Diet by Default

             

                                                     
So today, they were having a going away party for a beloved member of the staff who is starting a new adventure. Good for her. I only met her a couple of times, but she was pleasant enough, so I decided to support her by having a piece of her cake.


Well, I had a load of work to do on my desk. Literally, my cubicle looked like Chicago skyscrapers of paper. About this time, I usually get attacked with a sweet-tooth and can’t get to the vending machine fast enough, so this good-bye cake was perfect.

I walked over to crowd of people hovering around the guest of honor and her massive cake. She was slowly opening presents and reminiscing about the good times and how excited she was about moving on to a new adventure. I thought it was sweet, however , I really wanted a piece of cake, and I could feel the tug of waiting emails and impatient clients needing their Friday answers to whatever deadline they had and yada yada.

I stood there in the background, no one noticing me, as I literally sit in my tiny corner of the world, an occasional gust of wind and a tumble week passing by. I liked the quiet, but for as much work as I do, you would think they would at least remember my name. If I wore a different wig to work, I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for my ID. That is how popular I am.

I waited and waited for the cake, starting to feel like I was in a soup line. Great, she finally finished going through her gifts, and was now cutting the first piece for herself. Aww. That’s nice. Very sentimental.

Then it was on to the next lady who took over cutting bite sized pieces for everyone. She cut slowly, dipping the knife in a lukewarm cup of water every single time. Ok, eew. She didn’t even wipe it off. May be it was just water, but it looked weird and cloudy. It’s like when Starbucks stirs your drinks for you with a spoon they took out of a bowl of sanitizer. Ok, thanks for being clean, but about a teaspoon of sanitizer went into my drink because you didn’t wipe it off, idiot.

At this point, my stomach started grumbling, as I have had this cake before, and it wasn’t half bad. They got the same cake for birthdays and any other celebration that happened in the building. I watched in agony as Slowpoke continued to cut and dip and cut and dip. Then came the turning point, my good manners threatening to walk out on me.

She laughed and giggled directly over the cake, not only making her cut even slower, but allowing her laughing-bi-particles to fly right on top of the frosting. Okay, forget it! I didn’t even want it anymore, after that. Just forget it. I will pretend I had some willpower to say no to this carb-a-licious treat, when in actuality, I just didn’t feel like torturing myself with every bite, wondering if Slowpoke’s drool was on it!

Attack of the Man with Ice Cream Cone

I was driving on the freeway, coffee in the console, radio blasting the Good News and my air conditioner gently reminding me that I am quite fortunate to have it.


I get to the bottle-neck, where my exit turns into yet another freeway, and out of the blue, some idiot with an ice-cream cone zooms by to pass me on the shoulder, almost swiping my car. Apparently he had ticked off some of the other drivers because all of the sudden this Dallas traffic jam turned into New York City during rush hour.

I turned off The Good News, as I didn’t feel worthy to listen to it as all kinds of crazy thoughts flew through my head. I wanted my own revenge, hopefully getting a chance to cut him off or drive by and wrinkle my nose at him in disgust, but that’s all. I moved here from L.A., and even I know not to get too involved in road rage drama, as it can turn deadly at any given moment. Oh, and I could never yell out of the car window. No way! I just think screaming out of a car window is so tacky. You can’t even hear what the person is saying, especially if your window is up. People who scream out of car windows look like angry Mimes with no make-up on.

So as this maniac proceeded to try and get in to where the bottle neck was becoming wider, he took a dramatic lick from his tiny ice cream cone! What? Is he serious? I had a good enough look at him to see that he was a large, hairy, dark man, like Stromboli from Pinocchio. The windows on his big, stupid pick-up weren’t tinted. Everything about him was Huge. Huge tires. Huge hands. Huge head. Huge beard.

Tiny ice-cream cone.

Finally, the traffic crowd rebelled and refused to let him in. It was my turn to get my revenge. I planned to speed up so there was no space between me and the other car. You know; not let him in as he pathetically sat on the shoulder of the freeway wondering why he was getting the cold-shoulder (pun intended). I decided to turn my radio back up, as I wasn’t angry anymore because apparently this idiot was getting what he deserved. I calmed down just as Pastor Christopher asked his congregation where the love was. Now I really felt bad, so I decided to let this ice-cream licking bandit go ahead of me. The people behind me beeped their horns in disgust as I betrayed them, but I didn’t care. Stromboli learned his lesson, I thought.

I watched him get in front of me, didn’t even waive me thank you. Jerk.

Then I watched him obnoxiously speed up and cut someone else off and he flung the ice-cream cone out of the window! Well, if this isn’t justice I don’t know what is; the ice-cream cone landed right on the windshield of a Dallas police car. Telling from how fast that police car pulled that moron over, I can tell you, he probably wasn’t listening to Pastor Christopher on the radio!

How to Deal with a Difficult Boss | eHow.com

How to Deal with a Difficult Boss eHow.com

Tell it like it is, Sister! Honest or Hurtful?

By The Sour Cupcake, Formally Known as Patilla the Hun.

I used to believe I was the original rebel. In my head, I was the only person in my circle of associates that could really “Tell it like it is”. I used to have a very thick skin, or at least people thought so. I breezed through life accidentally offending at least 75% of the people I came into contact with. The other 25% didn’t take me seriously because either they were related, or they really didn’t hear what I had spewed out.

Years of losing friends, debates over nothing and losing my voice defending the horrid comment I let crawl out of my mouth, I realized that there may be some confusion as to what “telling it like it is”, is really about.

I used to pride myself on being a tough chick, able to verbally spar with anyone who comes my way. I was ready and willing to voice my opinion without weighing in the consequences of my choice words. My bad habit caught up with me, but not without devastating casualties and severances I still regret.

Soft skills. Soft skills. Soft skills. Yuck!

I loathe those words used together with a passion; because I feel like my whole life, I have been told I really need to work on my soft skills. That is until I started working on them. Soft skills began to allow me in to a world that I had no idea know was there. Holding back was a new form of making friends, for me. People that knew me from my fight years really don’t believe I am capable of taking a different approach to adversity. They have never seen that side, and won’t even give me a chance to show it, but I can’t blame them one bit. They do, and might always view me as a brute out to conquer anyone that has an opinion that may hold more water than mine. It is a repercussion of having such a big mouth.

The Bible says,” Keep reminding them of these things. Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen.” (2 Timothy 2:14).

Well that sucks for me! I can’t even begin to think about all the damage I had done by not getting my mouth under control. How far I could have been by now had I just not had to have the last word. I had to be brutally honest and prideful to the point of pure insanity.

Ah, but this new discovery I have come across, that was always right in front of my face and in the words of my loved ones who on more than a million occasions have tried to tell me the truth about what it was really like to be on the receiving end of my wrath. I discovered that my definition of fake was wrong, too.

I tried smiling for no reason. Saying “hello” to people as they walk by. Striking conversation with people in line at the grocery store instead of huffing and puffing the whole time because the old lady in front of me is slowly writing a check. I had no idea how much more pleasant a day could be from just being nice. It wasn’t fake. It was congenial.  I learned fake is a word that should be reserved for faux furs or Paris Hilton's reality shows. Not for people that know how to hold their tongue and smile even when they are in a hostile environment or around people they don’t like. What an art it is to be around someone you don’t care for, but still smile at them and ask them how they are doing? How could I have mistaken that as a weakness? It’s actually a very underestimated strength!

The other view on this subject is how the other Brutes and Brutettes look in my eyes.  I certainly don’t want to call the kettle black, because I have been the Brutette almost my whole life, but as I began to calm down and see the light on this subject, say less and listen more I realize that force feeding others with my dislikes, my irritations and my opinions not only made me a very hard to get along with, but they outright put me on offense with everyone. People automatically expected to have an unpleasant situation arise when I was around, so they tailored the guest list when I was invited. They planned around me or they simply stop inviting me so there is no “drama”. That is another word I absolutely can’t stand because in my world, it never applied to the theatre. Only the theatrics of the aftermath of arguments or wars with the old me.

I detest Karl Marx and everything he stood for, however he made one comment that I believe sums up my opinion of the lesson I have learned, and continue to learn on a daily basis. “Last words are for fools that haven’t said enough!”

That statement is just so profound. I don’t remember the last time I was able to walk away from a challenge. I think I have always gotten the last word, and I have always felt empowered for a little while. The harsher the words, the better, I always thought. I went for the jugular, not really caring about the last word, but wanting to see the emotions that my own words could stir up, the last words usually being something so hurtful that the other person so shocked that I would even go there, that they couldn’t say anything, making it seem as feel like I got the last word. How awful is that? Having to rip someone’s heart out so that you can feel instant gratification, then inevitable remorse later on when you realize the destruction you have caused. How atrocious!

That is the worse about the “Tilii” (Tell It Like It Is) type. Being real doesn’t have to be that person who has no tact or no feeling on what they blurt out or who they blurt out, for that matter. That is a straight up Brute. A Real person is one who doesn’t sugar coat, but says no more than needs to be said. They speak to help, not for effect or reaction. They say things because they feel that what they are saying will create a solution without cutting corners or taking too much time. Are you the Tilii type? If so, ask yourself this question: When is the last time some good came out of you Tiliing it?”. If nothing but arguments, dissension and bad blood come from your comments or back-handed compliments, it’s time to re-evaluate your position and get a new personality. I did, however I still feel the backlash of my word-throw up days and sometimes I have to get downright defensive to defend myself as an outcome once in a blue moon, but as I heal move forward and make new friends, I realize I never want to go back to that time where I was the girl that didn’t get the invite because I had no balance and no tact, and almost no friends.

A Sour Discovery as I Test Myself as a Real Writer

                                    

There is nothing worse than having Writer’s Block, especially when there is a deadline due. Recently, an editor from an independent publisher contacted me and asked that I write an article about something simple. No more than 500 words. Not a big deal. I am half way through with finishing a novel I am working on, so I can safely say, this small article shouldn’t be a big deal. Well, not only do I have Writer’s Block, but I have tunnel –vision because I am sick of staring at the computer screen.

When I was growing up, I would scribble and doodle in my journal, no problem. I would beg the teacher to give me Language Arts homework, as it was my favorite subject. I would ask other kids if I could finish their homework (probably so they would be my friend, but also because I loved Language Arts). I love the art of writing. It’s not just a hobby to me. It is my soul passion that I am trying to turn into a full time career. I admired the work of fiction authors like Charles Dickens and Judy Blume as a child. Those were writers that had nothing but brains and paper to work with. Their ideas were original and they had voice, and they did research the old fashion way with dictionaries, encyclopedias and of course, life experience. They had talent that brought them great recognition in the world of literature and beyond. The writers of those days had to literally go through something to write well about it, not just look it up on Bing, and then re-word it to avoid plagiarism. Things have changed so much. Just about anyone can write, blog or even publish a book if you have three grand and a finished product.
When I began getting serious about my writing, in my young adult years, I realized I only really needed half the effort, as search engines like Google became a wealth of more information than I could have ever wished for. If I wanted to sound smart, I could simply go to Dictionary.com and snatch a synonym.

 If I wanted to write a biographical article, I just needed to read enough of Wikipedia to get the information I need to start a base and “work” my way from there. I wondered; Was I a real writer or a talented SEO artist?
I am a real writer and I wanted to prove it! I decided to go to the library and get information the old fashion way, then go sit in a field and journal my findings. I was going to get the information I need to write about what I was asked to. You know what happened? I realized how spoiled I was, and my journey to proving to myself that I was in fact, a real writer, started to get tiring. I actually didn’t mind forsaking the quest to figure out whether I was a real writer or not. I will call myself a writer and save my ankles a few tick bites. Let me at least explain why I gave up so quickly.
First of all, the library smells. It doesn’t smell like paper and ink, like you hear in the movies. It smells like people and children whose parents brought them directly from the playground into the library. Librarians aren’t mousy little women with horn-rimmed glasses. They are uptight, silver haired conservatives itching to charge you a late fee and give you advise on taking more books than you can handle.
Dictionaries? Boring! My hands got dry just from turning the pages, and I wouldn’t dare lick my finger in public while touching a public book that someone probably sneezed in.
I got writer’s cramp from trying to journal and take notes, and the stupid little pencil I was using started to get dull. I was used to my trusty Notepad application on my laptop. That never ran out of ink. I finally settled down to do my “research” for the article, so I could proudly say that I was a real writer that liked to do things the old fashion way. I got antsy and couldn’t stop thinking about googling up a couple things to make it easier. I just sat there, turning pages and half way reading what I would find, my brain not retaining one ounce of information. Writer’s Block had completely taken over my session, and I had no creativity of my own to put down on the paper. When I did build a little momentum, it quickly diminished as I attempted to brave my way through physically writing it. My eyes were getting heavy and I was getting cold from sitting right under the air vent. The sound of people whispering was so loud they may as well have been talking. I tapped the pencil on my head, played with the glasses on my face, and started thinking about what I was going to make for dinner and how time was running out for me to get my article done.

I finally decided it was not the time to get all noble to make a point that I was quite sure that no one cared about anyway. Face it, times have changed. I may not be Dickens, after all. I am accepting that I am a modern writer that knows what a real typewriter looks like only because I can easily pull up the images online. I don’t have to paper-cut my way through the dictionary to get the meaning and spelling of a word I don’t really know how to use. I can simply right click, and not only get the correct spelling, but about ten other words that sound better. I may have a laptop instead of a legal pad, and a voice-recorder instead of a journal, but I am still a writer, and I always will be. I seem to have it easier than the writers of old, but I certainly won’t take away from the fact that they not only worked harder than writers today, but they thought harder too, and their Writer’s Block was well deserved.

That Hot Guy is With the Fat Chick?

Day four of my jog-regimen almost didn’t happen. I have been in Texas almost three years, and I still get unsettled by clouds that don’t look white and cottony. I begged my husband to turn around as I swore I could see a funnel.

He refused and pulled in to the lot of the park. As usual, the storm wasn’t really a storm. My imagination was working overtime as I began to look for places I could take shelter in case the tornado came out of nowhere and I was still jogging. It ended up being just a little good morning shade that passed about a half hour into my work out. The sunshine came through, and I thankfully huffed and puffed along the trail, wondering why I am still so paranoid about the weather.




I started feeling a sense of accomplishment as I actually ran more than walked this time. My husband passed me by twice, gleefully throwing in my face the comment I made last week about him laying around, eating chips and watching movies. I had bet he wouldn’t last a minute on the track, blah-blah. Well, he proved me wrong, and was now on track to hit his goal of literally running circles around me on the field.
Fast forward to the end of my lap, where ahead I could see him stretching near a tree, because all of the sudden, he is Flo Jo. I admit, I was annoyed as I remembered how he thought going to the park to work out was lame and wasn’t too in to it, and now he was bending and reaching for the stars like my old P.E. teacher. Well, as I was looking, I also noticed a pair of cougars prowling nearby. They walked and babbled until they got to his tree, where they made it extremely obvious that he had their attention. They slowed down, and then slowly kept walking, but this time backwards. I mean, how clear can you make it that you outwardly wanted this man’s attention? May be I was more sensitive because it was my oblivious husband they were honing in on, but did they not realize that they were literally acting like east coast construction workers? Did they care? I continued to walk forward, a little more pep in my step as I felt the adrenaline begin to come back in an immature attempt to get my body ready for a fight, when I silently coached myself to calm down. There was no need to make a scene or anything. After all, they didn’t know he was with me. It’s not like they were trying to be disrespectful. Him and I don’t even walk together, so how would they know? They were simply acting like they normally would if a handsome and virile man were to pass by their den. Like he was the last man on earth, I suppose.



My next question was what in the world were they doing here, anyway? I purposely came to this park because it was Old People territory. I could walk in peace and no matter how chubby I am, I am still cute in Old People territory. May be because I had come by myself or with the kids before, I didn’t notice how many apparently desperate woman come in the morning as well. I was wrong. Maria Shinypants ditched her Richard Simmon’s get-up, and came to the park today in Daisy Dukes. And now, I have the Cougar Twins, who don’t look too much older than me, trying to ESP their mating calls to my husband. This is insanity.

The bright side is, I will seriously be making a point to go to this park everyday with The Popular One, to keep the cats at bay. The downside is that I can’t believe I still get mad about something I should actually take as a compliment? I genuinely felt bad as we left that I would even fathom the thought of provoking an altercation with two women, who were in much better shape than I, let me say. I mean, who gets mad about that stuff at my age? I sometimes wonder why this “fight” in me doesn’t leave as I have gotten older. I swear, society and age has calmed me down quite a bit, may be even left me a little less honest than in my hay-days where nothing would get by without me making some brutal comment about it, then daring anyone to challenge me. Yet sometimes, that “fight” still rises up, and I will use any excuse to execute it. Some people are naturally calm, like my dear and fabulous husband. Some people have to talk themselves out of doing really stupid things, because that is just their first reaction, like me. I guess it's just how I am built, and I work on getting better everyday.

Those are just my thoughts. For now, I would like to keep my dignity and stay out of jail, so I have decided to do myself a favor and lose some more weight so they won’t be so shocked when the fat chick gets in the same car as Don Juan.
(Please refer to my article, “Insecure or Self Aware", if you feel that I have an issue with self-esteem.  I'm just being honest.)

The Text-Messaging Jogger

I often go to the park in the morning. Okay, I am exaggerating. In a month or two, I will be able to say that. For now, today is the second day I have gotten up at the crack of 7 to go jogging. My husband reluctantly agreed to go with me, but only after watching me try to squeeze in to a pair of stretch pants. Bah-Dump-Bump.

Well, we chose a park that is gorgeous to look at and even more beautiful to walk through. In the morning, an eclectic group of patrons walk the park trail that is exactly one mile around. Along the way, the wildflowers harmonize with the emerald green field covered with crystal morning dew. The trees are tall and mature, and provide shaded canopy along the way just in case you need a break. Older couples sip fresh coffee as they power walk together, and Aqua-Blue-Shiny-Pants Lady who doesn't speak English breezes by me, but slows down a little when she passes my husband up ahead (Didn't think I noticed that, did you, Maria?!)

It is like exercising in the land of OZ without those annoying little Munchkins all around. You can almost hear the wild life all around singing,"You're out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night...."

The route is breath-taking. There are three small farms along the trail. I make sure I say good morning to the horses and ponies in the nearby field. I can hear the sheep try and answer for them, even though they are usually hiding behind the chicken pen. Roosters boldly walk out of the pen, hoping one of us can spare a few corn kernels. Then there is me. And Text-Message Guy.

So, this man, Text-Message Guy, walks at a fast pace, fully dressed for a marathon. At first, from behind, I thought he had a cup of coffee in his hand. Upon catching up with him, I realized it was one of those iPhones. He decided to slow down to my pace, making it look like we were walking together, which was pretty irritating, but he never looked up from his phone. No matter what my pace was, I couldn't get away from this guy. You know what? He never put the phone back in his pocket. Never looked up. Never even made a call. He just walked the entire mile, smiling and giggling to his screen. The last quarter, I was forced to actually run, because I was tired of co-piloting with him. My husband, who can run a mile in under eight minutes, impatiently waited for me near our car as I realized I had spent my entire run wondering why Text-Message guy had so much activity going on. I was annoyed, but it became a game as I wondered when he was going to come up for air. He never did.

As I came off the course to get in the car with my more than annoyed husband, I stared as Text-Message guy continued on to do another mile. I bet he never knew I was there! As for Maria Shinypants, oh, I will be watching you, my pretty. And your swingy, little pony-tail, too!

25 Things that Only a Born and Raised New Yorker Would Understand.

Here's for you, Rad-Pa Mike. :)
1.  Alley cats and alley ways.  Good for baseball, racing and red-rover.
2.  Steamy pot holes and rusty fences.
3.  Women dressed to the nines until you get down to their feet, where they are wearing the latest pair of running shoes.
4.  Stick Ball and Hand Ball
5.  Dancing and jumping around in the middle of the street, enjoying high-pressured water from a broken fire hydrant.
6.  Sitting on a strangers stoop with the crew, occasionally moving over to let the resident in.
7.  Older ladies in colorful lawn chairs sitting along the sidewalk, every day until dusk.
8.  Candy stores that smell like Curry and sell more magazines than candy.
9.  Neighborhood rivalries and rumbles.
10. Hearing "Shut up!" and "Make me!" yelled out of random windows over the constant honking of the taxi cab.
11. Illegal merchants boldly selling beaded jewelry and black market tapes, Cd's and DVDs on the street. 
12. Everyone knows at least one guy named Jimmy, Joe or Mikey.
13. The Botanic Gardens in Brooklyn.  Paradise in the middle of the concrete jungle.
14. Apple juice and Popsicles during hot summer days at Central Park.
15. Christopher Street and Gay Street
16. Jewish men dressed in black suits with perfect curls respectfully bouncing under their black fedoras.
17. Everywhere else, you have black, white and Hispanic.  In New York, you have Jamaican, African, Italian, Greek, Jewish, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Costa Rican, Cuban, Irish, Iranian, Lebanese, Japanese, Chinese, Korean and so on.  People keep their very identities in New York.  It is a salad bowl rather than a melting pot.
18. Cab drivers that are willing to run someone over to get you where you need to go, and aren't ashamed to ask you for a tip, then let you know if it was good enough.
19. Coney Island and Astroland! Ride at your own risk.
20. Entire apartment buildings that smell like Spanish rice or spaghetti and meat balls.
21. YO!
22. Hanging out in "The Village" on the weekends.
23. Being jealous of the rich girls from Long Island
24. Money doesn't get any older than The Hamptons
25. No one calls Roter Rooter.  They call the "Supah" or the "Plumbah"







Good old New York. I lived in Brooklyn for a long time, and I cherish these memories.  No tourist could possibly understand them.