ADVICE:
Love It, Hate It, Didn’t Ask for It, Not Gonna Follow it.
I have a definite love/hate relationship with advice. Sometimes I crave it. I have so much doubt in my head, I seek advice from many sources. That comes with both risk and reward. There may be a gem coming my way which makes a lot of sense, and I want to follow it. There may also be some not so palatable pearls of wisdom strung up for me which I do not want to wear. However, by shelving the pearl wisdom necklace, I now have to worry that I’ve deeply offended the pearl offerer. Can't I ask for advice without agreeing to agree with what you say before you say it? (if you followed that, I salute you. I know what I mean, but..)
Then there’s the category of unwanted advice altogether. Sometimes I just want to vent, or explain a situation. I may just want to describe what’s going on. But before I’ve gotten true satisfaction with venting and being heard, I’m slammed, WHAM with advice for how to change my behavior or coping strategies. Excuse me? Can’t I at least finish complaining before I get told how to do things? It’s not likely I’m going to follow your advice (since I distinctly DID NOT ask for it). More likely, I won’t vent in your direction in the future. What a great loss THAT would be for you. Sheesh.
My favorite is the category of “if you ask me what I think, and I tell you, and you do just as I’d advised, I’ll know you love me. Conversely, if you ask me what I think, and I tell you what I think and then you don’t do as I’ve advised, I’ll know that you can’t really love me at all. And then I will be sullen and mad at you for days.” The problem that may or may not seem obvious is that when the advice giver was then sullen and mad for days, I had a hard time attributing it to something as trivial as my wearing the purple dress instead of the black one which I had been advised would look better. Such was the stuff of my first marriage. It was pointed out to me that it was a character flaw to ask for advise, not take it and carry on. But, maybe that’s why it was a first marriage.
While those are the risks in the advice game, there’s definitely a reward side to it as well. Just as likely I will be forever indebted to my listeners for their kind, sensitive, caring, encouraging, reinforcing, been there, done that kind of response. And many a problem has been solved with more wisdom than I could ever have arrived at, with more sense than I could ever have come to, and more assurance of success than I would have believed possible. Thanks for that.
In the end, I’m willing to take the risk, and maybe get that reward. But if I don’t ask for your advice,,,,,,,,,
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Good Mother
I have a lot riding on being a good mother. It's what I DO. Having quit the outside, paycheck giving, grind over 16 years ago, I have concentrated on the old fashioned, much maligned, yet still happens occasionally, honorable profession of stay at home motherhood. It's a blessing to have this luxury.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
Friday, July 2, 2010
What is the oldest profession exactly?
It's time to defend myself again. I don't know why I have to keep doing this, but it's time to whip out the old guilt busters again and champion my choice to be a stay at home Mother. It isn't what anyone else has said. It's mostly those nasty, creepy, comparative voices in my own head. What do they say, you ask? It goes like this:
1. You are financially dependent on so many people. What a loser.
2. In this day and age, what kind of example do you think you're setting for your kids? Retro fashion doesn't apply to "housewives" who prepare dinner, get her man his slippers and drive carpools.
3. The children will possibly be done more harm than good from my omnipresent mediocre mothering.
(Remember, these are the creepy voices, not necessarily the ones I like)
4. IF you had any actual skill, you'd be making some money, dumby.
5. Great, you stay home in their formative years, and then try and get a job when you're in your declining years. Smart thinking.
6. Keep telling yourself it's for them, you lazy sloth.
7. You don't even keep house, or cook that much, so what exactly do you even do all day?
You get the idea.
Well, to that, I answer, it seemed like a good idea at the time?
I once said that people have told me to be more rational for so long that I've become quite the expert at rationalization. So here goes:
(it doesn't go in direct point/counterpoint, but I do have some answers floating in my head)
1. It IS good for the kids that I’m around. For moral support, for school success, for getting them to activities & playdates, for the attention paid.
2. The old, what if I died tomorrow. That way, if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have missed anything. This goes to both positive and negative which I won’t do. I’ll just note here the old, on their deathbed, does anyone wish they’d spent more time at work cliche.
3. I wasn’t doing anything so great working that I really miss it. (I certainly wasn’t making enough money to justify being away from the house for a full 11 hours). For one, isn’t work sort of over-rtated? Two, it’s a falsehood that not working is a brain atrophier. I can read, I can be involved with productive activities while they are around. I don’t think I really lost any intelligence being home. (not that I had all that much to begin with)
4. I did good works. I volunteered at the kids’ school, at a charity. I contributed to the general good of the world. I even peaked when I was co-chair of the parent body. It’s like being the head of a half million dollar non profit corporation. (not that it’s not sick that our school raised that much money a year....but of course that’s for another blog)
5. It makes me happy. Really, really happy. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? I’m passionate about being a Mom.
6. In feminist terms, it is in every facet a job. The fact that it isn’t directly compen$ated doesn’t alter the fact that it’s an honorable profession. It requires intelligence, skill, emotional prowess, huge energy, compassion, determination, and provides satisfaction, and dividends. Society both values it and diminishes it, so it’s up to those of us who pursue it to reinforce it’s societal value.
7. Maybe in the end, the kids will appreciate it.
So, I’m sure I haven’t covered all the important aspects, but I’ve tried. In the coming years, as one daughters leaves the nest and the other one approaches middle school and high school, and as I approach retirement age, I will definitely find a way to transition into some kind of work outside the home. A therapist I saw once told me that she recieved her Medicaid Card and her PHD the same day. That was uplifting. I only have to retire if I want to.
And to all those working outside the home Mothers out there, I salute you completely. This says NOTHING to denigrate your choice. If I’d had anything that satisfied my intellect, paid any decent money, and been equally worthwhile to me while I was raising my children, I’d have done it. I’m just saying that for me, this was the choice that made sense. And while every few hours I question it, in the end, I can justify it as good.
Thanks for listening.
1. You are financially dependent on so many people. What a loser.
2. In this day and age, what kind of example do you think you're setting for your kids? Retro fashion doesn't apply to "housewives" who prepare dinner, get her man his slippers and drive carpools.
3. The children will possibly be done more harm than good from my omnipresent mediocre mothering.
(Remember, these are the creepy voices, not necessarily the ones I like)
4. IF you had any actual skill, you'd be making some money, dumby.
5. Great, you stay home in their formative years, and then try and get a job when you're in your declining years. Smart thinking.
6. Keep telling yourself it's for them, you lazy sloth.
7. You don't even keep house, or cook that much, so what exactly do you even do all day?
You get the idea.
Well, to that, I answer, it seemed like a good idea at the time?
I once said that people have told me to be more rational for so long that I've become quite the expert at rationalization. So here goes:
(it doesn't go in direct point/counterpoint, but I do have some answers floating in my head)
1. It IS good for the kids that I’m around. For moral support, for school success, for getting them to activities & playdates, for the attention paid.
2. The old, what if I died tomorrow. That way, if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have missed anything. This goes to both positive and negative which I won’t do. I’ll just note here the old, on their deathbed, does anyone wish they’d spent more time at work cliche.
3. I wasn’t doing anything so great working that I really miss it. (I certainly wasn’t making enough money to justify being away from the house for a full 11 hours). For one, isn’t work sort of over-rtated? Two, it’s a falsehood that not working is a brain atrophier. I can read, I can be involved with productive activities while they are around. I don’t think I really lost any intelligence being home. (not that I had all that much to begin with)
4. I did good works. I volunteered at the kids’ school, at a charity. I contributed to the general good of the world. I even peaked when I was co-chair of the parent body. It’s like being the head of a half million dollar non profit corporation. (not that it’s not sick that our school raised that much money a year....but of course that’s for another blog)
5. It makes me happy. Really, really happy. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? I’m passionate about being a Mom.
6. In feminist terms, it is in every facet a job. The fact that it isn’t directly compen$ated doesn’t alter the fact that it’s an honorable profession. It requires intelligence, skill, emotional prowess, huge energy, compassion, determination, and provides satisfaction, and dividends. Society both values it and diminishes it, so it’s up to those of us who pursue it to reinforce it’s societal value.
7. Maybe in the end, the kids will appreciate it.
So, I’m sure I haven’t covered all the important aspects, but I’ve tried. In the coming years, as one daughters leaves the nest and the other one approaches middle school and high school, and as I approach retirement age, I will definitely find a way to transition into some kind of work outside the home. A therapist I saw once told me that she recieved her Medicaid Card and her PHD the same day. That was uplifting. I only have to retire if I want to.
And to all those working outside the home Mothers out there, I salute you completely. This says NOTHING to denigrate your choice. If I’d had anything that satisfied my intellect, paid any decent money, and been equally worthwhile to me while I was raising my children, I’d have done it. I’m just saying that for me, this was the choice that made sense. And while every few hours I question it, in the end, I can justify it as good.
Thanks for listening.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
To my Loyal Followers
Being new to all things technical, I didn't know until this very night (June 4, 2010) that any of you had posted comments to my various blogs. Thank you so extremely and enthusiastically much. I think I published them all, which I have no idea what that means. You'd think I'd learn a thing or two, having been doing this awhile. But then again if you know me, you know that's unlikely. Love to all.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
As Seen in the Palisadian Post Travel Tales
The Treesort
“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”
I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.
Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.
How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.
My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.
The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.
Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.
Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.
We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.
Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.
Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,
“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”
I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.
Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.
How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.
My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.
The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.
Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.
Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.
We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.
Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.
Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Dietribe 2, The Sequel
Ok, I'm not done with the Dietribe.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Dietribe
Dietribe
I’ll admit it. I think there is a cosmic injustice in this world. Good foods are bad for you. Chocolate makes you fat, big thick potato chips will give you heart disease, & Ben & Jerry will ultimately clog your arteries (and they seemed like such nice, organic guys). The list goes on. I think in primitive times, the bad foods gave some kind of a warning, like they tasted so bitter your tongue swelled and your eyes burned. What the hell happened?
I realize that modern technology, food research and the profit motive have all conspired to make foods which are simply attractive and addictive. Quite the advancement. They scientifically know how to give you a false heroin-like high of pleasure while they slowly hook and kill you. Has anyone investigated whether the food industry and the healthcare industry hold clandestine conferences where they plot their evil symbiotic ways?
I was reading in Kessler’s book, “The End of Overeating”, how food scientists engineer their food to have all kinds of perfection qualities, which will taste good, feel good and make you want more. He calls a Snickers bar the perfect food for it’s firm but biteable chocolate, soft nougat that just melts, and layer of salty peanuts coated with caramel. All these elements combine to give you just the right balance of chewy, salty and sweet to produce a satisfying "mouth feel". Maybe my subconscious thinks my mouth is actually exercising to eat it's chewy goodness. I suppose I should try and associate the evil research behind these addictive foods to something akin to cigarettes, but I can’t seem to link the two as evil equals. I know cigarettes are bad, but they have the added benefit of IMMEDIATELY making you smell bad, pant when you walk uphill and are considerably more expensive. That makes it easier for my mind to reject. Snickers, reject? Not so much.
So, obviously Mother Nature and God combined didn’t mean for us to have no alternative to Snickers, pudding and Kettle chips. We have fruits and vegetables. In fact, modern wisdom has us eating five servings a day. As though that solves everything. Really? Not for me.
I have a thing about fruit. As immoral as it sounds, I have a problem with fruit. It’s about expectations and disappointment. Fruit isn’t consistent. When I have a bite of the perfect strawberry, or the perfect orange, it crosses my mind that this is my answer to the foods mentioned above. But it only takes one rotten strawberry that I didn’t see coming, or one overly ripe orange to rip that determination away from my temporary health kick. Watermelon would be my favorite food on the planet if it promised to never be mealy or bland. After all, you never have a mealy or bland Snickers bar. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Vegetables don’t let me down in quite the same way, but there are only so many I can truly say I like, and probably proportionally more that I absolutely, truly object to. On a daily basis, 5 is harder to achieve than it might seem.
Now let's talk about Yo Yo dieting - I can’t afford to gain any more weight. So, that’s the end of diets for me. I did Weight Watchers. Lost 17 pounds. (Parenthetically, just as I was achieving my goal weight, my husband left me.) Over the course of the next few years, I found it all. And then some. Happily remarried, and with someone for whom food is a fun activity to be enjoyed (vs., the previous dude who hated all sweets, meats and carbs), I not only found the pounds I’d lost, but found some that other people had apparently lost. But it was a happy reunion. See, there’s not really an emotional downside to gaining weight. For me, it’s usually associated with celebration, with doing what feels good. Why can’t it hurt? I then tried doing South Beach with my second husband. After all, we were both feeling the effects of our newly married celebratory food over dosing on our waistlines. We both lost weight. But with such a restrictive regimen as South Beach's Phase I, as soon as I was done with it, I couldn’t see my way to continuing on with Phases II and III. It’s always the maintenance that overwhelms me. After no carbs, I pretty much wanted all the carbs. Again, I found every single pound I’d lost. AND THEN SOME I didn’t even know I’d lost. Now I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go on another diet. I cannot afford to weigh more than I do now.
.
Well, that’s the food conspiracy. Let’s talk about the exercise. I know that the real answer to any weight management issue is the old calories in, calories out. So, theoretically, I could eat anything if I just exercised enough. Michael Phelps with his 12 daily big Macs and In-N-Out milkshakes. Obviously I don’t swim for a living. In fact, truth be told, I have a long list of problems with exercise. I’m just telling the truth here.
1. I don’t like to sweat. (That alone could explain everything)
2. I find it hard to make the time. It isn’t that I don’t have it. I do. But on a cold or blustery morning, when I’m so cozy sitting in bed after the kids go to school and I have my computer and newspaper and coffee, I find myself resisting getting up, snapping on that restrictive jogging bra (which let’s face it, I just need because of my losing struggle with the Snickers war), pulling on my sweats which look ginourmous, throwing the inserts into my athletic shoes (which I now need because my extra weight has put stress on my plantars fasciitis), and going out to do anything.
3. And then if I go hike, or treadmill, or whatever, I’ll end up sweaty, stinky, needing a shower. That adds another half hour to my day. Not the end of the world, but it does sort of tip the scale towards inaction.
4. Exercises which would really help to burn fat and increase metabolism are even more complicated. I’d have to work my way up to jogging and that can take weeks of dedicated effort before you’re even closer to an endorphin rush. Weight lifting is fun and can aid metabolism, but you really have to push yourself. I find I can only push so hard. Swimming is something I even enjoy, but it’s has it’s own avoidance opportunities (the look of me in a swimsuit?). You can’t hide what’s inside, can you?
5. I can walk. I do walk. Just not enough or with enough consistency to make a difference.
6. Lastly, there is an exercise I love. I could do it for hours with joy and satisfaction. It works my arms, my abs, my legs. I sweat, but I don’t notice. The scenery is thrilling and I get to see one of favorite animals up close. No, not sex with my new husband, but kayaking. And in that same cosmic joke injustice, kayaking is not exactly easy to do all year. The lightest kayak I’ve found is too heavy for me to lift and maneuver by myself, so I had to rely on UCLA’s marine center. Just as I had figured out that as my venue, I find out that it is closed in the exact hours that would otherwise allow me to kayak every day. I have from 9-2 free; they have it closed from 9-3. I need a lake with a dock where the kayak is easy to just lower into the water. That isn’t possible around here. (oh, the animal I can see up close is the pelican.)
Well, when all is said and done, I would say it isn’t all said and done,,, yet. I’m ok with where I am, because in general in my life I’m happy. And I really don’t think the secret to success or joy is to be stick skinny. I will walk. I might even learn to jog. I will continue to explore the world of fruits and vegetables. I will control myself around sweets even if I grumble while I do it. And I might even let Ben & Jerry off the hook for tempting me. But I also might continue to rail against the cosmos for putting all these thoughts in my head.
And then, there’s always sex.
I’ll admit it. I think there is a cosmic injustice in this world. Good foods are bad for you. Chocolate makes you fat, big thick potato chips will give you heart disease, & Ben & Jerry will ultimately clog your arteries (and they seemed like such nice, organic guys). The list goes on. I think in primitive times, the bad foods gave some kind of a warning, like they tasted so bitter your tongue swelled and your eyes burned. What the hell happened?
I realize that modern technology, food research and the profit motive have all conspired to make foods which are simply attractive and addictive. Quite the advancement. They scientifically know how to give you a false heroin-like high of pleasure while they slowly hook and kill you. Has anyone investigated whether the food industry and the healthcare industry hold clandestine conferences where they plot their evil symbiotic ways?
I was reading in Kessler’s book, “The End of Overeating”, how food scientists engineer their food to have all kinds of perfection qualities, which will taste good, feel good and make you want more. He calls a Snickers bar the perfect food for it’s firm but biteable chocolate, soft nougat that just melts, and layer of salty peanuts coated with caramel. All these elements combine to give you just the right balance of chewy, salty and sweet to produce a satisfying "mouth feel". Maybe my subconscious thinks my mouth is actually exercising to eat it's chewy goodness. I suppose I should try and associate the evil research behind these addictive foods to something akin to cigarettes, but I can’t seem to link the two as evil equals. I know cigarettes are bad, but they have the added benefit of IMMEDIATELY making you smell bad, pant when you walk uphill and are considerably more expensive. That makes it easier for my mind to reject. Snickers, reject? Not so much.
So, obviously Mother Nature and God combined didn’t mean for us to have no alternative to Snickers, pudding and Kettle chips. We have fruits and vegetables. In fact, modern wisdom has us eating five servings a day. As though that solves everything. Really? Not for me.
I have a thing about fruit. As immoral as it sounds, I have a problem with fruit. It’s about expectations and disappointment. Fruit isn’t consistent. When I have a bite of the perfect strawberry, or the perfect orange, it crosses my mind that this is my answer to the foods mentioned above. But it only takes one rotten strawberry that I didn’t see coming, or one overly ripe orange to rip that determination away from my temporary health kick. Watermelon would be my favorite food on the planet if it promised to never be mealy or bland. After all, you never have a mealy or bland Snickers bar. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Vegetables don’t let me down in quite the same way, but there are only so many I can truly say I like, and probably proportionally more that I absolutely, truly object to. On a daily basis, 5 is harder to achieve than it might seem.
Now let's talk about Yo Yo dieting - I can’t afford to gain any more weight. So, that’s the end of diets for me. I did Weight Watchers. Lost 17 pounds. (Parenthetically, just as I was achieving my goal weight, my husband left me.) Over the course of the next few years, I found it all. And then some. Happily remarried, and with someone for whom food is a fun activity to be enjoyed (vs., the previous dude who hated all sweets, meats and carbs), I not only found the pounds I’d lost, but found some that other people had apparently lost. But it was a happy reunion. See, there’s not really an emotional downside to gaining weight. For me, it’s usually associated with celebration, with doing what feels good. Why can’t it hurt? I then tried doing South Beach with my second husband. After all, we were both feeling the effects of our newly married celebratory food over dosing on our waistlines. We both lost weight. But with such a restrictive regimen as South Beach's Phase I, as soon as I was done with it, I couldn’t see my way to continuing on with Phases II and III. It’s always the maintenance that overwhelms me. After no carbs, I pretty much wanted all the carbs. Again, I found every single pound I’d lost. AND THEN SOME I didn’t even know I’d lost. Now I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go on another diet. I cannot afford to weigh more than I do now.
.
Well, that’s the food conspiracy. Let’s talk about the exercise. I know that the real answer to any weight management issue is the old calories in, calories out. So, theoretically, I could eat anything if I just exercised enough. Michael Phelps with his 12 daily big Macs and In-N-Out milkshakes. Obviously I don’t swim for a living. In fact, truth be told, I have a long list of problems with exercise. I’m just telling the truth here.
1. I don’t like to sweat. (That alone could explain everything)
2. I find it hard to make the time. It isn’t that I don’t have it. I do. But on a cold or blustery morning, when I’m so cozy sitting in bed after the kids go to school and I have my computer and newspaper and coffee, I find myself resisting getting up, snapping on that restrictive jogging bra (which let’s face it, I just need because of my losing struggle with the Snickers war), pulling on my sweats which look ginourmous, throwing the inserts into my athletic shoes (which I now need because my extra weight has put stress on my plantars fasciitis), and going out to do anything.
3. And then if I go hike, or treadmill, or whatever, I’ll end up sweaty, stinky, needing a shower. That adds another half hour to my day. Not the end of the world, but it does sort of tip the scale towards inaction.
4. Exercises which would really help to burn fat and increase metabolism are even more complicated. I’d have to work my way up to jogging and that can take weeks of dedicated effort before you’re even closer to an endorphin rush. Weight lifting is fun and can aid metabolism, but you really have to push yourself. I find I can only push so hard. Swimming is something I even enjoy, but it’s has it’s own avoidance opportunities (the look of me in a swimsuit?). You can’t hide what’s inside, can you?
5. I can walk. I do walk. Just not enough or with enough consistency to make a difference.
6. Lastly, there is an exercise I love. I could do it for hours with joy and satisfaction. It works my arms, my abs, my legs. I sweat, but I don’t notice. The scenery is thrilling and I get to see one of favorite animals up close. No, not sex with my new husband, but kayaking. And in that same cosmic joke injustice, kayaking is not exactly easy to do all year. The lightest kayak I’ve found is too heavy for me to lift and maneuver by myself, so I had to rely on UCLA’s marine center. Just as I had figured out that as my venue, I find out that it is closed in the exact hours that would otherwise allow me to kayak every day. I have from 9-2 free; they have it closed from 9-3. I need a lake with a dock where the kayak is easy to just lower into the water. That isn’t possible around here. (oh, the animal I can see up close is the pelican.)
Well, when all is said and done, I would say it isn’t all said and done,,, yet. I’m ok with where I am, because in general in my life I’m happy. And I really don’t think the secret to success or joy is to be stick skinny. I will walk. I might even learn to jog. I will continue to explore the world of fruits and vegetables. I will control myself around sweets even if I grumble while I do it. And I might even let Ben & Jerry off the hook for tempting me. But I also might continue to rail against the cosmos for putting all these thoughts in my head.
And then, there’s always sex.
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