Lesson 12: Fast Food Landmines Are Sneaky SOB's

Well today was the last 8 hour drive from just south of Denver, CO to Billings, MT, and with it came a very hard lesson of life: avoiding fast food on the road is near impossible.

If you've read my previous posts (Weight Loss from a Psych Point of View, Eating Healthy While Eating Out, etc) you'll know that I'm pretty savvy when it comes to the world of nutrition and weight loss decision making skills. My degrees in health and psychology have proved to be a useful combination.

But I'm also a hot-blooded woman, and when I'm stuck in a vehicle for 8 hours, I get hungry...for anything.

And therein lies the problem. For the most part, I can say no to the variety of fast food chains set before me. I can choose Subway over Burger King any day, but a road trip means I'm covering new territory, and I'm presented with new "exciting" food choices, like Long John Silvers.

See, we don't have a Long John Silvers in Montana, so it's as if the commercials that are constantly flashed in my face have been packed into my brain over the years, gradually creating an overload of whatever chemical it is that tells me I want deep fried shrimp, now. The sight of their billboard causes some kind of explosion in my mind that makes it difficult for me not to reach across and pull the steering wheel toward the exit ramp. There's no time to communicate my needs, and frankly, I don't think I'd be able to communicate them in a less than psychotic fashion anyway. So when my boyfriend inquired if I wanted to stop, he must have derived from the wide-eyed, nostril-flared drooling stare that the correct answer was to be parked out front of the seafood fast-food chain. To deny me at this point, would've been more than dangerous.

Now folks I haven't eaten fast-food in...wait for it...years. And why would I? I know exactly what I'm getting; a salty over processed, overpriced, synthetic-filled, parchment-lined basket of diabetes, high blood pressure and low self-esteem. And this is just within the first couple bites.

So why is it that I think I'm magically immune to all of these effects as soon as I find myself on an unfamiliar highway? Because I'm definitely not, and I know it. In fact, I think I'm even more susceptible to them. Nausea always seems to be accelerated when riding in a car 4 hours before the meal and 4 hours after is on the agenda.

Therefore, I ended up learning the hard way the lesson that I already knew. Fast-food is meant to draw you in, but the end result is always the same: you feel like crap. Mindless eating is the enemy of any healthy lifestyle. Ever eaten at a crappy restaurant that made you sick afterwards? Sure you have, we've all done it, but do you go back there on a regular basis? No, and you know why? Because they're not constantly trying to drag you in to give them a second chance. It's advertising, and I fall for it every time.

So I guess I'm saying I'm not perfect. I was fast-food sober for years, and blew it on a generic basket of oil-soaked shrimp-shaped regret. Now I'm cranky and am going to bed. Oh well, now I know better. Tomorrow is another chance to make the right choices, so I'll just have to look forward to that!

Three Weddings And A Baby

It's roadtrip time again!

Because of my boyfriend's insane schedule (he's a baseball coach for the university during the school year, then coach's legion during the summer) we have about 3 weeks before September to see some friends and family. So we're cramming it all into 8 days.

One wedding in Bozeman, Montana last night, another this evening in Belgrade, Montana, travel to Ogden, Utah to see my brother, his wife and my niece for 3 days, then Denver, Colorado for another wedding, then back to good ol' Billings, Montana for a little recuperation.

I'm always excited to see what goes wrong on a roadtrip, for some reason I always think that's part of the fun. And weddings are just awesome so...yeah let's get this party started.

Wedding Season

I love weddings.

I know, I know, from the perspective of someone who is financially struggling, weddings may seem frivolous, selfish, and over the top. But here's how I see it: it's your wedding, do whatever the hell you want. If that means you cut into a fire breathing wedding cake then damnit pony up the extra dough and get creative with the extinguisher party favors.  Theoretically it's only for one day, right?

Well not quite. Thing is, when you're in my situation, a huge extravagant wedding is completely out of the question. It's the equivalent to the down payment on a house, or a car, or a medical bill. Don't feel bad folks, I'm happy without it. Personally, if my boyfriend and I ever do decide to get married (the chance of which is decreasing in rapid proportion to the increasing number of people pressuring us to do it) I don't want a huge wedding. I'll probably buy some white summer dress I can wear again, have it altered to fit like a glove (read: splurge) and then invite everyone I care about to laugh and dance the night away.

We'll probably go with some kind of potluck dinner. I don't see anything wrong with potluck; if you ask me it makes everything more personal. I'd be honored to have my grandma's infamous potato salad on the menu. Plus considering my significant other brews his own beer, the only thing we'll really have to worry about is providing enough wine for my rambunctious Italian/Spanish Basque side of the family. And in that case I'm willing to shell out the extra cash for a good show.

Trust me, it'll be worth it.

But until then, I'll get my kicks going to others' weddings. Since I don't see myself having a "night to remember extravaganza" anytime soon, I get super excited to attend someone else's. Plus there's no stress. You don't have to worry if the table linens are ironed, if the caterer only brought vegetarian, if the music might be offensive, or how drunk the bridesmaid that refused to wear strapless is going to get even though you really didn't want to include her in the wedding party in the first place but because she's your mom's best friend's daughter you had to play nice and now you kind of hope she gets sh*tcanned and goes to bed early...ungrateful little..

Oh sorry,where was I? 

Oh yeah, weddings, love 'em. And I've got a couple coming up! They're location means a road trip from Billings, MT to Elko, NV to Salt Lake City, UT to Denver, CO and back to Billings. Road trip + two weddings + mini family reunion = a righteous good time. And probably some decent material to blog about.

But in the meantime, I am still a girl, which means any situation warranting the necessity of a mirror can churn up some self-conscious negative comments swirling in my head:

"It's been awhile since you've seen these people, have you gained weight? No? Well it doesn't matter I'm sure they've all lost weight so..."

"Freckles and frizzy hair...can't say that trend ever really took off."

"A green dress? Really?"

Eh, the little voice can talk all it wants. My freckles are awesome, that green dress is one-of-a-kind and besides, I've got other things to think about, like pictures, dancing and cake!! I'm going to have a damn good time, and if my frizzy hair and skinny friends try and get in the way, well I guess I'll just have to give them a good flame-retardant spray-down with my new favorite party favor :).

      

Am I Normal?

It's happening again.

Recently I had to get a new car (it's a long story) but I don't like it. It rides too smooth and turns with ease. I miss my old Plymouth Duster with no front brakes, a broken speedometer and a leaky roof. I want it back. I feel like it was an extension of myself, something that had been to hell and back and still survived. I named my new car Karen. She is a sleek and shiny '02 Ford Taurus with no dings or dents. She hasn't been through any hardships. She also yells at me to put my seat belt on or when the keys are still in the ignition. I'm a big girl Karen, I don't need your help.

We don't get along. Naggy, bitchy Karen. I miss April and her crooked headlights.

I've also started a new job in the last 2 weeks. The job itself is fantastic, I'm already falling in love with the kids I work with. Adolescent drug addicts tend to get a bad rap, and I'm their confidante as well as their advocate. One teacher I met on the first day said, "Hello! So how do you like working with the druggies?" "Oh I'm sorry," I replied, "I don't know any druggies. Did you mean students?" Burning bridges? I don't care; the kids deserve better.

I see so much of myself in these kids. Their backgrounds, their struggles, their suffering. I see my 14 year old self fighting tooth and nail for some dignity or proof that I am worthy of something. For a chance to be myself. For anything.

But in the last two weeks I've changed. I have a shiny new car, a name-tag, and professional clothes that I wear to an 8-5 job. I'm now a productive member of society. I belong to the group of statistics that labels me a "success" as opposed to my childhood label of "high risk". I've been stamped, categorized, and approved. Domesticated. Like a caged animal.

It's my worst nightmare; people looking down on me with white coats and smiling faces, "There we go, now isn't that easier?" They stare at me like a child. "See how nice we are when you stop fighting? Just follow the rules and life will be easy. Trust us, we know what's best for you." They've fixed me. They hand me a blue ribbon with a smiley face and the words "First Prize: Submissive and Obedient".

I hate it. I yearn for the day when I could run away from home. Hitchhike my way to another city, feel the wind run through my fingers, the rain in my hair and just be alone. Funny how running away when you're an adult is more difficult than when you were a child. Responsibility, rather than authority, ties you down.

In all honesty, I ache for a chance to get out. For a chance to feel like myself again. To feel any sense of adventure and defiance in order to convince myself both characteristics haven't completely deserted me. I feel like a sell-out. Trapped. Condemned to a life of order because the logical side of my brain has convinced the wild side that a life on the road would be less desirable.

But I still want it.

I see the black pavement laid out before me each day on my way to work, and the urge to just keep driving is always there. It doesn' matter where to, I just want to drive. To leave. To feel like I am still in control. To feel like I am still free.

Maybe I'm weird.

The only thing holding me here is my boyfriend. While he doesn't understand, he is still supportive. When I said I was going to Italy, his first question was, "When?" instead of "What? Why?" He knows my need to run is overwhelming, but he doesn't question it. He is also aware of my deep seated fear of being tied down, which is why he has stood by me when others pressure us to get married or buy a house. He is the only thing I have never had the urge to run from.

The view out my window only shows house after house, with neatly trimmed hedges and large cottonwoods strategically planted 50 feet apart. Kids play, dogs bark, old men water their lawns. It is peaceful.

Am I such a horrible person not to want this? Not to yearn for the day when I push a stroller up the sidewalk while comfortably jogging to a familiar mix of songs on my IPod? Or to save my money for a new camera or Rosetta Stone instead of hair treatments and shoes? To excitedly look forward to the day when I am backpacking around a live volcano instead of planning family BBQ's around one of my children's birthdays?

Am I being selfish? I don't feel unappreciative of what I have, but am I acting like it?

         

Worst Weekend Date Ever

This afternoon I turned the television on to find an episode of Sex and the City. I've hardly watched but a few episodes of this show, being in a position as far as possible from the fashionable men-hopping NYC friends of Ms. Bradshaw, but I do think we have one thing in common: I have also been on a horrible, horrendous meet-the-family weekend date.

So for your amusement, here is probably the worst introduction to a significant other's family. You're welcome.

My ex and I had been miserably dating for roughly a year, and he decided it was time I met his mother and two sisters. I didn't want to meet his mother, she had already made it very clear that he should've stayed with his previous girlfriend since she had paid for everything in the relationship. I didn't. He's a big boy he can pay for his own sh*t. This was going to be a very good time, I could feel it.

It started out as an 8 hour drive to Rock Springs, Wyoming. It was hot, and the air conditioner in my little car has never been it's big selling point. Halfway through the trip we somehow got into an argument about the health benefits of running. He thought it was extremely harmful to one's health because, and I quote, "The heart rubs up against the rib cage, wearing it out."  There's really no way to argue with that.

No really, I tried, there's no way.

It was a long drive.

We arrived at a hotel. I thought we were staying with his mom, but this got my hopes up as I preferred to see her as little as possible. But when we walked in I learned the hard way: she lived in the hotel. We were staying with her, in her one bedroom one bathroom room. All the vents in the room were covered with duct tape because she was a chain smoker, and the hotel owner slept in the room above her and could smell the smoke. I started coughing the second I walked in.

So there were 5 of us all together, him (we'll call him...Pen Cildick), his 2 sisters, his mom and me. We started with the usual chit-chat, how was the drive...good, good...real hot out today...sure is...scored some cocaine an hour ago...oh that's nice...wait, what?

I didn't know if I was hearing anything correctly, I was trying to breathe through the small crack in the window as her cigarette smoke swirled - no, scratch that - stagnantly hung in the air. My eyes burned, my throat hurt, my skin itched and I felt like I was dying. This must be what trapped in a burning building feels like. Only I've heard you pass out after inhaling a certain amount...why wasn't I passed out yet?

After 4 hours (not exaggerating) Pen and his mom decided they wanted to go to the bar down the street to catch up. His sisters and I (one was a year older than me, one was 14) wanted to stay in the room and watch movies. I could do that. They left for the bar, which they said you could see from the hotel window.

12:30 a.m - The phone rings. I answer.

"Hello?"

"Yes this is so-and-so (the owner of the bar) and these two are tearing this place apart, either come and get them or I'm calling the cops."
"I'll be right there."

We (me and his little sister, who was the only one from Rock Springs who knew where the bar was) get there to find it's really only a gas station with 3 bar stools in the back. The actual space designated for drinking was hardly bigger than a public restroom. When we were 10 feet from the door, Pen bursts through it, throwing himself onto the hood of the pickup out front. "We're driving!" he shouts. "No," I reply, "we're walking. We didn't bring the car." "We're walking!" he screams at me, as he flips me the bird. But he can't walk. He can't stand up. He leans on me, bringing me to my knees. I finally figure out how to balance his weight with mine and we start taking one small step toward the hotel room. They were right, it's a straight shot from the hotel to the bar.

"That's mine, that's mine, that's mine..." he points to piles of puke outside the bar. "That's mine too. Oh and that one.." Fantastic. Behind me, I can hear his little sister trying to keep his mom turned in the right direction toward the hotel room, but she has to stop and pee, and there's a garbage can right there. How convenient.

A cop drives by. He pulls over. Of course.

He's 6'8" easy, and stands in front of Pen. Pen is laughing. "Is there really a cop standing in front of me?" he giggles. "Yup." "He's so big! Are you sure he's real?" He motions to the cop with his head in that drunk I-think-I'm-being-sneaky way that cops probably see all the time. "Yeah he's real."

He asks for our ID's. Pen doesn't have his. I don't have mine either. "I wasn't drinking," I explain. "I didn't think I needed it to go get these two. We just live right there." I point to the hotel. "Room number?" He asks. "Oh I have no idea, " I reply. "We're just staying the weekend."  We go in circles. He doesn't believe that I wouldn't know the room number we're actually staying in. The room number that two people are living in. My frustration is growing.

Pen in trying to dance. I can see the hotel, we're so close.

Four more cars pull up. Three of them are all black, and men in suits get out of them. What is happening? I think to myself. Haven't I seen this on Men In Black? The men in suits were introduced as the DEA. Whatever, I didn't believe them. I was convinced someone around us was an alien. Any second now they're going to get out those little memory erasey thingys...

They surround Pen, invading his dance bubble. I could hear his mom screaming at them, claiming she wanted a cigarette but one of them had stolen her lighter. That sounded logical.

Finally, one of the cops agrees to let me take Pen home while they question his mother. I struggle to walk him the rest of the way to the hotel, but I don't know which room number is ours, so I drop him off in front and decide I'll figure it out later. Bad idea. After I start heading back, I hear BAM! BAM! BAM!

I turn around and see him going door-to-door, banging on every one. Soon people were coming out into the street. They're angry. Pen is singing. A few cops run over to him, put him in handcuffs and sit him down on the ground. People are asking questions. His mom is yelling. Pen switches from singing to screaming, shouting and crying so they put him in the back of a cop car.

To sum it all up, they let them both go, but I had to deal with both of them being sick, belligerent, and smoking in the hotel room all night. Both him and his mother were completely hungover (read = total a**holes) the rest of the weekend, which meant they wanted to sleep all day in the hotel room. So that was fun. We headed home and he asked if I liked his mom.

What?

Is it any wonder we eventually broke up?