(Note: Yesterday, I alleged that today’s blog would be all about giving children a choice. Seems that my plans changed. I don’t mind if you Sioux me.)
Look, it’s been a day, and the only similar phrase I could think of was Concert for Bangladesh, which happened in 1971. I know there is a musical group called Bowling for Soup which sings at least one Phineas and Ferb song. But I can’t think of any other [VERBING] for [CAUSE] phrases at the moment.
The title is a bit tongue (and donut) in cheek, actually. But it’s not all that far from the truth.
You see, I’ve been working very diligently to perfect my stress eating techniques. I seem to be getting better at it all the time. It’s amazing how I can be driving down the road, heading straight for the drive-thru, and my the angel on my shoulder will be saying/singing, “Oh, YOOO-HOOOO, this is not a good idea? Sounds like something that rascal on the other shoulder thought up.”
And you can just bet that the rascal just smirks. Homer Simpson seemed like the logical choice for illustration because donuts.
Anyway. Stress lives. And food helps. That’s the kicker, that the eating actually does relieve the stress. Well, the initial stress anyhow.
All I can say is that I’m learning, people. Pretty darn slowly, most of the time, when it comes to this area. Glacially, pretty much. Although I must be doing something right because I do not yet have to iron my pants on the driveway. But, it’s not the best solution, by any means.
I love it when I write a blog post and think I’ve been extra helpful or witty or otherwise unforgettably readable. And then we have days like today when I use my blog as a confessional wherein I acknowledge there are some tasty thorns among the roses.
My plan is to be gentle with myself on the one hand, while smacking myself into shape with the other. Will that work? I will celebrate the hours (mostly while I sleep) which do not involve eating foods that are not taking care of me, and rue the minutes which do. I’m going to meditate 10 minutes a day, and during the other 1430 minutes try to hinder, interfere with, impede, hamper, obstruct, block, check, and/or curb my commitment to all things junk and avoid the self-driving-car-like motions of turning right into the parking lots of those places.
I’ll leave you with the incredibly deep words of my poem “Why Don’t Beets Taste Like Butter?”
Why don’t beets taste like butter
And why won’t sugar just drown itself?
And why can’t I, as a mother,
Leave those dog don* cookies on the shelf?
And why is all the broccoli so stinky,
And who makes the sweet-smelling bread?
Why is rest always over in a blinky,
And can you believe that sweet comfy bed?
I’m not a lazy lady,
No matter what I say.
My teeth and lips are especially busy
Getting me through each and every day.
So, today as you eat your perfect menu
Feel free to toss me a few good thoughts,
And today, yes, today, I WILL DO
What yesterday felt all for naught.
*dog don is Kepler’s version of “doggone [it]” and I simply am not going to ever correct that. It’s too dog don cute.