This is what I can't say to you.
Your compliments are like daggers. You tell me I have "such a pretty voice" in a voice that echoes that it's a shameshameshame such a face must go to waste.
You point out others who are fatter than I and you say, "At least you aren't like that." It makes me want to eat the entire stock of a Mrs. Fields cookie store to push myself to the very limits of fat just to see where you can go from there.
You point to your perfectly normal thighs and lament how we are both cursed with fat, fat thighs. You suck in your already thin tummy and talk about the weight you've lost, the weight you need to lose, the weight you never had.
You eat chocolate with utter abandon. You lick it from your fingers. I have to remind you to wipe it from the edges of your mouth. It embarasses me, this wanton and brazen display of your appetite. And it really pisses me off when, five minutes later you are back to tugging at your waistband and talking about the invisible weight you never gain.
The list of inconsiderate remarks you have made about my weight is incredibly long. You have actually asked me (while puffing on a cigarette as you have done all of my life) if gaining weight caused my asthma. You once asked me if my tattoos stretched when I gained weight. What you never asked was what was going on with me. What did the weight give to me? What did I need from you?
You have never, not once, asked me about how I felt when I starved myself down to a weight you thought acceptable. You never wanted to know about how my hair fell out. You never wanted to know about how I still felt just as fat as I ever was and even fatter than I am today. We never talk about how one of my best friends once told you that she thought I was going to kill myself slowly by starving. Instead, that night became all about me trying to make you feel better.
And if you saw the same warning signs now, would you raise the red flag or would you just be happy that I was losing weight? Would you just be happy that the list of unfortunates you could point out to me as being worse off would be longer?
Would you stop saying I had a pretty face and just tell me that I'm beautiful?
I am absolutely filled to the brim with something I can't name. It sort of crept up on me yet it isn't quite unexpected. I guess it would be like if I had been mugged after getting on an elevator with a creepy character who gave me the heebies. You sort of know it's coming.
I've been sick for a week. I can't seem to kick it. I feel weak and headachey and this cough just won't go away. I'm cold and I'm tired and I just want to feel better. (I have, however, lost five pounds during this ordeal so there's the silver lining.)
I am also holding far more than the recommended seasonal allowance of family secrets. Just trying to keep straight in my head who knows what and who can't know what and who doesn't know about who knows what everyone else can't know and.....
*sigh*
There are people that I love who I am very worried about. There are too many things I can't affect. There are old habits rearing their heads and I am too tired to fight them off.
Have you ever woken up with a song in your head only you can't quite place it? There's sort of half a tune and a hodge podge of words and you almost but not quite can remember it. And maybe if you stopped trying so hard to get it right, it might come to you effortlessly. Then again, you might lose it altogether.
Can I tell you about my Abysmal Sadness? And demonstrate my penchant for drama when I’m feeling under-the-weather at the same time?
I’m sick. Pathetically and grossly sick. I’m a wheezing, sneezing, snotty, lung-butter spewing germ factory.
The Abysmal Sadness is not here just because of the sickness. It is here because the sickness has left me unable to work out on my elliptical trainer. The Abysmal Sadness is the result of multiple elliptical trainerless days resulting in my failure to meet my goal of the 40-minute workout by tomorrow.
I can set a new goal. And it isn’t like I’m just sitting around eating cake instead of working out. I’m sick. I need to rest. I deserve to rest. But I like working out.
Holy crap. Did I just write that?
It’s true. I like it. I love getting a sweaty and winded. I love that jelly leg feeling when I’m done. I love being slightly sore the next day. I love that feeling of accomplishing something.
So, new goal. I’d like to be up to 40 minutes by next Wednesday. That should give me time to recoup from being sick.
Woohoooooo!
I just did 30 minutes on my elliptical trainer. Without stopping. That's right. Uh-huh.
I. Am. A. Superstar.
I know that this probably doesn't sound all that impressive. But when I first started working out on the thing, I could barely get through 10 minutes without yodeling up my spleen. And just two weeks later I'm up to 30 minutes and my spleen is completely intact and in the proper place. I feel like strutting around the house a la Mick Jagger but my lips are not nearly as fat as my arse.
My goal was to be up to 30 minutes by the end of the week. I am SO ahead of schedule. Go me! Go me! I forgot to plan my reward for reaching my goal. So instead, I'm whoring for praise here in my blog. Come on. Praise me. You know you want to.
So, my next goal is 40 minutes and I intend to be up to that by this time next week (or sooner). This time, I plan on rewarding myself (although you can still lavish me with praise). I'm just not sure what that will be yet. When I think of one, I'll post it here. I'm open to suggestions.
There's something on my mind. I'm afraid to talk about it or write about it because I'm afraid that giving these thoughts words will somehow give them power, make them happen, make them true.
The logical me knows that I don't have such control of the world and its whims. The logical me understands that bad things happen every day and that none of those things has anything to do with whether or not I did/said/thought/wrote anything.
But then there's....well, let's just call her Mental Me. She averts her eyes when passing cemetaries, won't say certain words, sings "lalalalalala" in her head when confronted with unpleasantness. She's the one who fears flying, carries lucky charms, bites her nails. She's a total buzzkill.
People, I am so in the Christmas Spirit that it is a tad frightening. Seriously, I am this close to slapping on a Santa hat, decking my halls, and drinking eggnog until I chunder.
This isn't really like me. I'm usually either planning to fly to Colorado to spend the holidays with family or not planning anything because I'm pretending Christmas isn't happening.
Admittedly, Christmas with the family comes with a whole load of weird. And it involves flying on a plane, which I am so completely, utterly, eternally against doing. But the Christmases without my family are just wrong, somehow.
This year is going to be different. Instead of us flying to see my family, my mom and dad are flying here to spend Christmas with us.
I have some misgivings. First of all, I think my mom is part Christmas elf. Aside from the fact that she's very short, she's over the moon about Christmas in a way that only a Christmas elf could be. The woman has something like 27 nativity scenes and innumerable decorations of various sizes, shapes, and cultural significance. There is no competing with this. No. Way.
Also, my parents are Catholic. My mom has already asked if we would be going to church while they are here. My husband and I were raised Catholic but don't practice. We'll need to find a Catholic church before Christmas so that my mom does not have to spend the entire time praying for our sinful souls and praying rosaries for us. I have no idea how many Hail Marys you have to say for not going to mass on the Day of the Birth of Our Lord but I would imagine it is a lot.
But mostly I am really, really excited. This will be my first time hosting Christmas. I want to honor some of our family traditions but I also want to come up with some of my own. I think this is the root of my exuberance for Christmas this year.
My friend Robin brought a lot of her Christmas stuff over this weekend so that I could fortify my decoration cache. She also helped me pick out crafty stuff to make a Christmas wreath (which I did tonight and which is already hanging over there on the door even though it is only November 16th and Christmas decorating is a bit premature).
But I can’t help myself. I’m feeling….well….merry. I’m all mistletoe, candy canes, and sugarplum dreams over here. I want to make you all steaming hot cups of peppermint hot chocolate and have you over to sing Christmas carols in front of my fireplace. I want to strap little reindeer horns to my cats’ heads and put jingle bells around their necks. I want a sparkly decorated tree and laughing until my belly shakes like a bowlful of jelly and wassailing, people. Wassailing.
I don't even know what that involves but I am so ready for Christmas that I would do it without question.
I needed to write about it because I'm a little leary of talking about it. A lot of people are nowhere near ready to embrace the season. A lot of people, frankly, don't like this time of year. A lot of people have reason to not be merry right now. And I don't want to be struck about the head and shoulders with boughs of holly for being that annoying person who won't shut up about Christmas.
My cats have had a hard time adjusting to our new furniture in that they can't seem to get it through their fuzzy heads that it isn't meant to be large, squishy scratching posts dedicated to their pleasure.
They already have a scratching post. A nice, brand-spanking-new, triple level scratching post I even doused it generously in catnip. They do love their scratching post. I guess they just aren't in love with it. Not in the way that would indicate a monogamous scratching relationship with the post instead of whoring around the great room, repeatedly sinking their claws into a sofa and chair that they hardly know.
I tried spraying the furniture with some stuff that is supposed to keep cats away but that didn't work. It was sort of like spraying a high-priced call girl with rank, cheap perfume to keep rich Johns away. The lure of the sofa was too strong.
Just when I was considering a home declawing experiment, I remembered these things called Soft Paws. Have you heard of these? They're little rubber caps that you glue onto your cat's claws...sort of like Lee Press Ons for the feline set.
So I ordered some. They arrived on Friday and my husband and I tag-teamed the cats, managing to cap them without losing our eyesight or too much blood. It wasn't a pleasant experience, I admit. Holding onto a pissed off cat and glueing something to his claws is a dangerous undertaking. Especially when you have to continue holding on to him for five minutes afterwards to let the glue dry.
But we all survived and now the cats have Soft Paws. So far they are working quite well. I noticed one of them attempting to scratch something but he gave up. I guess without the tearing and shredding factor, scratching just isn't as fun.
I am so looking forward to tomorrow. This is sort of weird because tomorrow is Monday and I don't normally get all "woohoo!" about Monday.
But tomorrow is exciting. My elliptical trainer is being delivered! Woohoo!
Tomorrow is also the first meeting of the Shrinking Divas. A group of us at work have decided to have a weekly lunch meeting during which we talk about our weight loss challenges and/or successes. We'll be weighing in at home on Mondays and we'll be on the honor system to talk about how we did during the week.
I'm cautiously optimistic about this. It could be very cool and result in all sorts of Girl Power Motivation. It could also end in everyone hating me because of how very very very bitchy I can be when I feel like someone is getting all up in my kool-aide. Let's hope for scenario number one.
Welcome to the world, little one. We've been waiting for you. I heard you had a bit of a rough trip. Someday you're going to have to explain to me how you managed to get a knot in your umbilical cord.
I really wish I could meet you on your very first day here. I would love so much to be able to hold you and introduce myself to you in person. Unfortunately, I live really far away from you. Ask your daddy to show you on a map how far apart Virginia and California are. It just means that it takes awhile for me to get from where I am to where you are. Believe me, you'll be so busy in the next few months meeting everyone else that you won't miss me. Your uncle and I will be out to meet you in the spring.
I thought I'd tell you a little bit about your family. You'll find that we're all a little bit quirky, but in a nice way.
Your dad works a lot and sometimes needs to be away from home for extended periods of time. He'll always be back. And when he isn't there, he's thinking of you and wishing he was with you. Try to stay away from him after he has eaten cabbage. Trust me. And if he ever tries to scare you with some silly monster story, you just tell him that the Goat Lady is gonna get him. Between you and me, she isn't real. But that used to scare your daddy a lot when he was little.
Your mom will be with you a lot. You're going to learn so much from her. She can be a little bit strict sometimes but it's for your own good. She'll take real good care of you and you'll never know how much she loves you. She'll take you to all sorts of really cool places, too. Be nice to her, ok? She had a hard time helping you get here. If she ever tries to play the guilt card by telling you about your cesarean delivery, go with it. But don't feel too singled out because your oldest brother was a cesarean, too.
You've got two brothers and they are awesome. Jack is going to be turning seven soon. Try to cut him a break every once in awhile and let him have some quiet time alone. He's very patient and he will be a super big brother to you. But he's also very busy being a big brother for your other brother, Peter.
Peter will be turning four soon. He's been telling everyone that he's going to teach you how to walk and talk and play all sorts of games. He has promised that, if he drops you, he'll pick you right back up again. Peter let us know a long time ago that you were going to be a boy. In fact, he insists that you told him yourself.
Your Poppa and Grandma are so excited about you. They're going to fly all the way to see you from Colorado. Ask your daddy to show you that map again so you can see how far that is. They are really funny and you'll love them so much. They will try to spoil you absolutely rotten.
Your Uncle Cat and I are out in California but we will visit you as soon and as often as possible. Your uncle is so much fun. He may be a little nervous when he first meets you because you'll still be so small and he might be worried about dropping you. He was the same way with Peter in the beginning. He is very funny and will make silly faces for you. He also likes to skateboard and ride bikes and he plays the drums. How cool is that?
I love to snuggle and I know a lot of cool songs that I can teach you. I also love to tell stories. I've been around a lot of babies so I won't mind if you spit up on me. I understand that you can't help it. Even though I do live far away, I'm always here for you if you need me. As you get older, you'll learn to talk and your brothers can show you how to call me on the telephone.
Your daddy is supposed to send all of us some pictures of you tomorrow. I can't wait to see you.
You are already so very loved. Sleep tight, Charlie.
I'm patiently awaiting the arrival of my new niece or nephew who should be making her/his debut any day now.
This will be my brother's third child. I am so smitten and charmed with my two nephews, I can not wait to see what they have created this time.
I was thinking a lot about my brother today which eventually led to thinking about euphemisms for going to the bathroom. If you knew my brother, you would understand this to be a perfectly logical thought process.
My brother and his wife are a funny couple. They are very alike in many ways but there is one very distinct difference. Basically, my sister-in-law is fairly serious while my brother is.....not.
For example, she does not want my nephews to say "poop". She doesn't want them to say it because it makes them dissolve into fits of giggles. I mean, let's face it, poop is funny.
Instead, they are to say "BM". Now THAT is funny, if you ask me. Once I told my nephews that "BM" stood for "bowel movement" and they thought that was freaking hilarious. She was not amused.
My brother, on the other hand, frequently announces his bathroom plans with very colorful euphemisms. He's taking a dump, pinching a loaf, dropping the kids off at the pool, giving birth. He also enjoys getting my nephews to say words that aren't technically bad but that you do not want to hear coming from a small child. Words like "douche" and "otch".
I think my brother is hilarious (except for encouraging the nephews to sound like guest stars on South Park). Of course, he and I have that sibling history and we share the same genetics causing us to think such potty talk is funnier than a clown on fire. I still refer to him as "Dead Rabbit" because that's what his poots smell like, and he still tells the story of the fart banana.
When I was about five years old, I loved bananas. One day I was eating one and my brother pointed out a bruise on the fruit. "See that brown spot?" He asked. "I farted on it!"
I wish I could say that my response was to tell him to cram it. I wish I could say that I shrugged and continued to eat the banana. But I, with my penchant for the dramatic, did not handle the situation quite that well. Instead I horfed. Then I cried.
So anyway...my sister-in-law is sort of clinging to a small hope that this third child will be a girl. Everyone else is convinced it is another boy. I think she is imagining a girl would sway the balance of power just a bit more toward the estrogen-gifted. Perhaps a little girl would induce more gentility among the men in her house.
I have this image of my sister-in-law holding a curly haired little girl in a pink dress. She's smiling at her little angel, encouraging her to say her first words. "Say mama! Say dada!"
And our little angel will say, "Feck off!"
As I unpack boxes upon boxes of our belongings in our new house, I've found some interesting things. I swear that I've been lugging boxes from residence to residence for the last six years or so. Seriously, I unpacked some stuff that I don't even remember owning.
It's fun to run across something that gives you a glimpse into who you used to be. Old, forgotten photos are quite revealing. Even if you aren't in the photo, looking back at who you hung out with or reading the notes on the back of school pictures says a lot. It's interesting to see the things I've held onto (old fan mail from when I was a radio DJ, a cue ball that I stole from a club we used to go to in High School, my friend Dave's dogtags).
One of the funniest things I ran across so far is a progress chart from when I was in Kindergarden.
If you asked my mother, she would tell you that I was a brilliant five-year-old. She will tell you that I knew how to read before I started school. This is interesting because, according to this report, I did not completely know my ABCs.
Actually, this report sort of indicates that I may not have been so brilliant. In fact, I may have been kind of a dumbass.
I knew my colors, could write my name and could count to 39. When faced with identifying 5 shapes, I could only correctly identify the rectangle. I am pleased to report that I was able to skip, tie my own shoes, and recite my address and telephone number. However, I could not tell my left hand from my right or name the days of the week. It also says that I did not know how to use crayons because I wasn't interested and that I didn't hold scissors correctly.
So, either I was brilliant but rebellious or my mother is completely delusional.
I am one stop closer to launching The Master Plan.
Some time next week, my new elliptical trainer will be delivered and installed in my home gym. We went to Nordic Track earlier today (at my wonderful husband's request) and picked out the most excellent elliptical on the face of the planet. It rocks and I can NOT wait for it to get here.
Just what exactly is The Master Plan? Well, suffice it to say that it is a very good plan indeed, my friends. Oh, yes.
Ok, fine. It isn't such a grand scheme after all. Pretty much it consists of continuing to eat healthy but increasing my workouts. And because I feel like I am on a ride when I am on an elliptical trainer, I am much more likely to follow the plan of working out more. I also have my very own special room in the house dedicated to making me fit and trim. Woohoo!
There are other aspects of The Plan that include rewards. For example, I have a jetted tub and I lovelovelove the jetted tub. The Plan dictates that there shall be no tubbing until after I've worked out. I also plan to put up a calendar in the gym to keep track of my workouts.
You know there will be sparkley stars involved, right?
I also want to set some fun fitness goals to help keep me motivated. Things like taking a belly dancing class, learning to surf, learning to snowboard, hiking to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Things that I wouldn't be comfortable (or able in some cases) to do at this weight but that I think I would very much enjoy doing.
If anyone has any tips on staying motivated to work out, I'd love to hear them.