WW Weigh In Week 4

Stop the presses.  I just found out that WW gives out jewelry.  I got a little charm for making it four weeks and another for losing 5% of my body weight....I'm down 11 pounds.  I even got another 5lb sticker.  It was a fun meeting.  I think these little charms are adorable but I don't really know what to do with them.  You can't put them on a key chain and it's not exactly a bracelet although it should be because if it was...we could spot other WW members in their native habitats.  And they should have a rule that if you spot another member with their bracelet on and they're eating a Snickers bar or something - you can slap it out of their hand. It could be called the accountability bracelet.  I'm on to something. (Note to self: write WW execs ...)
So, there I was at Goodwill.  I almost ran into a man heading for the same aisle.  "Excuse me," he said and held out his hand as if to motion me by.  So I said thank you and slipped ahead of him and starting looking around.  Fast forward, three aisles later, I'm bending over looking at some china and that's when it happened.  The aforementioned stranger slipped by grabbed my left butt cheek, said excuse me again and acted like he was looking at something on the shelf.  I was mortified.  I had just been  molested.  I couldn't catch my breath. I ran to the front of the store.  I panicked.  I thought about going back and slapping him.  I thought about calling the police.  I thought about telling the cashier.  But suddenly I found myself in my car hyperventilating.  I felt SO violated.  I called my husband, told my kids, group texted my soccer moms.
"Are you sure it wasn't an accident," my husband asked.
I'm positive - it was not an" accidental brush by".  It was a full-fledged "land and squeeze".
"Well, I'm sorry that happened but you should've done something right then.  Not a lot you can do now.  It's not like they  have cameras.  It's Goodwill.  Not Dillards."  He's no comfort.
In my need to process the situation, I reenact the ordeal for the kids.
"Mom," says my 11 year old, Elijah.  "Your butt is still big.  Maybe he was trying to move it out of his way."
No.  That wasn't it.  Goodwill has wide aisles.  It doesn't explain the "land and squeeze."
"Maybe God was trying to keep you from spending money," suggests my daughter.
I pretend not to hear her.
"Was he cute," asks a soccer mom.
No....short and fat...squatty.
"Would you have been less offended if he were tall and handsome," she asked.
Hmmmmmm.....if I say yes, I feel ashamed of myself....if I say no.....I'm a liar.
"That was definitely assault and you could've called the police but it would've been your word against his," says another soccer mom.  And so I'm satisfied that I've vented and got some sympathy.  But why am I putting this in my WW blog?  Because...I have to ask the question....11 pounds ago, would my rear have gone untouched in Goodwill?  I think maybe so.  It's the price of my growing svelte-ness.  I'm going to have to beat off short, fat guys at Goodwill from now on possibly. 
And I'm okay with that.
Annoying man was there and it was his birthday.  He was less annoying today.  He talked about "mom issues" that made him clean his plate.  I felt compassion....he's endeared himself to me with his childhood story....I determine in my heart to be more patient with him.  
(Until next week....)

Pig and a Blanket

That's my mom on the left :)

This recent cold snap had me thinking about my mom and my resolution to learn one new thing about her every time I called.  "I wonder how she kept warm in a winter like this?" I thought....and so, I found out.
Coal.  A coal burning stove heated the house room - one room - where they all gathered and lived all winter.  Her mom would put a quilt down by the stove and they stayed there all day, coloring or doing homework...in that one warm spot.
For fifteen dollars her dad would buy one ton of coal.  One TON.  It was usually enough to last all winter but some winters were tougher than others and that's when the whole family would make their way to Mud Cut Curve.  That's where the coal train would take a curve and, if they were lucky and the train took it fast enough, coal would fall off the top and land by the tracks.  Each kid was given a sack and they filled it with whatever coal they could find along the tracks.  "It was heavy!" she said of this chore.  It was cold out - and because they had no gloves or mittens, their mom would put their dad's work socks over their little hands.  At night, their mom took a brick, heated it in the stove, wrapped it up and put it in their beds to keep them warm.  "We'd have so many quilts on top of us, we couldn't move," she said.
"Once I got up in the night to get a drink from the water bucket but it was so cold the dipper had frozen into the water - it was all ice," she said.  I was about to suggest that she should've just gone to the sink but then I remembered...no indoor plumbing.  (We're so spoiled, rich, blessed.)

"I was in charge of keeping the coal bucket full," she informed me.  "I'd take my bucket out to the coal pile to fill it but I had to be careful because of the rooster.""What?  A rooster?  Please. Continue," I begged. "We had a banty rooster," she explained.  "We had no underpinning to the house so it would stay up under the porch. Every time I went to the coal pile, it chased me and attacked my legs.  I spilled half the bucket getting back into the house."

"Mom," I say...."this is heartbreaking.  How did you survive your childhood?"

"We were fine.  We were never sick.  We didn't know we were poor.  We had a hog in our closet."

Hold it right there.  

My mom had a pig in her closet.  I had to pause and let that sink in.

Not a pet pig and not a regular closet.  It's the tiny room where they hung up their salted meat for the winter.  Can you imagine having a pig hanging on a meat hook in your pantry?  And just slicing off whatever you needed, whenever you needed it?  Imagine the endless bacon.

"So you had hogs and chickens? Mom, your dad worked for the railroad but it sounds like he was a farmer," I say.

"Everyone had to have those things, and a garden too, just to live," she said.  "My earliest memory was there in that house on the front porch. My legs were dangling over the side and I was swinging them back and forth watching my daddy fix the plow."

"No," she said again.  "We didn't know we were poor."

And maybe, on second thought, they weren't.

WW Week 3....

It was our second weigh in.  Last week I lost 6.2 pounds.  This week...a measly 1.8.  Two weeks in, 8 pounds down.  I guess that's ok.  I didn't get a sticker though :(
It's been a rough week.  I posted my blog on the weight watcher site and people called me a racist for my remarks about the Indian call center.  Don't people know that India is known for their call centers?  Haven't they seen Slumdog Millionaire?  If I point out that a car was probably made in Detroit, is that racist? How much sense does that make?  Then, a girl said I shouldn't call myself fat.  That it was self deprecating and a sign that I'm "hurting."  Uh....noooo.  I called myself fat because I'm fat.  I'm a fat realist. (Although, this week I guess I'm a less fat realist.)  The only hurt I'm feeling right now are hunger pangs because I'm STARVING.  So...I decided that folks on the weight watchers message boards aren't ready for me.  I need politically incorrect folks who have the intelligence to recognize the art of sarcasm. I need you.
Yesterday we went to Buffalo Wild Wings.  (Note to self: Don't go to Buffalo Wild Wings when you only have 7 points left for the day). Everyone around me is ordering wings....the honey BBQ ones.  I listen....and weep silently in my heart.  I look at my little WW app to see how many points are in an order of wings....33. That means, I couldn't eat for the next day and a half.  So I search in a frenzy for something that fits in my 7 point range.  Finally I find it.  The kid's meal - cheeseburger....with fries mandarin oranges.

I do like my little WW app.  It has a scanner.  You can go to the grocery store and scan items to find out how many points are in it.  Of course I head for the WalMart pizza section to discover that their pizzas are only 8 points a slice.  How awesome is that?  I take it home and cook it....and then it dawns on me....maybe their slice/serving, is different than what I'm thinking.  Hmmmm.  I check the label.  Twelve servings in one pizza.  Okay....so I'll cut it into 12.  So my serving size went from envelope size....to postage stamp size.  Eight points per bite basically.
A few things from our meeting today.
I found out you can use your hand to figure out portion sizes.  Your palm is about the size of what your meat serving should be.  Make a fist and that's a cup.  Make a cup with one hand and that can hold 3 ounces of nuts.  Your thumb tip is about a tablespoon and your finger tip is about a teaspoon.  There. Now you don't need a scale.  I personally plan on using Rob's gigantic hand when I need to know how much steak I should be eating.
Annoying man made his appearance as well.  Our speaker was talking about how her husband over did his points and couldn't sleep because his belly hurt.  She had an "I told you so" moment with him...annoying man raises his hand.
"I have a point of contention with that," he says. "You shouldn't shame him into this program.  He shouldn't feel shame.  I don't want to feel ashamed for overdoing it." Blah Blah Blah.
I imagine my hands around his throat while he's talking.  Tightening...slowly...then all at once.  Then I think to myself, "Why am I so grumpy?  Why do I want to hurt him?"  Oh that's right....I'M STARVING.  And I was eating mandarin oranges last night while everyone else was sucking Honey BBQ sauce off their fingers.  The other guy in the meeting starts to speak up but his observation dies down into a whisper.  I see that his wife has placed a death grip on his knee.  I give her a mental high five.
The sweet speaker, who is always encouraging and joyful, finesses the annoying man until his grumblings subside and we're dismissed to face another week.
And as I walk out the door a friend sends me this....and I'm thankful for friends...who get me.

Weight Watchers Weigh In...Week One

Hey It's me Rhonda.  You probably don't recognize me because:
I'VE LOST SIX POINT TWO POUNDS. 6.2lbs.  Six. Point. Two.  And I know the point two is correct because Weight Watchers uses a thousand dollar, mind-reading scale each week to weigh us.

That's almost a pound a day I've lost.
It's only been one week and I'm no expert but here are a few things I've observed about WW.  First of all, late night runs to Taco Bell aren't as fun as they used to be.


After a long day this past week, dinner time came around and my husband decided to make the usual Taco Box run.  But wait.  I only had 4 points left for my day.  So I pulled out my little WW app and to my surprise....Taco Bell is not very WW friendly.  I had to settle for a Chicken Chalupa.  Who orders that?  Ever?  Desperate fat people with the WW app....that's who!  I also discovered that no matter how hard I try, I can not fit a full pan of walnut brownies into 3 WW points.  Also, a salad is not always the best choice.  Especially if you're at Newk's.  Just for the fun of it, I calculated the points on my favorite "go to" combo meals at my beloved Wendy's.  My spicy chicken combo...I thought I'd control myself and type in "medium" instead of my usual "large."
I learned that one combo meal at Wendy's accounted for one whole day of my 26 points.
That means, I should be dividing it into thirds and eating one third for breakfast, lunch and then dinner to stay within the WW guidelines.  Are they asking too much?  Or are we just gluttoness combo lovers?  I think the latter.  I also learned that the WW app with its 24/7 chat helpline is a bit iffy.  There I was, at Huddle House (who among us has not been to a waffle specialty truck stop?), when I found myself needing point values for a Golden Waffle with Pecans....it's not on their app under restaraunts....so I searched for the equivalent: Waffle House.  No where to be found.  How could this be?  Don't they know people who attend WW are going to find themselves at a fine dining Waffle establishment within the first week?  I hit my chat line up.  She answered.  I texted out my dilemma.  No Huddle House, I said.  No Waffle House either. 
"Are those local places that only your area has?  Maybe you should try the next best chain restaurant."  That was her answer.  And that's when it dawned on my that Hillary from Omaha whose bio says she lost 45 pounds was actually probably Mr. Patel from India working the phone lines. Who doesn't know Waffle House is a chain?  I digress.
At the meeting we were given tiny little stickers if we lost 5 pounds or more.  If I had known there were going to be prizes, I would've worked harder.  The .003 cent sticker felt like an Olympic Gold Medal.  That's the upside of the meeting.  The downside of the meeting is still the whiny, attention-seeking guy who says he feels trapped by the points.  But I can't hear him because the sound of my shrinking rear end drowns out all negativity concerning this WW gig.  Boundaries are good.  You can find freedom inside them.  I hope he gets it soon.
Am I off to a good start? Yes.  Can I keep up this pace?  I don't know.  But I just discovered that you can put 3 tablespoons of cake mix and 2 of water in a coffee mug for one minute in the microwave and it makes a little 3 point cake!  Maybe it's only a few bites but I'm discovering, a few bites is plenty.
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First WW Blog Here

My Mom's Letter to my 14 Year Old Daughter

My mom posted this on my daughter's facebook page.  So beautiful, I thought it deserved its own space on my blog.  

Dear Arianna,
I love seeing your pictures and watching you grow. You’re like a Monarch. A butterfly can only hide in its cocoon for so long. I’m watching you immerge and color the world with your beauty.
I was thinking about when I was 14 years old. Now that I am a “senior”, I reflect back and remember things about that time in my life. If I could write a letter to my 14 year old self—I’d have a lot to say. I thought I’d share a few things with you.
When I was 14, my face was covered in freckles...like yours! If I could go back, I’d never try to cover them up. I know now, they were beautiful. Freckles are a sign of youth so I hope you treasure yours.

That's me, your Nana, on the right!

When I was 14, me and my cousins went down to the creek to swing on the muscadine vine. Muscadines were sweet and their vines grew on the trees by the creek. They looked like grapes. I couldn’t wait to swing across. I ran ahead of my cousins and grabbed the vine first and as I sailed across, it snapped and I fell. If I could talk to my 14 year old self I would tell me: “Wait your turn.”

When I was 14 my mom bought me ugly brown shoes. It’s all I had to wear. If could write a letter to me, at 14, I’d say “Don’t worry. They were ugly but, they were comfortable and that’s what mom wanted for me. Comfort.” I should’ve been more thankful. But you don’t know these things when you’re 14.
When I was 14, I tried not to smile very much. We didn’t have braces back then and I didn’t have the best teeth. If I could talk to me, at 14, I’d tell myself to smile anyway because now, all these years later, I know smiling...makes my eyes twinkle. I wouldn’t worry about my teeth if I could do it over again– I’d just smile….REALLY big. I had a lot to smile about.
Looking back, I think my opinion mattered more to my friends than I realized. I should’ve spoke up more. I should’ve been more confident in my convictions. They would’ve listened to me. But I didn’t know then, what I know now. Your thoughts are important. Don’t be afraid to share them.
When I was 14, they voted for a “Halloween Queen” at school. You had to pay a penny to vote. There were lots of pretty girls who wanted to be the Queen and all my friends said they were going to vote for me. That day, they all brought as many pennies as they could find. As they were tallying up the vote, another girl’s dad brought in so many pennies...he had them used to vote for his daughter and I lost to her. I was so sad, I cried. I wish I could go back to that moment. I’d take myself by my shoulders and shake me! I’d tell my 14 year old self that titles in life are meaningless. True friends are the real prize and I was surrounded! I would’ve treasured those sweet friends who had sacrificed their last few pennies to see me happy. Cherish your friends Arianna. Don’t be so distracted by popularity contests. I pray that you can learn now, at 14, that the real blessings in life are living and breathing.
When I was 14, I talked a lot to my grandmother. Her name was Laura Bryant, my mom’s mom. I asked her what she was having for dinner one day and she told me “Hoover Gravy”. This sounded delicious to me. I thought it must be terribly good if it was named after a President. I told my mom that day that I’d like some Hoover Gravy. She laughed.
She explained to me that Hoover gravy was also called “Poor Man’s Gravy”. It was watered down and named after President Hoover who was in office during one of the worst depressions of our history.
So, I would tell my 14 year old self, like I would tell you, things may sound good, but before you convince yourself that you need it, ask your mother. ;)
I love you darling granddaughter. Smile big, wait your turn, count your blessings, speak your mind, ask your mama and....wear comfortable shoes.
Nana Loves You.

Double Seater Outhouse

The older I get, the more nostalgic I grow.  One of my New Year's resolutions was to learn one new thing about my mom every time I called her. I thought it would be tough - surely I knew everything there was to know about her, I mean seriously, she's my mom.  Hasn't she told me everything that could possibly be told?  The short answer: no.

There are things my mom considered so ordinary (that were in fact extraordinary) that she failed to mention them along the way.  Here's a few:

 My mom was born in 1942.  She never had an indoor toilet until she was fifteen years old.

Fifteen.  Think of going through middle school with no bathroom in your house.

 "I'll never forget when Daddy finally built us the double seater," she said in the course of this conversation.

Let's pause right there.  Join hands and gather with me around this mental image of the double seater outhouse.  Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Who do you take with you to the double seater outhouse?  Do you decide to go together and if you do - what is that conversation like?  Or does one knock and then just come on in and join you on the wood?  And if they do...do you scoot over a little to make room? (Did I just say do do?) And if you do scoot over, would you get a splinter?

Who do you love (or despise) enough to let into the double seater outhouse with you?  Are there unwritten rules regarding the double seater?  Do you make eye contact?  Have conversations?

"Mom, who would go with you??" 

"My little sisters," she replied.  Of course. Come to think of it, I think that's about the only person I would head to the double seater with myself.

My mom had a cow named Tootsie. As if that's not priceless enough, she got to milk it every morning.  Not for fun or for 4H but because they needed milk for breakfast...and butter.

"Mom would strain it through a cheese cloth and we'd drink it while it was still warm.  With some peaches,"  she informed me. (Note to self: google 'cheese cloth').

That's right.  My mom was organic before organic was cool.

"Then we'd let it sour in the churn and churn it with the dasher for a while till the cream rose to the top.  Mom would pour it into the butter mold." (Note to self: google 'dasher').

That's right.  My mom was organic AND practically Amish.  

"Sometimes, if I didn't want to use the the double seater, I'd sneak to my Aunt Arzie's up the hill and use her outhouse," she explains.  

What did Aunt Arzie have that my mom didn't?  

Toilet paper. They were big time. No Sear's catalog in their outhouse. 

"Aunt Arzie never caught me," my mom continued....

That's right. My mom was an organic, Amish Ninja.

"What did you do about a bath?" I had to ask because I secretly wanted to use the information against my daughter somehow to explain that she didn't need a two hour shower every day.

"We had a tin tub," she said.  (Just as I had hoped!)

"In the winter we filled it with two kettles of hot water and one of cold and we'd get to bathe inside.  In the summer we bathed outside.  We filled it in the morning and let the sun heat it up all day."

That's right.  My mom was an organic, Amish, Ninja, Exhibitionist , Naturalist.

My grandfather never finished the house my mom was raised in.  During World War II all supplies were cut off.  He couldn't get metal or sheet rock.

"I had no ceilings.  Just the rafters," she said.  "And there was no fascia on the window sill. When it snowed, it came right into my room and settled there on the ledge."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Got a spoon and ate it," she replied.

My mom was an LPN in the labor and delivery department during desegregation.

"If a black laboring mom came in, she'd have to have the baby in the hall on a stretcher. Usually me and the nurse would deliver it.  The doctor would just come by and sign the paper work.  They wouldn't give them a room.  So I would always sneak extra gowns and diapers into their going home bag.  And when I made my rounds with the juice, I went to them first there in the hall so there would still be some good cranberry juice to choose from.  Eventually they told us to put the black babies by the white babies near the viewing window.  We had to line them up: Black, white, black, white.  This mountain man came in and complained.  He told me to get his baby away from the blacks.  So I took his baby and rolled it into the back of the line where no one could see it."

That's right.  My mom was an organic, Amish, Ninja, Naturalist, Civil Rights Activist. 

And this, friends, is after ONE conversation.  It's going to be an enlightening year.

Before she hung up she shared with me my grandmother's favorite song.  I never thought about my Grandma appreciating music.  It made me smile.

"She ran to the radio and would turn it up when this song came on," she told me.

(Note to self: Google "Red River Valley"..........and play it endlessly.)

For more wisdom from my incredible mom, read the post she left on my daughter's facebook: "When I was 14" or read her article about life in the foothills of North Carolina in Mature Living Magazine
(page16-17)