Temporary Housewife

When you are in the moment, it is hard to imagine anything more heart wrenching than holding your child when she cries about being bullied.  What is more heart wrenching?  Knowing it is your fault. I've gone through life with my fair share of bullies.  Sometimes it was because I was flat out weird.  But most of the time it was my size.   Even when I wasn't even heavy, I considered myself fat and some of my peers agreed.  They agreed so vehemently that they decided to remind me of my size, especially during gym class.  Later in life, in my 30's, I was actually mooed at.  Seriously.  And it sucked being made fun of because of my looks. However.  One of the glorious parts of being 41 is that you just don't give a shart about what people think of you anymore.  Yes, I'm fat.  I have blue eyes, brown (going silver!) hair, and I am medically defined as being morbidly obese.  I try to remedy that diagnosis because of the health ramifications and not out of vanit

It's been almost a month since I've last written on here.  Not sure if anyone has missed me, but then I approach this whole blog thing with the mindset of "write like nobody is reading".  Right?  Right!  Onward to the update! Things I've been up to: I've written two picture books and will submit one to a contest! I'm on another rewrite of my middle grade novel! I'm working with a friend to get business cards and a nifty logo for being an author! I'm working with my brother-in-law for illustrations for the book! I've solicited a temp agency for work because I'm not getting paid to write! I've gotten diddlysquat from the temp agency! I just applied to a job!  Operations Coordinator.   Why would I apply for a job?  Especially Operations Coordinator? Because I probably should get out of the house more often. The money would be cool to have. But I'll miss Grace. So about that.  My husband made an excellent analogy awhil

Part of my PLAN (I’m using capitalization to refer to my One Year Plan) is to write 300 words per day. Here we are at almost 5 p.m. and I realize that on my very first day pledging to write 300 words, I have not written 300 words. On a new story I’m developing, I’ve written 159 words. Not. A. Lot. So I need to write 141 more words. (That was 70 words.) I’ve actually been a bit busy today, in that I was not firmly planted on my lovely couch cuddled in with the pups and kitty. The wind continues to be nasty ‘round these parts so I took G to school. After that, I spent some much needed time on the phone with my sister. After that, it was time to gussy up for therapy and a job interview with a temp agency. (146 words! Nailed it!) New therapist is actually quite nice and I think it will be a productive relationship. Job? Outlook appears promising. I’ll learn more next week when my would be interviewer returns. My would be interviewer was out due to busted pipes in her kitchen so

I am sitting on my couch, wrapped in a blanket on this cold, very wet February afternoon.  As I listen to the rain beat down on my house, I am contemplating my approach to life.  I am living an unbelievable opportunity right now, something that eludes many people: I'm being given a chance to pursue my dream job. Author. I do a myriad of things to help me in that endeavor.  I do research.  I write.  I read.  I work on my One Year Plan, outlining my eventual roll out of my plan to self publish because I have very little confidence that I will publish the traditional way. Yes, I'm working on self esteem in therapy, I promise. That is the trouble with dreams, though.  They have very little chance of getting off the ground if it is mired in the muck of self doubt.  Descartes said, "I think therefore I am" but my twist on such philosophy is "I think therefore maybe I am".  I can't say it.  I can't say I'm an author.  Because I'm not publish

So I'm still fatigued, suffering from seasonal allergies (with one sinus stubbornly plugged). Isn't this what the Whole30 was supposed to cure? Yes... and no.  After 25 days of being on plan, I honestly feel no different than when I started.  I've lost a few pounds (down 50 now!), but I sleep the same.  I have the same amount of energy.  I still have adult acne.  My body still aches. The one thing that this exercise has taught me is that food is not the source of all my problems.  It is the source of one problem: my weight.  That's about it.  Then why am I going to continue roughly following it? I say roughly in that I am going to eat normal sausages and bacon instead of the billion dollars per pound the sugar less stuff costs.  I will use ketchup.  I will switch to normal butter instead of clarified butter.  Buy my mayo instead of trying (and failing) to make it myself.  And I will have one day off plan per week so I can still have some of my favorite foods,

I spent the weekend away in the far away land called Chetek where Schmidts of all ages and sizes and alternate last names converge for the annual ritual of Winter Party.  Winter Party is in its' seventh year, I believe, and instead of flying 1000 miles to attend, G and I now can drive less than 300 miles and be at the front door of my parents' property out in the wilds of Barron County.  Indeed, at this time of the year, the yard does look barren with near zero (or subzero) temperatures and just a dusting of snow.  Even way up north, the snow was scarce.  Usually, we send the kiddies outside to barrel down the snow covered hill on sleds and tubes.  But there was a change of plans this year considering the yard was a frozen slip n' slide instead of a soft cushy bounty of snow.  Only the older kids were allowed to sled (much to the dismay of my own kid) out of fear of injury due to out of control speeds.  My dad put down some large amounts of hay to keep the kids from caree