Debt-free living

computer died, so online activity has been sketchy at best non-existent at worst. Not sure when that’s going to change.
DH and I started Dave Ramsey’s debt-free living program, and it’s radically changing everything we do…in a good way.
It’s amazing how the banks market and prod and brainwash us. The credit card company that randomly went up on my interest rate this summer has sent me multiple pre-approved 0% interest checks in the last month. I won’t be using them because that card is gone now for good, but isn’t it amazing that they saw the need to hike my interest over 10 points and now they have 0% money available? That’s the nature of the beast. They moved their headquarters out of NYC where their practices were illegal and now they have free reign in states with no financial laws.
Well, in our house, they’re gone. They won’t be back. We’ll be saving for what we want instead of buying it because we can. It’s going to be interesting.

The gods of bad ideas

Somewhere out there the gods of bad ideas are laughing their a**es off.
What was I thinking? I can’t look at a stick of butter without gaining a pants size, and lord knows, adding whole cream to the equation only ends in a complete and total…well, you know.
So this has been the week of amazing food. Amazing food I made, which is really, really a huge joke on me, because who knew?! Certainly not poor BL, lovingly known as BLT because even my significant others have food nicknames, who in 15 years of marriage never knew I could cook more than taco salad, lasagna and hot sauce.
I mean seriously. Our funniest “before we were married back in the days of wooing (is wooing a word? Is it woo-ing?) center around some major screwups in the kitchen starring me, some fire and a scorched rug. I know that sounds like some sort of sexy euphemistic romance, but it wasn’t. I almost had to call the fire department. I ruined the rug in my apartment AND I caught my newly manicured nails on fire.
Over the years I’ve subjected my family to lots of bad food. You think paper tastes bad? You ought to have been at the table for some of my Weight Watchers creations.
So now that the good old Betty Crocker cookbook is out and in the open and I’ve made this great week of food, so much so that BLT and I are practically waddling everywhere we walk, I realize…this can’t go on. I already have 10 sizes of clothes in my closet, I can’t have 12.
But, but, but, I LIKE cooking. I especially like baking bread. I’m making homemade rolls for supper tonight. But this new relationship I have with my kitchen has to end. It can’t go on. It’s bad for me. I’m going back to work. Waddling up the stairs to my classroom isn’t my idea of a good time. What have I done?!?!

Two days

and I think my idea has already bombed. The food was amazing, but I’ve gained a million pounds.
I guess that’s what happens with homemade bread and butter, baked ziti and chocolate mousse.
Yum.

No More Diets For Me

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

I don’t know how long that phrase has been in my head. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been on a diet. I remember waking up at 5:30 in the morning so I could do aerobics with some lady on TV when I was 12. I remember the 2 fats, 5 breads, unlimited veggies…diet when I was in elementary school.
I shopped in the “pretty plus” section because some moron thought calling the fat kid section pretty plus would make us feel better.
I’ve spent thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, on exercise videos DVDs, gym memberships, exercise clothes, Slim Fast, Weight Watchers, weights, balls…the list goes on and on.
And
I’ve been successful. I’ve lost more weight than I could ever keep track of, and I’ve gained every bit of it plus more back.
This weekend I saw Julie and Julia and I laughed because it made me want to cook, and I hate cooking. But then I remembered back to when I was a kid and my mom’s Betty Crocker cookbook was the best kept secret in the house. I made chiffon pies and french toast and meat packets and all sorts of yummy stuff. I loved cooking and baking back then. When I moved out and moved into the world of diets and diet food, that changed. It’s not that I don’t like cooking, it’s that I really don’t like eating what I cook. It leaves me unfulfilled.
So
I decided to try something different.
I’m going to cook.
I’m going to use cream and butter and sugar and cheese and whatever else the recipe calls for. I’m going to have fun trying out new recipes.
And I’m going to eat…3 times a day with a couple healthy snacks thrown in.
And I’m going to exercise. I’ll walk or use the total gym when I get it set up. I’ll shoot for an hour a day but I’ll work up to that slowly.
I’m not going to buy diet foods, eat frozen dinners, stop by the drive-thru.
Will it work? I have no idea. If I go up a size, I’ll re-evaluate and work at cutting calories.
I’m throwing every bit of weight loss advice I’ve heard out the window.
We’ll see what happens.

The Things We Do For Love

Rollercoasters. Hete ‘em. Not a little, but a god awful lot. With enough intensity if mi familia’s watching one of those Discovery channel shows that’s supposed to explain rollercoasters and why you won’t die in scientific terminology, I either leave the room or ask them to change the channel. I can watch Dr. G do autopsies, but, Lord help, keep me away from rollercoasters.
My first year advising publications (class of 95), I took my kids to Six Flags on our night out from summer camp. That camp was amazing. It was UTA and Bruce Waterson was the teacher, and I was so excited to finally be a newspaper adviser. The kids wanted to go to Six Flags, it was right down the road, so Six Flags it was.
It was easy. I had a season pass.
I had a Six Flags season pass, even though I HATE rollercoasters.
See back in the day I didn’t get to go to Six Flags or Dallas or, heck, I didn’t even get to go to the mall in Wichita Falls. I’m not sure why exactly, but our free time was always going to Grandma’s. Wouldn’t trade those memories for anything in the world, but when I told my future husband I’d never been to Six Flags, he thought it was a little like saying my parents had forced me into child slavery. Thus the season passes. Which, by this time, we’d had three years.
And every time we’ walk into the park, I’d get a little sick to my stomach. My knees would shake. My feet would sweat. You get the picture.
AND still…even though I HATE rollercoasters, I’d find myself in the line for The Judge Roy Scream, The Texas Giant, the Mine Train. And I’d dread those long waits, and I’d talk about maybe not doing it. And my husband would cajole, and I’d get to the front of the line, my eyes would tear up as that one last chance to escape would pass me by, and on the rollercoaster I’d go.
I think I actually cried waiting for the Texas Giant.
And then the rollecoaster would take those spins that rattle your teeth and dips that leave you breathless and I’d still be sitting in the seat dreading what was to come the BIG drop.
Finally we’d get to the top and I’d close my eyes because the drop scared me too bad to watch.
Only when it was over, the drop was amazing. Peaceful almost, compared to the bouncing around on the rest of the ride.
Strange.
I haven’t thought about those Six Flags days in years. It’s been 9-10 years since we’ve been. But the camp director was talking about chaperone’s for the Six Flags buses and asked if I’d done it before, and instead of a polite no, my response was Oh Dear GOD, no, I hate Six Flags.
Later as I thought about it, I wondered if that was exactly true or not.
I’m not going to find out this year. When people go to Six Flags, I’ll be at the mall, shopping.

ugh! I know weather is cliche but…

My house is 85. Because of that I was sitting, sweltering, reading the awesome Nora Roberts book, TRIBUTE, thinking maybe I should go do something, anything, but too hot to move AND the TV was on AND Dr. Phil came on AND I watched it. I don’t like Dr. Phil. Sorry if you do. Nothing against you, but DPs from the area and there’s just something…anyway so I’m trying not to watch Dr. Phil and I couldn’t find the remote and my TV’s off button is who knows where, but it would require walking across the living room away from the fan, so I kept watching and now I feel like a crappy mom and I’m still hot and I ate ice cream which is totally not on my TYoDN plan AND I didn’t do Pilates or anything else really. I’m hot, and not in a good way. I have I’m a crappy mom syndrome, and empty nest syndrome and I want chocolate but not really because it would melt.
Ugh.
I gotta get motivated.

Happy Father’s Day

and many, many more.
Only I really can’t have two HUGE meals on the same day ever again.
Not after the year of doing nothing. From now on, that’s what the last year, the recovery from the smashed ankle (WHY DID I TRY TO WALK ON IT right away!?! If I would’ve just sat on the steps of the Colosseum looking pitiful and waiting on the Italian EMT’s to get there, I would’ve recovered a heckofa lot faster) will be referred as:TYoDN.
After TYoDN, I look like it’s been TYoDN. Any muscles I used to have have gone the way of the dinosaurs. And let’s be honest here, I didn’t have that much muscle to start with. I mean, back in the day of physical fitness tests (HELL) I was the poor kid hanging from the pull up bar with the coach saying “Come on, give me one. Just one. You can do one.” And I never said the words out loud but I was thinking something along the lines of “do you think I’d be hanging here giving myself blisters and breaking nails if I COULD give you one &U%&^@#?!
A handful of years ago I figured out there was one (YES, ONE) fitness workout I LOVED. The eliptical. And I like Pilates ok.That’s it.
But I’ve been pretty much eliptical free for the year. AND Pilates, Dear Gahd, Pilates would be scary right now. But it’s time to reacquaint myself with those two activities because if I don’t, I’m gonna have to go shopping again, and Lord knows I’ve got enough sizes in my closet, I don’t need any more.

affirmation

Talked to an agent today who said she thought my writing was strong enough to make it and to send her my longer work when I have something. In the last four months I’ve had some incredible affirmations of my work. I hope the Intrigue editors feel the same way!

Dear Muse

No you’re not Charlaine Harris or Karen Templeton or SEP or Margot Early. You’re not even related. But you do exist, and I’d really like to see you again without doubting your reality.
Thanks and you have a great day!

You think you’ve had bad dates?!?

Bad dates are the topic of Stephanie Bond’s Blaze blog today, and I ended up writing a novel for my response to her question, but I ended up liking what I said, so I’m pasting it here, too.
It started with my hair. See this guy who’d asked me out a few times when we were in speech class at the university together but he was a “good guy” and I wasn’t interested in good guys. Or sweet guys. Or smart guys. Flash forward a couple years and I’d changed a lot. Funny how getting left to raise a precious baby alone by the bad boy you’d been in a long-term relationship will change your opinion on nice guys. It was my first night out in over a year. New Year’s Eve and my friends dragged me out dancing because they said it was time I remember how to live as something other than a mother. So I was out. And I was miserable. And I two-stepped because it was that or sit at the bar and drink one tequila sunrise too many. And there Mr. nice guy was. And he asked me out. Even when he found out about my daughter. And I started to say no because I’d decided to swear off men for anything other than dancing, but my friend grabbed me whispered MOVIE AND DINNER and instead of declining, I gave him my phone number and said, call me and we’ll work it out.
So the bad date and the hair.
First date in forever and I wanted to look good. And good back then meant hilights. At least it did in Wichita Falls. So I gt hilights. When the hairdresser (my best friend’s mom) told me the color was rocket fire read, I should’ve known better. I didn’t. And when she was done, my hair was magenta. I went home and cried and tried washing it out with Dawn, but all that did was turn it a little more pink, a little less purple.
While I was showering with my bottle of dish soap, a freak ice storm blew in. I thought about calling it a sign and breathing a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to go out with my hideous hair, but he said no, he still wanted to take me out.
I dressed in my favorite gold silk dress with a huge metal belt my daughter like to play with. The baby sitter was on her way over when my daughter started crying and crying and crying. One diaper change later, I had to change clothes because…well, if you’re a mom, you can imagine.
When he showed up, I made sure the lights were down low so maybe my purple hair wouldn’t show so much, but I could tell from the way his eyes widened, saw. I really wasn’t surprised. I swear my hair was glowing in the dark.
The ice was a couple inches thick on the concrete so he walked on the grass to get back to the car. He fell and slid down hill to the curb. I remember he was wearing these amazing boots. I got a close-up view of them as he was skidding down hill.
We thought about skipping the date then. It was dangerous and nasty and cold, but he said the Interstate was totally clear. The baby sitter was there. I had on makeup. I figured what the heck. We could go.
We went to dinner at Olive Garden. My hair matched the napkins.
I don’t remember what we talked about other than my hair, but I remember thinking it was going to be horrible and then getting there and laughing until I cried. When we started home, it had iced again, so the 15-minute drive took an hour. He walked me to my door and was a perfect gentleman, just like I’d always known he would be.
When that date ended, I figured that was it. I’d forgotten how to date, how to be sexy, how to be anything other than a mom. I mean seriously, I had mascara streaks down my face, and he’d barely even held my hand. I remember rocking my baby girl and thinking I could live with that. It would be okay. And I cried because it sucked to be a 20-something and to want something more than Cosmo promised but wanting some of what Cosmo promised too. And then there was the purple hair. UGH!

We’ve been married 15 years this year.
And we’ve laughed and laughed and laughed.