Dear Reader. . . (day 2) On Tiredness, Poor Diet, and Hot Dogs.

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

So, I woke up this morning thinking about you.

I thought this, because as my head lay on my pillow, I was utterly exhausted. My eyes were sandpapery and I felt like they were stuck together with duct tape.

My brain felt all warm and fuzzy and a little bit dizzy as my alarm clock was singing its peaceful little butterfly song at me. Damn that butterfly song.

And I thought, “I should talk about this today. . . . ”  and that’s as far as I got, because then my eyes glued back together again and fuzzy brain fell back to sleep for a quick second.

Also? The bloating.

I don’t know why I do it, but when I decide to fall off the healthy eating wagon, I pretty much do jack-knife dive into all the bad-for-me foods. I don’t just do a little slip or tumble and Ooops! back on track. I do it like I mean it and like I want to pay for it.

And oh, my bloated stomach, I feel it. It’s going to be Thursday before I’m back to normal.

It started with pizza and wine on Friday night, continued with a Ball Park hot dog at the beach on Saturday (Why??!!) followed by a much too large for one person helping of spinach dip and corn chips that night, continued with sprinklings of chocolate chips throughout the weekend, and ended Sunday evening with chocolate pizza after a wimpy attempt back onto the wagon by eating salad for dinner. (Pizza!!! I hate you right now. Actually, I love you. Which is totally the problem because you’re so bad for me. It’s not a healthy relationship, folks.)

It’s not that our weekend was difficult. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was filled with all different brands of fun. I just have a tendency to burn the candle at both ends.

Can I tell you something new that’s giving me all sorts of happy right now?


Three little people in our house have started playing guitar. (Well, one’s not so little, but still. . . .)

I started to pluck away at strings myself because who can help it when you’re surrounded. I started to dream this big idea (see my last post) that I would start practicing too – since obvs, I have all the time in the world to practice and instrument I’ve never played – and then I realized I’m an old dog.

Old dog, new trick. It wasn’t exactly coming together for me. My hand wouldn’t do what my brain was telling it, plus there’s major contortion involved in playing chords on the guitar – which old lady hands refuse to do – either by not budging from their original position, or by cramping up and not moving out of their new position. It’s all fun and games friends, till someone’s hand cramps up and won’t move.

So anyway, maybe no guitar for me.

But the joy. Back to that. I jumped up and down like a little school girl when the kids started producing tiny bits of recognizable music. Music in our house!! Made by my people! Whenever they want!

I really, really hope this endeavor lasts.

We hit the beach Saturday too, (where the fateful hotdog was consumed) which was a very good thing for the Pacific Northwestern girl inside me who was feeling blue over missing fall. One sniff of warm, salty, ocean air and one long look at bright aqua waves lapping soft sandy beaches shifted my heart right back where it needs to be.

Look! A picture. I just happened to snap one to document that cruise ship in the distance. We can talk about that another time.)

Look! A picture. I just happened to snap one to document that cruise ship (which, to me, is the imaginary stuff my vacation nightmares are made of) in the distance. We can talk about that another time.

That was what did it, I think – the hot dog damnation. The waves, the smell of coconut sunscreen, charcoal smoke wafting over to us as we sat lounging in the temperate late afternoon sun. . . . That charcoal grill gets me every time. It reminds me of being a kid, and I guess that’s where my stomach was when I selected “hot dog” for lunch. Darn nostalgia.

Now, please don’t get me wrong here. I have nothing against hot dogs, in general. We eat hot dogs at home sometimes. I just usually go the uncured all-beef or chicken sausage route, and most  times I’ll forgo the bun – not because I’m trying to be all diety or anything, just because for some reason my body doesn’t react well to the whole grilled meat + bread combo.

Anyway. News flash to me: beach hot dogs don’t feel good.


Until tomorrow, Dear Readers.


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