Pavlov's Human

Ivan would have been proud.  If there was a Nobel Prize in psychology and he was alive today, he could have studied and written about me and won in that category too.  Let me explain.

A couple weeks ago, my brother challenged me to give up sugar.  He has been giving up sugar for Lent since 2009.  You can read about his first experience here:  http://sweetblogsaremadeofthis.blogspot.com/2009/05/nothin-sweet-about-me.html

It was right before I was going camping and I was not about to give up s'mores, so I decided to wait until after the trip.  On Monday, March 18th, I decided to give it a try.  Now, the challenge was to give up sugar until I get a job.  I'm not sure if I am quite up to that task, but I am certainly going to make it until Easter, and maybe even 40 days.  Those of you that don't know me very well might think that is no big deal.  Those of you that do know me - well, you are probably thinking that I will never make it or that I will go crazy.  Personally, I think it might be both.  Much like my brother (see above blog), sugar addiction to me is like alcohol addiction to Lindsay Lohan.

So far I have been successful.  Today is day 9 and I am still sugar free, but it has been hard.  Real hard.  Three days in I was at the neighbor's house.  They had just bought lemon meringue marshmallows for the first time.  I had never heard of them and popped one in my mouth.  No sooner than the sweet taste hit my buds than I remembered my challenge.  I quickly found a paper towel and removed the lemony deliciousness from my mouth.  While I was proud of myself, I was also a little sad.  But I can tell you, if I had accidentally put chocolate in my mouth, there is no way it would not end up in my belly, double negative intended.  I had to go home that instant.  I can resist that kind of temptation for a few seconds, but not much more.  Similarly, I went to bed early the night my daughter decided to make sugar cookies.  It is just a better idea if I'm not around it.  I found that to be the best situation.

Well, yesterday that was impossible.  I had to go to the grocery store.  I had my list and had firmly decided beforehand to only purchase what was on the list.  To be successful, I concluded I must give myself a time limit and confine my excursion to the needed aisles.  That proved to be futile.  Our local grocery store is in the process of doubling in size and while under renovations, it is completely disorganized.  I kept finding myself in the wrong aisle.  I looked up at one point and found myself in the cookie aisle.  I started to salivate like one of Pavlov's infamous dogs.  I'm not lying.  I walked quickly to the next aisle.  It was the seasonal aisle, AKA the chocolate aisle.  I love chocolate.  No, seriously,

                                I LOVE CHOCOLATE.

Easter candy was everywhere.  Multicolored Peeps tantalized me.  Reese's peanut butter eggs tried to lure me.  Chocolate bunnies seduced me.  I visualized the Reese's commercial in my head.

I am not going to sugar coat it for you, it got ugly.  I caught myself staring longingly at the Reese's eggs.  Mr. Pavlov would have marveled at my emotional conditioned reflex (условный рефлекс).  He could have measured my output in ounces.  I am even salivating as I write this.  At that point it wasn't just a physiological response, it became psychological.  However, I guess the Man upstairs decided to give me a break with it being the Easter season and all.  He decided to lead me not into temptation, but delivered me from evil.  I was able to flee the chocolate snare and I ran to the checkout line, paid for my sugarless groceries, and was out of there.  Luckily, there is not another holiday anytime soon.

So when the challenge is over, I plan on making sure a spoon full of sugar helps the a thing or two go down!  I may end up in a diabetic coma, but Lori will once again be full of sugar and spice and everything nice.

To attest to my love of chocolate, here is a picture of what my neighbor (yes, Ms. Lemon Meringue Marshmallow) gave me this last Christmas:

As a side note, while writing today's blot, I got to wondering how Pavlov measured a dog's salivary output.  This is what I found:  "A rubber tube was connected to an opening created in the dog’s cheek through which saliva flowed. When each drop of saliva fell onto a platform that rested on a sensitive spring, the movement of the platform activated a marker on a revolving drum (Figure 9-2). This arrangement, which made possible the recording of the precise number of drops as well as the exact moment at which each fell, is but one example of Pavlov’s painstaking efforts to standardize experimental conditions, use rigid controls, and eliminate sources of error." -http://people.unt.edu/~thall/edse5002/schultz/pavlov.htm

Note:  there is no Figure 9-2.

This is one of his dog's that apparently was sent to the taxidermist.  Gross.

Lori of Walmart

Yesterday I had an appointment in Austin.  I was going to be spending most of the day there, so I put on my favorite jeans.  The comfy ones I have had for a long, long time.  Everyone has a pair, you know the ones I'm talking about.  The ones that have been washed so many times they are softer than your pillow.  The ones that make you look good, but still fit even after Thanksgiving dinner.  The ones that could squelch home-sickness in minutes after putting them on when you were lonely your freshman year of college.  Well, mine are well-loved and  well-used.  So much so that they have had this little hole just next to the pocket rivet for some time now. It was a small hole, about the size of a pencil eraser.  No big deal, the hole has been there for years.

After a long day in Austin in my comfy jeans, I drove over to Bastrop (about 25 miles from my house). I was tired and just wanted to go home, but there were some errands in Bastrop that absolutely had to be done that day. Well, I found out some important information.  Apparently if you get into your car JUST RIGHT, you can make a tiny little hole turn into a tear from your pocket all the way down your cheek.  Ordinarily, I would have just brushed it off, got in the car and drove home to lament my loss in private.  However, as mentioned before, errands had to be done.  So, I searched my car frantically for any extra clothes.  No workout shorts, no sweatshirt, no leftover gowns from my daughter's visit to the doctor.  Not even a do-rag to tie around my waist or nonchalantly hang from my pocket like a grease monkey.  Nothing.

I  had no choice, I had to do it.  I had to turn into one of the "people of walmart" to buy new pants.  I grabbed the first pair I could find.  Of course, when I got to the dressing room, the actual size of the jean were about 3 sizes smaller than what was advertised on the hangar.  Back out I go.  I grab the proper size, they fit.  All is well, no big deal.  Well the woman at the dressing room is apparently a stickler for the rules.  She would not, under any circumstances, allow me to keep the new jeans on before purchasing them.  I begged, I pleaded, I showed her my old air conditioned pants.  Nope the rules were the rules.  I don't think even bamboo shoots under the fingernails would have convinced her otherwise.  And so, resigned, Lori of Walmart walked up to the register and paid for the pants.  At that point, I didn't even try to hide the tear with the new jeans.  I just walked around the store, defeated.  And cold.  Then I changed in the restroom.

There were several "morals of the story."  I listed them below and you can choose whichever you like"

     1)  Your mom was right, always wear clean underwear.
     2)  Your mom was right, throw away your holey jeans.
     3)  Your mom was right, keep extra clothes in the car.
     4)  Your mom was/is always right.

I went to the all consuming website and found a picture of what my jeans looked like, though I did not don a knife, nor '70's underwear.

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