A few Christmases ago at my parents’ house, after the presents had been ripped open and our bellies were stuffed full of all sorts of Christmas delicacies, we hauled out the old picture albums and started flipping through them. Much to the delight of my husband and my nieces and nephew (my son was too young to care) there were a plethora of embarrassing pictures of my sister and me. Naked baby pictures, questionable fashion choices, vacation pictures where we all look overheated, exhausted and less than enthused, but have plastered forced smiles on our faces as we contemplate hurling one another over the side of the Grand Canyon.
My first thought when I saw those old pictures of me standing in a tub at about 8 months old being bathed by Oma– “Good Lord, I was chubby even then.” And no, I do not mean I had those adorable, fleshy baby rolls that people coo over and find themselves unable not to pinch. I was fat. Plain and simple. With each turn of the album page, time whizzed by and it was clear that the whole idea that the weight would melt off when I became mobile was a myth. Chubby led to just plain overweight. Taunting and teasing ensued. (I’ve already written about that and it is not the point of my post this time.) Self-confidence and self-worth plummeted. Lifelong scars developed. Heavy in body, heavy in heart.
I feel as though a great deal of my life has been devoted to struggling with my weight. Struggling with my fashion choices so as not to look like I weigh as much as I do. Forgoing foods that I love because I know the effort that I am going to have to put in to burn off the calories makes the extra piece of birthday cake not worth. Missing time with loved ones and get-togethers with friends because I’m terrified that if I miss one gym session instant weight gain will ensue. And sadly, it will. That’s just how my body is…stubborn, belligerent, inflexible.
I know how the system works…eat less, move more. Got it. Do it. And it doesn’t matter. Sure, I might not be at the point where I need two airline seats to travel comfortably or qualify as a contestant on The Biggest Loser, but I’m still technically overweight. I eat better than 95% people I know. I rarely drink alcohol. I workout more than 95% people I know, trekking to the gym at 8:00 at night after working all day, being a mom, keeping up the house, walking the dogs to try to tilt the equation in my favor. And my reward is still being overweight. So I didn’t win the genetic lottery, but you would think simple math would work in my favor.
I’m tired. I’m tired of worrying about my weight. I’m tired of going to the doctor and worrying about what the number on the scale will say. (I don’t own a scale at home – I go by how my clothes fit.) I’m tired of ordering a salad (with dressing on the side – and none of the “good” stuff in the salad) every time we go out. (I do love salad, but I also love French fries and chicken fingers…future post to follow as to why they are called chicken fingers. Even if chickens actually HAD fingers, would we really want to eat them?) I’m tired of working out because I HAVE too…I do enjoy exercise and lifting weights, but I hate feeling like I have no other option except ballooning to a size that I hate even more than my current one.
When faced with no other options, I can only toil forth. My metabolism isn’t magically going to rev up overnight to race horse proportions. My body type isn’t going to wondrously morph into a tall, lanky silhouette; my thighs changing from stocky tree trunks to willowy branches.
Most people I know at least got to be kids…eating what they liked while maintaining a “normal” kid size. Have a lot of them gained weight post childhood? Sure. But for a brief moment in their life they didn’t have that worry hanging over their head, or the belly hanging over their pants. They were just allowed to be. Weightless in the world.
Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it. – William Arthur Ward
I’ve always shied away from the typical “Thanksgiving” post because, well, let’s face it I am the world’s most intermittent blogger so I usually think to do it around Valentine’s Day of the following year, and also because it seemed a little cliché…isn’t that what everyone does? But then, the more I got to thinking about it, everyone doesn’t do it, but everyone should. Myself included. Let’s face it, the vast majority of us have much for which to be thankful this year, and yet it is so much easier to express our ire with life’s everyday annoyances than it is to convey gratitude for all that is marvelous and well in our worlds.
So, without further ado, my not-all-inclusive-because-I’m-sure-I-will-forget-something-much-to-be-thankful-for-list…
My Nolan. My charming, hilarious, kind, gifted, stubborn and exceptional little boy. I’m so very fortunate to be your mommy. You are, far and away, the best thing I have ever done in my entire life.
My Parents. I know so many people who have issues with their parents. Personally, I adore my parents. They are the best. I would challenge anyone out there to a “Parent Duel.” Mine would win. Period…and they would probably let me dress them in Braveheart costumes too.
My hubby. People have asked me more than once, when they find out what kind of zoo I am running up in here, “What does your husband think of having that many animals?” He goes along with it. If having three dogs and two cats sleeping with us on the bed every night doesn’t prove how much he must love me, I’m not sure what does…except maybe for the fact that he doesn’t mind that I pack my own bedding when we go on vacation.
My animals. Oh my sweet little furfamily. Sure, they make me crazy when I trip over a cat going down the stairs, or have to clean up Sally-Confetti when she gets a hold of any sort of paper product. But losing Apples this summer taught me that I only get them for a little bit of time…and I have to love them up all I can while they are here.
Our new home. Better neighborhood, bigger yard, better school district, more than one potty. It might not be the biggest or best house in the entire world, but it’s all ours…and we love it. Did I mention more than one potty? It’s like heaven, but with commodes.
My kick-ass friends. I am so fortunate to have such an incredible circle of friends from all my different walks of life, 98% of whom share the same warped sense of humor that I possess. And to the other 2% – thank-you for providing some levity to situations in which my inappropriate laughter is not welcome. This includes all of my blogging and online friends that I haven’t met in person – who needs face time when we’ve got screen time?
My health. Oh my friends…every morning I still wake up and panic that I won’t be able to see when I put on my glasses. And every morning that I realize I can still actually see the world, I don’t take it for granted. At all.
My job. I’ve been here a year now, and I can honestly say I’ve learned a great deal in this whole “throw Angelika to the wolves” experiment. It’s been sink or swim, and I’ve strapped on my goggles and my kicky swim cap and headed toward shore.
So when you boil it all down…in addition to my health, my job and my home, I am most thankful for the people and pets in my life – and potties. Lots and lots of potties.
Happy Thanksgiving my friends!
I would assume that anyone who hasn’t heard about the Penn State Child Sex Scandal has been living under a rock, or perhaps vacationing on a remote desert island with absolutely no wireless capabilities. So I’m going to move forward with this post under the assumption that everyone is aware of the events that have taken place at Penn State.
Last night at the gym I watched on CNN as students at Penn State gathered to protest and riot in honor of Joe Paterno, beloved patriarch of the Penn State Football program. The tears sprung to my eyes as I toiled away on the Stairmaster, and it wasn’t because my calves and quads were screaming out in pain. No, it was because all of those misguided college students were defending an accessory to child sex abuse. Yes, you read that right. I’m accusing Joe Paterno of being guilty of a crime, because unless there is some compelling evidence that proves otherwise that surfaces in the coming weeks, he is.
He’s certainly not the perpetuator of the abuse; that deviate title belongs to spawn of Satan Jerry Sandusky. Joe Paterno was an enabler; he enabled the abuse of numerous young boys, in my opinion, more to protect the reputation of his football program than the reputation of his lifelong friend, Jerry Sandusky. He prioritized football over the welfare of innocent young boys.
Let’s go back to that fateful day in March 2002 when the graduate assistant coach (by the way – why does that guy still have a job?) walks in on Sandusky raping a 10 year old boy in the shower. WHY he didn’t take that boy and run down the hall screaming like a banshee for someone to call 911 will remain a question for the ages. The fact that he didn’t call the police AT ALL is criminal. Let me tell you, as a woman, as a mother, as a HUMAN BEING, if I had walked in on that scene, the height and girth of Jerry Sandusky would not have intimidated me in the slightest. I would not have turned and walked away; I would have stayed and fought for the dignity and the safety of that child. I would have left that shower room with Sandusky’s balls in one hand and the child in the other, or in a body bag. There isn’t any in-between in a situation like that.
He did tell Joe Paterno, who told his superiors, who told… no one of importance. They simply took Sandusky’s keys away and told him not to bring kids on campus…and what message did that send? “Hey – it’s ok to rape boys, just don’t do it on our property.” Every single one of those men had an obligation to those children; an obligation not to facilitate their sexual assault. They had an obligation not to irreparably damage those boys’ lives in an effort to protect a football program and a sexual predator.
I’m going to be honest about something; I’ve never been one for team sports. I hate the whole concept of “the team’s only as strong as their weakest player.” Well then kick the weakest player off. I was on the “tennis team”, but let’s face it – that is an individual sport. But the biggest reason I almost abhor team sports is the whole mob mentality that the “team must be protected at all costs.” To hell with morality and decency so long as the team’s honor and ability to win games is protected. This is not the first example of this phenomenon, and it certainly won’t be the last. I believe Penn State’s motto is “Success with Honor” – seems like “Success with Silence” is more accurate. I also don’t understand the hero worship around Paterno. He was a COLLEGE FOOTBALL COACH. He didn’t cure cancer. He didn’t end world hunger. He couldn’t even call the cops when a kid was being raped.
When the dust has settled around this whole thing, I believe the over-arching message will be this – Jerry Sandusky didn’t act alone. He had people protecting and enabling him at every turn. He used his position of power and prestige to lure young boys into a sexual trap, and he did it with help. The saying is, “It takes a village to RAISE a child.” In Penn State’s case, it also takes a village to rape one.
Hope your Halloween was as happy as his! And now – onward to Thanksgiving! OINK!
Stolen from (this blog…and this one too!)
I love Neil Diamond. Like, really love him. Like so much that my nephew used to see my Neil Diamond CD covers when he was little and say, “It’s Uncle Meal!”
I think all chocolate chip cookies should be “no bake.” I really don’t understand people who don’t like chocolate chip cookie dough. I laugh in the face of potential salmonella poisoning.
Sometimes I find myself randomly humming the theme song for “The Facts of Life” or “Family Ties” my two favorite 1980s sitcoms. They just don’t write a good theme song anymore do they? Aw well, you take the good and you take the bad…
It dawned on me the other day that though I’ve written about Apples and Tanner on here, I’ve never written about my big gentle giant, Achilles aka Big Willy (and no pervs – that’s not a commentary on the size of his junk.) His picture has been up a couple of times, but I never have told his story.
When Eric and I moved into our first house, we decided to get a third dog. A big dog. A dog that I could go running with and who would be a protector of our house. There used to be a rescue here in the Northern Metro Area called Mile High Humane Society which wasn’t far from our home. We both would look online at the dogs…and no joke, one day we both sent each other the link for Achilles (a German Shepherd husky mix) at almost the same time. Call it reckless stupidity, fate, but Eric drove up there one day with my mom and adopted him.
Achilles spent the first few hours of his new life with us tied up with an extension cord in the backyard. At the time, our house only had a 3 foot chain link fence, and since Eric needed to get some supplies for our new big boy, he had to find some way to secure him in the yard for a quick trip to the store. He told my mom, “We had better beat Angelika home from work – she’s not going to like this arrangement.” (Side note: We NEVER leave our dogs out when we are gone, but because Eric didn’t want him to destroy the house or devour the cats while they went to the store, he improvised. We usually tie up our children, human and fur, with something far sturdier than an extension cord – zip ties work fantastic.)
Achilles was a crazy boy…about a year old he weighed in at a skinny 70 pounds. He was a jumper too…I will never forget the day that my friend Cathy stopped over and I had Achilles outside. She said, “Oh please let him in” even after my warnings that he was outside because he was a little too friendly. So she opened the door and he literally knocked her right over, standing on top of her and smothering her with kisses while I hooted with laughter, bemusedly admonished him for being too exuberant. (We will examine Achilles issues with personal space a bit later on.)
We took him to obedience class and discovered he was actually very obedient and eager to please. He passed with flying colors. After we proudly affixed his diploma to the fridge, like any proud parents would do, I thought the time had come to take my new-fangled running partner out for our inaugural run. Off we went and things went smoothly for the first half mile…he was a bit distracted by all of the scents, but since I’m not exactly a speed-demon it didn’t interrupt my pace too much. We made it down by the creek, and Achilles spotted a demon bunny. The next thing I knew I was flying down the side of the embankment towards the stinky creek water literally by the seat of my pants. In addition to Achilles insane speed and hatred of bunnies, we also discovered on our first and only run together that he strongly dislikes water. He came to a screeching halt when he reached the edge of the water. Thankfully the small boulder I ran into crotch-first kept me from flying into Giardia Bay myself.
Achilles is almost 10 years old now, and he projectile sheds his massive undercoat twice a year; the remainder of the year thoughtfully depositing tufts of hair around the house as little mementos lest we forget his big hairy ass is right behind us at all times. He believes deep down in the core of his soul that he is a lap dog. He’s a leaner and a kisser; Lord help the fool that sits on our floor and doesn’t expect to be wearing an Achilles coat and a Big Willy slobber smile when they get up, because our big boy has no concept of personal space. Your space is his space. Period. He is gentle with his canine siblings and his feline siblings, although every once in a while our cat Jack’s incessant yowling gets the better of him, and he tips Fatty Jacky over and licks him all over. (We secretly appreciate it though, because Jack has to meticulously clean the dog slobber off of himself and it shuts him up for a bit.) Even at 9.5 years old, he acts like a puppy with our new little girl-dog Sally; always willing to wrestle, tug and run with her.
But by far his best friend in the whole world is our four-year old son Nolan. Since the day we brought Nolan home, he has been by his side, and the only time his protective German Shepherd side has come out is when he feels someone is playing to rough with Nolan. When that happens, he emits a low growl and shows his bottom teeth. In fact, I’m pretty sure Achilles would sooner show intruders where our stash of paper plates, good china is before attacking. But nobody hurts his boy; nobody. Especially not him, my big, gentle giant.
Willy Watching Nolan.
Nolan (yes, his head really was that big and bald) playing Achilles a little ditty.
How you most often will find them ...TOGETHER.
When I was in elementary and middle school I was bullied for being fat. (I wrote a little of my story here a while back.) I would say that especially my 5th and 6th grade years in school, it happened every day. I still had tons of friends, was involved in activities and was generally a happy kid, but it still hurt. Those insults launched at me by my skinny peers pelted my psyche with hate and chipped away at my self-worth. I was never pushed, hit, or otherwise physically assaulted, and there were plenty of kids who had it worse than me.
Where were my parents in all of this? They didn’t know because I didn’t tell them. I was too embarrassed to say a word to anyone, thinking that if I were thinner or prettier (like my older sister) the bullies wouldn’t have anything to pick apart on me. I didn’t realize that once you are a target they will always find something, anything about you to psychologically mutilate in order to make them feel better about themselves.
In today’s world there are so many more ways to bully. For me, the two bus rides of the day were the absolute worst, but that only involved a verbal beating. I wasn’t mocked on Facebook or Twitter, no humiliating pictures of me getting changed for gym class were texted around the school. But nowadays, bullied kids take it from all sides. They can’t escape the hateful words and snide, mocking comments just by stepping off a school bus – they get home and logon to social networking sights only to find that they are being made a laughingstock all over the internet. Their phone fills up with text messages from their tormentors – some including picture perhaps taken during a private moment when that person was trying to fit in by doing something he or she regrets.
Eventually, for some kids (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/10/08/4-bullied-teen-deaths-at-_n_755461.html) the pain becomes more than they can endure. They become locked into a mindset that the only way out is the ultimate way out. Maybe they don’t understand the finality of their choice, maybe thinking it won’t “work” and someone will finally hear their cries for help. Cries are heard, but they are only those of their devastated family and friends at their funeral; those left behind that can only ask why and how come I didn’t know?
I do believe there is a difference between teasing and bullying. All kids tease at some point in their lives, and all kids are teased. Particularly in a family with siblings, I am not sure you can go a day without someone teasing you for something and returning the favor all the same. Bullying is a systemic target of one person without rhyme or reason. A person’s appearance, presumed sexual orientation, nationality, religion – all of them and more seem to be fair game for bullies who are less than confident in their own lives and choose to lash out at someone they see with a weakness. But it’s not a weakness – it’s a difference and those two things are not one in the same. Calling someone/something “gay”, “retard”, fat, “n-word” is bullying. Intimidating someone through physical violence is bullying. Excluding someone and turning people against them is bullying.
To me I think part of the answer is simple; if you see bullying. Stop it. If you are a kid, go get help. TELL someone. Even if the person being bullied doesn’t want you to, for whatever reason – embarrassment, shame – TELL someone. Adults , if you see it happening, or if a child tells you about it happening – believe them. Tell someone. March into school, or the gym, or wherever it is happening and refuse to leave until you have some sort of action plan as to how the bullying will be addressed. Talk to the kids in your life; tell them how smart they are, how kind, how much potential they have. Teach them to be an advocate for their peers, and teach them that it is never ok, not even if the entire rest of the world is doing it, to bully someone. And for the love of all that is holy, please do not condone or perpetuate bullying actions by your child by engaging in it yourself.
I believe there is a monster within all of us with an incredible capacity for the hatred and anger that can lead to bullying. Hitler? Bully. Kim Jong? Bully. Muammar Qaddafi? Bully. Sure, these are extreme cases of bullying on a much larger scale that have lead to the extermination of millions of people. Look at the statistics – the numbers might not be as high, but bullying in our schools is leading to the extermination of the world’s youth. It’s causing the deaths of young people who have yet to even realize their full potential, let alone reach it.
At the risk of sounding cheesy, in addition to our capacity for ugly, within all of us also lies an immense capacity for kindness and acceptance. You aren’t going to like everyone you meet in this world, dare I say you might even hate some people. But kindness and acceptance can still govern your actions by you saying, “I don’t like this person and don’t agree with their actions, but it’s THEIR choice, not mine and I can accept their right to make that choice.” Shockingly, you will find in life, that you aren’t perfect either and that not everyone is going to agree with your thoughts and actions. The only way to cure this epidemic of bullying and the suicide it causes, is to slay the monster within.
“Karate begins and ends with courtesy.” ~ Gichin Funakoshi
When I started calling around about karate classes for El Nino Loco, I found out that most places suggest they be four-and-a-half to five years old before beginning. Something about focus and listening skills not being developed well until then, although I’m 33 and have a black belt in daydreaming so I’m not sure how much age dictates mastery of such skills. One place I called suggested bringing him in for a private lesson and just seeing how he did, so off we went.
Looking back on the whole experience now, which we will get to in a minute, I should have known that I wouldn’t like the guy. For purposes of this story let’s just refer to him as Sensai Doucheturd. He was very short and curt with me on the phone, but people are busy these days so I just assumed I caught him between classes. He told me to check the website for a description of the “Back to School” special and I asked him for the website address again and he let out a big sigh and said, “Can’t you Google?” Why yes, I can Google – and what I should have Googled was “Karate Dojos OTHER than Sensai Doucheturd’s.”
Yesterday we headed to the Dojo of the Mofo Sensai Doucheturd. Again, instincts kicked in and from the moment he started talking I realized he wasn’t going to click with me or with Nollie. He introduced himself and mispronounced my name after I said it for him twice. Then he stuck his hand out for Nolan and said, in that same patronizing tone he used with me on the phone, “Son you need to shake my hand.” Um, Nolan was already reaching out to shake his hand.
Off they went out onto the mat. It was 25 minutes of me nearly biting my tongue clean off to keep from shouting out, “Oh my God asshole, just shut up!” Eric had to leave. Sensai Doucheturd kept telling Nolan that karate is about respect, all the while yelling at him to face front, speak up but then don’t yell, hold still but then punch, etc. I felt like I had entered PRE-K SEAL training. The best part was when he told Nolan that they only count in Japanese in his Dojo, but then didn’t tell him what numbers sounded like in Japanese. He instructed Nolan to punch when he counted and then started counting in Japanese. Nolan looked confused and Sensai Doucheturd bitched, “Son, I’m counting – why aren’t you punching?” Cue me stifling a giggle as I saw the image of Chris Tucker asking Jackie Chan in Rush Hour, “Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?”
Look, Eric and I are really, really big on being respectful. In fact, I would say that out of all the parents we know we are probably most hard on our kid about this issue. I understand karate “begins and ends with respect.” Yup, ten-four. Roger that. Part of the reason I wanted to explore karate was to reinforce that principle with Nolan. But respect on any level is a two-way street; you have to give it to receive it. I was so proud of Nolan because he did what he was told and didn’t whine or cry or otherwise seem to notice that he was being belittled, patronized and disrespected. It also made me realize how innocent and trusting he is. And I’m ashamed of myself that I didn’t just stop the lesson, scoop up my kid and walk out. He’s four and a half. He’s going to fidget a little. He’s going to be intimidated and not talk loudly when you are barking orders at him. And he doesn’t know how to count in Japanese; that’s the karate teacher’s JOB…to teach him karate and how to be respectful.
I do think respect is a dying art form. I am a big time people watcher, which compliments my daydreaming issue quite nicely, and I have watched people of all ages do any of the following on a given day: blow smoke in the general direction of a baby stroller, spit where other people are walking, belch, burp, or otherwise expel intestinal gas from their bodies in public, come to work deathly ill and then cough and sneeze all over the community office equipment, perform the equivalent of a breast self-exam on the bagels at the grocery store with their bare hands before deciding on one…and…really the list is endless. I can’t decide if people just don’t think or if they just don’t care anymore. Either way, I do not want my child to grow up to be a disrespectful, gassy, smoker with a chronic chest cold and a fetish for molesting baked goods. He’s better than that.
So in the end, our karate experience ended up teaching me a valuable lesson about respect and that is this – the first step in the lesson of respect is respecting yourself enough to know you deserve respect from everyone. Last night I told Nolan, “That man was very rude and he shouldn’t have been so mean to you. You don’t ever have to go back.” He looked at me and said, “Mommy, it’s not nice to call someone rude.” Seems like I don’t need Sensai Doucheturd to teach my kid a damn thing. Oh and if he ever talks to my kid again I will punch him in his “kintama” which is testicles in Japanese. And yes, I did Google that.
1. Adults don’t really get a summer vacation, and I was silly to ever tell my mom and dad I was “bored” on summer vacation during school. I miss summer vacation. And summer vacation when you are “retired” isn’t going to be as much fun since you have to take naps and rest a lot since you are old. Oh wait – that actually sounds like heaven.
2. Renting out your house and buying a new one only one week after sinus surgery is not the most well thought out plan. Never in my life have I been so grateful for my rock star parents who came up to help us wrangle the kid and listen to me whine. And whine. And whine some more.
3. Not that I didn’t already know this but I am the worst patient in the world. Oh, and Vicodin makes me hurl. Oh, and hurling is UBER fun when your nose is packed full of gauze and stitches.
4. Buying a house with all of the mortgage industry changes after the financial crisis of 2008 is enough to cause a non-cryer like myself to pull over onto the side of the road one afternoon on her way home from work and scream and cry at her mortgage broker. There may have been cursing – I don’t remember as I blacked out from my rage.
5. Buying a new car because your other one has a bajillion and a half miles on it one month after you purchase a new house can cause panic-induced hives to break out at random times during the ensuing weeks.
6. That me + a puppy adopt-a-thon is going to = a new puppy at our house.
7. Not only do puppies eat a lot, they do not really discriminate on what they do eat. Shoes, paper, books, an entire bedroom including half the door and the blinds on the window when you leave them out of their kennel in the spare bedroom just to “see how they will do” while you are gone for a couple of hours.
8. Some people can’t ever be happy for the good fortune of others; even if such good fortune is the product of hard work. Instead they have to act petty and jealous, kind of like I did when Rosario Dawson got to be in a river with a shirtless Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in the movie The Rundown. These people SUCK as friends (yeah Rosario – you and me are never going to be BFFs)…if they ever even were your friends.
9. That before you become a parent you think your kid would NEVER be “that kid” on an airplane; you know, the one screaming, crying, whining and just being a pain in the ass in general. You look judgmentally at the parents of such children and think – “Ha, my child will NEVER act like that.” And then you become the parent of that kid. My meal of crow and humble pie was quite tasty
10. That I’m the world’s most intermittent blogger. I’m going to work to change that…
Ok…I know I complain ALOT about the weather here in Colorado. A LOT. I absolutely HATE any season but summer here because as I summed up in this post summer is really the only season that it doesn’t snow here. At least not usually – although I believe the higher elevations got snow a couple of weeks ago. In June. How *DO* people live up there? The only “snow” that belongs in June is that of a rainbow flavored snow-cone.
But in the summer I am reminded of the beauty of where I live. Last night we went to Boulder, CO for dinner and to walk around, and after dinner we drove about 10 minutes up into the mountains and found this:
Then we watched the sunset and it looked something like this:
So in all fairness to the Rocky Mountain State – I never said it wasn’t pretty…it just apparently pissed Mother Nature off at some point in the past and the woman holds a grudge. In the meantime, we like to get outside and soak up this weather as much as possible. And that looks a little something like this:
