It's the fat girl's fault

If you listen to doctors, or the news these days you'll learn that obesity causes any number of ailments from heart attacks to cancer to probably the war in Iraq. That's right, you heard it here first. Obesity is at fault for every disease and every bad thing in America and the world.

Now I don't want to call anyone names, but could it be that doctors are tired of trying to appease everyone with the reason for cancer, so it's easy to point at fat people? Don't fat people have enough to deal with what with Leno's jokes about Anna Nicole Smith -- no longer fat, Star Jones -- no longer fat, Kirstie Alley -- no longer fat...? Nope, now we have to deal with the world's problems.

And let's face it, fat women have even a harder time. First let's look at the male expectations: you have a fat, flabby, not-too-attractive male lead (Jack Black) being disgusted over a fat out-of-shape woman, who happens to be smart, beautiful and RICH. You would never see a fat out of shape Jennifer Lopez getting some hot guy in the end would you? Heck, if J-Lo got out of shape, she'd be out-of-sight. So, yes, standards for looks are different. Leno and others of his ilk rarely take on any chubby men -- Roseann Barr -- open warfare, her lying cheating flabby ex -- the darling of talk show hosts. Yep. That's fair.

I doubt men have any idea how many times women see some guy's pasty white belly and want to yell, "Hey, fat ass, keep your shirt on." But do we? No. But let some less than perfect woman decide to wear a bikini in public and it's open season with the insults.

Yes. I'm tired of hauling my fat backside to the gym every day, eating a damn salad for lunch and hearing some jerk on the news tell me that it's my fault the world is leaning to one side.

I have an issue with my weight. That's why I'm at the gym everyday. Yes, I should have done something about this a long time ago, but it's my problem. Don't tell me that "fat people use more sick days." Don't charge me more for my insurance. My last job I didn't use a sick day for two years. And, my blood pressure and cholestorel levels are lower than a lot of skinny people's. So don't generalize.

Dang, I feel better -- 10 pounds lighter in fact. I think this "I'm not taking any more b.s." diet works.

Sunday mornings

I woke up at 4:15 a.m. worrying about "things" like my children, my finances, my job, my husband's job -- all those things that really will be ok.

I'll blame the finances stuff on the news reports this week of what CEOs make. Hearing what they make financially, sort of makes you feel like a loser, unless you happen to be in the same category. Then, there's the call from the mother, who goes on to talk about this cousin, this sister and how they earn more than the CEOs. Thanks Mom.

Now earning wouldn't be such a big deal, except we're having our mid-life crisis. We, being the hubby and I. Retirement is looming.

Hubby is entirely unhappy in his job, which pays him a mere pittance. It's time to move on, actually it was time a year ago when a promised promotion and new job never materialized.

I decided it was time to find new employment for certain this week, when my boss was spouting off about the person who had one of the accounts before I did. She said, "this is nothing more than being a glorified press release writer." Well. Since that was definitely not at the top of my list of career choices, it's time to move on. Now every time I write anything at work, that's what I think about. I've lost my motivation.

Which brings us to the daughter. We FEEL obligated to live here now since she moved up from Texas. Is that crazy? Yes. It's crazy. She's married and grown for goodness sake!

And then the question arises of WHERE we want to move. I vote for Texas. Dallas, Fort Worth, Austin. Hubby votes for the midwest, Pacific Northwest, or the other big city in Oklahoma. Then I vote for a beach, complete with little umbrellas in drinks. Don't know what I'd do for a living there, but hey.

So I'm up at now, 5:30 a.m. wondering if I'll be able to stay awake in church. Chances are that's when I'll get sleepy.

Heading down to Texas

One thing I've learned since living North of the Red River is that Oklahomans seem to have a love-hate relationship with Texas.

They HATE for the Longhorns to beat their Sooners.

They LOVE going down for the big football weekend, shopping in Dallas and generally spending Oklahoma dollars in Texas.

They HATE that Texas seems to steal our best graduates with offers of more money.

They LOVE (or at least the GOP up here) Texas tort reform.

The list goes on and on. But one thing is quite clear from the cloud -- I've only been here four years and I feel a loss too -- that hangs over this city and this state due to the announced departure/demise of Kerr-McGee.

That's one thing, I don't understand. Yes, I know all the big oil companies are in Houston. But it's darn cheaper to do business in Oklahoma City and in Oklahoma than there. Not to mention the quality of life -- we can breathe our air up here. But still there's an exodus that sounds like the sucking sound your vaccumm cleaner makes when you get something lodged in the hose. It sucks.

On the up side, the exodus of oil companies is making Oklahomans diversify and look for other industry to bring into the state. And that will be a great thing the next time the oil bust hits. So chin up, Sooners.

Wrong Number

Actual call:

Hello?

Is this Dr. Lee? I need to make my appointment.

I'm sorry, ma'am, you have the wrong number, this is a home number. (Click)

Second call:

Hello.

Yes, I need to make an appointment with Dr. Lee.

Ma'am, you're dialing a home number. This is not a doctor's office. (click)

Third, fourth, fifth calls all about the same.

Sixth call:

Hello.

I need to make an appointment with Dr. Lee.

You've reached the wrong number. What number are you trying to reach.

(She reads the number)

Well, that's not a doctor's office. That's my home number. You must have written it down wrong.

No. This is the number they gave me, it's on the card.

I'm sorry, ma'am. It's the wrong number. (click)

Seventh call:

Hello.

I need to make an appointment with Dr. Lee.

Ma'am, I've told you this is my home line. You have the wrong number.

No, it's not the wrong number. This is the number they gave me.

Ma'am I can't help you. Maybe you should try directory.

No. This is the right number. I need to make an appointment.

I don't know what to tell you ma'am I can't help you.(click)

Final call:

Hello.

Yes, I need an appointment with Dr. Lee.

When would you like to come in?

Can I come in around 10 a.m. tomorrow.

That's perfect. You have the address?

Yes.

See you then.

Now she's Dr. Lee's problem.

My little boy

June 1, 2006 was one of those red letter days. My little boy turned 30. That's a tough thing to take for so many reasons. Not the least of is that it makes me feel really old. Let me just say I was really young when he was born.

I hadn't really wanted to think about his birthday this year, but it's been building for the last two weeks.

I have three children, my son and two daughters came after. I love all three equally. But my son and I have always had a special bond. Maybe it's because we're both such political animals and can have a heck of a good debate. We both love music and like to talk.

And, we've both worked in journalism.

I had the opportunity to work with my son when we were both in college. Yes, we did the most horrible thing parents can do to their child. My husband and I both went back to college when our son graduated from high school. He went off to a different college, but after one semester transferred to the college we were at -- in another state. So when I was editor-in-chief of the college paper, he was one of my reporters.

Then I again had the privilege of working with him when he worked for a news organization at the state Capitol, and I was working for another news group in the same press corps. We had some fun debates and some just plain fun chasing down stories and trying to beat each other out of scoops. I really enjoyed seeing him work and was very proud of the respect I knew others had for him. When my current job takes me to the state Capitol, I always have people stop and ask me how he's doing.

He's busy raising his two cute daughters and he and his wife are expecting a third child. He's hoping for a boy. I hope he gets his son, but know he'll be happy with another barbie-loving princess.

I've seen him transition from a carefree radio guy to a respected newspaper reporter to a great dad. I think he's still probably trying to find his "path." And that's ok. Heck, I was darn near 40 when I finally admitted that I was a journalist and had been a reporter ever since I talked my fourth grade teacher into starting a newspaper at Duncan Elementary.

I'm missing my son a lot these days. He lives almost 2,000 miles away and it's tough not to talk to him every day. Not that we can't pick up the phone, but because sometimes it's easy to get too busy. Yes, we talk. But it's not quite the same.

But he's always our little boy. The little guy with the quick smile who never saw a stranger, much to his mom's discomfort. The kid who had us at the emergency room at least twice a year -- it felt like every weekend -- from age 11 to 18. The kid who "borrowed" our car before he had his license, then totalled two of them after he had his license. The kid who played football, loved surfing, and learned quickly that sometimes one girlfriend at a time is best.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think about my children, what they are doing, and where they are. Lately it's been my son on my mind when I wake up.

No matter his age, he'll always be my little boy.

My only prayer is that if I can't be there, Lord, oh Lord, protect my child."

-- Bob Dylan "Protect My Child"

My paintbrushes

I discovered painting purely by accident and thanks in part to my former mother-in-law when I was in my early 20s.

Almost immediately I fell in love with the smell of oil paint and linseed oil mixed with turpentine. That's how my house smells right now. I finally dragged out the blank canvasses and the paint and started painting again. It's been a long time. So long most of my friends don't know that I paint anything other than the walls of my house.

But more than the paint. I love the paintbrushes. Their shapes and the fact that each one has a particular talent, sort of like people.

Brain Tumors

Never let it be said that I'm not my mother's daughter. For as long as I can remember, my mother has been plagued with one death-ending disease or the other. Not really, but she always thought she was.

So these past few months, what with the vertigo that's been intermittent and the excruciating headaches and blurry vision, I've been convinced that I had a brain tumor. Really. I had convinced myself that must be the cause of all these ailments that I haven't on detail shared until now.

The blurry vision got me, so I finally dragged myself to the doctor.

"What brings you in today?"

"I think I have a brain tumor."

He laughed, thinking I must be joking.

After a bunch of questions, poking, prodding and tests, the doctor comes back in with the diagnosis.

"I'm concerned about a few things," he says.

"Brain tumor?" I ask.

He laughs again. "Allergies. I don't know how you can breathe; your sinuses are completely congested."

I take a deep breath through my nostrils. "I can breathe just fine."

"Hmmm. Well, I want you to try this inhaler and this nose spray. You'll notice a difference. The vertigo - dizziness is caused by the congestion."

"Ok, but are you sure I don't have a brain tumor? What about the headaches?"

"Caused by the pressure on your sinuses from congestion."

"Tiredness?"

"If you can't breathe, you feel tired. You can't breathe."

So, it took my husband to remind me the following morning to use the nose spray and inhaler.

I took a deep breath.

The brain tumor is gone.

Seventh Inning Stretch

Decided to pop in and check out our local triple-A team, the Redhawks, last evening. Great (but short) game.

I love baseball games. The game, the players, the food, the fans...the seventh inning stretch.

So imagine our surprise when we all got up last night, and waited for them to kick up the music to "Take me out to the ballgame" and instead got two very off-key young women singing "God Bless America."

Now, I'm very patriotic, but this seemed just plain wrong to me. Baseball is a game of tradition. And, part of that has become singing a particular song -- badly, loudly and enjoying every minute of it, not listening to another lame rendition of a patriotic song.

What do you all think? Should they mess with the seventh inning stretch that way?