Category: Learnin’ ‘Em Kids

I teach. Most of these posts are password-protected.

I Got Nothin

A number of people have told me they enjoy my blog. One guy said I’m his favorite blogger (buffs nails on shirt). A couple friends have mentioned they get mad when there are no new posts. This is all flattering, to say the least.

I love writing this blog. I look forward to the time, after work is finished and the dogs are fed and exercised, when I can sit down at my computer and put words into cyberspace.

And, I realized today that when I’m writing is the only time that I don’t think about food at all. So I’d like to do it as much as possible.

But, I have to admit, sometimes I have nothing to say. No—often I have nothing to say.

Part of me worries that I have a finite number of stories knocking around in my brain. Like I’m a vessel, and once I pour out the stories, all done.

And to a certain extent, that’s true. I have a terrible memory. Terrible. I think it’s because I started eating compulsively when I was in second grade, and if there’s one thing addiction does to a person, it robs her of the ability to be in the present moment. I was so fixated on the food that could satiate my demons that I just didn’t encode what was happening around me. So stories from the era when I was frequently and heavily binge-eating? (That would be 7 to 34ish.) Few and far between.

I try to remind myself that new things happen to me all the time, and I can write about those things. And that content on this blog is generated, not unloaded, and I can generate content any time, out of anything.

A lot of the time though, I got nothin. I futz around the house, I peruse only-sort-of friends’ Disney vacation photos on Facebook, I call people and answer emails. And I fret because I have no words.

However.

I’ve found a damn-near foolproof method of sparking an idea. I’ve used it a bunch of times, and it’s always rendered some catalyst for me. Here’s hoping I don’t jinx it. Ready?

I do nothing for two minutes.

Sometimes I have to do nothing for four minutes, but it has never taken more than that. In two to four minutes, something bubbles to the surface, and I start banging away on this keyboard.

So if you’re feeling uninspired, or overwhelmed, or underwhelmed, try it. And let me know what you think. (And if you have other means of inspiration, do tell.)

No Such Thing as TMI, Part 3

Age thirty-five is better than 25 for many reasons.

One, my mid-twenties were rife with binge-eating and obsessive food thoughts and body hatred. I still have the thoughts and the hatred but with less frequency and intensity, and I have left the bingeing behind me.

Two, at 25, I still thought that just because I was good at something meant I should be doing it for a living. I kept saying to myself, “Ack! I don’t like this sales job either. I should get a different sales job.” Took me a long time to realize that it was the sales part, not the job part, that was making me miserable.

Three (and this is related to two), I’m getting better at determining cause and effect. That horrible gas and cramping? Yeah, don’t eat dairy, Ame. That crushing fatigue? You’re a glutard.

So, overall, my fourth decade is superior to my third.

There are lots of things about getting older, however, that don’t work for me. I have previously cataloged them. I’m getting gray hair and crows’ feet. (Yet I still get zits.) If I sit on the floor for more than five minutes, I have to kinda work out my knees—which snap, crackle, pop—before I stand up. I’m still pathologically incapable of finding an appropriate mate.

The thing that has caused me the most distress, in this journey toward the geriatric, is the urgency with which I now have to pee. A decade ago, I never woke up in the middle of the night. Now, it’s twice, thrice, even frice sometimes. During the day, I used to notice a gentle pressure in my bladder and know that I’d need to find a bathroom in the next hour or two. Today, it’s no pressure…no pressure…and then ABSOLUTELY NON-NEGOTIABLE.

Last night, I learned a little lesson. In case my cause/effect analysis goes on the fritz, I’m writing myself a little note here for reference.

Dear Amy,
If, when babysitting, you’re playing Ghost in the Graveyard outside in the crisp February air after dark, and you are the Ghost, and you hide behind the composter, and the kids find you and scream at the top of their lungs, you will pee a little bit in your pants.
(And jam your ring finger on the composter.)
Love,
Amy