Think Less, Eat Less?

Thinking Hard Makes You Eat More

by J. Foster

"New research shows we are hungrier after doing lots of thinking.

"Caloric overcompensation following intellectual work, combined with the fact that we are less physically active when doing intellectual tasks, could contribute to the obesity epidemic currently observed in industrialized countries," (via ScienceDaily)

The research (published in Psychosomatic Medicine) engaged 14 female participants in 3 separate 45 minute tasks. After each task the participants were invited to eat as much as they wanted from a buffet.

Results

1. Resting in a sitting position (control).
2. Reading a document and writing a summary - consumed 203 more calories than (1) - representing a 23.6% increase.
3. Performing a battery of computerized tests - consumed 253 more calories than (1) - representing a 29.4% increase.

Take this one to your employer as a suggestion for a new health policy. Forget about a radical new weight loss regime -- just sit down and relax. Or better still - market "relaxing" as a new kind of appetite suppressant."

The article above was copied from the "Diet Blog" RSS feed I got today. It doesn't tell me anything I don't already know. Just today, a colleague complained that she feels sick from eating so poorly since the school year began. The healthy eating regimen we embraced by August after reeling from a hectic and stressful school year in a toxic work environment has been compromised by Hornet muffins (my school's version of "Egg McMuffins" only with sausage or bacon instead of lean Canadian bacon), school chili and Fritos with cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches, fresh veggies with ranch and peanut butter, Pepsi Max, too much coffee, and the list could get uglier by November after lavish PTO catered dinners on parent-teacher conference nights. I witness people who normally watch what they eat load up on a plate of desserts that would feed a family of four. Besides being soooo good, most teachers are no doubt feeding the stress of being there, meeting with parents and struggling to be diplomatic about the fact that Johnny's grade is impacted by the child not doing anything once he walks out of the classroom doors.....
Lots of people, mostly women, eat to fill something that's missing in our soul; some sort of void that we have trouble filling with the things we really need, like rest, like being able to concentrate on maybe just two things at a time instead of seven, like getting something done before moving on to the sound of a bell that dictates what we do throughout the day. A friend once showed me the breathing exercise her shaman taught her to do when she's stressed. I wonder what the kids would do if I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and loudly hummed through my nose until I ran out of air. Might be more entertaining than popping Skittles!

Mmm...ice cream! Or maybe not.

Tired and weary from the heat of the day, David asks if there is any of his favorite Honey Hut vanilla ice cream left in the freezer. "I saw a container in the freezer," I reply, but that doesn't mean that there is ice cream in there. He takes the container in hand, and looks dismayed as it feels pretty light. "There you go," he says as he takes off the lid and shows me a few teaspoons in the bottom.

We see that a lot in our house. I think the kids think they are being courteous by not finishing off the yummy treats. I think that they may feel that by leaving a bite for someone it will make them happy that it's not gone when they go to get it. But what is worse, really? Seeing that the snack is gone? Or getting excited for a little treat and finding less than that in the bottom of the container, bag, box, or whatever?

And what about empty boxes or bags shoved back in the cupboard? Do they not feel that the box is empty when they take the last fruit snack or granola bar?! lol! Are they in such a hurry that they don't notice? Or do they just not want to take the extra five seconds to throw it away? Can't figure that one out. Maybe it's a cryptic message to me to buy some more.

Tears of Joy

Emotions got the best of me when Shawn Johnson won the gold on the beam earlier this week. I felt happy for a kid who has worked so hard and had so much determination to be the best she can be. I admire that in people, but especially in kids.

But this blog isn't about her determination, her drive or achieving a dream. It's about her parents. When I saw her dad burying his head into his crying wife's shoulder so no one would see him cry, that's when I lost it. I wasn't blubbering, but there was no stopping the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

I've cried for my daughters' smiles and joy. I've choked back quite a few tears so they wouldn't see me. They wouldn't get it, really. They have caught me on a few occasions, and that's okay. Like when Leia played with the youth orchestra on the stage at Severance Hall for the first time. She knew it that night, but by 16, she figured out that I was a sap. I choked back a few the first time I saw her playing with the Volta Sound on a dirty stage in a dingy club. The place didn't matter. She was doing what she always wanted to do and loving it. Watching Kileigh brush her favorite horse, Jack, could do it. She would talk to him and pat him while she tacked him up to ride. She took control of taking care of him before and after her lesson, and that was heartwarming to me, because she was a kid whom many people said she lacked control of herself. I knew that wasn't true, by the way.

I could hardly contain myself when we gave Kileigh her card that announced she was going to horse camp for her 12th birthday and when Leia shared that she played "Stars and Stripes" while she watched the Olympic torch pass by in Australia in 2000. She played the piccolo solo, something else she dreamed of doing when she got her first piccolo.

I've cried over watching them open presents, read out loud, looking like cherubs while napping, playing piano, and on the first day of school for almost their whole school careers; waiting for a bus or for me to drive them to the sitter in their new shoes holding their new lunch boxes with anticipation on their faces for the new school year.

Parents do that when their kids are happy. It wasn't about being rewarded for their time and sacrifice, mortgaging their house three times to support Shawn. It was about feeling joy for their child because she was happy.

Sunflowers

When my friend's little boy sees sunflowers, he walks up to them, puts his face close to theirs, and smiles. He thinks they smile at him. I think he's right. They make me smile, so who is to say they aren't smiling first?

clothes these days...

What's up with clothes these days? Is it me? Or are clothes either geared to juniors and really skinny women OR plus sized women? Is there nothing in between for middle aged women who don't yet fit the Alfred Dunner crowd and have long been past the look for juniors? For women who swim in plus sized clothes but feel like sausages in sizes that are "supposed" to fit?

I am in that dreaded stage. The stage in life where the latest fashions are those that I wore twenty, if not more, years ago: baby doll tops with ruffles, the "Flashdance" look, tunic sweaters, skinny-legged pants, leggings, for God's sake. Now, I have heard that if a style has come back around in one's lifetime, you are too old to wear it. That brings up a whole other issue. If you have any kind of fashion sense, and if you are in the middle-aged-a-lot-heavier-than-you-were-in-your-thirties stage, we have problems. Lord knows we don't want to be walking around looking like middle aged women trying to hang on to our youth by wearing juniors styles. At the same time, I don't feel comfortable buying everything Coldwater Creek has to offer. Some things just feel like old lady clothes to me. I hate always having to ask, "Can you see too much fat in this?", or, "Is this too old lady for me?"

Yesterday I got a cute top at Target. It was a tunic, with a drawstring at the bottom, and some fabric that hung below. (Not a ruffle, I have to say.) It is loose, long, and I felt good in it. I actually bought some leggings to wear with it! I figured the top was modern enough to get away with it. I have yet to try them on, so if I feel like the hippos sporting fupas in "Fantasia" they are going back.
In any case, the top is cute.
Too bad I had to shop in the maternity department.

Addictions

Do you see how the word, 'addictions' begins with the three letters, ADD? I'm sure it's no coincidence. I just spent two and a half hours of my life on mylot.com. Don't even go there. I didn't supply my user link purposefully, in order to save others from doing the same. People make money there by having others click on their link and make up discussions, respond to discussions, etc. It's like YouTube in that you respond to something interesting, and it takes you on a twisted path to another topic, and another, and another, and before you know it, two and a half hours go by. Argh! This summer I've been addiction to playing Crazy Cakes on Pogo. My sister got me hooked on Squelchies. "Run away! Run away!" they call in their cute little voices! That's what I need to do! Aaaaaaa! Run awaaay!

Recently, I was addicted to making bracelets. Pretty stones, beads, crystals and toggles and the sounds they made in the little plastic bins when I ran my fingers through them looking for just the right one. Analyzing and re-doing the pattern of the beads so there wasn't an obvious pattern but just enough to satisfy the Libra in me.

I've been addicted to shopping for scrapbooking materials. More so to the shopping than to the using of them. But, to my credit, I have used almost everything in the five huge scrapbooks I've made for our children.

I can't walk past a pile or bed of rocks without scouring them. Or at least slowing down for a long gander. I've been known to steal rocks out of the Starbucks parking lot.

I collected pigs for a long time, but I don't know if that was an addiction or a hobby. I was selective. I didn't have to have every pig I saw, and stuck to unique pigs and antiques for the most part. I got rid of my collection save for maybe five to ten with sentimental values. My sister stopped collecting pigs when she inadvertently ate some cooked pig testicles at a bar she worked at. The guy who brought them in lied to her about what they were and she devoured several, nearly puking when he told her what they were. She went home and hid every pig in her collection after feeling they were all looking at her after what she had done. lol!

I've been addicted to collecting things for my children's collections: Beanie Babies, Happy Meal sets, especially when they were based on movies like Bambi, Pocahontas, The Little Mermaid; Happy Meal Barbies, action figures such as Mask, Star Wars, Sailor Moon, X-Files. I actually had my own collection of X-Files figures, and played with them, too!

When I was a kid, I collected stamps. I liked the envelopes of stamps you could get in the backs of magazines like Mad or Grit for 25 cents. Someone in some foreign country ripped the stamps off of envelopes and sold them to kids like me. It was fun to see the different stamps from around the world. I collected stamps until about sixth grade, when Joann Swerthofer, one of my best friends, came over with her collection to trade with me. Her idea of collecting stamps and mine were two different things. She had these neatly preserved books of stamps, minted stamps and such, and her I was with all these envelopes of used stamps from around the world and miscellaneous stamps in wax envelopes. I don't know why I didn't collect after that. Maybe I outgrew it, lost interest, who knows? I don't know where my stamps all went. My brothers and sister might know.

I'm addicted to diet Pepsi. That's not a good thing. I can be addicted to potato chips and the combination of peanuts and root beer. If I start eating those things it can be hard to stop. And nacho cheese Doritos.

I've been addicted to romance. That's not a bad thing if it's directed to the right person and the love is there to support it.

I wish I was addicted to something like exercise.

I'm addicted to this blog for the moment.

But I am definitely going to swear off mylot. Let's see, I began by responding to a woman who wondered if she should move back to her hometown area and leave her dear, widowed stepfather behind on the south coast. Then I responded to a question about virginity. From there it went to reading about whether women should shave their private areas. Then it took me to whether men should shave their chests. I was about to respond to a guy who posted a picture of his chest and realized that it was time to go. And never go back.

Troyer Farms

I saw a Troyer Farms van driving down the street today...in Ohio! I didn't think you could buy Troyer Farms potato chips anywhere but Pennsylvania. They are the best chips ever. They actually taste like potatoes, unlike many of the chips available on the average supermarket shelf. When I was a kid, it wasn't a party unless there was Troyer Farms chips and French onion dip. I could have visited the Troyer Farms factory when I was a junior or senior in high school, but I didn't like the teacher (because I didn't think she liked me) and skipped out on the field trip. Looking back I was being a snot. The kids all came back and told me what a good time it was, and I was a little jealous and sheepish about not going. Now, I like to watch how food is made on "Unwrapped." So, Mrs. Tubbs, you were right, I should have gone on the trip to see how my favorite chip was made. They even got free samples.

POTATO FUN FACTS (from the Troyer Farms website)
- More potatoes are grown than any other vegetable in the world.
- A potato is 80% water and 20% solid
- The average American eats 124 pounds of potatoes a year.
- The average American eats 6 pounds of potato chips in a year.

'Twas the Last Day of July: A Veteran Teacher's Lament

an original poem written by the poster...

'Twas the last day of July, and all through the town
Kids and teachers not excited, and wearing a frown.
Bins full of crayons crowd the isles at Target,
Moms anticipating August; we trying to forget.

The sun brightly beckons, the days are still long.
Why does everyone think, we sing the same song?
Everyone likes getting new clothes and shoes,
but when it's for school, it brings on the blues!

The sales begin in the last week of June,
"Hot Fun in the Summertime" 's my ringer's tune.
Halloween items creep in by the end of July,
Christmas will be September if we eagerly comply!

I'd like to propose to slow down and enjoy
the time we have before called to employ.
The novels I collect from August to June
Are only half read, time will be up soon!
The writings I yearn to put down on a page,
will have to then wait for another stage.

For I'll be busy with students, and parents to please,
Who argue for their children to get A's with ease.
Doing the work of administrators who say it's my job;
Preparing kids for tests whose creativity they rob.

While I look forward to meeting my brood of one-fifty,
I must admit that my summers are nifty.
A time to relax, to rejuvenate,
A time to recoup so I can relate
To kids who come eagerly through my door,
Wondering if she'll be nice, or think I'm a bore.
To the kids who work hard and the kids who are lazy,
To the kids who who are quiet, and may think I'm crazy!

And what to her sun-shaded eyes should appear?
But "Back to School" sales
and a fleet of school buses in the rear view mirror!
"Horrors!" she thinks as she pulls down the sash,
"School will be starting, going back in a flash!"

Back to the bell that rings to say we can walk,
when we can pee, and when we can talk!
Back to the alarm that has been turned off,
And cafeteria food from which we trough!

Now don't get me wrong, it's not the job I dread,
But when asked, "So school starts soon?"
I yearn to rip off a head.
"Must be nice..." is another phrase that gets me riled,
"...to get paid for not working!" makes me want to defile.

On Merriman and Webster, Glencoe and Holt!
On Prentice and Hall! I just want to bolt!

Back to my bed, under sheets that are clean,
Back to my patio with Anita Shreve!
Back to my home free of cat hair and clutter,
When school starts back, I just want to shudder!

But soon I'll be walking on the freshly waxed floors,
And thinking of ways to decorate my door.
Down locker-walled hallways with disinfected air,
To an unconditioned room at the top of the stairs!
To colleagues with tans and stories to tell,
To professional meetings I know so well.

The first day of school comes, too soon, I have said.
Smiling faces of children tell me I've nothing to dread.
Former students have grown, three inches or so,
And when they say, "Hi!" my heart starts to glow.

I want to let go of school issues past,
And tell everyone, "ENJOY SUMMER WHILE IT LASTS!"

American Beauty

"...you see a (woman) who's hardly there. Look closer."

headbanging and jetskiing

My headbanging and jetskiing days are truly over. Not that I've done much headbanging in the last ten years, but my friends warned me that banging my head like a rock star while playing air drums in my younger years would catch up with me. Now, who really knows what causes one to have a neck that goes out of place on occasion. It could be accumulative abuse over the course of a lifetime. I mean, throwing myself out of trees with the boys in the neighborhood while playing Johnny Quest probably didn't help. We'd compete to see who could land on their backs and get the breath knocked out ourselves the hardest and longest. Sometimes I would win. It could also be from getting rear-ended twice in car accidents. I never really got hurt by it, not bad anyways. I have slept on some bad pillows in my day, and even on towels and rolled up jeans. My chiropractor chews me out for sleeping with my arm under my head.

I went out on the jet ski Sunday. It was only for a twenty minute or so ride, and the bay was smooth. The lake was pretty choppy, though. It was Fred's new ride, and it is a lot bigger and smoother on the water than our Tigershark. I was going 35 and feeling like I was flying! I used to get up to 45 on the Tigershark, flip it around a little. I thought I took a leisurely ride Sunday. I guess it's how you have to put your arms out on the handles, something about the positioning that never fails to mess up my neck.

It's Wednesday, and I'm still suffering. Really, it isn't worth it. David and I went to see "The Dark Knight" last night, and I spazzed out so bad that I could hardly get out of the chair. It was one of those moments that my body literally froze and I couldn't move. I practically had to get on my knees to crawl out of the chair. The chairs in the theater have given me trouble in the past, and I should have known better than to go. In any case, I'd rather have a SeaDoo little five person boat to jet around in; like the kind that has the sunbathing hull in the front.

I don't miss the headbanging. I didn't really quit because of my neck. I just mellowed a little and grew up a tad. I will miss jetskiing. There's something about opening up just past the wake and taking off on the water by yourself. It's exhilarating.

AARP....fuuucccckkkk.

I'm not turning 50 until October. My first solicitation for membership in AARP came in the mail today. What the fuck. I went to the mall today to buy the Victoria's Secret PINK Body stuff that Heather uses. Since I cleaned her room and closet to prepare for the move I have been dousing myself with her body spray. Loved it so I thought I should buy my own. I used to be able to buy cute bras and panties at Vicki's, so it was depressing to see that the only 38D bras in the sale bin were push-up bras that only God knows would wear. What 38D woman needs a push-up bra??! My boobs would be so high I could rest my chin on them! That's just dumb. There were at least five in the bin so you know that no one bought even one.

Anyway, while schlepping through the mall in my flip flops (cute, but too big because they stretched) I felt like a fat assed middle aged woman. Of course, I was comparing myself to girls who were maybe 18. It was so easy then to be cute. Didn't even have to work at anything but a tan then. I shopped in Coldwater Creek and Chicos, being very careful with what I picked out to try on. It's tough to shop in those stores because it's a fine line I walk trying to find clothes that look nice on my size 12 body and still feel like a ten, and also, I need to be very careful not buying something that borders on "old lady" clothes. Even though they have clothes with embroidery on them at Forever 21, when there is embroidery on the clothes at Coldwater it can be "old lady". I did, however, walk out of the mall with a cute top from Forever 21! Ha! Then I get home and find the fucking AARP card in the mail. Talk about blowing the wind out of your sails.

I don't even know what AARP stands for. I don't want to know yet. I think RP stands for "Retired Person", but I don't have the luxury of that title for at least another six years, and that's if I'm lucky. I glanced at the benefits, and there was something about eye care discounts. It's something I probably should look at, just for the discounts. But I think I'll be getting more in the mail...I can wait.

Moving

I could write about moving, since I should be getting my shit together to sell my latest place. Thoughts about my first home creeped in today...Who knows why thoughts creep into our minds. Scents bring them on for me. And random thoughts that lead to others and end there. Anyway, my first home was my grandma's house. My mom was 16 and my dad was 20 when they found out they were expecting me, so my mom moved into my dad's place, and his place was his mother's. It was a cement block house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, bathroom, a back room that was my bedroom but didn't seem like a bedroom, and a big enclosed porch. I have a lot to say about that place, and will save it for later.
We moved from there when I was five or so, while my mom was pregnant with my brother. It was pretty exciting, because I found out I was moving right next door to Billy, a kid who rode my bus and was in my grade. We were friends. We once made a pact under the stars in the grass between our yards that if we didn't find other people we'd marry each other. I guess making the pact that we would get married to each other would mean we were boyfriend and girlfriend and we didn't want to mess up our friendship.

The house in Norrisville was where I grew up. Since this chapter isn't about the homes themselves, but about moving, I'll stick to the point. I moved from there when I was 17. I graduated from high school with no real direction and ended up in beauty school. That was better than the Navy, which was the other option. See, I had to do something bigger in my life than get a job and live life in Pennsylvania. That never crossed my mind, nor my parents'. I moved into my cousin's house, and less than a year later, moved back home. I can't really remember why. Maybe it will come to me.

Some of the best times of my life were in the next place I lived, a boarding house for girls in Erie. The room was $45 a month, and we shared a kitchen and a bath. It was fun. And it was the first time I truly felt I was on my own at 18. On hot nights the girls and I would drink cold beers and watch TV in front of the fan in our nightgowns and underwear. I learned how to make stuffed pork chops there with Stove Top stuffing.

I moved into my friend, Ginnean's house she was living in. It was her grandmother's house, but she lived there by herself. That was short-lived. I didn't feel very welcomed there. My 'boyfriend' had contributed to that feeling. He was a brute-ass, looking back.
I moved back to my cousin's place in Ohio for a short stint, then into an apartment of my own on Dorothy Drive in Parma at $100 a month. It was a cute place, but I still felt like it wasn't "mine" because it was the upstairs of my cousin's brother's place. Then I moved in with Joe, a house on West 12th. We had fun there, but it felt like I was just living in his house, which, I was. We bought a house together in Brunswick. Leia was born while we lived there. Her nursery was pale green with little baby animals on the wallpaper. We moved to Valley City. We always used to drive that road and wish we lived there someday. And we did for almost twenty years.

I got my apartment in Strongsville. I met David while I lived there. Was there for two years, then bought my own place, a cut townhome from an old guy who flagged me down on the street. I got to know Carl and Betty pretty well and when Betty died, Carl made sure to call me. We took him out for wings and a beer one time at Cleats. I took some peonies that were Betty's favorite to his apartment the following spring, but other people were living there. I found out later that Carl passed away.

David and I just bought our own house in Meadowood. It was on the market one day. We both fell in love with the open floor plan and the wooded, manicured lot with very little grass. I hope to be there awhile.

All in all, I lived in ten places. Meadowood will make eleven. We talk about making it twelve, somewhere down the line. Somewhere near water, somewhere warm. Doesn't everyone who grew up in the northern US dream the same?

Hmmm...

I had something to say today, but it took me so long to make the blog that now, I can't remember what it was. ADD does that to a person. Now all I can think about is everything else I should be doing instead of this.