tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32904210649342654532024-03-13T15:36:35.613-07:00binge, pray, loveshortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-76643051534776316312023-12-30T19:05:00.000-08:002023-12-30T19:08:46.030-08:00Taking Stock of "What is"<p>It's so easy for me to turn in on myself, to turn my back on the what I love to do when things get hard. This morning, I went on Instagram and saw updates from other friends pursuing their dreams as writers. Just seeing their faces (not even reading their posts) made me feel like a loser because I'm a writer who is not writing. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>It has been one full year of me "not writing." In 2019, I set a goal for myself to write and submit personal essays to various online publications to try and find my voice. I published one article in Huffington Post in Fall of 2021, which was the most exhilarating, life affirming, professionally validating thing to ever happen to me. When people reached out to me to tell me how much the article affected them, I knew there was nothing else in life that was going to make me feel so complete. I told most of the people I knew. </p><p>That following year, still riding the high of my first byline, I submitted to one or two places total but didn't persevere. In Fall 2022, I worked closely with a writing coach to pen a follow up article to my Huff Post one and submitted it to an adoptee anthology of sorts. I expected to get in and was devastated when I didn't. After that piece was rejected, I submitted quietly to a place that doesn't reject anyone. It published to a relatively small audience and I didn't tell a soul about it. As a result, I forgot I had even published again. </p><p>I need to learn how to better handle rejection. No, let me put it this way, I am <i>going</i> to learn how to handle rejection because not submitting is killing me. </p><p>To hone my craft I joined writing retreats, author webinars, hopped on journalism seminars with editors to learn how to get published, I took 2 non-fiction writing classes at UCLA. I attended a webinar with the AAPI woman who adapted screenplays for the Netflix show, Pachkino. All of this over approximately 5 years. I dabbled but never dove in. </p><p>An adoptee's post about National Adoptee Remembrance Day caught my eye. There she wrote about all the horrible things adoptees appear to be more susceptible to; depression, loneliness and of course, taking their own lives. (Oh, right. That's what the remembrance is all about). That took me to a link about Nicole's Chung's new book, <i>When We Become Ourselves</i>. </p><p>I can't wait to read it. I tried to see a talk she was giving in 2021, shortly after I read <i>"All You Can Ever Know,"</i> a Korean adoptee memoir, but there was no space. I was in shock and disbelief that there were enough people interested for the webinar to be at capacity. I emailed an organizer to say I was a Korean Adoptee and disappointed the talk was full. She couldn't get me in, but a few weeks later, a copy of <i>"All You Can Ever Know,"</i> showed up on my doorstep. That was a really kind gesture.</p><p>Nicole Chung's new book is going to be amazing, I know it. It's strange that I haven't purchased it yet. I wonder why that is? I suspect there's a part of me that doesn't want to read another KAD's words, because what I really want to do is write my own. Not necessarily a memoir, but something, anything. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-83743880908813254382023-05-24T10:09:00.001-07:002023-05-24T10:09:58.066-07:00KAD's Like Me<p>On Saturday mornings at 9:00am, six to twelve Korean American adoptee women, myself included, do something they've done countless times for many different reasons; log on to a Zoom meeting. Unlike the meetings I usually attend, PTA meetings, author/film-maker webinars, 12- step groups, this one leaves me with a profound sense of belonging, I dare say, I've never felt before.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a> Something fascinating is happening. My sense of self is evolving to include proud Korean adoptee woman. This life-changing support group began 5 weeks ago when a convivial pastor and leadership development adoptee from Portland put a call out to women on a KAD Facebook page, that I check rarely (if ever). I didn't know what to expect or how it would go, but it was clear after that first zoom, it was something I wanted to be a part of every week. <p></p><p>I was struck by how much we were the same and yet so different-- all Korean adoptee women, but each of us with distinctive hair color and facial features and our stories varied widely. Hearing so many narratives was tremendously validating and helped me appreciate aspects of my own upbringing that I had taken for granted. For example, I didn't have to navigate a life with siblings who were biologically linked to our parents. There were things I envied, too, of course-- parents who were open to Korean culture and family trips to Korea. Quite a few were in reunion with their birthparents. </p><p>I've been in mixed gendered adoptee spaces before. I've been in a BIPOC only adoption space before, but to be in the company of all Korean adoptee women struck a chord deep inside me-- a magic combination of collective experiences that was self-affirming in a way I didn't think I could ever feel. </p><p>I heard someone in our group say what made us so special is that we don't have to explain the whole adoption thing to each other. What<i> I </i>really love about us is how empowering it feels to be in the company of such creative, inspiring, highly-educated women.</p><p>When I created this blog, over 10 years ago because I needed a place to be real about my struggles with motherhood and compulsive overeating, I never imagined I would be compelled to write about my place in a KAD support group. I've already gained so much from these bad-ass, supremely talented women-- self-acceptance, self-compassion and strength. I can't wait to see what happens next. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-62123864448163223342023-04-30T17:34:00.000-07:002023-04-30T17:34:46.447-07:00Birthday Gauntlet<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><br /></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pEX4zAAf5vxbP4Eth7k4756hTjmxj6RwWvd9a2yHX8_GndQ7kHH4N1LYf2dGBX-VPiR90fcbXCvHS4L8l2tA1UYjeqhVlkSvXTC2fOQ6liSYmgg0j1rGJ9JGqJKyDXXxGlWuvHqdYZZHxFKCEwU3CLKaGpB8BssVKO8TSnwXbSd6GwpAiFN9Xcg6dA/w240-h320/IMG_0338.HEIC" /> </div></div><p style="text-align: left;">This weekend marks the last of the household birthday celebrations that all cluster around the same week at the end of April. Son turning thirteen, another sixteen, and husband turning studio 54. This week-- lovingly dubbed the "birthday gauntlet" is a predictable major source of stress for me each year. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I think it's because I feel responsible for making my kids' days fun and special so I worry excessively and put pressure on myself-- but I also enjoy it. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a>I love coming up with birthday themes and decorations the way my mother did for me growing up. I have fond memories of gingerbread-house making parties and celebrations at the local rollerskating rink, sporting my favorite turquoise velour sweatsuit. My mother threw me a murder mystery party in middle school, where all my friends dressed up in 1940's clothing. Someone actually arrived wearing pearls and a mink stall. Yeah, my mom did birthdays really well. She always went to a lot of trouble to make it fun and that made me feel special. <p></p><p style="text-align: left;">For my eldest son's second birthday we threw a "Choo-choo-choo, I'm turning two" party. We had just moved into our first house, a small yellow Spanish bungalow, and we were in the middle of re-seeding our front lawn. The day before the party, I was horrified that our closest friends would have to walk through a dirt-strewn disaster of a front yard. My husband cleverly came up with a sign that said "Railroad under construction," which made me fall in love with him all over again. It was genius and successfully quelled my frothing anxieties.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Since then we've had a number of other parties - one at a gymnastics place, where I handmade 35 award "medals" using ribbon and small wooden discs. For some reason I also felt the need to add second theme. Naturally, to go with gymnastics, I chose movies and popcorn (???). I stuck mini marshmallows together to form kernels of popcorn and displayed them in those tall plastic popcorn containers from Target. But, no, I gotta say, those actually came out looking pretty cool.</p><p style="text-align: left;">We threw our one and only park birthday party, "Super Spy" themed. It was so much work because there was so much to transport. But it was one of my favorites, creating a spy identification badge-making station with kid-friendly ink fingerprinting and spy training obstacle course. Thank God my in-laws were there to transport an extra carload of supplies and work the obstacle course. I wouldn't have been able to pull it off without them. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The last 2 years, it's been much easier. What a luxury-- to farm out all the work to vendors like Dave and Buster's and Sky Zone. It almost feels like cheating but I'm not complaining. I don't have to clean up the house, spend hours hand-making decorations, creative foods and inventing games. My kids are outgrowing themed parties which I'm happy and sad about at the same time. Glad to not have to do the work, but kinda sad to say good-bye to that phase of childhood. Like those oversized, over-priced balloon bouquets I bought to dress up D&B's, that end up looking dejected in my living room-- once floating high and strong, slowly descending, until eventually even the mylar ones end up shriveled on the floor. It's a bummer to see them go, but they've served their purpose well.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-37952414740980035702023-03-02T20:11:00.002-08:002023-03-02T20:11:30.188-08:00The Best Day I've Had In A Long Time<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrUD4V51zzcV7zqzy1ltO6q3uZeoyCw8OdcuhtEgGW9KowweCzQ5RJFTHD6cZBd2uNISrcrf5C3GuufvS-_irIS85gT0HK3DkBJrfbRsd9Q9mxjJCQFjPGr4KqTx9cbtoFqxssXu0pZxXiuvUuQSfkkY--wy9JdkEtxEZ4ockt3dzY0CttdhCSgSkxg/s3801/IMG_9542.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2637" data-original-width="3801" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrUD4V51zzcV7zqzy1ltO6q3uZeoyCw8OdcuhtEgGW9KowweCzQ5RJFTHD6cZBd2uNISrcrf5C3GuufvS-_irIS85gT0HK3DkBJrfbRsd9Q9mxjJCQFjPGr4KqTx9cbtoFqxssXu0pZxXiuvUuQSfkkY--wy9JdkEtxEZ4ockt3dzY0CttdhCSgSkxg/w320-h222/IMG_9542.heic" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In love with the color combo of these flowers from my walk</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yesterday was miraculous, but also nothing special. It was one more day that I didn't reach for the kind of foods that trigger my compulsion to overeat. Because of this, I was able to do one thing after the other, without falling into the alcoholic food trap that stops me in my tracks and sends me into a dark tunnel of self-pity and loathing. It was just an average day. I drove my son to school, did my program work, went for a walk, picked up kids, made dinner... but it was the best day I've had in a long time. <span></span></span><p></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What helped was taking the right action. Usually, if I have no appointments or errands, I get anxious before the day even starts. I </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">stare disappointingly at that blank column in my planner and it it taunts me. It says "You're a loser with nothing to do." Then I stress over how I'm going to fill the day. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But this time, with honesty and awareness of what kind of days are the most challenging for me, I took </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">steps to build in a structure of program-related activities, like tent-poles holding up my day and my sanity. First thing in the morning, </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I committed to a noon meeting and texting my sponsor afterwards. I told her I would make an outreach call in the afternoon and listen to a podcast after dinner. I ended up making a few more program calls in the evening which served as my post-dinner grounding practice. That freed me up to engage in a non-food activity that feeds my soul instead of my disease-- playing, Animal Crossing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I need to remember how honesty, a little bit of forethought and program helped me turn a challenging day into an abstinent one. </span></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-29329501558263678992023-02-15T21:02:00.001-08:002023-02-15T21:06:17.917-08:00Sultry Sugar Dance<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This morning on my way to dropping off my son at school, my head was having all sorts of obsessive thoughts about food. Being the day after Valentine's and all, she entertained fantasies of buying discounted candy and the sensation of imported Swiss milk chocolate melting slowly on her tongue and the soft, spongy sweet first bite of cake. Thank God I finally realized, these are the thoughts of a diseased mind and didn't act on them.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">None of those foods will bring me what the sugar seduction promises; to be soothed, satisfied, satiated. What they will do, is trigger a craving that will compel me to ingest more and more junk food, until I'm once again brought to the point of physical pain and incomprehensible demoralization because I am a compulsive overeater and that's what I do. I can't stop once the compulsion is triggered and I can't stop from starting. The only way I can arrest the illness is make a decision not to eat those foods, no matter what. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I have made a commitment to abstain from, what I call my alcoholic foods (cookies, candy, cake, pastries, chocolate, tortilla chips, pretzels, popcorn, most crackers) no matter what, one day at a time. Contrary to what most people assume, it's not to lose weight or be healthy, although I have faith that if I maintain this way of life over time, weight loss and health will be the end result. I do this in order to stay sane and live a conscious, purposeful life where I am of maximum service to myself and others. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I created this blog, I must have wanted to talk about the disease (given what I named it) but over time I lost my voice. I forgot what this whole thing was for. In my first post I wrote, it's "a place just for me." Of course, I hoped it would help other's too but I got tangled up in those dreams and expectations. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that each post had to be my very best writing. That made complete sense to me then but sounds silly, now that I'm thinking about it and writing it down.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Today, I'm grateful that I wasn't seduced by the sultry sugar dance inside of my head. As for tomorrow, that will have to be another post. </span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-83097578535667941722023-02-11T16:44:00.006-08:002023-02-15T21:06:30.499-08:00Breaking Through<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg94nqUDAKYyNIAo2nHpqRIVJLwmzMsCi3B2jAzKTHc7xXOFaW4DTdnr4_rhzvwHI6ps1kFAgR86wO4BEsgwVUlJ1j1s-jD-twPEYxMIGtIwq_4D4mHpM0j4MU4nMn2yKrgwL72itj9GlM24u717HvVS5_63y1LmQwrSRdsFgUM-DSelrHSK81yl0Zpw/s2016/tahoe%20sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg94nqUDAKYyNIAo2nHpqRIVJLwmzMsCi3B2jAzKTHc7xXOFaW4DTdnr4_rhzvwHI6ps1kFAgR86wO4BEsgwVUlJ1j1s-jD-twPEYxMIGtIwq_4D4mHpM0j4MU4nMn2yKrgwL72itj9GlM24u717HvVS5_63y1LmQwrSRdsFgUM-DSelrHSK81yl0Zpw/w320-h240/tahoe%20sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />This is not going to be coherent. It's not going to be a well-thought-out essay, with a main idea and ideas to support it and a thoughtful, meaningful conclusion. It's not going to be an engaging short story about anything super imaginative. It's going to be just writing for the sake of writing. It's going to exist because the pressure I put on myself is immobilizing and I need to break though it. </span><p></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also feel like I have to reach a certain point of recovery, of okay-ness in order to post in this anonymous personal blog that no one reads and no one knows about 0r-- for lack of a better word-- cares about. That okay-ness never comes, or it does come but doesn't last and I find myself back where I started. Struggling. Clueless and paralyzed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I've got this eating disorder that there is no substantial discourse about, or at least not that I can find. I don't see it covered much in the Atlantic, New York Times or Washington Post. I've seen some articles in Huff Post but no one talks about it the way it should be talked about. It's much more common than anorexia and bulimia but somehow those diseases have a voice and COE does not. What I want more than anything is to be that voice. I want the world to know this disease exists-- that it's real and people don't have to suffer. They can recover or at least live squarely on the path to recovery, because that is better than living everyday in the depths of the disease. I want to people to understand what it means to be a compulsive overeater--what it feels like everyday to be unable to put down the food after decades of dieting and exercise and recovery and relapse. I want to be that voice but I am terrified of being that voice. To be exposed to the world like that, seems more vulnerable than being naked. Could I use an alias? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-75783428238718696742022-10-09T20:08:00.001-07:002023-02-15T21:06:41.737-08:00<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote><blockquote style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>I am ready to walk toward the world, to risk becoming part of it. </i></span></blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span> -<i>For Today</i>, September 15th</p><p>This is exactly what I <i>haven't</i> been doing. Having a blog but not posting. Drawing inspiration from events, but not sitting down to write about them, to see where those thoughts can take me. Letting the moment pass without acting. Not posting because of the false belief that I can only post a full, completely thought-out essay, and letting that expectation prevent me from even getting started. </p><p>Writing in this blog is my way of walking toward the world. Not writing is walking away from it. To publish is to risk becoming part of the world. It's the thing that makes me feel the most alive and also the most terrifying. </p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-8189744132091396222022-05-17T12:06:00.000-07:002022-05-17T12:06:35.206-07:00Anchors<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfra_TL0pOmDegBCUEuCRgDAqEttfvHmFmE-8SC-Mhrfm8IRkFz-bcDDOdQy1XH2jxkHBWdLU6djmFj9rgYg-skSktSpB0ejyG3MwieHIK9loy2CufFtMh8WebW_aDcSdN3Tr-HiW8ol7kWaWLDitltNoqX2XuKcZ4j1T6z26gIa41m46Oov9sjIaXw/s257/anchor.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="196" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfra_TL0pOmDegBCUEuCRgDAqEttfvHmFmE-8SC-Mhrfm8IRkFz-bcDDOdQy1XH2jxkHBWdLU6djmFj9rgYg-skSktSpB0ejyG3MwieHIK9loy2CufFtMh8WebW_aDcSdN3Tr-HiW8ol7kWaWLDitltNoqX2XuKcZ4j1T6z26gIa41m46Oov9sjIaXw/w153-h200/anchor.jpg" width="153" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Today, I have eight solid days of abstinence from my newest, deadliest binge foods. I call them the "lesser" salty binge foods, but almost a year of repeated relapse because of them proves they can take me down just like any of my other alcoholic foods. This is me getting completely honest in my quest for <b>entire abstinence</b>. I don't just want to say I'm abstinent, I want to feel that way, too. <span><a name='more'></a></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I feel good today, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself. What I can say is that eating this way-- abstaining from pretzels, tortilla chips, popcorn, enriched crackers like Ritz and Goldfish, Omega trail mix, craisins and raisins has so far kept me from snacking/binging in between meals because those are the foods I've been snacking/binging on. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I reference page 135, or the May 14th reading from <i>For Today</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><span><i>He that is too secure is not safe</i>. --Thomas Fuller / </span><i>Whether I have been abstinent twelve hours or twelve years, I never have it made. Today's recovery is all I have... The one-day-at-a-time philosophy of OA is insurance against complacency. It guards against my </i><span><i>projecting</i></span><i> anything beyond this 24 </i><span><i>hours</i></span><i>. I know I am abstinent today, but I cannot tell what I will do </i><span><i>tomorrow</i></span><i>. That is the attitude that keeps me gratefully abstinent... I have no need to plan tomorrow's abstinence or weight loss. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">These posts feel like anchors to me. Concrete evidence of my conscious choice to put myself out there into the world. I'm claiming a space, speaking up regardless of the intrusive swirling doubts and fears. In doing so, I feel more grounded in my purpose to say my truth. Come to think of it, my 8 days also feel like anchors. </span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-30437272148974583052022-05-05T11:35:00.005-07:002022-05-17T11:04:00.063-07:00He Died on November 12th<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLubYDbnWCq9_FPGBA5-FvPhuzF6lsNu7iZN5Qn_8kpWE0Y0_olGKjhkIoN24Jq3Dx1ZgDpMV8mscGqqZn287xD-HbEHMi_dIC1_kI04sRp6h2Cp0D5VK83lBjvJiosU4QM_hmGuqsOGAgitRJFbLV0jF7HEoYKzi62e1NdcX5byhH8XxdVZ6KqXB1Q/s810/woman%20in%20wind.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="810" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLubYDbnWCq9_FPGBA5-FvPhuzF6lsNu7iZN5Qn_8kpWE0Y0_olGKjhkIoN24Jq3Dx1ZgDpMV8mscGqqZn287xD-HbEHMi_dIC1_kI04sRp6h2Cp0D5VK83lBjvJiosU4QM_hmGuqsOGAgitRJFbLV0jF7HEoYKzi62e1NdcX5byhH8XxdVZ6KqXB1Q/s320/woman%20in%20wind.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Today, I am feeling out-of-sorts. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span>I'm praying for direction. I am praying for the ability to turn away from powerful urges I'm having to screw sorting out my feelings and seek the immediate bliss of consuming some kind of food to distract me from the harrowing discomfort. <span><a name='more'></a></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm not sure where this post will go, but I feel compelled to compose something concrete, to tether the emotions that threaten to pull me from the earth. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Tears greeted me this morning as I sat down to write this. It was unexpected but I suppose not surprising, given the news I received 3 days ago. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">On Monday, I received an email from the Korean organization, National Center for the Rights of the Child (NCRC) that my birth father, born in 1937, died on November 12th, 1996. No additional information was provided. I don't even know his first name. I only know that his last name is Kim. This last name was on my adoption papers but I didn't know if it was my real name, or just one that was assigned to me when I got to Korean Social Services. I suppose there's evidence now to suggest it is real. Kim is my birth father's last name, so it was my last name. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I first found out, I jumped spryly over sadness like a gold-medal track and field runner. A man I never knew, was dead. I gave myself a moment, I did. Nope. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">No feelings about it whatsoever.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I don't feel sad that a man I had no concept of 5 weeks ago is no longer living. I was honestly relieved by the definitive nature of the news. Now, there is no question about whether or not to try to find this person or pursue a relationship with him. The questions are moot. The man is gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I realize now this news still represents a loss, and all loss is difficult. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Growing up as a Korean American Adoptee, I never had the chance to feel the loss of anything. I jumped from the statement "I was adopted" to "and I feel lucky" in the same breath. And this was true. I did feel lucky. I just wanted to live my life. I had no desire to go searching into a past that I honestly believed, had nothing to do with me anymore. I did. I thought that my Korean roots had nothing to do with me anymore. Oh dear. </span></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-71129128990431883062021-03-26T12:32:00.006-07:002021-04-16T10:41:53.785-07:00Transracial Adoptee <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I learned a new term yesterday at my Adoptee Voices Writing Group-- Transracial adoptee. Apparently that's the term that describes me, since I am of the Korean race and was placed with a family of a different race. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Labels are superficial, but it feels good to know there is a name for what I am. For most of my life, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I thought so little of my identity as an adoptee that never thought about what to call it. I have to name it so I can learn more about it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now that I know I'm a transracial adoptee, I've googled it and I already feel a little better. Turns out, I am not the only transracial adoptee with identity issues.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> In fact, some people </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">strongly oppose transracial adoption because these problems are so common. I had no idea. </span><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">It may sound obvious but somehow </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">knowing I am not the only transracial adoptee facing cultural identity issues helps me. </span></b><span style="font-family: verdana;">I realize that part of my reluctance to explore Korean culture stems from my guilt over not having done it sooner. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have a lurking notion that somehow because I have Korean blood, the moment I turned 18, I was supposed to want to immerse myself in Korean culture. I feel guilt that I never felt compelled to learn Korean on my own until now. I feel guilt that I never made the Korean adoptee pilgrimage to Seoul that was apparently a thing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>It's freeing to realize that I don't have to blame myself or feel guilty for not feeling innately drawn to the Korean culture.</b> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Some adoptees decide to pursue it earlier in life, some later, and probably some never at all. There is no "supposed to." There is no "should". </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There's a knowing in my heart now, that the Korean language doesn't make someone Korean. It just means they know Korean. </span></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-79459645475687557732021-03-21T23:36:00.001-07:002021-04-16T10:43:57.167-07:00Day # 7<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I did it! When I hit publish for this entry, I completed the challenge I set for myself; posting every day for 7 days straight.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I feel a deep sense of calm and peace at this moment, having just watched an episode of Chef's table about 60-year old, Jeong Kwan, an exceptional chef and Zen Buddhist nun in South Korea. I noticed it was one of the episodes I had previously skipped over in the queue. I was about to skip it again tonight but in the spirit of embracing the thing I am curious about but feels scary and too different, I decided to hit play-- so glad I did. <span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Something about the quiet, intentional simplicity of her life was comforting. Here are some of her words that spoke to me:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A question she raised, <span style="color: #ff00fe;"><i>How do you change yourself with temple food, even if you're not a monk? </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;"><i>The very action of progressing with the greatest passion, the greatest energy is a kind of enlightenment. </i></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am working with a great passion and energy but also without consistency and peace which feels far from enlightenment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i style="color: #ff00fe;">Creativity and ego (self/selfishness) cannot go together. If you free yourself from the comparing and jealous mind, your creativity opens up endlessly. Just as water springs from a fountain, creativity springs from every moment. </i><b style="color: #ff00fe; font-style: italic;">You must not be your own obstacle. </b>I am my own obstacle. </span></p><p><span style="color: #ff00fe; font-family: verdana;"><i>You must not be owned by the environment you are in. You must own the environment, the phenomenal world around you. <b>You must be able to freely move in and out of your mind.</b> This being free, there is no way you can't open up your creativity. There is no ego to speak of. That is my belief. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff00fe; font-family: verdana;"><i>Be in the present. (We must learn) <b>how to be happy in the process. </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Root of her philosophy, cooking, and life:<span style="color: #ff00fe;"> </span></i></span><i style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">An orchestra. Every part working together. </span></i></p><p><i style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">A blissful mind</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I choose to meditate on these wise words tonight, instead of my own. I am finishing this up at 11:29pm but don't feel rushed or frazzled at all. Huh. Strange... but miraculous. </span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-71070543419364255532021-03-20T19:59:00.002-07:002021-03-20T19:59:41.200-07:00Day #6<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am working on an essay right now prompted by t</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he recent fatal shooting of 6 Asian-American women in Atlanta. It's </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">about being an Americanized Korean adoptee, what that means and how it has effected my identity. I started writing it on Wednesday. It is taking me awhile to write because I realized that I am really figuring it all out as I go along. Today I found the words for something I had been stuck on for a few days. It's a small victory but feels really good.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I also finally made a bolognese sauce I had been want to make. I printed out the recipe and it sat on a recipe stand on the kitchen counter for weeks. It came out pretty good even though the recipe said to keep it simmering for another 30 minutes. I started around 5:25 which was much too late for a sauce that was suppose to cook for 2 hours. I've decided that next time I'll start at 3:30pm. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's looking better and better for our private Don Benito 5th grader end of the year trip to Big Bear. By the time we go, the end of May, it looks like most, if not all of the moms will be vaccinated. I didn't think that would be the case. We are all hopeful that it will happen for our boys.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I challenged myself to blog every day for 7 or 10 days straight, it was before I started working on my essay. Since Wednesday, I've been writing for a minimum of 3 hours a day on it, sometimes more. So, that plus the blogging is a little much, but I haven't let it stop me, yet. </span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-76376411131727053672021-03-19T21:56:00.007-07:002021-03-19T21:57:46.014-07:00Day #5<p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Day #5. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So this is the day it all breaks down. There's no way this will be close to 300 words. It's 9:30pm and it's too late for me to think of a subject to write about. This is good though. I am learning about what kind of writer I am-- definitely not the kind that likes to stay up at late night. That means if I am looking to carve out some quiet, uninterrupted writing time, it going to have to be early morning.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Now that Wandavision is over, I am happy we didn't have to wait long for the next installment of Marvel television. Our family watched the first episode of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier which just came out. It was much more Marvel-ly and action packed than the beginning of Wanda vision, although we did watch Bucky attend a therapy session that put my younger son to sleep. The rest of us enjoyed it, though. Now that Bucky isn't the Winter Soldier anymore and fighting in one battle after the other, what is he going to do with his time? I think he might team up with the Falcon (she wrote stating the obvious). But wait! That can't happen because they hate each other. Can't wait to tune in to the next installment. 😉</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I am committing to sitting down much earlier in the day to write the Day #6 post. </span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-2273557630730015402021-03-18T22:07:00.003-07:002021-03-19T21:58:23.368-07:00Day #4 <p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5AKoltXovP154KiTTlCAGOEef3TNvm87mC5L7kNpNTTXwXgfb46faPq7q_SSgxFOH2qb-Gs-k9FBVy7-29y2GHfzG9r90bAAYDPl_aWR3T16H2t6eVWeQ72nAQaMAtL6f43CdxbNaVYh/s640/IMG_2298.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5AKoltXovP154KiTTlCAGOEef3TNvm87mC5L7kNpNTTXwXgfb46faPq7q_SSgxFOH2qb-Gs-k9FBVy7-29y2GHfzG9r90bAAYDPl_aWR3T16H2t6eVWeQ72nAQaMAtL6f43CdxbNaVYh/w240-h320/IMG_2298.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I got my first COVID shot today! Moderna, all the way, baby. Whoo-hoo! I couldn't believe my luck. All I did was click on the UCLA health email this morning. It took me to another link to schedule the shot and to my surprise, there was a spot open at Dodger Stadium. In fact, there were a ton of spots. I had my choice of times all through out the day. Crazy. For the last 2 days I tried to get an appointment through MyTurn. It gave me a list of Vons / Albertsons </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">pharmacy </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">locations that were all booked, of course. </span></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">I feel tremendous gratitude. I never imagined I would be able to get the vaccine this early and t</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">rying for 2 days isn't really that much work. I've been reading horror stories on Nextdoor. Wait times of 3-5 hours at Dodger Stadium. I was ready for anything but from start to finish it only took me little over 1 hour. So relieved. </span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The lines seemed monstrously long, but I could tell it was nothing compared with the capacity they were set up for. The stadium parking lot was so empty there was nothing but rows and rows of little traffic cones snaking back and forth for what seemed like miles. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So many cones littered the pavement it was hard to figure out where they all led.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> It was like racing through the empty lines at an </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">amusement park on a rainy weekday in December. I had so much fun </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">steering my Odyssey through the expansive orange maze. I must have had the look of glee on my face. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eventually I caught up with the car in front of me and then it wasn't quite as much fun.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-EedqLLIFbI0GDDkdv36fKKIPAHEgIYkslszd8TEZzs8PGg8-cEnLGhhtq2F9S8B_x0dbx0X6DuqDtjCHRbKxwP-RTbB25LyFNcQPX83eh71xWBH9x2eHYITZtoZdyOQ7Cddu9h5RQbfg/s640/IMG_2295.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-EedqLLIFbI0GDDkdv36fKKIPAHEgIYkslszd8TEZzs8PGg8-cEnLGhhtq2F9S8B_x0dbx0X6DuqDtjCHRbKxwP-RTbB25LyFNcQPX83eh71xWBH9x2eHYITZtoZdyOQ7Cddu9h5RQbfg/w320-h240/IMG_2295.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-89383220126644300992021-03-17T23:47:00.003-07:002021-03-20T19:33:11.253-07:00Day #3 - The Early Morning Text<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I had poured my coffee, but hadn't taken a sip yet, when I got the text from a friend. She mentioned the Atlanta shootings and how upset I must be as an Asian-American woman and offered her support. Christ. It wasn't even 8:00am. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Reluctantly and already with a heavy heart, I searched up "Atlanta shootings." She was right, I was horrified to read about the attack on 8 people, 6 of whom were Korean. Even so, I wondered if this text needed to be sent to me so early in the morning. I wondered if it might have been better to wait until the shootings were officially deemed hate crimes before reaching out. As of early morning, and even by 11pm there was </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">not enough evidence to prove the attacks were racially motivated. For now, t</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he news is calling them the Spa Shootings. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was an insanely emotional day for me as the devastating event compelled me to dive into an essay I was writing on my own ethnic identity. I felt badly reaching out to Chante for help while she was on vacation. She was incredibly gracious to call me back. I worked on my essay the entire day but was never able to arrive at a clear thesis statement. It felt really good though, to be engrossed in writing again. I will work on the piece tomorrow. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There's a lot more I could write about the day, but it's 11:39pm and I am getting too tired to think clearly. I'm going to forgive myself for not quite making it to 300 words tonight. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-55622481777671812592021-03-16T19:01:00.002-07:002021-03-16T19:01:49.853-07:00Day #2- Daily Post Challenge<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAigWFpSNUg2n99eAXA7QezWzS0qB4TzOak4rlitNnXy05UfaXr0-q-KExmzyomWFXyP7R-EQsR2o4Li1GKwmaqSV7VXO4Is6pwayCkKDwBWBxxStlnyekbHbvogqn3V3ZjfvDYiFFal0S/s284/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: verdana; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAigWFpSNUg2n99eAXA7QezWzS0qB4TzOak4rlitNnXy05UfaXr0-q-KExmzyomWFXyP7R-EQsR2o4Li1GKwmaqSV7VXO4Is6pwayCkKDwBWBxxStlnyekbHbvogqn3V3ZjfvDYiFFal0S/w320-h199/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Late last Thursday night, my writing coach (whom I haven't worked with since last Summer) sent me a link to a Parenting Journalist Conference which started the following morning. My immediate thought was "How dare she send me a link to an event without at least 24 hours notice!" But I soon realized what good fortune it was that she thought to include me at all. Thanks to this conference, I've broken free of the publishing anxiety that plagued me for the better part of a year. <span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In February 2020, I pitched a story to Huff Post personal and for the first time ever, I had a proposal accepted. I was on my way to becoming a published writer and that news just lit me up inside. A friend told me she had never seen me smile that big. It was finally the validation I had been working for. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then, Covid hit and so did all of the delays. I get it. An international pandemic is going to throw people off their game a bit. So, I followed up. And then followed up again. And again. It took her a month and a half to reply after the world shut down. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I finally sent my essay on Compulsive Overeating to her on April 29th. When I didn't hear back, I followed up a little over a week later on May 8th and then on May 11th, she replied that she received it and would take a look as soon as she could. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">That was the end.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I didn't follow up at all after that and I never heard back from her. Almost one year later, looking at how the events played out, it's seems pretty clear that a reasonable person would have continued checking back repeatedly like I had been doing all along, but instead I froze.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>She finally read my essay and found out it was total crap. It's not worth $250. It's so bad that she couldn't even bring herself to reply to me.</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That's the story I told myself. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've never been able to take an objective look at how things transpired. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Looking back, <i>that's</i> the crap story. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Maybe I need to give myself grace, too. I was also dealing with probably the single most devastating world event in recent history. I guess the good news is, it's still not too la</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">te to re-write the ending. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-45594674234300697312021-03-15T18:26:00.005-07:002021-03-15T18:28:37.462-07:00The Challenge<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtajcK2IanSxxHL6gW0n1gBx847en6xlh4duPtvSk4mwkBGnDuN2GbIgTNDy2XzPxRAUu_h4ti-caMkinlMumHYfNLgFYBtd4F8gYITkEFMTqgMYM4MQUOxCQySpkEUMoqnE7GQJ5wRXP/w320-h213/journalling+square.jpg" width="320" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been looking for something, anything to get me sit down and write. In August 2020, I penned and chickened out of posting the following:</div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: verdana;">"I am a bit of a perfectionist and can be indecisive. I've come a long way in my advanced 46 years - I can get out of Target in under 20 minutes if I REALLY have to. Most of the time I can deal fine with these traits accept when it comes to writing. In my writing life, they are crippling. <span></span></i></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: verdana;">I write stuff and never finish it because it's not good enough to post. Right now, I have 14 blog posts sitting in various states of draft form just waiting for me to hit the little orange "publish" button. They span the entire life of this blog from 2012 to 2020. That's why I've decided to give myself a challenge.</i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>I am going to post every day for one week. That's doable and not totally crazy, right? That way I won't have time to obsess over the quality of each post. I just come up with topic write it and post it. Done. Now, let's see how long this post sit in drafts before I have the guts to publish it." </i></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The answer is: 7 months. At the very least, I can say this entry shows I know myself. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Today, I read </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tom Kuegler's "How to Write Faster: My Secret To Publish 1 Blog Post Per Day" on Medium and it's giving me the kick in the pants I've been looking for. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">He says that instead of trying to write for an hour each day, strive to publish one short 300 word post for 10 days straight. (Tom, get out of my head.) He said it will help me write faster, become a better writer, will make me feel like I've progressed, and will help me get over perfectionism. Say no more, Tom. Consider this, Day #1. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="cr" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-top: 32px;"><div class="n ce hj hk hl" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: flex; justify-content: space-between;"><div class="o n" style="align-items: center; box-sizing: inherit; display: flex;"><div class="dt w n co" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; margin-left: 12px; width: 220.359px;"><span class="av b aw ax en" face="sohne, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #757575; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-22072027982024535492021-02-14T10:57:00.002-08:002021-03-15T18:27:58.411-07:00Hearts<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HTZacVuGt2Ru5gpFlukm1Vv0vhA7S9_oGry1O4rOPh3xNEvLHUbElnwVsmCmBa-TgaH4C7OtKVI7IIgFSNARerVJ5ro8EyFP3V88NJFViqDwt4mVaaKW7iTZWfAju9FnxFn5b6R7cVgW/s2016/IMG_2023.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HTZacVuGt2Ru5gpFlukm1Vv0vhA7S9_oGry1O4rOPh3xNEvLHUbElnwVsmCmBa-TgaH4C7OtKVI7IIgFSNARerVJ5ro8EyFP3V88NJFViqDwt4mVaaKW7iTZWfAju9FnxFn5b6R7cVgW/w320-h240/IMG_2023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I love Valentine's Day. I always have. The day is all about love and red-- one of my favorite colors-- and hearts. So, I am going to come right out and say it it: I love hearts. There. Why did it take me so long to admit?</p><span><a name='more'></a></span>Because saying you love hearts makes you sound sappy and overly sentimental, at best-- at worst, banal. In 1980's vernacular, hearts are "cheesy" and when I grew up that was the worst thing you could be. So, all my life I never admitted my love for them, but no longer. I am owning it.<p></p><p>If you were to come to my house and dig around my "stuff," that would be terribly invasive-- but you would also find hearts everywhere. I have heart rings, heart-shaped pendants, hearts on clothing and a small collection of heart-shaped stones on the top of my dresser. I love hearts- but not ALL hearts. They have to be graphically interesting or super basic and not thrown in with a bunch of doilies or lace because <b><i>that</i></b> would be sappy. (wink)</p><p>When I was nine, I got a set of small rectangular punch stamps not much bigger than the size of a quarter. There was a star, a tree and a heart. Over the years, in my nomadic trek from suburban Long Island, to college at UC Davis, broadcast news in San Diego and eventually to LA, I've culled my collection. Today, only the heart stamp remains. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4jldg0Uy5aiQAxc3FuEXi390_N7NFcrenKfkBn4_aIv-z_Rrv50XACf15OrzbDD_RQkCxfS7EG-rtiaR49DCEsPvxTpQPRIABYuUyknjl1pEYeJRq1knxjWb44WM3jTtPa5v2Tz9i4ZT/s2016/IMG_2016.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4jldg0Uy5aiQAxc3FuEXi390_N7NFcrenKfkBn4_aIv-z_Rrv50XACf15OrzbDD_RQkCxfS7EG-rtiaR49DCEsPvxTpQPRIABYuUyknjl1pEYeJRq1knxjWb44WM3jTtPa5v2Tz9i4ZT/s320/IMG_2016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Maybe I didn't want to admit it because hearts are for 9 year-old girls not grown-ass women, like myself. In my quest for peace and contentment, I am identifying things that make me happy-- things big and small. As I uncover more of what fills my soul, I find myself less likely to seek comfort in sugary quick fixes. Hearts are one of my happy-making things. I love them and today, I am not afraid to admit it. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-63552657427797326842020-08-13T16:14:00.002-07:002021-03-15T18:29:12.840-07:00Online School Starts Next Week and I'm Filled With Dread<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVCqcqiG-9DiuiICChVUJtb_3uVqgkT-3Jhwr-dL0vV_w0SXDvp7EAgg_cOEel8Smj_sjIxITWUX2Y87YI7j8tyjP5OoE_H7du0iRi0hRwVYWYGQV3STDtNEwh_4GNGkqitDunPaKmfzu/s1280/computerdesk.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVCqcqiG-9DiuiICChVUJtb_3uVqgkT-3Jhwr-dL0vV_w0SXDvp7EAgg_cOEel8Smj_sjIxITWUX2Y87YI7j8tyjP5OoE_H7du0iRi0hRwVYWYGQV3STDtNEwh_4GNGkqitDunPaKmfzu/w262-h147/computerdesk.jpeg" width="262" /></a><span style="text-align: justify;">Online school starts in 4 days and while I am excited for my kids to finally have real structure around their day and start using their brains for more than building Minecraft houses, I am also filled with a sense of dread. </span></div></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Last spring was hellish. My son and I fought over schoolwork every day and by the end of the year, I was beaten down and emotionally exhausted. His constant refusal to do what I asked frustrated me to the point of near insanity. </div></span><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just minutes before my descent into madness, my husband suggested a new strategy; stop trying to control when and how my son did each assignment and instead put the responsibility on him to get everything done by the end of the day. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was not a perfect solution, but at least it put a stop to the never-ending battles and I could finally unclench. The one bright spot of Spring was the promise that least come fall, they would be back to school, or so I thought. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, I do have hope.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am encouraged by the online structure which requires them to be "at school", aka "their computers" from 8:00am to 2:30pm. Back in March I was disappointed that my son got daily assignments but there was no check in with the teacher and rest of the class. There was little to make him feel like he was still part of a cohort of other students. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just once a week, he met with the teacher and a small group of kids for 15 minutes on google meet. That was not nearly enough time to create a sense accountability. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am not thrilled that my kids will be staring at a computer screen for 6 1/2 hours a day but school administrators insist that kids will take plenty of breaks. They have 15 minute breaks built into the day and they will also have time to eat lunch and get some exercise. I dunno. I guess we'll see how it all works out. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am grateful that the district provides computers for each student and happy that both my son's have their own rooms now. With private space they should be less distracted during school time - in theory, anyway. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We are systematically </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">waking the kids up earlier each morning so it won't come as such a shock when they have to get up at 7:00am on Monday. I have fully conceded that it will be a struggle anyway but at least I know I did what I could to make the transition smoother. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have hope for this year even though, let's face it, it's going to be really bizarre. I prefer it to the health risk of </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">starting </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">school 100% in person. I need to remember that we are in pandemic and lives are at stake. When I put my worries in that context they seem less significant. I don't know what this new venture will hold, but I am ready to find out. Online learning? Bring it ON!</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-27946128933569402352020-07-11T19:11:00.000-07:002020-08-14T16:56:13.359-07:00Taming the Shame Spiral <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3ROAO8pDgleU_viNlYm7htP9Fwn_JxTs_Hza_71WX_d8W0j_ETPrKRef9NU2vbiWFog0NGSIHzHwBZAQ8X0AjSMkz65Cnf_H1hR0pVYCBGZEP0l0M21mhA_HcpJYIe_e6k9r-Q50NciZ/s1600/IMG_8232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3ROAO8pDgleU_viNlYm7htP9Fwn_JxTs_Hza_71WX_d8W0j_ETPrKRef9NU2vbiWFog0NGSIHzHwBZAQ8X0AjSMkz65Cnf_H1hR0pVYCBGZEP0l0M21mhA_HcpJYIe_e6k9r-Q50NciZ/s320/IMG_8232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />The other day I ate a lot more than usual in the form of lots of little snacks throughout the day. Those snacks culminated in an all-too-familiar late night snack alone in front of the TV - a crippling compulsive eating habit that over the years has let to weight gain, clinical depression and a paralyzing negative self-image. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I woke up the next morning, felt the bigness in my stomach and then it began: t</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he negative self-talk. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I overate. I am a terrible person. I hate myself."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But that's when something new happened. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I heard my Higher Power's voice</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">drown out the negative self-talk. It said "You are not a bad person. You just ate too many crackers."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In that moment, it became clear. T</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">his is how the disease of compulsive overeating takes hold. I feel shame causing my spirit to</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> fold in on itself. This begins the downward spiral of self-loathing which leads to more eating. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the first time, my Higher Power offered up something else. It was presented like someone holding out a silver platter and on it, the word "self-compassion." I had a new thought, "This does not define me." </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My HP was giving me permission to love myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was emboldened to do something different this time, to react with kindness and understanding toward myself instead of hatred and contempt. Instead of falling into a shame spiral, I took up the tools, I journaled to figure out what was going on with me that day and I shared at an OA meeting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thanks to my HP, I know what it looks like to show myself compassion. And because of it, I feel stronger in my program and closer to Him. </span><br />
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<br />shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-27371997297262895522020-06-04T18:27:00.000-07:002020-07-06T22:26:19.770-07:00Happy-making Neighborhood Messages<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmnctRNf6ybBBjstd8lDlxdXp46bXqjccGxT8Tkra4KOaFy4HtogcaZXkqefgYRtCyBu9tVkGK35yf_JA5tz17ceXCh30_hORohWFb_DQHCKNm4dFcuB79t3Q_9R_jGQdSryl0wKGUZ_k/s1600/IMG_7776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmnctRNf6ybBBjstd8lDlxdXp46bXqjccGxT8Tkra4KOaFy4HtogcaZXkqefgYRtCyBu9tVkGK35yf_JA5tz17ceXCh30_hORohWFb_DQHCKNm4dFcuB79t3Q_9R_jGQdSryl0wKGUZ_k/s320/IMG_7776.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What a different world it has become since the carefree world of January 2020 and my last post. Since the Covid-19 stay-at home order, it's been 88 days of social-distancing, hand-washing, mask-wearing, zoom-meeting,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">school-struggling,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">art-journalling, compulsive-sewing </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">and mom-calling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Early on I started taking walks around my neighborhood to deal with the isolation. I find comfort in the messages neighbors put outside their homes. (June 4, 2020)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-25393363074423914602020-01-29T19:12:00.003-08:002020-08-14T16:55:44.298-07:00I Didn't March This Year, and I Am Totally Fine With It<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1">For the last 3 years, the Women’s March in Downtown L.A. and the Overeater’s Anonymous Birthday Party have been held on the same day, January 18th. For the last 3 years, I’ve made it a priority to march-- which has been a great experience. For some reason th</span>is year it<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> was a tougher decision to make. Something inside of me had shifted and was leaning toward the OA Birthday party so that's where I went and I’m happy I did. </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ve heard it said that the OA party is like slipping into a warm bath of recovery— and that was exactly how it felt for me.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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Over 900 compulsive overeaters converged on the LAX Hilton for 2 1/2 days of workshops, panels, key note speakers, mediation and more. I should be clear, I didn’t stay overnight. As a mom of 2 who only gets to spend quality time with her husband on the weekends, Saturday from 9am to 3pm was all I could swing, but it turned out to be all I needed.<br />
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<span class="s1">The drive that usually takes an hour, barely took 30 minutes early on a Saturday morning. I went alone but met up with my sponsor for lunch and ran into a string of other members I knew from local meetings. I even ran into one of my favorite ex-sponsors, who had moved out of state but was back for the party— a woman I worked with some 10 years ago. Her shares were insightful and inspiring as much as they ever were.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> (Side note: She also told me I hadn't aged a bit, which was nice to hear.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few program gems from panelists:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>“You’re not responsible for your first thought— only your 2nd thought and your first<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>action.”</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“Thinking isn’t a tool.”</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“ You can’t </i><b><i>think</i></b><i> your way into right thinking. You can only </i><b><i>act</i></b><i> your way into right thinking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Some words sounded like they came from my own head:</span></div>
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<span class="s1">From a new father in OA: <i>“If I have sugar, I am out. The day is a wash. I have so many responsibilities now, I can’t be doing that to myself anymore.” (paraphrasing)</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’ve been working hard on my food sobriety for the last few years. As of today, I have 8 months of abstinence from recreational sugar- which means I don’t eat sugary desserts like cake, pie, ice cream or cookies, pastries or candy— not because they are high in calories, but because for me, they trigger the urge to eat compulsively. Not eating those foods means, my craving for them is dramatically less. As a consequence of abstinence and regular exercise I am down 20 pounds and I have never felt better in my life.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mind is clearer. I am much happier and am more present for my husband and kids and pretty much everyone else in my life. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Although it was hard for me to reconcile the decision not to march, half-way through the first speaker it was clear, OA is where I needed to be. A</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> day immersed in stories of strength and surrender super-charged me like nothing else could. I can’t wait to make the hard decision again next year. </span><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<br />shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-4798766040206150732020-01-10T12:49:00.000-08:002020-01-10T12:49:54.565-08:00Thanksgiving Day Parade Restored My Faith in America<div class="" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 13px; text-size-adjust: auto;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMY5WIx64seNoacwQgT8IikwKRCy4eu21LhyphenhyphenWa18Nkpz5cKksLadmdqpbymNaXByd06d488sqMN2hauGoAxhdJ1kzbuwgPZSMMHdVVFzpvOdXvO_T3ai_XekIheOuiNSAge-3FXBOZ74V4/s1600/parade+floats+snoopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMY5WIx64seNoacwQgT8IikwKRCy4eu21LhyphenhyphenWa18Nkpz5cKksLadmdqpbymNaXByd06d488sqMN2hauGoAxhdJ1kzbuwgPZSMMHdVVFzpvOdXvO_T3ai_XekIheOuiNSAge-3FXBOZ74V4/s1600/parade+floats+snoopy.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and it restored my faith in America-- well, at least for a day. With headlines about walls and impeachment hearings, it's been hard to stay positive about the current state of the union. But watching the inclusivity and diversity in this year's parade performances and even in the commercials, gave me a lift I was not expecting.</span><br />
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<a name='more'></a>A 12-year old African-American female rapper, a new Filipino host of Blue’s Clues, an overweight cheerleader in the front row of 600 other cheerleaders, LGBTQ broadway star, Billy Porter, an African-American 2019 Miss America, just some of the people who paraded down 34th street and made my heart smile. Although a product of high winds, even the lower-flying ballloons seemed to symbolize a parade that was more “down to earth." I loved it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRJfkVMDFdbl3pghKtbRQVrmsrIyK0y_wVWCM85yYjbwfAtNqmoJr9DVsUQ8WIHZ-clMuShtqKDi8W8-VX8idjIOC0GnFmnAjhkZR2z1V2kZ5NKW_vteerPHJ6G_D_CewK9adHm2jLTlO/s1600/low+float+parade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRJfkVMDFdbl3pghKtbRQVrmsrIyK0y_wVWCM85yYjbwfAtNqmoJr9DVsUQ8WIHZ-clMuShtqKDi8W8-VX8idjIOC0GnFmnAjhkZR2z1V2kZ5NKW_vteerPHJ6G_D_CewK9adHm2jLTlO/s1600/low+float+parade.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Having "cut the cord" about a year ago, giving up cable for Hulu, Netflix and Amazon, it's been awhile since I watched live TV. Was it just me or did the TV commercials seem to include more women and people of color than usual? It was almost as if I was watching an alternate universe created to counter prevailing notions of intolerance</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">. I love, loved all of the female empowerment ads. I watched a top female </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Verizon executive address a legion of field engineers with both authority and grace. I saw Anna Kendrick point out the gender bias in the song "My Favorite Things." I watched a little girl play Barbie dolls-- her dolls were students and she was a college professor, with the tagline "Anything is Possible."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Big props go to the organizers of this year's Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. It presented an America where all races, genders and abilities were seen and celebrated. It's the kind of America I wish we could see onscreen more often. </span></div>
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</style>shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-39741494220581894192019-11-29T08:45:00.001-08:002020-08-14T16:55:55.686-07:00GEORGE CLOONEY IS BETTER THAN PIE - How I Got Through Thanksgiving Without Dessert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9gmfxz3sHbCehi6R6Jt9jNyrz1nFUbvjQ2WcSXmBDG2ONIHL8KMvdquvTh1bkmKuEm9cDZSd2zwasB551jOsAiC5fZ8A1l23bODL8cWCm-_CiqtpIwEX8J-sBVF3LS6E2n_BIHe4m0Ie/s1600/turkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9gmfxz3sHbCehi6R6Jt9jNyrz1nFUbvjQ2WcSXmBDG2ONIHL8KMvdquvTh1bkmKuEm9cDZSd2zwasB551jOsAiC5fZ8A1l23bODL8cWCm-_CiqtpIwEX8J-sBVF3LS6E2n_BIHe4m0Ie/s200/turkey.jpg" width="150" /></a>One more difficult food holiday down, with the beast yet to come. (Yes, I meant to say "beast" and yes, the "beast" is Christmas). I am thankful to get through Thanksgiving this year without overeating. It's my 2nd official holiday being abstinent from recreational sugar. Halloween was the 1st.</div>
<a name='more'></a>An 8-day winter storm thwarted our plans to drive up to the in-laws place outside of Lake Tahoe. Fortunately, they had already shopped for all of the food, so they brought an entire Thanksgiving dinner to us. (Score!) We didn't need to do much other than tidy up-- which is also a win for us because having company is the only way the house gets clean.<br />
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It wasn't too hard to get through holiday dinner without seconds, but abstaining from dessert was decidedly more difficult. The apple pie my husband made from scratch came out looking yummier then it had a right to. I've also had a pesky cough for 2 weeks now, so between watching everyone eat pie I wasn't eating (a la mode, I should add) and me hacking and coughing all night long, it put me in a bad mood. </div>
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It's a good thing that ultimately the mood didn't matter. All that mattered was that I get through that evening without dessert which happened with help from my Higher Power and George Clooney. Eventually, we put on Ocean's Eleven and the sight of George and Brad strutting around a Las Vegas in custom-cut suits was more than enough-- it turns out-- to take my mind off pie. </div>
<br />shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290421064934265453.post-19639248722075599562019-11-26T15:27:00.000-08:002020-08-14T16:54:27.069-07:00Pilates Completes Me-- So Why Haven't I Signed Up Yet?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgESWEMCqI7vof15CiYEfVsDNE2Tqnui5AmvPI4Se6NZ9i2nWurWCl21PJXw6I_bXnNn_nGzjQSYfd-IU_oX4FWVM2ILxNzaFR3sr5mFHAPehEnwUWIp8OPda00b_QhRrA3XEahPMTkSF3H/s1600/pilates+reformer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="322" height="97" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgESWEMCqI7vof15CiYEfVsDNE2Tqnui5AmvPI4Se6NZ9i2nWurWCl21PJXw6I_bXnNn_nGzjQSYfd-IU_oX4FWVM2ILxNzaFR3sr5mFHAPehEnwUWIp8OPda00b_QhRrA3XEahPMTkSF3H/s200/pilates+reformer.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One trial class and it was clear. Reformer pilates completes me. I love the way my body feels gliding up and down the track-- feeling the tension in the pulleys as I pull my arms forward and the stretch as they retract backwards. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There's something about the uniform restricted movement that really appeals to me.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> A day or so after the class, I made the decision to sign up. That was 6 weeks ago. So, what gives?</span><br />
<a name='more'></a>Why is it taking me so long to sign up?<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Money. One class costs more than one whole month at my gym. Not exactly cost effective. I have guilt for letting my gym membership go un-used for months at a time. Okay, full disclosure-- years at a time. So much wasted money. <i>How can I justify spending money on this class?</i></span><br />
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Body Image Factor. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">All of the ladies that I've seen at this studio are fit and slender. I am neither fit, nor slender. <i>I don't belong there. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Coolness Factor. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">They all sport hip workout clothes. They all look like they know what they are doing. They are definitely way cooler than I am. <i>I am not cool enough to go there. </i></span><br />
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These thoughts buzz around in my head and fuel my avoidance. But today I recognize these thoughts come from my unhealthy self-- the self that lets fear and insecurity keep me from doing the things I love. The self that uses food to distract me from uncomfortable feelings. The self that says "You're not good enough to write for anything other than your own journal."<br />
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The self that I chose not to listen to today.<br />
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I owe it to myself to sign up for this class-- to do the thing that scares me because it's good for my body and something that I really enjoy. I will continue to use my gym membership, like I am currently doing. I can't change the past, but I can get my money's worth today. Why am I so concerned about these "other ladies?" What does it matter what they look like or who they are? It's is not about them. It's about me-- loving myself enough, acknowledging my own value and having the courage to do something new. It's about making the conscious choice not to listen to my unhealthy self-- the self that I have been listening to for way too long.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">-- Writing Prompt from Ninja Writer's Group</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Write Today About a Thing You Have Decided, But Have Not Yet Done</i></span></div>
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shortandsweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06681998251311512050noreply@blogger.com0