Sugar

With all the cancer going on around me lately, I've decided to try to really rein in the processed sugar I'm exposing my body to. From what I read, cancer really likes to gobble up the white stuff and use it for its evil purposes. And I'm really into not allowing evil to take up residence in this 5 foot 3.5 inch frame.

So, I started a couple of weeks ago by ixnaying the sugar in my Route 44 unsweetened tea from Sonic. This has been my cheap, carpool-endurance enhancing, thirst-quenching routine a couple of days a week since school started back.

Problem is, I am using two packs of sugar every time I get a drink. So, this week I decided to switch to sweetener instead. Saves me 32 calories, exposure to processed cane, and the worry. BUT. Now I have another problem: am I going to become like those poor, abused rats in experimental labs across the world that develop saccharin tumors?

ARGH.

Another sugar-enhanced drink in my life that I've said "arrivederci" to is Coke. I haven't enjoyed one since January 1, thus saving me the 39 grams of sugar in 12 ounces. However, looking at the Coconut Creme creamer* I use in my coffee, I discovered each tablespoon contains 5 grams of sugar.

Now, I'm no Einstein when it comes to math, but my world started spinning when I looked at this number. Then, the geek in me had to do an equation.

1 fluid ounce = 2 tablespoons. Applying a very lame version of Algebra, I determined that 12 fluid ounces = 24 tablespoons. And 24 tablespoons times 5 grams equals a whopping 120 grams of sugar!

So if I drank the equavalent of a can of Coke in creamer alone, I'd get three TIMES the amount of sugar.

Uh oh. That can't be good.

Considering, in every place but really nice restaurants who spend thousands of dollars annually on superior coffee beans, I need creamer to offset the taste of coffee, this is a problem.

Now I am on the hunt for a good replacement creamer.

I swear, if I discover one more product that contains processed cane sugar that I really love and have to figure out a replacement for, I might just write an angry note to the sugarcane producers of the world.

The bigger problem there? The largest producer of sugarcane is Brazil.

Anybody in to interpreting from Engligh to Porteguese?


*Which I got hooked on when my coffee-loving buddy poured me a tall glass of ground, steeped beans with whipped creme and green/red sprinkles on it. Loved BOTH pours, LR!!!

Coffee and Zombies

Do you ever wonder, if you aren't a coffee drinker, why those of us who DO imbibe are so passionate about our java? Read on.

When I wake up, it is early. I need a kick start. My kick start is caffeine.

So, pretty much daily, I brew coffee. As I am prepping the pot, I am in an animated state where my brain only understands one function: making coffee. Anything else is unrecognizable as important. I'm a coffee zombie. But without the blood thirst and desire to kill.

While I wait for the coffee to brew, I'm still a zombie.

Try to talk to me during this process, or anywhere between the bed and coffee being ready, and I'll grunt intelligibly. Like a zombie. But with all my skin intact and a pulse.

Once the coffee is made, poured, and properly creamed*, I can start to feel the transition occurring. My vital signs start revving up and I can feel the blood beginning to move.

After two or three swigs, I'm a human being again. The zombie fog has been lifted.

Now, if we're still sub-7 a.m. when all this activity happens, you may still get grunt-talk if you try to carry on a conversation with me.

But at least you know that, two or three sips later, I'll actually be able to properly tell you how I feel about being vertical at this hour of the day.


*Yes, technically the worst English I'll use all year. Let's just get it out of the way early.

A Little Ditty about Joe

For some strange reason, hymns are stuck in my head these days. While enjoying my piping hot cupajoe this a.m., my brain shot this out, to the tune "Battle Hymn of the Republic", by Julia Howe*.

If you can't sing this with gusto, you don't have enough coffee in ya. Drink up!


Mine eyes have seen the glory of the brewing of the pot.
My nose has smelled the scent of java recently brewed hot.
My cup has overflowed with the steaming, yummy lot.
The truth is I'm in love.

Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Your goodness marches on.

From the hills of California to the Florida state line.
This country's full of people who prefer their beans to grind.
Creamer plus two sugars will make my cup most divine.
The truth is I am hooked.

Glory, glory, java junkies
Glory, glory, java junkies
Glory, glory, java junkies
Thank goodness coffee's no crime.

In the morning when we rise to dessert after dark.
From golden beaches on the shores to New York's Central Park.
Regardless of your politics, for this we can all hark:
Coffee rules my world!

Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
I'm glad God made the bean!!!


*My apologies, fair lady, that this rendition is, no doubt, making you turn over in your grave.

The Planning of Dinner

I absolutely despise this time of day. In about fifteen minutes I am going to have to make the final decision on what to put on the dinner table.

Earlier today I thawed some pork. Have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but I can tell you that "How do the little piggies eat?"* won't be part of the conversation at the dinner table because I'm not serving mashed potatoes (there are no spuds in the house....)

I'm short in the rice department, too. Pasta. Nada. I do have a loaf of plain wheat bread, which could make a nice piece of garlic toast with parmesan for those who aren't cow-intolerant.

Fruit is never an issue around here. We are the fruitiest family on the block, in a non-gay kind of way, of course.

Veggies? Choice between asparagus, salad, or green beans. Problem is, there is no concencus across the boy population about which of these they will eat. I obviously didn't give the Babe enough strained lettuce when he was young. Ditto green beans.

I have to stop and give credit to my Mom here. She drilled into my head the concept that no meal was complete unless it had a starch, protein, vegetable, fruit, drink AND a dessert.

Yes, you read that correctly, a dessert. This is where I have to get off the family train to CRAZYVILLE because I would weigh at least 150 pounds MORE if I had dessert every day**.

Mom came by this in the most innocent of ways, when she first married Dad. Turns out my beloved Grandma made a dessert after most every dinner meal. So, naturally, he thought this was the gold standard in families.

Innocuously, after one of the first meals Mom made when they were beginning their lives together, Dad asked "Where's dessert?" Mom, being the doting newlywed wife of the 60's, figured she could bring peace and harmony to their lives with sugar. Hence, the curse of dessert began.

There have been very few days in my life without dessert. Pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, you name it, I've eaten it. There have been a mere handful that I've turned down. In fact, there have been scarce few I haven't attempted to make and serve myself.

Truth is, if Heaven is a place where we eat, I'll be eating nothing but dessert. Breakfast will be coffee with white or strawberry cake topped with buttercream frosting. Lunch will be cookies, with some form of chocolate and nuts, and whole milk. Dinner will include hot tea and key lime pie.

I understand we won't have the same "bodies" in Heaven as we do on Earth. I'm counting on that meaning that I will be able to eat as I please without consequence. Between my songs of praise for God, that is. On that front, God, I'm counting on a new singing voice, too. Please. For YOUR sake?!

But, for now, I'm going to try to turn over a new leaf and return to a legacy of pre-planned, nutritionally-balanced dinners. Without regular desserts.

Stay tuned for my nervous breakdown, which will occur as my body realizes I won't be feeding it processed sugar.


*A Christmas Story. Quite possibly the funniest, most sarcastic movie on the planet. Hence, one of my favs.

**If you don't believe me, check out my inability to resist cake in a previous post.

Let Them Eat WAY-TOO-MUCH Cake

I think I just experienced the ultimate, near-perfect, most wonderful day yesterday. It was book-ended by cake.

So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.

Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.

Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.

Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.

On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.

I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.

The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."

When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.

For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.

Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.

Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.

Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.

I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.

In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."

Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.

And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?

VIVA LA CAKE!



*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".

Queen Cry-a-lot

I started to cry during the kid's weekly matinee at the Studio Movie Grill last week. No kidding. Big tears exiting eyes, flowing down my cheeks.

Either I had done a really good job discreetly wiping my face 10,000 times with a napkin reduced to pulp OR my make-up job that morning was pathetic, because when I brought it up in the car on the way home, everyone looked at me like "WHHATTTT? You were crying? During Prince of Egypt?"

Yes, I was crying during Prince of Egypt. You got a problem with that?

Here's how it all happened, me getting from dry-faced taxi-Mom to blubbering idiot, that is:

1. We arrived a wee bit close to start time* and the parking lot was abnormally crowded. Thankfully, Hotels.com was having an outing of some sort in one of the theaters, which explained the five minute walk past all the SUVs and BMWs**. It also explained the buffet of bagels, cream cheese, coffee, and donuts in the hallway that I had to practically extricate the kids from after they made the 40 yard dash toward the table***. They thought they had hit some kid jackpot. I got to be the meanie who pointed out "you only have two sevens and one Jackpot. SORRY."

2. Our price for admission was a reasonable $6. The popcorn, however, was on the high side of average at $3.49. I had to get two bowls because the kids were all sitting about 10 feet apart and I didn't want to be the "popcorn-passing-go-between" all movie long****. The tea was an astounding $2.99. Truly, this is a bargain if you can drink FIVE GALLONS, but for one measly glass? It COSTS $2.99 to make five gallons of tea, and that's if you use BOTTLED water*****!

3. Once I got over the sticker shock that was the menu, we settled in. Before we even got past the first two scenes, it was obvious the Babe had been checked out during the time I was interim chidren's minister at church and we studied Moses. I had to narrate so he could catch the story, as his previous exposure, apparently, didn't stick. Our conversation went something like this:

"That's baby Moses."
"Who's he?"
"The one who heard the voice from the burning bush."
"There's a bush burning? Where?" (Looks like a bobble head trying to get an adequate view)
"No, the burning bush, in the Bible."
"Oh." (Clearly didn't remember THAT)
"What about the 10 Plagues?"
"Eggs? I want popcorn!"
"Never mind. Have you heard of Passover?
"Pass what?"
"Passover. The holiday still celebrated by the Jews? Moses knew about that."
"Moses. Moses who?"

I'm clearly frustrated by this whisper-loud conversation between my cupped hand and his right ear. Each time I whisper something, he turns to me and YELLS his question or response. This isn't working. But I am persistent, if I am anything.

"Moses is the one who brought the 10 Commandments down the mountain to the people. Do you remember Mom and Dad telling you about the 10 Commandments?"

(Look of recognition in his eyes) "YES. That's what you tell me about every time I disohay you."
"Disobey?"
"Yes."
"You are right."

Now that he is caught up on the plot, I watch the movie. The story truly is amazing: a baby boy, marked for execution, escapes to become a prince, only to realize "his" people are being enslaved and to work against the palace to get the slaves out of Egypt, all at God's request.

Moses was a gutsy dude, from leaving the comforts of the palace, to trusting God's voice through the burning bush, returning to the palace and ushering in God's plagues, to leading his people into the wilderness, parting the Red Sea and presenting the 10 Commandments.

When Moses put that staff in the Sea and it rose up, like a backward tsunami, and presented dry land, complete with an image of a whale swimming behind a wall of water, THAT'S when I started to cry.

It was the sheer beauty of the story that got me at that point. These people had been through so much and, here they were, trusting in a situation that was so, very scary. I mean, truly, can you imagine looking at miles-high walls of water and proceeding forward, across what used to be the bottom of the sea just moments before?

It was just an emotional highpoint in the movie for me. And, doggone it, I'm pretty glad I'm not so "grown up" that I can't cry at an appropriate moment.

So, be warned, fair readers. If you attend a theater with me, I may go all misty on you. Just pick up a few extra napkins in the lobby before we enter the movie and life will be all good.

The fact that I might be late meeting you? The horror on my face when I pay to get in? The honking when I need to blow my nose, mid-movie? I apologize for all that now.




*Have I mentioned I have this little issue with time? Seems I can't keep track of it and refuse to be tied down by it. What a rebel.

**This wasn't the average every Mom, daycare, and YMCA descending upon the theatre kind of day. Thank goodness.

***Man! I knew I quit corporate American too soon.

****I paid my two bucks to watch the movie, too.

*****I felt like the servers were standing at the back of the movie, rubbing their hands together, laughing evilly about my ridiculous outlay of money for a glass of tea.

Anal Retentive--who, ME?

When you've determined to run the destiny of your financial life by making Abraham Lincoln scream in pain*, you become a bit, shall we say, ANAL, about money, long after you've decided that you can ease up a bit**.

Which brings me to tonight, the night I've designated as BUDGET NIGHT. Actually, this piece de resistance started well into the afternoon, 2ish, to be more exact, and has continued to about 11pm. And, I'm not done.

But, in nine hours, I've discovered at least one thing: I've lost more than a few receipts from this past month. And it is making me crazy.

Over the years, you must know, we've been determined to track every penny that goes through this house. I mean that literally. Every penny. We save each and every receipt, know when "kids get in free" from Harlingen to Amarillo, and have moved our insurance deductibles so high that even State Farm raises an eyebrow at us. Yet, all this tracking/raising/saving has made us happy.

Yes, folks, a bit of a clue to our shared insanity: we are HAPPY when we know where our money goes, even if it takes queeny a thousand years to figure out.***

So, tonight, I'm running through our credit card bill. Keep this concept in your working memory: we run EVERYTHING through this credit card. I'm looking at multiple entries for $1.08****. I've been known to charge a Slurpee to this card. Basically, if you want a snapshot of our life, check out our monthly statement and you'll see the facts: we make some really moronic decisions. And LOTS of them.

I count no less than seven McDonald's entries. Twelve stops at Exxon for coffee.***** I'll even embarrass myself with the total number of fast food entries: Twenty-three. In 31 days!!******

So, with all these entries, I am in desperate need of receipts, lest they go unaccounted for and I have a heart attack, bad cholesterol withstanding, because I can't find them.

You see, for each entry, I have a compulsive need to match the statement with the receipt. In case you really think I'm looney-tunes, consider this: last month, I had my "Summer pedicure". The bill was $19. I tipped the fine woman $3.80.******* When the bill appeared on the statement? $49.80. Wow. A $30.80 tip! Was I so high on nail polish fumes that I forgot my pedicure came with champagne and chocolates?

So, you see where my cheap meets my anal. They work together nicely. And, we're all happy.

But, tomorrow, I must admit, I'll be at Exxon for their divine 24 ounces of steaming coffee goodness because, without it, I won't be worth a flip. And, darn it, next month I'll resolve again to cut back on the coffee after I see "Exxon--$1.08" at least a dozen times.

But, hey, at least I'll have a receipt. And it won't say, "Starbucks--$4.33"




*Work with me people. Think. Pinching pennies. Get it?

**Abraham only whimpers now when I pick him up off the parking lot of Walmart. Did you doubt I did THAT?

***Of course, the king often "pays" for these long nights by getting a little royal backlash, in the form of yelling, in the days after. A royal pity, if I do say so myself.

****Our Redbox habit. Maybe OBSESSION would be a better word.

*****Did I mention I decided to give up my daily habit of buying coffee? I'm not winning the battle. But, true to form, it's CHEAP coffee!

******When I finally make it to the doctor after the kids are back at school, I fully expect to hear "Good gracious, nurse. Her cholesterol is 563. Rush her to the ER. Stat."

*******Yes, a 20% tip. I said I was CHEAP, not a cheapskate.

HGTV's unfortunate programming decision

If you are like me, inspiration comes at odd hours and I often don't have control over it. Take the night/morning this blog was born: I created the site and wrote six entries right then. Who knew I had so much pent up writing inside of me?

Which brings me to my topic: HGTV. I love HGTV. I pretty much love anything that has to do with decorating, redecorating, looking at houses, cooking, etc. But, the people at HGTV have made a colossal mistake. Or, maybe they just don't get people like me*; if they did, at 3am they wouldn't put up that heinous message that says "Good Night from HGTV" and turn the station over for TWO AND A HALF HOURS to "Paid Programming" (Billy Mays will live on FOREVER if I can't get this oversight corrected! Oh, the horrors.)

I'm reduced to either:

1) putting the pedal to the metal and getting the project done without the fun of watching Candice Olson, The Iron Chef, or Carter Oosterhouse while I work -OR-

2) going to bed and not being able to sleep because I haven't finished my project.

Is there a good answer here, folks? I think not.

So, later today, after my tall cuppajoe, a good workout at the gym, and a few cartoons*, I'll attack this problem by sending HGTV an email detailing how their messed up programming is having a negative impact on my life.

Do you think they'll give a YIP?

*In about four hours I'll be stopping by Exxon for my 24-ounce coffee. And my bladder WON'T thank me.....

**A treat for the kids; sleepytime for Mom!