A revised lesson in karma (3/26/2014)

Mama doesn’t care for the notion of karma.

I, on the other hand, love karma ­- when it works in my favor. As long as she’s not biting my tater, karma can be wonderful.

Mama tells me that is not the way I need to be.

Of course, I disagree with her. That’s my duty as a daughter – I am supposed to disagree with the one who birthed me.

I recounted my frustrations to her on the phone one afternoon, telling her the improprieties and transgressions that I felt were insidious beyond reproach. Mama listened gently, offering her suggestions of why maybe someone had committed said offense, playing devil’s advocate for the guilty.

I announced I was done with said transgressors. I said a few other choice words that Mama swears she never taught me.

“Kitten, I don’t think it’s wise to burn any bridge,” was Mama’s gentle advice on the matter.

“Mama, you have always said I was like Granny. You know what Granny would say? She would say make sure they were in the middle of the cussed bridge before you set fire to both ends.”

Mama had no reply for that. It was a Granny truism.

“Well, I think it is wrong to want to see people get that come uppance, Kitten. That is your karma if you do. Even the Bible tells us we won’t see what befalls our enemies or when but God’s judgment never fails. It is not your place to sit around waiting for bad to fall on someone in the meantime. You know better.”

In a lot of ways, Mama’s right. I didn’t tell her that fact, and hope you won’t tell her either. But I know I shouldn’t want to see the wrongs righted, my personal perpetrators shamed and under fire for their injustices. Am I the only one who remembers their raisin’?

Granted, the offenses had not broken any laws other than social ones, and given the lack of social decorum in many ways, a few of the people were probably innocent by way of ignorance.

“I think you may get frustrated when people don’t handle situations the way you would or do things in the way you would – you have always been quite aware of those social rules that should be followed, much like Granny, and remember when someone has slighted you regarding them.”

“So what are you saying, Mama?” I asked.

“I am saying you are going to have to let some of that go,” was her simple reply.

But I can’t. I am trying, but it’s hard. I ruminate on these discretions sometimes and then wonder why karma hasn’t infested some people with fleas in their nether regions.

“Stop that,” Mama will caution.

“You don’t want karma coming after you.”

No, I don’t. However, I also think I try to weigh my actions beforehand.

I get tired of being the one who takes that proverbial higher road Mama always talked about; I have had plenty of instances where undeserved karma ­-or maybe something else, bovine waste perhaps? – was delivered to my doorstep and I had to deal with it.

I think I am a halfway good person most of the time. I follow that “do unto others” and turn the other cheek. I do all those things I was taught to do, both from Mama and Granny and sometimes, the reward is less than pleasant. If anything, it makes me wonder how that well worn road is, the one that didn’t make all the dingdang difference but gave an easier albeit wickeder path.

I expressed all this to Mama, tired of being the “good” person all the time.

Forget Glinda the good witch; I wanted to be Elphaba, the rightful heir to the ruby red slippers.

“So why do I have to be the good one, Mama, and what difference does it make, if karma doesn’t come back and right the wrongs like she should?”

Mama was quiet. I thought maybe her phone had died or maybe in the midst of my diatribe she had put the phone down and went to make some coffee. She was there though, listening.

“I don’t know, Kitten,” she finally began. “But I do know this: One day, we all will have to answer for what we’ve done, good and bad. These people you’re telling me about, they may not be able to sleep at night. You do. And they have to live with themselves too. Don’t worry about what anyone else is doing or what karma’s got lined up for them. You just keep focusing on doing what you know you are supposed to do.”

“But why, Mama? I don’t get it.” I whined, I admit it. It was a pure, unadulterated juvenile whine.

“Because,” Mama began. “Their karma or whatever penance, punishment, etcetera, is really none of your business.”

May not have been the answer I wanted, or what I wanted to hear, but Mama, as usual, spoke the absolute truth.



In memory of a spitfire (3/19/2014)

Honestly, I thought she would live forever.

We had a running joke in our family about it -the meaner the women were, the longer they would live.

I reminded her of this the last time I saw her.

We had gone home to add Ava the German shepherd to our family and took her by to meet everyone. It was three weeks ago.

Granny informed me she needed some lotion.

Not any lotion, but the sweet pea lotion I had given her at Christmas.

“Bobby can’t find it anywhere,” she told me. She was probably thinking I had gotten her some bootleg goods.

“Did he go to Bath & Body Works?” I asked.

“What’s that?” she wanted to know.

I told her it was where the lotion was from; she said no, but they didn’t have it at Carmichael’s and she thought Carmichael’s had everything that was worth a flip.

“I will get you some for your birthday,” I promised.

“I might not make it that long,” she told me. Her birthday was in May.

“Oh, hush, old woman,” I admonished her. “You will. You know in this family, the meaner the women, the longer they live.”

She snorted. “Then you will outlive me, old gal.”

I hugged her, but not too tightly because the old gal had gotten frail in the last year, getting painfully thin despite her morning breakfast of fatback and biscuits. So I hugged her, and told her I would get her the lotion.

And for some reason since that day, I would make a mental note to go by the lotion and potion store and get her some.

Maybe I knew. Because I did think about that every day and check the calendar to see when I could get it and take it to her. I felt like I would run out of time, and in reality, I did.

Mama told me they had taken Granny to the ER two weeks later. Her rheumatism was making her hurt so badly, she couldn’t get any relief. But hospital and doctor visits were not uncommon.

A week later, Mama texted me around 2:30 p.m. – “Granny on way to hospital.”

“What’s wrong?” I replied.

“Not responsive,” was Mama’s short reply.

We waited. The waiting is the worst part. The worry and wondering, the praying, the hoping. We all thought she had come to the hospital before, under what seemed to be more dire circumstances, and come home a few days later; surely this would be the same and she’d come home. But she didn’t.

Mama asked me to come home, to help her get things ready. So I did.

The house was full with a deafening silence. Void of her larger than life personality, hollering for us to get something to eat as soon as we walked in, “Y’all gonna eat aren’t you? I have plenty. You can take some with you when y’all leave. Why don’t y’all spend the night?”

I couldn’t stay in there. I had to go sit outside in the yard, making Mama sit with me.

“What happened?” I asked her. I knew Mama had told me Granny hadn’t wanted anything to eat or drink for about 24 hours.

“She had laid down,” Mama began, “and I decided to cook something.” She paused at the face I made. “Don’t do that. I am a good cook.”

I mmmhmmed at her and motioned for her to continue.

“Well … it burned. And the fire alarm went off and when it went off and we made it stop, we realized … Granny didn’t wake up and come see what I had burned in the kitchen like she normally does.”

Mama stopped for a second, realizing what she just said. And then it happened. We busted out laughing.

“Lord Jesus, Mama … I knew your cooking would result in a 911 call one day.”

At the funeral home, we found those moments again, when the funeral director asked what Granny’s hobbies were other than quilting. Mama listed gardening and being active in her church, spending time with her family.

I added “getting in other people’s business.” Bobby had to quickly make sure that was not added to the list.

We laughed, reminiscing of the things Granny would say, what she would want. We found out she had called the funeral director three weeks earlier to begin her arrangements; she had dreamed she had passed and Mama and Bobby were running around trying to get everything ready and didn’t know what to do.

“She wouldn’t want us sitting around crying though,” I told Mama. “She would want us to remember her the way she was – strong, feisty and mean as the day is long.”

Mama agreed. Granny took pride in her strength.

She looked so pretty, so peaceful when I saw her. She was wearing a blue dress, in honor of the one she wore when she eloped to marry Pop.

Her coffin was flanked with two of the quilts she had made over the years. A memorial video played on the screen overhead that drew us in, the family – her family. She had been the last of 10 children, outliving her siblings. But their children were there.

The screen froze on an image of her standing, all 5’10 of her, mouth open as if she was about to speak.

“Look – she’s got her mouth open!” I whispered to her niece Dot. “She’s about to fuss someone out!”

She probably had. We both laughed. Over the lunch afterwards, so many good memories of her were shared. People that not just knew her, but loved her and were family. There was something so sweet, so tender about seeing family.

I fought tears during the service, because I am an ugly crier and like I said, Granny wouldn’t want me to cry. It would distract from the preacher talking about her.

But the next morning, after realizing she was really, truly gone, I let the tears freely fall.


Passing the turkey torch (previously published, 11/2010)

Growing up, Granny always did all of the cooking, especially on the holidays. My Thanksgiving memories were of her putting her turkey in the night before on low, so it would be nice and juicy. Cornbread was made in her cast iron skillet a few days ahead so she could use it in her dressing. Homemade coconut and banana cakes were made, along with sweet potato pies – her homemade fruitcake had already soaked in blackberry wine for a few weeks by the time Thanksgiving rolled around. She made a feast – enough to feed an army and rightfully so. Her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews rolled through our house to visit throughout the day, eating a bite here, a nibble there.

On Thanksgiving morning, I would curl up in the rocking chair, as Granny tucked a quilt around my feet and turned on the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. Good times, those early Thanksgiving memories.

As Granny got older, her time in the kitchen has been less. Stooped over with crippling scoliosis it was hard to lift out a huge roasting pan with a turkey.  She would try though, insisting  she would bring a full Thanksgiving when they came to visit. She’d be too worn out to even eat when she got there.

“I’ll cook Thanksgiving this year,” I announced a few years ago. “Are you sure?”Mama asked, sounding surprised. “Granny is getting too old to fool with such a big meal. I want to do this. It will help her out.”

Not even an hour later, Granny called. “Sug, your mama said you are planning on cooking Thanksgiving this year.”

“That’s right, Granny, don’t you worry about it.” I replied.

“Uh huh. You making the dressing?” she asked. I told her yes. “You making giblet gravy?” I told no, that I still didn’t know what a giblet was and didn’t want it on my dressing. “You can’t have dressing without giblet gravy,” she told me. “Then I will make some,” I sighed. “You want me to bring the turkey don’t you?” she asked. “I’m making the turkey, Granny. All I want you to bring is yourself.”

A week later, they showed up, Granny climbing out of the car, a frown on her face. “I brought some dressing just in case,” she told me.

“In case of what?” I asked.

“Yours ain’t fit to eat,” she said. Mama just shook her head, silently urging me not to start an argument. Accepting an early defeat and inevitable criticism, I followed my family into the house.

Granny paused long enough to take in the serving dishes piled high on the kitchen island, the turkey resting on the stove. She eyed a pot on the back burner. “That giblet gravy?” she inquired. I nodded. I had found a recipe on the Internet and made it, much to my dismay.

All through dinner, I waited for Granny to say something – how my dressing didn’t have enough sage, how I used mini-marshmallows on the sweet potato soufflé instead of the large, or the fact that instead of canned cranberry sauce, I made mine from fresh cranberries. Nothing. For once, the old gal was silent and ate without complaint.

When the dinner was finished and it was time for dessert, Granny eyed my pound cake. “That ain’t my recipe,” she noted. “No, Granny, I tweaked one I had in an old cookbook.”

“It’s brown, not yellow,” she snorted. Here it comes, I thought. “It’s the brown sugar in it, Granny.”

“I ain’t never heard of brown sugar in a pound cake,” she muttered, taking a piece anyway. I did not know until later she had a cake in the back of the car in case mine was not to her liking.

She ate it, and said nothing.

The next day, Mama called. “Granny wants that pound cake recipe.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am serious – she said that was the best darn pound cake she’s ever eaten. She never would have thought to put brown sugar in it,” Mama said. “In fact – and are you sitting down? – she said, and I quote, you did a fine job on the Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Really?” For Granny to say something nice, well, that was…well, that was truly a first.

“She did. She said you were as good of a cook as she is, maybe even better,” Mama said. “But of course, Granny giveth and Granny taketh away – she took all the credit because she said she taught you everything you know about cooking.”

With that admission, the cast-iron skillet was passed and the turkey duties are now mine.

But Granny still brings a pan of dressing with her. Just in case.

The fine discernment (previously published, 2/2011)

I have never claimed or pretended that my background was one of pretentious airs. My family stock was one of hardworking people – Granny grew up picking cotton, and then went on to work in a sewing plant where cotton was turned into work coats for other hardworking people. Pop and my Uncle Bobby were roofers, putting on roofs every day, no matter how hot, or how cold it was. They often came home tired, sweaty and covered in tar. Mama had a fine job as Granny called it, as a telephone operator, where she worked in an office and didn’t have to toil over hard physical labor.

I was dating my first – and former – husband, when Jeff Foxworthy’s “you might be a redneck” line of jokes first came out.

“I think you can relate to Jeff Foxworthy,” the ex said one evening. “Who?” I asked. I had not heard his routine yet and wondered how I could relate with this newly famous Georgia son. “You will, just trust me,” he said.

Now let me give you a little bit of back story. The ex always had an air about him that attempted to make you feel inferior. When I had dropped out of technical school shortly after we began dating, he was livid, saying he was ashamed to date a girl without a college education. He was told to get over himself, I was “taking a moment” to figure out what I wanted to do the rest of my life. But he loved to constantly point out that while his parents both had college degrees and professional careers, my divorced mom came from people who had toiled in “blue collar” positions. (I know what you’re thinking – Mama still says it – “And you married this jerk?”)

So one day, I was heading into work and had the radio on. Over the waves came Jeff Foxworthy with his “you might be a redneck if…” routine. The one I remember particularly was about his mama’s Elvis Jack Daniels decanter getting broken and him saying she screamed “We can’t have anything nice.” I was in tears by the time I got to work – not just over an heirloom like an Elvis Jack Daniels decanter, but I had heard those words uttered by my own Granny when her porcelain praying hand statue had crashed to the ground.

“I swunny,” Granny had said exasperated. “I reckon I can’t have nothing, not the first thing nice in this house.”

“Oh Mama,” I said, while laughing hysterically, recounting Foxworthy’s routine. “Maybe we are rednecks.”

“We are no such a thing,” she replied indignant. “We might be hillbillies, but we aren’t rednecks.”

Years went by and I graduated college – in pursuit of my own dreams, mind you, not the ex’s, even though he felt relieved. And a little miffed since this little “redneck” graduated with much higher honors than he did. A year later, we married.

For the holidays, the ex decided we would stay in a hotel instead of staying with either family.

They say you don’t really know someone until you marry them. My ex had no idea Granny had a whole arsenal of guns, which she had laid out across her guest bed when we arrived.

“What are all those guns doing on that bed?” the ex asked, appalled.

“Well, I knew ya’ll weren’t staying here, and I figured the holidays as a good a time as any to clean the shotguns,” Granny answered matter-of-fact.

“Why do you have so many guns?” he pressed on. “No one in the family hunts.”

Granny snorted. “Just ‘cause we don’t hunt don’t mean we don’t have guns. You never know when you might need one.”

Not only did the ex find Granny’s artillery, he also came across the hidden blackberry wine bottles. “Why are these hid?” he asked.

“She puts wine in her fruitcake, she doesn’t want the preacher to see it when he comes over,” I answered.

Then at dinner, Mama’s cat Bennie did the unthinkable. She knocked over the porcelain praying hands, crashing them to the floor a second time. “See there, just see,” Granny exclaimed. “I told you I can’t have nothing nice and not even on Jesus’ birthday is my praying hands sacred!”

On the way back to the hotel, the ex was painfully quiet for a while, digesting what to me, was just a normal holiday. “You know, I think your family is way more redneck than I realized,” he finally said harshly.

I laughed. “No, we’re not.”

“You don’t think a guest bed full of shotguns, hidden wine bottles and praying hands being held in high regard is not some sort of redneck dysfunction?”

“Oh no,” I said, still laughing. “We’re hillbillies. Not rednecks.”

“What’s the difference?” he sneered.

“We drink moonshine, not Bud Light,” I began. “And we have much better aim.”


Any grit I have, I got from her.

Any grit I have, I got from her.

She was a force to be reckoned with, my Granny.
All brimstone, gristle and spit.
A fine upstanding Baptist, she prided herself on running the nursery for years, brandishing the name “Mama Dean” as a honor, believing in some way she had some part in raising over half the congregation as they passed through her nursery.
She taught me how to make biscuits when I was around four, standing me in a chair, telling me to squish the dough through my fingers. She believed in meat at every meal and ate fatback and biscuit for breakfast every morning up until the day before she passed. She lived to be nearly 93, so she would tell you that nonsense about not eating fat was a bunch of bunk.
She eloped when she married her beloved Robert. She wore a blue dress so her mother wouldn’t know they were getting married on their third date. They married, he went to New York for a month where he was stationed with the Army until he earned enough money to send for his bride.
She put up with many a spend the night party during my youth. Some friends just showed up randomly in the evening, knowing Granny had been baking coconut cakes or chocolate pound cake. They came to eat. Granny fed them til they were full, and then packed them a bag of leftovers to go.
She had a magical green thumb, taking the carcasses of whatever plants I had killed and turning them into luscious foliage. She tried to teach me how to sew, swearing I somehow had did it when I was younger. I nearly didn’t graduate high school because I was about to fail Fashion and couldn’t sew a hem. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her.
She wasn’t scared of anything. When you asked her how she dealt with fear, she would say she would pray. If the Good Lord didn’t handle it, her shot gun would. She meant that too.
She loved to tell me stories. I meant to record her one day, and I never did. When I was younger, I would roll my eyes at her repeating the stories to me again and again…now, I wish I could hear them one more time, and hope my memories are able to piece them all together one day.
There were times she and I tied up like a bunch of feral cats. She was stubborn, had to be right and never budge an inch on her stance. “You are just alike,” was Mama’s logic of why we disagreed. I bristled at the comparison.
Someone once noted they had thought I was like my mother – the peace-loving, “buy- the-world-a-Coke”, understanding person that she is – until they had read my columns about Granny. “You are really like your grandmother,” they said.
“Mama said that just the other day,” I replied.
“Really? What did you tell her?”
“I told her that was a damn good way to get her ass shot.”
I recounted that story to Granny one day. She threw her head back and roared.
“Old gal, that’s your problem. You are so much like me, you can’t stand it.”
But she could be so dogmatic, so frustrating, so challenging, so demanding, so blunt it hurt…and then she could be my biggest ally, my biggest defender and the one who spent hours sewing up a tattered, worn lavender bunny reminiscent of the beigey pink pig I have sewn for years.
Maybe I am. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all.

In defense of the BLT’s (3/12/2014)


I’ve been called bossy before. When I was younger, I think there were more comparisons to Lucy from “Peanuts” than to any fairy tale princesses or damsels in distress. Bossy, assertive, stood up for myself – those are not traits a girl is supposed to possess.

If I had been a boy, someone would have declared me to be the future president of the United States.

But no, I was a girl – and a girl should not exhibit any sign of bossiness.

“She’s a BLT,” I heard someone comment once. Think it was a friend of my grandfathers who had overheard my sassy demands.

This BLT had nothing to do with bacon.

Instead, it stood for “Bossy Little Thing.”

My grandfather thought that was funny; he knew I was bossy and a pint sized task masker. I had asked him once for a raise and he had refused, saying my only responsibility was writing up his invoices by hand – a job he had taught me to do since I was five.

I went on strike, complete with picket line and made him enter his own home by the back door. 
After a week of that, he wisely met my demands.

“Bossy” did not sound as positive when it was used to describe a little girl wearing black patent leather Mary Janes and white socks to her knees. It was meant to be a negative term and one that would make me shirk away from the actions that made me seem bossy. It didn’t really stop me.

When I got older, that bossy was replaced with another “b” word. Still didn’t stop me – I just figured I was irritating the right folks.

Cole befriended a little girl when he was in day care. They became the best of friends.

“What do you like about her?” I asked my then 3-year-old son.

“She reminds me of you,” he had said.

Oh, how sweet, I thought.

“How does she remind you of me?”

“She’s bossy,” he answered simply.

He meant no mal intent by his statement. He was stating a fact: She was a BLT, too.

After I got to know the little girl, I realized how wonderful it was that here was this tiny person, two feet tall so aware of the innate power she held and wasn’t afraid to use it.

No one had yet had the foolishness to tell her to not be bossy, that “girls did not act that way.”

No one had told her that, so she wielded her bossy with a fierceness. I was thoroughly impressed.

“She’s going to be the first female president,” I told her mother one day.

“You think so?” she asked, a smile beaming from ear to ear.

“Heck yeah,” I replied earnestly. “I’d vote for her now!”

That little girl remains confident, self-assured and assertive – not ‘bossy.’

I teased a friend of mine one day, calling her my “BLT.”

I told Cole that was her new nickname. He thought on this for a second, nodding slowly as he stewed this over in his brain. He had never heard me say this before unless it was in reference to a sandwich, which was made with turkey bacon of course.

Of course, his first concern was if this involved bacon. I assured him it did not as I explained the meaning behind the acronym.

“She’s spunky and has chutzpah – it suits her! I like it!”

It does suit her. She is spunky, she’s assertive, can run circles around anyone and I think she is fabulous – so why in the world would anybody think calling a female ‘bossy’ is such a bad way to describe us?
If a male shows emotion or sensitivity, he’s weak.

If a woman shows strength and intelligence, she’s…well, she’s a lot of bad, horrible words. Words I have been called before by both sexes. It hurt worse when it came from my own gender than it did when it came from a man. Why?

Because even when we are strong, intelligent, assertive and all those power words, we are still supposed to be the nurturing ones and should understand that about our fellow females.

“Who’s the better leader, Mama?” Cole asked me recently. “Boys or girls? There’s a debate going on at school and I wasn’t sure who would win.”

I sighed. It had nothing to do with gender. This argument had been going on for decades. Who’s smarter, who’s stronger, who’s this and who’s that.

“Cole, it completely depends on the individual,” was my answer. “Has nothing to do with boy or girl. You know that.”

He nodded, deep in thought.

“I don’t know why they are worried about it – some folks say it should be a guy leader, but I think hey, let’s give a girl a chance, you know? I mean, what if, one day, that stuff didn’t matter,” he said, thinking aloud. “You know, Mama? What if one day, no one said ‘she’s a girl, so she shouldn’t try out for that?’ because really, it shouldn’t matter. Don’t you agree?”

I do.

And one day, maybe that little thing like gender won’t matter and being a bossy little thing will be a point of pride.


Embracing myself, whatever the scales may say (3/5/2014)

My scales broke.

No, it was not because I finally pigged out on cheesecake. The battery had died; I replaced it and then, they just broke.

And here I was, tapping the corner with my toe, waiting for the zeroes to blink across the window and for me to step on to see the magic number.


The scales had officially gone to be with Jesus.

We had a good run, the HealthMaster scales and I, even though for the most part, it had been a very acrimonious relationship.

Depending on what the number was, if it showed a gain or a loss, determined my attitude for the day.

When Cole was around 3, he stepped on them one morning, yanked his binkie out and muttered a bad word.

“Cole!” I reprimanded him.

“What? You say that when you get on there.”

True, I did. I probably said worse on some days.

I had struggled with my weight all my life, battling eating disorders where my weight went from one extreme to another – first, I was dangerously thin, then I was a chunky monkey.

As I entered my late 30s, I found out I had food allergies, sensitivities and intolerances that made me unable to eat anything without it waging war in my body. One bite of gluten could send me into an inflammatory response that caused a three-pound gain overnight and left me feeling like I had been hit by a Mack truck.

Then there were times I just didn’t care and ate cake and cookies knowing the price I would pay, scale and body-wise.

My life revolved around what that evil platform said each morning.

If my weight was up – even when I knew it was possibly just an inflammatory response to some sneaky ingredient I had inadvertently had – I was in the foulest of moods. If it had gone down, even by the smallest of ounces, I was on cloud nine.

“Stop weighing yourself every day,” Lamar would advise me. “That is part of your problem.”

Maybe it was.

“You obsess over those stupid scales,” he said.

Maybe I do.

“I want to have everything loose and jiggly squeezed up to my chest area,” I commented one day.

I am sure if given the right amount of money, a plastic surgeon could make that happen.

My husband is smart though and knows to either tell me he thinks I am perfect as I am, becomes a deaf mute, or swiftly changes the subject by asking if he can draw me a hot bubble bath and get me a glass of malbec. 
I am not quite as bad as the lady who has turned herself into a real-life Barbie doll and calls herself a “Breathatarian.” Not by a long shot. I have no interest in being a brunette plastic figure; I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin. Is that too much to ask?

What would I do without weighing for a few days? Without knowing what my weight was each morning? Would it make me worry and fear if I had gained an ounce or three? Or would it give me the freedom to just…be?

I thought of all the recent articles, the stories, the ad campaigns I had seen recently about embracing yourself, regardless of your size. The ones that said ‘real women had curves’ kind of irritated me, because I have some natural skinny friends that get tired of the ‘eat a cheeseburger’ comments just like I get tired of comments about how with my hips, I could have been a breed mare. Our weight, waist line, hip width and breast size do not make us more or less a woman.

I thought of women who had confidence, who didn’t seem to care what size was sewn in the back of their jeans and envied them. Even when I weighed 115 pounds for about two minutes, I didn’t feel that way.

“Be like Beyonce,” Cole commented one day. “She’s curvy and she owns it.”

“You, my child, watch too much ‘Big Bang Theory,'” I told him, knowing where he heard that.

So I decided to try to keep images of confident women in my view of all sizes – women who embraced the sisterhood in my real life, women who celebrated their size and their beauty no matter what, and women who were honored and respected for their contributions regardless of their appearance.

I haven’t bought the new scales – yet. I know I will. Even though it will be nice to have a temporary break from it. I know that yes, my routine will fall back into weighing every morning and seeing what that evil platform tells me.

Just this time, I will choose to not let it dictate quite so much of my life.


Let YOU Bloom!

Let YOU Bloom!

Did I mention in addition to being a lifestyle columnist I am also a certified life coach? Yup! I am! In this upcoming workshop, we are going to set some goals, find some Intention words and plant some “seeds” for what we want to see grow this Spring! Come join me!