I hate bad moods. They're not pleasant things all on their own, but worse I think that they're contagious. This is a very dangerous thing when you consider that if you are already in a bad mood and you put someone else in a bad mood the chances are high that you'll try to decapitate the other person (or they will.) One bad mood can become a whole bad day. Yuck.
Unfortunately, I'm in a really bad mood. I'm bogged down by the sheer volume of work in front of me. Everything from school to household, it's all stacked up to the ceiling and there isn't physically enough time or me to go around. Makes a girl a wee bit witchy. Ok, more than a wee bit. I may have circled the house a few times on my broom just to let off steam, made a couple of voodoo dolls and bought a bulk-size can of pins... you know... what ever works.
I think my bad mood is in part due to the whole sleep thing. I got that great night of sleep Thursday night, only to have the next two nights revert to useless sleep. I would think that I was meant to be a vampire if it wasn't for the fact that I can't sleep in the day either. And I don't burst into flames at high noon, kind of a perk there. Though maybe I won't think so as the week progresses.
Oh and a last question, does anyone else notice that the Autumn season seems to bring out more extended family issues? It's sort of like they're stretching and warming up for the holiday season family nightmare Olympics. Sort of like pre-season football, but with more blood, effort, and less padding.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Pillow Talk
Have you ever had a period of time where you couldn't get a decent night of sleep to save your life? That has been me this past week. Granted, I always sleep poorly when there is a full moon (and the few days before and after.) I think I must have a werewolf somewhere in the family tree.
Still, this week has been absolutely horrible. Next to no sleep. Horrible weather which makes it even worse trying to sleep (hot and humid, no a/c) so that even when you do get some sleep, it's disturbed sleep. And then my anxieties started building up. I am not certain if they were set off because of my sleep issues or just aggravated by them.
But then last night we got a rocking thunderstorm. I mean, it started at about 3:30 PM, and kept up all the way until I did finally fall asleep at midnight. I don't remember being in a storm that consistent for that many hours with lightning, usually they move through fairly quickly. I don't know what it is about storms, but they really put me to sleep. A good rainy day is the absolute BEST for sleeping, after that a blizzard works out nicely too. So last night with the storm and the breaking temperatures I finally slept well.
But have you ever noticed that when you finally sleep well after a period of sleeping bad, it's never when you can sleep enough? My kids dragged me out of bed at 6 AM to get them ready for school (I should have been up at 5 AM to work out, so I have to do that in a minute or five...) but all I want to do is to crawl back into my bed and snore. I feel better, but not good enough. And the anxieties are still there because they were based on actual issues I need to solve (most related to gigantic projects due all within the next week.)
Maybe I should just go back to bed and try again in a couple hours? Sort of like a Friday morning do-over?
*Yawn* Yeah, maybe that's what I should do....
*snore*
Still, this week has been absolutely horrible. Next to no sleep. Horrible weather which makes it even worse trying to sleep (hot and humid, no a/c) so that even when you do get some sleep, it's disturbed sleep. And then my anxieties started building up. I am not certain if they were set off because of my sleep issues or just aggravated by them.
But then last night we got a rocking thunderstorm. I mean, it started at about 3:30 PM, and kept up all the way until I did finally fall asleep at midnight. I don't remember being in a storm that consistent for that many hours with lightning, usually they move through fairly quickly. I don't know what it is about storms, but they really put me to sleep. A good rainy day is the absolute BEST for sleeping, after that a blizzard works out nicely too. So last night with the storm and the breaking temperatures I finally slept well.
But have you ever noticed that when you finally sleep well after a period of sleeping bad, it's never when you can sleep enough? My kids dragged me out of bed at 6 AM to get them ready for school (I should have been up at 5 AM to work out, so I have to do that in a minute or five...) but all I want to do is to crawl back into my bed and snore. I feel better, but not good enough. And the anxieties are still there because they were based on actual issues I need to solve (most related to gigantic projects due all within the next week.)
Maybe I should just go back to bed and try again in a couple hours? Sort of like a Friday morning do-over?
*Yawn* Yeah, maybe that's what I should do....
*snore*
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Of House And Home
Growing up I don't think I noticed how hard it was to own a house. I'm sure things broke all the time, and I just didn't pay attention to it. Or, if I did notice that they broke I always knew it was my father's fault.
I love my dad, I really do, but the man is more dangerous than helpful with any manual labor or household construction project. He is also cursed. I have never seen anyone sever power and phone lines as many times as he has. He has even called in advance and had them marked out by the companies on the property only to end up severing them anyway because the company marked them four feet away instead of where they actually were. He has sliced off a little more than the tips of fingers, gotten stitches many times, and even has several concussions to his record.
One memorable incident we had my father come in from working outside on some project with his hand covered in blood. My mother, being the ever clear-headed nurse, sent my brother and I out into the yard to look for any fingers he might have left behind. Seriously. I think I was about eight years old. Talk about a weird afternoon that could have put me into therapy (no fingers were cut off, thank goodness!)
I don't remember many house problems in the first house we lived in, but the second when I was 11 was a "fixer-upper" that had been foreclosed on a bunch of drug-dealers. No joke. There was a shot-gun blast with a nice pellet spread through the front door, from the INSIDE going out. Every sliding glass door was missing or broken. There were single bullet holes through some of the upper story windows. They had rarely let their multiple large dogs outside and kept them in the dining room area (think about that for a while and you'll have some idea of how the whole place smelled.) There was a rusty claw-foot tub in the nasty wood paneled basement complete with three inches of soil and "special" lights. There was a gigantic rabbit hutch in the dead center of the front yard that had never been cleaned or maintained in the 10 years they had it. Half the house had burned down along with the upper story deck that an upstairs bedroom led out on. They rebuilt that side of the house, but no deck, so you had a door leading to one hell of a fall.
Does that sound like a dream-house to you? It's funny, I hadn't really thought about the house in that way for so long. What the hell were my parents thinking moving two little kids into that? Good grief!
We worked so hard fixing that house. We had to rip out the entire floor all the way past the plywood where they kept the dogs. We replaced doors and windows and carpet and walls. On our very first Easter there, I was happy when we were informed we wouldn't have to sit through three hours of church service... until my dad handed me a shovel and we spent the whole day ripping down and cleaning out that rabbit hutch. That was probably the first time ever that I can say that I didn't want a single piece of my Easter candy. *gag* When we tore up the basement, giant thick hairy spiders crawled up through the plumbing all the way to the second story bathrooms like a bad horror movie. In one bathroom over 20 of them came up through the drain, each one measuring several inches across. They were in a tall shower stall, and I remember my mother pouring raid and bottles of straight bleach on them, and they wouldn't die. I was terrified to shower or take a bath for months.
Still, once the repair was moving along nicely, other things would go wrong. We ended up finishing the basement, and my room was down there. One morning I woke up and it was raining. I couldn't figure it out. I was in that half-sleep half-awake state where weird things seem normal, and normal seem wrong. Rain made sense. Me in bed made sense. Me in bed getting rained on... hmmm. A water-pipe had burst above the suspended ceiling, and water was leaking through all the panels. It was fairly impressive actually. A year later during a big rainstorm, I noticed the wall by the window well looked kinda funny. Suddenly it exploded outward in a torrent of water and filled the basement area with a good couple of inches on the floor.
I grew up with lots of things going wrong, but I think I assumed it was because of the screwed up house we lived in, or my father's curse and lack of skills. I just sort of expected bad things to always be happening in that fixer-upper house. But I think I felt that if you got a normal house that things like this wouldn't happen. Even better, I married Mr. Fix-it. Mr. Savy grew up building multiple houses with his family. He's an engineer and knows how things work and how to fix them. If he builds a table, it isn't mysteriously slanted to one side. It's amazing, really. If anything needs building or breaks, he fixes it. He can't coordinate colors or textures to save his life though, so I make it pretty. It's a good partnership.
But stuff keeps going wrong in my house! It's a newer house, we built it about eight years ago. But every year my heater/boiler thing quits on us. Usually in a snowstorm with a -60 windchill in the middle of the night on a weekend. It quit on me today, which has to be the best time it's ever bailed on me before. I don't have to coach or go to school today. Still, I was not a happy camper when I went to take a shower after my workout and discovered no hot water. And you should understand that since I have a deep well, when I say the water is cold, I mean it was freaking frigid. Penguins were lining up behind me, and frost formed on the shower door. I was NOT going in there. I'd probably be the only person in history to die of hypothermia in my own house when it's 85 degrees both inside and out. Mr. Savy did something, and I'm waiting for warm water right now. But that heater is on notice... again. We just replaced the well tank which went on us a month ago. I have other home issues cropping up too. I just don't know if this is normal home behavior, or does mine have a serious attitude?
Still, I can say this: in all the houses I have lived in (including one before we built this one,) this is the only one that has ever felt like home. I walk in the door and know instantly that I am OK. I wonder what it is that made all the other houses I lived in just houses. At least now I know it isn't the amount of work involved. But I think I resent the work less because it is my home, and not just my house. Even with all the problems and work involved, it's not a mansion on Cribs, but it's mine. It's home.
I love my dad, I really do, but the man is more dangerous than helpful with any manual labor or household construction project. He is also cursed. I have never seen anyone sever power and phone lines as many times as he has. He has even called in advance and had them marked out by the companies on the property only to end up severing them anyway because the company marked them four feet away instead of where they actually were. He has sliced off a little more than the tips of fingers, gotten stitches many times, and even has several concussions to his record.
One memorable incident we had my father come in from working outside on some project with his hand covered in blood. My mother, being the ever clear-headed nurse, sent my brother and I out into the yard to look for any fingers he might have left behind. Seriously. I think I was about eight years old. Talk about a weird afternoon that could have put me into therapy (no fingers were cut off, thank goodness!)
I don't remember many house problems in the first house we lived in, but the second when I was 11 was a "fixer-upper" that had been foreclosed on a bunch of drug-dealers. No joke. There was a shot-gun blast with a nice pellet spread through the front door, from the INSIDE going out. Every sliding glass door was missing or broken. There were single bullet holes through some of the upper story windows. They had rarely let their multiple large dogs outside and kept them in the dining room area (think about that for a while and you'll have some idea of how the whole place smelled.) There was a rusty claw-foot tub in the nasty wood paneled basement complete with three inches of soil and "special" lights. There was a gigantic rabbit hutch in the dead center of the front yard that had never been cleaned or maintained in the 10 years they had it. Half the house had burned down along with the upper story deck that an upstairs bedroom led out on. They rebuilt that side of the house, but no deck, so you had a door leading to one hell of a fall.
Does that sound like a dream-house to you? It's funny, I hadn't really thought about the house in that way for so long. What the hell were my parents thinking moving two little kids into that? Good grief!
We worked so hard fixing that house. We had to rip out the entire floor all the way past the plywood where they kept the dogs. We replaced doors and windows and carpet and walls. On our very first Easter there, I was happy when we were informed we wouldn't have to sit through three hours of church service... until my dad handed me a shovel and we spent the whole day ripping down and cleaning out that rabbit hutch. That was probably the first time ever that I can say that I didn't want a single piece of my Easter candy. *gag* When we tore up the basement, giant thick hairy spiders crawled up through the plumbing all the way to the second story bathrooms like a bad horror movie. In one bathroom over 20 of them came up through the drain, each one measuring several inches across. They were in a tall shower stall, and I remember my mother pouring raid and bottles of straight bleach on them, and they wouldn't die. I was terrified to shower or take a bath for months.
Still, once the repair was moving along nicely, other things would go wrong. We ended up finishing the basement, and my room was down there. One morning I woke up and it was raining. I couldn't figure it out. I was in that half-sleep half-awake state where weird things seem normal, and normal seem wrong. Rain made sense. Me in bed made sense. Me in bed getting rained on... hmmm. A water-pipe had burst above the suspended ceiling, and water was leaking through all the panels. It was fairly impressive actually. A year later during a big rainstorm, I noticed the wall by the window well looked kinda funny. Suddenly it exploded outward in a torrent of water and filled the basement area with a good couple of inches on the floor.
I grew up with lots of things going wrong, but I think I assumed it was because of the screwed up house we lived in, or my father's curse and lack of skills. I just sort of expected bad things to always be happening in that fixer-upper house. But I think I felt that if you got a normal house that things like this wouldn't happen. Even better, I married Mr. Fix-it. Mr. Savy grew up building multiple houses with his family. He's an engineer and knows how things work and how to fix them. If he builds a table, it isn't mysteriously slanted to one side. It's amazing, really. If anything needs building or breaks, he fixes it. He can't coordinate colors or textures to save his life though, so I make it pretty. It's a good partnership.
But stuff keeps going wrong in my house! It's a newer house, we built it about eight years ago. But every year my heater/boiler thing quits on us. Usually in a snowstorm with a -60 windchill in the middle of the night on a weekend. It quit on me today, which has to be the best time it's ever bailed on me before. I don't have to coach or go to school today. Still, I was not a happy camper when I went to take a shower after my workout and discovered no hot water. And you should understand that since I have a deep well, when I say the water is cold, I mean it was freaking frigid. Penguins were lining up behind me, and frost formed on the shower door. I was NOT going in there. I'd probably be the only person in history to die of hypothermia in my own house when it's 85 degrees both inside and out. Mr. Savy did something, and I'm waiting for warm water right now. But that heater is on notice... again. We just replaced the well tank which went on us a month ago. I have other home issues cropping up too. I just don't know if this is normal home behavior, or does mine have a serious attitude?
Still, I can say this: in all the houses I have lived in (including one before we built this one,) this is the only one that has ever felt like home. I walk in the door and know instantly that I am OK. I wonder what it is that made all the other houses I lived in just houses. At least now I know it isn't the amount of work involved. But I think I resent the work less because it is my home, and not just my house. Even with all the problems and work involved, it's not a mansion on Cribs, but it's mine. It's home.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Regrets
Do you have regrets? Well here is a question just for you:
Which regrets are worse:
When you regret that you did NOT do something?
When you regret that you DID do something?
I was driving along this morning when a song I haven't heard in years played on the radio. I spent a good amount of time cringing due to the memory it triggered. Sure, I could have immediately changed the channel, but then I argued with myself about how that was cowardly. It was just a song... wasn't it? I only made it about half way through before I flipped the channels to "anything but that!" There is cowardly, and then there is just cruel and unusual punishment.
I have a major regret tied to something I did in regards to that song. Major major. Major major major. Ick. But I have regrets going the other direction too. Missed opportunities or more, and those don't sit well either. For me, however, it's the regret of an action that I took which feels worse than the one I didn't take. Just my opinion... what does everyone else think?
That's my deep thought for the day. Deep thought Tuesday's... I kind of like the idea of that.
Which regrets are worse:
When you regret that you did NOT do something?
When you regret that you DID do something?
I was driving along this morning when a song I haven't heard in years played on the radio. I spent a good amount of time cringing due to the memory it triggered. Sure, I could have immediately changed the channel, but then I argued with myself about how that was cowardly. It was just a song... wasn't it? I only made it about half way through before I flipped the channels to "anything but that!" There is cowardly, and then there is just cruel and unusual punishment.
I have a major regret tied to something I did in regards to that song. Major major. Major major major. Ick. But I have regrets going the other direction too. Missed opportunities or more, and those don't sit well either. For me, however, it's the regret of an action that I took which feels worse than the one I didn't take. Just my opinion... what does everyone else think?
That's my deep thought for the day. Deep thought Tuesday's... I kind of like the idea of that.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Addicted to Comfort
I have a lot of "addictions" in my life. Exercise, holidays, chocolate, blogging, tea, certain television shows I'd be too embarrassed to admit in a public forum, and so on. There is another addiction I have been trying to deny for a while, but I suppose it's time I come out of the closet and admit it... I'm addicted to my electric blanket.
Technically, I moved up in the world and ditched the electric blanket for the electric mattress cover a while ago. But it works the same way, you have your little dial, you turn the heat up to where you want it, and voila! Instant snuggle-happiness. I've started to wonder if I have lost the ability to produce my own body-heat, because I cannot seem to get warm without it, or a hot bath, or my fireplace. Even if I wrap myself in flannel from head to toe, if I am cold going into the flannel to start with, I'm cold no matter what.
Now, logic would dictate that you would think I would be a person suited for a warmer climate - but not so! If I get overheated I'm miserable. I'm one of those people who would rather painfully freeze to death than heatstroke out. I get overheated easily, which makes trips to hot climates rather difficult actually. But in cold weather I'm not great at producing heat either. (I don't suppose low blood pressure plays into that at all? Just curious, as I tend to run around 90/60.)
So here I am, unable to make my own body-heat and in love with my electric warmer. I've been sick for over a week now, and I spent the entire weekend hibernating with my electric blanket-thing. Seriously, I think I slept 90% of the weekend while Mr. Savy chased the kids around. I never do this, but I just couldn't help myself (maybe it's because I'm sick.) I read somewhere that you aren't supposed to sleep with these electric blankets and covers on, that you are only supposed to use them to heat up the bed before you get into it. Something about electromagnetic fields being bad. Does anyone out there actually use it that way?
I just can't do it. I wake up cold and I can't warm up, and Mr. Savy is NOT a good sport when I put my ice cold body on his. Go figure, men are so sensitive. So, it's me and my warmer. I wonder if this means it'll make me grow an extra limb or toe or something.
So there you have it. Me and my extra limbs are addicted to electric warming devices. I'd say "point me to the support group" but I'm not quite at the point where I'm willing to change, just admit to it. I think it's a good step forward... now I'm going to go snuggle back in my warming bed and do homework.
Technically, I moved up in the world and ditched the electric blanket for the electric mattress cover a while ago. But it works the same way, you have your little dial, you turn the heat up to where you want it, and voila! Instant snuggle-happiness. I've started to wonder if I have lost the ability to produce my own body-heat, because I cannot seem to get warm without it, or a hot bath, or my fireplace. Even if I wrap myself in flannel from head to toe, if I am cold going into the flannel to start with, I'm cold no matter what.
Now, logic would dictate that you would think I would be a person suited for a warmer climate - but not so! If I get overheated I'm miserable. I'm one of those people who would rather painfully freeze to death than heatstroke out. I get overheated easily, which makes trips to hot climates rather difficult actually. But in cold weather I'm not great at producing heat either. (I don't suppose low blood pressure plays into that at all? Just curious, as I tend to run around 90/60.)
So here I am, unable to make my own body-heat and in love with my electric warmer. I've been sick for over a week now, and I spent the entire weekend hibernating with my electric blanket-thing. Seriously, I think I slept 90% of the weekend while Mr. Savy chased the kids around. I never do this, but I just couldn't help myself (maybe it's because I'm sick.) I read somewhere that you aren't supposed to sleep with these electric blankets and covers on, that you are only supposed to use them to heat up the bed before you get into it. Something about electromagnetic fields being bad. Does anyone out there actually use it that way?
I just can't do it. I wake up cold and I can't warm up, and Mr. Savy is NOT a good sport when I put my ice cold body on his. Go figure, men are so sensitive. So, it's me and my warmer. I wonder if this means it'll make me grow an extra limb or toe or something.
So there you have it. Me and my extra limbs are addicted to electric warming devices. I'd say "point me to the support group" but I'm not quite at the point where I'm willing to change, just admit to it. I think it's a good step forward... now I'm going to go snuggle back in my warming bed and do homework.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Truce
For those of you who know me, and most likely a lot of those who don't, you probably know I have serious food issues. I like food. But more than that, I use food.
Food is, at its essence, a tool. The sole purpose of food is to fuel us. But, we use food for so much more than that.
I have used food to comfort myself when I was sad. I have used food to punish myself when I felt I had no control over my life, and it felt good (yes GOOD) to hate myself for giving in and having that slice of cake (or three). I used food because it was a weapon against myself and others, and when all else seemed lost it was all I had. Maybe that seems silly, looking at a plate of whatever and thinking this is all that is left for you in the world at that moment, and maybe it is. But it doesn't make it any less true. It happened. It was real. I still hear the echoes on occasion.
For the most part, since I really threw myself into fitness, I have used food to fine-tune. Not just as fuel, but a super performance fuel. I found while training for my marathon that even a half a glass of wine (literally 2 fl.oz.) in the evening would mess up my performance on the track the next day. I was slower, I tired more easily, etc. I know it was the wine and not my own wishful thinking, because I tracked my performance and tried to figure out what was going wrong on certain training days and I narrowed it down to that. You have no idea how bright a light-bulb-moment that was, to realize that something so small created such a noticeable effect.
And if wine did that, what about the reverse? What did eating correctly do? It made all the difference, is what eating correctly did. Truly amazing.
Still, using food for that purpose didn't negate the other uses I had in my back pocket. It simply made it less noticeable to others that I abused food as I did. I wasn't 230 lbs anymore with that ice cream being my lifeline, I was a more "normal" weight and less people noticed. That's neither a good or bad thing, it simply just is.
One of the things I embarked upon was Body For Life. I liked the program, but I did not handle "free-days" well. These are days that after six strict days of no "cheats" at all, you are allowed to just eat whenever, whatever. At first it was wonderful. I had NEVER had a meal that I could recall even down to grade school that I didn't feel guilty about (growing up with a bulimic-anorexic mother was not the most productive thing for my own food relationships.) But I found that I started to look at those six days of perfection as a desperate sprint to my free-day where I could breath... and stuff myself.
I viewed my free-days as being about eating everything I couldn't have all week long - sometimes even if I didn't want it. I literally had to start picking and choosing carefully, making sure I picked the things I most wanted and would miss the most during the next six days, because I only had so much room in my stomach. But I didn't enjoy it. I didn't get anything out of it. I didn't even get to hate myself because of it, because I was still losing weight on Body for Life. What I ended up with after several years was a struggle for deprivation and perfection six days of the week, and empty eating without any enjoyment on the seventh.
This was no one's fault but my own, let me make that clear. I know this, full well. I did this to myself because I have always made food my adversary. Even when I knew what food could do for me and my athletic performance, it was an argument, a fight, not a partnership. I took, forcefully, what I wanted from food to make my body go the distance. It was an almost angry dance. So even in good times, it wasn't good. It became an all or nothing thing with me, if I had a perfect day with my food but then had a single stick of gum off plan I felt like the world's worst failure. That is not healthy.
So, for the past few months I have been working hard. Not on perfect macro and micro-nutrient ratios, not on calories, not on timing, but on making peace. If you have been through any of this, or anything similar you can probably agree with me on one thing - I am SO TIRED! This takes energy, to struggle this much, to fight this long. But there are those who are at peace with food, it's a give and take without deprivation and without fear. I have worked on that, for months - as in over six now.
It has only been over the past two weeks that I have subtly realized that I am not fighting food anymore. Somewhere along the way, without my noticing, I achieved a truce between food and myself. There are days when I am eating well and don't eat anything "bad" and don't feel deprived. There are days when I have a Hershey's kiss (or four) and don't feel a failure. Better than that, I just simply balance my day without even thinking about it.
I never would have thought that I could achieve that, especially without my at least noticing. But maybe not noticing is the biggest part of the achievement? Maybe the fact that I don't have to fight anymore and think about it all the time is the most important element in making peace with food. Whatever it is, I feel that I have let out a huge breath that I had been holding since I was five years old. Do I think I won't have to keep an eye on myself and my behavior? Ha, I know myself better than that. I'm a delinquent. I'll slip up. But now I've been here and I know what it means to not fight with food. Even better, I can track back to when this happened and literally the weight has started falling off of me without my forcing the issue.
I have always said that weight loss is a side effect of how you live, not the main activity. I have even believed it. But until this point, I never really felt that I had truly achieved that. So, I guess the reason I am posting this is dual; it feels good to say it, and to those who are where I have been (and will likely slide back into briefly now and then) that this is real, it does exist. You can make peace and it doesn't mean giving up. Never give up.
Food is, at its essence, a tool. The sole purpose of food is to fuel us. But, we use food for so much more than that.
I have used food to comfort myself when I was sad. I have used food to punish myself when I felt I had no control over my life, and it felt good (yes GOOD) to hate myself for giving in and having that slice of cake (or three). I used food because it was a weapon against myself and others, and when all else seemed lost it was all I had. Maybe that seems silly, looking at a plate of whatever and thinking this is all that is left for you in the world at that moment, and maybe it is. But it doesn't make it any less true. It happened. It was real. I still hear the echoes on occasion.
For the most part, since I really threw myself into fitness, I have used food to fine-tune. Not just as fuel, but a super performance fuel. I found while training for my marathon that even a half a glass of wine (literally 2 fl.oz.) in the evening would mess up my performance on the track the next day. I was slower, I tired more easily, etc. I know it was the wine and not my own wishful thinking, because I tracked my performance and tried to figure out what was going wrong on certain training days and I narrowed it down to that. You have no idea how bright a light-bulb-moment that was, to realize that something so small created such a noticeable effect.
And if wine did that, what about the reverse? What did eating correctly do? It made all the difference, is what eating correctly did. Truly amazing.
Still, using food for that purpose didn't negate the other uses I had in my back pocket. It simply made it less noticeable to others that I abused food as I did. I wasn't 230 lbs anymore with that ice cream being my lifeline, I was a more "normal" weight and less people noticed. That's neither a good or bad thing, it simply just is.
One of the things I embarked upon was Body For Life. I liked the program, but I did not handle "free-days" well. These are days that after six strict days of no "cheats" at all, you are allowed to just eat whenever, whatever. At first it was wonderful. I had NEVER had a meal that I could recall even down to grade school that I didn't feel guilty about (growing up with a bulimic-anorexic mother was not the most productive thing for my own food relationships.) But I found that I started to look at those six days of perfection as a desperate sprint to my free-day where I could breath... and stuff myself.
I viewed my free-days as being about eating everything I couldn't have all week long - sometimes even if I didn't want it. I literally had to start picking and choosing carefully, making sure I picked the things I most wanted and would miss the most during the next six days, because I only had so much room in my stomach. But I didn't enjoy it. I didn't get anything out of it. I didn't even get to hate myself because of it, because I was still losing weight on Body for Life. What I ended up with after several years was a struggle for deprivation and perfection six days of the week, and empty eating without any enjoyment on the seventh.
This was no one's fault but my own, let me make that clear. I know this, full well. I did this to myself because I have always made food my adversary. Even when I knew what food could do for me and my athletic performance, it was an argument, a fight, not a partnership. I took, forcefully, what I wanted from food to make my body go the distance. It was an almost angry dance. So even in good times, it wasn't good. It became an all or nothing thing with me, if I had a perfect day with my food but then had a single stick of gum off plan I felt like the world's worst failure. That is not healthy.
So, for the past few months I have been working hard. Not on perfect macro and micro-nutrient ratios, not on calories, not on timing, but on making peace. If you have been through any of this, or anything similar you can probably agree with me on one thing - I am SO TIRED! This takes energy, to struggle this much, to fight this long. But there are those who are at peace with food, it's a give and take without deprivation and without fear. I have worked on that, for months - as in over six now.
It has only been over the past two weeks that I have subtly realized that I am not fighting food anymore. Somewhere along the way, without my noticing, I achieved a truce between food and myself. There are days when I am eating well and don't eat anything "bad" and don't feel deprived. There are days when I have a Hershey's kiss (or four) and don't feel a failure. Better than that, I just simply balance my day without even thinking about it.
I never would have thought that I could achieve that, especially without my at least noticing. But maybe not noticing is the biggest part of the achievement? Maybe the fact that I don't have to fight anymore and think about it all the time is the most important element in making peace with food. Whatever it is, I feel that I have let out a huge breath that I had been holding since I was five years old. Do I think I won't have to keep an eye on myself and my behavior? Ha, I know myself better than that. I'm a delinquent. I'll slip up. But now I've been here and I know what it means to not fight with food. Even better, I can track back to when this happened and literally the weight has started falling off of me without my forcing the issue.
I have always said that weight loss is a side effect of how you live, not the main activity. I have even believed it. But until this point, I never really felt that I had truly achieved that. So, I guess the reason I am posting this is dual; it feels good to say it, and to those who are where I have been (and will likely slide back into briefly now and then) that this is real, it does exist. You can make peace and it doesn't mean giving up. Never give up.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Metaphorically Speaking
Have you ever felt like the world is constantly laughing at you in a metaphorical fashion? No? Alright, maybe it's just me.
On the way to class this morning I passed a bunch of turkeys. No, not IRS agents. Real, feathered, gobbling, gonna-grace-your-table-in-two-months-turkeys. (Do I refer to them as a flock... or a banquet?) There were about 25 of them, and I got a really good look when I had to stop for the feathered morons because they were blocking the road. I have noticed that the turkeys do this on a regular basis, but only when it isn't hunting season. They like to gloat.
It was as I was sitting there looking at them, contemplating on whether knocking one down with my car and taking it home counts as poaching, when I noticed something odd. All the turkeys were black. Your standard, Thanksgiving card, run from the pilgrim looking type of turkeys. All except one. One of the turkeys was snow-white. From the tip of his head down to his scaly three pronged feet he was absolutely white. He was sort of looking around at the other turkeys like I imagine I would if I had entered a fancy black-tie event in jeans and a t-shirt. He had that whole "no one told me we were wearing black today, dagnabbit!" look.
He was probably an escaped prisoner. We have turkey farms out here all over the place. I have no idea why, if people want a fresh turkey they can just go out into their backyards. But hey, who am I to judge? All the turkey farms here have those snow-white turkeys. The thing is, I was pretty amazed he had escaped. Growing up, the people behind us had turkeys and every hatching they would always lose a ton of them because they were so stupid. Stupid, as in during a rainstorm they would look up at the sky and drown, they would forget to come up for air when they drank out of a trough, etc. So how in the world did this one escape and join forces with the local pack?
Honestly, I was impressed.
And then the metaphor hit me. I was on my way to school where I am literally representative of less than 1% of the student population as a whole. I am even dressed all in white today.
I'm the damn white turkey.
Gobble. Gobble.
I'm happy to report I didn't bitch-slap the professor today, even though he was close to deserving it. When I left the class with a group, one of the students commented on his behavior. Fortunately, today he'd been dishing out a lot to everyone so I didn't have to take it all personally. If it had been personally aimed like Tuesday's, I might have flat out snapped. I'm reading a book series where the main character is very aggressive (as in if you give her enough crap she'll just beat you up or shoot you) I'd hate to accidentally channel her in the heat of the moment.
I don't look good in prison-orange.
Today, for me, is all about taking breaths and realizing that this too shall pass.
I attended a presentation on astronomy where we looked at a ring-galaxy. The theory is one galaxy punches through another. What I like is that even with all that violence, the other one is still there. Sort of a "you may have hit me, but you didn't defeat me!" kind of thing.
Yeah, it's my metaphor, not the astronomers. But today, I needed to think like that.
On the way to class this morning I passed a bunch of turkeys. No, not IRS agents. Real, feathered, gobbling, gonna-grace-your-table-in-two-months-turkeys. (Do I refer to them as a flock... or a banquet?) There were about 25 of them, and I got a really good look when I had to stop for the feathered morons because they were blocking the road. I have noticed that the turkeys do this on a regular basis, but only when it isn't hunting season. They like to gloat.
It was as I was sitting there looking at them, contemplating on whether knocking one down with my car and taking it home counts as poaching, when I noticed something odd. All the turkeys were black. Your standard, Thanksgiving card, run from the pilgrim looking type of turkeys. All except one. One of the turkeys was snow-white. From the tip of his head down to his scaly three pronged feet he was absolutely white. He was sort of looking around at the other turkeys like I imagine I would if I had entered a fancy black-tie event in jeans and a t-shirt. He had that whole "no one told me we were wearing black today, dagnabbit!" look.
He was probably an escaped prisoner. We have turkey farms out here all over the place. I have no idea why, if people want a fresh turkey they can just go out into their backyards. But hey, who am I to judge? All the turkey farms here have those snow-white turkeys. The thing is, I was pretty amazed he had escaped. Growing up, the people behind us had turkeys and every hatching they would always lose a ton of them because they were so stupid. Stupid, as in during a rainstorm they would look up at the sky and drown, they would forget to come up for air when they drank out of a trough, etc. So how in the world did this one escape and join forces with the local pack?
Honestly, I was impressed.
And then the metaphor hit me. I was on my way to school where I am literally representative of less than 1% of the student population as a whole. I am even dressed all in white today.
I'm the damn white turkey.
Gobble. Gobble.
I'm happy to report I didn't bitch-slap the professor today, even though he was close to deserving it. When I left the class with a group, one of the students commented on his behavior. Fortunately, today he'd been dishing out a lot to everyone so I didn't have to take it all personally. If it had been personally aimed like Tuesday's, I might have flat out snapped. I'm reading a book series where the main character is very aggressive (as in if you give her enough crap she'll just beat you up or shoot you) I'd hate to accidentally channel her in the heat of the moment.
I don't look good in prison-orange.
Today, for me, is all about taking breaths and realizing that this too shall pass.
I attended a presentation on astronomy where we looked at a ring-galaxy. The theory is one galaxy punches through another. What I like is that even with all that violence, the other one is still there. Sort of a "you may have hit me, but you didn't defeat me!" kind of thing. Yeah, it's my metaphor, not the astronomers. But today, I needed to think like that.
Monday, September 17, 2007
And speaking of sick...
I just turned on the television (I know, I know, daytime TV is deadly - but I couldn't study anymore) and it was already on VH1. They were showing "Rock of Love" which is apparently a reality show where an out of radio-rocker is looking to, I think, marry someone?
I hadn't seen it before, hadn't heard about it, and yet I couldn't turn away. It was like watching one of those invasive surgeries on TLC.
Why do I suddenly feel the need to disinfect myself?
Suddenly, studying strategic management tactics doesn't seem so horrible.
I hadn't seen it before, hadn't heard about it, and yet I couldn't turn away. It was like watching one of those invasive surgeries on TLC.
Why do I suddenly feel the need to disinfect myself?
Suddenly, studying strategic management tactics doesn't seem so horrible.
Maintenance is a Four Letter Word
I cannot tell you how many times I have heard "I just want to lose enough weight and stuff so I can just be in maintenance. I just want to maintain a size..." I was even the one saying it on more than one occasion. I remember thoughts like "If I can only get below 200 lbs, I won't care so much about my size anymore... If I could only get back to 180 lbs I'd be happy with it and just live my life." Except I always cared, and I knew I wasn't where I was supposed to be even when I got there. Sometimes the journey seems so far, you forget (or underestimate) all the steps in between.
I remember hearing all those people saying "maintenance is harder than losing weight." All I thought when I heard that was "Oh really? What a load of bull. I'd like to just GET to maintenance level and then see how I do. Hardest part, give me a break." Then finally, I figured out enough things and made it about fitness, changed my eating and overall lifestyle, and went all the way down to around 145 lbs (which is perfect for someone as tall as I am.) I thought all my dreams had come true.
I did do maintenance well for a while. Then it became harder. And harder. That's when I started slipping. That is when I realized maintaining really is harder.
Maintenance is hard because you have nowhere to go. Stasis is BORING! Think about this, if you were at your goal weight/shape would you be content to strictly adhere to your diet, pull yourself out of bed every day to workout, pass on the goodies at parties and so on, just to stay the same? It may be hard to picture at goal if you aren't there yet, but it's no different than your current weight/status. Think of it at your weight now, whatever it is and ask the same question. Would you be willing to work that hard to make no changes in your body as it is? Because a size 0 or a size 22 the answer is the same.
Why work that hard for nothing but maintenance?
People want something for their effort. It's human nature. And staying a size 4 isn't enough, because it's staying the same.
It's hard to get this point across, but it's vital that you understand it. Working to lose weight, gain muscle, get in shape, whatever, is a fine goal for right now. There is nothing wrong with that, and as a matter of fact it's absolutely essential that you focus on that goal. It's the prize for all the hard work you are putting in, and it's important to not lose sight of it. But afterwards, when you hit your mark, you need to have your next goal all polished up and ready to roll.
Do I mean you should keep trying to lose weight? It depends on you, and if you still have further to go. But honestly, I would have to say that in 99% of the cases the answer is not to focus on weight loss. Your body is a machine. You are tuning it up, making it run more efficiently, making it stronger. So ask yourself what it is that you have always wanted to do? Have you always wanted to run a race but could never do it because you hated running or didn't have the stamina? What about a new sport that interested you, but you were nervous about finding out more about it or trying it? There has to be something else, something new, something challenging waiting for you.
Only you can answer what that thing is, and it will change over time. Once you figure out one new direction for yourself, you might actually discover that you have a whole list of other things you want to try and you didn't even realize it.
Maintenance is a trap. A healthy body is a side-effect of a healthy lifestyle. But if you put it on the shelf and never use it, what's the point? Do you buy a nice new tool for your shop and then set it on the shelf, occasionally dust and polish it, and never use it? Of course not. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can be set up on the shelf and be indefinitely happy with that choice.
If you pick a new direction to push yourself, you will find that what you wanted out of maintenance is achievable simply by continuing to move forward. Maintain your momentum, not your dress-size, and you will truly have achieved a healthy lifestyle with a body to match.
I remember hearing all those people saying "maintenance is harder than losing weight." All I thought when I heard that was "Oh really? What a load of bull. I'd like to just GET to maintenance level and then see how I do. Hardest part, give me a break." Then finally, I figured out enough things and made it about fitness, changed my eating and overall lifestyle, and went all the way down to around 145 lbs (which is perfect for someone as tall as I am.) I thought all my dreams had come true.
I did do maintenance well for a while. Then it became harder. And harder. That's when I started slipping. That is when I realized maintaining really is harder.
Maintenance is hard because you have nowhere to go. Stasis is BORING! Think about this, if you were at your goal weight/shape would you be content to strictly adhere to your diet, pull yourself out of bed every day to workout, pass on the goodies at parties and so on, just to stay the same? It may be hard to picture at goal if you aren't there yet, but it's no different than your current weight/status. Think of it at your weight now, whatever it is and ask the same question. Would you be willing to work that hard to make no changes in your body as it is? Because a size 0 or a size 22 the answer is the same.
Why work that hard for nothing but maintenance?
People want something for their effort. It's human nature. And staying a size 4 isn't enough, because it's staying the same.
It's hard to get this point across, but it's vital that you understand it. Working to lose weight, gain muscle, get in shape, whatever, is a fine goal for right now. There is nothing wrong with that, and as a matter of fact it's absolutely essential that you focus on that goal. It's the prize for all the hard work you are putting in, and it's important to not lose sight of it. But afterwards, when you hit your mark, you need to have your next goal all polished up and ready to roll.
Do I mean you should keep trying to lose weight? It depends on you, and if you still have further to go. But honestly, I would have to say that in 99% of the cases the answer is not to focus on weight loss. Your body is a machine. You are tuning it up, making it run more efficiently, making it stronger. So ask yourself what it is that you have always wanted to do? Have you always wanted to run a race but could never do it because you hated running or didn't have the stamina? What about a new sport that interested you, but you were nervous about finding out more about it or trying it? There has to be something else, something new, something challenging waiting for you.
Only you can answer what that thing is, and it will change over time. Once you figure out one new direction for yourself, you might actually discover that you have a whole list of other things you want to try and you didn't even realize it.
Maintenance is a trap. A healthy body is a side-effect of a healthy lifestyle. But if you put it on the shelf and never use it, what's the point? Do you buy a nice new tool for your shop and then set it on the shelf, occasionally dust and polish it, and never use it? Of course not. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can be set up on the shelf and be indefinitely happy with that choice.
If you pick a new direction to push yourself, you will find that what you wanted out of maintenance is achievable simply by continuing to move forward. Maintain your momentum, not your dress-size, and you will truly have achieved a healthy lifestyle with a body to match.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Getting In Touch With My Hidden Spiders
I'm so bugging out right now. *shivvver*
We decided it was a good time to deep clean the basement where our toy/entertainment/exercise/guest rooms are (WHY? What the hell possesses a person to wake up one day and say "I'd like to spend my lovely Saturday slaving like a dog??? Has science looked into this?) The problem is, anytime you deep-clean where there are toy boxes it always turns into a mammoth job.
Growing up, we didn't have lots and lots of toys. I attribute it to three things; not a lot of money, no relatives who gave a damn at all, and they're a lot better at making toys for less money than they used to be. We had a few really prized toys and that was it growing up. I cared for mine, loved mine, knew where they were at all times. I never lost a toy, without there being a devious plot by my brother behind it.
My kids? Wholly cow! No one needs this much junk. Seriously. And that is what a lot of it is. Can I just stop a minute here and say that restaurants and schools and other venues that give out those cheap plastic toys (like a happy-meal toy) are the bane of my existence right now? We barely ever eat out, and this junk is everywhere! I couldn't figure it out for the longest time; if we hit a fast food place with a toy for the kids only about four times a year, how in the hell do we end up with a room knee deep in the things after only a couple months? I then realized a lot of these are "class prizes" or from relatives, or from mini-town events where they just pass them out.
Now, I don't know about anyone else, but going places as a kid never got me much from anyone. I can honestly say I NEVER went into a grocery store or car dealership and walked out with a little toy to occupy me. I think it's a plot. They're trying to drown me in plastic, without my noticing until it's too late. Bastards.
Anyway, six garbage bags and one GIGANTIC "donate to goodwill" pile later we were finally able to start cleaning. Pop quiz: in a basement when you start really cleaning things - what comes running out to protest?
SPIDERS! Seriously! They're everywhere!
I realize I'm moving couches and treadmills and things that are normally stationary, but I didn't realize that they're low-income housing projects for the disadvantaged eight-legged creeps of the world. I feel like I'm in a bad horror movie. I've been wielding the vacuum wand like Rambo, sending every one I can find to its horrible blustery death. I stopped counting when I got over 100. It was just nauseating at that point, which was seriously aggravated when I walked into a back closet and through a bunch of webs.
Yes, there is nothing quite like teaching your children the proper way to lose your mind after walking through a wall of spider webs. I believe they have a much larger vocabulary now, assuming they could hear anything at that high a pitch. They thought it was hilarious to see me running about trying to scrape stuff off of me and asking everyone "are there spiders on me? SERIOUSLY! DO NOT SCREW WITH MOMMY RIGHT NOW! Is anything crawling on me that you can see??????!?!!"
GAH!
Even after we finished, everything was scrubbed, vacuumed, dusted, organized and settled, every few minutes the spiders would send out a new spokes-spider to protest my methods. The problem was, they kept increasing in size. My basement is clean, and I think I'm afraid to go back down and enjoy it. The last one that crawled out was the size of a poodle. It took both Mr. Savy and I to take it down. I have never used a pest-control (exterminator?) service before but between these spiders and the ants upstairs (which I cannot figure out. You would think they would go for the areas where food is, right?) I have just about had it.
Ugh, I have to go shower and remove the top twelve layers of skin.
On a side note, I was trying to figure out what I can do with all these stuffed animals I have to give away. 1) does anyone want them? And 2) I found some fantastic charities that don't operate here, but if they do where you live you should check them out: http://www.projectnightnight.org/ and http://www.stuffedanimalsforemergencies.org/
We decided it was a good time to deep clean the basement where our toy/entertainment/exercise/guest rooms are (WHY? What the hell possesses a person to wake up one day and say "I'd like to spend my lovely Saturday slaving like a dog??? Has science looked into this?) The problem is, anytime you deep-clean where there are toy boxes it always turns into a mammoth job.
Growing up, we didn't have lots and lots of toys. I attribute it to three things; not a lot of money, no relatives who gave a damn at all, and they're a lot better at making toys for less money than they used to be. We had a few really prized toys and that was it growing up. I cared for mine, loved mine, knew where they were at all times. I never lost a toy, without there being a devious plot by my brother behind it.
My kids? Wholly cow! No one needs this much junk. Seriously. And that is what a lot of it is. Can I just stop a minute here and say that restaurants and schools and other venues that give out those cheap plastic toys (like a happy-meal toy) are the bane of my existence right now? We barely ever eat out, and this junk is everywhere! I couldn't figure it out for the longest time; if we hit a fast food place with a toy for the kids only about four times a year, how in the hell do we end up with a room knee deep in the things after only a couple months? I then realized a lot of these are "class prizes" or from relatives, or from mini-town events where they just pass them out.
Now, I don't know about anyone else, but going places as a kid never got me much from anyone. I can honestly say I NEVER went into a grocery store or car dealership and walked out with a little toy to occupy me. I think it's a plot. They're trying to drown me in plastic, without my noticing until it's too late. Bastards.
Anyway, six garbage bags and one GIGANTIC "donate to goodwill" pile later we were finally able to start cleaning. Pop quiz: in a basement when you start really cleaning things - what comes running out to protest?
SPIDERS! Seriously! They're everywhere!
I realize I'm moving couches and treadmills and things that are normally stationary, but I didn't realize that they're low-income housing projects for the disadvantaged eight-legged creeps of the world. I feel like I'm in a bad horror movie. I've been wielding the vacuum wand like Rambo, sending every one I can find to its horrible blustery death. I stopped counting when I got over 100. It was just nauseating at that point, which was seriously aggravated when I walked into a back closet and through a bunch of webs.
Yes, there is nothing quite like teaching your children the proper way to lose your mind after walking through a wall of spider webs. I believe they have a much larger vocabulary now, assuming they could hear anything at that high a pitch. They thought it was hilarious to see me running about trying to scrape stuff off of me and asking everyone "are there spiders on me? SERIOUSLY! DO NOT SCREW WITH MOMMY RIGHT NOW! Is anything crawling on me that you can see??????!?!!"
GAH!
Even after we finished, everything was scrubbed, vacuumed, dusted, organized and settled, every few minutes the spiders would send out a new spokes-spider to protest my methods. The problem was, they kept increasing in size. My basement is clean, and I think I'm afraid to go back down and enjoy it. The last one that crawled out was the size of a poodle. It took both Mr. Savy and I to take it down. I have never used a pest-control (exterminator?) service before but between these spiders and the ants upstairs (which I cannot figure out. You would think they would go for the areas where food is, right?) I have just about had it.
Ugh, I have to go shower and remove the top twelve layers of skin.
On a side note, I was trying to figure out what I can do with all these stuffed animals I have to give away. 1) does anyone want them? And 2) I found some fantastic charities that don't operate here, but if they do where you live you should check them out: http://www.projectnightnight.org/ and http://www.stuffedanimalsforemergencies.org/
Friday, September 14, 2007
Hear Me Roar
Lisa posted this on her blog, and I wanted to see what I came up with. I kinda wanted a Dragon crest like hers. Instead, I get another cat. What is it with the cats? I have to say, the whole "people either love you or hate you" thing is eerily accurate, along with a lot of other things.
Your Score: House Lannister
72% Dominant, 27% Extroverted, 63% Trustworthy
Confident. Dangerous. Unrelentingly sexy. The master of all you survey, you are of House Lannister.
You are a dominant personality—and how! When someone asks “and who are you, the proud lord said, that I should bow so low?” your response is probably, “FUCK YOU! I’m a fucking LANNISTER, that’s who the HELL I am!” And then you’d pimp-slap them with your golden hand. All joking aside, you view leadership as your natural, god-given right; it is a trait, just like your golden curling hair and irresistible sex appeal. It’s who you are—a Lannister.
You are introverted, meaning that you prefer to keep your ambitions and devices to yourself. Unfortunately, your personality is so vivacious that (despite all your intended secrecies) you are still a very obvious person. Though no one knows what avenues you will travel, your destination is clear to all. And of course, yours is a road to greatness! You have a magnetic, polarizing personality: people either love you or hate you. They also probably find you exceedingly intimidating. Their fear is probably well-placed.
Finally, you are trustworthy. Does this surprise you? Remember your unofficial motto: “A Lannister always pays his debts.” Though you enjoy keeping secrets and playing games, everyone knows you are a major player. Underhanded tactics are so expected from you that they don’t particularly count as untrustworthyness—it’s more of a family legacy than a choice. Your promise is as good as the gold that you shit.
Representative characters include: Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and Tywin Lannister
Similar Houses: Greyjoy, Stark, and Targaryen
Opposite House: Tyrell
When playing the game of thrones, you play it balls to the wall.
| Link: The Song of Ice and Fire House Test written by Geeky_Stripper on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test |
Ugh
I've been fighting, I really have. It's a lot like being on the edge of a slope and struggling to get back up to the trail. Except it's raining, a lot. The ground is slick, even muddy, causing you to slide ever so slightly down. You might make progress back up, but then suddenly find yourself on your butt sliding even faster away from the trail.
Dagnabbit, I'm sick. I'm sick, and it irritates the hell out of me. I don't have time. I know, no one really does. But I just don't have the time to be sick. I did once. I remember back when I was actually half happy to be sick. I hated my job, or school, and honestly it didn't really matter that I wasn't there. Yeah sure, the actual act of being sick wasn't any fun, but NOT being AT work was great!
Daytime television was pretty darn scary though. I always wondered whether daytime television actually makes people sicker for longer. I think it's a plague in its own right. In fact, I think daytime television is so vile and contagious that I blame it for prime-time reality television. Trust me, that's a very serious insult in my eyes.
Lately, every time I get sick it's with a horrible pain in my lower right side. It's something new for this year. It's kind of like those people who get sick with a headache every time. It's incredibly painful, and last time my husband worried it might be appendicitis or something dramatic like that. It wasn't, it went away, and now it just likes to come back to visit. Is that what getting old is about? Having these aches or pains that like to stay for a cup of tea and a rotten weekend? I find this one particularly sinister because if I do need to throw up, and my side hurts so bad that any movement is pretty darn painful, well you do the math.
I'm not happy.
In other news, should I recover enough (I'm sure I will) I'm kicking off another round of P90X for myself. My plan is to start it on Sunday, when the Mega Challenge kicks off. I'm determined to not be sick by then. However, another barrier is that my children decided to rip apart the room I need to use for it. We're talking Lego and barbie carnage everywhere. I suppose that was always my biggest barrier to P90X; it wasn't the workouts, it was my workout space and how much time I had to spend picking it back up at 5 a.m. because I forgot to check it the night before and make the little hooligans clean it up. I've got a plan this time. Hopefully it works.
I'm going to do P90X lean with some tweaks (I know, I get annoyed when people tweak programs too - but this is going to have to be the way it is if I'm going to survive the program, school, and the holidays.) I'm going to swap out the Yoga (which is 90+ minutes) with the stretching workout (50 min) every other week (or do a HIIT instead depending on how I feel.) Dietary, I'll be working with my own which is actually stricter than the P90X program. It's a lot closer to a 90/10 program which suits me and my screwed up metabolism (in other words, don't do what I do.) And that's about it. So not major tweaks, just enough to make it tolerable with my schedule. Of course, doing this also means I have to get up at 5 a.m. instead of 5:30. I know it's not a big difference, but I have a feeling I'll be mourning those 30 minutes as the season progresses.
And now, I think I'll go throw up and then go read my 100+ pages of Business Law. Which do you think will make me feel worse?
Dagnabbit, I'm sick. I'm sick, and it irritates the hell out of me. I don't have time. I know, no one really does. But I just don't have the time to be sick. I did once. I remember back when I was actually half happy to be sick. I hated my job, or school, and honestly it didn't really matter that I wasn't there. Yeah sure, the actual act of being sick wasn't any fun, but NOT being AT work was great!
Daytime television was pretty darn scary though. I always wondered whether daytime television actually makes people sicker for longer. I think it's a plague in its own right. In fact, I think daytime television is so vile and contagious that I blame it for prime-time reality television. Trust me, that's a very serious insult in my eyes.
Lately, every time I get sick it's with a horrible pain in my lower right side. It's something new for this year. It's kind of like those people who get sick with a headache every time. It's incredibly painful, and last time my husband worried it might be appendicitis or something dramatic like that. It wasn't, it went away, and now it just likes to come back to visit. Is that what getting old is about? Having these aches or pains that like to stay for a cup of tea and a rotten weekend? I find this one particularly sinister because if I do need to throw up, and my side hurts so bad that any movement is pretty darn painful, well you do the math.
I'm not happy.
In other news, should I recover enough (I'm sure I will) I'm kicking off another round of P90X for myself. My plan is to start it on Sunday, when the Mega Challenge kicks off. I'm determined to not be sick by then. However, another barrier is that my children decided to rip apart the room I need to use for it. We're talking Lego and barbie carnage everywhere. I suppose that was always my biggest barrier to P90X; it wasn't the workouts, it was my workout space and how much time I had to spend picking it back up at 5 a.m. because I forgot to check it the night before and make the little hooligans clean it up. I've got a plan this time. Hopefully it works.
I'm going to do P90X lean with some tweaks (I know, I get annoyed when people tweak programs too - but this is going to have to be the way it is if I'm going to survive the program, school, and the holidays.) I'm going to swap out the Yoga (which is 90+ minutes) with the stretching workout (50 min) every other week (or do a HIIT instead depending on how I feel.) Dietary, I'll be working with my own which is actually stricter than the P90X program. It's a lot closer to a 90/10 program which suits me and my screwed up metabolism (in other words, don't do what I do.) And that's about it. So not major tweaks, just enough to make it tolerable with my schedule. Of course, doing this also means I have to get up at 5 a.m. instead of 5:30. I know it's not a big difference, but I have a feeling I'll be mourning those 30 minutes as the season progresses.
And now, I think I'll go throw up and then go read my 100+ pages of Business Law. Which do you think will make me feel worse?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Patriotic
How patriotic are you? After hearing this latest news story, I'm finding out that I'm just not that patriotic. In a Russian province, they have a day called "Conception Day". It's a holiday. You get the day off from work. You are expected to go home and work very hard at making babies.
Yes. Really. I bet the men all think it's a fantastic idea, think of all the excuses women can't give. The "I have a headache" routine falls rather flat in the face of a country's need to correct a falling population demographic. "I'm tired" doesn't work either, because they gave you the day off.
Apparently, you can even win prizes if you have your baby nine months later on their big holiday.
I don't care. I'm not "having babies for my country." I have a limit of patriotism, and I'm pretty sure it is before having someone tell me to go get pregnant.
Tell me to go on a cruise. I'm all for that kind of patriotism - and that doesn't involve stretchmarks, gaining 5-60 lbs in a few months, and 18 years of recovery.
Yes. Really. I bet the men all think it's a fantastic idea, think of all the excuses women can't give. The "I have a headache" routine falls rather flat in the face of a country's need to correct a falling population demographic. "I'm tired" doesn't work either, because they gave you the day off.
Apparently, you can even win prizes if you have your baby nine months later on their big holiday.
I don't care. I'm not "having babies for my country." I have a limit of patriotism, and I'm pretty sure it is before having someone tell me to go get pregnant.
Tell me to go on a cruise. I'm all for that kind of patriotism - and that doesn't involve stretchmarks, gaining 5-60 lbs in a few months, and 18 years of recovery.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Calling All Challengers
I'm putting a shout out to anyone interested in losing weight, toning up, running a race, or whatever fitness goal you have. Pink Dumbbells, www.PinkDumbbells.com (a fitness site that Maggie and I run together) is hosting a Mega Challenge! You can follow whatever plan you want to reach whatever goal you have in mind, and have all of us to support you and cheer you along the way!
It's free (the site and the challenge.) No strings. No catches. Nothing.
All levels welcome, from fit to just thinking about it.
So, if you have been looking for an opportunity to improve yourself - we're knocking! Come and join us!
It's free (the site and the challenge.) No strings. No catches. Nothing.
All levels welcome, from fit to just thinking about it.
So, if you have been looking for an opportunity to improve yourself - we're knocking! Come and join us!
Fortune For A Cookie
(I know that today is September 11th, and that many blogs will be dwelling on the tragedy in their own way. I find it very painful for many reasons I won't discuss, and I deal with pain by avoidance! So, please understand that without any disrespect I acknowledge the loss today brought us all.)
I had Chinese food this weekend. I always get stupid fortunes in my cookies, like "when it is cloudy, it might mean rain." But I can't give them up. Why? Because one time I got one that was truly prophetic.
While dating my husband, we went out to eat and my cookie said "You will marry your present lover and be happy." Yes, it really did. My husband (then just a silly boy I was dating) was very pale after he read it at the table. We couldn't even play that game where you add "in bed" after the fortune. It just didn't get any less scary with that added on.
I saved it, and put it in my wedding album. I still have it.
So, I can't give them up. I keep hoping one will have the secret of life in it or something. After all, it's clear they have one person working there who knows what they're doing. Maybe that person got fired for putting real fortunes in the cookies, because I haven't gotten a good one since. The one I got on Saturday said:
"For those that feel, life is a tragedy. For those that think, life is a comedy."
And might I add to that; for those who think and feel, life is just one big nasty mess. So sayeth the scary redhead. Be well.
Oh, and can I just ask... what person thought it would be a good idea to put smiley faces on the fortunes? It's like my fortune is smirking at me. No one likes a smirky fortune.
I had Chinese food this weekend. I always get stupid fortunes in my cookies, like "when it is cloudy, it might mean rain." But I can't give them up. Why? Because one time I got one that was truly prophetic.
While dating my husband, we went out to eat and my cookie said "You will marry your present lover and be happy." Yes, it really did. My husband (then just a silly boy I was dating) was very pale after he read it at the table. We couldn't even play that game where you add "in bed" after the fortune. It just didn't get any less scary with that added on.
I saved it, and put it in my wedding album. I still have it.
So, I can't give them up. I keep hoping one will have the secret of life in it or something. After all, it's clear they have one person working there who knows what they're doing. Maybe that person got fired for putting real fortunes in the cookies, because I haven't gotten a good one since. The one I got on Saturday said:
"For those that feel, life is a tragedy. For those that think, life is a comedy."
And might I add to that; for those who think and feel, life is just one big nasty mess. So sayeth the scary redhead. Be well.
Oh, and can I just ask... what person thought it would be a good idea to put smiley faces on the fortunes? It's like my fortune is smirking at me. No one likes a smirky fortune.
Monday, September 10, 2007
When I Die...
On Saturday I went grocery shopping. My cabinets were echoing and there was a "Space For Rent" sign in my refrigerator. My children also reminded me that I have a legal obligation to keep them in apples and whole wheat turkey sandwiches until they're 18. Compelling argument. So, off I went.
It was a normal day at the store, screaming children, senior-senior-citizens crashing carts into displays and apologizing to the cans thinking they were a person (whom you then watch get into their cars and you KNOW they shouldn't be on the road), and pushy men and women with samples. Those of you who live in a city do not know the horror that these sample-people cause to small town residents. You see, in a normally populated place you have a .0001% chance of knowing the person working the sample table. In a small town you have .0001% chance of NOT knowing the person.
They're scary, but highly entertaining. You haven't lived until you have seen a little old lady with her hair pulled up into a hairnet screeching down the aisle "Jeff! You big chicken! Try it! I knew you when you ate bugs off the playground, and you aren't willing to try this?!?!!" It's pretty darn funny until you have lived here long enough for them to know you. Once they know you, you have to develop a strategy to get through the store without being tackled in the frozen food aisle and having a wafer with something awful on it stuffed in your mouth. Seriously, it's like running a gauntlet... but with more calories involved.
It was while I was dodging and weaving around something sizzling by the frozen bagels that I saw it. Oh glorious sights, mine eyes must deceive me!
Reese's! OH but not just any Reese's. Frozen food aisle, remember? It just so happened that I was standing by the frozen ice cream cakes (Oh, alright, so I like to press my body against the glass and tell them I'll visit them again next week. Leave me alone. We all have our hobbies.) Right smack in the middle of all the other nondescript ice cream cakes sat a GIANT Reese's peanut butter cup. We're talking a Reese's the size of a medium pizza.
Oh. MY. *gasp*
I started seeing double. The lights were too bright, everything was hazy... was I walking or floating?
It turns out that Reese's has partnered up with Friendly's ice cream and created a Reese's Ice Cream Cake. Layers of peanut butter ice cream and other goodies not the least of which is a LOT of actual Reese's cups, covered in chocolate and shaped like a Reese's peanut butter cup. In other words, an acute myocardial infarction wrapped up in lovely Reese's chocolaty-peanutbuttery goodness.
If I could post a picture I would, but it appears to be one of the secret wonders of the world. No one ever told me about this! How could they not tell me about this? The best information I could find online was simply a press release, no photos... And I didn't buy it and bring it home with me because 1) it was $18, and 2) I couldn't justify it. I have my anniversary coming up this weekend, but Mr. Savy doesn't like Reese's (it's one of his greatest faults, I'm still heart broken about it... ok I'm not, when I buy Reese's I can snuggle them without worry that they'll be spending time with Mr. Savy too. I'm a jealous woman, what can I say?) My birthday isn't until the end of February. Seriously, I couldn't come up with a single good excuse to blow $18 on something that was all for me, and would probably end up costing more in medical bills by the time I was through with it.
But I'll tell you one thing... when I die, that is how I wanna go! I may have to drop in on the store again this week just to visit it. Think the other ice cream cakes will get jealous?
It was a normal day at the store, screaming children, senior-senior-citizens crashing carts into displays and apologizing to the cans thinking they were a person (whom you then watch get into their cars and you KNOW they shouldn't be on the road), and pushy men and women with samples. Those of you who live in a city do not know the horror that these sample-people cause to small town residents. You see, in a normally populated place you have a .0001% chance of knowing the person working the sample table. In a small town you have .0001% chance of NOT knowing the person.
They're scary, but highly entertaining. You haven't lived until you have seen a little old lady with her hair pulled up into a hairnet screeching down the aisle "Jeff! You big chicken! Try it! I knew you when you ate bugs off the playground, and you aren't willing to try this?!?!!" It's pretty darn funny until you have lived here long enough for them to know you. Once they know you, you have to develop a strategy to get through the store without being tackled in the frozen food aisle and having a wafer with something awful on it stuffed in your mouth. Seriously, it's like running a gauntlet... but with more calories involved.
It was while I was dodging and weaving around something sizzling by the frozen bagels that I saw it. Oh glorious sights, mine eyes must deceive me!
Reese's! OH but not just any Reese's. Frozen food aisle, remember? It just so happened that I was standing by the frozen ice cream cakes (Oh, alright, so I like to press my body against the glass and tell them I'll visit them again next week. Leave me alone. We all have our hobbies.) Right smack in the middle of all the other nondescript ice cream cakes sat a GIANT Reese's peanut butter cup. We're talking a Reese's the size of a medium pizza.
Oh. MY. *gasp*
I started seeing double. The lights were too bright, everything was hazy... was I walking or floating?
It turns out that Reese's has partnered up with Friendly's ice cream and created a Reese's Ice Cream Cake. Layers of peanut butter ice cream and other goodies not the least of which is a LOT of actual Reese's cups, covered in chocolate and shaped like a Reese's peanut butter cup. In other words, an acute myocardial infarction wrapped up in lovely Reese's chocolaty-peanutbuttery goodness.
If I could post a picture I would, but it appears to be one of the secret wonders of the world. No one ever told me about this! How could they not tell me about this? The best information I could find online was simply a press release, no photos... And I didn't buy it and bring it home with me because 1) it was $18, and 2) I couldn't justify it. I have my anniversary coming up this weekend, but Mr. Savy doesn't like Reese's (it's one of his greatest faults, I'm still heart broken about it... ok I'm not, when I buy Reese's I can snuggle them without worry that they'll be spending time with Mr. Savy too. I'm a jealous woman, what can I say?) My birthday isn't until the end of February. Seriously, I couldn't come up with a single good excuse to blow $18 on something that was all for me, and would probably end up costing more in medical bills by the time I was through with it.
But I'll tell you one thing... when I die, that is how I wanna go! I may have to drop in on the store again this week just to visit it. Think the other ice cream cakes will get jealous?
Friday, September 07, 2007
Come To My Window
The past desk challenge going around the blogosphere where people posted pictures of their desk has sparked my curiosity.
Sure, people's desks are fascinating. But you know what I am really curious about? What is out your back window? Is it a cute little backyard with Fido running around chasing his tail? Are you on the 66th floor of a high-rise and can see half a million people before you even wake up fully in the morning? Do you have your collection of lawn mowers and bowling balls stacked up the back of the fence so the lawn is no longer visible? Is your neighbor peering over the fence to spy on you?
I would really LOVE to see what is out your "back window". I bet it tells more about you than you might realize. I dare you to show it!
Here is what is out of mine:
You can click it for a gigantic view, but trust me it's just more grass and bugs. I actually stepped outside because I kept getting screenage when I tried to shoot through the window itself. This is my backyard. As you can see, I apparently really enjoy living in the crush of humanity. I did Chicago/high-rise living. I much prefer my neighbors beyond the reach of my echoing voice.
Technically, on the far right you can almost see the hints of a fence in the ground. That's because that is where my failure of a garden is. It's actually 50 feet by 100 feet (Mr. Savy is over confident in my abilities and desire to garden.) I think the only thing that is still there that I wanted there is a couple of grape vines. The moose snuck in and ate all the strawberries and at that point I just gave up and the land reclaimed the whole darn thing. Those plants at the back where we stopped mowing? They come up almost to my shoulders. I'm not mowing that either.
There are little white flags in the ground for the wireless fence that we're trying to use to keep our dogs from wandering off. There is also the swamp off to the far right, as evidenced by the million cattails that are starting to fluff out and drive me crazy (allergies.) But there are also wildflowers all through the area. That far back line of trees is where the resident coyotes (or coy-dogs as the locals refer to them) hang out like the mob, and occasionally stalk the local tourists.
I'm not sure what my backyard says about me except perhaps I am a cross between a hermit and a hobbit (couldn't you just see them running around back there? And no, my feet are not hairy.) But then again, it probably says more about me than I realize.
I'm going to do a "yard-watch" on here as well. It's always interesting to compare the views. Right now everything is still green, but in about four weeks it's going to be orange. And then white... lots of white... but we won't think about that yet.
Sure, people's desks are fascinating. But you know what I am really curious about? What is out your back window? Is it a cute little backyard with Fido running around chasing his tail? Are you on the 66th floor of a high-rise and can see half a million people before you even wake up fully in the morning? Do you have your collection of lawn mowers and bowling balls stacked up the back of the fence so the lawn is no longer visible? Is your neighbor peering over the fence to spy on you?
I would really LOVE to see what is out your "back window". I bet it tells more about you than you might realize. I dare you to show it!
Here is what is out of mine:
You can click it for a gigantic view, but trust me it's just more grass and bugs. I actually stepped outside because I kept getting screenage when I tried to shoot through the window itself. This is my backyard. As you can see, I apparently really enjoy living in the crush of humanity. I did Chicago/high-rise living. I much prefer my neighbors beyond the reach of my echoing voice.
Technically, on the far right you can almost see the hints of a fence in the ground. That's because that is where my failure of a garden is. It's actually 50 feet by 100 feet (Mr. Savy is over confident in my abilities and desire to garden.) I think the only thing that is still there that I wanted there is a couple of grape vines. The moose snuck in and ate all the strawberries and at that point I just gave up and the land reclaimed the whole darn thing. Those plants at the back where we stopped mowing? They come up almost to my shoulders. I'm not mowing that either.
There are little white flags in the ground for the wireless fence that we're trying to use to keep our dogs from wandering off. There is also the swamp off to the far right, as evidenced by the million cattails that are starting to fluff out and drive me crazy (allergies.) But there are also wildflowers all through the area. That far back line of trees is where the resident coyotes (or coy-dogs as the locals refer to them) hang out like the mob, and occasionally stalk the local tourists.
I'm not sure what my backyard says about me except perhaps I am a cross between a hermit and a hobbit (couldn't you just see them running around back there? And no, my feet are not hairy.) But then again, it probably says more about me than I realize.
I'm going to do a "yard-watch" on here as well. It's always interesting to compare the views. Right now everything is still green, but in about four weeks it's going to be orange. And then white... lots of white... but we won't think about that yet.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Exhibitionist
Have you ever been sitting in your car at a full stop (at a traffic light or stop sign) with other people around, and when it's your turn to go you lightly press on the gas and for some reason a tire doesn't find traction and you end up squealing your tires at a deafening decibel level by accident?
It's not as if you were shooting off like a drag racer or anything, you weren't even hitting the gas very much, but it sounded like you were trying to evade capture by the police anyway. Everyone is looking at you like you're a complete idiot, and you are left with only two options:
A) You act like you meant to do it. You start with the bad attitude, crank the ACDC or Metallica, stick your tongue out, flash the universal "punk rock!" sign, and laugh maniacally as you blaze off into the sunset.
or
B) Try and shrink below the level of your steering wheel and block the view of your face as you humbly make your way through the intersection trying not to make eye contact with any of the people looking at you as if you should be burned at the stake. Then you must plot out how to change your appearance and perhaps switch vehicles with someone for a week or two. Maybe a year.
There are a lot of public transgressions that, while not comfortable, are easily rectified with a polite acknowledgment, for example an unintentional burp. But with an unintentional tire-squeal it's not as if you can just say "Oh, pardon me. My car you know, it acts up now and then..." No, you are automatically branded as a disturber of the peace.
As a matter of fact, you can even be cited (from what I am told) for "exhibition of speed". So, not only are you surprised and horribly embarrassed, you are now also scanning the area for any police officers who might want you to help fill out their mugshot scrapbook project they have been working on back at the station. And you know you don't look good in orange jumpsuits. Even Paris Hilton looked bad in one of those. If that walking hanger that could wear paper towels and call it a fashion statement can't pull off the jumpsuit, you know you are dead meat. And you don't want to be Bad Baby Brunker Brunhilda's girlfriend or Edward the Executioner's new pet. And peeling potatoes, why do they still make you do that? Didn't that go out of style years ago, along with the whole pounding rocks and laying railroad tracks? Is this never going to end? I wanna go home!
I hid behind my steering wheel... but I may have had Nine Inch Nails blasting as I proceeded. I hate my car today.
It's not as if you were shooting off like a drag racer or anything, you weren't even hitting the gas very much, but it sounded like you were trying to evade capture by the police anyway. Everyone is looking at you like you're a complete idiot, and you are left with only two options:
A) You act like you meant to do it. You start with the bad attitude, crank the ACDC or Metallica, stick your tongue out, flash the universal "punk rock!" sign, and laugh maniacally as you blaze off into the sunset.
or
B) Try and shrink below the level of your steering wheel and block the view of your face as you humbly make your way through the intersection trying not to make eye contact with any of the people looking at you as if you should be burned at the stake. Then you must plot out how to change your appearance and perhaps switch vehicles with someone for a week or two. Maybe a year.
There are a lot of public transgressions that, while not comfortable, are easily rectified with a polite acknowledgment, for example an unintentional burp. But with an unintentional tire-squeal it's not as if you can just say "Oh, pardon me. My car you know, it acts up now and then..." No, you are automatically branded as a disturber of the peace.
As a matter of fact, you can even be cited (from what I am told) for "exhibition of speed". So, not only are you surprised and horribly embarrassed, you are now also scanning the area for any police officers who might want you to help fill out their mugshot scrapbook project they have been working on back at the station. And you know you don't look good in orange jumpsuits. Even Paris Hilton looked bad in one of those. If that walking hanger that could wear paper towels and call it a fashion statement can't pull off the jumpsuit, you know you are dead meat. And you don't want to be Bad Baby Brunker Brunhilda's girlfriend or Edward the Executioner's new pet. And peeling potatoes, why do they still make you do that? Didn't that go out of style years ago, along with the whole pounding rocks and laying railroad tracks? Is this never going to end? I wanna go home!
I hid behind my steering wheel... but I may have had Nine Inch Nails blasting as I proceeded. I hate my car today.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Aliens Prefer Coffee
So let me ask you this; do you think a person can actually change? A leopard can switch his spots, a scrooge can become the soul of kindness? A life-long coffee hater can suddenly start liking coffee?
I think leopards should wear whatever they want, and I love the story of Scrooge... well the end of it anyway. That last one is what's bothering me. I have NEVER liked coffee. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore the smell. When I have stayed at hotels alone I have actually brewed coffee in the room just so I could smell it (the cleaning service probably hated my guts.) But I have never been able to stand the taste. Not in a cup, not in a cake, not even in my beloved ice cream. The tang that people so love about coffee has always reminded me of dishwater. Blah. I've tried it again and again over the years here and there, because I just couldn't believe something that smells so good could taste so bad. But it always did.
Yet over the past couple of weeks I have been finding myself now and then with a cup of coffee. What the heck? How can this be?
It all started when I was trapped in New York. Or rather, on the flight to New York. I was exhausted and desperate (it's the only logical reason I can come up with) and didn't want sugar to jazz me up, so I had a cup of coffee on the plane. My kids just about fell out of their seats in shock. They kept going on about how I never have coffee. Why would I suddenly have coffee? Something must be wrong with mommy. Actually, their shock was so bad I had to ask them to shush because people on the plane were starting to stare. It couldn't have been more embarrassing than if I had taken a handful of the tiny liquor bottles from the flight attendants and starting up ending them for all to see. I felt as though I had committed some sort of crime and that I should be hiding the coffee cup.
Still, it was only one cup - even if I thought that it didn't taste that bad, which was bizarre for me. I didn't think much about it. Except a week later while waiting in the airport for our flight to Minnesota, Mr. Savy went to buy a cup of coffee and I told him to get me one too. By the expression on his face, you would have thought that I had asked him to have his parents move in with us (as in I would never ever... EVER... allow such a thing to happen. EVER. Evereverever.) Mr. Savy just sat there and watched me drink the coffee in open mouthed astonished silence. Ok, not complete silence; I kept telling him to leave me alone and drink his own coffee, and he kept responding with "But you never drink coffee... are you alright?" (Of course I'm not alright! Apparently, I've crossed over to the dark side! Let me wallow in my evil shame without you staring at me like I've sprouted an extra arm!) "I'm fine."
I didn't have any coffee for the rest of the trip, and so Mr. Savy thought it was just a strange aberration. I've always been a little weird and unpredictable (oh alright, a lot - but he says it makes life with me interesting,) so this was just another one of those weird occurrences. Kind of like when I cut all my hair off or went and pierced my nose.
Then this last week I realized that Mr. Savy had a tin of Amaretto coffee sitting in the pantry. It looked interesting and oh my, it smelled amazing. I thought about it for days trying to figure out how to get a cup of it without going through the whole "are you ill or something?" scenario. Eventually, I just flat out asked him to brew some up so I could try it. I ended up drinking his cup too.
Granted, I still don't really like the "normal" coffee flavor. But these flavored ones like the Amaretto... well, let me put it this way: I don't know how to use a coffee machine beyond the easy single serve hotel things (when I worked as an administrative assistant long ago, I refused to brew coffee for the office because I didn't drink it and I wasn't their waitress,) but I just spent the last 30 minutes trying to figure out my husband's coffee machine so I could brew a pot of the stuff. I'm not entirely sure I did it right, but nothing caught fire.
I have a cup of coffee sitting in front of me now.
Aliens must have taken over my body. Or maybe there is a coffee virus going around? You are ill, but the only symptom of impending death is a sudden craving and enjoyment of coffee. Or perhaps it's a coffee-conspiracy? World domination one cup at a time, you will be assimilated. A brain tumor? Is this a sign that the pod-people have gotten to me?
What is wrong with me?
(FYI - I still prefer my Vanilla Hazelnut Tea, so I'm not completely possessed. Yet.)
I think leopards should wear whatever they want, and I love the story of Scrooge... well the end of it anyway. That last one is what's bothering me. I have NEVER liked coffee. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore the smell. When I have stayed at hotels alone I have actually brewed coffee in the room just so I could smell it (the cleaning service probably hated my guts.) But I have never been able to stand the taste. Not in a cup, not in a cake, not even in my beloved ice cream. The tang that people so love about coffee has always reminded me of dishwater. Blah. I've tried it again and again over the years here and there, because I just couldn't believe something that smells so good could taste so bad. But it always did.
Yet over the past couple of weeks I have been finding myself now and then with a cup of coffee. What the heck? How can this be?
It all started when I was trapped in New York. Or rather, on the flight to New York. I was exhausted and desperate (it's the only logical reason I can come up with) and didn't want sugar to jazz me up, so I had a cup of coffee on the plane. My kids just about fell out of their seats in shock. They kept going on about how I never have coffee. Why would I suddenly have coffee? Something must be wrong with mommy. Actually, their shock was so bad I had to ask them to shush because people on the plane were starting to stare. It couldn't have been more embarrassing than if I had taken a handful of the tiny liquor bottles from the flight attendants and starting up ending them for all to see. I felt as though I had committed some sort of crime and that I should be hiding the coffee cup.
Still, it was only one cup - even if I thought that it didn't taste that bad, which was bizarre for me. I didn't think much about it. Except a week later while waiting in the airport for our flight to Minnesota, Mr. Savy went to buy a cup of coffee and I told him to get me one too. By the expression on his face, you would have thought that I had asked him to have his parents move in with us (as in I would never ever... EVER... allow such a thing to happen. EVER. Evereverever.) Mr. Savy just sat there and watched me drink the coffee in open mouthed astonished silence. Ok, not complete silence; I kept telling him to leave me alone and drink his own coffee, and he kept responding with "But you never drink coffee... are you alright?" (Of course I'm not alright! Apparently, I've crossed over to the dark side! Let me wallow in my evil shame without you staring at me like I've sprouted an extra arm!) "I'm fine."
I didn't have any coffee for the rest of the trip, and so Mr. Savy thought it was just a strange aberration. I've always been a little weird and unpredictable (oh alright, a lot - but he says it makes life with me interesting,) so this was just another one of those weird occurrences. Kind of like when I cut all my hair off or went and pierced my nose.
Then this last week I realized that Mr. Savy had a tin of Amaretto coffee sitting in the pantry. It looked interesting and oh my, it smelled amazing. I thought about it for days trying to figure out how to get a cup of it without going through the whole "are you ill or something?" scenario. Eventually, I just flat out asked him to brew some up so I could try it. I ended up drinking his cup too.
Granted, I still don't really like the "normal" coffee flavor. But these flavored ones like the Amaretto... well, let me put it this way: I don't know how to use a coffee machine beyond the easy single serve hotel things (when I worked as an administrative assistant long ago, I refused to brew coffee for the office because I didn't drink it and I wasn't their waitress,) but I just spent the last 30 minutes trying to figure out my husband's coffee machine so I could brew a pot of the stuff. I'm not entirely sure I did it right, but nothing caught fire.
I have a cup of coffee sitting in front of me now.
Aliens must have taken over my body. Or maybe there is a coffee virus going around? You are ill, but the only symptom of impending death is a sudden craving and enjoyment of coffee. Or perhaps it's a coffee-conspiracy? World domination one cup at a time, you will be assimilated. A brain tumor? Is this a sign that the pod-people have gotten to me?
What is wrong with me?
(FYI - I still prefer my Vanilla Hazelnut Tea, so I'm not completely possessed. Yet.)
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Hungry
This morning I saw a cat stalking a cluster of cows. He was a brightly colored copper tabby cat with subtle amber stripes, and chocolate brown eyes that were apparently much bigger than his stomach. He couldn't have tipped the scales beyond perhaps 5-8 pounds. Still, this cat was determined.
He belly crawled between two bushes about ten feet away, his tail twitching every now and then as if he had static electricity running up and down his spine. He kept looking between the three cows and seemed to be deciding which would be the easiest to pick off once he launched his attack. I think he was probably imagining himself as a wild lion (his owners must watch too much Animal Planet, it's clearly given him delusions of grandeur.)
The cat crawled a little too far forward and the cows spotted him. The cows, however, were not amused. If cows had eyebrows, I swear they would have simply raised one in the cat's direction as if to say "You have GOT to be kidding me."
Each cow was your standard black and white dairy cow, weighing in at about the same as my car. They noticed him, and literally looked him over with a sort of bored resignation and then turned their enormous backs (behinds?) to him.
Now, what was really interesting is that the cat actually appeared to be offended. His ears were flat against his head, his eyes were narrowed in irritation, and he kept even lower to the ground. However, he wasn't to be diverted by doubters. He backed up and then sneaked around the back of another bush and picked out his intended victim. He started swaying back and forth on his legs, preparing to pounce.
Suddenly, he sprung into action and went flying into the field at the cows...
Who stood there and glared at him, not even pausing in their breakfast chewing.
The cat bounced up at them as if he had springs attached to his back legs, or a ball that you throw but won't stop bouncing as it ricochets around the room. He had his mouth open and kept making movements as if to take a bite.
The cows were not impressed.
The cat started slowing down, and eventually ended up just standing there staring down (up) the cow he had hoped to make his breakfast, all flamboyant copper coloring and proper feline pride.
The cow was still not impressed.
The cat's ears drooped, and he slunk off into the brush at the other side of the field.
Now, out of all the things that I could have taken away from witnessing that, things like "Never let something that seems to big for your reach stop you from trying for it in the first place" or "There is always tomorrow" or "Make the best show out of a bad situation", the only thing I keep thinking was...
How hungry do you have to be to try and eat a 800 lbs cow when you are only a 5 lbs cat?
He belly crawled between two bushes about ten feet away, his tail twitching every now and then as if he had static electricity running up and down his spine. He kept looking between the three cows and seemed to be deciding which would be the easiest to pick off once he launched his attack. I think he was probably imagining himself as a wild lion (his owners must watch too much Animal Planet, it's clearly given him delusions of grandeur.)
The cat crawled a little too far forward and the cows spotted him. The cows, however, were not amused. If cows had eyebrows, I swear they would have simply raised one in the cat's direction as if to say "You have GOT to be kidding me."
Each cow was your standard black and white dairy cow, weighing in at about the same as my car. They noticed him, and literally looked him over with a sort of bored resignation and then turned their enormous backs (behinds?) to him.
Now, what was really interesting is that the cat actually appeared to be offended. His ears were flat against his head, his eyes were narrowed in irritation, and he kept even lower to the ground. However, he wasn't to be diverted by doubters. He backed up and then sneaked around the back of another bush and picked out his intended victim. He started swaying back and forth on his legs, preparing to pounce.
Suddenly, he sprung into action and went flying into the field at the cows...
Who stood there and glared at him, not even pausing in their breakfast chewing.
The cat bounced up at them as if he had springs attached to his back legs, or a ball that you throw but won't stop bouncing as it ricochets around the room. He had his mouth open and kept making movements as if to take a bite.
The cows were not impressed.
The cat started slowing down, and eventually ended up just standing there staring down (up) the cow he had hoped to make his breakfast, all flamboyant copper coloring and proper feline pride.
The cow was still not impressed.
The cat's ears drooped, and he slunk off into the brush at the other side of the field.
Now, out of all the things that I could have taken away from witnessing that, things like "Never let something that seems to big for your reach stop you from trying for it in the first place" or "There is always tomorrow" or "Make the best show out of a bad situation", the only thing I keep thinking was...
How hungry do you have to be to try and eat a 800 lbs cow when you are only a 5 lbs cat?
Monday, September 03, 2007
Laboring All Day
It's Labor day. I've never really understood Labor day. Why have a holiday you that end up working MORE on? Kind of demented if you really think about it.
I've been painting and scraping and puttying until my arms feel like they're going to fall off! I finished my daughter's bedroom.
That thing on the wall above her bed took forever! We still have to fix the cord on her stereo so it doesn't show also, but otherwise it's done.
Mr. Savy is in the process of hyperventilating and/or having a heart attack. The room came out a lot more "Goth" than we had anticipated; as in we didn't really think it would come out Goth at all. It never even occurred to us, because apparently we really are oblivious parents now. At least she has no idea what Goth even is, didn't choose the design because of it, and still collects stuffed animals and ballerinas.
But it's got a little of that Goth feel, I think. Enough so, that I find myself close to bursting into tears when I see her in it. Ugh, tell me it's not too dark/grown up/disturbing, someone! It's just modern and sleek, right?
Right?
Oh, and can you see that rug? I'm serious, it looks like someone hunted down a Muppet and made a throw-rug out of it. It's shedding hair all over the place. At least that is very nine years old. I would have loved to have something like that when I was a child (and dinosaurs roamed the earth. Though it's likely my pet pterodactyl would have chewed it up.) And her ceiling glows in the dark. Not all of it, but I splattered all sorts of designs up there.
Heck, in the photos she doesn't even LOOK like a nine year old to me (by the way, I have thrown those jeans away three times now. She has held onto them because she is going to make them a part of her Halloween costume - but they're inches from being burned right now.) Ok, she doesn't look like I think nine-year-olds generally look... you know, pig-tails and teddy bears. I wonder if we would have gone ahead with the project if we knew it was going to be this traumatic. On the other hand, I think we achieved our goal of creating a room unlikely to need changing until she goes to college.
At least I hope we have.
My emotions got even worse when this morning we began scraping off the Disney Princess border in her old room to prep it for painting. Admittedly, some of the tears might have been from the nice slice I got on my left hand from the scraper thing; it turns out that it's razor sharp on the sides as well as the end. Live and learn. This is why I am not a house painter.
One last room to paint, and then my house can go back to... well a new normal, I suppose. But all my art furniture will be out of the hallway. Mr. Savy keeps eying me and grumbling under his breath about my house-decorating ADD. I seem to change things rather frequently around here, even if this time it was only for the kids. I'm starting to wonder at what point does redecorating become grounds for divorce... do you think I can get the bathroom repainted? Or should I put that off until next year in the hopes of preserving our marriage?
I've been painting and scraping and puttying until my arms feel like they're going to fall off! I finished my daughter's bedroom.
That thing on the wall above her bed took forever! We still have to fix the cord on her stereo so it doesn't show also, but otherwise it's done.Mr. Savy is in the process of hyperventilating and/or having a heart attack. The room came out a lot more "Goth" than we had anticipated; as in we didn't really think it would come out Goth at all. It never even occurred to us, because apparently we really are oblivious parents now. At least she has no idea what Goth even is, didn't choose the design because of it, and still collects stuffed animals and ballerinas.
But it's got a little of that Goth feel, I think. Enough so, that I find myself close to bursting into tears when I see her in it. Ugh, tell me it's not too dark/grown up/disturbing, someone! It's just modern and sleek, right?
Right?
Oh, and can you see that rug? I'm serious, it looks like someone hunted down a Muppet and made a throw-rug out of it. It's shedding hair all over the place. At least that is very nine years old. I would have loved to have something like that when I was a child (and dinosaurs roamed the earth. Though it's likely my pet pterodactyl would have chewed it up.) And her ceiling glows in the dark. Not all of it, but I splattered all sorts of designs up there.
Heck, in the photos she doesn't even LOOK like a nine year old to me (by the way, I have thrown those jeans away three times now. She has held onto them because she is going to make them a part of her Halloween costume - but they're inches from being burned right now.) Ok, she doesn't look like I think nine-year-olds generally look... you know, pig-tails and teddy bears. I wonder if we would have gone ahead with the project if we knew it was going to be this traumatic. On the other hand, I think we achieved our goal of creating a room unlikely to need changing until she goes to college.
At least I hope we have.
My emotions got even worse when this morning we began scraping off the Disney Princess border in her old room to prep it for painting. Admittedly, some of the tears might have been from the nice slice I got on my left hand from the scraper thing; it turns out that it's razor sharp on the sides as well as the end. Live and learn. This is why I am not a house painter.
One last room to paint, and then my house can go back to... well a new normal, I suppose. But all my art furniture will be out of the hallway. Mr. Savy keeps eying me and grumbling under his breath about my house-decorating ADD. I seem to change things rather frequently around here, even if this time it was only for the kids. I'm starting to wonder at what point does redecorating become grounds for divorce... do you think I can get the bathroom repainted? Or should I put that off until next year in the hopes of preserving our marriage?
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Deskage
I skipped participating last year in the reveal your desk party that whipped through the internet, but this year... well, lets just say that this morning I was depressed after the back of the Raisin Bran box stumped me with it's pop culture questions that I am apparently supposed to know, and it ruined any post I might have had percolating (seriously, who knows the name of the nephew who came to live with the Brady's anyway?)
Now, I know it might look semi-organized, but what I have discovered is that the more cubbyholes and cabinets you have to hide junk in the less organized you become. When we had the Wal-mart special that fell down if you didn't place objects in an even manner across the top I think we were a lot more organized by necessity. Now it's a "Where the heck is the... What the hell did you do with..." situation.
Starting from the right we have a pile of paintings and prints on the floor being prepared for shipping to a buyer. Bookshelves crammed with school books that are way too over priced, and those crooked publishers know it. A picture of Mr. Savy and I in togas in Jamaica is on the middle shelf and the bottom one has us dressed up like bad old western actors from back when we were dating where I can honestly say that we look young and stupid. Throughout all of the desk area are little trinkets from the kids like a play-dough-made horse, a pet rock, a teddy bear, etc. Inside all the cabinets is the mess I am hiding from all of you.
Now, in my immediate work area we have the computer monitor hiding all the junk behind it, the Ojo phone in the middle (this thing rocks, I'm telling you! It's so George Jetson!) and my printer with the play-dough horse watching over it for good mojo and less paper jams. You can see the two glass cabinets are hiding lots of disorganized junk. Oh and hey, there's that Netflix movie I was looking for last night, ha!
And there you have it, my desk. I assume that the reason everyone is posting these is because 1) we want to prove we're not one of those creepy people sitting in a phone booth with their laptop posting in the rain, and 2) we're all voyeurs and really curious about how everyone lives. Actually, though, looking at mine - I'm pretty damn boring aren't I?
So, without further ado, here is my desk:
Now, I know it might look semi-organized, but what I have discovered is that the more cubbyholes and cabinets you have to hide junk in the less organized you become. When we had the Wal-mart special that fell down if you didn't place objects in an even manner across the top I think we were a lot more organized by necessity. Now it's a "Where the heck is the... What the hell did you do with..." situation.
Starting from the right we have a pile of paintings and prints on the floor being prepared for shipping to a buyer. Bookshelves crammed with school books that are way too over priced, and those crooked publishers know it. A picture of Mr. Savy and I in togas in Jamaica is on the middle shelf and the bottom one has us dressed up like bad old western actors from back when we were dating where I can honestly say that we look young and stupid. Throughout all of the desk area are little trinkets from the kids like a play-dough-made horse, a pet rock, a teddy bear, etc. Inside all the cabinets is the mess I am hiding from all of you.
Now, in my immediate work area we have the computer monitor hiding all the junk behind it, the Ojo phone in the middle (this thing rocks, I'm telling you! It's so George Jetson!) and my printer with the play-dough horse watching over it for good mojo and less paper jams. You can see the two glass cabinets are hiding lots of disorganized junk. Oh and hey, there's that Netflix movie I was looking for last night, ha!And there you have it, my desk. I assume that the reason everyone is posting these is because 1) we want to prove we're not one of those creepy people sitting in a phone booth with their laptop posting in the rain, and 2) we're all voyeurs and really curious about how everyone lives. Actually, though, looking at mine - I'm pretty damn boring aren't I?
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Sleeping With The Enemy
Calling all men (ha, I've always wanted to say that!) I would like to know something; when you all get together with your "buddies" why are women the enemy?
No seriously, you can get together a bunch of the most sophisticated, forward thinking, polite and courteous men together and suddenly they're flipping quarters into shot glasses and declaring women either pieces of meat or the reason humanity is going down the drain. Why is that?
Maybe I just don't understand. Do women do this in reverse? I've never been a proper girl; 99.9% of my friends have always been men. I never got together with other girls to fawn over shoes and talk about how Bobby is just so cute. However, I have played tackle football, rugby, gone out partying, and shooting pool. So maybe I missed the memo where both sides are supposed to periodically get together and trash the opposite sex as a blight on their lives.
Women must do this, aren't there all sorts of female-bonding films where the guys are near drawn and quartered? Yeah, I don't watch those either. I was probably in the other theater watching Aliens or Die Hard or something... though, I do like a good romance. I have some feminine qualities in there somewhere. So it must be just me. But maybe that's why I am always so shocked at the level of animosity present at one of these gatherings.
I suppose the real question I have is what does this activity achieve? What purpose does it serve to vilify the opposite sex, even if you were doing just fine with your girlfriend/wife/harem? And I'll pose the opposite question to the women too; do you get together with your female friends and trash men? Why?
No seriously, you can get together a bunch of the most sophisticated, forward thinking, polite and courteous men together and suddenly they're flipping quarters into shot glasses and declaring women either pieces of meat or the reason humanity is going down the drain. Why is that?
Maybe I just don't understand. Do women do this in reverse? I've never been a proper girl; 99.9% of my friends have always been men. I never got together with other girls to fawn over shoes and talk about how Bobby is just so cute. However, I have played tackle football, rugby, gone out partying, and shooting pool. So maybe I missed the memo where both sides are supposed to periodically get together and trash the opposite sex as a blight on their lives.
Women must do this, aren't there all sorts of female-bonding films where the guys are near drawn and quartered? Yeah, I don't watch those either. I was probably in the other theater watching Aliens or Die Hard or something... though, I do like a good romance. I have some feminine qualities in there somewhere. So it must be just me. But maybe that's why I am always so shocked at the level of animosity present at one of these gatherings.
I suppose the real question I have is what does this activity achieve? What purpose does it serve to vilify the opposite sex, even if you were doing just fine with your girlfriend/wife/harem? And I'll pose the opposite question to the women too; do you get together with your female friends and trash men? Why?
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