Cow vs. Woman

Today I sat in the waiting room of a doctor's office. Save me, there was only one other being in the room. I was having trouble telling if it was a woman or a cow.

See, it was chewing. With its mouth open, jaw grinding side-to-side, no doubt, enjoying Juicy Fruit or cud. Hard to tell.

Me? I sat all the way across the waiting room growling on the inside and glaring at it across the way. I was trying to read Kiplinger's magazine, which, in and of itself, is no small feat, but my reading was being thwarted by the evil sound of jaws-meeting-springy-substance.

Now, MOST people wouldn't be bothered by a little background noise. Truly, if I listened, there were also the sounds of cars moving outside the window, typing on the computer in the office, and voices talking in the exam rooms. But, my ears are hyper-vigilant and I hear everything. Cripe, if a mouse throws up in another room I'm asking someone "What WAS that?"

I grew up with a person who chewed gum with such intensity that she should have an Olympic medal in mandible manipulation. She, like my cell mate in the waiting area from Hades, used to have NO CLUE she was chewing gum, even though she had clearly unwrapped the piece, placed it in her mouth, and started the process of gnawing on it.

There were times I would say "COW" and, immediately, like a Pavlovian dog, she would realize "OH! I'm chewing gum" and tone it down for a little while. It actually became a little bit of a game between us for awhile there, me trying to catch her, she trying to stay under the ear-dar. Then she up and quit gum. I'm sure Wrigley's executives cried big tears over that decision.

Years later my ears are still hyper-sensitive, and, like firemen hear cries from a burning building, I hear the sound of gum chewing from miles away.

Thankfully, back in the waiting area, I was saved by the nurse who called me to the back for my appointment.

As I was leaving I noticed cow-woman had maintained the same position she took when she originally sat: head cocked to one side, mouth opening and shutting, reading a magazine. She never looked up and she never stopped torturing that gob of stuff.

Which left me wondering: Did she grow up in the proverbial barn I ask my kids if they are being raised in? That would certainly explain all the chewing.

It would not, however, explain why she was waiting for an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist instead of a vet.

Breakfast Food Belongs on Plates

Forget Komen. The American Heart Association. Jerry's Kids.

I have a new not-for-profit that rises above any need, past, present, or future.

You see, I just had my annual mammogram done and I am still considering the length of time it will take for my breasts to stop looking like breakfast products that should be served with butter and syrup.

So, for those of you reading this, I am announcing the new, not-for-profit, soon-to-be-collecting-from-you: "PANCAKES UNITE".

As a woman who has been enduring this yearly ritual now for the past 18 years*, I have a little bit of knowledge about this process. It is a necessary evil, kind of like giving blood or birth.

This much I know about the big, cumbersome, pain-inducing machine they use to reduce tissue to paper-like thickness: if men had to endure this, there would be new technology TOMORROW.

So, my organization will focus on better ways to keep ourselves out of the vices of medical technology, in favor of a gentler, kinder way of doing business.

Any woman who has inadvertently scheduled her squishing session just prior to her monthly cycle will want to marry me, in a non-sexual kind of way. Men will honor my name as they will no longer have to hear their wives gripe about this injustice.

Man or woman, husband or wife, Father or Mother, this is a huge win-win.

So, if you are a budding entreprenuer, I want to hear from you. Just don't think I'm volunteering for any kind of research.

I already gave at the office.




*When you are 25 and have "abnormal" written on your chart right next to "breast", you get to start boob squashing 15 years ahead of all your friends. This is NOT an honor.

Eating My Way Fat

"I'm gaining weight the old-fashioned way: I'm eating too much."

That would be my commerical for Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, or The Biggest Loser. Right now I feel like I could be a walking "before" ad for any of these fine establishments.

This morning I stared at the scale and saw a number that is my "Holy Crap! Who's standing behind me pressing down with their toe?" weight. This is the number that I saw when I was "going up", rightfully so, during pregnancy and one I saw when I was "going down", when I was making every attempt to look un-pregnant after I wasn't. Somehow, my weight, as of late, has looked like a revolting line chart in a business with completely erratic earnings.

And, as I've expressed in previous posts, I haven't even hit the high-eating zone of the year yet. That commenced with The Texas State Fair, which kicked off this weekend.

Fortunately for me, unless Julia Child returns from the dead and pronounces this year's stomach-acid-producing, cholesterol-raising assault, FRIED BUTTER, a "gastronomic tour de force", that's one less thing I'll be eating at the Fair.

Corn dogs? Can take 'em or leave them*.

My downfall? Turkey legs, cotton candy, candy apples, and funnel cakes. I'd participate in a a girl fight in the baking barn if they'd actually allow spectators to try the baked goods that are entered into the contests. Most of those recipes would make Paula Deen's baking look skimpy in the butter department.

Sadly, there just isn't enough walking to be had at the Fair to warrant the lack of restraint I've been known to show on Fair Day.

So, this year, I'm trying a new tactic. I'm going to drink. Water**. And I'm going to let my boys enjoy whatever makes their hearts sing. Yes, I'll be jealous. Yes, I'll be cranky. But, hey, at least I won't gain any more weight.

Because I really don't like that Jillian woman on Biggest Loser. She's a little too much like Hitler, but with boobs and no mustache***.

And if I end up needing her, I end up in a two-piece workout uniform on the TV.

Frankly, I like my friends too much to make them throw up.


*Yeah, I'm wierd. I'd rather gnaw on a turkey's skinny legs than a pig's snout/butt/whoknows. OK, maybe NOT so wierd.....

**If you instantly thought "She means booze", go to the head of the line. I stopped in Baptist land for quite a while but I've been back in the land of drinkers ever since.

***Though she may know someone who does a hellacious wax job.....