Don’t you dare dare ME!

I once heard somebody on TV say that when she felt like exercising she just flung herself face down on the couch until it passed. I could do that. Well, no. I couldn’t. All I’d see in my mind is my big fat butt getting bigger and fatter. Besides that, my elliptical is right beside the couch, hunched there, staring at me.

I don’t know what it is I hate about exercise. It’s actually kind of pleasurable sometimes. Like when somebody else is doing it and I’m just watching. I’ve sat through entire videos of somebody doing step aerobics. You know. So I’d know what I was doing when I actually stood up. But I had to watch it several times. I figured if I watched three times a week for an hour it would count as exercise. I don’t know why not. Sitting in the office preparing manuscripts to send out counts as writing time. Why should exercise be any different?

I just hate to sweat. It’s sooo unattractive. And icky.  And even though I put the floor fan on top of the coffee table and point it at me, turn on the ceiling fan, turn off the heat, and open the windows, sweat happens.

Why can’t I be one of those women who couldn’t work up a sweat in a furnace? Who takes a sweater to a 4^th of July picnic? Just in case.  That woman is the same one who she just has no appetite at all. Can’t force down a single bite of that carrot cake.

Please. I could eat the entire cake with a quart of ice cream. In my sleep. I hate that woman. Suffice to say we are not related. I’m not even sure we’re of the same species. She’s probably a morning person, too.

My son reveled in any exercise or hard, physical work. The more sweat, the better. On Saturday mornings he’d crawl out of bed covered with bruises, cuts, abrasions, and swellings, from his Friday night football game. He’d grin like a fool when he talked about how he got this one and that one and the other one. The kid hauled hay for fun. Well, and for money. But in my mind, hauling hay must be the worst possible job.

The sun. The sweat. The hay sticking you through your jeans and long sleeved shirt. The occasional snake. And the sunshine of my life loved it. I wonder if it’s possible he’s not mine?

I used to run.  Not very fast. Maybe a 17-minute mile. I did it for the best reason in the world. No, not health. What do you take me for? Reasonable? No. I did it because I was dared. Sort of. TBL ran, and one day I was lying on the couch (no spying exercise equipment then) in front of the air conditioner when he came in, all sweaty and skinny.

I said, stupidly, I might add, that I wished I were a runner. You know what he said? No, don’t guess. I’ll tell you. He, in his infinite wisdom and his delusion that he knew me well, said, “Hah. You’d never do it. You can’t stand to sweat.” And of course you know what happened. I ran. Not until I was appropriately attired.

By appropriately, I mean clothes that made me look like I knew what I was doing. How does anybody know what you’re supposed to be if you don’t have on the right clothes?

I did look fine, I must say. Of course, that’s before gravity took its toll. Besides, the fact that I looked good didn’t mean I didn’t put all that gear to good use. I huffed and I puffed and worked my way up to about six miles a day, almost every day.  It was hard. And by hard I mean that I hated every single step. Every. Single. Step. And I did it anyway.

I did it for 18 months, even when it felt like everything inside was soon to be outside. Even when it was so hot I had to run at ten p.m.  Even when I almost stepped on a snake.  The only time it was even remotely pleasurable was six hours later when the sweat had been showered off and I was sprawled on the couch with a book and a Diet Pepsi.

I even participated in a 5k run. Just for the t-shirt, but still. It was nice to have a t-shirt for something you actually did, rather than buying it online and wearing it under false pretenses.

What finally stopped this self-inflicted misery happened at the end of that 5k. It didn’t matter that I finished so far to the rear that somebody in a wheelchair clipped me on her way to the finish line, or people offering water to runners had gone home before I got to any of them. It didn’t matter that my running partner was literally circling me as we ran and didn’t even break a sweat.

What happened was somebody took a picture. Of me. In all my red-faced, pissed-off, sweating glory. If I looked like that when I stopped running, what must I have looked like when I was actually doing it?  Oh! The horror!

So I stopped. I had illustrated my ability to tolerate sweat and had the picture to prove it. Mission accomplished.

 

Hey, you should read this: Using Twitter to market the books you wrote.

Reblogged from Insatiable Booksluts:

I got a tweet yesterday on my private account–not that it’s protected or anything, but I just mean, on my non-book account–from an author imploring me to check out his work online. I had never encountered this author before, and I really had no bloody idea why on earth I should want to check out his “fiction” in a magazine–no, I mean really, I had no idea why he had approached me or what about me made him think I might connect to his work.

Read more… 1,644 more words

This is something every reader and writer should read.

Unbalanced

I don’t know why it is, but I get my best ideas for blog posts when I’m emailing someone. Maybe by email I mean free writing. And maybe by best I mean only. Oh, well. It’s all about me anyway, now isn’t it?

Something is always awry in my checkbook, which is no doubt why it’s my checkbook and not our checkbook. Like last month the bank said I had about $900 more than my checkbook said I did. Ten days later the bank balance was $1100 to the good. At the beginning of this month I had $800 more in the bank than in the checkbook.

If you think I spend that money, you probably knew me well but maybe not so well lately. For some time now I’ve just ignored the money if I’m in the black, because terrible, awful things can happen if you spend it and then find out you don’t really have it. I’ve never done anything like that, but I think I read about it on the Internet.

I’ve also read that some people balance their checkbooks to the penny every single month.

Of course, that could be one of those, what do you call them, urban myths. Or just a downright lie to make some people feel badly about themselves. Not me. I’m not the kind of person who would believe that. That would be like trying to sell a hide-a-bed on Craig’s List and having a person email you from Arizona offering way more money than you ask for the couch, then sending a cashier’s check accidentally made out for $2500 and telling you to cash it immediately and send—never mind. That would never happen.

So, I never spend that ghost money.  I’ve heard some people’s bank accounts get all messed up because they forget to write down how much they spent. They might be talking to the cashier about the cool nail polish she’s wearing and about how she got it online and you have to polish the nails then put a magnet really close to the nail and it makes this ripple effect. In other words, not paying attention. So, you know. I just don’t want to be one of them.

There I am online, and I see I have all my transactions recorded. So just for fun, I add up my outstanding transactions and subtract that amount from the amount the bank said I should have. Then I subtract something from something else, I don’t know what, and I came up with the same amount as my outstanding checks.

Two numbers, and they’re the same!  I thought I had balanced my checkbook!  It was as if I’d just seen Big Foot! I mean, I’d heard about it, but I’d never really seen it.

Of course, you can probably tell from my description of how I arrived at that conclusion that there is no way in Texas that I had done that. However, lest you pity me for my deficiency, let me just point out that there are advantages to being a financial moron.

• If you’re married, you never get stuck paying the monthly bills.
• People don’t ask you to help with their checkbooks.
• Nobody expects you to calculate a tip.
• You develop a close relationship with your company’s salary and benefits person due to their having to explain your pay stub to you every much.
• Best of all, you never get depressed over spending too much money, because you don’t know how much you ought to have anyway.

Well, this month the difference between what the bank says and what my checkbook says is less than $300. Still to the good, though. That’s what counts, right? And if anybody asks me if I have a nest egg for retirement, I can say yes, I do, and if they ask me do I have a good interest rate, I can say yes, I do. A flexible rate.

End the befuddlement

Things apparently taken for granted in the world befuddle me. Granted, I am easily befuddled, but that’s just one more reason things shouldn’t be so out of whack. So as not to confuse me. It’s very important that I not be confused, and if you don’t believe me, just ask around.

And don’t think I don’t know that this post will get me in hot water. I do, and I guess I’ve reached a point at which you can just boil my butt plumb off. I’d rather be butt-less than brainless. Not that anybody out there is brainless. I’m just saying. Better no butt than no brains. I’m sure that’s written down somewhere besides here. Probably.

So here’s the first thing.

• Why do so many people hate Planned Parenthood? Is this organization hurting anybody? Does it bother people that through Planned Parenthood men, women, and teens who might otherwise be unable to afford contraception, HIV protection, or sex education can access it? Does anybody really think that because PP exists people are going to run around having sex with random people?

 What kind of nonsense is that? I’ll tell you what kind. The kind that believes Planned Parenthood exists mostly to provide abortion services (which, by the way, aren’t illegal, and, further, a very, very small percentage of clients are there for abortions.) And it’s the same kind of nonsense that insists kids won’t have sex if somebody doesn’t tell them it exists. Please, people. Ever heard of hormones?

Sex is going to happen, whether we talk about it or not. Wouldn’t it be nice if kids didn’t venture into the world without either knowledge or protection?

Which brings me to the next point on my befuddlement chart.

• Who would start a rumor that Planned Parenthood is the place the Anti-Christ goes for vacation? Okay, that’s not exactly what was said. What was said was nobody needs the information and services Planned Parenthood provides. You know who says that? I’ll tell you who.

Parents of girls who find themselves pregnant at 15, completely clueless as to a) exactly how sex led to this quagmire and b) how they might have prevented it; parents of sons who will spend the next 18 years trying to either a) keep up child support payments or b) be a father–and here’s a surprise–parents of kids who seek abortions because no one has offered them an alternative.

You probably would like me to stop now, but I can’t. Stopping in the middle of saying things I haven’t said since I was shown the door in a couple of churches is kind of like covering your mouth with duct tape when you are nauseated (and yes, that usage is just fine, thank you very much. Look it up). All that sick is still in there, and if that duct tape ever gives—well, you get the picture.

• What is so wrong with contraception? If a person doesn’t want to do it, he or she doesn’t have to. If a parent hopes to keep a teenager from using it by telling them not to have sex in the first place, good luck. And don’t think for a minute it can never happen to kids raised in a religious tradition. Teen pregnancy isn’t just for heathens.

And it would behoove us all to remember that we are not the only people on the planet, and that we are not the only people who want the best for our children.

Now. I’ve got this one last thing. Not the least, mind you. But I know you’re probably relieved to know it’s the last.

• Why do men get to decide what women can and cannot do with their bodies? Where is it written that my body is subject to legislation, to jurisprudence, or maybe just a whole lot of juris and very little prudence.I’m referring to the Supreme Court, which, in case you don’t know your supreme courts, is largely made up of men, one of whom said that the government has “a legitimate interest” in abortion because it wants to stop women from making unwise decisions.

Can the man not hear himself?  The very fact that he said it proves that he, for one, cannot prevent anyone from making “unwise decisions.”

Why do we not just quit making stuff up and and arguing about what’s made up and what’s not? And–now, here’s an idea–why don’t we concentrate on doing what too many of us aren’t doing? Like taking care of the children who are already here? Maybe keep them from dying at the hands of their parents? Provide them with a quality education? Healthcare? Is anybody against any of this? I didn’t think so.

So–I will if you will.

Get a clue

Sometimes I despair. I’m beginning to think that if we worked as hard to make money as we do to stay ignorant we’d be rich indeed.

Do people really not know racism is a bad thing? Seriously? Maybe it’s just that they know the definition of racism. Here it is, courtesy of the American Heritage Dictionary, 5^th edition (yes, I do have it, and yes, it does weigh about sixty pounds, but how skinny did you think ten thousand new words would be?):

1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character and ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

Seems simple enough to me. No big words. No highfalutin’ concepts. Don’t need a calculator or a map or a translator. So if it’s that simple, and we can see that being a racist is detrimental to our world, why don’t we just freaking stop it? Why do we insist on teaching our children that racism is Biblical, factual, and insurmountable?

You know why? Because every day we hear people like Rush Limbaugh say, “We need segregated buses. This is Obama’s America.”  We read about emails sent by people like Carol Carter, State Committeewoman for Hillsborough County, FL:  “I’m confused. How can 2,000,000 blacks get into Washington, DC in one day in sub zero temps when 200,000 couldn’t get out of New Orleans in 85 degree temps with four days notice?”

And of course you can’t go wrong talking about racism if you quote good old Newtie, who would have us know that Barack Obama is a “food stamp president,” and that African-Americans should be looking for jobs, not food stamps.  Not only that, but he can’t understand why anyone should be offended by such statements. He is, after all, only addressing a painful subject that others won’t.

If all those people, those educated, in the public eye, people, think that kind of talk is okay, why should we? You know why? BECAUSE WE AREN’T STUPID, THAT’S WHY!

Everybody has a choice

Such moronic statements are the pathetic attempt of a little people to seem like bigger, more important people. From people like that, our children learn to make hurtful, absurd comments. Consider these:

“My parents said I could date anybody I wanted except Blacks and Jews.” (Said aloud. ALOUD. In a classroom).

“How can I be a racist? My best friend in high school was African-American. I even stayed at his house overnight.”

That’s not the most ridiculous thing students have ever said, bless their hearts, but  it’s the one that might make a teacher want to kick that student’s butt up between her shoulder blades so she’d have to take off her stylish beret before she could—well, you know. And not that it happened to me. I’m just saying.

I am so tired of the idea that African-Americans are without intelligence, work ethic, or morals. Or that “white” is the default, and anyone who hopes to succeed has to conform to the white ideal.

That’s all ignorant, racist stupidity.

I know these things to be true:

• Race has no basis in biology. It is a societal construct—that means we built it, brick by brick, and it can be torn down the same way
• Race is absolutely political; whatever group is dominant will always make the rules

• There is no divine or cosmic hierarchy of color with white at the top

If this is news to you, you might want to study up. I wasn’t born knowing them. I read a book. Or 10. Or 100. I can look at objective fact rather than being swayed by whatever anecdotal evidence the world might offer.

Oh, yeah. I know one more thing: racism is a choice.