Vegewhatnow?

I'm never going to be the scotch drinking, leather jacket wearing, Shelley quoting, clove smoking badass that I always thought I'd become.

I see that now.

It's sad, this parting of ways between who I've become, and who I always thought I'd kick my own ass into being.

Instead, I'm a teetotaling, yoga doing, non-smoking vegetarian.

Who can quote Shelley on a good day.

And I'm fine with that, I guess. I mean, I'm pretty thrilled with myself and all...

But, still.

What the fuck?

Okay, That's a lie.

When I said that there was nothing new to report, and then made a lame joke about yoga. that was a lie.
It's not that there haven't been things to report. It's just that the reports aren't great. Ever since September, I've been stuck in this weepy and lazy rut. One day, I'll write a post that doesn't mention my grandmother. But I cannot express how much her passing knocked me down. Knocked all my family down. And we've never been the "bond together against sadness" type.

What I should remember is that there have been good things. The 5k was good for my family. I saw a naked man in the park (it wasn't good, but it's a great story...and his running shoes were enviable). Friends had babies. Not that I've seen them, I'm a bit of a recluse, and shy around babies, but still - new life exists. One of my dearest friends got married. Another had dinner with me last week, and sounded more sure of himself then I've seen in a while. I'm preparing my first Thanksgiving meal this year, and I'm writing again, too.

There are GOOD things here. Solid things, foundational things.

Patanjali said "“Peace can be reached through meditation on the knowledge which dreams give. Peace can also be reached through concentration upon that which is dearest to the heart.”

Now, I'm not much for meditation, I'm too fidgety. But the last two months have given me a clear picture of what is dearest to my heart. I think that in these next two months, I'll work on concentrating. Even if it doesn't work out, it'll be more productive than Portal.

Namaste, hon

Nothing much to report. Race went fine, foot is still on the mend. taken up yoga.
I actually freaking love it, but...trendy hobbies are expensive. I can't wait til curling comes into vogue and then prices at the studio drop.

Although I've always wanted to try curling too, so I guess I'll be bummed about that when it happens.

I keep hearing my grandmother's voice in my head during my classes, poking fun at me. It's hard to hear, because I still miss her, but in my head, she's still funny.

So that's a plus.

How I'm going to break my hand at the end of the month.

This blog exists for someone who never even read it. I love my grandmother, but watching her try to navigate the internet was laughable. Our computer time was filled with such gems as "Can you write me step by step instructions on how to work my Ipod?" "But I don't want to download Itunes". "Do you play Farkle?" "Will this give me a virus?" "Will this give me a virus?" "Will THIS give me a virus?". Truthfully, I never showed it to her because I didn't want to have a ten minute conversation on what a blog was, why I have one, and how it won't give my computer a virus. And also, if she read it, I'd have to tone down my use of the word fuck.

But all of the losing weight I'm doing, it was for her. She was diagnosed with cancer in June, had some operations, got some things taken out of her, went through chemo, lost her hair, lost her immune system, got an infection of some sort, and died two weeks ago.

I'll be honest here, I didn't take her cancer seriously enough. We were getting excellent feedback from the doctors, we were reading all about breast cancer, and her prognosis was great. Breast cancer has such a high survival rate. We all figured that she'd get over it, we'd rejoice, and life would go back to being pretty normal. And I guess all that crap about breast cancer being so beatable I can't really find fault with that either. It wasn't the cancer that killed, her, it was the fucking (sorry MM) chemotherapy. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to pull down all of those fucking "pink ribbon for cancer awareness" displays from the shelves every time I see them. And I do fucking see them. It's breast cancer month, didn't you know? They're fucking everywhere.

If I sound angry, it's because I am. I've graduated to the next step in the grief cycle, I guess, because i walk around all day, livid. I'm mad at myself for not being as good a granddaughter as I could be, for not getting married and having kids so she could see them, for not being more involved in her treatment. It scared me, seeing her go through that. And I took the pussy way out and didn't see her as often because I really believed that she would get better. I'm mad at her doctors for not treating her any other way, and I'm mad at her for getting sick. I had a five minute yelling match (one sided) with her in my head yesterday, I was so angry that she's gone. And then I spent the rest of the day feeling guilty.

You know what's not comforting me? People saying things like "She's looking down on you", "She'll watch over you". I would personally like to think that if there is a Heaven, she's got better things to do than watch me. I don't want my grandmother to be a ghost, or someone who can't move on. If there's anywhere else to go from here, I hope she's kicking up her heels and doing whatever the hell she wants. And why would she want to watch me when she's got crosswords and hottubs, and every dog we've ever had that's passed away, and no diabetes, and no cancer. I just can't hear that any more, I'm sorry.

I went to the gym the other day...this IS a weight loss blog after all...and I got through my workout, after which I burst into tears. No, that's not even true. My favorite bike was being cleaned and I couldn't use it, and THEN I burst into tears. And again, after. Because I'm turning my whole life around and she'll never know. She and I were so bad about losing weight together. We went to Weight Watchers once, and got milkshakes after. Apparently that's pretty common. We'd walk the track on Sunday mornings and get breakfast after that, too. And then we'd wonder why the scale was moving in the opposite direction. We had a great time, though, we really did.

My family is doing this walk for cancer at the end of the month. I'll break my hand if I don't get over my desire to punch people in pink. And I don't think I will get over it by then. I don't think losing something you get over, it's just something you adapt to. And that fucking sucks.

Fuck.

Sorry, Mom Mom.

I miss Robert Stack

Whenever I think about writing another post, I hear Robert Stack in my head. He's very serious, and he's o so dapper, and that one little word just repeats and repeats.

Update.


There's a lot of good news on this end. I've signed up for a 5k. My feet have stopped hurting. I'm starting to...dare I say it...enjoy biking. Don't tell anyone. And I'm continuing to lose weight. My personal goal for this week is to bike 40 miles, which is actually doable, because if I get on the stationary bike (bike actual never goes that far, mainly because of the frakking heat. I can't wait until Fall because there are some most excellent paths here), I'm generally on for 10 miles or more. If I can do 40, then next week, I'll up it.

I remember a time when Billy Blanks and I were like two peas in a pod. That is, if one of the peas was short and fat, and the other had a mouth on 'im like freaking Jaws. I tae-boed my little ass off. Okay, I skipped the cool-down, and I might have used the "Hey, I worked out today, so gimme some Ben and Jerrys" line a little too often. My relationship with Billy, and Gillian, Jack Lalaine (yeah, like you haven't juiced) and that P90x guy have all been very one sided. Much like my relationship to Robert Stack, actually.

A couple of months ago, I joined a site called Daily Mile. It's basically facetwitter for the athletically inclined. And the wanna-bes. And the "like me's". And this site is amazing. I'm tracking my workouts, and five minutes later, I get all kinds of feedback from people all over the country. If I don't post a workout for a few days, I get asked about it. Occasionally, well intentioned flack about it, too. I have a friend from Boston who has cycled over 150 miles this last week, and I'm jacked up for him, too. I'm sure there are a million sites like this online, (not to mention Weight Watchers) sites that thrive on peer feedback. But this is mine, and for the first time in months, I'm starting to feel really good about the changes I'm making. I'm not begrudging my trips to the gym anymore (especially during sharkweek!), and I'm really happy about that. I feel kind of invincible, and it's a groovy thing. The fact that it's all online makes it really easy, too. I know this update (Robert!) sounds a bit like a commercial, but I am no paid shill, ladies and gents. I'm just...happy with myself. I'm really coming along.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

Tonight I'm making having some friends over and making spaghetti. It's gross outside, over 100 degrees, but my air conditioner works just fine. I've got some awesome garlic bread, whole wheat noodles, and I just chopped up a ton of veggies for a homemade sauce. What I'm really excited about, is that the basil, tomatoes, Swiss chard, and peppers all came from either my or my friend's garden. I can't get over how sweet the Roma tomatoes I have taste, and the plant is as tall as I am. Hopefully I'll have enough to can, too.

As I mentioned in my last post, I had to stop running, because of my feet. My feet are still killing me, a month later. I really hope I won't have to end up getting a Cortisone shot, or something because I know that once my feet stop hurting, I'll run the risk or re injuring myself by overdoing it. I can report though, that swimming has been going better, and I've been burning miles on the stationary bike as well. I'm down a few pounds since last month, too. In a fit of early morning Math, my brother calculated that 77 times around our parent's pool equaled one mile, and there were a few days when I was jogging around, and around in circles like the world's wettest Nascar driver.

I'm planning on running a 5k in late October, if my heels are up to it, and I'm thinking that all the bike work I'm putting is will do wonders for my endurance. I can't wait for it to cool off, though, so I can grab an actual bike and go adventuring.

That is all the news my fried brain can remember. It's been a quiet month.
Cheers to Dan Bolton who is chugging away on his own projects - If I could be half as productive as you are in a weekend, I'd be thrilled.

I'm bad at this

Plus, I have plantar facsitis. So I can't run for a while. I haven't been able to come up with any decent puns describing my foot woes and I feel like I might be losing my touch. Also, I've decided to take up swimming and biking, to give my feet a workout. Does anyone else think this might not end well?

Glub, glub, glub.



That little guy thirty seconds in, clinging for dear life? That'll be me.

I worked out today

And to celebrate, here's a spider doing a happy dance.

The Sympathy Belly

Know what makes getting turned down from yet another job better?
Candy Bars.

Unfortunately, I don't have any change to hit up the vending machine, so my candy bender is not to be.

I'm trying to set up a couple of internships this summer (instead of working), at different places around town. I'm very interested in cooking and improving my skills, and I would love to be able to head to a confectionery, or coffee shop, or home made wine shop (ahem) once a week to learn whatever there is to learn. And to take back what I learned and make my friends fat.

Which, by the way, is the inspiration for today's entry title. My boyfriend, W, informed me yesterday that he needed to go back to the gym because he was growing a "sympathy belly". For me. Because he is sympathetic to my waistline.

I don't WANT him to be sympathetic to my waistline! I'm not knocked up! My waistline is a pre-existing condition, not an unfortunate car accident.

I laughed at the time (and I'm kind of chuckling now), but REALLY? And the worst part about it is that when he takes his flab off, it's going to take him about three seconds and three sit ups to do it.

Today I'm going to the track and running, if the weather holds. If not, I'll be spending the night stewing about W's sorry assed Buddha belly. But I'll do it with a salad.

Get Back To Where You Once Belonged

Peeps, I have been using Spring as a full proof excuse to not do a damned thing. My last day of spring break is today, and I'm sorry to report (but report I shall, because this partly about accountability) that I have not been to the gym in two weeks. Couple that with a Dr. Who premiere celebration, assorted Spring holidays, countless ball games (complete with beer!) and last night's time traveling trip back to 2005 (A reunion of sorts, most of which taking place in a diner), and I've managed to put a couple pounds back on the scale (Yes, W. Just a couple). I gotta get back to it, because I feel like a sack of potatoes.
Time to set some new goals.

Goal 1 - Post progress, or lack there of, every other day.
I know this'll make my blog pop on your feed more, folks, but I was serious when I said that this was for accountability.

Goal 2 - Get back to the damned gym (or the track, the baseball diamond, SOMEWHERE) every other day. No more "well, I ran around with the kids all day so I don't need to work out". That's just bullshit.

Goal 3 - Get back to eating better. My Easter candy is all gone, I'm about to go back to work, and there are no parties in my future.

This is my week, kids. I can feel it. And yes, I know the week is half over. Baby steps.

In other news, jump over to http://mdhomevintner.blogspot.com/, where my industrious friend is making delicious sounding things. (Very proud of you, D!)

Keep on rocking me, baby.

Danger and dessert at three miles an hour

Is it wrong to watch Food Network while you're on the treadmill?


I do this all the time. There's little I like better (when I HAVE to be on the treadmill) than watching cooking shows while I walk in place. And yet other people seem to think it's a tad odd. I look around, and everyone else is watching something edifying...like the news...or...something inspiring like sports. And I'm watching Paula Dean make lime butter pancakes. Those bastards catching up on their Sports Center who are all thin and who can all run faster than I can, do THEY know how to make lime-butter pancakes?

Probably not.


One of my friends said that watching Food Network while working out was like porn. I'm not sure he's seen porn in a long time, but I sort of understand what he means. Food Network isn't going to lead me to deviant behaviour, though. I'm not going to go home and make lime butter pancakes. That takes work! I was just on the treadmill! I'm tired! I want to collapse on the couch with the next episode of The Wire and a cup of tea.
So it's not like the 'milling and grilling is doing me any harm. The...jogging and eggnogging. The treading and breading. The...I'm out of food references. Joke over.

I'm slowly letting go of the idea that when I get thin, I'll be able to eat whatever I want. I mean, I KNEW that before but I was sort of hoping that it wouldn't apply to me. And watching FN kind of helps me figure out some of the things that I should be steering away from; know what's not appetizing? Sweating so much that you're afraid you're going to short circuit the machine and watching a cupcake minion dump three cups of sugar and three sticks of butter into a blender. I feel diabetic just watching it. So to ME, FN is the equivalent of spending 45 minutes a day watching the "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs" commercial over and over.

Any questions?

Street Walkin' (Warning: Strong Language)

I was walking down Broadway this evening, in Fells, and some guy hollered at me from his car.
In my slimmer, sexier days, I got this a lot. I think that this is because people really, really like yelling things out of car windows. I know I do. I have a friend who, days after the release of Harry Potter 6, rolled down my passenger side window and screamed "SNAPE KILLS DUMBLEDORE". People yell stuff out of windows all the time. It's not like the person you're screaming at can get a good look at you, right? So why not? When I used to get catcalled, I'd never see who it was...but I'm lying if I tell you it didn't put a bounce in my step.

I got hollered at today, and the guy yelled "LOSE WEIGHT, BITCH!".

That fucker. That absolutely immature fucker. I could kick him in the balls and lose no sleep over it.

And the worst part about it was, I didn't scream something right back. Five minutes later, I started cobbling together some choice, profanity laden phrases, but my asshole observer was probably half way to the Shot Tower by the time I thought to get my mouth open.
No, when he yelled at me, all I could think was "Oh, my God. Everyone on the street thinks I'm a fat bitch. I need to get off the street." Like there was a spotlight illuminating my every bulge.
I wanted to melt right on the stupid cobblestones.
I wanted to die. I wanted to be invisible.
And that is such BULLSHIT.

I told some friends (and one complete stranger at the Goodwill who turned out to be totally cool) about it, two women and three men. And all three men had the same "that's f'ed up, that asshole" reaction. The women? Both of them, without my even having to go into how I felt about it, said that if it had happened to them, they'd feel awful about themselves. They could tell themselves that it's probable this dude was a) all of sixteen, b) drunk, or c)both, but that that wouldn't matter. These two women both freely admitted that they would be mired in the same emotions that swamped me.

These women that I spoke with, both were funny,and articulate, attractive, and were a pleasure to talk to. Neither of them have, in my opinion, much of a reason to feel any of the adjectives they'd mentioned; "small", "wrong", "worthless". The fact that some jerk's throw away comment could resonate in the same manner with three separate women who all happen to be overweight - is this merely a confidence thing? A case of "I'm having a bad day, and buddy, you picked the wrong time to yell" Or is it the price we pay for being outside of the social norm (though are we really? What's the stats on obesity these days)? Should these comments spurn me into action, get me to the gym more and back on track with my diet, to avoid another such incident, or should I go about my business as usual, since there are assholes everywhere and if it's not my weight, it'll be something else? My...worn out kicks, or something.
There's a memoir-ist named Jennifer Lancaster ( http://www.jennsylvania.com ) who wrote a book called "Such a Pretty Fat", and she talks about being called a fat bitch on the bus. She used this experience to spring board her weight loss efforts, parlayed that into a book deal, and got on with her transformation from fat to "fit bitch". Jennifer, if you google yourself and this blog comes up, I read the book in one sitting, in a Barnes and Noble cafe. It was hysterical. I should also mention that I did not BUY the book, but only because I am po'. I always figured that if something like that happened to me, I'd take it on the chin like Jen did, and keep on keeping on. Instead, it ruined my evening, and inspired a badly written, badly spelled, grammatically incorrect blog post that you people have to sit through.

I would like to say one last thing, though.
In the beginning of this post, I mentioned that I used to get catcalled out of car windows, and that it put a spring in my step. Just as I'm not the only woman who would feel the slow slide of shame and the white hot insecurity seeking floodlight when being yelled at the the Fells Point Fucker, I KNOW I'm not the only one who enjoys a compliment torn from someones lips at 30mph. So, how about we all try that. These compliments don't have to be sexual in nature. If you see some cool pedestrian doing his thing, and he's got some nice threads, would it kill you to yell out "dig your shirt"? Or, maybe "hey man, have a good day", when you're at a stop sign and you wave someone to cross the street. I don't know. Maybe we can start a complimentary revolution, or something. Think about it. Or better yet, roll down your window and yell.

The booze blues and other stomach upsets

You know what they don't tell you about weight loss? Or, maybe they do, and I'm not paying attention. In either case, what they may or may not tell you is THIS:
Ya can't go back to your binging ways after trying to attain a healthier frame and mindset.

Yes folks, like a lazily secured butter churn, I have fallen off the wagon.
And for two days straight last week, I did nothing but down sugar, salt, and all the other delicious things I've been giving up in favor of things on the "right" side of the food chain. And once I got started, I couldn't stop. I was like a diabetic Hoover. Everything just got sucked in.
It. Was. Awful. Awfully freaking delicious.

What's the problem, I know you asked?

The next day.

I thought I had the flu. My head was pounding, I couldn't stray more than five feet from the bathroom, work was hell, all I wanted to do was sleep...and I wanted MORE sugar. DID I have the flu? No I did not. I had a sugar/carb hangover the size of Texas. I've been to Texas. I'm not exaggerating here.

Did that learn me? No. Two nights later, I was sitting in the bar with my newly 21 brother, downing rum and pineapple juices like we had ahold of the last three pineapples on earth and had to drink them before they spoiled.

I feel like a louse. A lumpy louse at that.

Maybe I need chips or something. Not Utz, I mean, like poker chips. I survived a week without sneaking off for some Oreos, where's my reward? Because the fats not flying off fast enough for me to have to buy a new wardrobe yet, and I'm not patient.

That's really what's bothering me, I think. I'm not patient enough to lose weight. It seemed to me to be much quicker and more interesting GETTING fat (I watched SO many movies, ate SO much good food), and I know it doesn't work that quickly in reverse. But there's still that part of big ol' me that thinks "fuck it". I'll just be big. I can dress well for my size, with a little effort, who cares. It's not like I have trouble in the guy department, and I'm going to be a school teacher, but not GYM. Who is really going to care if I stay a size 14 or not?

And on that note, for reasons I can't fathom right now, I'm probably going to the gym tonight. Isn't that just peachy.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year from OneChin!

I hit the gym this morning, and it was practically empty...I wonder how many people are staying in and nursing hangovers today.

Here's to a new year of shrinking, strengthening, and being somewhat sugarless (I said somewhat. Let's be realistic here).

Cheers.