Raw Drip

Every Tuesday night a local restaurant has a “Kids Eat Free” promo with tons of fun activities for the 10 and under set.  Last night we stopped by and let the kids indulge in some food of debatable nutritional value as they played with hand puppets and free balloon animals.   

The balloon artist (if that’s what they’re called?) was a multi-talented fellow able to make balloon accessories such as hats & belts, animals of course, and every parent’s favorite – balloon weapons.  Naturally, when faced with a virtual Noah’s Ark of balloon animals to choose from, Adam chose a weapon – a sword.  But, to my chagrin, he insisted that his sword needed to be pink. 

Today’s entry isn’t about how I have a problem with the sword being pink.  Honestly, I really don’t care what color is his favorite (although his happens to be pink at the moment), and I’m not worried about gender identity issues.  It’s just a color for goodness sake – not a lifestyle choice or an identity crisis – he’s not even 4!   But of all the colors Adam could have picked for a sword, blush pink resulted in the most phallic looking sword – ever.

Naturally, as Adam proudly pranced about poking people with his pretty, pink balloon sword, I found that I could barely maintain my parental composure.   Dick chastised me for my constant smirk and the whispered innuendos I shared with him when Adam was out of ear shot, but I’m guessing I’m not alone here.  I’m sure we all have those moments where the obvious sexual overtones of a child’s turn of phrase or the suggestive nature of a toy brings forth that 12 year old kid who dwells within us.   I just think my inner 12 year old must have a hair trigger because she’s constantly being silenced by the 36 year old mommy in me; the mommy who doesn’t want her kids to see how sick & twisted she really is – at least not until they’re old enough to be in on the joke.

Take Tabitha, for instance, who refuses to refer to her “Jessie” doll (from the movie Toy Story 2) as Jessie – she refers to the doll as “My Woody”.  I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve refereed over Adam’s unwanted touching of Tabitha’s Woody or, worse yet, Tabitha’s unwanted touching of Adam’s Woody (his Toy Story Woody doll).   By my account, we’ve had more unwanted Woody touches than a Catholic boy’s school.

And then there are the naughty words our language-challenged pre-schoolers inadvertently stumble upon in their attempts at saying a real word.  For instance, Adam couldn’t say the word “clock” for the longest time.  That tricky “L” sound tripped him up every time.  This meant we were constantly looking at “the cock”.   Uh, yeah, that didn’t make me laugh too hard…

Tabitha’s superior verbal skills don’t save her from falling into the occasional unintended naughty word, either.  Just a few months ago, she struggled with the word “Froggy”, which, let me tell you sounds a whole lot like “Fuk me” when mangled by a 2 yr. old.

While I draw the line at actually teaching my kids inappropriate language or behavior for my  own sick amusement, I have to admit that I am the first one laughing when they poke, prod, trip, or stumble into my humor comfort zone where that 12 yr. old within still struggles to contain a laugh when someone says the word “gas”. 

So you tell me, how am I supposed to NOT allow my my mind to wander into dick & fart territory when faced with this most phallic-looking sword? (see photo below)

I’ll be upfront with you.  This is a crap post.  Seriously, there’s nothing hard-hitting, touching or note-worty in what I’m about to share with you.  Rather than judge me for what this post is not, try to think of it like a little chat between good friends who swap product recommendations and random likes & dislikes during the course of conversation.  Only here, when you click on and purchase one of my recommendations, you earn me 10% of every purchase. 

Now, before you go and get all put-off by my blatant attempt at monetizing Raw Drip, I’d like to point out that I do have some altruistic motivations.  Think about it:  the American economy is in recession.  How do you expect to stimulate our economic recovery if you’re sitting around saving money?  What’s going to happen to us if you don’t do your part and drive yourself deeper and deeper into debt through shopping?  Hm?  As I see it, we all need to keep consuming.  So, by shopping (preferably from any of the following convenient links) you’re not only helping me – you’re helping yourself and all of America.  How brilliant is that? 

Stuff that I love (in no particular order):

1. Fantastically relaxing (almost lullaby-like) song “Shed Your Love” by The Helio Sequence.  I played this for the kids on our recent road trip and it actually put them to sleep.  Unfortunately, it had a simliar effect on me so I had to blast the A/C and chew gum like a speed-freak afterwards.
2. Despite the fact that I will get no money for this referral, you really have to try Poco Dolce bittersweet chocolate with burnt caramel – basically toffee & sea salt.  I know the flavor combo sounds a bit odd, but trust me it all just works.  It’s probably the best dark chocolate I’ve ever had – and I’ve had a lot.
3. After sitting around, eating all that chocolate, you’re going to need something to distract from the inevitable ass-spread.  How about fantastic hair?  My sister-in-law recommended to me  Big shampoo by Lush and I’m in love with it.  It’s unlike any other shampoo I’ve ever used.  It’s kind of like putting a salt rub into your scalp, but then it just melts away and lathers beautifully leaving you with an exfoliated scalp and the cleanest, shiniest hair ever.   Take it from a beauty products junkie – this is good stuff.
4. The book, “How to Get into Debt” is an informative read, but also check out some of their other titles like “How to get Fat” (I think I’ve got that covered), “How to Traumatize your Children” (again, I’m on top of that one) and “The Complete Manual of Things that Might Kill You” – a great gift for the chronically ill person in your family.
5. Just to help you appreciate my altruistic leanings, I’ll wrap up my recommendations with a freebie.  Someecards.com offers (for free!) the most ridiculously funny e-greetings I’ve ever seen.   Wry, highly inappropriate, utterly tasteless – whatever you want to call ‘em – they’re funny.  You could spend hours clicking through these cards and laughing out loud.  My advice: check out the “Somewhat topical” section.  Dick sent me an e-card from there the other day that said, “I promise not to make you stand beside me during the public apology if I’m ever implicated in a prostitution ring.”  I really felt that card expressed the true depth of his feelings for me…

Yesterday I joined Weight Watchers for about the 5th time in my life. 

Wipe that look off your face.  It’s all good.  Here’s the thing: I “get” what my problems are - primarily an addiction to bread-based carbs and an overly flexible interpretation of an appropriate serving size.  Indeed, intellectually speaking I could run that WW weekly meeting and do a helluva bang-up job! People would love me – the knowledgeable, motivational fat girl that has clearly been through the program a few times before.   

So if it’s not a question of knowledge, what is my problem?  I’ve thought about this a lot and my problem is that I have trouble thinking long-term.  Like many people, I’m an instant gratification junkie who can only see the short-term satisfaction of eating a warm cinnamon roll.  As I stuff my face with frosted gooiness, all the long-term implications of my actions drift into the background.  I become the Scarlett O’Hara of food telling myself that “Tomorrow is another day…” While, it is another day, I tend to lack Scarlett’s single-minded focus on achieving goals. 

On top of my lack of focus,  I HATE to exercise.  Really - HATE IT.  Walking is fine with me and I have some stellar shapely calves to prove it, but a formalized exercise routine is my personal definition of hell.

Looking back, it’s hard to pinpoint when my struggle with weight and self-image began since it seems to have been with me always.  I’ve been 6ft tall since age 11 with a substantial build so even as a child I was freakishly large, especially for a girl.  My first memory of actually feeling ashamed of my largeness was going to the Orange County Fair (yep, that O.C.) and not being allowed to ride the ponies because I was “too fat”.  The carni operating the pony ride insisted on weighing me as I stood in line for my turn and then shouted my weight to my family and the entire crowd followed by the words, “Sorry folks. Your daughter’s too fat for this ride!”  The weight limit was 100 pounds.  I was 8 years old and weighed 105 pounds.  

Shortly after my humiliating fair ground experience I remember becoming fascinated with a weight loss device advertised in the back of my mother’s National Enquirer magazine.  According to the ad for the magic cube you just hold onto the cube several times a day, thinking positive thoughts and it would mysteriously jump-start your metabolism so you could lose weight without dieting.  Its effectiveness was attested to by several prominent doctors who obliging provided their initials beneath their enthusiastic testimonials.  At $19.99 the magic cube seemed like a small price to pay for thin.  

I never did get around to buying the magic cube, but I did eat a lot of Ayds.  Do you remember Ayds?   They were the (unfortunately named) hunger suppressant candies popular in the 70’s.  I think my mom lived off of those and Juicy Fruit chewing gum for most of my youth.   Anyway, I went through a period of mass Ayds consumption to no avail and then stumbled upon the fantastic weight loss effects of the Jane Fonda Workout during my middle school years. 

I’ve got to give Jane credit – her exercise regimen worked!  I did lose weight and I did notice increased energy.  But after a while I became bored.  How many times can you do the same workout routine?  After a year of almost daily workouts in P.E. I had the routine memorized and my weight loss had reached a plateau.  To this day I can’t listen to that James Ingram song “Find 100 Ways” without hearing Jane cheering, “Lift…squeeze – woo!  Hot cross buns!”. 

Another self-esteem turning point in my youth was the annual public humiliation and torture known as the “President’s Physical Fitness Test”.   It was always unclear to me why Ronald Reagan should care whether or not I could do 10 pull ups or 25 push ups, but my entire middle school phys ed curriculum was structured around conditioning us for success on this test.  Maybe it had something to do with the Cold War…

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that as a tall, clumsy, asthmatic teen I couldn’t pass, let alone perform, any of the challenges on the President’s test.  It was probably the only test I took and failed every year.  Academically, I was a star pupil but when they made me run a mile on the track I’d be in acute pulmonary distress after the first lap. 

So, there’s no mystery in how I got to where I am.  Eats too much – check!  Hates to exercise – check!  Naturally cursed with a zaftig build – check!

The mystery lies in figuring out how I’m going find that place within myself that is happy with how I look and feel and is so pleased with me that I’ll make the necessary sacrifices to maintain my weight.  Following a diet is easy, but changing that part of your life is hard. 

And I know I’m not one of those women who looks at her husband and says, “Gosh. I decided to lose weight for him – to keep that spark alive.”  I’m more like, “Dude, here I am.  Fat, thin, take it or leave it.”  

I also realize that there is no such thing as losing weight for my kids.  There’s a great line in the movie “Terms of Endearment” when Debra Winger’s character is explaining something to her boys and she says very matter-of-factly, “I love you almost as much as I love myself…”  Every time I hear that line it gets to me.  If only I could be that self-possessed!  I love & adore my children and I do want to be healthy enough to be with them a very long time, but I think I’m going to have to love myself first and that’s really tough.  We women are notoriously guilt-ridden creatures.  And I know me and I know how unlovable, stubborn and difficult I can be.  I want to be able to eat that cinnamon roll without guilt because I’ll feel secure in the knowledge that one cinnamon roll doesn’t amount to a dietary tipping point - it doesn’t have to be the beginning of the end.  It’s all about moderation, after all.   I just wish I didn’t suck at moderation so much.