It is Day 4. Dieting still sucks.
Even if I were to sit at home alone, with no outside influences, dieting would be difficult. But the last few days, cruel forces have been conspiring to make me cheat. I have not yet knowingly cheated on my diet, but the pressure. Oh the pressure.
Take the beginning of Day 2. I had just finished my scrambled eggs as I sat down at our conference table for our morning meeting. And 2 boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts were placed in front of me. Glazed. Sprinkles. Creme-filled. The smell of sugar was so strong I was afraid I might be cheating on my diet just being so near the sweets.
I perservered, but was tested again on Day 3. I spent all day at a scene, and the Red Cross was kind enough to bring over some food, but unfortunately the food wasn’t allowed on my diet. At lunchtime, I asked one co-worker to stay on scene while I drove down the road to get a salad. Being polite, I asked her if I could get her anything. “An ice cream cone!” Okay.
I psyched myself up. Yes, the ice cream will be in the car, but just ignore it. Yes, it’s 90-something degrees, but you don’t want the ice cream. What I hadn’t considered, was how I would get the ice cream cone back to my co-worker. I had to drive all the way back to the scene not just with the ice cream in the car, but with the ice cream cone in my hand. Dripping. Instinct tells me when ice cream is dripping, I should lick it. Several times I nearly had the ice cream in my mouth before I remembered I could not have it. Cruel.
Today was a co-worker’s last day. For some reason, I volunteered to get the cake. Idiot. Then I also agreed to pick up 3 donut-flavored frozen treats from Krispy Kreme for use in one of the shows. It took the workers a long time to figure out how to use the machine. Meanwhle, I kept staring at the caramel crunch donuts and imagining how they might melt in my mouth. Just beyond the glass, I could also see the conveyer belt of newly born donuts being glazed in the back room.
And yet, I did not give in. I’m barely hanging on to this diet thing by the thinnest of shreds, but I’m hanging on. We’ll see what Day 5 brings.
All I can think about is food.
That’s partly because I spend most of my free time cooking since we have to eat such specific foods that don’t come pre-packaged.
That’s also because I’m dieting. Any time I’ve ever tried to tell myself, “you can’t have that,” that is all I have wanted. This diet begins with a strict phase of no breads or pastas or sugars.
This morning I thought about a buttery biscuit with blackberry jelly and almost cried.
The silly thing is, I never really thought about biscuits before. But suddenly, since I can’t have them, I desperately want them.
The good thing about this diet is that you typically lose weight quickly at the very beginning. If I see some progress, I might stick with it. But if I don’t see something soon, I might eat an entire loaf of bread in one sitting.
Over the past two days, I’ve asked myself if dieting is worth it (it’s sad that I’m having this debate and it’s only day 2). On the one hand, life is too short not to eat what you enjoy. But on the other hand, life is too short not to feel thin and healthy.
We’ll see. We’ll see.
Tomorrow, Lee and I are starting a diet.
Tonight, I did enough damage that it will take weeks of dieting to get back to what I weighed before this evening’s sand gnats baseball game.
I saw tonight as my last night to eat guilt-free for a while, so Lee and I took in a double-header at Grayson Stadium. It just so happened to also be Feed Your Face Monday.
The lowdown: pay 6 dollars. Get a wristband. Eat all the concessions you want, all night long.
Between us, we had two drinks, two orders of chicken fingers, two orders of fries, a cheeseburger, an order of onion rings, nachos, and boiled peanuts. It was like the night before execution or something. You’d better feast now because tomorrow – famine.
Though truthfully, I don’t think the diet will really be like famine, but I’m sure it won’t be easy as pie either (oh pie, blessed pie). And tonight, as I walked out of the stadium, hunched over in pain from indigestion, I thought, “I’m ready for this diet, because I don’t ever want to feel like this again.”
I remember red Georgia dust beneath my shoes as I clutched a basket, leaned over and plucked ripe, juicy blackberries from the bushes on the side of the road.
I recalled this memory after reading my friend Anna’s blog about the fruit growing in her backyard, and seeing this picture.
When I was a child, I loved visiting my grandparents in Cordele during the summer. They lived on a farm off a dirt road – a wonderful place for a child to play, imagine, and pick blackberries. I remember heading out on a sweltering day, basket in hand, looking for ripe blackberry bushes. For every blackberry that went in that basket, two went in my mouth. They were unwashed, sometimes gritty from the dust, but so juicy and sweet that I didn’t care about the rest.
After Grandmother’s basket was full (and mine a third full), we’d head back. There, she would take the blackberries and turn them into the most delicious cobbler. Even though I didn’t think I could eat another blackberry, blackberry cobbler was too tempting to resist. Especially when it was warm. Served with ice cream.
Come to think of it, those summer memories still influence me in subtle ways. I still love watermelon, not only because of it’s taste, but because it grew on that farm and brings sweet memories. And just last week. I was in the jelly aisle of the grocery store, scanning the labels on the jars. I picked blackberry. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I’m sure I like blackberries not just because they’re tasty, but because they remind me of summers on the farm with family, a basket, and a whole afternoon of berries.
Right now, I’m sitting in my porch swing, watching the flowers in the pot next to the door move in the breeze. It is such a wonderful, wondeful breeze. But first, I must begin at the beginning.
Yesterday it was 100 degrees in Savannah. The heat index was about 115 – so basically it felt like the boiling pits of hell. All you had to do was go near an outside door, you didn’t even have to open it, and you’d start sweating. Last night, even with the air conditioner on, the overhead fan, and an oscillating fan aimed at the bed, I couldn’t sleep. Too hot. I’m not kidding.
Today wasn’t much different. I was downtown working, sitting on a bench and baking in the shade. 95 degrees, with triple-digit heat indices. I remember thikning, “Just ten degrees cooler and it wouldn’t be so bad. 20 degrees cooler and I’d probably think it was cold.”
I spent my afternoon indoors, and a thunderstorm ripped through town. Hail momentarily fell outside my window. Apparently, the ice cubes from heaven cooled the drink I call Savannah, because when I opened the door to leave work, I stopped. A cool wind was whipping through the parking lot, and I had sudden thoughts of fall football games and even sweaters. Yes, I thought of sweaters, though only hours before I’d been sweating just fine on my own.
So that brings me to now, sitting on the porch swing, barely able to believe that my wish was granted. I checked the temperature a moment ago – 73 degrees. I’d love to sleep with the windows open tonight, except the cat would escape. Damn cat. Blessed breeze.
In a sea of seated people there was a man. A man standing with a tambourine. This man was my father.
Long before the crowd at the Chicago concert had enough alcohol in their veins to have them dancing and singing with abandon, my father was dancing and singing and playing his tambourine. Before the opening band finished, a bruise had already begun to appear on his hand from playing.
It was fun to watch. It was also fun to watch the reactions of the people around him. First they would stare, then they would smile and nudge the people next to them. At first, I think people didn’t know how to take him, but after a few songs they found themselves enjoying his wild passion for the show. It was contagious. I’m sure it bent the rules of concert etiquette, but by the “thumbs up” and high-fives he was getting, we felt sure people were enjoying both the show on the stage and the show in the seats.
Except someone didn’t understand. Someone didn’t realize how important that evening was, and how innocent and wonderful it was to watch Dad let loose and play his tambourine like it was the last day of life. Someone tattled.
An usher came up to Dad and told him he could dance, but he couldn’t play the tambourine. Dad tried to explain that he had permission from the band, but the usher said someone had complained.
We tried to figure out who had complained. As we asked the people around us if the tambourine was bothering them, they didn’t just say no. They said no, and we really want you to keep playing it. The gentleman behind us said if the usher came back, we should pass the tambourine back to him and he would guard it. Another person down the row asked dad to keep playing. The more the word spread that an usher had asked him to stop, the more indignant and protective the crowd around us seemed to become. No one seemed to want him to stop playing. They wanted to watch him having fun, because it rubbed off on them, too.
So Dad decided to keep playing. He played until his arm hurt and his fingers swelled. And I was glad, because the tambourine was more than just an instrument, it was an extension of my Dad’s enthusiastic personality. I was prepared to protect it, and I was proud that the crowd around us was prepared, too. They understood, and the night, like always, was a magical mix of music, family, a starry sky, and the jingle of the tambourine.
I walked to my car after work one recent day, and opened the passenger’s side door to put my computer bag in the seat, when I saw something that made me freeze in place. My breath caught in my throat, my eyes were fixed on the floorboard, and I think my heart may have momentarily ceased beating.
I was not alone in this fear. There, unmoving on the floorboard carpet, was a roach. Like me, he seemed frozen, unsure if moving would lead to escape or death. Then suddenly, he ran toward the front of the car and disappeared beneath the dashboard.
Crap.
I liked it better when I could see him.
I cautiously climbed in the front seat and started the car, all the while looking for any sign of his ugly antennae. Driving, I barely concentrated on the road, afraid any second I’d feel his prickly legs on my sandaled foot, and accidentally slam the gas pedal and drive into a tree.
I can’t explain why roaches scare me. I know they shouldn’t. They don’t really bite or sting or hurt me in any way – but there it is. The fear.
On several occassions in the following days, this same roach (I assume) appeared on my passenger side floorboard, always scurrying under the dash before I could squash him. Each time, I’d feel the fear rising again.
Finally, I had to accept that I might never kill this roach, and he might be with me for a while. Rather than be afraid everytime I opened the car door, I needed a new tactic. If I couldn’t kill him, I would befriend him. Make him my pet. So the roach became Ricky.
It’s harder to be scared of a little bug named Ricky. Especially when you think up ridiculous scenarios about his life. Lee and I decided Ricky was the sort of roach who wore hawaiin shirts and surfed during the day, then played games on his Playstation all night with the fellas. Hardly anything to fear. Who could be afraid of this?:
It’s a photo of Ricky on the beach, with my car in the background (sometimes he takes it for joy rides). He’s harmless. So now, as I drive down the road, if I feel the tickle of roach legs, I’ll try to think of this picture.
I’ll still probably slam my car into a tree, but maybe not. Maybe I’ll be strong.
This is how weather.com has looked for what seems like ages now. When I check the local forecast, a little rain cloud is usually what I see. Sometimes there’s a streak of lightening in it, too.
Last month, we got 16.97 inches of rainfall. Our typical average for the month is 5.49 inches. I’m not good at math but even I understand that was a LOT of rain.
It’s falling outside my window right now. It’s not all bad. I love going to sleep when it’s raining. We haven’t had to water the grass, and it’s looking lush and green. The rain gives me an excuse to keep my beach floats on the front porch. I left them there after returning from my beach trip, too lazy to put them in the garage. When Lee mentioned them tonight I told him they were being kept there for our safety. If it floods, we can use them to float away.
But at the same time, the rain can be a nuisance when it’s constant. The worst part of it by far is it’s affect on Millie. When it’s sunny outside, she can spend the day in the backyard while we’re at work. When its raining, we need to keep her inside, but have to crate her because otherwise she’ll destroy the house ten seconds after we shut the door behind us.
She HATES the crate. On rainy mornings, she often paces and cries while I get ready for work, because she knows she’ll have to go in the crate. I feel badly for her. I take her outside to do her business, and she shakes and tries to hide. We’ve tried leaving yummy treats in the crate. We don’t use it for punishment. We medicate her. It hasn’t worked. She’s still terrified.
For a while, we had some luck leaving her in the kitchen, blocking her in with a tall baby gate. But she learned how to climb over the baby gate, so it was back to the crate.
Then last week we thought we’d grown wise, and bought a second baby gate. Stacked on top of one another, they seemed impossible to climb over. The first night, they worked well. I could tell by the doggy foot prints all over the kitchen floor that she had paced all evening, but it had to be better than being locked in a crate, right?
The second night, we left her for about three hours. When we returned, the second we opened the door we could smell the strong odor of natural gas. Millie had turned on the gas to the burner on the stove. We had to open doors and windows, bring in fans from the garage, and hope no accidental sparks turned our home into a fireball.
She turned on the gas because she spends the night frantically pawing at the counters, trying to get only she knows what. She knocked a knob into the on position. So when we left her in the kitchen toinght, we removed all the knobs.
She didn’t turn on the gas, but she still paced all around the kitchen and clawed at every cabinet and wall space available. Dirty dog prints were everywhere, and bits of paint were missing in some areas. Yes, it’s frustrating to have to clean all of that up, but even more frustrating because I don’t know how to help her. She’s obviously miserable when she’s here alone – panicked even – and I can’t help her.
So instead, I’m listening to the rain and wishing for a week of sunshine so she could be outside for a few days. I think the rainy weather has been hardest on her this last month, but we could all use a break.
I knew I used the internet a lot, but I didn’t realize how often until a bad lightening storm took my internet away. I’ve had plenty to write about, but no way to post my writing so I didn’t write. I missed it.
During the past week I’ve had a chance to look back on a lot of things. A week ago today, Lee and I celebrated our 3 year anniversary. We had a quiet dinner in a nice restaurant and talked about life and love and held hands across the table and touched toes underneath. Every day I wake up so happy about the man waking beside me, and it feels like the kind of love that will still make me happy on our 33rd anniversary. And our 333rd (I plan for us to live a long time).
Over the weekend, we attended Lee’s 10 year high school reunion. It was interesting. Fitzgerald is a unique place. Maybe everyone says that about the place they graduated. It’s not all bad, not all good, just different. We saw people – it was nice to see some, I felt indifferent about others. I felt very glad we’d left town after school, but I was also glad the town was still there to come back to. It was a good dress rehearsal for my 10 year reunion next year. But this year, I was very content to be the girl on Lee’s arm. I was proud to be his date, proud of who he has become and where I believe he is headed.
The past week also made me look forward. I spent two days at the beach with my mom and a handful of her friends. They are all teachers on summer break. I knew all of them to varying degrees, and had spent some social time with them – but never for an extended period. It was fun, and interesting. They are like me, in that they are professional women with friends. But they are at a different stage in life and I enjoyed watching them, getting a glimpse of what trips with friends may be like for me when I’m older. I learned that most of them have a little bit of arthritis, there were several mentions of the onset of dementia (mostly teasing), a lot of talk about home decorating and some chit-chat about children. There was the occasional bit of gossip, too. Some of the conversations mirrored chats with my friends, but without some of the drama that comes with immaturity. The subject matter might be similar, but my mom and her friends have learned things, come to terms with things, seem more sure of who they are and where they’re going.
It has been a good week. In looking back, I’m thankful for my husband and even for Fitzgerald and the lessons learned there. I’m also hopeful for a good future, and looking forward to one day taking a beach trip with my girlfriends, sitting in the sand, talking about mild arthritis and furniture and my grandchildren, and looking forward to a happy, healthy retirement.
A one-of-a-kind dad deserves an equally unique present on Father’s Day. No tie would do this year. Dad didn’t need a noose around his neck to remind him of work. He needed something to celebrate his free spirit. And that could only have been a tambourine.
The yearly Chicago concert is coming up at Chastain Park in Atlanta. As I’ve written before, my father tosses inhibitions aside at this event, dancing and singing and thorougly enjoying the show.
He also recently began bringing to the show a small tambourine that he snuck out of the pre-school supply closet at church. Dismayed that the current band does not include a tambourine player, he dutifully learned all the tambourine arrangements and happily plays them from his seat.
This year, he will not have to borrow from the supply closet. He now has a genuine tambourine which, thanks to Lee’s handywork, bears the Chicago logo. After the concert, it will also bear the autographs of the current members. But this gift will not then go into a frame to be displayed and kept pristine. I have a feeling this tambourine will one day be scratched and worn from many rowdy concerts – as it should be.
I am thankful for so many things about my father, and not just on Father’s Day. I am very thankful that I have the kind of father who will play his tambourine, sing and dance, and include me in his merry-making. I am a lucky girl.
