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.