In her statement on her Instagram account, Janay Rice says: “No one knows the pain that the media & unwanted options from the public has caused my family. To make us relive a moment in our lives that we regret every day is a horrible thing. To take something away from the man I love that he has worked his ass off for all his life just to gain ratings is horrific.”
“THIS IS OUR LIFE! What don’t you all get. If your intentions were to hurt us, embarrass us, make us feel alone, take all happiness away, you’ve succeeded on so many levels. Just know we will continue to grow & show the world what real love is! Ravensnation we love you!”
Sad, isn’t it, that the woman who was the victim would try to excuse the behavior? She’s apparently an enabler who just can’t recognize the reality of her own situation. She may decide to stay with a guy who punched her out — some battered women inexplicably do — but she shouldn’t be excusing his conduct or trying to blame his current predicament on others. When a professional athlete slugs a woman and drags her out of a public elevator, that’s not some private incident, it’s assault and battery. The NFL has every right to demand that it’s players aren’t thugs and abusers.
Ray Rice has no one to blame for his problems but himself. His wife, of all people, should recognize that. It’s very sad that she doesn’t.
Today my inner 10-year-old boy got the thrill of a lifetime. I was having lunch outside with the Red Sox Fan when the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile drove by, gliding right down Third Street through the heart of downtown Columbus. The Wienermobile! Here!
What 10-year-old boy didn’t think the Wienermobile was cool? Sure, the Batmobile was cooler, but who wouldn’t want to ride in a car that was tricked out like a hot dog in a bun, singing the “Oh I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener” song at the top of your little kid lungs as you turned heads in every town from sea to shining sea?
When the Wienermobile drove by, I’d be willing to bet that every male in the vicinity looked at the car, felt like a kid again, and thought with a chuckle and a fond recollection of the humor of a 10-year-old: “Heh. Wiener.” And that’s the wonder of the Wienermobile.
When you’re trying to lose weight, how often should you weigh yourself? It’s a timeless question that every dieting person wrestles with. You want to track how you’re doing, but you view stepping on to the scales with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Will you receive news of happy progress, or crushing disappointment?
Dieter, know thyself! Discouragement seems to be the greatest enemy of a person who is trying to lose weight. Dieting isn’t easy; you’re trying to change ingrained habits and not eating what you would like. If you’ve stuck to your diet but didn’t see any weight loss on the scales yesterday or today, are you going to say what the hell and indulge in a hot fudge sundae? If you’re easily discouraged, why expose yourself to the daily possibility that you’ll be disappointed?
I suppose there are some overweight nerds who would love nothing more than to create spreadsheets with their daily weights and weekly averages, but for normally constituted people weekly weighing seems like the best idea. Let the accumulated work and sacrifice of seven days show weight loss progress and provide the positive reinforcement that you need to keep going.
And while you’re at it, why not give yourself a break and pick a time when you’re most likely to get happy news from that bathroom scale? When I started the low-carb approach I resolved to weigh myself once a week, after I played golf on Sunday morning. Sure, the results reflected water weight loss from lugging my golf bag around on a hot summer day, but what the heck? It made me feel like I was really making progress, and as long as I was consistent in when I weighed myself, what’s the harm?