Friday

It used to be that when I was upset or sad, I would turn to food to calm me. I would hide from the problem and eat, and bury my issues with food. I was a binge eater.

It used to be that as I dealt with a problem, I would turn to food for reward. I deserved to eat because it buried my feelings of anxiety while trying to rectify the situation.

It used to be that when the problem, issue, or emotion passed, I would turn to food for celebration. I was happy and ate to bury down the event so that I could move forward.

It used to be that when I was bored or anxious, I would turn to food to entertain me. I ate for pleasure, and I ate to bury doing nothing and being afraid to be more.

It used to be that when I was tired, I ate to keep myself going. I ate because my body was so dependent on the large intake that it needed more.

It used to be that I ate to eat, instead of feeling, doing, being, crying, laughing, sleeping, or resolving. And I was burying myself in rolls to expedite an early death, and to push life down and away.

Still, there is no food in Heaven; no afterlife with buffets. Angel wings don't come in a 'one size fits all', and no, the mirrors aren't more slimming up there.

Abuse of food will kill as readily as abuse from nicotine, alcohol or illicit drugs will kill.

Abuse of body, instead of dealing with emotional issues will kill regardless of the way we choose to self-medicate.

Abuse of mind will kill, because we are programming our brains to run a faulty routine which will crash the system.

Before embarking on any weight loss plan, address the internal issues that cause self-medication, whether it is with food or other substances, because they don't go away simply because we look so good in a pair of jeans that Brangelina is jealous. Even when thin, your boss still wears a bad toupee that fell in the punchbowl at the last company picnic. Your mailman still delivers your mail to the neighbor down the street, and your son still put a frog down his pants at recess.

Being thin doesn't ensure happiness. It doesn't necessarily reward you in other areas of your life.
But being healthy, truly healthy in mind, spirit and body, is more than starving, or eating, drowning or swimming. It is embracing every facet of yourself, perfect or imperfect, and working through the tough times in order to appreciate the great times.

You're worth that self discovery and that very worthwhile journey.

It used to be that I never knew the self discovery would be what kept me from repeating the same mistakes time and again. I will no longer bury myself in rolls of fat or plates of food. I give myself permission to be human, and know that when in doubt, the reward is in the achieving and the doing, and not necessarily because I deserve it, but because I can work with whatever life gives me to work with.

Public Service Announcement

I'm just an average schlub doing my part to help educate others.

Please visit these sites if you are considering following Kimkins or are already following the plan and want to know more about this very low calorie diet.

Be safe. Don't make me come over there.

Kimkins Exposed
Anti-Kimkins
Becky: Winning Weight
Christin: The Journey
Deni: Open Bench
Free Kimkins Free
Jimmy Moore’s Apology
http://www.slamboard.com/category/kimkins-diet/
Kimkins Controversy
Kimkins Dangers
Kimkins Sucks!
Kimkins Survivors
Kimorexia
Kkatastrophediet’s Weblog
TRUTH Starts Here
3 Fat Chicks: Anatomy of a Diet Scam
About.com Inside Kimkins
A Pinch Of…
How Jeanessa Got Scammed
How Much Body Fat Can You Really Lose In A Week?
Jersey Girl: Thoughts on Kimkins
Kimkins Circus
Kimkins Controversy Continues to Boil
Kimkins Debacle; Super Smart Diet Tips
Kimkins Experience Part 1
Kimkins Experience Part 2
Kimkins Saga Revisited
Kimkins Survivors
Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Anorexic
Tami’s Change in Game Plan
The Problem with Kimkins
Thin at Any Cost
A Running Jewel
Kimkins Circus
The Quack of Doom: Entering the circus for the first time?
Once Upon A Diet
Someone in Southern California may need an attorney soon
The Final Escape
melting mama: Kimkins Scam.
Have you ever screamed so loud that the room echoed? « Incredible Shrinking Ladies
Inside the Kimkins Controversy
A Dumbbell In A Home Gym: Kimkins: Caveat Freakin’ Emptor.
Heard of the Kimkins Diet? Steer Clear it’s a total scam!
Vickie’s Voice: …more of my story…
The Road to Clarity and Transformation: The Kimmer (Kimkins) Controversy and a Parallel Universe
Banished…oh Fo’ Shame. not.
a mother’s heart » the kimkins debacle
Vilma’s World » Kimkins on Dateline & other complaints
Because I Said So: KimKims Survivors
Hundred Day Head Start Kimkins a fraud
Healthy Low-Carb Living Blog: Kimkins - How I Feel About It Now
Back Across The Line: Kimkins Cult Mentality
Good Carbma: Words for Heidi Diaz
Living Low Carb & Lovin’ It!: What an Amazing Day This Has Been!
Borat Does Kimkins: Hello From Borat!
Medusa
Kimkins Nightmares
stepping up to the plate « 2big4mysize’s Weblog
mariasol
Kimkins Scam
Willa’s Notebook
Doggy Girl’s Weblog
All About Kimkins & More
Itscloudyinhere’s Weblog
Psychic Rations: The Slimmer Kimmer That Wasn’t
Beware: Kimkins Diet is Dangerous!!: Just Say NO
Kimkins Lies
Sparkly and (soon to be) Skinny!: A new safe haven
Stop Kimkins Now!: Stop Kimkins Now!
Kimkins Soap Opera Story - AnthaBeth’s blog
Kristine’s Low Carb Corner
Stop Kimkins Now!
HoneyBee’s Blog

Egg drop soup recipe

If you're looking for something different than the chicken (noodle) soup norm, try this recipe for egg drop soup. It has actually replaced other soups in our home. The kids like it, and it tastes as good as what we've had in Chinese restaurants!

Low on carbs and high in flava! It also doesn't hurt that the egg is protein, which helps fill your stomach. This really is a hearty soup.

My version of Egg Drop Soup

4 cups of chicken broth (I use organic, boxed broth)
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1/8 cup chopped red onion
sesame oil
1/4 tsp pepper
salt (to taste)
1 tsp soy sauce (you can buy organic as well)

In sesame oil, cook the onions until transparent. Add broth and bring to a boil over med-high heat. Add salt, pepper and soy sauce, and stir occasionally for one minute. Slowly add beaten eggs into the soup and gently stir until they form strands or strings. Serve immediately.

You can garnish this with chopped green onion if you'd like, but I usually don't have any on hand!

Serves 4.

Fitday totals for the entire recipe: 368 calories total, 8 carbs total (net and otherwise, no fiber).

Of all the towns, your son rode his Nimbus 3000 into mine

It is said that everyone has a doppelganger out there somewhere; someone who looks so much like a celebrity or different person that people tend to mistake them for others, or are reminded how much they resemble another. My son's had been the actual Harry Potter, boy wizard. Not the actor, but the character the actor plays.

Like Harry, David had the dark, thick, unkempt hair, the same glasses, and, oddly enough, a scar on his forehead (though his was sustained from a toddler clash from Lord Varicella and not Voldemoort).

He never intended to resemble the very famous boy wizard, but as a child who also always wore striped shirts, he couldn't help but complete the role. Adding to his obvious likeness, his shyness and knowledge of the book further pushed the belief that he was, in fact, the most popular literary character today, in flesh form.

At times, the attention he received was maddening for him. As a mother, I thought it pretty funny.

We would visit the local library with regularity, and usually a smaller boy stopped in his tracks. He would point at son and his jaw would drop. The parent would be mortified at the pointing and jaw dropping. The child would stand there, gobsmacked and stammering and squeak, "That's...Th-that's..."as the now-annoyed mother would drag him into the library. "H-Harry Potter" would finally leave lips as a pair of adult hands finally whooshed him out of sight.And so it went.

Everywhere he went that particular summer, children everywhere met their childhood literary hero. Some asked him if he could do spells. Others, when acerbically alerted that he was not Harry, would look shrewdly at him in disbelief. "Then what school do you go to?Mine? Funny that. I've never seen you. Harry." And the sound of stomping off punctuated the final syllables. Harry.

I've had adults say to me, "Has anyone ever told you your son looks like Harry Potter?"I've responded, "Only the ones the young Harry-I mean David-- lets live."

Profundo!

The town of Wembley, Texas, had its own pre-teen idol in my son. Young boys and girls swooned everywhere he went, whether it was recess or in aisle 10 of Brookmart in front of the Lucky Charms. Which are, I might add, magically delicious.

David never shared the opinion that it was cool to look like the boy wizard, even if it made him a local celebrity. And the one time he actually dressed up as Harry Potter one year after giving in, people weren't that impressed. No. Everyone dressed up as a character from Hogwarts that year. The moppet muggle public wanted to see the day-to-day Harry, who shopped the local Krogies or could be found at the library.

He's grown quite a bit since those days. Now, pushing 6', built more like a linebacker than a Quidditch seeker, with long, wavy, Scottish locks in a big adorable mane on his head, he's adapted a larger eyeglass lens style. It is relatively certain those days of "Harry Potter look-alike are inimitably behind him."

A new state, a new school, different clothes, he's been Harry-free for several years.

Personally, I thought him less grumpy and sarcastic in his Harry days, and so I miss the boy wizard-less who lived with me back in Texas. He wanted less cash, and didn't roll his eyes back in his head whenever I asked him if he was going to wear those pants to school. Again.

The other week, someone at school said, "You know who you look just like?"

My son cringed. It was coming. He knew it.

"Weird Al Yankovic."

And so it goes.

Aida the cornflakes, Anita the milk

Sometimes my husband ruins things for me.

I grew up with a great appreciation for musicals. I was belting out tunes from "Annie" ever since I was 10. At 11 I knew all the words to the songs from, "The King and I". By 14, I had the soundtracks to no less than 5 musicals, including "Oklahoma!" and "My Fair Lady". I was even the female lead in a high school musical (forget that it was as Lucy in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown"). Sure, I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket to put out a fire ant, but I enjoyed the storyline moving forward with catchy songs to keep the mood.

In college I was a fan of opera, even when the music was in a foreign language. I couldn't get enough of music in theatrical form, and, like any junkie, even attended a few performances live when I had the opportunity, including various trips to see "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" in Seattle's U-district.

My husband, on the other hand, has never met a musical that he liked, unless it was football bloopers set to incidental background rock ballads.

When he saw me watching my coveted "Fiddler on the Roof" 2-disc compilation complete with extra features and letterbox versus full screen beauty, he said to me, "why do you watch that stuff? It's all about pouring the cornflakes."

"Pouring the... what?!" I fixed my eyes on the screen and tried to ignore him.

"The cornflakes," he said, waving a box of breakfast cereal. He jumped up and started his rendition of any musical he'd ever seen, complete with gestures which illustrated what he was saying.

"So, the curtain rises. You have a guy in a field somewhere. And what does he do? He's pouring cornflakes. Pouring cornflakes and singing about it. 'Iiiiiiiiiim pouring
coooorrrrrnnnnflaaakkkkesss!' And that's not bad enough. See, most people just eat the corn flakes, but this is a whole musical or opera and it's all about the cornflakes. They have to tell you each and every step of the cornflakes.

'Act one: I am hungry. I need some cornflakes. And not only do I make the assertion that I need cornflakes, but then a chorus of people decide that it's too bad that you don't have any cornflakes. Everyone in the village comes out to tell you what they think about that as they say 'hello.' By the end of Act one, you've empowered yourself to, in fact, pursue the cornflakes.

'Act Two: The bowl. You can't have cornflakes without the bowl. So you have to go and talk to five people about the bowl you want to use. And silverware is a plus. Some people claim you should use one kind of bowl, and some others do a line dance to show you that the best bowls are quality bowls.

'Act Three: The milk. And from which cow? The cows might have something to sing about all of this. Or maybe he sings a song while milking the cow. You have to have milk, but what kind of milk are you going to use? I mean, you have your 2%, your skim, and your full-fat milk. Some sicko out there might even want to try chocolate milk. It takes all kinds to make the world go around.

'Act Four: You've poured your bowl of cornflakes, and you've hunkered down on your pleather chair to tuck in. But avast! There's always a knock at the door, or the phone rings. It's some guy wanting to sell you new gutters. So he sings a song about no financing and seamlessness. Herein we have the problem and the climax of the story: You return to your cornflakes and they've become soggy. You mourn what could have been had your flakes been the crispy golden heavenly baked bodies they once were just what seemed mere moments ago. Now they are shriveled and milk-drunk visages of what we all face in life.

'Act Five: You could just pour another bowl, sing about how crunchy the cornflakes are, and the 8 essential vitamins and minerals, and how you like to look at the box. Maybe mention fiber or something. That's the sell."

He collapsed back in the chair, hand in the box, munching away, a man who triumphantly relegated every masterpiece of music and sound stage into a box of breakfast foods which he was now emptying into his mouth.

"Oh PLEASE," I rolled my eyes back into my head. "You have to like Carmen!"

"Cornflakes," he dismissed. Chomp chomp.

"Oklahoma, then," I countered.

"Cornflakes...," he waved. Crunch crunch.

"Fiddler on the Roof!" I brandished my disc case like a secret warrior clutches his ninja stars.

Pause. Chew. Opened the box to make a voice coming from within and said in a falsetto voice, "Kosher cornflakes."

From that day onward, whenever there is something of great noise and little substance we just refer to it as "cornflakes", whether it is the droning of a politician, an overabundance of exposition, or a whole lot of nothing of any real intrinsic value.

And, for what it's worth, I don't watch musicals when he's in the room, choosing, instead, to sneak in the occasional "Nightmare Before Chrismas" (or, in his words, "The Night Tim Burton fed his Cornflakes to Dead Puppets") when he's on a business trip.

We also tend towards omelets for breakfast . He hasn't wrecked those savory golden circles of scrambled grade A hope yet.

Colorado school rules “Tag, you’re not it”

I'm a little behind the news these days, but I wanted to sound off regarding the issue of bannig childhood games in the schools before the topic becomes more ancient than Beethoven's powdered wig.

I am extremely disappointed in the continued movement away from 'play' in the schoolyards. When I heard that a Colorado school recently banned "tag", I just about dropped my weedwhacker I was shaving my legs with.

What now? Is Red Rover the new target?

Aside from the forced hand holding of children which could enforce homoerotic behavior, sexual harassment, abuse, or--heckola-- fun, what happens when someone is not chosen to 'come over'? Will the young, asian child yell, "Racial profiling?" If an african american kid is called, will the white kids yell, "Objection! Reverse racial discrimination and affirmative action!

In tag, if a girl is tapped is it sexual harassment? If a boy is tagged, are you 'sticking it to the man'?

What happened to the hippity hops of the 70's? We drag raced across the field on hippity hops. We had hippity hop wars. We had hippity hop tag. Are hippity hops banned, too? Where are those? Did someone determine they were too much fun and recommended they be removed? It's like taking away someone's favorite mode of bouncing transportation. What? There were no seatbelts on them? What? Kids sometimes fell off of them and skinned their knees? Guess what! They're kids! You could put a kid into a room with padded walls and his finger will get stuck up their nose and they'll still fall off of something and get a scratch.

Like trying to steer Rosie ODonnell away from a badly-written haiku lamenting politicians, trying to convince school officials that games like dodge ball bolster what little eye-hand coordination used to exist before people planted their butts on their politically correct sofas playing video games as a positive is like trying to convince a football player to give up his coaching.

What happened to kickball? Are there not enough adults at recess to lead kids in a rousing game? Oh, that's right. I forgot. Too many kids had the ball aimed at them to get them out, and now, tagging was no linger allowed. Either they were thrown out at first, or they were in like Ann Hathaway at an exclusive Hollywood night club.

What happened to duck duck goose? Oh, that's right. Some PETA child of angst told her parents that geese were considered a problem, and in an effort to embrace all wildlife, the game was ended. Besides, that tap to the head made someone cry once, and the fat kid who didn't quite make it around the circle before being tagged threatened to sue for 'obesity insensitivity'.
The ability to play on a team and use teamwork without adult politics and involvement from the sidelines, high fee bills and uniforms is becoming as extinct in this society as Atari Pong. Play is becoming too dangerous. Too politically incorrect. Too exclusive.

Pogo sticks? What if the girl in the skirt flashed her underwear and gave another 5 year old unsavory thoughts? Or, worse yet, show what day of the week it was?

We used to play jacks. That was a good game for hand-eye coordination, timing, counting, and good sportsmanship. It was portable, didn't require batteries, and was fun to watch. Now it's a choking hazard, small pieces which could be stepped on and injurious. Someone could be upset because due to their dyslexia, they didn't remember what came after four and sued the school for being prejudiced against kids who couldn't win at jacks.

The only game on the playground now is victimization, with kids learning strategy as they swap their lawyer's business cards, along with their therapist's advice. Whining and victimization have replaced brushing yourself off and getting back in the game.

Most kids are being taught to sit on the sidelines and play their Game boys. Sit down, shut up, keep things simple.

There's time enough to keep things simple. Let kids play. Let them learn those life lessons through play, through sometimes not being the one chosen, not being the fastest, strongest, the one with the best reflexes. Let them learn the joy of being on the winning team and the sportsmanship that comes from being on the losing team.

Bring back my hippity hop, ding dangit.

They Moved Me

Just a quick anecdote this week, as I've been busier that a one-handed dominatrix in a spank factory.


When we were relocating from Portland, the moverswere packing up my room.As they markedfurniture they were loading into the truck andrecording the same on a sheet of paper,they paused at one problematic item in the room.

One mover pointed at the tall piece of furniture and said in a Broolyn accent, "What's this? A cabinet?"

I said, "That's an armoire."

He looked at his buddy with a raised eyebrow, and waved his hand out galliantly. "Well whatdayaoknow. An ahhhh-mwahhhh, Sal."

""How do you spell that?" says Sal.

"Hell if I know. Write 'cabinet'."