To Eat, or Not to Eat....

Ok, I’ll admit I got a little freaked out after I posted my first blog. I kept thinking of things to write about, then started obsessing about people calling my home in the middle of the night threatening me over something I wrote. Hey, it happens. Just ask Stephen King. Attempted murder is something I don’t want to live through to write about.
With that being said, there are a myriad of topics to cover, and I promise I’ll get to all of them in time. Today, I shall write about…me. Big surprise, right? And one thing I love is food. Eat to live, you say, and not live to eat. I say that’s easier said than done. There is not much in the food genre I won’t eat. Fry it, and I’ll eat it twice. Put a ton of butter in it, and you’re my friend for life.
You can imagine with that attitude, I’m not the skinny girl standing at the frozen yogurt counter figuring out how many calories are in a non-fat, no sugar added vanilla fake shake. I’m also not the size 2 whiny waif in the dressing room next to mine going on about how she just eats and eats, and never seems to put on any weight. Please. Spare me. Words cannot describe the pleasure I would feel climbing over that wall and forcing some deep fried Oreos down her throat.
Alas, I will soon be celebrating the 16th anniversary of my 29th birthday, and I find myself thinking more and more about living a little longer than I’d originally planned. And if I’m going to live longer, I’m going to have to think about getting healthier. I wince as I even say it. Healthy food = nasty food. It doesn’t help that I love to watch food shows. My favorite is Top Chef, but I enjoy a little Food Network as well. I am conditioned to salivate like a Pavlov dog when I hear Paula Deen’s voice. I watch the Iron Chef like men watch a Nascar race. The weirdest part of all: I don’t necessarily like to cook. I just like to eat what others cook. Don’t get me wrong…I CAN cook. I was raised in the South by a southern mother and grandmothers who had it going on in the kitchen. I was taught early on what it meant to cook with soul. I’d just rather eat with soul.
I’ve been trying to exercise as well, which I hate. I just hate it. Jillian and Richard and Denise can all talk about how much better it makes you feel, how it will benefit your body in the long run, and they’re right. Doesn’t make me hate it any less. The more they smile at me and say, “You can do it!” the more I find myself aching to run them over in my Cadillac, making sure they see my double chin quivering with laughter in the rear view mirror as I back up to take another run. Here I am, standing in front of my television, playing the Wii-Fit, sweating like a pimp on Palm Sunday. I’m hula hooping and running and skating, all while watching my fat little avatar on screen. That’s right, you read it. My avatar is fat. Talk about humiliation. You stand on the balance board, and the computer takes your weight, height, body mass index, all your personal information and forms your avatar. The first time that happened, my eyes just about popped out of my head. Visions of purple paisley clouded my eyesight as I looked at what this game put on the screen as a representation of me. Come on! A spare tire? A muffin top? On a cartoon character? REALLY??? And the balance board talks to you as you stand on it. Guess what? I’m obese. I just adore being told that every time I step on that balance board. Yesiree! Makes me feel all warm and snuggly! I’d throw a water bottle at the TV if Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives wasn’t coming on later.
Bottom line, boys and girls? I’m fat, and I’m trying to do something about it. I don’t like dieting (excuse me, for those more culturally aware, changing my lifestyle), and I will fight it kicking and screaming all the way. I won’t deny, however, Gerald and I both need to eat healthier and get a little exercise, so I will do it. Grudgingly, and without any pleasure, but I will win. There, I said it. It’s out there. So now it’s up to you, dear reader, to hold me to it, and kick me in the hind end when I don’t. See you soon, hopefully a few pounds lighter, with a skinnier avatar winking back at me from the TV screen. At least until I get to Heaven. I’m pretty sure when I sit down to dinner with Jesus, he’s gonna look down the table and call to me, “Hey, Jules! You see that big old piece of chocolate cake right there? Paula made it just for you…and I took all the calories out…” I can’t wait. For when I get there, not one more stem of broccoli will pass my lips, EVER.

Hello, I'm Johnny Cash...

Well, obviously I'm not Johnny Cash and that was a cheap way to get your attention. Growing up in a home where his songs were played regularly, I learned to appreciate the smooth, detached way he would turn around, pause, and throw those words out there with reckless abandon, as if the whole world were waiting to hear him say them, and acting as if he didn't care if they heard them or not. Yep, Johnny was cool back in the day. The way he introduced himself is the way I want to introduce myself, as a writer. "Hello, I'm a writer." There, I said it. Somehow Johnny's is better. Maybe it's the baritone voice. Sorry, even in my head I can't do baritone. I guess I gave up the cigarettes and scotch too early. I've always written; one-act plays, short stories, poems...but I never considered myself to be a writer. I hid the desire to be known as a writer in my heart, pushed way in the back on a forgotten shelf in a locked cabinet. I don't know why I locked the cabinet and refused to air the idea I could be a writer; perhaps I felt if it was said out loud it the dream would evaporate into thin air much like my breath does on a cold day. Perhaps I felt if I shared that dream with others, it would no longer be mine alone, to ponder and play with and ....put back on shelf, where it's safe. I suppose it's the same with others who have dreams of being something they desire, but maybe not. In either case, the cat is out of the bag, so to speak...and here I am, with things to say and thoughts to put out there and opinions for others to disagree with.
I suppose I'll write about the little things, like hating to wait in line at Wal-Mart, and losing patience with my grown children who are smarter than me, and trying to find time to pray, and exercise, and read my Bible, and keep the boss off my back, and how I hate water cooler gossip and drama queens at work. I hope I'll write about the bigger things, like societal ills, and politics, and religion, and love.
I think I'll write about all these things, because all these things are in my world, as they are in yours, dear reader.
I hope you'll join me, and read what I write. I hope I make you laugh, cry, scream with frustration, call me an idiot, call me a smart person, get ticked off, agree with me. I hope I make you feel something, and make you think.
After all, isn't that a writer's job?