Everything lately has been reminding me of the past. Today, on a McDonalds bag, no less, there was a reference to the River of No Return. Idaho. Middle Fork of the Salmon River. Chris Porter. He was so charming and I fell in love with the strum of his guitar and the smooth harmony of his voice. It was his eyes that scared me the most…the way they looked right through me, into my soul, or my heart, or that place inside where no one is allowed. A doctor that lived like a Spartan. Happy with just a guitar and the sweet sounds and smells of the river, he was unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I refrained from flirting as he was a friend of my sister and I was unwilling to confront all the uncomfortable ness that a fling would ensure. And I was married.
But for 7 glorious days I hovered around him like a moth on the front porch light. Just to sit next to him and breathe. We watched the Aurora Borealis and the eagle in flight. We pounded the rapids and pounded the beers and sang songs until we were too hoarse and too tired to remember the words. And is it my imagination, or was the sky bluer back then? I would have stayed forever on the River of No Return. I would have stayed forever in my sleeping bag next to the fire. I would have stayed forever in his eyes. He was magnetic and powerful and sexy in his own way. And the pictures I have to remind me of that week in no way do him justice. The pictures couldn’t possibly capture the magnitude of the mountains, the crashing of the waves, the weight of the sunlight, the intensity of the stars, the roar of the silence or the passion in the man.
And though I would love nothing more than to close my eyes and re-live the memories of what was potentially the best week of my adult life, there are conferences to attend and dinner to cook and little babies to be tucked into bed, and I’ve just no time to wish away today in remembrance of an easier time. But if I had the time, I’d spend it trying to evoke the joy and passion I felt those few short days. The contentment I felt, the confidence, the love, the elation. I’d spend it recalling how I was no surer that the world was good and beautiful then I was when I stood in the middle of the river and inhaled the splendor of the untouched landscape surrounding me. And though I love my home and all of my possessions, and I often wish for more and better, I would give it up in a second to live in Stanley and be surrounded forever by the majestic perfection that is Idaho.

During the day, I struggle under the weight of my eyelids, but when darkness falls I find myself terrified to close my eyes. I’ve become painfully aware of the passing of time, and find myself clinging in desperation to each moment as it slips through my fingers. Willing myself to remember. Willing myself to appreciate. Willing myself to keep it together. But the time passes and each day blurs into the next and at the end of the week I’m left with a haze of unremarkable moments when I know in my heart that there was so much more there. So much more I’m overlooking, or forgetting, or missing. And the time, it just keeps passing. Weighed and measured by lost chances, missed opportunities, action not taken, words that cannot be taken back, and those that were never said. And the thought of all I’m missing, all I’ve missed and all I’ll never know, tugs at my mind and threatens to pull me under.

I can’t quite explain it. Unfulfilled. Unmotivated. Unsure. Incapable. Unhappy.

I have this feeling inside that I can’t put my finger on. I haven’t been writing only because I haven’t been much to be around. I have this sort of empty sensation deep in my pit that I just can’t seem to shake. Nothing terrible has recently transpired. Nothing earth-shattering or mind numbing that I can blame this recent case of melancholy that has swallowed up my world and made me quite unbearable to be around. Maybe hollow hits it. Vacuous. Void. Vacant.

I don’t mean to sound pompous or vain, but this life is not the life I thought I’d have. And maybe this is part of it. Not that I don’t have an enormous amount of blessings in my life, and I don’t intend to sound ungrateful for the gifts I’ve been given. I am blessed. I am aware that I’m blessed. But there’s this feeling of unease I have. A feeling of not living up to my expectations. A feeling that I should have been more. Better. Important. Worthy. And of these, I feel none. I feel as though here, I’ve failed. I feel mediocre at best. Pedestrian. So I laugh out loud, if only to keep from crying, and I pretend that I’m here, if only to keep from being found, and I hope that people don’t notice that I haven’t been heard from in months.

Yesterday's kickboxing class was side swiped by a migrane. Crap. I actually took my med's fast enough that my migrane went away about 1/2 way through the day, but it always makes my stomach feel a little wobbly and I figured throwing up on the mats during the jump rope portion of class would not be appropriate 2nd class etiquette. So I called my hubby and told him I was coming home instead cuz I didn't feel well. Got home and hubby said "I'm tired, I need to lay down for 10 minutes" OMG. Hello? I'm the one that doesn't feel good and YOU need to lay down? So I said, "since you didn't make dinner for the kids, you can lay down while I make dinner and then I'm going to bed". I finished dinner, woke him up, and he said "be out in a minute". But what he meant was "be out in an hour and 1/2". Jerk.

This fish

I was reading back through the last few days of "this fish" (see links) and in one post she compared herself to a weather forecast...Neurotic with a chance of sane.

And even though I'm totally not as hip as her, and I don't live in NY with a funky life full of adventures and friendships and subway rides and cats with cool names and a great job and a grasp on all the proper etiquette as well as the knowledge of when said can be tossed aside and a sexy wardrobe and a level of contentment with her body...when it comes to the weather forecast, it's like we're twins or something.

I finally made it to kickboxing. The class is run by a guy that actually is a champion kickboxer, he's got like 22 knockouts, and a zillion wins. He's, thus far, undefeated...pretty impressive. Anyway, it's a pretty "hard core" program. He's not into cute little "tae bo" routines or cd's mixed with songs at the same tempo. He's there to teach you to be a fighter.

So...the first 20 minutes of the class was...jump rope for 2 minutes, 15 pushups, 15 sit-ups, repeat two more times; run in place 45 seconds knees up, 30 seconds slow shuffle, 45 seconds fast, 15 pushups on knuckles, 15 situps, repeat three more times. Then we were on our backs, feet 6 inches from the floor. He punished us there...small kicks, large slow kicks, 1/2 way up and back down to a count of five, small circles, reverse direction, large circles, reverse direction, then it was over to our belly and into "plank". Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

So, I was pretty much dead by then. Next, you got a partner and sat across from them. First your partner did 10 pushups w/you counting, then you did 10. They did 9, you did 9, they did 8, you did 8...all the way to 1 and then back up to 10.

Then you get the pads. One partner has focus pads, and the other has gloves. He picks a combination (usually 3 punches, a duck, and then 3 more punches), and you do the combo as many times as you can for a 3 minute round. Then you do "burners"...jab-cross into the focus pads as fast as you can for 30 seconds. And then 30 more seconds. Then you do the 2nd combo of the night, and 2 more burners. Then you switch pads and places and the next partner does it. Then you do 50 jumping jacks, and the first person gets the gloves again. Next is two more combinations, only these have kicks in them and are each followed by 3 sets of burners. Then you do 50 jumping jacks and then you go home and try not to throw up.

I weighed myself this morning and was down 2 pounds. Yes, I know it isn't real weight loss, but hey, sweat much?

I have this food problem lately. I stare at the fridge and nothing looks good..not even the tub of cool whip, so I don't eat. Then I sit here at work STARVING. Yesterday, I ate two chocolate chip cookies, and a piece of pizza. All day. I know this is not smart. I know this is the wrong thing to do. Yet here I am, Monday morning at almost 11 and I've had a 1/2 piece of swiss cheese. What is my problem? I'm not doing it to "punish" myself, which I have done in the past, for being fat, or not working out, or whatever. I'm just totally uninterested in eating. The worst part is, I'm breastfeeding, and now I'm not making enough milk. You'd think that would put me back on the right track. But you'd be wrong.

Oy. I gotta go get something to eat.

My daughter looks like shit.

Over the last two weeks or so, I've been noticing that she looked pale, with red-rimmed eyes. At first, I thought, well, here we go. Here comes strep-throat, or an ear infection, or a sinus infection....it never came.

Each day she's gotten a little paler, and she's developed big black circles under her eyes.

I took her to the doctor today, and he agrees with me. She does not look good. He took some blood and said we'll hope its anemia, but we'll check for everything else. Me, being the anxious wreck that I am, of course knows that "everything else" means leukemia or neuroblasphoma, or something equally as horrible that I would just prefer my five year old doesn't have, thank you very much.

So now I wait. And try to pretend to be productive at work. But mostly I just watch the clock and wonder if it's too early to call and see if the results are in. I don't want to be a pest, but this is my daughter. My light. My laughter. My heart.

Let me preface by saying that I really do love my new boxer. Really. I do. But I'm two minutes away from hanging her up by her cute little doggy toenails. She just refuses to be housetrained and it's driving me crazy. She is so sweet and so cute and if she pees on my carpet one more time I'm going to have a melt down.

I mean, I know she's smart, because she figured out how to ring the bell to go outside, which she does 85% of the time. But, the other (let's see...100% - 85%), yeah, 15% of the time she either sneaks downstairs to the basement and goes there, or she runs upstairs and does it in the hallway. Oh, and yesterday she had just come in from outside and we were playing in the kitchen, and then she walked around to the other side of the island where I couldn't see her and peed there. I'm losing my mind. This morning, she was obviously tired because she didn't feel like going all the way up the stairs, and instead peed on the fourth from the bottom. And husband has even less patience then me and is pissed. Excuse the pun.

Also, she still "occasionally" pees in her kennel. She won't do it for 2 weeks, and then all of the sudden she'll do it. Last time, I took out her pillow, cleaned the kennel, laid down a towel, and put her in it. In the middle of the night she started barking, so I went to see if she needed to go outside...nope. She'd peed on the towel and wanted me to come remove the wet one.

Someone out there has got to have a tip for me...the poor, tired of cleaning up pee, owner of a dog that refuses to adhere to the house rules.....

Today I find myself unable to muster the motivation to hit the gym. I was going to go at lunch, and now I can't really go, or by the time I got back it'd be time to go home, and that's not cool. I'm still holding out hope that I'll do something tonight, but I haven't got a full night's sleep in about forever, so I'm feeling really exhausted today and all I want to do is take a nap. Maybe it's my body's way of telling me I need a little rest, but I feel guilty nonetheless.

I emailed a local kickboxing school to ask about rates and times. It's kind of far from my house, but it's a total badass school and it might be worth the drive. I'll keep you posted.

Today I am wonderfully sore. four days of working out after months of a sedentary lifestyle will do that for you. And oh, the pain, feels so so good.

My puppy is slowly, and with much confusion, learning to sort of walk on a leash. The best way to a boxer's brain is through their mouth, apparently. As long as I have a fist full of smelly treats, she's just happy as a lark to be wearing her harness.

The shirt I'm wearing today has slightly shorter sleeves than usual, and I'm distressed at the fact that you can see my PATHETIC FARMER'S TAN. I spent most of the summer pregnant and in HUGE clothes, hiding my once toned arms as they became flabby, and now I look like Bubba from the corner dairy farm.

I must go grocery shopping tonight. I hate going on Fridays, but we're getting low and I don't want to eat cookies just because there's nothing else. I've been so good this week. The only cheat I've had was some chocolate graham crackers last night, which really isn't all that bad if you consider the amount of JUNK I've crammed in, in recent months.

I've decided that ediets, on their default setting, is just too damn complicated. I mean, in a week, they give me 6 different meals for 6 days. There's just no way I'm making 36 different things each week, so I've been tinkering with it a bit. I've now got it changed to breakfast being my choice, the four meals in the day the exact same all week long, and then a different dinner each night. Might sound boring, but I find it much easier to make lots of one thing then one of lots. Plus, the first week I bought raspberries for a meal, and by the time I got to it on the plan they'd gone all mushy and greenish. Not cool. Now I just have to pick 4 things I like and then find a dinner, and since all the dinners have to be "family" friendly as well as "EFL" friendly, that narrows the search a bit. But I love that once you have it all figured out, they print you out a shopping list. That way I just have to add the stuff I need for the kids, and I'm off to the store.

So far, it's been worth the $20 it cost me...just to keep me away from the bad stuff I normally binge on.

This morning, hubby and I had our physicals for our new life insurance policy. I’m switching life insurance, because the old company I worked with made me mad, and yes, I am immature enough to switch companies just because my panties are in a bunch. The old company had my life, house and car policies…and got a ton of my money each year. One time, I paid two car policies at the same time, and while the exact total should have been like $190.98, I rounded up and paid them $191. Well, even though I put the payment slips into the envelope, they couldn’t seem to figure out that I was paying both policies, with an extra $.02 to apply somewhere. Hell, they could have even kept the 2 pennies and had a party, for all I cared, but since they weren’t smart enough to do that, they applied the whole amount to one of the cars, and let the other one lapse without ever contacting me. Smart. So, long story short, I was mad, and switched companies.

Anyway…last night, all of the sudden, my hubby started feeling really sick…he started sweating really bad and got nauseous, and he said he felt like his heart was beating really hard and really fast…and all I could think was “I’m pretty sure that if he has a heart attack tonight, they’re not going to give us our policy”.

Fast forward to the middle of the night…I heard something in the kitchen, so I woke him up and said “someone just took the lid off the peanut butter jar”. Because obviously my mouth has a mind of it’s own at 2:30 in the morning, and what that really meant was “I think one of the kids is sleepwalking and is in the kitchen…go check”. He, being equally coherent at that time of the morning said “but the bubbles are in the cabinet”. What? Okay, so the noise kept going, and I had woken up a little more by then, so I said “I think the dog got out of her kennel.” To which he angrily replied “I put the cat in the mailbox this morning”. So I kicked him, and he woke up and said “what? Was I snoring?” and I said “the dog is loose in the house and is drinking out of the toilet”. He said “no, that’s the cat”, and I said “I’m pretty sure that’s not the cat”. And I was right…the puppy got out of her kennel and was running through the house, drinking out of toilets. But she didn’t eat the peanut butter so that was good.

And then I had a dream that I was Madonna’s nanny and housekeeper, and I had to keep going to all these stores with her to find clothes for her daughter, and she had horrible taste and me and the kid hated all the clothes she picked out.

Well, the large, purple harness turned out to be the right size after all...I put her in it this weekend, to get her used to it, and it didn't seem to bother her at all. No frantic scratching or twirling in circles trying to get it off. Of course, she's very fast, and a little bit slippery, so it took me about 45 minutes and 73 treats before I got it fitted, over her head, leg through the hole, strap around her belly, and snapped.

My kids immediately wanted to put her on a leash, so I said sure, just don't pull on her or she'll get nervous. They went to the front yard and in 12 seconds she'd turned herself completely inside out and escaped the harness. Then she merrily ran zig-zags up and down the sidewalk with her tongue out the side of her mouth singing "catch me if you can"

I may have to try the pinch collar. It's the only thing I've ever used that a boxer couldn't slip it's head out of.

On the bright side, I finally got my act together and MADE IT TO THE GYM on lunch break today...and guess what? The building is still standing, no major emergencies occured, and everyone is just swell. Did I mention that I tend to worry too much?

I spent lunch at the petstore AGAIN today.

today it was in search of a harness for my collar-hating new boxer. She doesn't just hate the collar. She HATES the collar. You put it on her and she sits and scratches and scratches and scratches, and then pretty soon she's got a big lump on her neck from all the scratching, which she scratches until she looks deformed. Or like she's got a bad case of lymphoma. Neither of which is good. The first time she did it, my other boxer had just died of lymphoma, and me, thinking the worst, burst into tears...she's only 3 months old! She can't have it already! It wasn't lymphoma, it was all the damn scratching.

So, being the ever responsible parent, she hasn't had a collar on in two months. I thought I'd try a harness instead, with the added benefit of keeping her from strangling herself or popping off the leash and running away. She's fast.

So today, I went in search of a harness, because this dog has got to learn how to walk on a leash yesterday, or I will never get to run with her, which I don't REALLY want to do, but I also don't really want my ass to look like this, so what can I do. Here's where the smart part comes in. Last night I told myself "oh yeah, don't forget to measure her chest"

Did I do it?

You would think so, but no. So I stood there in the petstore going "well she's about this big...does that help?"

I wanted to get a medium because it came in pink, but I went with a large purple one in the hopes that if it is too big, I can just rubberband it shorter. Because, you know, I probably won't be back to the petstore till like Sunday, and I can't wait and just buy it then when I know her size...

I want it NOW, Mommy!

My sister taught me how to drive a stick-shift. I was 16 at the time, and she had a little red escort, and I'm pretty sure we were driving back from seeing her horse. I remember sitting at a red light, and the corner of Adams and Tienken, where there's just the smallest hint of a hill. I was so worried that I was going to roll backwards and smash her car. I was so worried that I was going to lurch forward and stall. I was so worried that I was going to let her down.

It was the first time, that I can remember, that I felt like someone believed I could do something new. That I was capeable of being more than I already was. It was a strange feeling for me...the girl that had come to terms with the fact that she was nothing. Growing up I was never as "smart" or "thin" or "pretty"as my sister. I was never as "good looking" or "talanted" or "funny" as my brother. I was an afterthought. I was an inconvienence. I always kind of felt like a foreign exchange student living with a family that tried their best to tolerate me, but never really gave a shit if I was there or not.

My sister was not my friend. She hated me. She admits it freely now that she did. She wanted to be an only child and I ruined that. But she was only a little girl trying to stay on the right side of the family, so I don't hold it against her. My brother was not my friend. But that was probably me, already convinced I didn't deserve kindness, that pulled away from him. He doesn't hold it against me.

But that day...She had gone away to college and we had suddenly gained a brand new relationship. Removed from eachother, we cautiously reached out and touched hands. And we began to like the person at the other end. She took me out to the barn that day, and on the way home, she asked if I'd like to drive. I said no...I couldn't drive a stick, which in my mind meant that I never would...I never could. But she insisted, and there I was, behind the wheel praying "God, please don't let me stall". I stalled, and mentally ducked my head waiting for the insults to start flying. They never came. She said "take a deep breath, push in the clutch, start it again, and this time remember to give it a little more gas". That was it. No name calling, no exasperated sigh, no dissertation on all the ways I had failed. She just gave me permission to try again.

I had no idea how to take that.

But I did it. I drove a stick. I still, when I can, drive a stick. It makes me feel powerful, and capeable, and loveable. Silly, but true.

Today my sister and brother and I are the best of friends, and I am so grateful to have them in my life. And when my life seems out of control and I start to think that I will never be happy again, I just take a deep breath, push in the clutch, start it again, and give it a little more gas.

Thank you sissy.

Just so you know, string cheese tastes way better when you remember to take it out of your cooler bag and put it in the fridge because you didn't put any ice in your cooler bag because you have a fridge sitting right there in your office. Instead I left it in the bag, right next to the apple that would probably taste better cold too.

No, I did not eat the apple, I had a Fast Break instead. Thanks for asking.

I finally found time to get my hair chopped last night...she took off 5 inches and I still have enough to pull back into a ponytail...I guess I let it get a little longer than I thought. It feels SOOO much better now...healthy and less frizzy.

My new MRP was delivered to my house today. Of course, I'm at work, which means I have to wait to open it till I get home tonight. :( I'm like a kid at Christmas...if I know there's something on the way, I can't WAIT to open it. I know. Excited about an MRP? Insane. But it's a BOX people. One that came in the mail and is addressed to me! Very exciting stuff!

I talked to a girlfriend of mine today that I haven't talked to in 4 months and haven't seen in over a year. I thought she had written me off or something, but as it turns out, she's in a bad place (marriage) and is so so sad. It's horrible. She's probably the nicest person in the whole world and I hate to hear that she's so sad. No Fair. I want to make it all better, but there's really nothing I can do, you know? I mean I can listen and "be there", but when you get to that bad place, the only one that can change anything is you...and that's a really hard thing to do. She said she's lost 30 pounds, which is great, but she lost it on the "hey I'm so stressed out that if I try to eat anything I'm going to puke, so I guess I'll just sit here and chew off my fingernails" diet, which is no good. She wants to start BFL again, but just can't get motivated. Been there. Oh wait, that's where I am now. Not for the exact same reasons, but they're not entirely unrelated.

Oh bloody hell.

I made a huge mistake in my checkbook and now I'm screwed. There is nothing that makes me feel more stupid then bouncing checks.

I tried the "banana blitz" and the "vanilla nut pudding" recipes from my new ediets EFL menu and I just gotta say

OMG WHY DIDN'T I KNOW ABOUT THIS BEFORE

So yummy...

I went to office depot this weekend to get a new lead for my printer, as my friend R would say, and they were having a big clearance sale on all back to school stuff. I got a purple backpack with flowers and butterflies on it for $2.50, and three notebooks for $1.00 that are called "banana paper"...recycled bananas! How cool is that. I figured that it was someones way of telling me that maybe I should start keeping a food journal again, because how totally appropriate is it to keep a food journal on food paper? Totally.

I found a picture of Vin on the internet and now it's my wallpaper on my computer.

I heart him.

Yes, I am twelve, thanks for asking.

positive changes

Things I've done this week that are good for me

1. Did squats for the first time (with weight) since having the baby
2. Joined ediets, edited my whole first week, printed out all meals, recipes, and shopping lists
3. Told my husband it was time for counseling

Yeah me!

for all you useless trivia junkies...

I know I haven't posted much lately, but I've been boring. Not bored, boring. Just been in a funk when I'd rather read about what all my online "friends" have been doing then write about my same old same old days of late.

Anyway...as promised....useless trivia alert...

the phrase "ok" is actually derived from an old slang spelling of "all correct", which became "oll korrect", which was then shortened to "OK"

there. now you can go amaze your friends and co-workers.

Have a good day, AC?

this is funny...


http://home.datacomm.ch/marco.fernando/fla/bozzetto/olympics.swf

Bah

That's all I have to say to Erin from DF company that keeps calling me and making me DO MY JOB.

I'm procrastinating as fast as I can here, folks.

How can I really be expected to work when Olivia Newton and John Travolta are screeching "you're the one that I want" from the work radio permanently set to ez-rock?

Makes me want to wear a leather jacket and clog shoes under which I can put out my cig...oh, and get a perm, and go to the fun-house.

Bisous and Amazon

I love Amazon. If I could, I would marry Amazon, and we would have several reasonably priced children in every available size and color. Last night, when I got home from work, waiting there on the porch was yet another package from my amazonian true love. You see, Amazon is thoughtful that way. Every time I visit, a few days later I find this wonderful surprise on my porch. It's like magic. But in the cool magic kind of way, not the scare the crap out of you magic, like curses and hexes and things of that nature. Last night, I ripped open the box and found the wonderfulest of all wonderful wonders...the DDR2Max and dance pad! Bisous put me on to this in her recent postings on Diva's message board and she's right. It rocks. I have never laughed so hard or looked so foolish as I did last night. Oh God, I HOPE I've never looked that foolish, cuz I gotta say I looked pretty damn foolish. I do believe it will take a couple of days before I figure the whole thing out, but I was doing cardio that was fun, and you just don't find that every day of the week, you know what I'm saying? We're giving ourselves a month to practice, and then we're having a dance off...me and two of my kids...If they win, I have to clean both their rooms, organize them, and sort through all their toys and clothes, etc....and if I win, they have to wash my truck, inside and out. I will practice night and day if I have to...I WILL NOT LOSE TO A 7 YEAR OLD!

Pure sin in a little plastic tube

Oh the humanity. Just when I thought I was doing so well with staying away from the sweets, this morning when I stopped at the local gas station to get my first diet coke of the day, I found the most wonderful, terrible treat....candy coated, chocolate covered, sunflower seeds. Sweet and salt and oh so yummy.

I have a new friend at Fusion Labs. His website looks like it's just a cover for the more *ahem* scientific side of body building, but he gets all the protein powders and mrp's and stuff too, and he wrote me this great long email rating all the newest pro powders on taste and quality. Mostly because I was asking if he's ever tried Fruity Whey, because I didn't want to buy it if it tasted like crap. It was really sweet of him to reply and give me the heads up on other, better tasting options. Of course, I'll have to sample some stuff for myself, since I never believe anyone when it comes to mrp's and protein...there's nothing worse then buying a 6# tub because someone else likes it and then you get it and it tastes like a combination of dirt and ground up multi-vitamens.

I played tennis with my son, and I have to say that playing with a hyper 7 year old is pretty darn close to HIIT. His accuracy leaves a little to be desired, so I spent 1 and 1/2 hours running back and forth over three different courts trying to return his volley. More fun then a treadmill, and a little time out in the fresh air that's so horribly lacking at my 8-5 daily grind. Gotta love it.

Best Laid Plans

Oy. I've been "planning" on eating right and working out for the last 4 days.

Monday I was all hyped up because I worked out and felt great, and was determined to stick with it. Of course everytime that happens, there are suddenly obstacles jumping out from everywhere that conspire to keep me from following through. One of these days I'm just going to have to find a way to make myself number one. One of these days I'll find the strength to say "no" to the people that insist I do things their way and on their schedule. One of these days I'll decide that my health and happiness is worth the little trouble packing my meals beforehand entails. One of these days I'll manage to get all 6 meals in, instead of binging on junk food at night because I'm starving from forgetting to eat all day. One of these days I'll drink a glass of water instead of diet coke. One of these days I'll take a few extra minutes at lunch to go to the gym. One of these days I'll learn to fly.

note to self:

When one wears the same jeans that have previously split at the seam on the inner thigh, after one quickly throws a few stitches in the seam by hand, and the said stitches pop at work when squatting down to lift a box, one should not try to staple the seam back together while in the ladies room because 1. you look like a total ass when someone walks in, and 2. the staples will not hold and then will poke you in your thigh fat.

One...Two...Kick-Ball-Change!

36 pounds yet to lose (in clothes with shoes on)
Breakfast: reese’s peanut butter sticks (4); diet coke; handful of chex mix (cheddar flavor)

And I wonder why I’m fat.

Went to Jazzercize Monday night for the first time ever. I was happy to see there was nary a leg-warmer in sight. “kick-ball-change…WHOOO” It was actually fun. No, really, it was. Will I go back? I’d say no. Not because it wasn’t a good cardio workout, on the contrary, I was huffing and puffing, but because it’s pretty pricey. $7.00 a class seems like a lot to me. I could pay $85 for two months, but for someone who works full time and has four kids, I’d be LUCKY to make it to 2 classes a week, and, frankly, I don’t have $85 to spare right now. I did a walk through at the local Bally’s yesterday at lunch…they’ve been trying to get me to come back, since years and years ago when I had more money than brains I bought a membership that I never ever, not even once, used. Once it was finally paid off, I cancelled it, because I had never, ever, not even once used it, and by then I was a little smarter and a little poorer and didn’t feel like throwing the annual fee right out the window anymore. But now, I’m a whole lot smarter (I like to think), and a whole lot poorer, and a whole lot sick of not fitting into anything cute and fun. The current offer is to come back for $8 a month, and I figure, you just can’t beat that. If I get to the gym twice a week, that’s a dollar a visit, and I’m sure I can find somewhere to cut that dollar from my budget elsewhere…say, from the reese’s peanut butter sticks, for example.

They’ve upgraded their facility and it has a lap pool (like I’ll EVER be seen in a bathing suit in my current condition), a running track, a bunch of machines, and a separate free weight room. Plus an aerobics room which, disturbingly enough, is composed of ALL mirrored walls. I shudder at the thought.

So that’s what I’m doing. My mind is made up. Oh, and if I don’t go to the gym twice a week, somebody slap me.

okay. first, divaquest needs to get the hell out of my brain. Not only did she re-live the horror of the split seam on the favorite jeans, as detailed in my july 2nd blog entry, but now I find out that she also quotes her fellow bloggers, refering to them as "this girl I know" or "this friend of mine". I swear I thought I was the only one that did that. I've always felt like I was a little bit twisted, having to know what was going on in the lives of complete strangers and then talking about them like they're my long lost pals from elementary school. Glad to know I'm not alone.

It's actually a little sad that I have more blog "friends" then actual flesh and blood ones. I guess I get so busy with work and kids and husband and pets and stupid responsibilities that it's easier for me to maintain my imaginary "relationships" online then actually be accountable in person. A part of me knows that these people with the blogs I obsessively read aren't going to get mad at me if I'm a no-show today or even this week. If I feel like hiding in the house and not talking to anyone, they don't even know I'm gone, and they're always happy to fill me in on what I missed when I return. I can show up to chat in my sweats and bare feet and they don't call me a hoosier. I can catch up on the day's adventures during the commercials of my favorite shows and they don't yell at me to pay attention to what they're saying. I can fart right in front of them and not be embarrased. It's a beautiful thing.

off the beaten path

Lately I've been taking the back roads home from work. It's not any faster, in fact it probably takes me 5 or 10 more minutes to my driveway, but I hate to sit in traffic, so I've been avoiding the interstate. Anyway, I've probably taken the back roads for the last 12 trips home from work, and it's kind of nice. Long, winding roads with little or no other cars...corn fields and horse pastures. Farm houses dotting the landscape. It's pretty, and it helps me unwind. by the time I get home I'm relaxed and calm and far far from the stressed out work "me". Last night, as I was driving home, I saw, for the first time, an entire field of blooming sunflowers tucked in between two corn fields and set back a little way from the road. It was so beautiful, I almost turned around to see it again. 12 nights I've driven past it and never seen it, but you can bet I'll be looking forward to seeing it again come monday.

And since I'm posting pictures...here's the newest addition...well, besides the puppy that is. 

Did you ever notice that when people talk about God, they just call him God, but when people talk about the devil, it’s always “the” devil? It’s like God is that nice boy you knew in college that held your hair back when you puked and God’s like “hey, you got a little on my shoe, but you said you’re sorry, so let’s just get you home safe and we’ll pretend it never happened”. But the devil’s like that really arrogant and annoying frat boy that talks about himself in the third person. And the devil’s like “hey Todd, The Devil’s goin’ on a beer run…you up?” , and his buddy says “yeah dude, The Todd’s totally up for that.”

I have no idea why I thought about that today. Just the kind of crazy shit my brain comes up with.

So I’m having one of those days when I just don’t feel like doing anything. There’s approximately 754 tons of crap on my desk and it all needs immediate attention and I’m totally not up to it. Nope. Not today. So sorry, try again tomorrow. Today I shuffle some papers around, walk to the kitchen and get a diet coke, complain really loudly to no one in particular that people shouldn’t be allowed to make tuna fish in a small office, walk back to my desk, shuffle some more papers, walk to the bathroom and check to see if the zit on my chin is gone yet, walk to the back and see what the boys in the warehouse are doing, walk back to my desk, look at the clock, and repeat.

This picture is my 2 year old and my puppy. Tell the truth, isn’t that the cutest freaking thing ever? Yeah, I thought so. Please excuse my son’s face. He fell off the bleachers at his brother’s baseball game, and since he inherited all of my coordination and grace, he decided to break the fall with his face.


 

Let me start by saying that I'm a nice person.  Yes, I get angry, and yes sometimes I come on here and I spout off my mouth and say mean things, but that's because I know no one's reading.  In person, I'm a nicey-nice never say a bad thing, always try to help, be the bigger person kind of gal.  Mostly because I have the softest feelings of anyone I've ever met ever, and I am super duper sensitive.  Don't tell anyone.  Anyway, I got up this morning and checked the mailbox and in it was a typed letter from a neighbor (no, not signed) that said "maybe you hoosiers (in missouri that's like calling someone white trash, and not intended to mean someone from Indiana) could find a way to park all your g.damn (he said the real word) cars blocking the sidewalk so no one can get through"    Yeah.  Isn't that mean?  I parked my truck on my driveway, and the back was partially blocking the sidewalk, and this is what I get.  I cried all the way to work.

My step-grandpa had an artery in his stomach burst last night and is in the ICU, and I had a customer just come in and tell me he'd take the cheap brand cuz he has terminal cancer and doesn't know how long he'll be around to use it.  So I guess everything's relative.

I did a new kind of squat last night, that I've never done before...I still can't use weight per doctor's instructions, so they were to exhaustion, but you stand with your legs really wide and your toes pointing out and you do kind of a plie squat but as you're doing it you use your hands to push your knees apart and stretch your groin.  Ouch is all I have to say about that.

My sister read somewhere that if you have "d" cup boobs, they can weigh up to 8 pounds.  so now I feel better because Monday I weighed 9 pounds lighter than Tuesday.  Must be the boobs.

Okay, so I took divaquest's challange, and all I can say is CRAP.

I have good intentions, really I do, it's my follow through that needs help. I've been reading about the people that have lost 4 or 5 lbs and it's killing me. I am not having the same amount of success, and yes, I know that everyone is different, and I know that I have not been perfect. But it still bums me out just a tad. And I also know not to be so concerned with the scale, but it's a nasty obsession I just can't kick.

But, on the bright side...my eating has been stellar. No cheats at all (did take a free day on Sunday). My workouts have been good...missed two cardio days--one last week when I was dog tired and had a headache, and one last night because I was at my son's baseball game and the heat index was 115 and by the time I got home I just wanted to sit in a bucket of ice. I sweat as much as I do during a good cardio workout, only without the workout. Drinking my water? Does diet coke count?

ah well, today's another day...

I cleaned my office yesterday...the number of dead flies between my desk and the window is both disturbing and impressive.

The thing about breastfeeding is, if you forget to take your pump to work, your boobs try to take over your body. It's not bad enough that every 2 hours I felt my milk start to "let down" so I had to pinch my nipples to make sure it didn't squirt out all over the place, but then by five, they were so full there was no stopping them, so I drove home with my shirt growing progressively more and more wet until the two big bullseyes over my boobs finally met in the middle and overtook the whole shirt. Thank God I didn't get pulled over.

Listening to new puppy bark is as bad as hearing the new baby cry...2 minutes seems like an hour and 1/2. Trust me. I know these things.

New puppy does not LIKE new puppy's kennel. And yes I know she'd be much quieter and happier in my bed snuggled with me, but frankly I'm not a big fan of pee on my bed, so I suffer through the bark bark bark bark freaking bark, all night long. Or maybe not, since using the mathmatical equation above it could really only be 10.6 minutes, but I'm pretty sure it's all night.

So I got my jeans out of the dryer this morning and they were feeling a touch *ahem* snug, so I was doing some deep knee bends to stretch them out a little (oh, like you’ve never done that) and the seam on the inner thigh RIPPED open. Now, to be fair, they are really old jeans and my thighs always rub together, so in the offending seam’s defense, the fabric there may have been just a touch more delicate than originally intended by said offending jean’s manufacturer. Totally not acceptable. And no, I haven’t yet lost all my baby weight, thank you for asking, which brings me to my problem…these happen to be the only jeans I have that I can fit my *ahem* ample figure into at this current time. The only other clothes I can squeeze into are sweat pants which as we all know are totally inappropriate work wear. What’s a girl to do???

Keeping my legs clamped shut so no one can see my fat peaking out is a good inner thigh workout.

For a minute there I had forgotten how fun it is to have a new puppy, what with all the yelping and barking and whining and 2 a.m. potty breaks and such.

The new taco bell opens today just down the street from work, and we all decided to celebrate by seeing how many tacos we can eat, and I said "It'll be just like a big mexican sietsa". But what I really meant was "fiesta", but I'd rather have a siesta.

I should have stayed home today

Why did I even bother getting out of bed? I've asked myself that question countless times today, as I am suffering from a major case of the grumps. Crabby with a capital BITCH. One of those days when you wake up with a headache, if you can really call it waking up, since you didn't sleep at all, and everyone and every stinking thing just rubs you the wrong way. If I could spit venom from my eyes, there would be a few less people around here today. And then, AND THEN, some crazy lady walks in from the street and starts begging us here at work for 60 dollars, which, apparantly she has been doing all up and down the industrial park, because soon after she showed up, so did the cops, who kindly escorted her crazy ass off our property. But here's the thing...they let her use my bathroom before she left. MY BATHROOM. I call it mine, because when you're the only woman working in a store that is only frequented by men (okay, there's that one woman, but I'm pretty sure she used to be, or maybe still is, technically a man, cuz her hands are the size of basketballs, and plus she has an adams apple), you can have the woman's bathroom "just so". MY bathroom is the only "public" bathroom that has ever touched my hiney, because my mother successfully drilled in me a irrational fear of THE DISEASE you catch when your butt touches the toilet seat, and although I believe nothing of what my mother has ever told me, I cannot seem to shake the fear of the grotesque butt disease, or what ever it was that I was destined to catch, and thus have practiced the "hover" ever since I can remember. Okay, I may have sat on the seat in the hospital, but come on, it's a hospital! If they're not clean, nothing is, and besides, I had just had a baby, and was just too damn tired to hover. So now, MY BATHROOM, has been defiled. I'm not being mean...It's not because she was crazy...I know you can't catch crazy, or I'd have caught it long before now, but I just walked in there and it SMELLS. Like a combination of dirty feet and poop and something else I can't place but makes me want to hurl. And the cleaning crew was just here last night, so now if I want to resume my hover-less peeing I'm going to have to go clean it myself, and that just sucks. I do enough cleaning at home, dammit.

Much better on my meals today, mostly because the birthday cake was all gone. Still drank about 14 diet cokes, but hey, it keeps my toes a-tappin'.

On another note, I think I may have found my new house-mate...

I think I shall go meet her in person tomorrow...

I thought I'd try to make today the first day back in terms of my new life as a nutritionally intelligent human being. Let's review, shall we???

7:30 am...Must have caffeine....diet coke on the way to work

8:00 am...picked off a piece of the chicken I brought for my meals today, and had another diet coke

10:30 am...piece of yellow cake w/chocolate frosting from co-worker's b-day yesterday, and a diet coke

12:30 pm...remembered my new "clean eating" resolution and had a portion of chicken breast and a portion of green beans, with a diet coke

3:00 pm...repeat of above

5:30 pm...starving. no, really. the only thing that can save me now is 11 E.L. Fudge cookies, and a diet coke.

7:30 pm...portion of egg noodles, with a portion of shredded chicken a la mexican. Ran out of diet coke, so I had 1 1/2 glasses of wine instead.

Oy Vay.

Hmmm...a little over a month since my last post...gee I'm good at this.


So, you ask, what have I been doing for the last four weeks? Well, I'd tell you, but frankly it's all been a sleep deprived blur. The only things I know for sure are: #1 My maternity leave is over and I'm back at work full time...bleck. #2 I had to have my boxer put to sleep...double bleck. #3 The other dog is driving me CRAZY with all the soulful howling and frantic searching of the house for the boxer, and the hiding in the cage and refusing to come out. #4 My baby makes me happy. #5 My stomach, and it's refusal to shrink back to pre-baby proportions, does not. #6 My 2 year old fell off the TOP of the bleachers and, due to the mommy-inherited trait of being completely without grace or coordination, neglected to put his hands down and landed directly on his head, scraping the entire surface of his face completely off in the process.

Yep, that about sums it up.

Yes I know I'm supposed to be on maternity leave, but things being as they are, I've had to go into work for one thing or another several times a week...totally not my point, but I wanted to explain why I was privy to the following converstion at work today...

side note...I work for a company that sells tools and equipment for metal working applications...

enter 18 year old strong southern accent having cutie and his adorable girlfriend...

cutie "ya'll got any iron?"

ray (the funniest and sweetest man I actually personally know) "what kind of iron?"

cutie: "oh, anything"

ray: "you wanna to make something out of it?"

cutie: "um, no."

ray: "what then? you just want scrap?"

cutie: "no sir...ummm"...cutie and girl turn and leave the building with a confused look on their faces.

Don't get it? No, you wouldn't, unless you know that what the 18 year old really asked when he walked in was "ya'll hiring?"

Poor little ray almost started a fight, and he didn't even mean to.

Get it now????

The thing about hormones is, they completely screw up that little part of your brain that's responsible for rational thought and behavior. And, my friends, post-partum hormones are no exception to the rule.

I sent my husband to the grocery store. Yes, I know, men are incapeable of grocery shopping as a general rule, but I was prepared...I had a list, organized by aisle, of everything he needed. I was brand specific. I was size specific. I was freaking insanely specific. Now, in his defense, and believe me, it's a weak defense at best, he did take one of our kids with him, which he claims is the reason he was "distracted" and unable to get everything I asked for. This is where I have a problem. When he says he couldn't "get everything", what he really means to say is "I got 3 bags of hot and spicey pork rinds and a tub of vanilla ice cream, so I figured we didn't need any fruit or vegetables." And when he says "I couldn't find the canned green beans or the bags of chicken breasts or the lean sirloin" what he meant to say is "well, I was trying to decide between the smores pop tarts and the blueberry frosted, and I figured that was more important". When he says "your son was throwing a fit and I barely had time to grab a gallon of milk and run for the front" what he meant was "I was standing there in the dairy section and I grabbed the milk, but then for some reason I couldn't find the butter or the yogurt, or the sour cream, or the cheese, or the cream cheese, or the cottage cheese."

He came home with 3 things I asked him to get and about 35 that were not on the list...guess how many of his choices are healthy? I couldn't make an actual meal out of the food he bought if you paid me.

But we were talking about hormones, weren't we? Did I accept this frustrating yet mildly amusing experience for what it was---my husband's loose interpretation of required groceries? Or did I have a complete mental breakdown? Oh, I think you know the answer to that. Yes, in my hormonally altered state I actually had a 45 minute sobbing fit. You see, my husband's inability to follow a list was clearly a deliberate and malicious act, aimed at showing me that he doesn't love or respect me. Clearly, this means that not only does he hate me and want me to suffer, but it means that for the rest of my life I can NEVER DEPEND ON ANYONE TO EVER HELP ME WITH ANYTHING....NEVER NEVER NEVER...I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO REST BECAUSE NOW I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF...That's right, it's me the martyer speaking.

Okay, so I'm over it now, but still...those hormones are a bitch.

I'm baaaaaack.....

Well, hello there! Where, you may ask, the hell have I been? Well, I'll tell you. I have been hiding in my bedroom trying not to lose my mind, while I ponder the meaning of life and the origin of the universe.

Actually, I've been having long and meaningful conversations with myself regarding the ebb and flow of my life. Isn't it crazy how the good comes with the bad and the bad comes with the good...or is that just me? I'm one of those people that gets worried when things go too smooth, because that means, of course, that something terrible is going to happen.

About 3 or 4 weeks ago, my 11 year old Boxer started to lose interest in eating. I figured, okay, he's getting on in the years, lets try some of that yummy yet extrordinarily bad smelling canned food, which worked for a bit, until he started throwing up everything, including water, and decided to just stop completely. Then, I found a tooth on his pillow, so I thought "well, that poor dear had an absess or something...no wonder he couldn't eat! And I decided to make an appointment to see the vet and check out his poor little mouth. I dropped him off Tuesday morning (the 4th) and then went directly to the hospital, because I woke up in labor that morning. 14 hours or so later, I gave birth to a perfect and beautiful (yes, of course I'm biased) baby girl. The vet called my hubby on his cell phone and said "everything looks fine...maybe he was just stressed out over the impending birth...pick him up when you can". I never really bought that story, because this was the fourth impending birth since I've had the old boy, and he never seemed to mind before, but I took him home and hoped for the best. No luck. He refused to eat, and I took him back to the vet for one last attempt at figuring out what was wrong. He has lymphoma. I have to give him steroids twice a day, and they expect that he'll live for about 6 more months.

see...good...healthy baby girl....bad...dog dying. Ebb and flow.

My daughter, by the way, is wonderful and beautiful and perfect.

Mental problems and the illusion of normalcy

I like to pretend that I have it all together. And, as a general rule, I do a pretty good job of convincing those around me that I'm in control. However, as the song goes "don't believe me when I say I've got it down"...my issues are abundant, and some days I don't even know how I manage to keep all the ends together. It can be exhausting.

Recently, I've been obsessively picking over my food issues. Not that I one day sat down and decided that it was far time I worked out all the kinks, and have since been systematically dissecting my thought and behavior patterns; no, that would be far too healthy. Instead it seems I keep getting side-swiped by illogical and irrational concerns that completely knock me on my ass, and threaten to send me running to the nearest closet with a gallon of cookie dough ice cream. Stupid things like getting angry (don't worry, thus far I'm able to keep it completely internalized), when my husband eats three bowls of cereal. Not stupid play angry, like "geez what a pig", but really in my heart angry that there might not be any left...like he's getting more than his share, and I'm going to be left out. Is that not the craziest thing you've ever heard? I mean, I know it's got to go back to my grandmother and the whole story I've told before, but jeez... time to grow up, eh? This morning I opened the fridge and saw that for his midnight snack last night he ate more than 3/4 of the cheesecake I had put in there to thaw...and I tell you what...it's a damn good thing he had already left for work because I was so irrationally pissed off. So I stood there in the kitchen, 1/2 of me wanting to stomp my feet and scream "how dare he!!!" and the other 1/2 of me telling the first 1/2 to shut up and get over it. And it's not like I'm in danger of starving or anything...I just get this crazy panic thing going when I'm faced with the remote possibility of not getting something...I know...I sound greedy and foolish, and while yes, I probably am foolish, it's really not a greed thing. I don't feel like I want all of anything, I just panic that I won't get any at all. I can't explain it exactly, but it makes me feel like the one place I really belong is in the big padded room at the local mental hospital.

You know what I hate today? People who like their husbands.

I think that the major reason I feel this way is that everytime I hear that someone likes their spouse, it makes me feel as though my choice of a lifepartner proves just how inadequate I am at judging the character of others. I know, I know, marriage is hard...but that statement just doesn't do it for me. Hard is one thing. I could handle hard. I just can't handle impossible. I can't handle feeling taken advantage of. I can't handle a lack of common courtesy. I can't handle being the only responsible one. I can't handle always having to be the bigger person. And the funny thing is, if you can call it funny that is, is that before two years ago when I was walking the path of the seperated-almost-divorced single mother, I was completely resigned to the fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life in a miserable marriage. I was beaten. I was in such a hole of depression that I had forgotten that light even existed. And then, once the shock of seperation wore off and I started to find myself again, I realized how bad it really had been. Find myself. That sounds so cliche. I guess it wasn't so much finding myself as it was waking from a long bad dream. Anyway, during that period when I was finally waking up, I remembered what happy felt like. I remembered what loved felt like. I remembered what respected felt like. I remembered what wanted, and liked, and confident, and capeable felt like.

And I miss it terribly.

It's been so pathetically long since I last ranted and raved. Pathetic, I tell you. I'd like to have some great excuse, preferably having something to do with being in some exotic paradise with no internet access, but the truth is I've just been super crabby and feeling sorry for myself, with a little bit of lazy mixed in for good measure.

I've been so emotional lately--it's a bad bad thing. When I'm around others, I manage to channel all my emotions into an angry or impatient outburst---when alone, I'm usually crying, and talking irrationally to myself. I gained four pounds in the last 3 weeks. I'd lie and say that I don't know how that happened, because the majority of the time I'm eating ice and suffering from heartburn, but the truth is, when I'm not eating ice, I'm eating Reese sticks. And, by the way, what is up with the ice? I swear I can eat an entire bag of ice in a day and 1/2. And it's not because I'm hot, I'm actually usually cold, but still I chew my ice cubes and the heartburn continues. Not to mention the times that I somehow manage to forget that on the left side of my mouth I have an extremely sensitive tooth, and I chew an ice cube there anyway, and then spend 7 minutes with my eye in a spasm, clutching the side of my face and trying to keep upright.

I'm starting to get really antsy to start back on the workout/clean food wagon, which for me, is beyond strange. I even searched through the garage full of un-packed moving boxes that have been sitting there since we moved in November, I know, shut up, I'll get to it eventually, and found my Leanness Lifestyle book---now all I need is the free time to read it. I know in my heart that I'll most likely fall back to the BFL, but in my opinion, it doesn't hurt to be well read. You never know what tips you'll pick up from similar programs, right?

A guy here at work has decided that he wants to train for a marathon in September...

me: have you started training yet?

him: no.

me: when are you going to start?

him: I figure the first part of August

me: are you serious? you can't start training that late!

him: that gives me like 6 weeks...that should be enough

me: do you have any idea how long a marathon is?

him: yeah, I just figure I'll start with 5 miles, and then just add like 1/2 mile or a mile each day

me: uh huh. hmmm. interesting plan.

him: the real problem though, is I know this girl that does like 5 marathons a year, and her best time is 4 hours and 45 minutes, and I like totally can't get beat by a girl, so I have to run faster then that. I figure I'll aim for 15 minute miles, that way I can walk a little if I get to tired.

me: Ummmm...I'm pretty sure 15 minute miles won't have you finishing in 4:45...more like 7 hours

him: you don't know what you're talking about

me: yeah, you're probably right.

Okay...you know what I hate? I hate it when you tell someone that you'll be looking through all the applications later today and then begin making phone calls to schedule interviews, and that person calls you back THREE more times "just checking to see if you looked at my application yet!". Sure, I looked at your application, but I'm not hiring you because YOU ANNOY ME. If I'm looking for help, it probably means I'm pretty busy, and if I'm pretty busy, I am NOT GOING TO BE HAPPY if I have to stop what I'm doing once an hour to talk to you on the phone. Got it?

I also hate it when the boys here say to a woman that walked in off the street for an application "She's on her lunch break...sure she'll talk to you now". It's called a lunch break for a reason, people.

tired, tired, tired

I am so tired of being fat. Not just pregnant, but fat. I'm sick of getting out of the shower and catching a glimpse of the dimples on my ass and once trim thighs and thinking "this just can't be possible". I know, I know, pregnancy, growing baby, miracle of birth, blah, blah, blah, but what I wouldn't give to go for a run. Which, by the way, is even odder when you consider the fact that I hate to run. No wait, I'm not saying that anymore, because I have a tendency to believe the more I say something, the more my brain will believe it, and I would really really like to be good at running someday. So lets just say it's strange for me to say I want to go for a run, because, even when I'm thin and trim, and in good shape, I find running extremely difficult at best. There have been times that I've done it, but I would not say I've ever been "good" at it. Oh, but a girl can dream, can't she? And dream I do. I dream about someday being able to afford my very own leg press or hack squat machine. I dream about the day when I'll be able to do 10 pull-ups again. I dream of a day when I'll be able to tie my shoes without taking them off first. But mostly I dream of the day when I'll fit back into my short shorts, and I'll look in the mirror and think "yeah, baby....now THAT's what my legs are supposed to look like".

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. To celebrate, she spent the last weekend in vegas with her girlfriend. yes, you read that right, my mother is gay. She left my father after 25 years of marriage for a woman she knew back in highschool. Strange how these things happen. Anyway, it was her first trip to vegas, so last night when I made the compulsary phone call to wish her a happy birthday, I got to hear about how wonderful it was. I wasn't surprised by anything she said, as I've been there before, but I started thinking about how vegas is like being in an alternate reality...and frankly, that's probably exactly where my mother belongs. See, I've known for years that my mother is not right...she lives in this little bubble where she chooses her own reality...chooses what to believe and what not to. And for a person like her, vegas would be the perfect place to be. No where else in the world does the impossible happen so often as in vegas, and the same could be said for the space between my mother's ears. My mother has been known to, after the death of a close friend, say that she prefered to pretend that her friend was on an extended vacation. Denial anyone? My mother, even though she left my father for a woman, has been known to say "gee, I really don't know what went wrong in our marriage...I guess we just grew apart". My mother, after being basically dis-owned by my sister (long story, I'll save it for another post), and not having talked to her for 11 years, found out that my sister was in labor, called all the hospitals until she found her, and then showed up in her room, acting as though they had just been to lunch earlier that day. Do you know how weird it was for my sister to have this crazy woman drooling over her new baby and cooing "ohhh sweetie, grandma's here!", while having to introduce this wacko to her husband and her husband's family? My mother, who stood up in court and said to my father "you take him, I don't want the responsibility", refering to my brother (the only dependent child at the time of the divorce), only to say 5 years later "oh, I fought so hard to keep my baby, but that damn man just had a better lawyer". My mother, who after counseling a transvestite, told my father (they were still married) that she was considering living as a cross-dresser, so that she could better understand her clients. My mother who, after I yelled at her for smoking a cig in front of my son (no, I'm not a total prude, but he had a bronchial infection at the time and she promised me that she would smoke outside), looked me dead in the eye, with a smoke still in her hand, and said "I don't know what you're talking about...I haven't smoked all day". My mother, who once told me that she had an affair on my father when I was 8, and that he caught her in bed with her lover...fast forward to the year my husband has an affair and I ask my father "how did you ever get past the pain and the shame of it" and he has no idea what I'm talking about, because, in fact, my mother lied, and it never happend to him. I could go on and on and on, but frankly it makes me a little sick and a little sad, but suffice it to say, I think living in a world of complete imagination, where appearances, while deceiving, are everything, would suit her just fine. Move to Vegas, mom...I think you'll feel right at home.

Almost positive...

don't you hate that phrase? "I'm almost positive". I'm pretty sure you can't be almost positive. You can be positive, you can be unsure, you can be fairly confident, but to say you're almost positive, still makes you negative, right? Let's put it on the number scale, shall we...?

-1...0...1...2... Okay, now positive is on one side of zero, and negative is on the other so if you're "almost positive" you're not. Ok? Case Closed.

the reason I bring it up, is my ob/gyn says she's "almost positive" I'm having a girl. Not positive, but almost. I take no comfort in this statement. I have three other children and each time I was told that the doctor was "almost positive" it was a girl. Yes, that's right, this is my 4th child...It's a deep sickness, I know. Why, yes, I am crazy, thank you for asking, but we've gotten off the point. Four pregnancies, four ultrasounds, four 'almost positives". Three labors, three deliveries (so far), 2 boys and a girl. You see my problem? Yes I want a girl, I would love another girl, and frankly, I would love a boy just as well, but what I really want is just to know. Just once. Just this one time I'd like the doctor to say "well, look at that, you're definately having a _____". I just really really want to know.

On that note...any ideas for a girl's name?

Peanut Butter Results

Okay, I tried the power butter. Yes, I know I said I wasn't hungry...stop yelling at me.

texture: weird. It has that oil on top like natural pb, which is fine, I just stirred it in, but it never got as thick as I expected. Instead of sticking to the roof of my mouth, when I took a bite it kind of spread out over my tongue like a little woolen blanket. It made that weird little muscle on the underside of my tongue uncomfortable, as it seeped underneath. Plus, the "lumps" are roasted flax, which give you the impression not of crunchy peanut bits, but of little ant bodies mixed in with every bite.

color: normal, but with little black flecks from the previously detailed "ant bodies"...

taste: amazingly...delicious. Really. I wouldn't lie to you. It would even give my full-fat Jiff a run for its money. And it has Omega 3 & 6, so no more flax oil shooters.

price: way too expensive in my opinion, but I'll have to look into the larger sizes to see if it's more economical

I know, I know, I can hear your cries..."wherever do we get this miracle of modern science?": well, fear not my friends, I would never leave you in the dark...you can find it here

Ba Humbug

Today I am mean. I'm mad at everyone for everything they've done, and most things that they neglected to do. I'm mad at the stupid boys at work for being their usual annoying immature selves, my husband for being a butt-head and golfing all day instead of getting the car registered and various other tasks he was assigned to accomplish, and myself for not coming up with a good excuse to get out of work early and enjoy the 70 degree day. Willing myself to lighten up, I made the yummiest free day chicken in the world...unfortunately I had eaten so many peanut butter eggs throughout the day, I could only finish 1/2. And speaking of peanut butter...has anyone tried "peanut power butter"? According to the manufacturer, they were able to increase the amount of protein (through pasteurized egg whites) from 15 grams per 2 oz. to 32 grams. Then, they lowered the overall fat content by de-fatting the pb and then adding flax seed oil and whole roasted flax seeds back in. I ordered some yesterday, and received it today. However I'm too full from the aforementioned pb eggs and bad for me chicken to try it yet...Taste test results to appear later. Side note: it better be freaking great for the amount of $$ they charge!

So bad for you that you really don't even want to know the stats, chicken:

Grill chicken breast on George Forman
brush with dijon mustard (mix in a tiny bit of flour so it's like a paste)
roll in frozen shredded hashbrowns
Fry in Crisco till brown and crispy

My uncle is dying. I should feel bad about this. I know I should. But I don't. Me...the one that gets picked on for having "soft feelings", cannot muster up one tiny bit of sorrow, and that freaks me out a little. Granted, the man is a horrible person, but being as he's a relative and all I feel like I should feel something. Anything. And I don't. My mother keeps sending me these guilt-filled emails that say "Not that you care, but..."; "just thought you should know that...not that you care". On and on and on, the emails just keep coming, and I keep thinking "gee mom, if you know that I don't care, why do you keep telling me?"

I don't even feel sorry for his wife, and frankly all his kids are grown and better off without him. I tried to muster up a little remorse for my grandmother, as it just seems unnatural for a parent to outlive a child, but the best I can come up with is a generic feeling of unease. Nothing close to the sorrow that I thought I could fabricate.

See, the man is inhuman. Years ago, when my godmother died, she left me (and my siblings) a good deal of money in her will. He was the executor, and as such, decided to take all the money and build himself a lovely lake house instead. When I called him on it, his response was "fuck you" as he slammed the phone down.

But the money is nothing.

When my cousin was 5, he married her mom. When she was 6, he started molesting her. When she was 12, her mother walked in and caught him on top of her. By the time she was 15, she had tried to kill herself 8 times, was addicted to drugs and alcohol, and had run away from home. Her mother blamed her for "flirting" and "asking for it", and never divorced him. Today, my cousin lives in California, is a recovering addict, and is the sweetest, funniest, most screwed up person I know. This much I know. The rest is speculation. He had one son that ended up in prison for molesting a 12 year old boy. I can't help but think it was a learned behavior. His other daughter was a coke addict by the time she was 16 and had a total of 5 abortions before she finally left the country and straightened up her life on another continent. I can't help but think she had some help getting screwed up.

So, goodbye Bob. And mom, you're wrong. It's not that I don't care, it's just that it doesn't make me sad. Not one little bit.

Doctor's visit

Okay, let me preface this by saying that I am insanely obsessive about my weight problem. There is not a day that 5 minutes passes that I'm not aware of this fat here, or that fat there. I know. Sick and wrong, but still. My personal opinion is that it all started back when I was little and was the same size as my sister that's three years older than me. Normally not a huge issue, I would venture to guess, but in my case I was living with a very petite mother and grandmother (neither of them, or my sister is over 5'4", and I'm 5'7.1/2"), so every morning my grandmother would start the day by saying "maybe you should skip breakfast, since the way you eat, you're going to be as big as a house". I was 7. Now, mind you, I was a gymnast that had practice 5-6 times a week, and frankly could have probably eaten 3 sides of beef daily and not put on an ounce of fat (looking back at pictures, I was very toned, and not at all in danger of being fat), but you believe what you're told when you're 7 and it affected me. Every time I opened the fridge, or sat down for a meal, I knew I was good for at least a 3 minute lecture on how much smaller my sister was and that nobody likes big fat girls. I can remember times when I was 8 or 9 that my grandmother would refuse to serve me the main meal that the family was eating, telling me I could just have the side vegetable, since I needed to lose weight anyway. I started stealing food from the pantry and hiding it in my closet or under my bed, or in the back of my drawers. Anything. Crackers, boxes of cake mix, dried pasta, anything. To this day, when I'm feeling incredibly stressed, I catch myself hiding food in my desk, or on the highest shelf in the kitchen, and on really bad days, I gourge. I hide in the bathroom or bedroom, and eat what ever I can find, as fast as I can. I've just never gotten past it. The first time my husband ever met my grandmother I told him that I would bet him $50, that the first thing she said to me would either be "you're too fat" or "your hair looks terrible"...we walked in the door, she took one look at me and said "you would think that you'd try to get a better haircut so that people wouldn't notice how fat you're getting". I was a size 8 at the time.

Anyway, back to my point...I know this about myself, and I know that on the rare occasions that I look at the scale I can easily freak myself out and send myself into a nasty self-hating binge and purge mode, so, as a general rule, I just don't look. Plus, I've read and re-read Why the Scale Lies, so I know better than to trust the judgement of my worth to a stupid little piece of metal and plastic. Unless I'm doing BFL, because then, of course, you have to know where you start, but, being as I'm pregnant right now, I just don't look. When I go to the office, and I step on the scale, I stand backwards, and I ask that the nurse just write down the figure and not tell me the bad news. My old doctor even knew this, and had the decency to never ever mention to me how much I was gaining. My new doctor, unfortunately, just doesn't get it. I walked in for my appointment yesterday and she said to me "gee, you're the 4th woman I've seen today that's gained between 6 and 8 pounds this month", obviously having no idea that her innocent comment was going to send me off the deep end. But here I am, treading water between the shores of "hey, I'm pregnant, and the baby needs solid nutrition to grow and be healthy" and "oh my god, my grandmother is right and I'm as big as a house". Yes, so far my rational mind is winning and I'm resisting the urge to starve, or binge and purge, but my whole heart hurts.

I spent the rest of the appointment (I had to be there an hour to have my glucose tolerance test), watching women in different stages of their pregnancy walk in and out, wondering why some are blessed to remain thin everywhere but that cute little ball of baby on their stomach, while others, like me, are destined to spread all over, and cursing myself for being in the wrong group.

Ever have one of those weeks? Mine has been about 7 weeks long. I've been trying to stay positive, poke fun at the negative, and all, but it's wearing me down folks. It's wearing me down.

It's not even so much that terrible things have been happening, it's just that everything is just so hard. No smooth sailing here. Nope, every single simple stupid thing in my life is taking 8 times longer than it should, because there's some little hangup, some little glitch in the system, some little mess that always steps in the path of my progress.

Makes a girl want to punch someone square in the eye. And believe you me there are plenty, and I mean plenty of viable options if I were to be looking for a deserving recipient.

Two days ago, I made a new best friend. Her name is Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady, and she became my best friend by telling me that she would override the late charge on my account that occured not because I'm a totally unorganized slacker that didn't pay her bill on time (which, by the way, is true, but not the reason for the tardy payment THIS month), but because the stupid people that are buying my stupid house are being stupid and didn't have all their stupid paperwork at the stupid closing, so the stupid lendor pushed back the date. But, on the sunny side of the street, I met my new best friend Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady. Today, however, I have a new best friend and her name is Otter. She became my best friend for her post today that sent me into a fit of giggles when I read #8, which implanted a visual that sent me into such a state that I'm pretty sure I peed my pants just a little.

Okay, so I got my w-2 today, and I just have to say that there is obviously some serious problem with me. There is just no way in this world that a person should make the amount of money I make (not that I'm one of the lucky overpaid executives or anything) and only have $3.98 in the bank, as of 9 am this morning. No way. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, my friends...something is very rotten indeed. Perhaps this is just the wake up call I need to start a new phase of my life...let's call it the fiscally responsible phase. Of course, I can't start today, because I'm almost out of dogfood, and the only things in my fridge are a box of baking powder, a bottle of ketchup, and a bruised green apple. But after the grocery store and petsmart, it's on. No more impulse purchases for me. Starting tomorrow I am the poster girl for living within your means. Or Wednesday, at the very latest.

WARNING

To whom it may concern:
Do not, I repeat, do NOT piss off CRAZYDOGMAMA. As is turns out, she knows evil ways to reap revenge against husbands that golf too much, as well as anyone else that crosses her the wrong way. Don't ask me what she does, because I promised that I wouldn't divulge the fact that this revenge comes in the form of adding something to a drink to result in exploding diarrhea. Nope, I can't tell you, so don't even think you can trick me into telling you. No matter what you do, I'm not going to tell you that she adds....oops, almost got me. Sorry, I just can't take the chance that I'll meet her in person one day and she'll say "here moosemama, have a nice, refreshing glass of tea...muwahh haa haa"

Too Much TV

Did anyone besides me and divaquest watch that who wants to be a supermodel show? The chick that got kicked off was told her boobs were too big, and that she needed to learn how to pose differently...I tell you, only in a supermodel show would someone with a 34 B chest, be told her boobs were too big and she needed to lose weight.

Idol is back, and I love Simon. I can't help it. Except when he laughs right at people, that's just not nice. Funny, but not nice.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance is big fat funny. That guy is a total crack up and he is having so much fun driving people crazy! Wouldn't it be fun if tomorrow you woke up and someone said "I'll pay you to act as obnoxious as possible and completely piss off everyone you come into contact with". I'd do it in a heartbeat! Can you even imagine having complete freedom from that little voice that judges you all day? Matter of fact, I might do it tomorrow for free.

I miss Paris Hilton. She makes me feel smart.

I caught the last part of Oprah on Monday...she had her trainer on and he was talking about his great 12 week program. You know, if I was Bill Phillips, I'd be pissed that so many people rip off my ideas, but strangely enough, he's so nice that he's just like "wow, that's great that so many people are getting in shape". He must be a much better person than me, because I want to grab him by the neck and shout "open your damn eyes man! that should be your credit that fool is taking!" Anyway, he (oprah's trainer) advises that you should sign a contract with yourself, which to me, sounded a lot like the whole crossing the abyss, writing down your goals thing, so I went to the oprah web site to print out the contract and it was pretty lame. It just says : I pledge to: exercise regularly for a period of 12 weeks, eat healthy food in reasonable portions, and eat to satisfy my nutritional needs, not my emotional. Sorry "O" but if it was that easy, I'd be 125 and drop dead gorgeous. Newsflash: I'm not.

Isn't it amazing how one little thing can brighten your whole dreary outlook? I was all set to have a horrible terrible no good very bad day this morning...I woke up late, didn't feel like going to work, and was feeling sorry for myself that I am neither own a TiVo nor a functional VCR and was thus destined to miss Bill Phillips appearing on the Wayne Brady show, and then, to top it all off, I had to meet plumber #2 at the house during my lunch break. Then, for some strange reason, the money gods decided to smile on me (a never-before-seen phenom.), and suddenly the nice folks at the home warranty company decided to cover the plumbing problems at the house and now I only have to pay $50 instead of $1800. Of course this means some terrible fate is lurking just around the corner, but hell, you've just gotta love it when your insurance actually works FOR you instead of against. So, I will dance the happy dance and count my blessings, and just hope that when retribution strikes it is swift and painless.

Lumpy belly syndrome

I've just realized that, after 5 hours of work, I've been walking around with a crumpled up dryer sheet under my shirt right over my belly button. Yeah, you would think I'd have noticed it before now, wouldn't you.

It's not about the quarters...

It's not about the fact that I, over the last three years or so, have collected 4 of each state quarter to someday give the full collection to my children, like the dork that I am. It's not about the fact that you knew this, and occasionally assisted me in said collection, remarking several times in the past "are we really planning on having FOUR kids???". It's not even about the fact that you snuck into my special hiding place for the aforementioned collection because you needed some soda and a car wash, and "since you'd already spent some" decided to get a hair cut too. It's about you being such an insensitive boob that you can't understand why I'm pissed. And it's not just the quarters. It's about you selling the golf clubs my dad bought me for my birthday. It's about you watching the baseball playoffs while I was in labor with your first son. It's about me saying "we have to talk" and you falling asleep. It's about not calling when you're late and telling me "I didn't call because I didn't want to hear your shit". It's about me being up with a sick baby all night, and working the next day, and when I finally fall into bed at the end of the evening you waiting till I'm fully asleep to start groping me. It's about how you think that groping me in the middle of the night is a romantic way to wake me up. It's about you lying to me about quitting dipping. It's about you washing your clothes seperately because they somehow might get "ruined" if you wash them with the rest of our clothes. It's about how, when the kids need something at 2 am, and even when you have the next day off, you say "go wake up your mom and tell her". It's about how you have time to play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home on your day off, but you don't have time to pick up your son's prescription, or *shudder* actually do something productive at the house. It's about how you take your two days off during the week so that you can play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home both days, because the kids are at daycare and therefore you seem to believe you are exempt from all family and household responsibilities. It's about how you think that my problem with this is just because I "hate golf". It's about how I make BFL approved meals/snacks for myself to take to work, and then I find out in the morning that you ate all the puddings, left the dishes in the sink, and took the rest of the meals with you instead. It's about you then coming home and telling me you had subway instead, but you'll probably eat the stuff I made "another day". It's about you peeing on the rim when I'm the only one that cleans the bathroom.

I guess I just can't believe that you, who knows that I know where you sleep at night, are so intent on pushing me to the very edge of enraged psycho violence on an almost daily basis. You know, I've heard stories of women who have actually taken the big knife from the butcher block and plunged it into the heart of their husbands, and, on days like today, I think to myself, "bastard probably spent her quarters."

...Cry me a river...

Okay, so I was just sorting through the accumulated pile of worthless junk that I've been hauling around in my "purse" (read: huge, oversized duffel bag that I cart to and from work everyday and open like twice a week), and I found my "before" pictures from the BFL challange I started back when my husband starting sleeping with the 19 year old beer cart girl at his golf course, in 2001. Oh dear. I could just cry. I actually looked at those pictures and said to myself "damn, I WISH I still looked like that".

Now you should understand that, I was stupid enough to go for a "sex with your ex" fling 8 weeks into the challange and got knocked up, thereby rendering null and void both my challange and my divorce, and then, a year later, even though I swear we took all the necessary steps to avoid it, got knocked up AGAIN, and, let me tell you, that even though I know it's good for me, when I'm 6 months pregnant I find it very difficult to eat clean, and I just don't have the energy to cook enough for the army that is my family and my 6 meals a day, 6 days a week. I know. Don't look at me like that. I KNOW, excuses, excuses, excuses. BUT, the snip snip is scheduled for later this month, so if I do decide to let my husband live, this will be my last baby, I swear. Then it's go time. I even bought the EFL book and have been trying out recipes on the rare occasions that my energy isn't completely spent by the end of the work day. Which has been, like, twice.

That'll be $1800 please...

Crap. Yesterday we got the inspection report back on the house we're selling, and this morning I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a plumber out at the house to find out what the hell "master bath drain at basement link leaking" was going to cost me. I swear to you, I lived in that house for 9 years and the damn thing never leaked, then some home inspector who, by the way, was so damn anal that he actually put on the inspection report "baseboard molding in bedroom closet has an edge that doesn't match flush with adjoining piece and should be replaced" and "mulch level too high in front yard tree surround" and "hallway closet light bulb missing globe", oh and my favorite, "basement bathroom door knob does not latch unless you pull the door shut"...What? why the hell would it latch if the door wasn't shut? Hello? Anyway...he said he grabbed the pipe and tried to wiggle it from side to side and it started leaking. OMG. I think he should be required to fix the damn thing, though it'd be hard for him to stand on the ladder with my foot up his ass and all.

I promised myself, or rather I "resolved" to start writing everyday. Not that I'm a writer. Really. I'm not. Give it time, you'll see for yourself. I just thought that if I wrote everyday, it would be kind of cathartic. Not as carthartic as say, killing my husband, but then again it wouldn't cut into my busy schedule as much as a jail term. So, at midnight on the last day of 2003 (okay, I went to bed at 10:00, but you know what I mean), I resolved that beginning "tomorrow" I would write something, anything, everyday. So, let's see, it's the 15th, which means I'm pretty much half a month behind schedule...yep, that seems about right for my life.