Wait What? Weight Watchers.

I don’t know when I got fat. It kind of snuck up on me.  I’ve always been thin growing up and in my head, I’ve always been skinny but here lately I’ve had to wear jeggings…all the time.  My son was the first to point it out. “Mom, I’m not saying you’re fat,” he said. “I’m just saying your arms are fat.”

Then one day I noticed my jacket kept getting hung up on something.  It was my butt.

“Hmmmmm, maybe I should do something about that,” I thought to myself.  But then I took a nap instead and forgot.  Then, I hurt my back at work.  I was sent to Physical Therapy where my therapist kept using the terms “women your age” and “working on your core.”  In other words, I was old and fat. 

Then my foot started hurting.  Plantar fasciitis.  Crippling.  Again, the foot doctor mentioned weight.

The last straw was my husband.  I had begun wearing elastic banded anything around the house.  I refused to buy a higher size even if that meant I was going to have to wear my Oscar Mayer Wiener pajama bottoms constantly.  So be it.  My husband came in and beheld me in all my elastic banded glory.

“So that’s it then?” He asked after giving me the once over with his eyes. “You’re just giving up?”

So this year, it’s our 25^th Wedding Anniversary – and my 45^th Birthday too….so I’m giving myself the gift of health – hopefully.  At least, that’s my plan.

I joined Weight Watchers.  And this is my journey, if you care to take it with me.

Day One:

It was our first weigh-in.  Just as I suspected – I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life.  I got all the startup material for the 17 week program.  Luckily, my work is providing the venue and is kind enough to take the payments out of my next few checks.  There is a joker who likes attention at the meeting who continually asks useless questions.  This is already getting on my nerves.  I look through the book….overwhelmed.  I forgot to tell them I don’t cook.  This may be a problem.  Immediately I realize I’m going to have to put every organizational tool I have into place if this is going to be successful.  I leave the meeting a bit deflated….like a Belichick football only fatter.

I got home and signed up for my free eTools app so I could keep track of my binges on my smart phone.  For fun, I used the recipe builder and input Rob’s awesome Chicken Casserole to see how many points I consumed last night for dinner.  If my calculations are correct, Rob’s Chicken Casserole with its sour cream, cream of mushroom soup, jasmine rice, a sleeve of Ritz Crackers and 3 cups of Shredded Cheddar Cheese and broccoli……was 26 points per tablespoon.  That’s all the points I’m allowed in one day, in one bite.

This may be harder than I thought.

Stay tuned.
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update: First Weigh In: http://musingrhonda.blogspot.com/2015/02/weight-watchers-weigh-inweek-one.html


 

The Donna I knew...

Donna Douglas stood obstinately with one foot on the train and the other on the platform.

“My friend needs to get on,” she said to the conductor as she pointed at me.  It was clear the train, that was already full, wasn’t leaving without me because Donna Douglas wasn’t going to let it.  It wasn’t because she was a diva, she was just persistent and practical.  If you were her friend, there was no limit to what she would do for you.

We were in Baton Rouge at the zoo and we were ending our eventful day with a train ride around the park.  Donna brought her friend from High School, Winona, and another friend, a Professor of Psychology from LSU.  She sat behind us and once, while I was lost in conversation with her Professor/friend, she tapped me hard on the shoulder.

“What are y’all doing?  Look, look!  You’re missing all the critters,” she motioned to a turtle and yes, she really used the word critters. (A lot)

We were at the zoo that day because I had invited her to speak at our Church of God mother/daughter day at the zoo.  We made special shirts with her image.  They said “I spent the day with Elly May…” and they had her likeness on the front.  She loved them.  Because they were pink and Donna Douglas loved pink.  She loved them so much she ordered extra to give away.  That day at the zoo we had an Elly May lookalike contest.  My daughter wore a rope belt and as she exited the bathroom at the zoo she struggled to retie it.  “Here, let me do it for you, I’ve got a little experience,” Ms. Donna said and bent over to tie my daughter’s rope belt.  I took aim with my camera…the iconic moment was not lost on me.

People enjoyed her so much that day and I marveled at how very easy it was to book her.  I saw her at a library, asked for her card and called her home number.  She was her own agent.  She hated to ask church organizations for money she had told me but at the same time she said, “I can’t let you starve me.”  After all was said and done she actually sent money back to us.  “I always like to give some back,” she told me later.

Ms. Donna will always be known for Elly May and I think that was okay with her.  But I think more than that, she was a defender of Elly May’s image and innocence. She hated the sexual objectifying of Elly May.  Max Baer (Jethro) wanted to start a restaurant/theme park in Vegas of some sort that included hamburgers on “Elly May’s Buns”.

She rolled her eyes at the thought.  “Me and Max always differed on the idea of family entertainment,” she would say.

There are some things that people don’t know about Donna Douglas that I discovered during my time with her….

1)      Yes, she starred with Elvis.  But no, she didn’t want to talk about it.  “Put a period on it,” she would say if you brought it up.
2)      She loved pink and if she found a pink shirt with ruffles and lace that she liked, she bought five.
3)      She wore her Elly May wig….all the time….everywhere.
4)      She loved vitamins.  She had a strict regimen and would be happy to tell you all about it.
5)      She would not take advantage of your goodness toward her… she must’ve called a hundred times before our event to let me know she was bringing guests…and that she would pay extra for their meals and their tickets.  “Is that okay?” she’d ask.  And of course it was….and of course I didn’t let her pay…but she asked and for that, she was golden in my book from start.
6)      She was private. 
“I need your address so I can send you this….” I asked her once. 
“Okay,” she said, “but don’t tell anyone where I live.  I don’t want anyone out here taking pictures of me on my John Deere.”
7)      She liked kids. We were at PF Chang’s once and my son dropped his straw under the table.  I told him we’d get another but he obsessed about that one.  Before I could stop her Donna Douglas was under the table.  Far under the table…retrieving it.  “If he likes this one, he should have this one.” And so he did.  And when the kids pleaded for the delectable chocolate dessert after dinner, she made sure they got that too.
8)      She could put away some General Tso’s Chicken.
9)      Her legal name was Doris….Doris Leeds.  (Mr. Leeds was a director of the Beverly Hillbillies and her second husband.)
10)   She deeply and truly loved Buddy Ebsen.  “He was like a real father to me,” she said of him.
11)   She also really loved animals….she owned cats and could tell you the name of every dog that she played with on the set of the Beverly Hillbillies.  There was one in particular she would point out in an old Beverly Hillbillies promo shot.  “This one was my favorite.  He went on to be on Petticoat Junction.” (see photo below)
12)   She loved Jesus.  She had reached a time in her life when she would only speak if she was going to speak about Jesus.  The Elly May gig just became a sidebar to the main message.  Christ changed her life and she couldn’t wait to tell you about it.  And then sing….what a voice.
13)   She had a flip phone….that she wasn’t quite sure how to use.  “Can you tell me who just called me?” she would ask, and hand it to my husband.
14)   She was independent. She drove herself.  She had a gray Honda Pilot and she kept the roads hot with it.

15) She disliked the internet.  "They get so much wrong," she told me when I was trying to write up her introduction bio.  "Just introduce me as a friend who has a story to tell them," she said.   And what a story it was...

16)   She loved her fans.  There was a line a mile long for her autograph at the zoo.  She

"He loved to play," she said of the terrier mix.

signed them all.  (Proverbs 3:5,6 was always included.) And she posed for pictures.  Countless pictures. Later she called me, “I think everyone enjoyed it, don’t you?”  Indeed they did.
17) She could really whistle like she did in the show.  She ended each event with it.
18)   If you called her at home she was going to put you on speaker…and there was going to be southern gospel music in the background.  And she was going to call you “sugar.”  Before we’d hang up she was always careful to ask how I was.  “That’s what’s going on in my world sugar,” she’d say, “What about yours?”

When she turned 80, I called her to wish her a happy birthday.  “I’m holding, I’m holding! No more birthdays for me.” she said.  And we laughed and we made a renewed commitment to get together again soon.  Maybe in the spring I said.  “I’d love that.  Let’s get it on the calendar,” she said.  And I meant to…

I meant to….. 

Just A Dance

I remember when Arianna was born, Rob and I had all the teen rules laid out in stone. Our daughter will NOT be attending any school dances....we used to say emphatically because, of course, we knew what happened at school dances. Boys looked at girls. Not our gentle angelic soul. We would spare her from the heartbreak and public humiliation that is the "school dance." Then middle school happened and she went to a 7th grade class that taught her all the social graces. It quietly culminated in a little "formal" where they practiced their newly acquired etiquette, dressed up, ate with the correct fork, boys asked girls to dance and the girls were required to graciously accept. It was harmless, educational fun. Then 8th grade came. "Can I stay after school for the 'dance'?" she asked us one day. After school? Just a dance. In the gym. In the daytime. How bad could that be? Besides, she had locked arms with some equally angelic girls in her FCA club and they would all be there together. I went to pick her up just before it was over. I cased the joint. I slipped in the back door and perused the dark gym floor. Just as I suspected....boys standing awkwardly on one side and girls standing awkwardly on the other. All the while, the school cop, Officer Freeman, weaved his way in and out of them all.  Safe.  Benign.
But this was all child's play compared to the behemoth of a dance that awaited her in High School. It is upon us now. It is HOMECOMING. (insert maniacal laughter)  At first we told Arianna, "Just go with your friends, have a good time, no pressure, just fun, just you...alone." And then it started. A little at first and then a landslide. Postings, pictures, tweets about daughters being asked to Homecoming. This is done, I've discovered, in no mild mannered way. It has to be a grand gesture. I don't remember this in my high school...Homecoming to me was about football. Maybe it's an ArkLaTex thing, like the gigantic mum corsages.

Nevertheless, we were in Rome and pressure was building on Arianna to fret about Homecoming with her Roman friends. I joined in the fret fest, because I'm really good at fretting. Every day Arianna had a new story. One guy outlined his body with white chalk and used yellow police tape, then made a sign that said "I'm dying to go to Homecoming with you." Another, showed up at soccer practice with a sign..."Kick it with me at Homecoming?" All over her school, her single friends were pairing off. We began the parental consoling speech. "It's just a dance Arianna. It won't be the end of the world if you don't get asked. You'll still be with your girlfriends..."

And then (cue the Halleluiah chorus) we got a call, a request, a heads up. A suitor was on his way.
"I'm going to hide in the bushes and video it," I told Rob.
"What is wrong with you?" he asked, as if he really wanted an answer.
(I still can't believe he thought it was a bad idea.) The door bell rang. I wanted to answer it. I wanted to fling the door open and applaud this guy for realizing that my Arianna is a catch. How much courage did it take to ring that door bell? How brave and romanitc...to lay his vulnerable soul bare on a Poster board.  I wanted to squeal and give him a high five but Rob, once again, restrained me. Arianna went for the door and I held my breath. Why? Because I was in Rome. (And because I'm hormonal.)
He asked, she said yes and thunderous applause erupted in my soul. Arianna, who usually blocks every effort I make to document any event with photography, even let me take a picture...just one. I posted it. His parents posted it. And one commenter pointed out, "Kids, it's just a dance, not a marriage proposal."
Ahhh.....yes, just a dance. Unless your kid is the one ringing the door bell. Unless your kid is the one answering the door. Then you know...it's more than a dance. It's a hallmark.  It's the one foot out the door. It's her eyes looking on someone other than her dad for attention, affection, affirmation and it's this teenage boy...giving her all three....all at once.
It's the beginning of the end.
But yes, other than that...just a dance.

An Open Letter to All My Daughter's Facebook Friends

Dear Facebook Friends of My Daughter, Arianna… Wow, there’s a lot of you suddenly! She’s been making friends for a long time now. Some of you are from England, some are from New York and some of you are brand new from here in Louisiana. She’s got a quite a plethora…young and old. So this is for all of you who find yourself under her “friends” tab. I, her mother, am going to delete you. Not all of you…just the ones of you who can’t find their clothes. And just the ones who think vulgarity is funny….and cool to repost for her eyes to see and her ears to hear. Some of you are mutual adult friends and some of you she’s just discovered at school…no matter…young or old, if you’re inappropriate, I’m deleting you from her Facebook friends. She’s 13. I’ve already been told that I can’t shelter her forever….I know this. But I can shelter her for now. I can shelter her for as long as I can, as hard as I can because that’s what a mom should do. Teenage life is tough. Peer pressure is horrible. Vulgarity suddenly surrounds her on every front….on TV…on the internet…on the Middle School BUS. She hates it. She runs from it…so today, I’m going to do all that I can to help guard her heart…and we’re starting here, on her friends list. So, if you love to show your cleavage in your profile selfies (or any other part of your body that should be covered) or you love a good laugh at the obscene, you’ll be deleted by the time you finish reading this post. If you find yourself suddenly blocked from her page – KNOW THIS: You have value. And that value does not rise and fall on your clothing or lack thereof. But until you realize that, I cannot let you have access to my daughter. Her heart is pure. It’s gold. It’s tender. It’s worth guarding…and so is yours.

Diary of a Church Plant, Part One

I don't know exactly when I thought of church planting as an option. It may have something to do with that day in New York. We had just come back from England where we had served a military church for four years. We had been assigned a church in upstate New York and were excited to know there were already seasoned Christians there in the congregation ready to work with us. We settled in and took in the land around us. It was cold and depressed. An Army base nearby held inside its gates desperate war-torn soldiers in need of respite. We longed to cater to them. Crack was the drug of choice on the streets and there was no shortage of recovering addicts in our altars. My husband was quick to forgive them and quicker to trust them. He had a gift for great compassion with everyone God sent us. Their relapses always shocked him a little. Shook him to his core eventually. That's why when "David" walked through our doors on that Sunday we couldn't believe our eyes. He was well known for his substance abuse and now he was in our church. In from the cold, he stamped his feet at the door to knock off the snow and found a seat in the back. There were whispers and pointed fingers. Was it really him? After all of Rob's invitations - he finally showed up? We embraced him, told him how happy we were that he was there and while the rush of the morning service started around us I wondered....how hard was it for him to walk through our doors? Had he been up all night drinking? Was he hungover, stoned, or both? Had he reached a breaking point? How many angels fought how many demons to get him through our church doors?
How much courage did it take to get out of the car and go through with it?
He had joked that if he came to our church, the walls would fall down on him.
"I promise, they won't," my husband assured.
And so there he was. In all his filth and wretchedness, he sat, poised to hear some Good News. He was a beautiful sight.
That's when it happened. Religion crept in and collided with "David" ... with disastrous results. Our elder, appointed before we arrived, approached him and demanded that he remove his hat in the sanctuary. I watched from afar....trying to read lips...wondering what was transpiring. I saw David's face, looking ashamed and embarrassed. He pulled his hat from his head and looked down at it in his lap for the rest of the service. He left early. We lost him. Over a hat. No wonder people hate going to church.
My husband would recount the story to family and mentors, each time with despair and disbelief. The weight of having him in our grasp and losing him to such nonsense was unbearable.
That's when I knew that if we were ever going to be any good at all - if we were going to make any difference, any where - ever - we had to change the way churched people thought about church. Would it be difficult to persuade the congregation to embrace the foul, unlovable visitors that traipsed in and out of our door? We tried. Some were on board, some were not. How could it be this hard to convince Christians to love?
"It would almost be easier to start from scratch than to undo all this religious wiring...," my husband declared. I agreed.
Little did we know, God was positioning us to do just that. While starting a church from scratch seemed impossible then, God had already started the work in our hearts. He had opened our eyes to a problem. What did He want us to do about it? We'd soon find out.

To Be Continued....

Veteran's Day

Veteran’s Day made me think about women’s rights and football. How did I get there? Let me tell you.
People were so kind to me and Rob on Veteran’s Day. My older sister especially goes on about how much she appreciates all we did…so much so that I had to stop and think, did I do anything, really? What did I do while I was in the Air Force that made me worthy of accolades and free meals at Chili’s? Then there’s that moment in church when they ask the veterans to stand up and so I do and everyone applauds. I think sometimes people believe I stand by mistake because I don’t look very veteranly. So I have to look back and remember my time on the flight line as an Avionics technician on the F-111. Rob and I were getting married during Desert Shield. Beepers were going off during our wedding. Nothing ruins a honeymoon quite like a war. Desert Storm brought 12 hour shifts to Upper Heyford Air Force Base where I was stationed in England. Our fighters flew from our base all the way to Iraq and back home again without landing anywhere in between thanks to the re-fuelers that met them along the way. It was an odd feeling, touching a jet that you knew was on its way to war - looking at a missile being loaded knowing that it would be gone when the jet got back. We got to paint a little yellow bomb on it for everyone that dropped and hit its target. I was a radar and navigation specialist which sounds very complex but the Air Force made it very easy. If something broke, it was in a box inside the jet. Take it out and put a new box in. They made it as simple as they could for teenagers like me.


I didn’t like the flight line as much as I liked the Air Force. It was cold and the work was hard, the tool boxes were heavy and the uniforms weren‘t flattering. The flight line gloves impeded my ability to hold a screw in its tiny hole to tighten it so I cut the fingers out of them. I was one of very few girls in this line of work and that was a good thing. That made me think about Mrosko. Mrosko was his last name. I don’t remember his first. In the military everyone kinda goes by their last name. I was Ramsey. He was Mrosko and he was the size of a large refrigerator. The boxes we had to sometimes change inside the jet were 100s of pounds and it took two people…unless Mrosko was there. He could do it alone. Imagine lifting a washer or dryer over your head and sliding it into place. It was effortless to him.
“Are you from a lumberjack family?” I joked.
“Kind of,” he smiled. “My oldest brother is big too. He plays in the NFL.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, Bob Mrosko. He plays for the Giants. He’s going to win the Super Bowl someday. I just know it.”
“Oh…great.” I had my doubts. Mrosko didn’t.
He was unassuming and gentle and he loved to carry my toolbox for me. And I loved to let him - cause it was heavy.
I digress. You know the part of Jane Austen’s movies that I love most? The part where the women walk in the room and all the men stand up. I love that. When did that stop? When did ladies stop getting treated like ladies? I’ll tell you when….when a bunch of liberal feminazis wanted equal rights. They burned their bras and fought for the right to be treated like a man - to cuss and drink like a man - to hop from bed to bed with whomever, whenever, wherever. Once women were assumed morally superior. Remember when men used to watch their language if a lady was in the room? Yeah…that doesn’t happen anymore. (At least not where I work.) So it seems they were fighting for the right to be less than they were at the moment. Odd. I don’t want to open my own door. I want a man to open it for me and I don’t think that makes me less of a woman - I think that makes him more of a man.
And so Mrosko carried his toolbox and mine…and I’ve lost no sleep over that because he offered and seemed to like it. There used to be something innate in a man to protect and care for women. People assumed that I agreed with putting women in combat because I was in the military. It was a hot topic back then. No. I don’t think women should be in combat. Why? Not because we aren’t as smart as men. I say no to women in combat because of men like Mrosko. Gentlemen who can’t help but look after the weaker sex. If he and I were in a foxhole he would be so busy protecting me that he wouldn’t be thinking of himself. He’d probably try to carry my gun for me and I’d probably let him. That’s no fair, is it?
Bob Mrosko went on to win the Super Bowl in 1991 just like his little brother knew he would. I bet their family celebrated his victory and threw quite a party in his honor. I wonder too if they properly celebrated the little brother. The veteran. The gentleman who valiantly and honorably used his brute strength on a cold and rainy flight line an ocean away to ensure that Kuwait was liberated. I like to think they did.
So there. I confess. I feel guilty being celebrated as a veteran because I had others do my heavy lifting. And quite honestly, being in the Air Force was easy and fun and a great honor. Much like a 4 year long paid vacation. I am not missing any limbs and my body has not been scarred by road side bombs. I had it easy. Others have not. I celebrate them and their bravery and so should you. Pray for our troops...

Good Will = Good Times

I'm a thrift store junky. If you asked my husband if I had an addiction, he would have to site my need to visit a thrift store - any thrift store - every other day or so to get my fix. It doesn't have to be a ton of things that make me happy there. It can just be one or two little things. A china tea cup, missing from its set, it comes home with me - because it's China. Who cares if I never use it? I can now say I have China. A novel that I never would've bought new suddenly becomes do-able because, heck, it's only a buck. An electric wok! -For only $5- and the best part of the electric wok is that it has uncleanable black burn marks in the bottom. That way, no matter how many times I burn things in it I can say to all the witnesses..."that wasn't from me...that was already there." (It looks like new when I put the lid on...wah la - no more burn marks.) I fell in love with my first pair of Dansko shoes at a Salvation Army. I remember seeing them, brown, suede, worn, kind of ugly, but intriguing. When I slipped them on, I knew they were something special. I bought them, wore them home and googled the name. "Danskos". They were Italian clogs and none were available for less than one hundred dollars. Oh the joy that filled my soul. Dansko Italian Clogs...$100 shoes for a buck fifty. And so began my addiction. My son started annoucning proudly to friends that he got his latest Spiderman tshirt at the Salvation Army. I was a little embarrassed...I thought it might invoke some to pity us...not realizing the pure joy it brought me to buy a Spider man tshirt for 50 cents.
"Elijah, guess what!" I asked him. He was around five at the time.
"What?"
"They renamed the Salvation Army. They don't call it that anymore," I lied.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes, now they call it Macy's. Isn't that nice? Do you like your new shirt from Macy's?" I asked.
He fell for it for a while but didn't understand why they never changed their sign. Eventually he told people his shoes, shirt, etc. came from that store that used to be called Salvation Army. The gig was up.
My daughter has been equally scarred by my addiction. Just yesterday we found a pair of L.L. Bean flip flops. $1.99. Not my size, but hers. In the car, I insist she put them on and wear them into Chik Fil A.
"Ma, what's so great about them? They're just flip flops," she inquires.
"No honey, they're expensive. They're nicely made. They're L.L. Bean flip flops," I try to convey to her the joy she should feel. It doesn't work.
"They are cutting into the top of my feet," she complains.
"SHUT UP AND WEAR THEM. THEY'RE LL BEAN DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU WILL WEAR THEM TILL YOU CAN'T FEEL YOUR FEET...AND THEN I'LL CARRY YOU WHILE YOU WEAR THEM!" Of course I was kidding and the eruption of laughter from the back seat was followed by Elijah's best impression of me.
"Wear them till you bleeeeeeed!!!!!!!!!!" he bellowed in his best crazy-mom voice. She was back in her Converse before we got home.
You can find things at a Thrift store that you can't find anywhere else. Where else would you shop for the 80's themed birthday party you were invited to? And old music - ohhh the old music. I have a friend named Rick Elias, a musician. I was once at a thrift store in Alabama when I saw his CD from the early 90's on the shelf. He was sporting a fierce mullet and I smiled when I saw him there. I left him a wall post: "Dude, you were at a thrift store beside Patsy Cline!" He was delighted. I stopped short of telling him that he was only 25 cents. I also didn't disclose that I passed him over in favor of a gum ball, but that's not the point, the point is - he was beside Patsy Cline....nice!
Ultimately I think I love thrift stores because they remind me of my relationship with God. I can't resist junk because I know I have so much in common with it. Who among us has not been reshelved? Used? Worn? Tired? Broken? In need of a good wash? But God saw me and thought to himself, "What a deal!"
He bought me and took joy in His purchase.
A second chance.
Good Will Indeed.