Tell the truth and shame the deviled eggs

I'd like to start this post with a short story.

Yesterday, I went to the dentist for my 6-month cleaning. He found a small cavity...yikes!!!

Doc was astonished, because my teeth were so healthy just 6 short months ago. He asks, “Have you been eating a lot of chewy candy or something?”

I reply, with a look of absolute innocence as I think about the Starburst and Laffy Taffy habit that has turned into nearly a crack addiction, “No, doctor.”

The End.

Also yesterday, a blog visitor asked what was I doing differently with food to achieve the new body I longed for in the "Farewell" post. It got me to thinking a lot about what I've eaten since I started working out so hard, and the truth is... I really haven't done anything different.

My work days are hectic, and I'm legendary for making a lunch out of say, Skittles, homemade deviled eggs and peanut butter pretzels scrounged from co-workers. It's not that I love those food combinations, it's just that they were nearby. And yes, that IS what I ate today. 

Clearly, with the cavity news and the diet inquiry, the Food Angels are trying to get me to take a closer look at how, when, what, and why I eat.

I pledge to all of you -- my three blog readers -- that I will document in this public forum, everything I eat and drink for the next week. 

If I know I have to tell all of you the truth about what I eat, maybe I'll make better choices out of shame, which will lead me to making better choices out of desire. We'll see.

Farewell to arms (and butts and hips and thighs)

Now that my armpits have returned to normal, I am on to obsessing over other parts of my body, specifically my hips, thighs and upper arms which have all somehow taken on a life of their own.

I’m not gonna beat myself up about it (or allow anyone else to do so), but I am going to wage war against the wideness like I’m the U.S. and my hips are N. Korea. (Or, would I rather be N. Korea, because they can probably win….?) Either way, it’s on! And by “on,” I mean the wideness is coming off.

I hereby declare that between now and some vague day in early Spring 2010, I will:

I can do this. I know I can.

The plan is already in full effect. I ran two very slow, very sweaty and very painful miles yesterday, but I felt great when it was all done. Except for the sweating part, but I guess that’s what N. Korea would call collateral damage.

I didn’t even care that two little barefoot babies streaked by me like 10 times with their ponytails just bouncing like running full speed was nothing to them. Or, that a size 2, geriatric grandmother with silver hair swooped past me, walking faster than I was running. Nope, none of that bothered me. Because I was out there, slowly but surely, one step at a time, running my way closer to bidding farewell to arms (and butts and hips and thighs).

Trying not to sweat it

I’ve been in a fight with my own armpits ever since the outside temps rose above 68 degrees.

For reasons unknown to me, I turned into sweaty girl when summer came, and, if you know me at all, you know that I have a thing for being clean. I bathe frequently. And by bathe, I mean, fill the bath with hot, steaming water, scrub forcefully until the skin tingles lightly, then stand up and rinse in the shower. On hot days, I have been known to do this at least 3 times.

I love it. Probably was a mermaid in a past life. Or, a glutton for punishment.

The pits sent me on several trips to the local Wally world on a mission to find something, anything…to beat the heat.

I must have spent about $59.62 on different products before I found THE ONE. Degree Clinical Strength. Powder scented, with TRIsolid technology, and a 20% drying ingredient that I can’t pronounce or spell. Even the $12.00 price tag for deodorant was irrelevant, because I needed to be dry. I had to be dry.

Common sense should have told me that any deodorant with technology probably was a bad idea.

The box said you get the best results when you apply it night and morning, so I did just that for about four days and nights before I awoke to something odd. My right armpit was not…feeling…quite…right.

And by that, I mean, the whole area was hard and swollen, like the Yellow Jacket Boyz had gotten in there and had a stinging contest. What tha fuh….? AAwwwwarggghhhouch! Sweet baby Jesus, it hurt. Sweet Father Lord in heaven, it was bad. Merciful Father of Creation, I was in pain.

But dummy me, I got up that day and applied more deodorant. Because I can take the pain, but I can’t take the sweat. Hours later, at work, I Googled my armpit situation and learned that superduper strength deodorant can sometimes have adverse effect, you know, like, clogging up your sweat glands.

Needless to say, I took to the bath as soon as I could, scrubbing and exfoliating with all I had. I went about a week without deodorant, and guess what? I didn’t need it! That’s how serious that stuff is.

It finally went away and I went back to my regular scheduled program. Unless my armpits open up and a waterfall pours out, you can bet I’m never doing that again. 

Life is always teaching

Tall, dark and handsome approaches me after lunch. Chocolate skin, pretty smile. Well over 6 feet tall. I like!

He's wearing hospital scrubs. I like that even more.

I'm having an exceptionally good look day. Cute, wispy hair; fuschia pink blouse showcasing my waist and my own dark skin. Feeling good. Looking good. 

We flirt.

He jokes.

I laugh.

He asks, "Would you like some dental floss?"

Without blinking, I say, "Yes, thank you."

He does a teeth check for me after I floss and asks for my number anyway.

In life, sometimes you need a little spinach tooth.

Talkin' Trash

Ever since I bought my little green house on the hill, I have had a problem with trashcans. Nobody ever told choosing the right trashcan is serious business. And over the course of almost three years, I have paid and paid and paid for not making the right choice.

Trashcan after trashcan has come into my life. Lightweight ones, rolling ones, plastic ones, Rubbermaid ones, eco-friendly ones… And just like trash collection on Monday and Thursday, they just come and go.

The Family Dollar trashcan melted in the Georgia heat.

The WalMart trashcan lid blew into the Nature Preserve across the street from me, and since my neighbor swears she saw a red fox riding a 10-foot owl over there, I certainly wasn’t going in after it. (Yes, you read that right.)

A hand-me-down from Daddy JB rolled into the street and got killed by my neighbor’s Suburban. It was all just too much.

After a little research and a BIG gift card from J-Beezy, I found the perfect trashcan! It was, like, the Rolls Royce of trashcans. Big, extra heavy duty, with a lid that was attached by metal hinges AND wheels… I double-dog-dare this trashcan to get away from me.  It weighed 95 pounds and was really supposed to be used for medical waste disposal, but whatever…

So, I got it on the weekend. It took three grown men to load it in my truck. Then, me and JB spent 40 days and 40 nights getting the wheels and the security lock on. But finally it was ready to go.

Monday, I rolled it out to the curb and broke a sweat. Monday night, I came home and my trash was still there. I figured I must have set my trash out too late. I almost got a hernia pulling it back up to the house, but that’s the price you pay for Rolls Royce.

Thursday, I rolled the even heavier can back out to the curb. Thursday night, the trash was STILL there.  I missed trash pickup again? I seriously thought about hiring immigrant labor to pull it back up to the house, but I made it.

The following Sunday night, I set the can out again. A day early, just in case.

Monday night, I come home to a week’s worth of trash still in the can and a big fat, hot electric fluorescent pink tag tied to my Rolls Royce ‘s handle.

The tag said, “Hello from Dekalb County Sanitation. There is no way in sam hell that we will ever pick up this effing trashcan. Not even if God told us to do it. So you and your trashcan can both go sit down somewhere. And, if you don’t take this thing off the curb, we’re going to fine you for being stupid. The end. Have a nice day.”

Okay, the tag probably didn’t say that. But that’s what they meant….

We won’t even get into what I had to do with the nasty, spoiled, liquefied trash that had been laying around for a week, but please believe I cleaned that trashcan up real good and took it back for a full refund. I got enough money back to keep me in groceries for six months. That’s all we’re gonna say about that. 

These images don't really do it justice, but here’s pics of the 95-lb. Rolls Royce and the 14-lb. Corolla that replaced it. Pray for me.

Happy Birthday!

Every little girl should be so lucky as me to have her own personal giant. A protector, a teacher, a best friend, a confidant, a father.... 

Happy Birthday to my American Idol! 

The Yellow Jacket Boyz Take Over

My front yard is being run by the mafia right now. More specifically, a gang of Yellow Jackets moved into the plant bed under my mailbox, without asking my permission or even telling me they were there!

Thursday night after the rain, I was out doing some light gardening. My tiger lilies died inexplicably (and by that I mean I accidentally sprayed them with weed killer), so I was out pulling them up in prep for planting new ones. I figured…the ground is wet, they’ll come out pretty easy and I’ll be back in the house in no time.

Everything was going good until about halfway through the uprooting. That’s when the middle toe on my right foot started to sizzle. I looked down and saw 2 or 3 of the Yellow Jacket Boyz dive-bombing my foot! 

The thing about yellow jackets is they plan well-coordinated attacks. They are smart and fast. So, I quick-switched into ninja mode, hopping, stomping, screaming and flopping around. I kicked my foot straight out with so much force that my flip flop flew off and landed on the other side of the neighborhood.

[Flip Flops + Gardening = Not Smart!]

My ninja moves scared them away – sort of – and I took that as a sign to get inside ASAP.  I looked back and saw they had called in about 20 or 30 of the other YJ Boyz, so I put some extra pep in my step, but then I slipped on the wet grass.

There was no time to think so I just frog hopped/waddled/scrambled on all fours up the hill until I got to the driveway. I ran into the garage, closed it and dove into the house. I made it to the kitchen window and just stood there huffing and sweating, watching the YJ Boyz just flying and diving. Like they were congratulating each other on running me up out of my OWN yard.

They got me. My middle toe looks like a fat Vienna sausage, and it took two benadryl and some aloe vera to make it feel better.

But this ain’t over. They might have their little attack plans and stingers, but I have a secret weapon: Daddy JB! And, when J-Beezy gets on the case, they’re gonna wish they never even flew past my mailbox.

Two words: Gasoline and matches.

Two more words: Stay tuned.