A few years ago, I drove past a semi full of pigs and got all googly-eyed over how cute they were... then it hit me that the driver didn't just load up a truck full of adorable pigs to take them on a scenic tour for kicks... he had heart breaking plans for them.
It struck me then that if I can't bear to think of what's happening to the cute pigs on truck and the cows on my family's farm, then maybe I shouldn't be eating the meat. Derp.
I feel guilty saying this, but at that point, I was able to shut the cute pigs out of my mind when presented with a tasty ham loaf. However, as time goes on and I think more about it and read more research, I just can't do it anymore. Even when I see the little squares of chicken waiting for me to roll 'em up in my fajita for lunch, all I see is my puppy, Logan. He has feelings. So do the animals that I've been eating. I can't imagine him going through what the pigs, cows, lamb, chickens, etc., go through to be eaten... so I shouldn't be eating them, should I? Nope.
I finally bought a book I've been wanting to read called Skinny B*tch (nope, I don't even cuss if it's in the book's title), and it educated me about the health benefits of a vegetarian diet (who knew all these foods could help my brain function better and help protect my body from cancer?? Eating certain food can do that?). I learned how to eat like a vegetarian in a healthy way (I don't have to worry about missing out on protein and iron, like I thought. Non-animal foods have me covered.) and, bonus points, how a vegetarian diet can help me lose weight and maintain that lower weight for life.
It's actually a lot of overwhelming information to take in. I thought I'd just grab some lettuce leaves and a banana or something, but it turns out I need to load up on brown rice, nuts, legumes, beans and all sorts of business to be totally healthy about it.
Can I handle it?
If it means I don't have to see my Logan wrapped in a fajita when I sit down for lunch, I think I can.
Poor Logan. I'm sorry I ate him.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Little People, Littler Meghan
We all have dominant traits that end up defining us through our whole lives. We get used to it and learn that whatever the trait is, people notice it and might tease us about it, make up nicknames because of it, etc. It can be hair color, a big nose, a dimpled smile, freckled skin... we all have something (or lots of somethings).
One of my traits that I hear about a lot is how short I am. I don't really realize it until I look at pictures and see how much smaller I am than the people around me.... or each day when I put my pants on and the legs don't go past my feet. Yeah. That's a good suggestion that maybe something is off with me.
At first, it felt weird to be short, because I was on the taller side when I was a kid. Actually, my husband is now 6'4, but when we were each 10 years old, we were both 4'10. Then when I hit 12, I stopped growing and everyone else kept on getting taller, so when the "Omigosh, you're short" comments started rolling in, I was actually caught off guard. I truly thought I was still average. By the time I hit my 20s, I was used to the fact that 5'1 is short and started to beat people to the punch on the short jokes.
"Yes, I'm standing. Yes, I'm sure the weather is warmer down here. No, I can't see over that counter top. Yes, your 2-year-old is nearly my height."
So today, I was talking to a coworker and she mentioned someone else we work with, who I'll call Ann. And you know how, when you want to describe someone by height, you'll throw your hand out and, if they're tall, you'll toss your hand up high and if they're short, you'll lower it down to your elbow or so? Well, Ann is short, so I said, "Little Ann?" And threw my hand out to describe her by her height, but I didn't really pay attention to where I was putting my hand. Apparently, my hand wanted to be accurate, and it went approximately one inch above my own head. My coworker found it amusing that, to describe "Little Ann," I still had to put my hand up over my head.
Maybe if it hadn't been casual Friday and I had been wearing my heels, my hand might have gone to my nose or so.
One of my traits that I hear about a lot is how short I am. I don't really realize it until I look at pictures and see how much smaller I am than the people around me.... or each day when I put my pants on and the legs don't go past my feet. Yeah. That's a good suggestion that maybe something is off with me.
At first, it felt weird to be short, because I was on the taller side when I was a kid. Actually, my husband is now 6'4, but when we were each 10 years old, we were both 4'10. Then when I hit 12, I stopped growing and everyone else kept on getting taller, so when the "Omigosh, you're short" comments started rolling in, I was actually caught off guard. I truly thought I was still average. By the time I hit my 20s, I was used to the fact that 5'1 is short and started to beat people to the punch on the short jokes.
"Yes, I'm standing. Yes, I'm sure the weather is warmer down here. No, I can't see over that counter top. Yes, your 2-year-old is nearly my height."
So today, I was talking to a coworker and she mentioned someone else we work with, who I'll call Ann. And you know how, when you want to describe someone by height, you'll throw your hand out and, if they're tall, you'll toss your hand up high and if they're short, you'll lower it down to your elbow or so? Well, Ann is short, so I said, "Little Ann?" And threw my hand out to describe her by her height, but I didn't really pay attention to where I was putting my hand. Apparently, my hand wanted to be accurate, and it went approximately one inch above my own head. My coworker found it amusing that, to describe "Little Ann," I still had to put my hand up over my head.
Maybe if it hadn't been casual Friday and I had been wearing my heels, my hand might have gone to my nose or so.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Celebrity? Where?!
Status and popularity have always meant very little to me. In my personal life, if I liked a person, I liked a person and that was that. They were my friend. If I didn't, I didn't and I had no cares about their personal lives and rumors about them, just because they might be "popular." I never knew the high school gossip that was going around because, basically, if we weren't friends, I didn't care what was, or supposedly was, going on with you.
So I suppose because of this mentality, I never understood the hype around tabloids and why paparazzi are so obsessive about chasing celebrities down for the money shot. I always wondered who could possibly care about watching Matt Damon walk down the street with a Coke in his hand.
I said wondered.
This was before I met my first D-List celebrity, Davy Jones. I didn't even care about The Monkees until I knew they were going to be in my hometown the summer that I was 18. Then suddenly, I needed to prepare for his arrival by listening to songs that I always knew, but didn't realize I knew. I needed to watch his cameo on Brady Bunch: The Movie. I needed to be ready to send my vibes to him so when he sang "Girl.... look what you've done to me...." he knew from stage that he was singing it just to me... um, even if he was 55 when I was 18. Details, details.
That summer, The Monkees came, they sang, they left the stage, like performers do. My boyfriend (husband now), his sister and I enjoyed the show, went back to their house and hung out... then we decided to drive back to the stage to see if they had left yet. Lo and behold, their buses were still there, so we decided to stand by a gate to see what we could see.
And wouldn't you know, Davy Jones came walking out, all 4'2 of him, in a smoking jacket and leisure pants and greeted about 15 of us who were waving at him. My boyfriend guided me towards the gate, since I am all of 5'1 and he is 6'4, so I could see him and I gave Davy my ticket to sign. The Sister spoke to him. Yes. She spoke to him and he spoke back. I believe that's a conversation? Davy never saw me, because he had to look over my head to see The Sister. So while they spoke, I reached out my right hand and... wait for it.... touched Davy Jones's hand.
*sigh*
He gave me my signed ticket, I turned around and I screamed.
For a 55-year-old D-List celebrity who I didn't care about two weeks before that day, I screamed like I had just seen something rise from the dead. Only happier.
So, though I don't support at all what the paparazzi do to celebrities, I get the public's obsession with tabloids. I, personally, have an obsession with celebrity news on E! and the occasional check on TMZ.com, which has recently died down. I was much more sensible when I was a teenager and didn't care about them. Now when I hear that a celebrity is in town, I go out of my way to make sure I'm in the vicinity.
So I suppose because of this mentality, I never understood the hype around tabloids and why paparazzi are so obsessive about chasing celebrities down for the money shot. I always wondered who could possibly care about watching Matt Damon walk down the street with a Coke in his hand.
I said wondered.
This was before I met my first D-List celebrity, Davy Jones. I didn't even care about The Monkees until I knew they were going to be in my hometown the summer that I was 18. Then suddenly, I needed to prepare for his arrival by listening to songs that I always knew, but didn't realize I knew. I needed to watch his cameo on Brady Bunch: The Movie. I needed to be ready to send my vibes to him so when he sang "Girl.... look what you've done to me...." he knew from stage that he was singing it just to me... um, even if he was 55 when I was 18. Details, details.
That summer, The Monkees came, they sang, they left the stage, like performers do. My boyfriend (husband now), his sister and I enjoyed the show, went back to their house and hung out... then we decided to drive back to the stage to see if they had left yet. Lo and behold, their buses were still there, so we decided to stand by a gate to see what we could see.
And wouldn't you know, Davy Jones came walking out, all 4'2 of him, in a smoking jacket and leisure pants and greeted about 15 of us who were waving at him. My boyfriend guided me towards the gate, since I am all of 5'1 and he is 6'4, so I could see him and I gave Davy my ticket to sign. The Sister spoke to him. Yes. She spoke to him and he spoke back. I believe that's a conversation? Davy never saw me, because he had to look over my head to see The Sister. So while they spoke, I reached out my right hand and... wait for it.... touched Davy Jones's hand.
*sigh*
He gave me my signed ticket, I turned around and I screamed.
For a 55-year-old D-List celebrity who I didn't care about two weeks before that day, I screamed like I had just seen something rise from the dead. Only happier.
So, though I don't support at all what the paparazzi do to celebrities, I get the public's obsession with tabloids. I, personally, have an obsession with celebrity news on E! and the occasional check on TMZ.com, which has recently died down. I was much more sensible when I was a teenager and didn't care about them. Now when I hear that a celebrity is in town, I go out of my way to make sure I'm in the vicinity.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
We-ent to the chapel...
So the two year wedding anniversary is coming up in a week. Since we just started new jobs, we don't have any vacation time to take a "real" vacation somewhere to celebrate the way that we'd like. We'll be pretending that we're somewhere far away from Friday night until Sunday evening.
Every year, and by every year, I mean last year and now this year, the wedding anniversary makes me miss the actual wedding day. I miss knowing that all of our dearest loved ones are taking a day off just to party with us for a night. We were so blessed for that! I miss getting dressed up like a princess, complete with paying someone to do my hair for the first time in my life and a drag queen doing my make-up, just for one night. I really miss having a paparazzo follow us all around, and dancing nonstop to great music for about six hours. Most girls spend their days dreaming about the dresses and flowers when they think of their wedding day. I always dreamt of the party, and enjoyed mine so much that I've missed it ever since. I wish I could have a huge party with my loved ones and the same DJ and the same photographer and fancy dresses and a drag queen to do my make up every year.
This year, we're doing our "vacation" the weekend before our anniversary, and right now, it looks like it might resemble our honeymoon. Kevin and I were both sick on our honeymoon and Kevin is sick right now. Our original plan was to rent a cabin and a pontoon and spend the weekend enjoying nature. Now I'm thinking we might rent a busload of movies and camp out in our living room while he coughs up his lungs, one at a time.
I guess instead of escaping to nature to pretend we're somewhere far away, I could rent movies like Chicago, Notting Hill, and Leaving Las Vegas so we can feel like we've spent our weekend traveling...
Every year, and by every year, I mean last year and now this year, the wedding anniversary makes me miss the actual wedding day. I miss knowing that all of our dearest loved ones are taking a day off just to party with us for a night. We were so blessed for that! I miss getting dressed up like a princess, complete with paying someone to do my hair for the first time in my life and a drag queen doing my make-up, just for one night. I really miss having a paparazzo follow us all around, and dancing nonstop to great music for about six hours. Most girls spend their days dreaming about the dresses and flowers when they think of their wedding day. I always dreamt of the party, and enjoyed mine so much that I've missed it ever since. I wish I could have a huge party with my loved ones and the same DJ and the same photographer and fancy dresses and a drag queen to do my make up every year.
This year, we're doing our "vacation" the weekend before our anniversary, and right now, it looks like it might resemble our honeymoon. Kevin and I were both sick on our honeymoon and Kevin is sick right now. Our original plan was to rent a cabin and a pontoon and spend the weekend enjoying nature. Now I'm thinking we might rent a busload of movies and camp out in our living room while he coughs up his lungs, one at a time.
I guess instead of escaping to nature to pretend we're somewhere far away, I could rent movies like Chicago, Notting Hill, and Leaving Las Vegas so we can feel like we've spent our weekend traveling...
Monday, May 26, 2008
My Life List
Some people have a list of things they want to do before they turn 30. I don't really know why 30 is the cut-off point. That seems awfully young. If you did everything you wanted to do by 30, then what are you supposed to do with the 50+ years you have left with your life?
Instead, I'm taking Ellen DeGeneres's suggestion and creating a Life List. This is a work in progress. I've never actually sat down and written one up. Every now and then, I just think, "Ah! That goal is on the Life List!" It's just things I want to accomplish in my life. Big goals and small.
Getting published is one of them *check*
Getting nationally published is another.
Working for a TV station is one of them. *check*
Moving out of Burlington is another. *check*
Visiting England, Scotland, and France were on there. *check, check, check*
Going back is on it, too.
Learning another language, then going to a country that speaks that language is on it.
Basically, I just want to travel a lot, both overseas and around the country.
Going to the Ellen DeGeneres Show is on it.
Bonus Points if I get to dance with Ellen.
Joining the Young @ Heart Choir when I'm retired is on it, assuming they still exist. I hope I remember that in 45 years.
Of course, I also plan never to fully retire.
Meet John Stamos. Yes, that's a must.
Maybe I want to buy a vacation home on a beach.
But maybe I want to spend that money travelling somewhere new every year.
Build a house for Habitat for Humanity in a community that really needs it.
Live in a loft with a great view.
Kayak! I'd rather kayak with somebody, but I don't know anyone right now who is interested in going with me.
Jet ski on one of the Great Lakes.
Make a difference. I don't know what that means, yet. Maybe I mean organizing a charity event. Maybe I mean volunteering in a bigger way than I have in the past. I just want to leave my mark somehow.
Hm... I guess this will do for the Life List for the moment, but I know there are way more things that belong on here.
Instead, I'm taking Ellen DeGeneres's suggestion and creating a Life List. This is a work in progress. I've never actually sat down and written one up. Every now and then, I just think, "Ah! That goal is on the Life List!" It's just things I want to accomplish in my life. Big goals and small.
Getting published is one of them *check*
Getting nationally published is another.
Working for a TV station is one of them. *check*
Moving out of Burlington is another. *check*
Visiting England, Scotland, and France were on there. *check, check, check*
Going back is on it, too.
Learning another language, then going to a country that speaks that language is on it.
Basically, I just want to travel a lot, both overseas and around the country.
Going to the Ellen DeGeneres Show is on it.
Bonus Points if I get to dance with Ellen.
Joining the Young @ Heart Choir when I'm retired is on it, assuming they still exist. I hope I remember that in 45 years.
Of course, I also plan never to fully retire.
Meet John Stamos. Yes, that's a must.
Maybe I want to buy a vacation home on a beach.
But maybe I want to spend that money travelling somewhere new every year.
Build a house for Habitat for Humanity in a community that really needs it.
Live in a loft with a great view.
Kayak! I'd rather kayak with somebody, but I don't know anyone right now who is interested in going with me.
Jet ski on one of the Great Lakes.
Make a difference. I don't know what that means, yet. Maybe I mean organizing a charity event. Maybe I mean volunteering in a bigger way than I have in the past. I just want to leave my mark somehow.
Hm... I guess this will do for the Life List for the moment, but I know there are way more things that belong on here.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Kickin' It Old School
I love a clean house, I hate cleaning. Loathe it. But I happen to live with a piglet. Not my tiny furry porker of a dog, but the pet giant who has a habit of leaving things around the apartment without realizing it. We've been hitched for nearly two years and I've tried to work on the whole "There's a place for everything, so lets put everything in it's place" bit... but so far I'm just proud that I've got him putting his dirty dishes in the kitchen. But I digress. He was gone this evening, so cleaning was left up to me and I needed to set the mood. I decided the best way to approach this was to bust out a '90s concert in this place. In the bathroom, I was Britney Spears, throwing my hair around while I sang. In the office, I was the Spice Girls, complete with the British accent. In the family room, I created stellar dance moves for my dog's entertainment to Back Street Boys... okay, my dog looked scared and snuggled deeper into the couch cushions, but I found it entertaining and before I knew it, the apartment was clean. I didn't realize what I was doing, because I tricked myself with the perfect music.
I think I was in the mood for old school music because earlier this evening, I was driving around when "I Swear" by All-4-One came on and I was suddenly back in middle school. Random memories of teachers, classes, friends, and silly crushes went through my mind, just because of this song, but the strangest thing of all was... I don't remember the last time I heard this song, but I knew every word and every beat. So there I was, in the middle of Coralville at a stoplight, jamming to the song by myself. I looked up at one point and noticed a man looking at me with an envious, "I'll have what she's having" look (at least, I like to think it was envious), and I continued jamming. Then I was just breaking it down at one of my favorite parts when I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a car quickly approaching. First, I felt flattered, because, you know, maybe he was driving so fast because he wanted to watch me throw it down at the best part. Then I realized that the light was now green. I don't know how long it had been green... I was too busy kickin' it old school for my imaginary audience to care. So I hurried up and put the pedal to the metal and acted all nonchalant...
... as if we all don't jam in our car when we're alone.
I think I was in the mood for old school music because earlier this evening, I was driving around when "I Swear" by All-4-One came on and I was suddenly back in middle school. Random memories of teachers, classes, friends, and silly crushes went through my mind, just because of this song, but the strangest thing of all was... I don't remember the last time I heard this song, but I knew every word and every beat. So there I was, in the middle of Coralville at a stoplight, jamming to the song by myself. I looked up at one point and noticed a man looking at me with an envious, "I'll have what she's having" look (at least, I like to think it was envious), and I continued jamming. Then I was just breaking it down at one of my favorite parts when I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a car quickly approaching. First, I felt flattered, because, you know, maybe he was driving so fast because he wanted to watch me throw it down at the best part. Then I realized that the light was now green. I don't know how long it had been green... I was too busy kickin' it old school for my imaginary audience to care. So I hurried up and put the pedal to the metal and acted all nonchalant...
... as if we all don't jam in our car when we're alone.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
A story for Mother's Day
How is it that mom's know everything? Is it just one of those things that comes with being a mother? Like, this one lady I know got this medical condition that she didn't have before after she got pregnant that she'll now always have. It's just part of the deal that came with having her baby. Other people I know had conditions during their pregnancies that went away after the birth. Again, just part of being a mom. So pregnancy just has a way of messing with a mom's health, and I wonder... do pregnancies give moms a seventh sense (because, you know, the sixth one is talking to ghosts) when their child is born? So they just alway know what their child is up to, even when said child isn't in their presence?
When I was about four years old, my brothers were at school and I was playing alone in the basement. I was making masterpieces for my mom with paper, crayons and scissors. After a while, I was worn from being such a prodigy and examined the scissors and thought about how those are also used to cut hair. I decided to see what pleasure the hair stylist gets from slicing hair from scissors, so I took one, just one strand, I'm very sure, of hair from the front of my head and cut it. The sensation was all right, but didn't lead to any dreams of becoming a stylist. Really, I was more concerned about the scissors in one hand and evidence of cutting my hair in the other, and something in my belly told me that cutting my own hair wasn't a good thing. So I looked around for a place to hide this one, just one, strand of hair. My eyes landed on the couch cushion behind me, so I lifted it and hid the hair there, satisfied that it would be gone forever. No one would ever know about my experience as a barber.
In case someone should approach me with a spotlight and questions like, "Where were you Thursday at 11:30 am?" I decided to meander upstairs to the kitchen for an alibi, so I could look like I had just been making my masterpieces, then had gone upstairs for lunch. The moment my second foot touched the kitchen floor, my mother turned around and casually asked, "Meghan, did you cut your hair?" I didn't think she had even looked at me, yet. More astoundingly, I couldn't believe, of all the kabillions of hairs on my head, she spotted the one strand that I had cut!
How did she do that?
It's her seventh sense.
When I was about four years old, my brothers were at school and I was playing alone in the basement. I was making masterpieces for my mom with paper, crayons and scissors. After a while, I was worn from being such a prodigy and examined the scissors and thought about how those are also used to cut hair. I decided to see what pleasure the hair stylist gets from slicing hair from scissors, so I took one, just one strand, I'm very sure, of hair from the front of my head and cut it. The sensation was all right, but didn't lead to any dreams of becoming a stylist. Really, I was more concerned about the scissors in one hand and evidence of cutting my hair in the other, and something in my belly told me that cutting my own hair wasn't a good thing. So I looked around for a place to hide this one, just one, strand of hair. My eyes landed on the couch cushion behind me, so I lifted it and hid the hair there, satisfied that it would be gone forever. No one would ever know about my experience as a barber.
In case someone should approach me with a spotlight and questions like, "Where were you Thursday at 11:30 am?" I decided to meander upstairs to the kitchen for an alibi, so I could look like I had just been making my masterpieces, then had gone upstairs for lunch. The moment my second foot touched the kitchen floor, my mother turned around and casually asked, "Meghan, did you cut your hair?" I didn't think she had even looked at me, yet. More astoundingly, I couldn't believe, of all the kabillions of hairs on my head, she spotted the one strand that I had cut!
How did she do that?
It's her seventh sense.
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