Rhode Island Hates Me

I had a wonderful time in Rhode Island - until Friday, that is, but I’ll get to that later.  First, the good stuff.  The weather was perfect (Thanks, Jim!), and the rental place was really nice.  This spiral staircase was a bit much for me to navigate, so I chose a bedroom on the ground flour.

This is the view (of a salt pond) from the lower deck.

And this is the view from the upper deck.

One of my favorite activities was watching shore birds, like Great Blue Herons and egrets.

On the Sunday when we first arrived, the beach was packed.  Honestly, I’ve never seen so many people on a beach.   Fortunately, the crowds thinned out quite a bit during the week.  To further ensure a good spot, my mother and I made it a habit to get to the beach when the gates opened at 8:30 a.m.  At that hour, the beach looked like this.

Besides reading, knitting and wading, I also enjoyed watching people fish from the jetty.

The carousel at Watch Hill is always a highlight of the trip for me. Dating from about 1876, this is the oldest carousel of its type, and may be the oldest carousel in existence in the United States.  The carousel is unique in that its horses are not attached to the floor, but hang by suspended chains.  The faster the ride goes, the farther out the horses swing, which is why it was given the name “Flying Horse Carousel.”  Each horse is hand-carved from a single piece of wood, the tails and manes are made of real horsehair, the saddles are genuine leather, and the horses have their original agate eyes.   Whichever child gets the brass ring is treated to a free ride.

Friday was our last full day in Rhode Island, and our plan was to go to Newport to do part of the Cliff Walk.  At 8:00 am, my foot got twisted in the corner of a too long bedspread.

I went down hard.   The pain was so intense, I couldn’t move at first.  When I finally managed to get up, I realized that I had done a fair amount of damage.

Still, even though every breath I took caused pain in my chest on the ride side, and my left foot was quite swollen (I had to walk on the side of it because of extreme pain in the toe area), I went along on the trip to Newport.  We drove along the shore route, where we saw many beautiful sights.  This is a shot of cormorants sunning themselves on a rock.

I had to sit in the car while the others went on the Cliff Walk, but I did manage to limp far enough to take these photos.

Around 4:30 that afternoon, I figured I’d better go to the Emergency Room.  X-rays showed that nothing was broken, thank goodness.  My left foot is badly sprained, and my chest wall is deeply bruised.  What a great way to end summer vacation.  And it’s always fun to start work with a new pain.

It still hurts every time I take a breath or bend forward, and I still can’t step down on my left foot. I can’t wear a shoe on that side, either, which should add to the fun of going back to work next week.

I had an unrelated doctor appointment yesterday morning, and she noted that the trauma of the fall has caused my other problems to flare up.  My trigger points are swollen and very tender to the touch.  Consequently, a steroid was prescribed.  I know all about the dangers of steroids, but, frankly, I don’t care.  They’ve worked wonders for me in the past, and I’m hoping for similar results this time.  Anything is better than this god-awful pain.

As luck would have it, Daniel left for Canada the day after I returned from Rhode Island.  He offered to stay home because of my injury, but I insisted that he go.  Work has been stressful, and he’s been putting in a lot of overtime.  He really needed a vacation.  Still, the timing is unfortunate.  I’m having difficulty dealing with the dogs, not to mention everything else.  To top things off nicely, tomorrow is my birthday.  I’m not much in the mood for celebrating.

I don’t know what Rhode Island has against me.  Last year, I ended up in the hospital right after I got home from vacationing there.  Back in 1989, I was hit by a moped and suffered a tibial plateau fracture.  Perhaps it’s time for a different vacation destination…

Song of the Day  Love/Hate by Liz Phair

Bring Out Your Dead

I finally saw Spamalot!  A local community college offered a bus trip to NYC yesterday for the unbelievably low price of $11.  (The train costs $30.)  I went with my mother, my aunt, my cousin, Kathy, and her friend, Bob.  When we got to the city, we split up.  My mother, aunt and cousin had already seen Spamalot, so they went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Bob and I headed for the TKTS Discount booth, and, fortunately, Spamalot was among the listed shows.

Before the performance, we had lunch at Bistecca Fiorentina.  It was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. For an appetizer, Bob ordered grilled octopus and squid.  I had a mixed plate of roasted polenta with Gorgonzola cheese, a stuffed mushroom, zucchini with béchamel sauce, eggplant Parmesan, and a roasted, stuffed red pepper.  It was way too much food for me, so I shared with Bob.  Still, I barely had room for my lobster ravioli entrée.  Even with Bob’s help, I couldn’t finish it.

After we ate, we headed over to the Shubert Theatre.  I was very excited.  The play certainly lived up to my expectations.   It was so much fun!  This was my favorite number.  Hilarious!

At present, Stephen Collins (the father on 7th Heaven) is playing King Arthur, and Drew Lachey (former member of 98 Degrees, along with his brother, Nick, who was married to Jessica Simpson.  Drew was also a “Dancing With the Stars” winner.) plays Patsy.  Marin Mazzie is the Lady of the Lake.   What a voice!  I had such a good time.

The only downside was the physical pain.  I’m really hurting.  Sunshyn and Texas Peach are right.  I most definitely should not have done all that backbreaking gardening, and, yes, I am crazy.  The pain is worse than it was when I was out on disability.  I keep hoping it will get better, but it hasn’t.  I don’t know what I’m going to do…

To add insult to injury, I’m not sure the garden will flourish.  The layers of compost, etc., aren’t as deep as they should be, but it’s the best I could do.  Please keep your fingers crossed.  It would be devastating for the garden to fail after all the hard work I put into it.

Song of the Day:  Not Yet Dead from Monty Python’s Spamalot

A Room of One’s Own

I haven’t had time to post entries lately, so I thought I’d squeeze one in this morning. Last week’s activities included two birthday celebrations – Daniel on Wednesday, and my aunt on Saturday. The celebration for Daniel’s birthday was intimate. We went to dinner with Rebecca and her boyfriend.

There was a big party for my aunt, who turned 75. It was nice to hang out with cousins (and an uncle from Miami) I don’t get to see very often. The highlight of the party (for me, at any rate) was the carrot cake my cousin’s wife made. She’s a pastry chef, and this cake is to die for. It was beautiful, as well as delicious. I took a picture, but left my camera behind when we left the party. I’ll get the camera back on Friday, so I’ll post the photo at a later date.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with the orthopedic guy to go over the results of my last MRI. It seems that I have quite a bit of arthritis in my cervical spine, along with nerve entrapment. This could be causing the pain in my shoulder blade. Dr. Bones referred me to pain management, and an appointment was scheduled for Monday.

There’s not much else to write about, but I did want to mention today’s Simple Abundance essay. The essay is titled, “Your Bedroom: Cradle of Civilization.” It starts with this quote from Mrs. Winston Guest: All one really needs is a divinely attractive bed.

Interestingly enough, I just changed the bed ensemble yesterday – bedskirt, sheets, pillow shams and quilt/comforter. The ensemble I removed was bringing me down. It was too big and heavy. I tripped over the edges of the comforter whenever I walked around the bed to make it. Consequently, I stopped making it, even though I hate an unmade bed.

Making the bed is among the quickest and easiest of chores, and it makes such a difference. Getting into an unmade bed is not only unappealing, but it also causes me physical pain when I have to wrench the sheets, blanket and comforter back into a position where they will cover me.

Sarah Ban Breathnach writes, “ Your bedding should be as inviting to look at as it is comfortable to lie on. I am convinced that a woman should love her bedcovers with a passion. This isn’t just aesthetics; it encourages you to keep your bedroom tidy because the bed looks so pretty when it’s all made up… You can see this leads to Sublime Order, at least in one room of your home.”

Sublime Order is sadly lacking in other rooms of my house (especially the kitchen) because I succumb to pain and fatigue by the time I get home from work, and it’s all I can do to make dinner. But a bedroom should be a sanctuary – a place where you can go to get away from the chaos of life. The new bedding has restored my bedroom to the oasis it should be. I’ll post a picture (along with the carrot cake) when I get my camera back.

Song of the Day: Midnight at the Oasis by Maria Muldaur

Inka Dinka Doo

During a faculty meeting yesterday, I was using a pen to scratch the maddening itch I’ve been living with for several days now. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I happened to look down. Naturally, the pen wasn’t capped. My jeans are ruined (and they’re my favorite pair, of course).

Can I scream now?

Song of the Day: Inka Dinka Doo by Jimmy Durante

A Mother of a Week

Boy, was I glad to bid a not so fond adieu to this past week from hell. Getting smacked in the face by a rake handle set the bad karma ball rolling, and it was all downhill after that. One bad experience involved shopping for eyeglasses to replace the ones that broke in the rake incident.

I have a really hard time finding glasses that look halfway decent on me. Consequently, I tried on just about every pair of frames in the place I do business with. (Naturally, the style I broke has been discontinued.) It was very discouraging. Everything I looked at was extremely expensive (plus, I wear Transitional/Progressives, which jacks the price up even more). To add insult to injury, none of the frames were the least bit flattering.

Still, I had to get something. The spare pair I’m using distorts my depth perception. Finally, I settled on a Banana Republic frame. I’ll probably be even more dissatisfied when they come in than I was when I tried them on because the prescription lenses will allow me to see more clearly just how bad they look. (It’s difficult to accurately judge how glasses look when you need glasses to see with!)

I’ve also been dealing with some work-related crap, but I don’t want to talk about that. I’m trying to not give the petty nonsense that goes on in that place too much power over me.

Yesterday, there was a big get-together at my sister’s house to celebrate my nephew’s 16th birthday. I made the mistake of telling my family about the rake incident. For the rest of the day I had to endure wisecracks from my father, brother-in-law and nephews about how “stupid” I am.

It might have been stupid if I had noticed that the rake tines were facing forward when I was walking over to turn the hose faucet on, but I didn’t. It was an accident, not something I did intentionally. To call me stupid repeatedly, and to make jokes all day long about something that caused me physical pain and financial hardship (i.e. the expensive replacement eyeglasses) was cruel and hurtful.

Still, I should have known better. Certain members of my family make a sport out of calling people stupid. Personally, I think they are the stupid ones.

To lighten things up, I’d like to share a few photos with you. Two years ago, my daughters gave me a small lilac tree for Mother’s Day. Much to my delight, it bloomed this year. Hurray!

I keep this next picture propped up on my desk at work. It amuses me, especially when students say things like: “You met Flavor Flav??” I kid you not. Quite a few students have asked that question, despite the fact that Flavor Flav’s side is in black and white while mine is in color.

Speaking of Flavor Flav, this student borrowed my gansta clock for a school play she appeared in Friday evening. She was adorable.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!

Song of the Day: Mother by Pink Floyd

The Seasons of My Life

Ya Ya’s funeral, held in a Greek Orthodox Church, was a very emotional experience. I found the ceremony to be quite moving, especially the swinging of the thurible (incense holder) over the open casket. My heartstrings were really tugged.

Emmy, my old friend from high school, took her grandmother’s death pretty hard, and the grief on her face did me in. It didn’t help that grief for my brother rose to the surface and grabbed me by the throat.

Something else rose to the surface and grabbed me by the throat. I was overwhelmed by memories of Emmy, her brother, mother and Ya Ya. They were like a second family to me, and I loved them dearly.

As I watched the family during the funeral, I was struck by how quickly time passes. Thirty-five years flew by at warp speed.

I studied Emmy’s face, and couldn’t help but notice the effects aging has had on her. Back in high school, Emmy was The Pretty One. At 53, she is still extremely attractive, but she has deep wrinkles around her eyes, and sagging jowls.

When I got home, I took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror, and had to face the fact that I have sagging jowls, too.

So… not only am I mourning the loss of Ya Ya (and my brother), but I am mourning the loss of my youth, as well.

Song of the Day: Landslide by Stevie Nicks

Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

The Bad Luck Continues

For my first shaping project, I’ve been knitting a bath mitt. Shaping the thumb was the hard part, and I was so excited when I managed to jump that hurdle without tripping. Shortly after posting Saturday’s entry, I sat down to finish the mitt.

I was attempting to do a psso (pass slipped stitch over) when disaster struck. The needle snapped. I can’t simply insert another needle because a bunch of stitches dropped (along with my stomach), and I’m not experienced enough to be able to fix this mess.

I took a few deep breaths and moved on to an old project – one that I set aside last summer. Things were moving along nicely when the thing on the end of the needle (that prevents stitches from slipping) fell off, along with quite a few stitches. Again, this was beyond my ability to fix.  What are the odds for having back-to-back knitting needle mishaps??

I’m overdue for a good cry.

Song of the Day: If It Wasn’t For Bad Luck by Ray Charles

It’s No Use Crying over Spilt Milk

This past week got off to a very positive start, but ended badly. I’ll start with the good stuff.

I got my observation out of the way, and don’t have to worry about it for another year. I’m always a Nervous Nellie when it comes to these evaluations, but I was even more of a wreck this year because a new administrator was doing the observation. This guy has earned the nickname “Machete,” which should give a pretty good indication of why I was so nervous.

The lesson I taught was about building a Works Cited page using an online service. Just to make things more interesting (not to mention more nerve-wracking), I decided to use the Smart Board that was just installed in my room, and for which I’ve had no training.

The class was late getting to the computer lab, so, while we were waiting, I gave Mr. Machete a copy of the handout I had created. He expressed surprise that I had gone to such trouble, and asked if the teacher had asked me to do it (which he felt would have been inappropriate on the instructor’s part since I am there to assist teachers, not do their work for them). I assured him that I had taken it upon myself to develop the lesson plan and create the handout.

Mr. Machete made it clear that he was impressed. He said, “This is a very valuable resource for the teachers.” I replied, “Yes it is.” (This was not the time for false modesty. I worked my butt off on this lesson, and deserved the credit for it.)

The class finally arrived, and the lesson commenced. Much to my relief, everything went smoothly. Mr. Machete got up to leave a few minutes before the period ended, caught my eye and mouthed the words, “That was very good.”

About twenty minutes later, he came back with my completed observation in hand. Evaluation is based on a numerical system: 0. Unsatisfactory 1. Requires Improvement 2. Acceptable 3. Strong 4. Exceptional. I got mostly 4s, and a few 3s. Mr. Machete said the lesson was “extraordinary,” and told me I am an asset to the school. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

The next day, I chaperoned a class trip to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. We arrived early, so, to kill some time, we took the kids to Trump Tower. One student said, “Donald Trump is my dawg. That man knows how to make money.” Indeed.

At the museum, the kids were very well behaved. We saw paintings by Diego Rivera and Freda Kahlo, as well as some pop art pieces.

While in the city, I kept an eye out for Kathy, who also just happened to be in NYC that day. Alas, there were no Kitchen Logic sightings. Still, It was a wonderful trip.

Yesterday, I took the day off to see the orthopedic surgeon for the results of my recent MRI. After reviewing the radiology report, Dr. Bones proceeded to talk about my shoulder. I remarked that I was there because of my shoulder blade.

The look on the doctor’s face upon hearing that caused me to have a sinking feeling. I blurted out, “Please don’t tell me that they did an MRI of my shoulder.” He said, “I’m sorry.” Then he beat a hasty retreat and sent his nurse to deal with the situation.

At first, she and I both thought it was the fault of the Imaging Center, which would have been the least complicated scenario because they would have to do another MRI at their own expense. However, after flipping through my chart, the nurse came across two scripts. One was for an MRI of the scapula (which is the one I had been given and then lost on my way to the Imaging facility). The other was for an MRI of the shoulder.

I can’t even begin to imagine why another script was written out. They were supposed to fax a copy of the original script over to the Imaging Center. Apparently, that is not what happened. A new script was written, and the wrong body part was scanned.

This is a very fine mess they’ve gotten me into. My insurance company authorized an MRI of the scapula. They will not (and should not) pay for somebody else’s error. I don’t know how this is going to be resolved. The nurse said she would look into it, and get back to me next week.

Of course, this means that I will have to go back for yet another MRI. It took all my strength to keep from burying my head in my hands and sobbing right there in the examining room. Enough is enough, and this really is too much.

And now for something completely different…

I first saw this “If I Were” meme over at Mary’s place, and then at LA’s. It looked like fun, so I’m doing it, too. My answers are reflective of my state of mind yesterday.

If I were a direction I’d be North by Northwest.

If I were furniture I’d be worn out.

If I were a liquid I’d be spilt milk.

If I were a sin I’d be mortal.

If I were a gem/stone I’d be black onyx.

If I were a metal I’d be heavy. (Get it? Heavy metal? Yeah, yeah, I know.)

If I were a tree I’d be chopped down.

If I were a fruit I’d be overripe.

If I were a flower I’d be wilted.

If I were weather I’d be a blizzard.

If I were a musical instrument I’d be a gong.

If I were an element I’d be Lithium.

If I were a color I’d be red.

If I were an animal I’d be shipped off to the glue factory.

If I were a sound I’d be the pounding surf.

If I were a lyric I’d be by the seaside, by the beautiful sea.

If I were a song I’d be featured in the musical, “Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.”

If I were a music type I’d be screamo.

If I were a perfume/cologne I’d be one of LA’s delightful homemade concoctions.

If I were a feeling I’d be desperation.

If I were a book I’d be the Physician’s Desk Reference.

If I were food I’d be served on Thanksgiving.

If I were a city I’d be Atlantis.

If I were a taste I’d be sour.

If I were a scent I’d be formaldehyde.

If I were a word I’d be censored.

If I were a verb I’d be a lot more active.

If I were an object I’d be Unidentified and Flying.

If I were a piece of clothing I’d be a straitjacket.

If I were a body part I’d be scanned by an MRI machine.

If I were a facial expression I’d be scowling.

If I were a cartoon character I’d be Bad Luck Schleprock.

If I were a movie I’d be Titanic.

If I were a geometrical figure I’d be a triangle.

If I were one of the four seasons I’d be Winter.

If I were a sentence I’d be a run on.

Song of the Day: Spilled Milk by Tanya Stephens

Dumped and Stumped

My relationship with my daughters has been good for so long now, I’d forgotten how much it hurts when something goes wrong. Last night was a painful reminder. Rebecca came over mid-afternoon to do some laundry. Daniel and I were cleaning the house. By 5:00, I had been on my feet for five hours, and was in a great deal of pain. But, because Rebecca said she was hungry, I offered to take her out for nachos. She said she wanted to finish her laundry and take a shower before we went out.

She wasn’t ready until 8:00 p.m. I was exhausted and hurting, but I hadn’t eaten anything all day (except for a few jellybeans), so I was pretty hungry. Plus, I didn’t want to let her down, so off we went. In the car, Rebecca asked if we could go somewhere else because she is trying to eat more healthfully, and wanted to get a salad instead of nachos.

I wasn’t thrilled with this change in plans because the nachos place is close to home, and I really wanted to wrap the day up as quickly as possible. Also, I was afraid there would be a wait at the restaurant she wanted to go to, since it was a Saturday night. Still, I agreed to go where she wanted.

As I had feared, there was a wait, but it only ended up being about 15 minutes. After we were seated, the waitress took our drink orders, and we were looking over the menu. It was then that Rebecca got a call from her boyfriend with the news that he had gotten out of work earlier than expected. (He’s a restaurant manager, and thought he’d be working until 10:00.)

When Rebecca got off the phone, she said, “Let’s go get him.” I looked at her in disbelief, and pointed out that we had just been seated, and it was now going on 8:30. It would take at least 40 minutes to pick him up and return to the restaurant. Rebecca’ eyes filled with tears and she said, “You don’t understand. I hardly ever get to see him” (because of the hours he works).

Of course, she sees me even less, but I do understand how she feels. She’s young and in love, and wants to be with her boyfriend as much as possible. That’s fine. What isn’t fine is the way she behaved when I told her that we could leave so she could go get him, but I wanted to go home. I was exhausted and in a great deal of pain, and hadn’t even wanted to go out in the first place. I did it for her. So, yes, my feelings were hurt, too.

I said I would tell the waitress something had come up, and we had to leave. Rebecca sulkily said that we should just go ahead and order. She said she didn’t feel right about ditching me. That’s all well and good, but I had lost my appetite, and there was no way I could bear to sit across from her knowing she didn’t want to be there, and was harboring resentment because I didn’t want to extend the evening long enough to go get her boyfriend. By now, I was near tears, myself.

I put money on the table to cover my soda (Rebecca was drinking water) and the tip, and got up to leave. I had to get out of there. Rebecca stayed to tell the waitress that we had to go because of an emergency.

We drove home in complete silence. She was very upset with me. After I waited three hours for her to be ready and then had to force myself to go even though I really didn’t want to. Then I relented when she wanted to switch restaurants. Finally, I had had enough, and wouldn’t agree to an additional change in plans – a change that would cause an increase in my pain and fatigue. How is it right that the blame for this fiasco was being placed at my feet? As Steve Martin used to say, “Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me.”

Right now, I have to get ready to go to a rummage sale at the Jewish Center with my mother.This evening, Daniel and I will be going out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. I hope we have a more pleasant experience than the one I had with Rebecca.

Song of the Day: Song For the Dumped by Ben Folds Five

Beauty Is Only Skin Deep

This past week, the daily essays from Simple Abundance A Day Book of Comfort and Joy, by Sarah Ban Breathnach, have been about inner beauty, and making peace with our physical appearance. This excerpt from March 10th is from an essay titled, You Are Not Your Appearance, But Does the Rest of the World Know That?

The essay begins with this quote from Jessamyn West: “The tragedy of our time is that we are so eye centered, so appearance besotted.”

Breathnach writes, “Let’s consider those days when you just don’t give a damn or are too exhausted to remember to pick up a brush. Can we find inspiration in dirty jeans, an unwashed face, stringy hair? Can there be incarnational revelations when the skirt is too tight and the pantyhose pulls at your hips?

I hope so. For I know those days, and those days know me.”

Those days know me, too. The last few weekends have found me, for the most part, in slob mode. Some days, I haven’t bothered to shower or get dressed. Or, if I do get dressed, it’s in sweatpants and sweatshirt. Glamour has left the building. It’s all about the comfort, baby.

This passage, in particular, stuck a responsive chord, and is responsible for this entry.

“Unfortunately, our outside packaging counts for far more than it really should. Often, when we don’t live up to the world’s expectations of how we should look or behave, we fall victim to a vicious circle of self-loathing and denial that can be difficult to escape from unscathed.”

Back in the Dairy-x days (circa 2002) I wrote an entry based on “the world’s expectations of how we should look or behave.” For lack of anything better to offer, I’m going to re-post it here.

Body Language

So, Spice Girl, “Posh,” who up until a year or so ago feigned indignation over rumors of anorexia, finally admitted that she had an eating disorder. Well, no kidding. Did she really expect us to believe she looks this way naturally? And, while we’re at it, Lara Flynn Boyle should ‘fess up, too.

Many celebrities have publicly acknowledged their eating disorders. They include Princess Di, Tracey Gold, Elton John and the Barbi twins. Much is being done to educate people about the dangers of eating disorders, and to emphasize the importance of a healthier acceptance of our bodies, but we still have a long way to go.

Believe it or not, there are websites PROMOTING anorexia. Anorexic Annie thinks she is “grossly obese” at five foot three and one hundred ten pounds. She wants to look like R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe (!!!), and says she knows her life would be better if she “got rid of about thirty pounds and got down to eighty.” My heart breaks for this girl. And for all the other girls/women who want to look like Ichabod Crane.

I don’t get it. On second thought, maybe I do. We are under constant pressure to conform to an impossible image of what is beautiful. The standards we’re trying to live up to are unrealistic, unreasonable and unhealthy. Yet, we continue to starve ourselves.

I’ve been there and done that myself. Extreme dieting landed me in the hospital many years ago. When the doctor brought me the results of my blood work, he compared them to those of an Ethiopian. I was lucky. That was all it took to convince me to pick up my fork and resume eating. However, others are not so fortunate. Many victims of eating disorders suffer reduction of bone density and hair loss. They risk heart failure. Some of them die. (Karen Carpenter.)

I wish I could say that I’ve managed to develop a better body image over the years, but I haven’t. Nevertheless, because of my daughters, I make a real effort to not obsess about weight (aloud, at any rate). They see enough of that sort of thing outside the home.

Too often, I find myself having to perform damage control. At the beginning of last summer, my oldest daughter told me that when people see her in shorts, they comment on the size of her legs, and how they don’t match her slim upper body (poor kid is built like me). To add insult to injury, a friend’s mother is one of those who made an insulting remark.

Apparently, Mrs. Knucklehead was telling her daughter what nice, long legs she has, and then turned to Rebecca and told her that hers are fat. (This from a crackhead with no teeth! Please excuse my momentary lapse in tact. I’m only human.) I felt terrible, but all I could do was try to assure my daughter that she’s beautiful.

Of course, she doesn’t believe me. Because she carries a few extra pounds, she thinks she is unattractive, and that’s scary. It is also scary for me to consider my own hypocrisy. For, in spite of everything I know, and everything I’ve written here, I continue to be dissatisfied with my body. I need to practice what I preach and learn to feel good about myself from the inside. Unfortunately, self-acceptance is as bloody a battle as any I ever had with weight.

Song of the Day: Under Par by Thrice

“It’s my life!
you set the bar too high
your expectations have become my failure”