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Halftime with the Amazing Fat Burning Machine

Objects in the rear view are not as large as they once appeared.

After three sessions with UltraSlim, the amazing fat zapper, I have reached the halfway point of my targeted treatment plan.  The results speak for themselves:  there’s 8 1/4 inches less of me to lug around.  The scale has tipped enough for me to move that lever down a notch.  At certain times of the day, I can actually see the intersection of my thighs and torso.  You know, no more path of totality as my gut eclipses my lap!

Here are some of the things I’ve experienced over the past three weeks as the amazing fat burning machine works it magic:

  1.  I no longer have to “suck it and tuck it” to button my jeans. I can put them on while remaining vertical.
  2. Baby still has back, but now it’s not spilling over to the sides.  Every hip seam in my closet is breathing a sigh of relief.  And we all know the hips don’t lie.
  3. Familiarity breeds less awkwardness, even when my “kid” doctor  geeked out over my R2D2 panties.  Actually, I don’t think I’ve worn matching underwear yet to one of these sessions.  Is that for real?  Do most women match their undergarments?  Heck, I’m doing good to have on matching socks.
  4. Big shocker for me:  water is refreshing.  I still struggle to down a gallon each day, but now my body actually craves H2O.  Oh, and a margarita on Wednesday nights.  Definite craving right there.
  5. Because I’m sloshed with water (not tequila…ONE margarita is my limit thanks to Benjamin Franklin-I highly recommend his autobiography, by the way), I’m more mindful about my food choices.  I don’t have as much room to waste on trifles like appetizers and desserts.  I did tear up a filet mignon the other night, though, and I don’t regret it.
  6. I’ve quit snacking and I no longer like sweet tea.  I blame the water rather than the amazing fat burning machine for this new wrinkle, but the push in the right direction from UltraSlim keeps me focused.
  7. Speaking of wrinkles, all that hydration is doing wonders for my complexion.
  8. Genetics “blessed” me with Middle Aged Wattle, otherwise known as Expanding Chin Syndrome.  So far, the most visibly dramatic change from UltraSlim has been with my bullfrog puff.  Goodbye, Jabba!  Hello, jawline!
  9. I’m so pumped about the first three sessions that I haven’t bought any new clothes for schoolteaching yet, but I threw down on new shoes!  I think it’s unreasonable to expect to drop a shoe size after these treatments.  They’re amazing, not sorcery!


So far, so good with UltraSlim.  I guess that makes me a real loser, and I couldn’t be more pleased.



Back to School Commando

All the secondary teachers in our system converged on the coliseum for the annual kickoff to a new school year pep talk and fashion show.  I had it going on:  new haircut, makeup ramped up tastefully between “Sunday-Go-To-Meeting” and prom, pedicured toes, and a jaunty skirt.  You know, stuff I’d never wear to actually teach in.

I guess I got a little carried away with that new year/new you thing and was due to be taken down a peg or two.  For teachers, we’re so tired at the end of the calendar year that most of us just resolve to survive from January to May.  That’s why most New Year’s Resolutions for teachers last about as long as it takes us to realize the students are actually returning for the second semester.  But August?  August is golden! It’s the smell of fresh paint, crayons, and bulletin board paper that’s still bright with possibility.  So, yeah.  I spiffed up and got ready to approach the school year with gladitude, a buzzword sure to fire the imaginations of the teens I teach.

Yep.  I was looking good and sporting that gladitude all the way up through lunch when the universe struck back.  I was completely blindsided!  There I was feeling full and chummy after the rare treat of a lunch out with my husband who works at a different school and our good friend Tyson.  Maybe it was the Coke I splurged on for such a festive occasion.  Maybe it was onion rings.  Okay…I just went for broke with this lunch with one bad decision after another.  I was asking for trouble.

Maybe it was the added pressure of propriety that wearing a skirt instead of track shorts lends to a situation.  I stepped off a curb, felt a sudden burst, and the floodgates opened.  I thought, “Surely, I didn’t just…oh, crap!”

I got calm.  Real calm.  It was time to pray to the Good Lord for the continued blessing of strong elastic and the wherewithal to carry a jacket in the Jeep despite the fact that it’s 95 in the shade in August.  I wrapped that jacket around my waist and started walking quickly but gingerly back into the restaurant.  I would have to walk all the way through the crowded dining room to get back to the restroom.  The elastic was giving way!  I prayed again that 1.  I could make it through the throng of people without whatever hell was pouring out of my rear end running down my legs and 2. that no one was in the bathroom.

I made it!  Somehow, I managed to get cleaned up and exited the restroom a few minutes later with my head held high.  Oh, I was commando under that skirt, but folks would be none the wiser if I just strutted out of there with confidence.  My bravado failed me as we drove away and I had my husband make a quick pit stop at the Dollar General.  I just didn’t think I could sit through an entire afternoon of meetings a la Sharon Stone.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, I had to ask where they kept the panties.  They didn’t have a single pair in my size, not even the granny specials.  I figured it’d be better to go smaller than bigger, so I picked up this little $4 number that fell somewhere between bikini and thong…uncomfortably.  Then, I had to ask for the key to the restroom from the young man who just rang up these emergency panties.   The Good Lord took care of me there, though, because he was actually a kid I haven’t taught.

At last, I get back into the Jeep and the guys are clued in that I’ve probably had more than a wardrobe malfunction.  They ask what happened and I mutter something about explosive diarrhea.

Tyson deadpans, “S**t happens.”

Yes, Tyson, yes it does.

Looks like I’m off to a great start for the school year!


Adventures of the Amazing Fat-Burning Machine


If you look up the word skeptic in the dictionary, don’t be surprised to see my face sporting that “Yeah, right” look.  So, when I first heard about Ultra-Slim light therapy treatments I laughed and went on munching my chips and salsa.  Then, I started reading and researching about Ultra-Slim and my curiosity was piqued.

I made an appointment for a free consultation with my chiropractor, a great fellow I taught in 7th, 8th, and 9th grades.  I went in prepared to grill him on everything Ultra-Slim.  He remembered his school days and was prepared for a full-scale rhetorical onslaught.  Heck, after surviving 3 years in my English classes, I’ll bet he was sweating it…just a little.

This method just might work!

I made an appointment and the next thing I know, there I am standing in my bra and panties getting measured by this kid I used to teach.  For those of you who aren’t educators, we always think of our former students as kids–even when they become doctors!  I start speaking with the nurse, and wouldn’t you know it, I taught her in middle school, too.  It was a regular class reunion with a mostly naked teacher!

After the “we’re all trying really hard not to make this awkward” measuring session, I was ready to go under the light.  Imagine being placed under a carefully aimed heat lamp where you have to lie real still and cook for about 8 minutes.  At that point, the doctor comes in and turns you so that the machine can broil you up nice and evenly. So, my fat got roasted on the belly, love handles, thunder thighs, and boo-tay.

Afterwards, the doctor repeated the measurements.  He marked the spots on the first go around to ensure he was measuring the exact same spots for the “after”.  The methodology is to add up all the measurements and then compare the numbers.  So, after a total of 32 minutes under the amazing fat-burning machine I was down 2 6/8 inches.   The doctor provided a computation to show calorie equivalents forgiven…nice verbiage, right there, Ultra-Slim marketers.

The final step of the treatment was a ride on a bizarre shaker machine.  It looks like a stair-stepper, but instead of stepping you just stand there and vibrate.  It’s pretty intense.  You vibrate a lot.  If your grandma had one of those machines that trimmed the waist with a belt, it’s kind of like that.  I now know how to twerk thanks to this machine.  Remember talking into a fan when you were a kid?  It works with this shaker machine, too!

Once home, instructions include downing a gallon of water daily (hardest part) and wearing compression clothing for several hours a day.  I’m not used to wearing a girdle, so jimmying myself into one of those babies has been a bit of a challenge.  I’ve had two treatments now at 2 6/8 total inches a pop.  The scale is moving steadily downward and I’m under a buck-fifty for the first time in about 3 years.




The Linen Curse Strikes Again

I should have known that a household-wide linen cleaning would lead to destruction.  I’m talking comforters, sheets, pillow cases, and pillows for four bedrooms.  My house smelled so clean and fresh!  I even arranged a throw pillow or two and spread one of my grandmother’s handmade quilts over my daughter’s bed.  For once, all four bedrooms were picture perfect.   I totally set myself up for this.

We have a running joke at the farm:  if you change the sheets, you run the chance of falling victim to the linen curse.  It doesn’t happen every time, but it does happen with enough frequency to question its veracity.  Fresh sheets?  Expect a cat to throw up a hairball.  New pillow?  Expect the dog to pee on it.  Freshly laundered, sun-dried, ultra-fresh comforter?  Expect dysentery.

So, yes.  I was spitting into the wind of fate.

Everything was great.  I fell asleep in blissfully fresh linens, breathing in the faint scent of bleach bathed in lavender.  Around 1AM, my 13 year old awakened me with, “Mom, I threw up.  Don’t worry I’ll clean it up.”  Yep…the VERY kid who got the antique handmade quilt on her bed.


I hear the shower start up, so I know it’s bad.  No way I’m leaving this up to her to clean up;  this is the child who loads the dishwasher so haphazardly it looks like a preschool puzzle gone bad.  I get up to investigate.  Oh…my…goodness.

It’s everywhere and it’s the grossest kind.  Her bedroom looks like she made an olympic sport of heaving.  Pillow hit.  Comforter hit.  Sheets hit.  Mattress soaked.  Meemaw’s quilt?  Bullseye.

While she’s showering, I very carefully transport all the disgustingness back to the washing machines.  Thank goodness I have a double set;  smartest purchase ever!  I get her settled on the couch because I have to fumigate her room and spread baking soda on the mattress.  She thanks me for not yelling at her.

How could I be upset with her?  I brought it all on myself with my cleaning frenzy.  No doubt I’ll be staggering the deep cleaning in the future.  At least that way, I spread out the odds of the linen curse striking again.

After all, I pretty much asked for it.



Shipping This One On Out

book 2

Well, it’s finally happened.  I’ve found the 2nd novel that I just can’t bring myself to give what I consider a fair shake.  Here’s my general reading rule:  I’ll give the author 50 pages, maybe even 100 to hook me into the story.  If I’m not “in” by then, I’ll move along.  So far, the only novel I haven’t been able to stand by for 50 measly pages is E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India.  I’ve read other Forster just fine, even liked A Room with a View, but for some reason I just can’t make myself proceed.

Now, I have some pretty decent reading chops.  I’ve read Tolstoy, handled Hardy, “got” Joyce,  and adore Dickens.  While not necessarily voracious, I am a regular reader with a somewhat discriminating taste.  Yeah, I’ve read ALL the Game of Thrones books and hung out with the likes of Anne Rice, Ken Follett, Stephen King, and John Jakes.  So, I’m not a snobbish reader, either.

When I picked up the Pulitzer Prize winner by Annie Proulx, The Shipping News, I was particularly excited because this novel is featured as part of the curriculum for high school pre-AP English courses I teach.  This novel not only snagged the Pulitzer, but also the National Book Award and the Irish Times International Fiction Prize.  So, I was all fired up to add some new life and a new read to my teaching repertoire.  I was hoping for something to atone for the perennial student “favorites” The Scarlet Letter and Julius Caesar.  Bless their hearts, it’s a rough reading year…Anne Bradstreet, Thomas Paine, and that ilk.  Maybe I set myself up for disappointment.

I regret to report I didn’t even make it out of the first chapter of The Shipping News.  I felt book shame, no doubt.  This is GOOD stuff, must be EXCELLENT stuff and I can’t see it.  The diction is not breathtaking to me; it’s breathless and frenetic.  The premise of  “a vigorous, darkly comic, and at times magical portrait of the contemporary American family” (this is on the back of the book) got drowned by the total lack of connection for my students…not with the central character, not with his age, lifestyle, not with the exposition of the story.  I simply could not find the appeal for my students.

It’s not often that I use my TEACHER VOICE here, but sometimes I just have to wonder what the devil curriculum writers are thinking.  Now, before you haul off wondering who am I to rant about what folks write into their teacher training programs, you need to know that I’ve been in the education foxholes since 1991 and have written curriculum professionally since 2005.  I know a thing or two about how adolescents read, about what works, and what doesn’t.

At this point, I’m shipping The Shipping News on out.  I’m going to shelve it for a few months and try to approach it again, not as a teacher, but as a reader.  Perhaps then it won’t make my brain ache with skepticism.  I just picked up an old friend, Anne of Green Gables, to pacify me and get me back in the right frame of mind for the start of a new school year.

This year, I’ll be teaching the level that gets to experience To Kill a Mockingbird  and Romeo and Juliet, so I have plenty of time to change my mind.


Meat Bomb, Meat Bomb, Double-Double Beef Bomb!


meat 3
Meat bombs come out about the size of the palm of your hand.

Why, oh why, have I never thought of this before?  I’ve spent the last 23 years of my life cooking for a bevy of, shall we say eccentric, eaters.  Pretty much the only food all four of my kids like is the ubiquitous chicken finger.  Everything else is just a sideshow of “Who does Mom love best tonight?”

By the way, I tried the “eat-it-or-starve” tactic.  I was met with a very calm “We’ll just eat at Grandma’s”.  Yup.

We recently filled the freezer with beef, so I have been trying to come up with various recipes for hamburger meat.  I was rummaging through the baking pans when inspiration struck!  I’d been having a hankering for meatloaf (that one’s a 0/4 kid-approved dish) when I spotted the poor, neglected muffin tin.  I hardly ever make muffins because one doesn’t like chocolate chips and the other doesn’t like berries.  The other two are grown now, so they’re on their own to find someone who will cater to their food proclivities.  Yes, they spend lots of time at Grandma’s when they come home!

What if…I made individual meatballs in the muffin tin?  You know, a muffin-sized meatball!  A heavenly beam of light shone down on the kitchen counter and I knew I could make a “one-dish” pleaser for two different palates.  Once I had the bright idea to call them meat bombs, I had them hooked.  The recipe was surprisingly easy to modify and the nifty muffin tin made clean up a breeze.

So, without further ado…here’s how to make meat bombs. If you’re new to my food blogging, I don’t really measure ingredients very often.  Experiment on your own to find the perfect combination to suit your taste!

Meat Bombs

Preheat oven to 450.  This will give the bombs a nice crunch on the exterior.  Mix up hamburger meat (ground pork works, too) like you’re gonna make burgers.  I use Worcestershire, garlic salt, pepper, and some fine bread crumbs.  For the ones who like plain bombs, go ahead and form balls and place them in the muffin tin.  For the rest of the meat, I mixed in shredded cheese, formed the balls, and topped them with a good squirt of ketchup.  You can add in onions if you like, but nobody likes at my house.  Pop the bombs in the oven and bake for about 30 minutes.  Drain on paper towels before serving.

The meat bombs were…wait for it..a hit!

Fan Fare: S***t folks say at book signings

Rocky Porch Moore and Mullen Dale autograph their novels at a recent signing event.

Book signings are a great way for the public to meet authors and for authors to interact with their adoring (or not so adoring) public.  Below you’ll find some of my “favorite” quips, comments, and questions from folks who’ve come either by choice or happenstance to my book booth.

  • “So, can I get this book online?”  or better: “Is your book on Kindle?”  Well, of course.  But I’m the author right here, right now, set up to actually sell my books in person, so, you know, I can make a living.  I even brought bookmarks and snacks!  I can autograph your copy for you, and who knows?  It might actually be worth something to you if …a).  I become the next Harper Lee or E.L. James  b).  the book becomes an Oscar-nominated film or made-for-TV special  c).  I get hit by a bus and achieve posthumous acclaim.
  • “Is this the ONLY thing you’ve written?”  Cue Harper Lee.  I have serious reservations about Go Set a Watchman.  I naturally lean toward the snarky side,  so I have to “smile and wave” on this little gem as I silently ask the fine patron how many novels he/she has drafted, revised, queried, edited, revamped, published, marketed, and hauled over cripple creation all while teaching full-time, coaching, and raising four children.  How fortunate that my sophomore novel is now in its final birth-throes.  Woo hoo!
  • “I have a story.  Will your publisher take me since he took you?”  I just ignore the backdoor insult, gender bias, and assumption that publishing a novel is akin to obtaining a library card and head straight for their story.   I’ll ask a couple of questions to determine (almost invariably) that their novel exists either entirely in their heads or has enough actual written content to fill 3 and a half post-it notes.
  • “Wow!  You wrote this book? How exciting!”  Sounds promising, as the patron cracks the spines on at least 3 of the novels and may even actually read the blurb on back.  Meanwhile, she’s pocketing bookmarks and hitting the snacks/candy.  She smiles her congratulations on such an impressive feat and walks away.
  • “Is your book any good?”  I’ve gotten better at this zinger since my little project has won multiple awards (a little clout really builds confidence), but I started with stuff like “I sure hope so”, ” I like it okay,” and “I’m planning on sending it to Oprah”.


Many folks, of course, are gracious and encouraging at book signings.  It’s great to be an author!

Ugly Biscuits

Ugly Biscuits just moments away from browning

Sometimes, you just need a buttery homemade biscuit.  Whomp biscuits, even the “good” kind, simply won’t do.  You know what a whomp biscuit is, don’t you?  It comes in a can and you whomp it against the countertop to open it up and plop those molded lumps of dough on the pan.  12 minutes or so later, you have a hot, sturdy biscuit.  That’s fine…on a weekday before school when you want to put something  portable in the kids’ hands.  Whomp biscuits even taste pretty good–if it’s been awhile since you’ve had a real biscuit, that is.

What if I told you that fresh, from-scratch, flaky, homemade biscuits are not only possible, but practical?  I’m talking one bowl, y’all.  Maybe 5 more minutes, tops.  What do you get?  Pure pleasure that would make a pat of butter proud.  Definite Mom/Wife of the Year points here…and without even looking at a rolling pin!

The trick is to go big and go ugly.  What you’re making is generally referred to as a drop biscuit in the recipe books, but once you get this downpat, you won’t need a recipe or a book.  Ugly biscuits are like poetry;  you find a rhythm and a harmony of ingredients, then watch the magic happen.

Here’s how I make ugly biscuits:

I like a hot oven.  Preheat to 450.  In a bowl, put 2 hefty cups of all-purpose flour, a big tablespoon of baking powder, and around a teaspoon of salt.  Add two-three tablespoons of Crisco (yes, the white stuff in the tub).  Use a pastry tool or a fork to cut in the Crisco.  It should resemble coarse meal.  Go ahead, get your hands in there and feel it.  It should be thick, but not greasy.  Add a cup of milk and stir.  You have to do this by feel.  You might need a little more milk.  Your goal is gloppy and elastic.  Plop big heaping spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet.  They pile up like flaxen mountain ranges.  You’ve got 10 solid minutes in the oven before you need to start worrying about burning the biscuits.  Exact timing depends on how golden you want these glorious morsels to be.

The addition of garlic powder and shredded cheddar transforms these beauties into a quick, savory dinner biscuit if you’re not in the mood for breakfast fare.

So, treat your loved ones to some ugly biscuits.  They’re quick, relatively simple to make, and will warm both hearts and tummies.


Rocky Rates It: Bicycling Magazine’s 1000 All-Time Best Tips edited by Ben Hewitt


This is a decent compendium of tips for cycling with a very useful glossary of lingo. I found some of the tips to be repetitive and several that were just plain common sense, but overall, I feel better educated about cycling. As a newbie, I would have appreciated a section on shoe selection and an explanation regarding clipping in. I would also have appreciated links and/or anecdotes involving racing at the amateur level as well. Some pacing charts would have also been helpful so that beginners can gauge their performance.

This book succeeded in getting me fired up about riding and piqued my curiosity about races that may be held in my region.

Rocky Rates It:  3 Stars

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