue. My dad composes barbecue.

He’s always made barbecue for as long as I can remember.

There was even this one hotasshit summer where all we did every night was cook barbecue to sell the next day. I heard the phrase “pork butt” so often that it lost its giggle-worthiness, and I was like 9 or 10 so that’s saying a lot.

He built this tow-along contraption with a smoker and attached bar thing so that we could park and sell barbecues pretty much out of the back of his Bronco. We did that every day. All summer. My pores oozed pork grease.

I haven’t really eaten much barbecue since that summer, except for once, and I’ve kind of kept that story under my hat. It’s kind of shameful because I apparently can’t really hold my meat.

The fourth of July is a big deal for my dad. He breaks out all the old tricks and there are ribs and chicken and pork and burgers and slaw and beans and whatever he thinks to throw on the grill.

One 4th, about 10 years ago, I was on the Atkins diet. I thought the celebration would be pretty miserable because gathering + diet usually = ugh, but to my shock and awe it was actually super nice.

In case you don’t know because you live in a box, Atkins pretty much means you can eat any greasy meatful thing your heart desires with impunity. Just stay away from carbs.

I love carbs. Mac and cheese, rolls, and oh my god the desserts. None of which I could consume that year, in the name of my *cough* health, so I determined to make up for it with as much meat and fat as I could.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I definitely did what I set out to do.

Ribs, chicken. The dreaded pulled pork. I wanted some French fries so badly, so instead I ate some weird butter and cheese concoction.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

The day ended, and I shit you not (haha, how apropos) I must have eaten an entire drawer of meat.

That night, whilst everyone I knew was watching fireworks and celebrating our nation’s birthday, I was on the toilet. It felt like I’d eaten a football and it got stuck in my lower intestine.

I definitely do not recommend a meatful diet.

How am I not a vegetarian?

Happy 4th.

This post is part of the 4th July carnival at: www.inthepowderroom.com

I’ve changed.

Kind of in keeping with yesterday’s post, I’ve been doing some introspection.

I went through some pictures, remembered some people and places.

I’m so much different. So much has changed.

Before, I was so unsure of myself. I was unfocused and judgmental. I had a narrow view that only encompassed the things I knew to be right and sure. I had no idea where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. I wanted so badly to be in love, but I had no idea what it was like to love myself.

Some things haven’t changed. I’m still insecure. I’m still unfocused, and while I try to keep them at a minimum I can’t swear that judgmental thoughts never skirt my mind.

But I can say that my views are no longer narrow. I know how to love, and judgment mostly comes from the completely opposite side that it would have come from before. While I’m still not perfect, I like to think that I’ve made some giant leaps.

I’ve always heard that people don’t change. If that’s true, then I…well, I know that’s not true. I could tell you deep dark secrets to prove my point, but that’s not really the point. And besides, I don’t really have any deep dark secrets. Does anyone? I mean really, with Facebook and twitter and what have you, everyone’s life is pretty much an open book.

I’ve often wondered how my life would’ve panned out if the Internet and texting and social media were as prevalent when I was a teenager/college student as they are now. Basically I knew even then that I was way cooler hiding behind a screen than I am in person, so that’s why I jumped on with ICQ and AOL IM as soon as I could. Too late, though. Too late.

I say all this to say that people do change. In light of that knowledge, I wonder just how far I can go and still be me.

(Comment moderated)

“Learning to love comment moderation…”

That’s what it says, there at the top of my dashboard homepage. It’s a help topic, for people who I assume don’t like the extra step of having to scan through the comments the first few times someone leaves a thought on their site. A bone thrown for the truly lazy ones, I suppose – or those against any censorship. Or those who ENJOY the “Size DOES matter!!!” comments.

Anyway, I digress.

I like comment moderation. I’d like to have that feature in my real life.

For instance, last night we went to a soiree at a local curiosity shop – a friend of ours invited us, and we decided to stop in and have some wine and a look around. I found myself sucked into the birdcages, wanting to send them across the ocean for the twins’ nursery, eyeing vintage chandeliers, and lusting shamelessly over a striped settee…while sipping white wine and chatting with friends we’d found hiding in the back.

My friend Michaele and I were introduced to a gentleman who also happened to be a hairdresser, and as Michaele made her purchases she mentioned that her long, wavy hair was in need of a trim. Just an inch or two. I agreed with her, that mine, too, had gotten decidedly too long and needed attention.

“Oh, god, yes, ” he said, looking over his expensive glasses and sending us both right back to junior high in the self esteem department. He stood up and ran a hand through first Michaele’s hair and then mine, and then he disappeared.

Um, what? Now, listen, my hair is a little too long, but it’s NOT THAT BAD. It needs a trim. Which I was freely admitting. There is really no need to kick a girl when she’s down. I looked over at Michaele and she was clearly just as miffed. I mean, really.There was wine, there was cheese. Cookies. This was a joyous night. Why on Earth did our hair have to be the downfall?

Not a moment’s peace, however. Not a moment. Here he was with his silver hair and his creamy business cards, spouting off business hours so we could get “taken care of.”

Needless to say, his comments would have been moderated. If only.