There's an easy solution

This week, the FBI foiled a plot by Mohamed Osman Mohamud, 19, a naturalized U.S. citizen born in Somalia, in Portland, Oregon.

News reports indicate that someone from Mohamud's mosque alerted the FBI to the teen's spiraling radicalism and his expressed hatred of America and Americans.

Mohamed, dear, what the fuck is wrong with you? You chose to become a U.S. citizen--certainly, neither the government nor the people of this country forced you to study all that history and civics and then shoved the privilege of citizenship down your throat. When you took your oath of citizenship, you vowed to support and defend this country and its constitution. The right to bear arms was meant to defend America, not to blow up little children at a Christmas tree lighting.

You are a despicable, disgusting, arrogant, ungrateful teenager. A child, really. What do your parents think? Is this why they kept you safe in Dadaab and made sure you arrived safely in the United States? Are they proud? Are you still proudly defiant?

Son, you can take that citizenship certificate and shove it up your ass--all the way up, as far as it will go until it kicks you in the gut.

Every day, people in dire circumstances around the world risk their lives so they can see their children stay alive and then find a new life in this country. You mock them by doing this.

In case you missed it while you were probably blowing off your free education here, the United States was not responsible for the anarchy and chaos in Somalia. Moron. In fact, I'll bet you can't even read the Koran. If you could understand it or had actually studied it, you'd know that what you attempted is not condoned anywhere in the document. Were you too busy trying to be a suburban gang-banger to actually educate yourself?

I think you should go. This country gave you opportunity, but you stll felt entitled to something and you were a petulant diva when you didn't get it. The United Sates of America owes you nothing.

Nobody--NOBODY--was forcing you to stay here or to be a citizen of this country. You were free to practice your religion. You were free to speak your mind. You were welcome and free to leave at any time. All you had to do was get on a plane and fly to Somalia, tough guy. You would have been welcomed with open arms, handed a gun, and asked to show your allegiance to your cause by actually fighting openly.

Forget the trial. You get a one-way ticket to Mogadishu, but you can only take with you what you had when you left. You can't take any money. You can't take a gun. You can't take a cell phone or a suitcase full of desirable American clothes. No, you get off the plane and see how fabulous your life would have been had your parents stayed put. Prove yourself.

I hope you get the death penalty. You are a waste of DNA material. Until then, may you bunk with a Neo-Nazi white supremacist.

It's on its way

I have multiple posts started and not posted. They're coming. I'm collecting my thoughts, albeit slowly, ever so slowly.

There are things to ponder here. Nonexistent bipolar disorder and the meaning of experience. Jolie's concerns that I have anorexic tendencies (trust me, I don't). Quitting the project that is most near and dear to my heart. Wondering about the sanity of the world. Pondering the thought that we should all just fly naked. Chardonnay. The trip to Florida that Frontier Airlines screwed me out of.

I have five days off starting tomorrow morning. Writing will resume. Reading, well, that's an entirely different issue.

600

I had 600 calories today, and I think that's fuckin' AWESOME. Unfortunately, Frank wants me to eat dinner. I avoided it last night, but don't think I can get away with that two nights in a row.

I'll just exercise more later. Hehe.

If I just try harder

I picked up a copy of People magazine today. I don't know why--it's not my usual reading fare unless I'm in a doctor's waiting room.

The cover story was about Porti DeRossi and how at one point, she successfully dieted down to 82 pounds. It was inspiring, really. She was very dedicated and disciplined, and the more weight she lost, she got an incredible amount of positive feedback and encouragement at work. She started at 115 pounds, but was considered fat for being in the public eye, so she did something about it.

Thank you for telling your story, Portia. It was inspiring. I am now further galvanized in my resolve to achieve the American ideal. The retail world puts larger sizes in dark, hidden corners of stores for a reason. Being anything other than a curveless, vertical shape is so reviled, how can anyone bear to not at least be trying to be physically "less"?

People will feign shock at an 82-pound woman, but let's be honest--that kind of weight and body shape are really very valued in America.

Portia, I'm going to try harder to get my weight closer to double-digits the way you did.

Today was a total failure. Although I did exercise this morning, I wish I had read Portia's story before I had:

Coffee
Scrambled egg whites
1 slice of cheese
3 fingerling potatoes
6 0z. orange juice

1 bowl miso soup with cabbage
a slice 70-calorie lowfat cheese

a glass of wine
10 small lowfat raviolis
1/3 cup fat-free spaghetti sauce
green salad
1/3 cup sugar-free applesauce

Maybe tomorrow and going forward I can cut that in half. I feel pretty disgusting right now, but I'm not a purger, so I have to live with this shame and failure for now.

Monday is a new day, and the plan is:
1 packet oatmeal
1/4 cup lowfat yogurt
coffee

1 bowl miso soup with cabbage & seaweed

green salad w/egg white

Resolve. Discipline. Come on, May. Focus. Don't be a pig.

Anxiety

The only feeling that pulls me off kilter more than depression is anxiety. Lately, I'm swimming in it, but I don't know why.

There are a thousand things I could be worried about, but it's not that specific. It's not even "worry" in the traditional sense. I feel generally anxious, but without any particular root cause that I can identify--yet.

I just keep reminding myself that anxiety is a self-manufactured emotion. It's not a condition, it's a feeling. It's something the brain makes up, sometimes with good reason, but in my case, for no specific reason at all.

I wake up immersed in feelings of dread. I watch the clock all day, worried that I'm going to miss something important, even when I have nothing on the agenda.

Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety, hand-wringing, lip-chewing, foot-shaking anxiety. It is unpleasant, to say the least.

I'm not planning on addressing it with medication; rather, I believe that self-talk should do the trick. "May, take a slow, deep breath. Relax. You are fine. There is no crisis. There is no impending critical event. Just breathe. What are you so afraid of? What is looming over you?"

I read recently that a B12 deficiency can cause one to feel anxious. Perhaps the supplements aren't working.

Perhaps I'm just a neurotic dweeb.

Yes, exactly.

I saw this in the Dear Abby column today and I really, really liked it. My husband and I have often discussed why we won't have funerals when we pass. It's because we believe the time to be there for people you like is when they are alive.

THE TIME IS NOW
Author Unknown

If you are ever going to love me,
Love me now, while I can know
The sweet and tender feelings
Which from true affection flow.
Love me now
While I am living.
Do not wait until I'm gone
And then have it chiseled in marble,
Sweet words on ice-cold stone.
If you have tender thoughts of me,
Please tell me now.
If you wait until I am sleeping,
Never to awaken,
There will be death between us
And I won't hear you then.
So, if you love me, even a little bit,
Let me know it while I am living
So I can treasure it.

It feels real to me

Yesterday I had a regularly scheduled appointment with Dr. S. She has no answers. She really focuses on my weight, because that's what she primarily does in her practice.

She looked at my food diary and concluded that I am currently eating less than 1200 calories a day, most days, and that's probably right for me. She said my protein-to-carbohydrate ratio is excellent. She would like for me to eat more protein, but I told her I won't do it if it means more calories.

Here's the hell of it: I gained four pounds in the last two weeks. Oh, I took the stairs, and walked briskly, and parked far away from my destination, and carried a lot of boxes up and down stairs, cleaned the basement, mopped floors, and tried to move more than usual. My reward: weight gain around my middle.

And people wonder why I fucking hate my body so much.

The thing is, I am in a lot of pain. My right knee is on fire. My pelvis feels like it's going to crack apart. The pain from the spasms in my psoas muscle are indescribable, but I can't go to see a doctor for any of it because at this point, he or she will just blame everything on my weight as they seem inclined to do. My neuralgia isn't weight-related, but that's always an easy answer for an often difficult-to-diagnose problem. I want to take that diagnostic option off the table entirely, and that means no medical help for the pain until I lose another sixty pounds. If I can get to 110, there is nothing that a doctor can blame on my size or diet. Nothing.

Dr. S looked over my food log and said that eating every four hours is bad. She has banned me from eating anything between meals, so I must combine the calories from the snacks into my meals, and I must wait full six-hour intervals before eating again.

I told her six hours is a long time and I'm going to get hungry. She said it's not real hunger--it's only psychological hunger and it will pass. I just have to learn to ignore it. No snacks. The hard-boiled egg white must be eaten with the oatmeal at 7:00 in the morning, not as a snack at 11:00. The apple or slice of low-fat Alpine Lace Swiss cheese must not be eaten at three. Those calories have to roll into lunch, and then I have to tough it out until dinner at 7:00 or 7:30 p.m.

Dr. S said that by eating small amounts of food every four hours, I may be helping my headaches, but I never give my body a chance to to need to draw on my fat stores.

I hate my fucking, stupid-ass body. Hate it. Now I'll get to endure constant hunger and stomach pangs--along with headaches--and I will bet I still don't lose any weight.

Let's face it, in America, if you're not thin, you're nothing. You are sneered at and waved off by the medical establishment. You can't even buy clothes for a body that isn't toothpick thin and curveless. I know this because I went shopping for pants on Sunday. I still wear a size 16. That hasn't changed. What I found were racks and racks of "Skinny Jeans," "jeggings," (see photo at left) "narrow-leg trousers," "trim-fit pants," and more of the same. I personally know of two people who can dress in those styles. The rest of us will look ridiculous. The message here is, though, that you should never be fat or even curvy. We must all adhere to the fashion choices available and become shaped like little boys. Apparently, that's the American ideal. If it weren't, there would actually be clothes out there that fit.

And if I could fit the ideal, no doctor would tell me that everything from fatigue to shingles to chronic pain to parasthesia to vertigo was a result of being too damn fat.

Keira, Keira, Keira, how do you stay so utterly perfect?

Where boredom takes me

Algorithms fascinate me. I don't actually understand them, nor could I even begin to write one, but the concept of "if-then" statements running the show on their own is a notable accomplishment i my eyes.

I was bored tonight, having run out of energy and ambition long before I ran out of weekend. I pulled up my blog but had nothing interesting percolating through my brain, so I did what I sometimes do in these situation--I clicked on the "Next blog" link at the top of the page.

Normally, the array of blogs I get via this clickfest seems totally random, but tonight there appeared to be an algorithm at work. Not a very good one. If it was supposed to link me to other blogs that might capture my interest, it failed miserably. Here's why:

• First, a lot of blogs related to autism. Hmmmm. I'm not autistic nor do I have any autistic family members.
• Next up, homeschoolers
• Lots and lots and lots of Christians praising Jesus, lots of Bible study, lots of lives being documented as they worship Christ. Interesting choice to bring before an atheist.
• After that, Blogger went into some sort of Texas loop. I am not a big fan of Texas, I don't write about Texas or care to visit Texas. Lots of bloggers in Texas.
• Mothers writing about their adorable children. Ad nauseum. Yes, I understand it's a beautiful journey, but seriously, these blogs all read exactly alike.
• Next we went into a DIY home-improvement phase. This one makes more sense since I believe there's something like that listed in my profile.
• Quilting. Seriously? Who knew so many quilters were blogging about it. I'm not a quilter.
• More blogs about white, middle class American families with small children. Especially with twins. ?? Christian families. In the South.

I can't even imagine who gets to stumble upon this blog.

The joy of Wii

The Wii arrived on Thursday in a slender box with an Amazon logo. I never really wanted one, but so many people told me I'd like it, that when the opportunity came, I bought a console.

In the two weeks leading up to the purchase, I had cleared out and cleaned up the finished part of the basement. Once that job was finished, the open space needed a purpose. Since I'm not a teenager and have no close friends here, partying downstairs wasn't very appealing. Exercise is boring, although we're all set up to do it.

I took stock and made a list of the reasons I don't need to join a gym:

• Pilates reformer


• yoga mat


• 2 thick exercise mats


• complete set of hand weights, 2-12 pounds


• weight bench


• set of stretchy resistance straps


• ankle weights


• 2 fit balls


• small inflatable therapy ball


• Step


• Foam roller


• 15 fitness workout DVDs

Alas, look as I might, I couldn't find my missing ambition or interest in exercise in general to add to that list.

It took some figuring out to get the Wii installed. There was an old TV, an RF splitter, a digital signal converter, an antenna, and a DVD player to configure so all would work in a friendly and compatible manner. Lots of wires in multiple directions. Once the hookup was successfully completed, I set out to see what Wii was all about.

I created a "Mii" and named her Bovinia. The Wii Fit Plus is not that interesting to me. It's really just a lot of work, and the animated trainer is not only not very animated, she never smiles.

I pulled out the Wii Sports and Wii Sports Resort discs and popped one into the machine. Games, games, games. And me without a partner. I chose the one sport I knew I could do alone: bowling.

Bowling turned out to be fabulous. Back in the day, I was such a blue-collar kid, I actually took bowling lessons in fifth grade, and then was in a youth bowling league. When I was 30, a friend and I took advantage of the local bowling alley's summer special: For $90, we got six weeks of lessons, nearly unlimited play, and a custom-drilled bowling ball with our respective names engraved just above the finger holes.

I can bowl.

Push, swing, back, release. As I finished my first round of bowling in almost 20 years (score = 150), I looked through the other games and realized that Wii was the perfect thing for me. There are no friends required. All of the games can be played in isolation, just me vs. the Wii.

I may move into the basement.

Brainuwhat?

While scraping callused skin off of my feet in the bathtub this evening, a thought crossed my mind and I had a grand inspiration for writing. "A fine blogging topic," I thought.

After finishing with my foot task, I sat down at the computer. The computer was slow. Blogger wouldn't load. Eventually it did.

I forgot what I wanted to write about.

I want full disclosure

For the second time in a year, someone used my debit card number to buy something online. This time it was an XBox subscription.

When I called the bank, they assured me that getting this fixed would be relatively easy and painless. Apparently, banks have insurance for this sort of thing and this sort of thing happens all the time. They reimburse the money and move on.

When I went to the bank to fill out the claim paperwork, I asked how I could find out who had stolen my card information. The customer service woman looked at me, a little bit startled. She said, "Well, we have a department that takes over and handles it. They'll pursue it."

This seems unfair. In any other crime with this much information that can be tracked and traced, the victim gets to know who the perpetrator is. In cases of petty credit card fraud, the thief remains anonymous to the victim.

I want to know who did this. I want to confront him or her and explain what a major pain in the ass it is that I have no debit card for the next ten days, that I had to take an afternoon off of work to fill out a report, and that I hope he or she contracts a painful bleeding cancer that turns out to be the result of using an XBox.

Why these people are granted anonymity is beyond my scope of comprehension. Assholes.

The monster you could smell like