Paula Deen Notes

I object to it being said that she "MADE" people sick. She did not. First of all, chefs have been selling butter-and-lard laden recipe books since the dawn of time. Second, all of the scientific research into obesity that has NOT been conducted by someone trying to sell you something related to it (i.e. obesity drugs, surgical devices, etc.) has shown that people's bodies are very individual things, and that what might make one person obese will just cause another to gain 10lbs...and stay there. Furthermore, her choices about her body and career are just that...HER choices. Women have just as much right to eat whole sticks of butter and then decide they no longer wish to eat whole sticks of butter as they do to select birth control options and terminate pregnancies: the rules of bodily autonomy do not apply only to things we find aesthetically pleasing.

Ron, it's not like that at all. Cigarettes are unsafe and addictive, there is no "safe" number of cigarettes you can smoke--they are all harmful. Food, on the other hand, is something your body needs for fuel. I don't remember (but I'm not a PD follower, so maybe I just don't know about it?) Paula Deen saying that people should eat her fatty recipes to the exclusion of healthy ones--she just offers them up. It's up to us individually to select what foods we want for our own lifestyles. If someone wants to eat all Paula Deen recipes, all the time, go for it. But I don't think she's ever suggested such a thing.

Also, I get it. The fat southern lady with the funny accent who makes the white trash food has the diabetes. It's funny! Only it's not; it's not any funnier than if Gordon Ramsay's beef Wellingtons eventually led to HIM having type 2 diabetes. High-falutin' dishes are JUST as high in fat and calories as lowly gooey butter cakes.

t is "morally wrong" for her to act as a spokesperson for a drug she is taking to help control her disease? *Blink blink*. Whether or not she is able to lose the weight, this drug has been associated with a higher success rate of weight loss and diabetes control. She has every right to use it, and further to leverage her fame into spokesperson money. I think most anyone would do that, if given the opportunity. I mean, I'll gladly act as a spokesperson for my birth control or vitamins, any time they ask. Look, you can like her, you can hate her, you can like or hate her food and recipes. But her weight is not a moral issue, and it is not a moral failing. Food and weight are NOT moral issues--if all of America could just swallow that, we would probably have a lot less of the disordered eating that can lead to both obesity and anorexia/bulimia.

‎@Kemper -- I actually just happened to remember it from previous work I performed, but here is a link that discusses patient satisfaction, A1c control, and weight loss all being higher with Victoza than similar drugs. http://www.worldpharmanews.com/novonordisk/1391-patient-satisfaction-is-significantly-higher-with-injectable-victozar

And actually, for many patients, a drug IS necessary to control the disease. For some, eventually dietary and lifestyle changes are enough to keep it in check, but that is not true for everyone. Diet and exercise are NOT the "first remedy" for everyone--that all depends on quite a few chemical factors. The thing is, everyone is so hot to be all, "Oh, Paula Deen has type 2 diabetes?! Hardy har, OBVIOUSLY!", but it's not "obvious". We don't actually know what causes type 2 diabetes. While weight and diet are clearly correlating factors, they aren't the cause--or everyone who is overweight/obese or eats a poor diet would have type 2 diabetes. They don't.

And I totally agree that she IS a brand--I think that's probably why we're not hearing about all of this till now--her brand isn't exactly built on health food preparation. But I don't think she owed us a report of her diagnoses, whatever they may be--celeb or no, she gets to keep her medical history under wraps.

Look, I am not a Paula Deen fan. I don't believe that mayonnaise should get its own brick on the food pyramid. But I really object to her being painted as though she has been selling us poison and now is shilling antidote. She didn't. She provided recipes. We could choose to make a dish each day, eat nothing but a spoonful of it, and throw the rest out; thereby slowly starving ourselves. Or we could choose to make 5 of her dishes every day and scarf them all while sitting on a pile of dead puppies. It's in our hands.

Week 1 Exercises

If I'm going to make a go of this thing, I have to do it. So here we go.

Time Travel - List 3 Old Enemies of Your Creative Self-Worth


1. Many a teacher I had during my catholic school years, with the librarian, Sister Francis Miriam, leading the way in General Horridness.
2. Mean classmates I had during the same years; classmates who did all they could to make me feel awful and worthless. They really were quite successful.
3. Myself. After the influence of both of the above, I think I became my own worst enemy. Constantly questioning my ability, myself; constantly telling myself how untalented and unworthy I am. Bad stuff.

Time Travel: Select and Write Out One Story From Your Monster Hall of Fame

In keeping with #1, above, I'm going to recount one particularly terrible story about Sister Francis Miriam, the meanest librarian ever known. I was an advanced reader from a fairly young age, and I tended to favor books that would have been far beyond most of my classmates. For the most part (although, honestly, not always), I understood them. Sometimes, I didn't entirely "get" them or didn't pick up the double entendre, but hell, that could be said about many people. Anyway, I no longer remember how old I was at the time, but I remember that I wanted to check out a series of 2 books, one of them "The Hobbit" and one of them a book I had already read previously (I think it was "Cougar", but I can't swear to it). She flatly refused to let me get either book, and probably said something nasty. I was humiliated and flustered, and ended up selecting a book about dog care called "A Puppy For You" (I was a bit obsessed with animals and pets!) Well, when she checked it out, she laughed out loud at me and announced to my class in a snide, mocking voice, "Hahaha, would you look at that? I told Amanda she couldn't check out XYZ and look what she chose instead. 'A Puppy For You'. HAHAHAHA!" I remember the way the hard wooden chair felt pressed against my thighs, I remember cutting my eyes furiously at her, sending her daggers of hatred. But mostly I remember how humiliated I was, how much I just plain didn't want to be there, didn't want to ever draw attention to myself by trying to be smart again. God, what a bitch she was. Why was it necessary to be so cruel and hateful?

Write a letter to the editor in your defense


Dear Editor,

Sister Francis Miriam shouldn't have been so mean to Amanda. She only wanted to check out a book to read so she could have a way to escape her miserable life, and Sister was mean and nasty. Amanda should be able to check out whatever book she wants from the school library -- we only go from grades K - 8, so there really isn't much danger of her reading something "inappropriate" for her. We're all close to the same age, and if she can understand those thick books I think she should be able to read them. Furthermore, there is nothing wrong with reading a book that is not particularly challenging. We all need to relax and enjoy ourselves; everything shouldn't be a chore.

I also am made to understand that it was Sister Francis Miriam who once said to Amanda (who was bored in a class that she was probably too smart for and doodling on her notebook), "A doodle is a sign of a weak mind." Obviously, that's a completely untrue statement. I have a feeling that brilliant people have been doodling to help themselves work things out, keep their minds occupied, and just plain for fun since time began. Probably, doodling is actually a sign of a strong mind.

Sister Francis Miriam really is a bitch, sir. Let's keep her away from poor sweet Amanda.

Yours Truly,

Fake Me

Ok, that's enough for tonight.

It used to be, long ago, that if only the guy I was living with could get a part-time job as a sandwich artist at Subway, we'd have enough money to pay the rent. If only. (He didn't, by the way. And we didn't. And we got kicked out.)

Then, it was if only the same guy could sell a car. Just SELL a car already. Then we can make rent. Then you can stop going to work day after day and not getting paid. Then we can keep this apartment. (He didn't, we didn't, we got kicked out. Again. Eventually I got rid of him.)

I got myself together and went back to school, and then if only I could get a job in the computer lab, I'd have enough pocket money to go out and get a beer. If I could get a part-time job waiting tables, I'd maybe be able to buy some cheese sticks, too. (I did, I did, I did, I did.)

Then I moved off-campus, and the money at the first restaurant dried up. If only I could get a job at the suburban high-dollar chain, I could make rent and not have to cash the patronizing $100 check my then-boyfriend had left for me "to buy books" before he dropped out of college and moved back to the east coast. I did, and there was plenty of money. Enough for rent and clothes and all the fun I wanted.

I left the job waiting tables when I moved for grad school. I was a grad assistant, but we got paid only so often, and the student loan money didn't go very far in pricey Boston. I paid almost as much for my share of the rent as our 3-bedroom apartment in Cleveland had cost. I hung on for awhile, but it became too much to manage. I needed another job. If only I could get a job temping, that would fill the gaps and pay the rent and maybe even buy actual food. I did, and it did.

I graduated, I was living with someone again. If only I could get an actual job in my field and quit the temping gig, I would be able to afford my student loan payments and a reasonable share of the rent. (He would probably still have to pay when we went out to eat, though.) I finally did, and it did, and I even bought a car.

Then we bought a house and were getting married and I was starting a new job and I got pregnant. And I lost the new job. But it was Ok, I would get another job after the wedding/after the baby was born/after the baby got to be 6/9/12 months old/maybe never. But I missed working. If only I could get the job working part-time for the health startup, it would contribute financially and give me something to keep my finger on the pulse of the working world. And I did and it did, till it eventually completely changed directions and eliminated almost all of its staff, me included.

And my husband stretched his wings and went for another job, it was a shaky proposition but it paid about $10k more than his previous job, so he went for it. And it was awful but he hung in there, and eventually they ran out of money and he was looking for a job. And I wasn't working and he wasn't working and it was scary, but only a little because the recruiters circled like vultures. If only he could get a job making another $15k a year, we would be so much better off. If only. And he did, and another $20k on top of that besides.

We sold our house and we bought another house and I was pregnant again and we had another baby. And now I couldn't go back to work, because the economy is awful and jobs in my field(s) don't pay enough to keep the kids in daycare. So I'm home and I'm freelancing when I can find the time and I'm setting a goal: If only I can make xyz (almost as much as my first full-time gig out of grad school), it would really help out. And it's totally doable, if a wee bit lofty. Things are tight, sometimes. My husband works to increase his income by another $20k. Or more. We call it a "struggle", and by the end of the month we're not going out to eat any more and I'm pulling food out of the freezer instead of buying fresh stuff at Whole Foods. We wish we could buy a new car and renovate the kitchen.

I wrote all of this because sometimes, I think it is easy to get caught up in the rhythm of the struggle, to say to yourself "I am someone who has had to struggle for everything I've gotten.". And that may be true--we all struggle. But sometimes if you're busy looking at the struggle, you miss the progress you've made along the way. And you might mistake yourself for a scared 19-year-old who just wishes her loser boyfriend could get hired at a fast-food joint so she'll still have a place to live, when really you're nothing like that person any more, not at all.

Semantics

It's been forever, she says.
Forever.
It can't have been forever, I protest. Forever is used too lightly. Too conversationally.
Forever.
What is forever to someone like you, I think and do not say.
Is forever as long as it takes for a bad haircut to grow out
Like that time you got fed up and lopped off your bangs
Hunched over our dorm sink, OfficeMax shears in hand
Laughing with your teeth
It grew back, though, that's the thing.
Is forever as long as it takes to learn all the bones in human anatomy
Distal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, proximal phalanges, metacarpels, carpels,
Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate
I could never think of a mnemonic device to remember all of them
And those are just the ones in the hand and wrist.
Is forever as long as it takes to find the perfect lo mein
Trying the Chinas Pearl, Harbor, Inn, Taste, and Palace
Before moving to the Dragons of the same.
None were right, you said.
So I kept driving
And we kept ordering lo mein.
Those things all took time. Not as much time as it's been.
Not quite "forever".
Forever is longer.
It stretches, swells, takes up more space than you planned to allot it.
In the span of "forever" you can love a person so much that it makes you feel like a wrung-out washcloth
Or maybe a crushed soda can
Or one of those vacuum-sealed storage bags they advertise late at night
And then hate them ferociously
In a way that scorches your insides
And fills instead of empties you.
But forever is long enough for you to empty again
Day by day
Drop by drop
Until you feel neither love nor hate
Just a slightly foggy haze of regret
When your emotions' object plants herself in your path and says, "It's been forever".
Yes, I agree. It has.
It's been forever.

Dog

The Dog had been lying quietly on the floor for some time when He returned home. She woke with a start and clambered ungracefully to her feet, sending tumbleweeds of dust scattering across the weathered hardwoods. Her nails, longer than they should have been but not quite meeting the criteria for 'neglect', tap-tapped on the floor as she stretched like a yogi, first front legs then rear, and walked the few steps to the front door. His keys jangled and fumbled in the lock, he would be inside with her soon. She bent her legs as if to sit, but squatted instead, kept the weight in her paws so she could easily jump up to greet him when he crossed the threshold. Her tail beats a brisk staccato on the hallway floor.

The door swings inward with a creak, striking her sharply in the chest. The Dog leaps back, a bit surprised by the pain, but her tail doesn't stop wagging. His voice bursts forth, first her name loud and frustrated, then trailing off into other words she doesn't recognize and finally her name again, soft and apologetic this time. His hand thumps her ribcage, a dull hollow sound. She wriggles with pleasure.

Then the thunking of the bag he takes with him when he left the house each day, his body leaning over to drop it gently at the foot of the curving staircase, the weight of all he carried collapsing to the floor. The sound of his voice again, calling to Her, loud enough to close the distance from the door to the kitchen where She's making the clinking sounds that usually mean cooking and food and dinner. No food smells now, just a dry musty newspaper smell, and more clattering. She answers him, faintly, her voice sounding strained, as if she's trying to swallow something dense and unyielding. He presses his hand against his forehead, mashes his fingers into his eye sockets. The Dog watches, thumps her tail hopefully against the floor. He heaves a great breath, his chest expanding till the buttons threaten to pop from his shirt. His hands fall back to his sides, and he begins walking towards the kitchen, the sound of the old hardwoods creaking as he goes. The Dog gets up and follows him.

carry me ohio

One of those songs I want to wrap around me like a blanket, stand alone on a mountain in the cold with eyes closed, let myself feel warmed by it.
I don't want to know the lyrics, because they couldn't possibly make it better, might make it worse, might do something to take away from Mark Kozelek's eerie haunting voice.
If I could write the way he sings, with that soul-piercing, achingly beautiful quality, than I would never need more than that. If I could just unload emotions so poignantly, I would feel always cleansed.
For some reason, it makes me think of dried out corn husks, the quietly broken-down reeds of autumn stacked in fields. The soybeans, dried and brown but soft with fuzz, hanging dully off the plants. Plodding onward, hair scattering around my head. Cold and dry and alone, and I'll always be alone, and I'll never know how to let anyone relieve me of being alone.

Have I yet? Have I figured out how not to push people away, how to stop forcing myself to be alone? Sometimes I catch myself still living in my own log cabin, peering out at other people through the windows I constructed, finding reasons that we can't relate.

Exacizing Doz Chompas - Describe Your Mental Partition

You're supposed to use a "mental partition" to separate yourself from opinions and half-truths that keep you from writing, apparently. I'm supposed to describe mine here. This seemed silly to me at first, so imagine my surprise when one appeared almost immediately in my mind.

My partition is tall, but not too tall. Maybe not tall enough to protect me? It's made of looping vines, roses and ivy, climbing high and thick up a verdigris trellis. Pink cabbage roses bloom here and there. Thorns jab out everywhere, threatening to prick the fingers of anyone who dares to scale my partition. It's lovely, but sinister at the same time, sort of like the thorn thickets that surrounded Sleeping Beauty in the classic Disney film.

Surrounding myself with this partition feels strangely stifling. You would think I'd feel protected, since it's supposed to be keeping out the festering negativity that keeps me from writing. But no, instead I feel trapped. Maybe I need to make my space bigger. Can I see enough of the world to accurately describe it? Am I limiting myself? No, I'm just keeping out the negativity--why would that feel stifling?

For the next part of the exercise, I'm supposed to write about what I'll tell myself when the negativity seeps in and threatens to bring my writing to a grinding halt. What will I tell myself?

Barbara DeMarco-Barrett (that's the author, maybe I'll remember her name now!) suggests her own line/mantra: Someone has to make it, why not me? Yeah, it sounds a little Al Franken, but isn't he a Congressman now anyway?

Someone has to make it. And why shouldn't it be me? I'm witty, intelligent, insightful. I can dig up a compliment here and there that reminds me of my good (and relevant) qualities...I need to remind myself of them. Yes, sometimes I give people pause. No one is saying that I rock, hard. But remember, I'm untrained. I've never taken a professional or college-level writing course. Get me some training, get me some experience, and I'll rock your freaking socks off. If I'm this good NOW (and by that, I mean good enough that my work gleans compliments, etc.) think of how good I'll be once I've got some experience under my belt.

And one day, when I've made it, i can tell those stories of the lonely little girl who lived in the middle of nowhere and entertained herself by making up stories in her head as she walked back and forth in the yard, or bounced the ball in the solarium, or played Zim-Zam (remember Zim-Zam?). See--it's just pathetic enough to be endearing. Right?

Nothing worth doing is easy, that's what I tell my friends. I roll my eyes at people's inability to see the truths behind their actions. But it's hard to turn that microscope on myself. I have to remind myself that if I were my friend, I would encourage me to go for it, to stop lollygagging around and get to work, already. I'm not exactly getting ahead in my writing career just sitting here. And I don't want to grow old and always wonder what would have happened if I had ever really tried. There is no shame in trying. And those who don't try, really TRY, rarely succeed. Especially in a cutthroat business like this.

So I'll tell myself to heave a great breath, suck in my stomach, and push past the negativity. I don't like it here in the negative quicksand patch, so I'm getting the eff out. I'm going to rise above those nasty, negative voices. I'm going to succeed and flaunt my success for them, instead. Nothing worth doing is easy, right? And someone has to make it. There are thousands of freelance writers who are making a living as such, many of which aren't as witty or insightful as I. So, as Al Franken would say, why not me? Why not make a go of it?