Low Salt, Low Carb, Low Calorie, and Low BS

So, in the midst of trying to save money, trying to pay things down, we've been screwing up a bit.  A JUICER here, a new crock pot there.  The juicer, while nice, isn't a necessity, and I'm really beginning to feel we shouldn't have gotten it just now--maybe saved that purchase for down the road a bit.  But hubby was inspired, he really wanted to try it, and it was pretty majorly on sale.  But still.  Now I feel obligated to push him to make juices because, otherwise, it's just a lump of cash on the counter, one of a million "used for a few weeks" juicers out there.

If you're in the market, it's a Cuisinart, and it does make super-nice juice, with pretty dry pulp.  No, I'm not trying to sell this one, just saying that if you're looking for a juicer and you can't afford a 600 dollar Breville, this one's good.  Here's a more DETAILED REVIEW.

The crock pot I feel better about.  While it won't save us any money on spaghetti sauce (in fact, it costs more to make at home), it does knock the sodium back by 75% over jarred sauce.  That's important to me, because I really struggle with keeping my sodium under 2,000 mg a day.  Plus, making our own Mexican beans at home IS markedly cheaper.  Make them in the crock pot, spice them up, then freeze them.  They're muy tasty, and a whole lot less expensive.

The gadget counter.  Funny, they all look very small in this picture.

Notice the dirty spoon?  That's for stirring the drastically lower-sodium homemade primavera/arrabiata sauce.  Here's a list of the ingredients and their nutritional information (we entered it as a recipe last night on My Fitness Pal so we can use it repeatedly without having to re-enter the information).  You can, of course, add whatever you want, but try not to add salt--sort of defeats the purpose:

Also, watch those red pepper flakes--they can heat up a vat of sauce in a big hurry!  Remember--less is more, you can always add more later.

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Our boy is feeling very self-conscious about his weight and appearance, specifically when it comes to going to the pool.  While he's certainly not obese (like his mom), he could stand to lose 20 lbs according to his doctor, and I agree.  However, it's hard to get a 15 year old to stop eating the crap--or, more specifically, it's hard to get him to start eating the good stuff.  The sheer volume of food we wind up throwing away because he only picks at it?  Upsetting.  But we keep trying, because it's important.  You see, he was a freakishly picky child--so picky that we couldn't even take him to restaurants because he wouldn't eat anything on the menu.  No beef (that's okay), no pork (that's okay), no chicken unless it was breaded and baked or fried (but had to be REAL chicken, no parts-is-parts chicken), no green veggies, no beans, no rice.  He would eat bread and fruit.  And, as a result, he was incredibly skinny (like boney-skinny) until he was 11 years old.

When he finally decided that he actually liked pizza.

And we, in our foolish joy that he was suddenly able to eat at birthday parties and the like, encouraged him!  Try pizza with this, try it with that!  Try THIS--it's pasta, and it's really just pizza in noodle form!  

Boy, aren't we stupid?

Anyway, he announced last night that he wants to go to the pool alone.  And that brings with it new worries.  Because those ratty children in this neighborhood scare me.  What if they follow him?  What if they hassle him?  

Or follow him to the pool and ridicule him?

What if they attack him?  No, I'm not overreacting, one of the rat children attacked another boy just a couple of weeks ago, beat him and strangled him.  

I think I'll let him walk up, call me when he gets there so I know he made it okay, and then his dad can pick him up on his way home from work.  That will put our boy at the pool later in the day, which will reduce his sun exposure (skin cancer mommy doesn't like him getting baked), and it will have him NOT walking home later in the day.  

Oh, and before you think I'm being completely smothering, the pool is over a mile away.  It's not like I'm worried about him walking around the corner.  

I think he's hoping to make friends, and, while that would be great, I really fear that the rats in the neighborhood will spoil that pretty quickly.  It's happened before--the new kids turns out to know the rats, and they pressure him to stop hanging with our boy.  One kid in the face of a group of bullies?  Not many will brave those bullies to hang out with the "loner."  Who is only a loner because he's been excluded and put outside.  

Well, and because he doesn't want to hang out with kids who kill small animals and beat the hell out of other kids.  

We'll see.  Cross your fingers.

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Saw a ridiculous meme come across my wall today:  

Okay, first off--seriously?  Let's be real here--Christ isn't the default position (if you think it is, look at India, the Middle East, or many Asian countries some time).  Children don't need to be taught NOT to believe in Jesus because that is the natural state-- NOT believing is normal, natural, and how we're built.  In order to produce people who don't embrace a particular mythology, all you have to do is avoid teaching that mythology as "fact."

Like they say--if you don't indoctrinate them by the age of seven, you almost certainly won't be able to.  My wonderful boy?  I read the bible to him, Old and New, before he was ten.  When I got to the story of Moses and the burning bush, he said, "Hang on--now God's a BUSH that's on FIRE and TALKS?  PLEASE!"  He demanded to see the book, thought for sure I was making it up.  After reading it, he looked up and said, "Nobody really believes this, do they?"

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And that's about it, I guess.  Time to wake that boy up and find out who stole my dark chocolate bars.  

Here.  Have something ugly!

Wow.

The Mostest and Funnest Thing about Arthritis?

Is the unpredictability of it.  You know, the, "Ha-Ha, GOTCHA!" thing.  Two days ago, my back, shoulder, and neck were fine.  Last night?  So bad the pain was running down my arm and I had to think really hard--am I having a heart attack?  Or is my spine screwing up again?

I went with spine, but took aspirin instead of ibuprofen.  Just in case.

But it's not just the spine. That wouldn't be exciting if it were just the same thing over and over.  No, this, in fact, is a whole new way for my back/shoulder/arm/neck to hurt--not at all like that other way.  Plus, there's my thumb.  And my knee.  The knee hurt for three days, viciously, and then just . . . stopped.  I woke up this morning, and my thumb hurt.  Just the left thumb.  Only when I extend it back.

This is thrilling stuff.  Who needs skydiving?

Just reviewed Seventh Generation Natural Dish Liquid in Lemongrass and Clementine Zest.  It's pretty good stuff, though the price may take you aback if you're looking to save money.

I just wrote a gigantic bit on violence, bloody entertainment, guns, and kids.  And realized I didn't want to clog up this entry.  I'll post it on another, clearly marked so folks can just run if they don't want to get caught in a ten-pager.  Or I would have posted it, had I not forgotten to PASTE after I CUT.  Yeah, I think "mind of a toy" is the term you're looking for.  Hopefully, I'll remember to rewrite it.  At least the part about ROTC and the shooting range on my high school campus.  There--I've said it here, now I'll remember.

Speaking of gory, awful entertainment, hubby and I watched "Cabin in the Woods" last night.

Eh.

Sorry, I don't really have much else to say about it.  It wasn't all that.

Huge storm hitting New England today.  Massachusetts' Governor just announced that all non-emergency vehicles must be off the road by 4 pm.  Might bring us a bit of rain, but I gotta tell you, I wish we'd get just one decent snow storm.  I knew I'd miss the snow, but I thought we'd get just a little more here.

I need a new scale.  This one's pretty to look at, but I just stepped on it six times, and got six different numbers, with a five pound range.  That's no good.

That boy failed to get up with his alarm.  I may feel too crappy to get on him much for it.  I dunno.

No word on the at-large ex-LAPD shooter today.  Don't tell me that one won't become a movie.  Well, a movie other than "The Negotiator."

I guess it's time to wake that boy up.  I wish I had popsicles.  Only a hundred calories, and they are so satisfying.  Oh, well.  I guess an apple will have to do.  Because that's almost exactly the same thing.

Not.

So, for the record, this:  

Isn't this:

Though it is a Maccoun apple, which I've never had before and is supposed to be really good.  Probably doesn't taste like chocolate, though.

But what if, huh?

And yes, that is a Weight Watchers fudge bar.  I don't usually go for the "dedicated diet foods" stuff, but those bars are super-good and really low in calories.

Oh, and a fun little note?  In the time it took me to type this up, my thumb stopped hurting.  Wish I could say the same about my back/neck/shoulder/arm.  But I can't.

Because I Don't Cry Enough

Came across this today on Facebook.  It's a meaningful piece, a worthwhile piece, and, maybe, even a true piece.  For you.

For me?  It's beyond me.  I am broken. 

I have never felt beautiful.  Not since I was a little girl in toe shoes in Ft. Lee, Virginia--that was the last time I felt pretty. 

Me, Beautiful

My weight shot up when I was seven years old or so, and that was the end of me and beauty. I tried.  I did, I worked and worked.  I tried every diet, every exercise scheme, but my weight was beyond me.  My parents sent me such mixed messages--when they weren't ridiculing me for trying to diet, they were ridiculing me for being overweight.

When I was in fourth grade, my father, after making my life hell because I wasn't grasping the nuances of long division, told me that there are few "truly ugly people" in the world, and that, sadly, I was one of them. He said that I needed to work on my brain, I needed to be smarter than smart, because no man was ever going to want me for the way I looked. Considering this was the guy who handed me a fork, snorted at me, and offered to take my "fat ass" to the dump so I could have all the food I wanted, you'd think I'd have given his opinion a little less weight. But, hey, how could I? I was a kid. This was my dad.

Me, at around my "take a fork
 and feast at the dump" stage



Me at 13 years old

When I was 15, I'd had enough.  Enough of having the Jeff Abbots of the world tell me to get my "lard ass" off his Mustang.  Enough of being the girl who winds up alone while her friends find dates.  Enough of wearing shapeless, ugly clothing and being called names like "garbage gut" and "fat-ass."  I stopped eating.  Just stopped.  Told myself I had six months to get thin or end myself.  I dropped 135 lbs in six months. 

No kidding.

And was I beautiful then?

No.  No, I thought my legs were short, my knees and thighs were chunky, my rib cage broad.  Even in size one jeans, I felt I was awful.  I had stretch marks and crinkly skin and I saw myself as just horrible.  My dream of looking like the pretty brunette in the Playboy college layout? 

Dashed. 

Me, at 17

Again at 17

I kept that weight off for almost eight years, but I spent every moment feeling like a fraud.  Like I was just a hanger for clothing, a canvas for makeup, but if anyone could see beneath those things, they'd know how ugly I really was.  Then the pounds came piling viciously back on when I was 23.  I gained it all back, plus another 30-40 lbs. 

28 years old, after the second big weight loss

And then, at 27, I lost that weight, too. 

Only kept it off for a year before it came back again.  With 60 or so of its friends.

And I never did find "beautiful."

The devastating thing?  Sorting through old photos when packing to move, I came across two pictures of myself.  From early college days, when I had first met my ex-husband.  I was sitting at about 120 lbs, hated myself for being "fat."  Hated my "hawk" nose and my "crossed" eyes.  One problem?

None of those things were true.  I was beautiful.  I mean really beautiful.  I was lovely.  Lovely in a way my 47-year-old self can never hope to be again.  My skin was gorgeous, my hair was thick and natural.  But I had no idea.  I focused on every little flaw, every speck of "ugly," and never got past those things.  Until it was far too late.  I pored over those photos and I cried.



Note the "please don't
take my picture" expression.

21 or 22 years old, with 2nd husband

When I was 18, my first husband rode me about my weight--see, I'd gained enough weight to go from a size ONE to a size THREE, and, as far as he was concerned, that made me a tub of lard, and he never let me forget it.

My second husband?

He told me I was beautiful.  He told me that all the time.  He gave me cards and wrote me letters telling me I was gorgeous, I was everything he'd ever wanted.  And I never once believed he meant it.  I look back now, and I know he did mean it.  But even now, I see it as a temporary thing--I was okay for a minute, and then I was fat again.  Plus, it's always been easy for me to discount his opinion because--well, because he was emotionally dependent, adoring, and his views could hardly be called "objective."  Of course, it could be argued that objectivity and beauty are mutually exclusive.  It could also be argued that I want to discount his opinion because that makes my opinion of myself easier to reconcile.

I hate the mixed messages I've sent my son.  On the one hand, I tell him to never judge people based upon their appearance, to never base a relationship on the size or shape of the woman.  It's a good message, it's a right message.  But then he sees me cry, he sees my eyes dart away from the mirror, sees me dodge that camera.  Hears me say how awful I am, how ugly I am, how fat I am.  Those messages are absolutely contradictory.  And worse, it's got to hurt him to see me cry and down myself.  I try to do it while he's asleep these days.  Usually I succeed.  Sometimes I fail. 

When I was a kid, there was a family across the street, the mom was pretty heavy (not as heavy as me, though!).  She wore brightly flowered "muumuus" and would shout at those kids at the top of her lungs.  The children in the neighborhood were merciless, tormented those kids cruelly about their "fat" mom.  Believe me, that has been in my mind every step of my boy's childhood.  Am *I* that mom?  Have the kids in his world talked about ME the way those kids talked about HER?  Have I done that to my child?

How can I possibly love me?

Close to my heaviest, 2010 or so

My boy has always said that I'm beautiful.  And maybe, to him, I am.  I don't know.  I don't think so--not this far down the line, not at his age.  What I do know is that the way I look inspires people to cruelty.  Ever been followed through a garden center by teenage boys snorting and grunting at you?  I have.  That, and a dozen experiences like that. 

What would I say to anyone else who'd experienced that?  Don't put your self-worth into the crap opinions of others.  Don't let others determine your sense of who you are.  Don't value the opinions of people who are so obviously pieces of trash.  That's what I'd say.

But I don't know how to do that.  I don't know how to not hate myself for the way I look.  I don't know how to be kind to myself.  I never learned how, because no one ever showed me. I've had a couple of friends who've told me I'm beautiful, but that's what friends are supposed to do.  Fact is, nobody's going to look at me like I am today and say, "Wow, you're beautiful."  Sure, the occasional pictures I post on Facebook look okay--of course, they're the results of major posing, makeup application, and are selected from dozens of shots I discard because they're awful. For every picture I post, there are at least two dozen I toss.

And yet this article suggests that *I* should look at myself, as I am, and say, "I'm beautiful." 

See, I just typed that and started to cry. 

No one is ever going to stroke my thinning hair and tell me that I'm beautiful.  No one.  Because I'm not.  But sometimes I wish for it so hard.  And I know how messed up that is, I know that it's stupid and it's shallow and that, even now, at 47, I'm looking outside myself for approval.  Or comfort.  Or whatever the hell it is. 

No purpose to this.  None at all.  Just writing because that's how I get this stuff out of my head. Don't look to me for rational guidance on the issue of self-esteem.  Obviously, I'm a mess.  I hope you're doing better. 

I hope you can see that you're beautiful.  I hope you can see better than I. 

2012, but about 30 lbs down from now.

Oh, and, because I'm not mooching for compliments (!) and I don't even think this is going to stay up for long, I won't be publishing comments.  I'm sorry.







Thunderstorms and Rude

So, we were headed to Wegmans last night, the every pay-period shopping disaster (though it was far less disastrous last night than usual--maybe we can stop dropping a grand a month on groceries, huh?).  As we were leaving the house, we noticed that the lightning was pretty wonderful.  As we got out onto Sudley and headed toward Wegmans (a 20 mile drive), the weather really ticked up.  The lightning was everywhere--no one direction, but rather the entire bowl of the sky lighting up from all directions, with each flash coming directly on the heels of the last, no break. 

And, strangely, no thunder.

Many of the strikes were quite vehement and angry--three, four, sometimes five strikes straight to the ground in the same general area.  Think Tom Cruise's take on War of the Worlds.  It was amazing.  And then the rain started!

The wind picked up first, buffeted us about, and then the clouds burst.  More rain than I have ever seen.  Truly.  It wasn't like drops anymore, it was like water being poured from a bucket.  It hit the road so hard that it bounced back up and made a mist so thick we couldn't see the ground.  The water fell so heavily that each lightning flash reflected back and made it seem we were in a blue cloud.  We think we may have been hit--there was a loud BANG on the top of the car, and a simultaneous blinding flash.  Could have been a branch falling, but no scratches or dents on the roof, and no sound of anything rolling off the back.  Who knows?  Either way, it was exciting.

After shopping (I made some poor choices, diet-wise--what else is new?  I'm down 180, back up 35 of that), we came home and I hopped on Facebook while Tommy made his and Sean's pizza.  Made the mistake of visiting a thread posted by a rather intense vegan on my list--this one going after folks who are overweight with heavy kids.  She, of course, prefaced the thread with "Now, I'm not one to engage in fat-shaming . . ."  Right.  One of her friends posted something like, "Who would ever want to look like that or even LIVE like that?" 

I've struggled with my weight all my life.  I've lost and regained an entire (U-12, of of course) AYSO soccer team's-worth of weight.  Thanks for, once again, letting me know that being heavy is so awful, so disgusting, so sickening that you can't even imagine WANTING to live like me. 

That was good for a half-hour's cry.  Thanks, lady.

Still waiting for a call back from the PCP's office about those x-rays.  No news is good news?  Or no?

Hubby's working overtime in the city tomorrow.  Thank you, Tom.  Love.