Sexy Potato


Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


I dislike shopping. Despise it, actually. So I’ve learned to use a couple of internet stores that have clothing designed for women like me, women with more to love.

Only they don’t have any models like me, who are less than five feet tall.

So in order to try to be stylish, I have to  check the overall length of each garment. Dresses that fit the typical model just below the knee will be just below the floor on me. Sometimes hems are easily altered, but sometimes it’s just not possible without changing the entire look of the dress.

Pants are a nightmare. Most of my lack of height is because I have stumps instead of legs. So I look for capri-length pants, or pants that, when I whack of the length, don’t look like I whacked off the length.

Remember the  dwarf Dopey in Snow White? 


Yup, that’s me.  Sleeves too long, pants too long.  But he’s happy, so I guess it’s okay 🙂

I remember muttering to myself once that my trying to make my stumpy, lumpy body look stylish was like trying to make a potato look sexy.  My very patient husband says, “What’s wrong with potatoes?  I like potatoes.”

And maybe that’s why we’ve been married for 47 years.

Fat Road or Skinny Street


Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt


I am so tempted to write about politics. This prompt couldn’t be more appropriate. Today is Primary Day in Pennsylvania, and I just got back from voting. And by the way, in the 50 or so years I’ve been voting, I don’t remember an uglier or more acrimonious primary season.  Here in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, we could use a bit more common courtesy.

However, I’m in no mood to start an ugly controversy, so I think I’ll go in a different, more personal direction.

, Not That! talks about the habits skinny people utilize to stay thin ...

I am at a crossroads.  I can continue to sloooooooowly lose the weight that has accompanied most of my adult life.  I’ve lost 17 pounds to date, which is minimal compared to what I need to lose.  It’s taken me a very long time. Part of the reason for that is that my back went wonky on me again, and I haven’t been able to exercise.  I’ll be back in the pool on Friday, I hope. The winter has  been very hard on me. I’ve gone from one upper respiratory infection to another, feeling just miserable a lot of the time. And now, in this utterly beautiful season with all the flowering trees and grass growing like crazy, my allergies are really kicking up.  I sound like Jeremiah the Bullfrog. Croak, croak. I’m not sick, so I can only assume it must be allergies.

OR.  Or, I can keep nibbling away (probably not the best word-choice) as I have been, counting carbs and  getting back into an exercise routine to help burn the blubber.

Well, you may say, that’s not so hard.  Just Do It!

If you think that, you haven’t been paying attention. This is not my first go-round with fat, and I’m sure it will plague me to my coffin.  In heaven, I want a size 0 robe!

So what are my excuses?

  1.  My gene pool.  Ask any of my cousins.  They’ll tell you.
  2.  My slow metabolism.  I’ve tried every “speed-it-up” diet out there, and I say NO MORE!
  3. My distaste for physical activity that makes me sweat and hurt. I know, I know. No pain, no gain. You enjoy yourself if that’s what rings your bell.  I’ll swim.  It’s better for my back, anyway.
  4. My height.  Or lack thereof.  I’m not overweight.  I’m underheight.  Not even five feet tall these days.  I used to be 5′ 1.25″  and now I can claim a full 4’11.”  It’s just wrong.

And if you don’t think it’s a pain to be so short, just try buying pantyhose that fit a short, heavy woman with stumps for legs.  Yeah. Don’t even talk to me about “short and cute.”  I’d rather be tall and dignified and not have my pantyhose make my legs look like the saggy baggy elephant.

Please don’t respond with all the cool places you’ve found pantyhose that fit. I have found a good source.  Finally.

Anyway, at this point I’m choosing to stay in the battle.  I got my A1C results back down into the 6 range. Those of you who battle Type II diabetes know what that’s all about. My doctor is happy with that.  So am I.  It’s a validation of my change of diet, even though the weight isn’t coming off the way I’d like.

So.  There’s my personal angst. My personal crossroad.  My personal choice. Even if I never lose another pound, I know I’m eating better, and I can be okay with that.  I think.

By the way, did you know that Atkins is making these wonderful little dark chocolate pieces about one inch square, filled with either raspberry or fudge?  Really good, and they satisfy my sweet tooth without piling on the carbs.  Nice.

Helpless is Not Cool!


Helplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it? 


I really hate helpless.  I was born on Independence Day, and there’s a really good reason for that.  I can do it myself. Can too. CAN TOO!!

I’m short.  I can’t even claim 5 ‘1″ any more.  That, in some people’s minds, would make me seem helpless.  Believe me, it can be frustrating, but I have been known to climb grocery store shelves for that item that some fool shoved to the back of the top shelf. I’ve also learned, grudgingly, to ask tall people to get things for me. I hate it when they smile condescendingly while they exert their superior length.  What they don’t know is that their long, gangly arms and legs are not as economical as my short ones. If you don’t see the logic in that, I just can’t help you.

I think the most helpless I’ve ever felt was when I took a header off my bike some years ago. Broke both elbows, just little  1-2 inch fractures in the ball that fits the socket.  I had to wear casts on both arms for a week. Thank God it was only one week. There are a lot of things you just can’t do when both your arms are in bent-elbow casts. I’ve never been more thankful to be in a good marriage; I’ve never been more aware of how much I hate being helpless. I’ll never forget that first night.  I’d gone to bed, drugged up so I’d sleep. Somewhere in the midde of the night I needed the bathroom, but I couldn’t move. I tried, I really did. But my knee had also been hurt pretty badly, and my left leg was in an immobilizer.  I couldn’t get any leverage with my legs; my arms were useless. Terry wasn’t in the bed. Told me later he hadn’t wanted to disturb me, so went to sleep on the sofa. He’d left our bedroom door open so he could hear me if I needed him.

Boy, did I need him.  I called his name several times, but it must have taken about half an hour before my constant calling woke him up. I was desperate by that time, and we  were both in tears as he helped me get up. He felt terrible that he hadn’t been there when I needed him;  I was frustrated, embarrassed, and angry. Not with him. With my inability to take care of such a simple need without help.

We’ve both had a glimpse of what helplessness can mean as we grow older. He broke his heel three years ago, and the injury has changed him. He needs to rest during the day. He can’t be on his feet all day long like he used to. His pain is debilitating at times, and he has to call on others for help doing tasks he used to handle himself.

I think maybe one of the lessons of age is that you really can’t always do it all by yourself, and that’s ok. It’s a hard lesson to swallow.