Easier Than I Thought

It turns out losing weight is easy if you stick to only about 500 calories a day, like me. Here is the daily menu for this particular program:

Breakfast: 5 small slices of apple with 1/2 cup apple juice

Lunch: 1 cup chicken boullion with 3 Saltine crackers

Dinner: 1 oz frozen blueberries sprinkled with a little granola, if feeling adventurous

Snacks: popsicles and ice chips

For exercise, about 3-4 times a day you should jump up from the couch and run at a high rate of speed to the bathroom, where you will commence knee bends and abdominal contractions. Sometimes, on your run, it may be necessary to jump over toys or small children, but don't worry, this will only increase your stamina over time.

Of course, I can't really say I recommend this program, as I've heard that over time you actually ending up gaining much more than you lose. Time will tell.

Yeah, Right

Well, that handy little "schedule" that I keep to that I wrote about in my previous post has gone out the window. Now I spend every day bowing down to the porcelain god, and have little motivation to do anything else.

Morning sickness, schmorning sickness.

Feeling Better or Worse?

I have a very simple schedule that I keep. On Monday I do laundry, set my topsy-turvy "weekend" house back in order, and work from home. On Tuesday and Thursday I work at the office. Wednesday is grocery day, plus more working from home, and on Friday I catch up on anything that I let slide during the previous days, plus try to fit in some writing. Don't forget to include daily time to exercise, pray, eat, give my kids lots of attention, and make dinner.

It all seems busy enough to me, but a chance comment made me wonder...I heard or read somewhere this statement, "Oh, life was simpler then. When mother finished the breakfast dishes, it was time to start making lunch." Ouch! That sounds like pure misery to me, but I guess that's just the way it was. Interested to find out more about the way it was, I looked a few things up. Here are some comparisons that will either make you feel better (at least we don't have to scrub clothes by hand), or worse (how come, if I'm not scrubbing clothes by hand, I'm not getting more done with my time?).

COOKING THEN: "Prior to the second quarter of the nineteenth
century when mass-produced cast iron and steel stoves were more available
nationwide, cooking was a labor-intensive chore done on an open fire in a
fireplace. Wood or coal had to be hauled into the house, and ashes removed
daily. Worse was the limited variety of food that could be cooked by this
method. Kettles of stews or soups were easy enough, but the art of banking
fires over Dutch ovens or piles of bricks or stones for baking took considerable experience. Likewise, choosing the types of wood that burned hotter or longer and then arranging the fuels for consistent fires required great skill."

COOKING NOW: If it has more than 5 ingredients or takes longer than 20 minutes, I don't do it.

LAUNDRY THEN: "The most arduous household chore for women was laundry. For many, this was a two-day project every week, usually commencing with the washing on Monday, followed by ironing, folding, and mending on Tuesday. The housewife of the nineteenth century had to haul gallons of water from wells or pumps and maintain kettles of boiling water for the wash. Scrubbing, wringing, and carrying heavy, wet garments and linens to the clotheslines—and then retrieving the dried laundry—wearied and abused almost every muscle in her body. Her hands and arms were exposed to caustic lye-based detergents and scalding water for hours at a time."

LAUNDRY NOW: I happen to be in the middle of laundry right this very minute. While my clothes wash and dry themselves, I am up to my elbows in writing a new blog post.

HOUSECLEANING THEN: "Cleaning floors, and especially rugs, also was backbreaking work for the Victorian housewife. Between the endless clouds of dust entering the house from unpaved streets and the residues of soot and ash deposited daily from fire grates and oil or gas lamps, staying ahead of dirt was a constant challenge."

HOUSECLEANING NOW: I don't vacuum. That is what I have children for.

LINENS THEN: "For most women of the nineteenth century sewing was necessary to produce clothing, bedding, table linens, curtains, and most anything else made of textiles."

LINENS NOW: Hellooo, Target.

A NOT-SO-DISTANT THEN: "Studies from the 1950s showed that “women actually spent more time on household chores than had their mothers . . . logging a 99.6-hour workweek."

NOW: I prefer to have my husband think that home maintenance is still a full-time job. Thus, I should be pampered and adored for keeping it going along with my "other" job (the one that pays actual money). So, I will keep the number of hours I spend on it private, for now.

All the quotes in this post came from a chapter from a textbook called Advertising To The Amercian Woman 1 9 0 0 – 1 9 9 9. Find it online here.

I Was Wrong

I thought my house was cramped until I walked into your apartment, where you house a family of five in two tiny bedrooms. I have never been anywhere that felt so peaceful. Thank you for teaching me that it's not about square feet.

I thought I was broke until I saw your cupboards, empty except for a box of Saltine crackers and a jar of peanut butter. You opened your cupboards to me in faith, believing I would be able to lead you to the resources that could help. I hope I didn't fail you. Thank you for reminding me of how much I have, and for trusting me to help.

I thought I had faith until I read about you in the newspaper, just a child, buried under piles of rubble after an earthquake, singing songs you'd learned at church, patiently waiting for someone to find you. Obviously, Someone found you and took up residence in your heart a long time ago. Thank you for helping me conquer fear.

I thought it was hard to be a mother, until I heard from a friend that you send your child to school each day praying he won't be hit by a stray bullet before he gets back. When I think what I do as a mother doesn't matter, I think of you, standing in your front doorway, being a safe place for your son to come home to. Thank you for reminding me what a mother really is.

I thought teenage girls could be difficult, until I met you. I saw you sit by someone who was struggling and quietly help. I saw you turn your back on others who wanted to make her feel uncomfortable, shielding her from their laughter. You looked as beautiful as anyone has ever looked right then. Thank you for showing me what it means to be strong and of good courage.

I thought I knew a lot, but it turns out I was wrong.

Rock On

I love to rock. Not rock out, although I do play a pretty mean Guitar Hero. What I love is rocking in a rocking chair. By myself is okay, but I particularly like it if a little tyke is in my arms, snuggled up to me while I sing little songs my mom taught me when she rocked me, so long ago.

Okay, that's the wonderland version. Here's how it really goes:

"C'mere sleepyhead, let's rock for a few minutes before you go to bed." Child climbs up on lap. Child wants to play "Ride a Pony" on Mom's knees. Mom bounces for a couple seconds, then gently tries to press Child's head down onto her shoulder for a rest.

Child strains neck to see what dad's watching on TV. Mom sings lullabye at unnaturally loud volume. Child covers Mom's mouth with her hand. Child's hand tastes like peanut butter and sweat, and Mom spits. Dad glances over just then and asks Mom to mind her manners.

Child has to go potty. Mom continues rocking and is almost asleep by the time Child returns, but is abruptly awakened by Child's knee hitting her diaphragm. Immediate response upon being awakened is more singing.

Child can't get comfortable. Due to constant fidgeting, neither can Mom. Mom sighs, and tells Child to close her eyes right away. Child closes them, just not both of them at the same time. Child finds this hilariously funny, Mom less so.

Mom falls asleep. Child turns around and watches TV until Dad tells her to go to bed, around 11 p.m.

Mom and Child are both a little cranky in the morning, and one of them also has a stiff neck.

The End.

Despite all this, I still love rocking. Here's my terrible confession: a little teeny part of me likes it when my kids are sick, because then they let me rock them.

I think I might need to get a cat.

Unintended Offenses

While watching the Olympics on TV last night, my son said I was a big luger, but I misunderstood him and started to cry.

My daughter said I was her biggest Valentine. It is probably a coincidence that I was weighing myself at the time.

I felt a little depressed when I went to the bathroom and nobody hollered "Mom!" the minute I closed the door.

My friend gave me a sweater that she thought would bring out my best features. It's an extra high turtleneck. I wore it once, but it was hard to breathe through all that material. I guess she likes my eyes.

I missed a major meeting at work. The minutes state that I was present but unusually quiet.

My son thought that Signal Butte was another name for me in my yellow spandex exercise pants.

The opinion piece I wrote for the newspaper was mistakenly printed with the comics.

I got buried in paperwork while doing my taxes, and someone left flowers on top of me.

I locked myself into my car. Yes, into. That's all I care to say about that.

My So-Called Ad Agency, aka, do I really have to blog about the Super Bowl?

If I owned an ad agency,  I would hire people who are actually creative. I would hire people who could think of a more interesting way to sell something than the totally over-done "girls showing off their bodies" gimmick.

Got that, GoDaddy.com?

If I owned a beer company, I would be rich, but sad. How can you not be sad when your livelihood is based on giving people one more thing to be enslaved to, and giving drivers one more way to kill each other?

Got that, Budweiser?

If I made a delicious nacho cheese flavored corn chip, my life would be complete.

I love you, Doritos.

Give it Away

For years I have prayed for the gift of charity, the pure love of Christ, with what has felt like little success. In my simplistic way of thinking, charity means being able to love others in an open-hearted way, even if that love is not likely to be returned. It's a gift I think I desperately need, yet can't learn or practice my way into having. I truly think it has to come as a gift from God, simply because it requires an unselfishness that is beyond my own capacity. Don't get me wrong, I have a loving heart and try to share it, but mostly with lovable people! Lovable people are so easy to love, while thorny people often sting you when you try, which makes it quite easy to quit trying.

Today a conversation with a friend sparked a thought in me that has hung on all day. We were talking about how the things we try to accumulate in order to prepare for the future are often not meant for us, but end up being needed by someone else. We began by talking about things like money or food, but soon began to see that emotional qualities, like love, work the same way. I thought about how I often sit in meetings at church and look around at all the wonderful ladies surrounding me, and suddenly feel a deep love for them as individuals. In my mind I get really sappy sometimes, wanting to stand up and list these fabulous qualities people have that are flooding through my mind. Or, I make plans to find someone after the meeting's over to tell them how great they really are. The problem is, I never do. I wrote about this phenomenon in my journal over two years ago, ending with, "Maybe what I am feeling is an expression of the charity I've been seeking, and that gives me hope that I am progressing and can obtain a greater portion of it in the future."

Ah, but what happens if you receive a gift and then reject it? Can you really expect to get even more of that same gift later? I've rarely ever expressed out loud what has been in my heart all those times, which now seems painfully like a rejection of the very gift I've been seeking. Over the last couple of weeks I've been blessed to receive far more than my fair share of verbal and written expressions of love from others. What a healing balm has been poured over my heart because I've felt loved! And suddenly, I see that I've missed countless opportunities to give that same feeling to others. I've felt charity for them in my own heart, but I've tried to just store it up, when instead I should have been giving it away. 

I'm not saying I'm going to be standing up in a crowd any time soon to wax poetic about someone, but maybe if I catch you alone, I just might tell you what you mean to me for a change.

Grapefruit on My Mind

I found a random grapefruit in my backyard when I was doing my yardwork last week. I guess it wouldn't be random at all if I had a grapefruit tree, or if any of my neighbors had a grapefruit tree, but we don't. I believe it must have dropped from the sky, or, from the talons of a very large hawk. I don't like grapefruit much, since it's nothing at all like grapes, but it was nice to get a present from the sky anyway.

Lucky for you, I refuse to create an inspiring analogy from this event. It's just a grapefruit, of unknown origin.

Change

I lived in Michigan when I was little. I was shy, and I loved my mom. Which basically means, I hated to go to school. The summer before my 2nd grade year, the school boundaries were changed, and I had to go to a different elementary school. I had a large group of friends in 1st grade, and not one of them transferred with me. It was tough, but after a couple months I started to make new friends. That's about when my 2nd grade teacher decided that I was bored, so she moved me up into a 3rd grade classroom that she thought would be more my speed. It wasn't, it was weird. I was still officially a 2nd grader, and so that made me the baby of the group, plus the following year when I actually was a 3rd grader, man, was I bored! I pretty much had 3rd grade twice in a row. Well, things eventually got more comfortable for me, until two months into my 5th grade year, when I was again moved up, this time officially and into 6th grade. In my school district, that didn't just mean changing teachers and grades, it meant moving from elementary school to junior high school.

It was around October. Everyone had already found their "groups". Lunch tables were spoken for, lockers were being shared, and the seating heirarchy on the bus was already firmly established. If you had a boyfriend, you were cool and got to sit in the back. If you didn't, you sat up front with the rest of the nerds. Guess where I sat? My shyness became more pronounced as I tried to figure out how to fit into this alien new world. Everything was drama. Mean girls put a can of dog food in my only friend's locker. Luckily, I got it out before she saw it, but I cried in my mom's arms for a long time that day.

Soon after the beginning of my 7th grade year, my parents decided to move to Arizona, and they put our house up for sale. I was soooo happy! I couldn't wait to get out of that school. The school year dragged on day by agonizing day as our house languished on the market. I distinctly remember one bad day when I asked my teacher for a bathroom pass, just so I could go out in the hallway and cry and pray that our house would sell so I could get out of there. I cried a lot at that school, in case you can't tell!

My prayers were finally answered in April, when we moved. During the four days it took us to drive from Michigan to Arizona, I started thinking about what lay ahead of me. It was hard enough to start at a new school in October, what would it be like in April? How would I make new friends, I was so shy? This school might actually be worse than the one I was coming from. Riding down the highway with my worried face pressed against the window and my little sister's head in my lap, I had a sudden surge of insight. The kids in Arizona didn't know I was shy! Maybe I didn't have to be the shy kid anymore. But how do you put aside a part of yourself that has been with you since you can remember? I knew I couldn't just make myself outgoing, at least not fast enough to make a difference at school. First impressions and all that, you know. But there was one thing I could do - I could pretend. I could act like I wasn't shy until I actually got over being shy for real.

That is what I did. I didn't change into an outgoing person overnight, but I did make a couple of friends right away, and that gave me the surge of confidence I needed to keep at it. I'll never forget the best moment of my junior high career, when I brought home an 8th grade progress report that said "Talks too much in class". I don't think my parents were too thrilled with that, but that progress report was a real symbol of victory for me, and today, as an adult, I don't think "shy" is how people would normally describe me.

So, of course this story has a moral. Everything is changing right now, for almost everyone. Jobs, school systems, ward boundaries. What opportunities lie ahead for each of us to ditch those habits or quirks that we really don't like in ourselves, and start fresh? For me, I'm going to work on being a better listener. In a book my mom loaned me, I was reminded that good listeners don't let their eyes wander off the person speaking to them, as if they are looking for something more interesting. Good listeners don't interrupt or finish people's sentences for them (my particular weakness). Good listeners don't try to one-up other people's stories. Good listeners realize that the questions people are asking them are often the questions they would like to be asked themselves. So next time someone comes up to me and says, "How are you doing with all of this?", I'm going to make sure I know how they are doing before the conversation is over.

This post is dedicated to my husband, who needs and deserves a fresh start. I'm rooting for you, hon.