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Showing posts with label Atkins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atkins. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
The Legacy
Turns out Mom was right. Again. Even from the corner of heaven where children don't talk back. C'mon over to Huffington Post and help me figure out what to do about this legacy. (I'm not going to attempt the Atkins diet, but a gold bar wouldn't hurt.)
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Legacy
As far as legacies go, my tastes lie with something simple, like a check. Or stock. Or heirloom china. Unfortunately Mama wasn’t the heirloom china type. What I got when she departed for the peaceful place where mothers don’t have to cook, clean, or say, “If I told you once, I told you a million times,” was not the inheritance I assumed was my birthright. What she left me was the very thing I was the least qualified to handle. Wisdom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Snack Attack
Due to recent sugar attacks around the country, it is important to familiarize yourself with safety tips designed to protect you and any sugary snack in your possession. The next strike could happen anywhere and at any time of day, although a remarkable amount of activity takes place during the American Idol audition shows. Amazingly, unidentified sources claim that more than 50% of attacks happen in your own home. I personally discovered this through a traumatic incident involving my recliner couch.
One night as I reclined lazily on the couch taking in a rousing game of Wheel of Fortune and making a sport of guessing what sort of fashion abomination Vanna would exploit that particular evening, I casually tore a tiny corner from a snack-size candy bar. Immediately, three starving dogs, two ravenous teenagers, and a fluffy kitten on the Atkins diet took up strategic positions around the den, blocking all exits and creating an impassable moat made of drool. I can’t be sure because of the size involved, but I think the kitten was wearing a SWAT team uniform.
Ordinarily I am not a violent person, but I would not hesitate to de-kidney anyone who tried to steal my Almond Joy. Still, I couldn’t believe snack-theft could happen to me. Don’t wait until you’re a victim. Follow my tips and hang on to your Twinkie when times get tough.
1. Find an easily defensible location for snacking. The bathroom may appear to be safe, but chocolate-deprived bandits may well charge the door, forcing you to flush the goods. Instead, pick a low-traffic location such as the laundry room. The predator’s natural fear of enforced sock-cuffing or towel-folding will provide natural protection.
2. Should a family member or other assailant approach you for a bite of your Kit Kat bar, do not give it to him. Distract him by throwing the wrapper over his head. While he is checking the paper for melted chocolate and toffee bits, escape over the couch. Run in a zig zag pattern to avoid tripping over the dog who is undoubtedly lingering in the area and will begin a lateral defense in an attempt to snag free-falling crumbs.
3. Try not to eat in a populated, well-lit area, such as the kitchen where, more than likely, stray family members, assorted door-to-door salesmen, and a nice selection of neighbor’s kids are hanging onto the refrigerator door staring balefully into the freezer chanting “Klondike Bar. Klondike Bar.”
4. Women have a tendency to sit in their recliners and open a Snickers bar while they chat on the phone or balance their checkbook. Never do this. Distraction is the open window of opportunity for a chocolate thief. Trudge into the dining room mumbling random comments about polishing the silver. As soon as the door swings shut, pop that candy bar into your mouth like it was a chocolate covered Chiclet.
5. Sometimes, even with proper precautions, your territory may be breached by the enemy. If the predator has a weapon, please be cautious. A baby with a wet diaper should be taken seriously. Take time to tuck the candy bar into your underwear drawer in order to avoid a stressful situation at the changing table. In some instances, chocolate has been known to serve as an unwitting player in a game of biological warfare.
Even after all of these precautions it may, in some instances, be easier to share. Unless it involves Girl Scout cookies. Then it’s every man for himself.
Especially if he’s a girl.
One night as I reclined lazily on the couch taking in a rousing game of Wheel of Fortune and making a sport of guessing what sort of fashion abomination Vanna would exploit that particular evening, I casually tore a tiny corner from a snack-size candy bar. Immediately, three starving dogs, two ravenous teenagers, and a fluffy kitten on the Atkins diet took up strategic positions around the den, blocking all exits and creating an impassable moat made of drool. I can’t be sure because of the size involved, but I think the kitten was wearing a SWAT team uniform.
Ordinarily I am not a violent person, but I would not hesitate to de-kidney anyone who tried to steal my Almond Joy. Still, I couldn’t believe snack-theft could happen to me. Don’t wait until you’re a victim. Follow my tips and hang on to your Twinkie when times get tough.
1. Find an easily defensible location for snacking. The bathroom may appear to be safe, but chocolate-deprived bandits may well charge the door, forcing you to flush the goods. Instead, pick a low-traffic location such as the laundry room. The predator’s natural fear of enforced sock-cuffing or towel-folding will provide natural protection.
2. Should a family member or other assailant approach you for a bite of your Kit Kat bar, do not give it to him. Distract him by throwing the wrapper over his head. While he is checking the paper for melted chocolate and toffee bits, escape over the couch. Run in a zig zag pattern to avoid tripping over the dog who is undoubtedly lingering in the area and will begin a lateral defense in an attempt to snag free-falling crumbs.
3. Try not to eat in a populated, well-lit area, such as the kitchen where, more than likely, stray family members, assorted door-to-door salesmen, and a nice selection of neighbor’s kids are hanging onto the refrigerator door staring balefully into the freezer chanting “Klondike Bar. Klondike Bar.”
4. Women have a tendency to sit in their recliners and open a Snickers bar while they chat on the phone or balance their checkbook. Never do this. Distraction is the open window of opportunity for a chocolate thief. Trudge into the dining room mumbling random comments about polishing the silver. As soon as the door swings shut, pop that candy bar into your mouth like it was a chocolate covered Chiclet.
5. Sometimes, even with proper precautions, your territory may be breached by the enemy. If the predator has a weapon, please be cautious. A baby with a wet diaper should be taken seriously. Take time to tuck the candy bar into your underwear drawer in order to avoid a stressful situation at the changing table. In some instances, chocolate has been known to serve as an unwitting player in a game of biological warfare.
Even after all of these precautions it may, in some instances, be easier to share. Unless it involves Girl Scout cookies. Then it’s every man for himself.
Especially if he’s a girl.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
And To Think Noah Had Two of Each
We usually go to the annual dog show in the big city next door, if for no other reason than to see what we could have had. We love our dogs, but without us, they’d be in the line for federal assistance. There are two of them, which in Bible language is a multitude.
Lucy is a Dachshund mix. I’m not real sure what’s in the mix, but she looks like the love child of a link sausage and Daffy Duck. Lucy could give Jennifer Lopez diva lessons. She has an aversion to dog food, getting her feet wet, and sharing the Earth with other life forms. We can’t open the door, turn on the television, or stroll into the kitchen without having her alert the news media with a dedicated barkfest. We've taken to flushing on the sly when she goes outside to eat ants.
Bo is a Lab mix. If you noticed a trend, it’s true. All our dogs are mixes. It’s so much easier than making one from scratch. Just be careful when adding the water, so it doesn’t overflow.
Bo is a talented liar. To hear him tell the tale, he hasn’t been fed since finding the stray square of Shredded Wheat under the refrigerator in 2005. At present he is on the Atkins diet, having failed miserably at Weight Watchers, the Zone, and the cabbage soup diet, the last of which gave our kitchen a signature scent I’d rather not discuss and gave Bo the opportunity to spend a lot of time outside.
I’ve read him all the articles about walking off the weight, but he whiles away his time table surfing for bread crumbs and licking likely spots off the linoleum. He has no shame and will face off with the big, brown-eyed “I’ve never been fed” look if he thinks he can score a bite of your peanut butter sandwich.
The dogs are supervised at all times by the house warden, Justin. Justin is a tabby cat whose official title is Supreme Ruler of the Household and Wielder of Sharp Claws. Unfortunately, as is the case with many heads of state whose family tree is shadowed with intertwined branches, Justin is common sense challenged. Most cats understand that if a space is occupied by another object, they should find somewhere else to lurk. Not Justin. Therefore he has numerous wounds and abrasions inflicted by flower pots or dishes or wayward dogs who weren’t quick enough to escape breaking his fall.
For aesthetic reasons, and to earn the gratitude of our feathered friends who, it turns out, take us for granted and write ugly messages on our windshields when the feeder runs dry, Bill Dear hung a bird feeder in the tree outside our bathroom window. This window is a favorite perch for Justin, who amuses himself by chatting with the birds outside.
However, the window ledge is too small for Justin’s elderly, but massive frame (another candidate for fat-free catnip), and is high off the ground to boot. So Justin sits for hours on the bathtub, staring at the window and willing himself to levitate so that he can see the birds. Occasionally we take pity on him and hold him up to the window, but this became embarrassing when our friends found out. (So, Bill, I hear you hold your cat up to the window so he can see out. Why don’t you just buy him a canary?) It’s not the sort of thing that a man likes to talk about around the water cooler at work.
Despite his best efforts (Bill Dear’s present method of discipline is threatening divorce and shooting me ugly looks across the potatoes at dinner), I’m sure Justin’s kingdom will increase. There is an invisible sign etched into the atmosphere above our house that beams longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates to homeless animals all over the globe. “SLEEP WARM! EAT FREE! OPERATORS STANDING BY!”
I just hope the offer ends soon. I’m tired of sleeping in the doghouse.
Lucy is a Dachshund mix. I’m not real sure what’s in the mix, but she looks like the love child of a link sausage and Daffy Duck. Lucy could give Jennifer Lopez diva lessons. She has an aversion to dog food, getting her feet wet, and sharing the Earth with other life forms. We can’t open the door, turn on the television, or stroll into the kitchen without having her alert the news media with a dedicated barkfest. We've taken to flushing on the sly when she goes outside to eat ants.
Bo is a Lab mix. If you noticed a trend, it’s true. All our dogs are mixes. It’s so much easier than making one from scratch. Just be careful when adding the water, so it doesn’t overflow.
Bo is a talented liar. To hear him tell the tale, he hasn’t been fed since finding the stray square of Shredded Wheat under the refrigerator in 2005. At present he is on the Atkins diet, having failed miserably at Weight Watchers, the Zone, and the cabbage soup diet, the last of which gave our kitchen a signature scent I’d rather not discuss and gave Bo the opportunity to spend a lot of time outside.
I’ve read him all the articles about walking off the weight, but he whiles away his time table surfing for bread crumbs and licking likely spots off the linoleum. He has no shame and will face off with the big, brown-eyed “I’ve never been fed” look if he thinks he can score a bite of your peanut butter sandwich.
The dogs are supervised at all times by the house warden, Justin. Justin is a tabby cat whose official title is Supreme Ruler of the Household and Wielder of Sharp Claws. Unfortunately, as is the case with many heads of state whose family tree is shadowed with intertwined branches, Justin is common sense challenged. Most cats understand that if a space is occupied by another object, they should find somewhere else to lurk. Not Justin. Therefore he has numerous wounds and abrasions inflicted by flower pots or dishes or wayward dogs who weren’t quick enough to escape breaking his fall.
For aesthetic reasons, and to earn the gratitude of our feathered friends who, it turns out, take us for granted and write ugly messages on our windshields when the feeder runs dry, Bill Dear hung a bird feeder in the tree outside our bathroom window. This window is a favorite perch for Justin, who amuses himself by chatting with the birds outside.
However, the window ledge is too small for Justin’s elderly, but massive frame (another candidate for fat-free catnip), and is high off the ground to boot. So Justin sits for hours on the bathtub, staring at the window and willing himself to levitate so that he can see the birds. Occasionally we take pity on him and hold him up to the window, but this became embarrassing when our friends found out. (So, Bill, I hear you hold your cat up to the window so he can see out. Why don’t you just buy him a canary?) It’s not the sort of thing that a man likes to talk about around the water cooler at work.
Despite his best efforts (Bill Dear’s present method of discipline is threatening divorce and shooting me ugly looks across the potatoes at dinner), I’m sure Justin’s kingdom will increase. There is an invisible sign etched into the atmosphere above our house that beams longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates to homeless animals all over the globe. “SLEEP WARM! EAT FREE! OPERATORS STANDING BY!”
I just hope the offer ends soon. I’m tired of sleeping in the doghouse.
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