Tag Archives: health


2 Sep

So, my padre is coming around. I think.

He emailed me just saying he loved me, he had kind of figured it out when I ranted about what love was a month ago. And he doesn’t want to talk about it now, but sometime. Same with mom– she is much more pouty which annnnnnnoys me.

So yes. We will wait and see.


I love my job. It is exhausting, but I love it, I love it. I stayed an hour late to talk to a gal on Friday, just me and her. And there is this beautiful moment when these kids’ guard goes down, and they realize I actually care, and they just begin to SPEAK. Like, just talk to me. Pouring out their feelings and hearts and just wanting someone to listen and acknowledge that yeah they may be 14, but life is not easy for them. This isn’t a prep school, or a magnet school. These are schools where there are uniforms so that the gangs can’t pressure kids to wear their tags, where moms yell at their kids for having their periods because “that must mean you had sex,” where brothers and sisters drop out because they get pregnant as a freshman. These kids have challenges– but that doesn’t mean they aren’t smart, or very VERY aware of the climb they face.

And they want someone to know that they may be 14, but damn it if they were only 14, why the hell should they have to deal with all of this? And they come in, they have hard faces and look tough, and I somehow am able to disarm them and let them just be in this place with me where I ask them to look at what they want, and what they could be capable of wanting, and most of all let them know that they deserve it.

I am so grateful.


Body Weight and Food and Stuff

17 Jun

Okay, shifting gears here. Because I like to change it up you know… angsty poetry to carefree musings. So carefree musings it is.

I haven’t spoken much about weight yet, but merg the slave-driving ways of 40 min light elliptical machines on a Saturday night (shut up– so I decided not to have friends anymore and I’m not dating, so sue me) amongst “is-he-drunk-or-is-he-comatose” old man and sweat-slicked free-weights is forcing my hand.

So today I ate: a sticky bun and a half (pretty sister and I split the second helping– preserving our girlish figures and all), egg/cheese/ham thing, yogurt with fruit, more egg thing, a pork-chop, and popcorn. With lots of diet coke. As I am writing this I am blushing and trying to decide if “more egg thing” makes me sound fat. 

Can you see it?

“Honey– does this more egg thing make me sound fat?” 

“uh, um, well…”

Yes, yes it does. Fuck.

Well, I am trying. And by trying I mean I am trying to be healthy without thinking about being healthy which doesn’t work. I have to think about it. I have to take out the stupid pen and write it in my stupid notebook with the stupid calories per gram or else I just say whatever, pass me another blue moon. yes, number four. No, I’d rather not just have a diet coke. Pause. Double fist diet coke and blue moon, and feel hella unqualified to comment on health.

But my grams today refused popcorn saying she was trying to lose weight. Homegirl is 82 years old and spry as a 12 year old prepubescent playing Peter Pan.

“When, grandma, have you not been ‘trying to loose weight’?”

Same question for myself echoing in my head. Coupled with my history of bulimia (a long long time ago) and disordered eating to cope with shit and punish myself, I want to do it healthfully and not “feast or famine” it. So gym with comatose guy it is.