It is . . . my pink scarf.

To be honest, once I realized my powers I felt a tad guilty, but hey, I got over that…

Here’s the deal. Whenever I wear my scarf, whenever wherever, someone tells me how awesome it is. They can’t help it.

So, now, I put it on every day wondering what unsuspecting innocent will be my victim? (Last time it took 1 hour, and that included 40 minutes of driving alone).

And when they find I-like-your-scarf or what-a-pretty-scarf involuntarily pouring out of their mouths, I say Thank You and smile graciously on the outside while I’m MWA-HA-HA-HAAAAA’ing and mentally putting another notch in my scarf-conquering belt inside.

But I wanted to gloat share this insight because maybe you, too, have those times when you feel blue, or your prescription ran out you need a tiny boost from a total stranger in order to feel better about yourself.

My advice is this: Get your own an awesome scarf, because you ain’t getting mine a) getting compliments feel good, b) manipulating the human race feels good, and c) having just one thought of hopeful expectation for your day was one of Oprah’s favorite things may save on your liquor store bill.
No promises on c).

Yes? What’s that? I’m listening…

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Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against starting a new eating plan with the new year. Really, who starts anything on a Saturday except a hangover? No one. We humans need some external event to shake us up and drive us towards a healthier existence for pretty much everything, like New Year’s, or your high school reunion, or becoming pregnant, or getting kicked out of your house, or a Monday. Just something.

And I know this issue is loaded and complicated and emotional for those of us who ride the rollercoaster, so these ideas are just one item to put in your basket as you sort through the marketplace of food and its relationship to your body and your self. No one has The Magical Answer for you although I’m told France has a pill….

But I’m here on the other side, the stabilized side, to give you three food tips if you feel you must “be good” and do the D word. They will support you, help with cravings and fill you full of vitamins, protein and fiber.

1. Beans. I know, the musical fruit. But ease into it, a little each day, and your body will adjust, I promise. Plus, they’re packed with fiber and protein and other good stuff. And for those of you (like me) who need variety in life, there’s lentils, garbanzos, pintos, navy, black, and on and on. Experiment with hot or cold options, plain or tossed in soups or salads. I’m told they help to even out your blood sugar level which will help with those evil cravings.

2. Fat. I know you’re running from this and it seems counter-intuitive, but eat fat. Every day. I’m not talking sit down with a tub o’ lard hey, who’re you calling a tub o’ lard?. I’m talking raw (or roasted at home) nuts, seeds, avocados, and oils (yes, some oils are better than others, but that’s a whole other blog post…). Do not be afraid of good food like I was! I think it was Cynthia at Cookus Interruptus (a fun site with cooking videos and comedy) who said if you eat foods that have had the fat removed, your body will still be looking for that fat and not feel satisfied. I am all for satisfaction, so stay away from anything that says “fat-free.”

3. Veggies. I’m telling ya right now if you are dieting and only eating lettuce or broccoli, I was not you will not be able to maintain when you’ve reached your goal have you seen my new yo-yo?? *ahem*. Expand your vegetable horizon. Experiment with types of veggies and methods of cooking them. I swear, I’m beginning to think if I toss a dog turd in olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and roast it in the oven, I’ll love it. Gross, yes unless you ask my dog. But the point is that those veggies you grew up thinking were gross may not be so gross after all. So be a man and try some! Frankly, I believe increasing your vegetable consumption is the key to the kingdom along with an icy shot of Citron Grey Goose as needed….

Before you know it, you’ve broadened your menu horizon, you’re eating tons of good stuff every day, you’re not feeling deprived, and guess what? Your body is adjusting (and hopefully you’re moving it around several times a week in some way that you like).

And then when you reach your goal, you won’t abandon yourself because this time along the journey you realized what truly feeling good feels like, with more energy, strength and focus, and you won’t be able to ignore it those times you and I revert back and start feeling crappy. You’ll want to have healthier and more varied eating, not because it’s weigh-in time, but because you know you’ll feel better that way.

Then you’ll be on the other side, the stabilized side. Where you can relax and love food again.

Are you eating any new, healthier foods this year?

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But every now and then one pops up from the outside, directly in your face.

And what is a blog for if not to vent about idiots? I mean, really, I could lose my blogger membership card if I miss this opportunity.

Here’s my most recent idiot encounter:

So, I’m taking another improv class in a complex scheme to avoid housework, taught by him here, and one of the students is a guy who’s been in a couple of other improv classes with me. We won’t name names, but let’s just say his name rhymes with “gall.”

We hadn’t been in a class together for at least six months, I’m a little nervous about not censoring myself like I do to live in my world, and Gall sits down next to me.

Hey, how’s it going, Gall? I say.

Oh, great…been seeing some plays, this and this… Have you seen those?

No, I’m doing good getting here, ya know.

Do you have kids?

Yea, I have an eight year old.

YOU have an eight year old?? Sheer shock at this modern medical miracle began to register on his old face.

As I see this I start to think, just how old do you think I am??

Have you ever thought of coloring your hair? I mean, you could look at least ten years younger!

Gee, Gall, have you ever thought of penis enlargement surgery?

Well, actually, some people compliment me on my silver hair…

He rolls his eyes (!) in a you’re-gonna-believe-that? and that my wife left me? look.

Mind if I ask you a personal question because I have no social chip in my head and I’ll keep going until you shoot me?

You mean another?? I say.

How old are you?

I’m 39, or possibly just barely 45.

[Audible gasp] I hoped thought you were at least 55 and single!

I grab my right hip.

Do you think I need to go on a diet, too, and get rid of this, you fr*&%#in idiot??

I confess, face-to-face, I am a relatively sweet particularly when sober Texas girl who gets speechless at others’ less-than-polite commentary. Hence, the improv classes.

What do you do with these people when they pop up??!

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I confess my 7 going on 27 year old told me about it. The police grandparents will be glad to know her online video searching skills have greatly improved this summer and she now knows the words to Last Friday Night by Katy Perry.

Should people really be laughing? Poor panda. Maybe someone should get him a Zyrtac?

Oh, go ahead. We’re laughing with him…right?

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Whereas, yours truly grew up in residential Dallas, Texas, with curbs and sidewalks, roaming the suburban jungle of malls and movie theaters, eating cookie dough, hiding from the heat, eating cookie dough, and attending every touring band’s a few rock concerts.

So I shouldn’t be surprised that the Hubs has more sensitive hearing than I.

But this last time when he stopped making tuna salad and abruptly left the kitchen as I started to eat potato chips that he bought hello, WHO did WHAT?, I busted him on it.

Oh, sure he claimed he suddenly felt a need to pick up crap in the living major tip-off, but I knew. Oh, I knew.

He walked out because of my eating.

He claims it’s just like my claustrophobia or aerophobia, but given the calm, anxiety-free look in his eyes, I called bullshit politely disagreed.

Then I had a consult with Dr. Google, and together we have now accurately diagnosed the issue as misophonia, or more commonly known as, “Mr. Fussypants.”

Misophonia, literally “hatred of sound”, is a form of decreased sound tolerance, also known as Selective Sound Sensitivity Syndrome or 4S.

Notice dear readers, wiki, master of the universe, does not define it as a phobia, so that settles that, now doesn’t it? Being annoyed does not count, does it anxiety-sufferers??

Sadly, they have found no cure, or even mildly helpful treatments for 4S. Perhaps a telethon with subtitles only?

In the Hubs’ case, the hated sound in question is food crunching.

Which is yet another cruel joke from God unfortunate for him since he married a crunchoholic (how is there no wiki page on that?) who is not afraid to use sex as a weapon.

Yes, my love of crunchy food is only topped by my love of foods you can eat with your hands, preferably in a tortilla-shaped object. Best of all, crunchy food you eat with your hands.

All of which discovery leads us (and by “us,” I mean me and Dr. Google) to conclude that a) the Hubs is a sick puppy with problems untreatable by Dr. Google (gasp!) and b) …okay, I have no “b.” Mainly, sick puppy.

See how self-enlightening it is to be in a longterm relationship? And isn’t it nice to have a label to put on your significant other? I know I feel better.

Now, excuse me because I just found out about a great new Sun Chips flavor, Peppercorn Ranch!

Are you sound sensitive in any way? Or is someone you live with? And are you torturing helping them with their issues?

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And now…the Kid has broken her arm. She gets points for being small and cute with a broken appendage, but I think the Hubs is still the main prize winner and security x-ray setter-offer forfreakinever. Screws and plates will get you that honor.
I should just accept that our family album will be in black and white.

But enough about them and their lesser calcium deposits. How does all this impact you, Wendy, you ask? Are you doing okay? How terrible is all this broken bone business for you? Poor Wendy!

Well, frankly, I could have used more of that meditative time in the ER at midnight. I mean, how often does a mom get to sit for hours in the same spot and navel gaze? It’s not like the Kid plays softball.

Plus, if they weren’t perfected already, I have thoroughly honed my ice-pack-refilling skills. Vegas, anyone?

Unfortunately for me, because of this break the Kid has now managed to get herself excused from Friday jumprope class the big, whiny baby, so there goes my weekly happy hour late afternoon “me” time. Thanks.

Finally, as if this blog and other blogging duties I’m ignoring weren’t enough, now I have to mind the etsy shop for this?
Creations by the Hubs

Let’s pray for a fast recovery or I’ll be needing a recovery program.

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I’m sure you’ve heard about that doll, the Breast Milk Baby, and I read a few articles on parent reactions to it.

(Hey, it’s got a pacifier! Some parents would object to that!)

I figured all the hub-bub was mostly media created on a slow news day. Real people wouldn’t object to such a basic concept, right?

But after reading a local Facebook friend’s poll that asked if his friends would buy such a doll, I guess I was wrong once again.

Stunned is how I felt reading the 40 comments about how “creepy” and “gross” that sounded, how little kids don’t “need to be exposed to such things at such a young age”, and even that it “might encourage earlier sexual behavior.”

*Blink*

Are you people for realz?! A doll that holdontoyourhat doesn’t come with a bottle and pretends to be fed from a mother?! This is outrageous??

No, I’m outraged that so many in our society wring offensiveness out of a basic, healthy, mammalian behavior.

God forbid young girls (and boys, right?!) learn at “an early age” that boobs have a purpose slightly more important than bouncing in a wet t-shirt on a beach in a reality show.

Yes, Virginia, my girls had a job and they did that job well!

We’re not all livin’ on a farm anymore, and all our pets are fixed, so just where is a kid going to stumble onto casual viewing of breastfeeding? Maybe at their house (if they’re not an only child like mine), maybe at a park, but mostly nowhere.

And is breastfeeding sexy? How will donning that toy bib and holding a plastic doll up to the flower nipple inspire hot, lascivious thoughts? (I’m talking about the intended use of a suckling doll, people; don’t go all Deliverance on me now!)

News flash: If you’re really breastfeeding a baby, then you are sleep-deprived, undernourished and overtired. Yeah, that’s hawt.

You wanna complain that dolls should not have specific functions, like walking, talking, pooping, growing hair, or breastfeeding, and that kids should to pretend that Ken has a wiener their dolls can do all those things. Fine. I hear ya. I’m all for imagining you’re on a hot beach with a sweating Paolo and margaritas wild characters and crazy story lines.

But object to this doll for these other reasons? Laughable. A disgrace to mammals everywhere.

What do you think about a breastfeeding doll? Do tell!

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Today was that day.

Where the f#ck can a contact lens go when it pops out of your eyeball in the bathroom? There’s one foot of space between my eyeball/finger and the mirror, over the counter. And yet, that contact lens finds the black hole.

Imagine the power this country would have if it too could make things completely disappear in a nano second.

Seems like I should gain admittance to Magic Castle for this trick.

I looked myself over, the counters, the mirror, and only hours later from that par excellent vantage point known as the crapper commode, I caught glimpse of that sneaky little devil, crispy and curled over for his nap, on the edge of the counter. At least four feet away from where I lost him.

Little booger, he was crunchy from being out in the air all day. I wasn’t about to try to revive him after his poorly executed escape. Be careful what you wish for, lenses of the world. Freedom may not actually taste so sweet.

If you’re a contact lens.

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Here’s what I won’t be doing during tomorrow’s very cold, and possibly wet, morning…

But you all have fun!

Maybe I will make chili, though, in your honor.

Anyone out there going for it? I bow to your greatness…

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Dear Left Boob,

I am so so sorry for what I allowed those medical people to do to you last week. I only intended we go in for the annual mammogram. You have every right to be mad. It was cruel and unusual punishment, pure brutality, without nary an ounce of contrition on their part.

Except that now we know when a medical person says, “This is going to hurt,” you believe it.

I don’t know why, now that we’ve advanced to digital options with immediate x-ray results, they still use barbaric, boob-squishing torture plates of hell.

She’s haawwt.

I’m not sure why they picked on you for extra slides. You’re smaller than your sister, with little for any to object to. You served your milk-providing time with pride. You’ve done nothing but be there like a good boob, wobbling around and causing shirts not to fit.

But for you, to get to know you more intimately, they pulled out the extra thick, panini flattener. With you, the melted provolone.

I wouldn’t blame you if you held a grudge. A lesser boob might never recover, but you need to remember that you still have me and your sister.

Fortunately, the doctor ultimately decided you looked just fine.

I only hope that some day you and your milk ducts can forgive me for what I allowed.

Also, I hope that some day you might perk up a little bit. Is that too much to ask?

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