It was a great morning. I had managed to skirt a few donuts left in a box on the table and side stepped my way through a land mind of left over Halloween snickers now neatly displayed in a pumpkin bowl. Feeling pretty great about myself, I meandered over to my laptop and ran smack into Kim Kardashion’s….backside…or however you want to phrase it.
Rather than slam the computer down in shock and disgust, I moved in closer with uncontrollable fascination. How can anyone have a rear that size and a waist that small? I enlarged the photo and scrolled up and down for a better part of an hour hoping for any sign of Photoshop….There was none. DARNIT!
Part of my fascination was due to-well let’s just say-if you were to confront me by saying I’m a bitter, jealous, middle age, insecure woman looking for any sign of imperfection, I would snort and roll my eyes to evade the fact you are absolutely, 100%, not…wrong. DARNIT!
The second part of my fascination was my curiosity over is this really what men want? If Kim Kardashion’s backside is the new standard, I’m in deep trouble. I was never ample in that area to begin with. I’ve often compared it to a piece of plywood. Turn it sideways and you almost can’t tell it exists. If it faces you, it suddenly becomes ridiculously wide. DARNIT
Finally, perhaps the deepest part of my fascination is the struggle of what’s being presented as a new standard for women my age. With J-LO’s recent “Big Booty”, Kim Kardashion’s “Breaking the Internet”, and Nicki Manaj’s “Anaconda”, my assets as a woman are STILL directly related to the size and shape of my a##.
Apparently, if I want to be any strong, independent, woman of substance, I need to shake my thing, do any guy I want because I’m hot and I can, all the while balancing work and the small teeny fact that I have kids at home watching me act like this.
We often lash out at the J-LO and Kim’s behavior as bad role models for young girls. I, however, feel the true damage is happening to women my age and older. For the first time ever, my particular generation is faced with an unprecedented standard of beauty, overall capability and sexuality, all while still trying to meet and match the expectations of being a good mom. (Up until 60 years ago women my age were Grandmothers or-dead. I think it’s safe to say they weren’t that hot-figuratively AND literally.)
All this new found sexual independence feels an awful lot like a new kind of slavery to me. As a sandwich generation who takes care of teenagers and aging parents, a difficult economy, more single-mom parenting than any other generation before us, and a whole host of other problems, most women my age don’t have time to worry about the size and shape of our a##. But we do. Why? Because we’re women. Just like men have a deep seated need to be respected and admired, women have a deep seated need to be beautiful and desired. Politically correct or not-it’s the truth.
I know I’m not alone in my thinking. If I was, plastic surgery, Botox, make-up and other beauty practices wouldn’t be a MULTI-BILLION dollar A YEAR industry. If every woman stopped buying beauty products for one year we could effectively end world hunger. Imagine another child not having to die from lack of food because women didn’t wear lipstick for a year. My age group is also the fastest growing demographic for eating disorders. A scary sign that now more than ever, women my age and older feel the pressure to compete with younger, “hotter” women. Also, that aging-or even looking our age- makes us less valuable.
What does this have to do with Kim Kardashian baring her body? The impression and image sold to us in her naked butt…and beyond…photos, is that Kim has no problem showing herself because she is a strong, proud, independent woman and mom. She is amazing because she looks that hot AFTER having kids. She is a role model for the modern day woman.
The sad truth behind it, though, is those photos pin her value on her looks and sexuality. Which is highly ironic, since women of strength, intelligence and substance have been fighting against that very stereotype since the dawn of time. Kim Kardashion didn’t just fail at breaking the internet, she failed at breaking the stereotype that women are more valuable than the number of guys who want to do their a##. DARNIT. Now I’m going to go and work on mine.
Yes, we as parents work hard to create the ultimate in Halloween adventure with costume, food, parties, photos, etc. Behind it all is that secret dread of all that chocolaty, peanutty, caramel filled, food coloring doused calories we have as much self-control over as-well-nothing. We have no self-control. It’s chocolate.
I’ve tried following sane advice such as “freeze leftover Halloween candy”. But later, I’d find myself hovered over the freezer in mid-January, sawing on snickers that had the constancy of steel. I told the kids to hide the candy from me, but being kids they never do what their told. I’ve baked “goodies” using leftover candy…Not my wisest move.
Alas, I have come up with my own realistic tips on what to do with all that extra leftover Halloween candy. The following tips keeps the candy out of my house and therefore off my waistline.
- Lie in the Name of Holiday Nostalgia:Make up a monster you can celebrate every year. Example: Take a Santa Clause ornament and put horns on his head. “This is Ned. He’s St. Nicholas’s evil brother. He steals kids’ Halloween candy when they’re not looking and throws it in the garbage.” If enough of us parents rally together maybe we could get “Pixar” behind it and it would be easy sailing from there.
- Use the Underdog:Find the neighbor kid who had bad luck. Show your child the poor unhappy kid in “no candy” despair, then give your child the “look”. You know the one. The one with pointing, eyebrow raised and head tilted to the side. (Point) “He has no candy and look how much you have. (Raise Eyebrow) Are you going to give him any? (Tilt head to the side.) Is that ALL you’re going to give him? Jesus gave everything…”
- Ground Them from It:After a long night of extreme sugar high, overexcitement and stimulation get ready for when they start to crash. The moment they have their first meltdown or start to mouth off (depending on age) go straight for the throat-well what was going down the throat-and take away their Halloween candy.
- Hire Someone to Scare Them: This works best by first booby trapping a nearby gutter than covering it with leaves. Hire someone to scare your child, watch them trip and spill their candy down the gutter, then run and rescue them. The key to this is overcoming extreme guilt. It’s best done quickly, on an urge, and maybe even after a drink of two to numb the intense feeling of what a horrible parent you are. Hey-at least you won’t be coping with your massive guilt and parental failure while eating their candy. You’ll thank me later.
I’m signing off. I’ve got an evil Santa to paint and a gutter to mess with. Happy Almost Guilt-free Halloween.
I admit I’m a late bloomer when it comes to being an urban, hip, cool, “my office is a coffee shop”, “I only own a Mac” kind of person. I’ve avoided coffee shops in the past because…I’m broke…but I also found them intimidating. (It was really the “I’m broke” part that kept me out.) I’ve secretly peered into coffee shop windows where I observed hordes of trendy, skinny jeaned, people typing effortlessly. Something about their not really fixed but perfectly fixed gelled hair, flannel shirts and whiffs of espresso made their lives seem significantly more put together than mine. I’ve recently stumbled into the world of script, commercial and comedy writing. Out of complete panic of deadlines and sheer lunacy at home, I’ve found myself plunked between the business guy who talks too loud and the goth teen who shouldn’t be drinking caffeine.
It’s taken me a bit, but I’ve mastered a few Coffee Shop skills that help mislead people into thinking I’m only partially incapable of being “au courant” in a coffee shop. I’m passing on my wealth of knowledge so that you, too, can look like less of an idiot while conducting your business in a coffee shop.
1. Don’t Whack People in the Head With Your Computer Bag. They don’t really like that. Something about the shock of an unexpected object striking them from behind, mixed with agonizing pain, compounded with accidently dumping their hot coffee down the front of their $300 yard sale looking shirt, is apparently upsetting to them. I found it’s good to practice walking the minefield of clustered cords, chairs and Toms all over the coffee shop floor. Think an airplane isle with luggage, only add in high heels and carrying scalding hot coffee. This can be a bit tricky. I found it’s worth taking the time to set up a training course beforehand. (Word of Advice-best not to use your kids as pretend “coffee shop patrons” due to the scalding hot coffee aspect.)
2. Master the “Nonchalant Plunk” to Avoid Your Middle School Years. Remember standing in the junior high cafeteria holding your lunch tray when your one true friend wasn’t at school that day? Do you recall being overtaken by that overwhelming fear, insecurity, and pure dismay of “where do I sit”? That fear NEVER DIES. I recommend avoiding this in a coffee shop setting by mastering the “Nonchalant Plunk”. Before ordering, scan the room as if looking for a friend. Locate what appears to be an empty seat than nonchalantly plunk your bag down. THEN go order. By doing this you avoid the embarrassment of the “Hey, I was sitting here” mean coffee shop bully. If you’ve mistakenly taken a chair that was set aside for people better than you, you can simply say, “I was just setting my bag here while I ordered”. Then you can pick up your bag, plunk it somewhere else, and go cry in the bathroom.
3. Try Your Best to Remember You’re Broke BEFORE Ordering. I don’t know if I mentioned this previously, but I’m perpetually broke. As an actor/writer it apparently comes with the territory. I’ve discovered it’s best to remember this BEFORE ordering something you can’t afford. The realization AFTER you spew such impulsive words out of your mouth as, “Extra-large mocha with an extra shot of espresso with the largest muffin/bun you have, I’m feeling extra depressed today”-is too late. The frantic scouring for money-any money-at the bottom of your pocket, purse, wallet…tip jar…to cover your monstrous order can be somewhat embarrassing. Do the rooting in your car, couch or kid’s pants pockets beforehand in order to avoid the sighs and impatient groans of the wealthier, more responsible people standing in line behind you.
4. Become Skilled at the 4 Count Cord Tango. Plugging in your computer isn’t as simple as it initially appears. Plugging in your cord takes a vast amount of energy and concentration to give off the illusion it’s effortless. There’s the awkward bending over without bending over to reach the outlet. Next, is the non-whacking of the head on the table, fake fireplace, phony tree, or overstocked coffee cup shelf when rising back up to a standing position. Finally, there’s the recovery from the light-headedness you experience from the over exertion and stress caused by the entire song and dance of acting like you’re more put together and graceful than you really are. To counter this, I’ve discovered the 4 count cord tango-which means taking it low and slow. First, bend at the knees to lower yourself in a more appropriate position than the usual, less sophisticated, bend at the waist so my back end hangs out, view. (Count 1.) (This can be accomplished by the sticking out of one leg for more stability-i.e. TANGO-if needed.) Next, reach and plug. (Count 2.) Dodge your head. (Count 3.) Rise and smile. (Count 4.) Repeat until you’ve successfully mastered the above without counting and mouthing the words out loud. The mouthing or speaking out loud can scare the goth teen and the business guy trying to look up your skirt while you’re bending over.
5. Mask Your Self-Deprecation, Insecurity, Fear of Failure, ADHD and Other Happy Attributes of Like Minded Writers. When staring at the blank page, it’s a good idea not to pound your forehead with your fist trying to jolt any ounce of creativity and competency lose in your brain, sigh and pound your face into the table when ingenious doesn’t happen, cry when you decide to check your bank balance to see if the coffee charge “bounced”, laugh hysterically at youtube videos you’re watching when you’re supposed to be working, eavesdrop noticeably at happy people while muttering you’re jaded bitterness over their bliss within ear reach, and other happy qualities you may in fact possess as a writer or fellow artist. Rather learn to control your complete ineptness to a dull twitch or two which you can then casually blame on too much caffeine.
If you follow these few important tips, you, too, can pass on the illusion of pure Coffee Shop competence.
If you’ve found this post even remotely alluring, allow me to beg you to pass it on, like my Facebook page, or follow my blog-anything that makes me appear more important to other people than I really am…because apparently, I’m supposed to do that.
#Funny #writers #comedy #coffeeshops #HaveNoIdeaWhatHashtagsAreFor
I was supposed to post an entry on my blog this morning, but that would’ve required me being a grown up and actually sitting down and writing it. I sat to write it yesterday, but writing it yesterday was – well-exceedingly boring. I tried guilting myself by saying such life affirming things as, “You suck. What’s the matter with you? People are picking fields in 3rd world countries and you can’t sit on your rear and type a few letters?”
This made me contemplate fields, which led me to think about crops, which rendered thoughts on making soup. (No idea how that correlates…) Making soup seemed much more interesting then penning immortal words of wisdom. 3 hours of soup research, 6 hours of actual soup making, 2 hours of pickle making, and 1 hour of apple pie making later, I was excessively grouchy. I had awoken that morning to complete one major task-write a blog entry-and once again failed miserably.
I did what all healthy, high-functioning adults do, I immediately looked for someone or something to blame. I decided it was ADD. I took several tests on-line. I answered “yes” to every question. The more tests I took, the more convinced I became that there is no such thing as ADD and these people had no right to diagnose me and force me in a box and drug me to oblivion. (Granted, it was on-line and I was the one forcing a diagnosis on myself, and I may have been a tad over dramatic about drugs.)
Disgusted, I slammed my computer shut to go switch laundry….Which I never got to because I got sidetracked for two hours by watching the movie, “Pompeii”. I sat down this morning to write something profound but kept staring out my window at a blue spot on a tree next to my deck. Turns out it was the TV reflecting on my window. The blue spot led me to think about Christmas lights, which led me to think about ranch dressing, which led me to research who invented such a delectable genius salad topping.
That’s when it hit me. I don’t have ADD. I have an acute, overly sensitive, curiosity problem. I’m curious about everything. What’s happening around me, who is saying what, why are things the way they are, what’s new in my in-box, what’s new in fashion, what’s new in my checking account (nothing), what’s new in the middle east, new, new, new, what, why, when. I have to know. (Unless it’s something like learning how to use proper grammar in the above paragraph…NOT so curious. Don’t really care to know…)
When I was in elementary school a kid who loves to learn new things and is curious for more, would’ve been celebrated. Somewhere between the age of innocence and the age of over responsibility, this endearing quality now requires ADD medication. Subdue oneself to a non-caring state in order to produce completed tasks in a mature like manner. Boresnoringzzzzzzz. Not sure if I’m bored or it’s the ADD drug side effects… (Can you tell I’ve formed a strong opinion without actually knowing what I’m talking about?)
If you were to take the last 48 hours and size me up with a real job working, task completing, responsibility driven, priority gifted, put together person, I would lose…badly. BUT, if you were to ask the two of us who invented ranch dressing, why “Pompeii” was only one step up from a bad harlequin romance novel, the mineral content on homemade soup stock, and how to get that moldy smell out of laundry, I may in fact be in the running for over achiever. That’s only a fraction of the all the new things I learned over the last 48 hours. When it comes to life accomplishments you could say curiosity has gotten the best of me. With all the things I’ve learned about life, relationships, and random things of this world, I prefer to say that curiosity IS what’s the best of me. Without it, I’d most likely be successful, polished, admirable-and boring.
Speaking of boring, I probably should work on my blog…right after I see what’s happening on TV.
#ADD #Funny #Don’tKnowWhatHashtagsAreFor
To learn more about Stacy, check out her website, including comedy clips, at http://www.StacyPederson.com
Like Stacy on Facebook so she can look more important than she really is.
An Overly Complicated, too Many Words, Takes Forever to Get to the Point, Guide to Help Men Decode Women
Every once in a great while (such as daily) a phrase will fly out of my mouth that will stop my husband dead in his tracks. In Jeff’s younger inexperienced years, I’m sure these words caused little to no concern for him. Now in his wiser years, I watch him falter at the sound knowing he’s…well…in trouble. Like a soldier nonchalantly whistling through a field then abruptly realizing he’s walked into a landmine, Jeff immediately halts knowing one verbal misstep will cause an explosion of emotional shrapnel and relational carnage he never saw coming. He’ll wake up the next morning, along with an army of millions of other wounded, shell shocked and confused men, thinking, “What happened? I was going along and then out of nowhere- BOOM! She exploded!” The one thing all of these men had in common is we women threw out a phrase and—the men took our word for it.
To help men avoid such nasty combat zones, here are some phrases to be hyper aware of. The reason? When we women say these phrases to you men- we are lying. We don’t deliberately lie. We say it because we don’t exactly know what the truth is…yet. Once we discover truth, that’s where the explosion and hysteria comes in.
“No, No, I Can Do it.” This phrase means one of the following:
A: We think you’ll forget or we don’t want to wait around for you to do it. We can’t say that because we women also have verbal landmines to navigate.
B: We’re trying to prove to you, and to ourselves, that we are fully capable, no matter how much we’re not. We’ve been taught by the feminist movement that we women can apparently do everything. Everyone on Pinterest, our rich friends, and all the Supermoms at school seem to be awesome at life and all the little daily tasks required to be an amazing human being. We already hate ourselves. Add in the fact we can’t put a screw in the wall, hook up the TV correctly, keep 10 lbs off, or open a jar, and we hate ourselves even more. So we say, “No, No, I can do it,” to prove to you and ourselves we aren’t complete failures.
When the task goes awry, we get mad at you for not rescuing us. We feel abandoned in our own pit of frustration that we do in fact suck. The fact that you’re not helping, even though we told you not to, is proof to us that you don’t seem to care how we feel about being abandoned and being a failure, even though we know you haven’t the teeniest clue any of this is going on. Once you do recognize we need help and step in, this further aggravates us over the fact that you’re now 100% confirming we’re unable to do anything right. This misstep of confirming our fears gives us a small window of opportunity to now blame you for everything and make it all your fault. Which is a relief to us to pass the blame on to you, even though you had nothing to do with the task or the entire situation in the first place. (This paragraph is written with 100% female clarity and should cause no confusion…)
When a guy hears, “No, No, I can do it,” he should:
-Ever take us at our word, sit down on the couch and do nothing. We’ll hate you for it and we don’t even know why. To reiterate- deep down, we most likely want you to rescue us and when you don’t, we feel abandoned, unloved, angry, and a whole host of other things we can’t logically identify.
-Help us right then and there if you can. For whatever random reason this particular task is the most important priority on the face of this earth and our world will fall apart if the task is not completed immediately. If we insist on doing it ourselves, work doing something else. The garage, the yard, the house, anywhere. If you work while we work, we don’t feel abandoned. We feel like a part of a team and that we are contributing to you and the family in some way. Plus, we’re super happy things are getting done.
“We Don’t Have to Go Out. We Can Stay Home.”
You don’t love us anymore. You used to drop everything to spend time and effort on us. Wine and dine us, show us off, make us feel special. Now putting on pants is an effort which means you’re no longer into us. Money, time…pants…all have more of a priority and we feel utterly rejected. We can’t say that because we’re supposed to be strong, independent women who don’t need a man to give us identity or self-worth. Deep down, however, whether or not you think we’re pretty, are proud of us, and desire us is the most important thing in the world-even though we’re not allowed to say or feel that in the 21st century.
When a man hears the phrase, “We don’t have to go out. We can stay home.” Put your pants on, turn the TV off, and take us out. Don’t ask us where we want to go because we’ll lie about that, too. You pick where we’re going and we’ll be happy. If we’re happy, you’ll be happy later…if you get my drift…
“You Can Go Out With Your Friends.”
We’re not the center of your world. This is unsettling. We know we’re not supposed to need you around 24/7, not care one iota that you have a life of your own, be happy you have friends and that it makes you a better person, and so on. Still-we’re not the center of your world. Apparently, you can live one night without us and that is just down-right upsetting. In every Disney princess movie the girl is the center of the prince’s universe. Period. We want that. Eeevvveery day. We know how immature and unacceptable and inappropriate that is. So we rationalize and chastise ourselves for being so pathetic, immature, and needy the entire time you’re gone. The moment you come back home, all logic goes out the window and we hate you because you are fully capable of a life of your own. That is not the proper ending to any romantic comedy in case you’ve ever seen one.
When a man hears the phrase, “You can go out with your friends”, he should go out. We women will never get over this. We may beat our emotions into numb submission and act like we’re the cool kind of girl that doesn’t care and isn’t controlling…but don’t count on it. When you come home we’ll probably always greet you with a quiet “I hate you” attitude, mixed with a touch of an “I don’t need you” stance for good measure. You can lie to us by saying you thought about us the entire time you were gone and don’t like being away from us. We’ll know you’re lying but the fact you’re trying may soften us up a bit.
“It’s Fine.” Or “I’m fine.”
We hate you. You did something and it is so not fine and we are even more not fine. We are saying this because we know if we open our mouths we will explode all over you. For the teeniest moment, while we utter that phrase, we are exercising self-control by lying to you and ourselves that “it” and “I” are just fine with the fact you are an inconsiderate jerk.
When a man hears the phrase, “I’m fine” he should run. If a man prods the “I’m fine” statement further-be forewarned-take cover. She’s about to detonate.
(To all strong, independent, women who find this article abhorring and are ready to blast a comment, I already know I suck and wish I was more like you. But, alas, I’m apparently a throwback kind of girl that cares what a guy thinks about me…especially my guy…a little too much….say a tad bit of an unhealthy amount…which furthers my insecurity and low self-esteem issues I’m already aware exist.)
Like most things in life, it started with a good idea. I wanted to clean my sons’ room. That was it. That was the sum total of my thought process. I’d spend a few quick minutes helping them get their room back to par and simply breeze on to the next household task without so much as a forethought. $487.00, 37 meltdowns, and 1,237 hours of manual labor later, I think their room is slightly better than when I walked in three months ago.
My husband, Jeff, would say, in a slightly annoyed toned masked with a fake sense of patience, that I may…perhaps…at times, slightly overcomplicate the simplest of tasks. I find that outrageously unfair. True. But unfair.
What my husband and most men don’t seem understand is that we women-can’t help it. If our brain is truly designed like spaghetti, as authors and counselors have coined us as having, it’s only natural we’re going to make a mess of just about everything.
My husband can walk into the boys’ room and:
A: walk back out…without even noticing the clothes on the floor, the tangled phone wires in the bed, or the dirty cups on the dresser. If he does notice, it doesn’t seem to bother him. To my complete shock and mortification, he can simply turn around and walk back out without falling apart or even appearing the slightest bit concerned.
Or B: He’ll pick up the dirty dishes, pull the phone chords out of the bed so the house doesn’t burn down, put their clothes in the laundry basket, tell them they need to do it next time, and walk back out. No drama. No tears. Task is done. Moving on…So weird.
I, as a woman, walk in their room. Wait-let me back track. I as a woman TALK about walking in their room first for an hour or ten. THEN I walk in and see the clothes on the floor, the tangled phone wires in their bed, or the dirty cups on the dresser and understand wholeheartedly that the world is over as we know it.
The boys’ room being a mess isn’t simple. There is a whole depth of meaning there from their future capabilities to our complete lack of worth as parents all intertwined in their heaped up laundry. Picking it up won’t solve the fact we as parents have utterly failed them. Their room being a mess must mean one of the following:
A: The boys don’t listen to us. They didn’t clean their room which means if they don’t listen to us they might not listen to any type of authority which can eventually land them in prison. Our lack of discipline as parents has led to the boys’ lack of discipline in daily life. A lack of discipline in daily life could mean a lack of discipline in work related situations, which could mean if the boys don’t wind up in prison they could wind up flunking out of college and getting fired from their jobs and ending up homeless. Which, depending on the severity of their homelessness, could be worse than prison.
B: We never taught them how to clean their room. Jeff and I were so encompassed in our own selfish lives we failed to see the shriveled look of helplessness in our boys’ eyes. Years of being cast aside has led them to flounder around in their own attempts of somehow clearing a meager pathway in their room. If we had only taken the time to see their cup on the dresser was a lowly attempt of making some type of order in their chaotic and emotionally tormented world, their room would have never ended up like this.
C: I overcomplicate things. There boys and therefore don’t really care about cleaning their room.
I fervently believed it was both “A” and “B” despite Jeff’s calm but insistent vote on “C”. I poured over perfect rooms on Pinterest. (Whoever posted those pics obviously was a better parent because their kids’ picked up their rooms.) I scoured Ikea…ok-I meandered Ikea with a coffee cup in tow, but still it was work…sort of. I cleaned, I cried, I prayed for their future, I got angry, I cursed perfect Pinterest people and eventually three months later emerged with a slightly better boys’ room. The haze of low self-worth and feelings of failure were camouflaged slightly by shiny new shelves, a dresser and other organizational tools. The boys noticed for half a second then went back to watching a movie with Jeff. The three men just sat there in a row on the couch…As if it what I did was no big deal…Not to over-complicate things, but I did just rescue them from a forlorn past and secured their future as fully functioning capable men. Whatever.
I’ve been eyeing the garage, which Jeff has kindly marked as off limits. I get the entire house, including the front and back yard but the garage is his last respite. Buuutt…Jeff SAYS that the garage is his, but what if he doesn’t know I could actually really help him with it? Isn’t that what a wife is for? A helper? Helpmate? What would that say about me as a wife if I ignored his silent cries for organizational help? Besides, a tool isn’t just a tool and a cooler isn’t just a cooler. It gets complicated if you really think about it…
Thanksgiving is coming. My already overloaded, not so svelte waistline is cringing from the all-out brawl I’m about to have with the calorie loaded Thanksgiving dinner. Granted, if you have mastered self-discipline with pre-portioned small plates, veggie trays and just saying, “no” to seconds on Thanksgiving dessert…I can’t live up to you. For those of us who shed our self-control faster than a marathon runner shedding a calorie, I’ve learned a few tips along the way. If you don’t just want to keep from gaining weight, but want to lose weight over Thanksgiving here are 7 simple tips.
- Offer to do all the hosting and cooking. You’ll be so exhausted and stressed from all the running around you won’t have time to eat. All that yelling at your kids and spouse, cleaning, shopping and cooking at a frantic miserable pace is bound to torch some calories.
- Go gluten or dairy free. If you’re REALLY trying to eek off a few pounds over Thanksgiving-go vegan. The food will taste so bad you won’t want to eat any of it. My “tofu chocolate pie”, homemade “gluten free rye biscuits”, and “acorn squash-no bread- stuffing” top the, “I honestly can’t swallow this it’s so revolting” Thanksgiving Dinner list.
- Get the stomach flu or strep throat. This has worked for 3 of my 38 Thanksgivings I’ve had. I was utterly miserable, but boy did I look great for a few days after…
- Slaughter your own turkey. I don’t think I really need to explain this one.
- Invite family over you hate. Silently rehash all the things they’ve done wrong to you while staring at them across the Thanksgiving table. You’ll completely lose your appetite.
- Punish your kids’ with Thanksgiving Dinner dishes. There’s plenty of time between now and Thanksgiving to threaten your children with Thanksgiving dishes as a punishment. Having them slave over the sink will keep you out of the kitchen. Thus keep you from cramming food down your throat as you clean the dishes when nobody is looking.
- Send all of your Thanksgiving Dinner leftovers with the family member you dislike the most. This will keep you from feeling guilty over wasting food, make you look like a nice person, and give you a reason to gloat over the fact it will be them stuffing their face in the middle of the night and packing on the holiday pounds instead of you. The false peace gesture will buy you time to work on your forgiveness issues until next year.
Now that our priorities are straight with looking good despite the cost of having a descent Thanksgiving, we can gratefully indulge knowing our diet won’t start until Thanksgiving day. Ah-the little things to be thankful for.
Yes, we as parents work hard to create the ultimate in Halloween adventure with costume, food, parties, photos for our families, etc. But behind it all is the secret dread of all that chocolaty, peanutty, caramel filled, food coloring doused calories we have as much self-control over as-well-nothing. We have no self-control. It’s chocolate.
Through the years I have tried to follow sane advice such as “freeze leftover Halloween candy”. But after finding myself hovered over the freezer in mid-January, sawing on a snickers because it had the constancy of steel, I discovered that didn’t work. I tried hiding candy in the closets, but I’m the only one who ever picks the house up so nothing is hidden in my closets. I told the kids to hide the candy from me but their kids and never do what their told. I even baked once with it. It was a double whammy. Baked goods WITH candy. Do you see why that might be a problem?
Alas, I have come up with my own realistic tips on what to do with all that extra leftover Halloween candy. I find these to be much more realistic in keeping those calorie infested…delicious, sweet smelling, tasty morsels out of my house and therefore off my waistline.
1. Guilt Your Kids: I already started. Do you want to send some of your candy to the troops overseas? What do you mean why? Because they don’t have candy over there. Just think-no candy. Haven’t they already sacrificed enough?”
2. Lie in the Name of Holiday Nostalgia: Make up a monster you can celebrate every year. Example: Take a Santa Clause ornament, picture or statue and put horns on his head and paint his beard black. “This is Ned. He’s St. Nicholas’s evil brother. He steals kids’ Halloween candy when they’re not looking and throws it in the garbage. Do you see why it’s better to be good than evil.” (Look at Santa Clause then Ned.) “Who do you want to be like when you grow up?” If enough of us parents rally together maybe we could get “Pixar” behind it and it would all be easy sailing from there.
3. Use the Underdog: Find the neighbor kid who had bad luck. Show your child the poor unhappy kid in “no candy” despair, then give your child the “look”. You know the one. The one with pointing, eyebrow raised and head tilted to the side. (Point) “He has no candy and look how much you have. (Raise Eyebrow) Are you going to give him any?” (Tilt head to the side.)
4. Ground Them from It: After a long night of extreme sugar high, overexcitement and stimulation get ready for when they start to crash. The moment they have their first meltdown or start to mouth off (depending on age) go straight for the throat-well what was going down the throat-and take away their Halloween candy.
5. Hire Someone to Scare Them: This works best by first booby trapping a nearby gutter then covering it with leaves. Hire someone to scare your child, watch them trip and spill their candy down the gutter, then run and rescue them. The key to this is overcoming extreme guilt. It’s best done quickly, on an urge, and maybe even after a drink of something beforehand then after to numb the intense feeling of what a horrible parent you are. Hey-at least you won’t be coping with your massive guilt and parental failure while eating their candy. You’ll thank me later.
I’m signing off. I’ve got an evil Santa to paint and a gutter to mess with. Hope the tips work as well for you as I’m hoping they will for me.
My skin color naturally has a glow. Not the healthy bronze type of glow. More like a white-I can see through your veins-bluish hue. I spent most of my younger years lounging in the sun and had three bouts of skin cancer, including melanoma, to show for it. I had come to accept my “whiter than anyone knew was possible” skin color as a simple fact of life. Until a month ago. I was performing a role where the character simply screamed, “Spray Tan”. Would I dare? After receiving a “Groupon” for a cheap tan, I decided to plunge into the dark world, or medium brown world-depending on my preference of spray tanning.
I walked into what seemed to me to be a tanning factory with my “Groupon” in hand. It certainly smelled like a factory. White people walked in, brown people walked out. This could get interesting. I was escorted into a room where I was instructed to remove every piece of clothing.
“Yes, everything. “
I felt like I needed a glass of wine first, but reluctantly obeyed. I turned horrified to find a reflection of my naked self in a wall to wall mirror. Whoever designed the place must have thought the giant photos of perfect bodied bikini’d women wasn’t enough to make the average woman feel bad. “Let’s throw in a full size mirror with bad lighting. That ought to do it.”
I proceeded to be spray painted naked by a stranger. I left feeling somewhat violated and smelling like a coconut tree grown in nuclear waste. I was now a modern, middle class, spray tanned woman. “So this is what they look…and smell like.”
I came home to my husband, Jeff. He was excited to see my tan. A little too excited.
“You know being tan makes you look thinner. They all do it on ‘Dancing with the Stars’. “
I stared blankly at him.
“In California everyone tans. It makes you look more put together. So when do I get to see your tan…All of it?”
I didn’t find his innocent guy remarks charming. I waited to see if he’d dig himself in further.
A few hours later after Jeff had long since moved on with his life, I entered the kitchen and retorted, “Just so you know, I will NOT start spray tanning myself. I already conform enough to societies standards of what a woman should look like. I don’t agree with them and I’m not going to yield to anything more.”
Not bad for a three hour come back. He stopped and gave me a, “What just happened?” stare. “I was making a sandwich and something just happened and I don’t know what it is.”
I wheeled off leaving nothing but a cloud of toxic spray tan fumes in the room behind me.
Being wise in the ways of women, Jeff came into our bedroom where I stood staring in the mirror seeing if I looked like a movie star. I didn’t. I looked a little more like a Thanksgiving over cooked turkey.
“Honey, I don’t want you to spray tan yourself. I think you’re beautiful the way you are. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you needed to.”
Darn it. Why did he always have to be such a gentlemen and a grown up. I decided to play it aloof like a cat. I’d give him a sideways glance to acknowledge his existence. If he moved towards me though, I’d saunter off leaving nothing but my spray tanned tail to look at.
That night my nine year old son stared at me in the kitchen.
“Where did you get that dress, Mommy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had it for years.”
“Oh. You look pretty.”
“It’s not the dress,” I muttered,” It’s the tan.” Men.
The next morning we rushed into church. Someone stopped me and said,
“Wow! You look so good today! I mean you always look good, but today you REALLY look good.”
“Thank you”, I responded.
Wow. I tried to remember the last time I wore the same outfit. I was interrupted by another compliment, then another. By the end of church I had been complimented so much on how great and healthy I looked, I left feeling better than I had in years.
It wasn’t until a few hours later it hit me. It wasn’t my outfit, or my health…it was the spray tan. Apparently, my “Goth”,” Just Got Out of the Hospital”, “Escaped Death” look wasn’t working for anyone.
Now I was faced with the ethical and moral dilemma of paying for a fake tan so people would think I looked great. That, or for the same price, I could rescue a child from poverty. Hmm. This was going to be a tough one.
I have a feeling instead of being complimented on my “Sun Kissed”, “Have it All Together”,” Look Better Than I Really Am” look, I’ll be a glowing reminder a child is being fed and educated in the Dominican Republic. I’ll think of my legs as glow sticks-pointing the way out of poverty. Unless of course, “Groupon” should woo me again with another ridiculously cheap tan. I’ll rationalize it by saying it’s for Jeff. He’ll like it, if he can get past the smell. People on “Dancing with the Stars” somehow manage to do it.