Let me ask you a question?

How can one person be so undecided on everything? People ask me what I'm doing with my life, daily. Daily, the answer is I don't know. Danielle, why don't you want to pursue nutrition and get your RD? I don't know. I'm terrified of doing something and hating it, maybe. I'm currently taking officer placement tests for the Navy, but honestly...I don't know. I don't have any idea what I want out of life. At least, I know what I don't want.

I don't want to get married and settle down... yet. Lately, I've just been getting fed up with the male population as a whole. Seriously, I don't understand why men have such a high rate of ignorance in their lives.

I don't want anyone holding me back from the dreams that I have. I don't want anyone telling me I can't do something. I don't need that. Maybe, I am losing my patience, but the more and more I read Anne Sexton, the more I decide men are a waste of time. I'm tired of investing my heart into people, only to be hurt.

I don't want to live somewhere where the air isn't clear. It is imperative that I be able to roll down my windows and drive until my thoughts are cleared. I can't do that in a city filled with smog and pollution.

The beach would be nice. Maybe I'm asking for too much. I don't know, but I refuse to settle. So even if I don't know where my life is headed, at least I know the ride getting there will be worth it...because there will be country music on the radio and I, my friend, will be jammin'.

So, let me ask you a question? What do you want out of life?


Dani G.

Get to the point...

Sometimes I get in trouble for the things that just slip out of my mouth. Its like God made me without a filter. Exactly what I am thinking in that moment in time, just slips into the air. With no admonition, I don't have any time to do anything about it. All I can do is sit there and hope it falls with cushion before the burn arrives. So in advance, I am sorry for the frankness, obscenities and discourtesies that may offend you. But, in all honesty, if you didn't want the truth, you shouldn't have asked. 

My mom loves and hates to go shopping with me for this exact reason. I refuse to let her out of the store with something that looks ill. Boys, for all the time you spend waiting for women in the dressing room while shopping. IT IS NOT OUR FAULT. Have you seen some of the clothing advertised these days? None of the seams are big enough to come up over my chest. And sometimes, they forget the seams altogether. Needless to say, my mom and I, have a hard time finding things that fit. Sometimes I hurt her feelings with the things that pop out of my mouth, but we always leave finding something that looks gorgeous on. I speak the truth and sometimes it hurts. I've been trying to watch what I say before it comes out lately.

Some of the things that roll out of my mouth are hysterical though. It goes so fast I can't catch all the jokes. Its like watching the Golden Girls, before you finish laughing at one joke another one of the women says something even funnier.

So since I am so frank with my statements, I have a hard time understanding others who refuse to open their mouth about anything. If you have something to say, say it. Don't be afraid. If you never get to say what you needed to say to that person, you will truly regret it. I can't stand going through life being confused about where I stand with someone... If I like you, you'll know it.

With that said, I'll leave you guys with this song.

Dani G.

Family Gatherings

Today I had the opportunity to attend a ninetieth birthday party for my (great) Uncle Jim. Looking around the room, I knew very few faces. Yet, all these old women hugged me and swore that I looked just like my grandmother, or I must be a Harrington with my face. Well, what does that mean? What on my face exactly looks like a Harrington feature? Is that a good thing? I'm not so sure.

At any large family gathering, you know the food is going to be good. I love the idea of everyone bringing a covered dish, so I can try as many things as possible. A twenty foot table was covered with bowls and plates ranging from every food item. We had beans, collards, boiled potatoes, brunswick stew, and pig (as my cousin, Jessica, would say). I filled my plate with small servings of everything, as not to forget the other long table filled with desserts. I'm terrified that in twenty years, all the good food will be gone. What will happen when all of our grandmother's pass away? The stories may live on but what about those buttered biscuits and fried chicken. I do hope her recipes and good cooking will live as well.

At family gatherings, everyone always knows who I am, and yet I have no idea who all these people are! I hope when I celebrate a ninetieth birthday party, I can be that old lady who hugs all these young people.While enjoying a large slice of ten layer chocolate cake I thought, how many people actually have the opportunity to turn ninety?

Ninety years ago was 1921. Ninety years ago McDonald's didn't exist. Coco Chanel perfume had just been released in France. Ninety years ago, a stamp was less that 5 cents. Back when marriages actually lasted forever.  When I get married it will be forever. My forever may not be 60 years, like my grandparents, but I will commit. I know one thing too, I will make damn well sure that I want to be with this man the rest of my life before I tie the knot or I won't get married.  Divorce is expensive, my friends.

Uncle Jim has seen a lot in his lifetime. Much more than many people have the opportunity to see. I hope that my life is filled with the many blessings he has seen.

Have a happy day!

Dani G

Hot Pockets

Its January. I know everyone is still kicking it into high gear going crazy over New Year's Resolutions. Losing weight, exercising, and eating just what the body needs, not what it desires. That's fine. I, however, make my own rules. Below I have posted a fun piece on eating just what your body wants, not necessarily what it needs. Remember, joy in life can come from foods!

I am an addict. In a matter of minutes I will be transported to cloud nine, dropped in the seat of ecstasy. I watch my food circle inside of the microwave, staring at the numbers counting down: 1:59, 1:58, 1:57, 1:56... I am an abuser. Every couple of days my body physically needs Hot Pockets. I go into shock. I go out of my way to get what I need, and pay whatever the cost. My lips tremble and my body convulses as I inject cheese and marinara sauce into my veins. All at once feelings of euphoria surround me. I am calm and relaxed. I am a drug abuser sitting on soggy newspapers in the rain on a sketchy street corner, hovering over a meatball marinara Hot Pocket because I will go insane if I have to wait any longer.

Finally after two minutes of patiently waiting, dreaming of the most delectable junk food item-beep beep. My hands quickly fumble for the microwave door, excitement pushes me toward exhilaration. All at once my dreams have come true. My meatball marinara Hot Pocket is ready.

The outside crust of the pocket is tender and flaky-a baked delicious brown color. I slowly remove the hot cardboard wrapper from the pocket being careful not to burn my fingers. When cooking a Hot Pocket you must be careful; they almost always gape open at the top when heat melts the cheese. The combination of cheese and marinara sauce always oozes onto the paper towel or plate you place it on.

 I bring the Hot Pocket to my mouth, anticipating the first glorious bite. I pause. Something is not right. I put the Hot Pocket back on the plate. Grab sixty cents and run down the hallway, cursing myself for being so unprepared. I could have gotten a soda during the two minutes I sat dazed, watching the Hot Pocket spin in circles. I don’t want to waste any time. My hot pocket is getting cold! I frantically push the Diet Coke button and wait for it to dispense.

I rush back down the hallway to my dorm room in a hurry to satisfy my shudders of withdrawal. The first bite of a Hot Pocket is unsurpassed. Breathtaking. Unlike every other bite of the Hot Pocket. The first bite contains double the amount of flaky crust as the rest. The sauce in the center is boiling. I almost always burn my tongue because I don’t have the patience to wait for the sauce to cool. The sauce is mixed perfectly with the cheese, spices and meatballs. With every bite you get an equal amount of each. It is my duty to take the very first bite, no one else is worthy. I do not share. An abuser, does not share.

My teeth wound the flaky crust as the top of my mouth gets burned from the boiling mixture of cheese and sauce. I twirl one of the meat balls back and forth with my tongue, trying to let it cool. The boiling temperatures do not stop me from taking the next bite. I barely take a breath in between bites. Drink, bite, sip, bite, drink…until it is gone.

I am brought back down to the reality of truth. I ate my Hot Pocket. I am sitting at my desk alone, on the verge of licking the cheese residue off of the now empty plate. Am I pathetic, or what? There is nothing left. Lunch is over. My body goes into withdrawal. Madness overcomes me as I realize I have to get started on my paper. I begin to think of ideas, or ideas begin to invade me. I scribble down adjectives describing how wonderful my hot pocket tasted. I load the paper with ideas of cheese erupting from the crust, dripping with sauce and meatballs. I draw pictures of meatballs and melted cheese. At this point, I begin to realize my paper will never get done unless I heat up another hot pocket for inspirational purposes. 

My eyes dart to the top of the microwave where the box remained, recognizing there is still one more. The box contains nutrition facts sorted neatly on the back: sodium, fat intake, calories, serving size, saturated fat…I cringe just thinking about the nutrition facts. One pocket contains 270 calories with 9 grams of fat. A serving size is one pocket. Here I am eating two. Health nuts warn us to stay away from processed foods high in saturated fat, but I am addicted.

I open up the Hot Pocket, set it in the microwave and punch the time to two minutes. Instead of gazing at the pocket spin in circles, I persuade myself that I really do need this last hot pocket to write my paper to the best of my ability. Without this last Hot Pocket, I will not truly understand the importance of the cheese to sauce ratio, the dripping of cheese on the plate, that first momentous bite with two times the amount of crust and breading as the other bites. I tell myself to cherish this last Hot Pocket, because after I am done eating, I have to start my paper.

Beep, Beep. With the sound of the microwave beep, excitement pulls at my stomach. I pull the plate out and blow on the erupted end of the Hot Pocket. I take the first bite very slowly. I want this moment to last forever, but before I know it, drink, bite, bite, bite, drink…the last Hot Pocket is gone.