On my way to losing a marathon!

Monday, December 12, 2011

This morning, it happened.

I woke up this morning to the terrifying reality that the worst had come true:  My wedding ring didn't fit.  Okay, it fit, in that I could put it on and then take it off again without use of either butter or hacksaw, but it wasn't terribly comfortable, and my finger started to turn this concerning shade of darker pink.  

I have to explain it.  I have to say that I slept on that hand wrong and now it's too hot or swollen, and that after a weekend long spent Christmas play-ing, my body needs a nap to return to normal, but I know the truth.  And the truth is, I'm gaining weight and my wedding ring doesn't fit.

Although I would like to say that my current weight of 162 (and rising... so fast you can actually SEE it happen) is no where near the 180lbs I was at in early marriage days, when I was still comfortably wearing my wedding ring every day.  That's just a complaint I have.

So here's what happens now.  Over the next month or so, I'll be able to wear my rings occassionally, depending on my relative oompa loompa-ness.  And then I'll be done with it completely, or at least until the baby is out and I've lost enough weight to appease my symbol of commitment and fidelity.

In the meantime comes the bad part.  Because in the meantime, come the Looks.  If you've ever been in this position (pregnant enough that it's no longer a question as to whether or not you've just put on some tummy weight, and too thick to wear YOUR wedding ring), you are probably also well acquainted with the Looks.  The Looks always start at your face, because people still generally try to be polite.  From there, they drift to your bulging middle, and quickly (but not discretely, no matter what the Looker thinks) to your left hand.  If the Look was more pointed, you might even be able to explain yourself, but because the Looker doesn't mean to outwardly offend, but merely to inwardly judge your single-yet-knocked-up status, you'll never have the opportunity.

I know all about the Look, because I've gotten it, dozens of times.  Also, because I used to, in fact, BE a Looker.  I have seen that naked finger and tsked to myself.  How unfortunate for her, to be in such a position alone.

I can tell you all though, that I don't Look anymore.  I know now that no ring doesn't mean no husband.  Sometimes, well, it just means you're fat.

Merry 13 days before Christmas everyone!!

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

BEAUTIFUL PEOPOOOLE, BEAUTIFUL PEOPOOOOLE

Lately, I've been accidentally offensive to a weirdly large amount of people.  For this reason, I've spent a good portion of the last couple weeks apologizing for being a wretched human being.  Let me assure you, if you haven't had the pleasure, offending people without realizing you did, and then apologizing to everyone who's had the bad pleasure of hearing you talk words and stuff, is neither the most relaxing nor the most enjoyable way to spend your days.

So, to overcome my spat of bad luck, and to hide out and never  be recognized again, I have decided to change up my look.  Because also, it's winter, I am increasing in general girth by the minute, and it just needed to happen now.  So I dyed my hair, this fancy too color they're calling "black".  I've done that before, in high school, and spent weeks being followed around by underclassmen making Marilyn Mansen references.  But now I've got bangs, and dark lipstick, and an awesome sauce new hat, and well, just take a look for yourself:

This is absolutely as cute as I can possibly look.  I am not in any way joking.  I am trying so hard to look cute in this picture that I'm just one eye-twinkle away from pooing a rainbow. 

I've heard "pouty and confused" is super sexy on ladies.  I don't think it works so much for me...

 This is how my new look can look wickid street.  Dag, yo.

I've decided I like how my nose looks with "new look".  Now my eyeballs hurt. There has to be an easier way to admire your own nose.

There is a special funness to taking weird pictures of your own face and then posting them on the internet.  That's the exact kind of funness I've needed after the "lately" I've had.  I just hope THESE pictures don't become fodder for trolling perverts like some of my others have.

Happy Christmastime, and hope you find your much needed incognito this week!

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Apples, and other relatively similar topics.

You're comparing apples and oranges.  That's what people say, right?  Meaning, I just can't compare them, they're two completely different things, you could never hold one up to the standard of the other.  It's common and I'm sure each of us has said it dozens of times ourselves.  Only here's the thing:

THEY'RE NOT THAT FREAKING DIFFERENT.  They're so incredibly not that different, in fact, that I'm starting to wonder if the saying itself is a joke.  Is that it?  Is the whole apples/oranges debate some sort of big universal joke that everybody in the world is in on except for me?  Yeah... wouldn't be the first time.

Now I get the point behind it- even though these things are typically categorized together, fruit, sweet, juicy, roundish, whatever... you can't fault an orange for being a bad apple.  But you know what would be a better analogy there?  Pretty much anything.

Such as:

Motorcycles and bed sheets.

Tank tops and breakfast cereal.

Library books and beach chairs.

Apples and rock concerts.

Because you really can't compare apples and rock concerts.

It occurs to me that the real problem here is that this idiom was created by someone with essentially no imagination, and apples and oranges were the differentest things that he could think of.  Yep, I'm attributing to a man, because apparently I'm being super sexist and assuming that a woman would have exhibited more creativity.  And talked more about shopping and fancy shoes.  Because you know, you just can't compare shopping and fancy shoes.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Does my butt look big in... yes. Yes it does.

There are about 20 different things I need to be doing this morning, but I'm putting that on hold for just a minute to check in here.  Because I'm gigantic.  Wow.  Remember the other day when I thought I WASN'T being punished for eating tons of rich, delicious food?  Yeah... yeah.

It seems that was mostly just a way to delay the pain of the truth for another couple of days.  Because if the past few days has anything to say about it, my morning weigh in is just under 160. Consistently.  And painfully.

So here's the deal: As of December 1st, I am 19 weeks pregnant (almost 1/2 way!) And I have gained right about 10 pounds from the day I found out I was pregnant.  5.5 of those pounds came this past month.  If I KEEP gaining 5+ pounds a month, I'll be 185 or more by the day the Baby Dude shows up. 

Okay, I said that to scare myself.  Oddly enough, it kind of didn't.  That was lower than I weighed for most of a year after giving birth to Maddie Pants.  I'm pretty sure that between giving birth, running and hitting that Slim Fast stuff again, I'll be able to recover from that.

Which is especially good news, because I am always freaking hungry.  And I'm severely addicted to hot chocolate.  I don't even care that I can't have regular coffee anymore.  Hot chocolate is waaay deliciouser, and taking a thermos of it to work feels somehow scandalous and wonderful.

So good news for everyone.  Everyone, that is, except my doctor, who is going to have a few words with me when I see him in two weeks.  I'm going to keep enjoying my hot chocolate, and for those of you who like that stuff, you'll get to see me work my behind off to lose a bunch of weight in a few months from now.

So really, you're welcome.  And remember, always look at the bright side of your expanding backside!  Wait...

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Happy Holidays! Please pass the everything...

I just realized something tonight.  I've been eating like a recently rescued refugee this past week (this is not the revelation), and I haven't actually weighed myself since my last doctor's appointment (this is).  That was something like 2 weeks ago.

I think that may be the single most emotionally healthy thing I've ever said about myself.  I think I might be growing.

Annnnnnd now it's done.  I'm a little curious.  I'm a little nervous.  Last I checked I was weighing in around 155-156 first thing in the morning, and around 160 at night and dressed.  I don't think that's what the scale's going to say anymore.  Especially since I have been growing so fast you can almost see it with the naked eye.  Yikes. That's gonna cost me something.

Okay, that's it, I'm gonna check.

Ooooh praise the good Lord in heaven, it's not too bad.  Fully dressed in jeans and 2 sweaters, after having eaten a big turkey sandwich, two pieces of fudge (I intended to share with my daughter, but somehow, she didn't notice what I had), and following it later with a bowl of frosted flakes (I'm starting to think I have a problem.  I'm pretty sure a 7 ounce baby doesn't require this much food),  I only weighed in at 161.

That's right.  I haven't gain 10 pounds.  I've eaten fudge for breakfast (yes, the fudge is gone now) and I haven't gained 10 pounds.  I can only assume that I spent the last year building up so much body good will with all of my fresh foods, slim fast bars and micro-paced running, that I'm actually somehow allowed to spend these months living like a sedentary pig-dog without suffering the consequences.  This is pretty foh-reakin awesome.

Okay.  I'm passed my state of panic, and I'm a little sleepy.  Panic does that to a crazy pregnant woman.

Hope you're all finding out awesome new ways to beat nature and science tonight!

Saturday, November 26, 2011

I'm dreaming of a plastic Christmas!

I wouldn't have thought so.  Growing up, I fought strongly on the side of real.  When my husband told me he grew up with fake, I responded with a level of emotion that would have been a little more appropriate had he just informed me that he spent his childhood being molested by his local religious official.  But he wasn't, so it's okay.

Point is, I never wanted a fake tree.  They seemed weird a cheap and trashy, somehow.  And you guys know me, it's high class all the way baby.

But then, well, stuff happened.  Stuff like living in rental homes wherein we were contractually obligated  NOT to destroy the carpet with tree sap.  Freakin landlord Nazis. So we searched every store we could find and found one we liked, 7.5 feet and NOT prelit.  (We didn't think prelit sounded good.  Prelit sounds like, will burn out every 1-2 years like all of our other Christmas lights, and will need frequent and expensive replacing.)

Anyway, as we unpacked our Christmas tree on the day after Thanksgiving this year, I had a thought.  Followed by, like, a bunch of other thoughts.

First thought: This is OUR Christmas tree.

This is our tree's fifth year as a part of our family.  We've had it a few months longer than we've had our cat.  Every year, we take the day after Thanksgiving, pop in the same Christmas CD, and assemble OUR tree.  We're actually getting pretty good at it.

Our family is a fake Christmas tree family.  Our kids won't have memories like mine, of wandering through a parking light fighting over the merits of flocking, of spending three straight hours trying to find the least bald side and the least leany angle.  They won't have feet stabbed by pine needles that have dried into tiny, sharp weapons and hidden themselves in the carpet.  And they will never have to worry about their tree drying into a terrifying brown fire hazard before Christmas day.  They'll have memories of pulling OUR tree out of storage, and putting it back together with family.  They'll get to have a Christmas tree up for a month or longer every year because why not?  It's not like it's going anywhere.

It seems my bias has become no less intense, I just sort of switched sides.

And to understand why, Let me show you the tree that stole my heart.
It cost 79.98.  I know this only because it's emblazoned on the box we keep repacking it in every January.  And once again, this is year 5.  That's already only $16 a year.  So instead of spending money on throw away trees every year, we buy ourselves and our child(ren) each an ornament that somehow represents the year.  Our kids will get theirs, each marked with their names and years, when they grow up and move away some day.  In other words, we may not have a real pine tree, but our home is filled with PLENTY of sap. Hey-o!

And yes, the trunk-stick-thingy wrapped in what seems to be a close cousin to pipe cleaners leaves a little to be desired.  However, keep in mind that I have been a super present buying ninja the past couple of weeks, and it won't be long till those babies are wrapped and that stick is appropriately hidden.

So now that we've entered the holiday season and my living room has taken on a distinctly Santa's Workshop-ish vibe, I thought I'd write a little love note to that big hunk of metal and plastic I've become so fond of.

Hope you all are enjoying your Thanksgiving weekends and finding something to love as well!  Also, I hope none of you got trampled to death on Black Friday, or got in the way of that woman with the pepper spray.  I swear, there are no amount of savings that I probably can't find anyway that would get me out in that lunatic mess again.  You people be crazy!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Breaking Bad. Breaking VERY Bad.

My husband has gotten us into the show Breaking Bad over the last couple of weeks.  Personally, I find it disturbing.  And terrifying.  Completely, and utterly disturbing and terrifying.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, I'll give you a quick rundown of the show's premise.  Our main character, your average, ordinary science teacher, discovers he has cancer and will probably soon die, leaving his family destitute.  But unlike say, a normal person might respond to this same scenario, this guy decides it would be in his best interest to start cooking Meth.  And then, you know, hilarity ensues.

Now a little bit about me: I don't like breaking rules.  I don't like NOT following directions.  I'm one of the worlds least convincing liars.  In fact, if you want to be MY lie detector, watch my neck.  If I start lying, you'd be able to SEE my pulse, my heart races so hard.  Being around people who don't listen when someone's talking sends me into a blind rage.  Just the very thought of doing something like having my front windows tinted or driving while holding my phone to my ear sends me into a  mild panic.

No, it's not healthy.  It's most certainly not normal.  But there you have it.  That is my particular brand of crazy.

In this show, our main character walks up to the edge of total ruin, and dances right past, almost unfazed.  Okay, maybe unfazed is a little strong, but in a similar situation, assuming I had not immediately fallen down dead from some sort of freak out attack, I can only imagine that I'd be hyperventilating, curled up in a ball on the floor, my face red from crying while I tapped my heals and begged to go home.  So that being said, yeah. He seems unfazed to me.

I guess the moral of the story here is this: Know thy strengths.  If YOU are an incredibly neurotic about rule following, maybe don't invest your time watching a show that deals with drug dealing, substance abuse, and murder.  And if you get cancer, rely on friends and family. Get a second job if you need.  Heck, just get some freaking life insurance now so you don't need to worry about it.  Because by season two, this whole meth thing just doesn't seem to be working out so well for him.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Four months and looking every minute of it.

I received a lot of skepticism after people saw my pictures from Halloween.  Seems I didn't look pregnant enough for anyone on October 31st, (See below. Sidenote, isn't my family just adorable? Seriously though.  This woman got herself into a whole kaboodle of gorgeousness somehow.)  I've been trying to convince people I've, as they say, "popped" since then, but I figured some pictures might speak it a little louder.
 Sooooo, this post is for all of my belly-doubters out there.  BOOM.  How do you like them... watermelons?
4 months pregnant, and our little dude wants everyone to know it.  Howdy-ho world!  Yep.  Cuz my son is a corny cowboy.  Giddy-up.

And here is a my super dramatic pregnant belly pose.  I think this one is getting framed.

These pictures also feature my new favorite article of clothing:  Maternity skinny jeans.  You might argue, like my husband did, that skinny jeans may not be the most flattering look for a pregnant woman. Something about really emphasizing the ratio between calf/ankle size and butt/belly size, I don't know.  But just the same, these pants are stretchy and comfortable and allow me to wear my scrunchy knee-high boots, so I've decided to throw conventional wisdom to the wind.

Also, this is another thing.  Below are pictures of me pregnant last time, 18 weeks along to my current 16 1/2.  I feel secure that I'm looking mucho attractiver in my old age.  I think I earned myself some freakin skinny jeans.
Doncha think? Yeah you do.  You know you do.

So there's the pictures, hope they are super gratifying to all of you who were demanding either my pictures or my blood.  I can say it's gratifying for me.  See those pictures on the floor behind my feet?  Well, every single one of our pictures are on the walls now.  Yep. I'd say "it's the little things", but really, that's a huge thing.  You should all be wickedly impressed.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Special Day, Completely Overlooked. Oops.

It seems that in all the excitement of 11-11-11, I overlooked the reason that the day was special for me.  And really, special for all of us.  Because yesterday, AEISY turned 1!!

Woohoo!!  Happy Birthday An Exercise in Spinning Yarn!!!  My my how you've grown.

In celebration, I went back and read my first post.  I initially created this puppy to give me some accountability.  I wanted to start living more on purpose, to get more accomplished, to change my life and myself for the better.  I was happy to have that year's worth of perspective, I gotta say I think things are moving in a positive direction.

And I'm going to keep the blog going.  If for no other reason, in 6 months I'll need to start up weight losing again, and talking about it makes me feel good.  I'm certainly not going to put it off so much this time.  I don't know if you noticed, but I'm generally averse to dieting over the holidays, and I'd rather not have to calorie count too severely over Christmas 2012.

So as an update, here are my 1 year old blog stats:

Posts: This one makes number 124

Comments on Posts: 77.  Although technically, most people just comment on my facebook page instead, so this number isn't entirely accurate.

Pageviews: 5,320

Official "willing to admit to it" Followers: 20

So not bad, I guess.  Maybe not great, I'm really not sure.  I don't know anyone else gets in terms of blog stats, except that I know a few special people get an income from doing this and I most certainly haven't found a way to make that happen.  Nuts.

So cheers, my dear, faithful readers.  And here's to another year, and to better content, and to becoming internet famous and finding weird ways to make lots of lots of money and quitting your day job.  And I, for one, will be happy with at least one or two of those.

HAPPY AEISY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!

FOOOOOOOOD!!!!

As of today, I'm just starting my 5th month of pregnancy.  Pregnant, it should be mentioned, to the hungriest, pickiest bouncing baby boy that has ever been conceived.  And in this pregnancy, I'm starting to realize something:  This was the best freaking idea ever.

A couple of weeks ago was Halloween.  I ate enough candy to make myself just a little sick.  I've been enjoying chili and hot chocolate, and all sorts of awesome comfort foods. And I've been doing so guiltlessly.  Because I am pregnant, so I get to do, well, just about whatever I want.

I've done the math now, I'll be about 1/2 way through my fifth month for Thanksgiving, and 1/2 way through my sixth month over Christmas.  These facts are additionally awesome, because they have me firmly entrenched in my second trimester.  Important because first trimester, you're exhausted and nauseous. Third trimester, you're exhausted and barely able to move for the nearly full grown child swimming around inside of you.  Second trimester, quite simply offers you the greatest potential and capability for eating the greatest amount of the greatest foods.

And I TOTALLY intend to.

This might seem like I'm weirdly obsessed with food, and if that's what you're thinking, you're right.  Big shocker, too.  Have you forgotten how fat I got?  Also, there's this other important point:  Last year, I started the month of October at 170 pounds, and started January at 157.  No, it's not a ton, but just the same, I lost 13 pounds over the holidays.  I ran.  I avoided having any empty calories around the house.  I ate fine at holidays, but words like "in moderation" were really important to me.  The holidays are nice, always, of course, but dieting over the holidays is one of those "like kissing your sister" situations.  

So the moral of this story is, having a "viable excuse" for wickid amounts of overeating, and getting to experience your first every guilt-free holiday season is just plain incredible.  If you can plan it, and you can't, so probably don't worry about trying, plan on being pregnant over the holidays.  It'll freaking change your world.

P.S.  I'm still weighing in around 155.  The weight is climbing, but not as fast as you'd think based on this blog post.  Just thought I'd clarify ;-)

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

One A Day- really a better diet plan than a daily vitamin

And they're not even freaking One A Days.  They're Target "compare to" One A Days.  And they were cheap.  And I'm cheap.  And for some stupid stupid reason, I thought it'd be cool.

I was wandering around the kitchen this morning, making my daughter toast (she eats it dry and it's like her new favorite thing.  Weirdo.) and trying to make myself some coffee, when out of nowhere I had an undeniable urge to vom.  It was one of those, "my stomach feels empty, and somehow, that's bad, and it's about to get a whole lot emptier", sensations that sent me racing straight to the bathroom.  No passing go, no collecting $200 along the way.

So it's official folks, my first pregnancy 2 sick session.

Although, gotta say, I don't feel like it counts.

Somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom, I had the time to have one, singular, coherent thought: WHYYYY?!?!?  I mean seriously, I'm almost 14 weeks along, and NOW I start throwing up?  This cannot be for serious.  And then it occurred to me.  Last night I forgot my vitamin.  So my bright idea solution was to take it this morning.  Roughly 10 minutes before my body decided it needed to be expelled.

So again, I'm now quite certain this was One A Day sickness, not morning sickness.  I'm not sure what they put in that stuff, but it's violent and painful and I hate it.

That being said, if for some reason any of you DON'T become violently ill with this brand of vitamin (I assume somewhere out there has to be okay with them, unless they're used exclusively by bullemic girls who are too embarrassed to purchase laxatives and can't gag on their own fingers), I have a just-purchased bottle of 298 prenatal vitamins you may have!  That's right, this is my first official (and probably last official) AEISY FREEBIE GIVEAWAY!!!!!  First person to ask for it who lives close enough that I don't have to mail them can have all of my vitamins!!

Go ahead and leave awesome begging comments now, to get your chance at the pukamins!!!!

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Some doctors don't have boarders. Mine doesn't have boundaries.

Let me start off by saying this:  My doctor is not a pervert.  Probably.  No, not.  He is NOT a pervert.  And I'm stickin' to it.  I'm just saying that the guy could be a little less... something.

There's something important to remember about doctors.  They don't seem to have strong rules about personal space.  Maybe it happens in med school.  You work with enough cadavers, enough fake and then real bodies, and you just sort of forget that it's a body.  People maybe start looking more like cars rolling into the local mechanic.

And if not in med school, it could start before.  Doctors are basically nerds, right?  So maybe they never got around to learning the more refined points of social interaction.

Anyway, that's enough speculation.  On to my point.

At Maternity Doctor's Appointment One, doctors always insist on groping your chest.  I'm actually starting to think it's how they shake hands in Doctor Land.  But I've been through these things before.  Deep breath, I was expecting it.  What I WASN'T expecting was the color commentary.  "Hmmm, ooh, yeah.  Yes.  Yeah.  Yeah, those are some VERY normal breasts".

... "Thhhhank you?"

And I should note, in his voice, it didn't sound terrifyingly creepy.  I know it may read that way, but that wasn't it.  He really sounded impressed, to be honest.  Impressed by the overwhelming normalcy of my chest.  I didn't know how to take it.  In fact, it happened almost 6 weeks ago, and I only just told my husband yesterday.  How do you break something like that to your spouse?

Now we get to the reason I told him.  I was at Maternity Doctor's Appointment Two, during the "lay back and show the doctor your tummy portion" (gosh this all sounds so humiliating when you lay it out this way), when Mr. Doctor asked if my "body has been changing".  I mentioned that I felt I was getting thicker around the middle and... and that's when it happened.  He stuck his thumb into my belly button and pinched my lower abdominal fat.  He then... give me a moment, this is hard to say... he then wiggled it.  He wiggled it and asked, "See this?  Your body wants to store food in case you need it later."

Yes, my Dear Mr. Doctor, I understand the concept of fat.  I really, REALLY didn't need a hands on object lesson.

I get that to Dear Mr. Doctor, I am just some old clunker who has come in for some minor repairs, but just the same, I'd rather you not spend so much time man-handling the seat cushions and commenting on the tail pipe.  Stick to what's necessary, and remember one thing:  In reality, I am, in fact, a pregnant woman.  And while I probably won't sue you or smack you when you've crossed the boundaries you never seem to see, if you wiggle any part of me again I promise you I WILL start to cry.

I think that's fair warning for the both of us.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

With great power comes great big stress ulcers

One of the things I've learned over the past few years is that parental incompetence begins long before the stork ever drops that kid off at your door step.  Which brings me to an issue that's been on my mind a great deal lately.  I'm pretty sure I might be an incompetent parent.

First, let me answer your question. No, I'm not drinking. I'm not doing drugs or eating buckets full of tuna or engaging in any other crazy and irresponsible behavior that may label me incompetent. No no, this is different than that.  I don't know, may be worse.

Because in 28 short weeks, I'm suppossed to tell some professional medical-type people what my kid's name is.  And I have no freakin' clue.

I've never had any sort of desire to wield this kind of power over another human.  I never made a list of baby names I would one day name my children when I was in high school.  (Because seriously, girls who don't get dates do NOT plan that far ahead.  We have more pressing concerns from day to day, like, "I hope no one looks at me and notices my... face", or the oh so unforgettable, "Don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down don't fall down".) And for heaven's sake, I'm even terrible at naming pets.  Example: we are currently on our second cat named Allie (of course, the first one was an abandoned infant I found in a parking lot and it was sickly and it only lived for about a week, so I'm not sure if that counts.)  Unfortunately, everyone except for George Forman seems to frown on naming each of your kids the same thing.

For years husband and I liked the name Xavier.  Husband recommended it pronounced with a Z sound, and that sometimes we call him Zave.  But now we worry that if our poor kid is a nerd, (I know, OUR kid?? You'd never suspect...) that name will just sort of emphasize the nerdiness.  So Xavier is out.  Sorry Charlie.  Hmmm... Charlie?  No.

Anyway, there's a number of names that I think are ... nice, but nothing I necessarily love.  Nothing I'm elated about.  Nothing I'm ready to brand another human with for the rest of his or her life.  If you're curious how I did this once before, I didn't.  Husband picked the name years before we were in a position to think about it, and it sounded good.  So we went with it, and that worked out fine.  But maybe I should have some say on this kid?

Probably not.  ::Sigh::  This all just feels like one more thing to put in the memo line of the checks I will inevitably be writing to Thing 2's therapist.

Love, Mommy.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Internet-trospection

I had a difficult moment of realization this morning when checking my site stats.  What I learned was that an unfortunately large number of people have stumbled across this blog while searching for some disturbingly fetishistic internet material.  Most recently, for example, I've been discovered thrice from the Google search "fat wives exposed".

First, this hurt my feelings.  Especially when I clicked the link they followed, and realized it was a picture of me in my skinny jeans.  Then, I felt dirty and, well, exposed.  Someone was looking for creepy porn, and then went to my blog instead.  My husband assures me that if nothing else, he's certain they were disappointed. ...Thanks?

I guess there are certain things you shouldn't say on the internet.  Like fat. Or bottom. Or wife.  Or pee?  Yeah, there was some search about pee too.  This sort of feels like Google is setting me up to look like a total perv.  Thanks a lot Google.  Well with any luck, maybe the creeps will click around and generate a few ad sense bucks my way.  Really, I think it's the least they can do after making me feel like a fat, exposed, wannabe amateur porn star.  Seriously, creeps.  Help a sista' out.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Mucho excitement week, and looking devastatingly chubby.

Well, after 10 1/2 hours of sleep last night, I'm quite ready for a nap now.  In my defense, I've already been awake for like, a few hours, so... there ya go.

My overall sleepiness is a big problem at the moment though, because this is not a week for sleeping.  THIS is a week for celebrating.  Tomorrow, my incredible little weirdo of a baby girl turns 2.  A bona fide toddler, as she's even starting to fit into some clothes with a T behind the number, instead of the word "months".  Target has taught me that 2 years is wicked monumental.

Then, to make matters additional, the day after My big girl turns bigger, I turn super duper old. 28, not 27, as a friend of mine had to remind me.  Does 28 sound old?  28 sounds old.  But it doesn't matter, because the day I turn older, we'll be celebrating birthday week at Disneyland.  And it's supposed to be under 70.  I'm too excited to feel old and creaky.

Anyway, I can't button my pants anymore.  It's become a problem.  Or at least a nnoying.  To make matters worse, everyone I ever ever see tells me the same dang thing: "Wow! You're HOW far along? You don't even look pregnant!"

Neurotic Girl Translation: You look a lot fatter, but just fatter. That is all.

So I've decided to take some drastic measures. I've tossed aside my old jeans and the rubber bands I was using to keep them closed and donned actual factual maternity clothes.  Because the secret awesome behind maternity clothes is that pretty much no matter what, they make you look pregnant. Okay, right, if you're super skinny, and have nothing resembling a belly, they will probably just emphasize your six-packiness.

But if you have any sort of a belly, instead of smooshing it down like your regular zip up jeans tend to, maternity plans just let it all fly.  So here is my belly today, nearly 11 weeks pregs.

Here is what my belly CAN look like, if I really throw my back into it.

Impressive, right?  I think I'm gonna start walking around like that.

One of these days I hope I get to look in the mirror and see a pregnant belly, not just the slow fade of my years worth of weight loss.

Anyway: HAPPY BIRTHDAY WEEK TO THE MILLER LADIES! WOOP WOOP!

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Yay... local sports team!

I've decided to like football.  I know, it's a big step, and it seems just a little bit counter-everything I've ever stood for and believed in, but heck.  Maybe it's time for a change.

My brother has been a Buffalo Bills fan for nearly 2 decades.  He has loved them every day of the last 11 years, during which they haven't once even made it to the playoffs.  Because of him, I've watched a rather large amount of Buffalo football throughout the years.  And I felt really sorry for my brother.

After watching decades of Bills teams flop all over themselves and go through amazing maneuvers to lose absolutely any game in the second half, the last 3 weeks have found me just the slightest bit impressed.  Reason?  Well, oddly enough, the Bills keep winning.  Amazing, come from behind, jaw dropping wins that have actually glued me to the television.  I am not joking when I say, I have found myself WANTING to watch football.  So, watch out farmers.  You might have a little trouble keeping your pigs penned up.  You know.  Because they can fly now.  Right.

Anyway, the Bills are currently undefeated, after putting up a 40 burger against the Chiefs (it's a football thing, you wouldn't understand), beating Oakland in the last few seconds of an on-the-edge-of-your-seat game, and getting 4 turnovers off the Patriots to finally win by 3.

Now, I'm pretty sure you don't come here to read about football, but at the same time, I'm not sure why you DO come, so I'm not prepared to write anything off.  So I apologize for being all sportsy, but I thought you may like to know what's going with me, and what's going on with me is the fact that I look like this now:


Anyhow, hope you all find something worth cheering for tonight.  And, oh yeah: BUFFALO BILLS FOOTBALL RULES!!!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Pregnancy Cravings and becoming Susie Homemaker

I woke up Saturday morning and immediately felt, well, absolutely miserable.  I was already hungry, which is normal for every moment of my life these days, and again, just like normal, this also meant I was overcome by gut-wrenching nausea.

By the way? Sick of it. Just. Foh-reakin. Sick of it.

However, there's also a super-bright side to my 6 1/2 straight weeks of feeling like I have the flu every dang day of my life:  FOOD.

Unlike normal sick, where you feel relegated to ginger ale and saltines, pregnancy sick seems to require incredibly specific, obscure, and occasionally elaborate meal-fixes.  Basically, I eat the right thing, I feel better.  I eat the slightly WRONG thing (like tacos. As good as they smell, they make the baby just so, so very angry), I'm left with violent stomach cramps.  Really, it's sort of like an adventure.  And when I win, oh boy do I ever win.  I am not joking.  I ate a club sandwich at Chili's last night that just about blew my ever-loving mind.  They should seriously win some kind of award for that sandwich.

One food side effect of pregnancy is the desire, not just to eat, but to bake.  Apparently child numero dos is superduper picky about his/her food sources, and prefers fresh baked to prepackaged pastries.  All of a sudden things from packages taste a little more like the package than the food it's supposed to contain.  In other words, this kid has already locked me into the kitchen.

So all of these things are the reason why you find me here tonight, baking pumpkin bread that smells so good, I'm nearly brought to tears.  Again, not joking.  It's getting hard to read my typing and watch the majestic glory that is Empire, through the mistiness of my eyes.  Oh man.  If that bread tastes even half as good as it smells, I think I might have to do a jig.

And for my Jerry Springer moment, life is full of trade offs.  This past month and a half, I've traded my ability to ever feel healthy and normal, and gained a zest for food stuffs that I have never, ever before even imagined.  Something to think about.  Hope all of your trade offs bring you crazy dance-producing joy today!

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Now I know how cat feels.

We have Cat.
Cat spends all night sleeping on our feet.
Cat spends all day sleeping on the arm of our couch.
Cat occasionally wakes up to eat and force humans to pet her.

Besides that, cat sleeps.
Oh, how I envy Cat.

Sometimes I think about blogging again these days, but during the few minutes of opportunity I have in the day, my fingers feel too sleepy to type, and my brain feels too sleepy to be interesting.

Exactly how much would you like to hear about my exhaustion, nausea, and newly developed passion for everything edible?  Are you fascinated to know how stupid being pregnant makes you?  Here's some of the more recent highlights:

- TWICE in one day, I dialed a number on my phone, then forgot to pick it up to my ear. I just stared at it, wondering what was supposed to happen next.
- I forgot to change my daughter's diaper last week. For an entire day. I put one on her in the morning, and didn't think about it again till she started to leak at 5.
- I keep forgetting stuff I'm supposed to be doing, and places I'm supposed to be driving.
- I've washed my body in hair conditioner, and come very close to putting lotion on my toothbrush.  I'm getting really nervous I might poison myself soon.
- I can't remember anyone's name. I mean anyone.  Real sorry, everyone I've ever met. I just don't know who you are anymore.
- I forget the date. Not just the day, but the month and year too. Frequently.
- I forgot my own age the other day. I read it a bunch of times, and kept agreeing with myself.  Yep, I'm 26.  It took a friend to remind me that I'm 27, which was terrifying, because it really felt like a lost a year of my life right then.

It would not be a stretch to say that I'm about two days from dropping my jaw and drooling on myself.  Shoot, I already wind up with bits of food and toothpaste spilled down my shirts most days, I'm constantly tripping when I walk, and the other day I somehow managed to drop a drawer full of heavy things on my foot, because I don't know how to properly use cupboards anymore.

So that's my life lesson these days, my friends: HUMILITY. Learn it. Love it. Forgive others because no one is more slovenly pathetic than yourself.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

My muffin top is all that!

Yesterday I wore my size 8 "WAS happy to call them fat pants", and exhibited a sizable, un-ignorable, makes-me-want-to-give-up-on-life sized  muffin top.  That's right.  Those freaking pants should need a belt to stay on, and instead I'm bulging out everywhere like I'm frickin Pop 'n Fresh.

So I'm weighing in this morning at 151.2, and it's not like I've been gaining additional weight, exactly, but dang it all, it sure looks like I am.  According to the internet, there's a dang good reason for this:  This is my second kid, and I'm starting to "show".


Right? ... No.

Only, you can't see a baby, or a cute little bump.  You can see all the extra baby chub left around after my LAST pregnancy, now being pushed out and super-powered.  It's terrible.  I feel fatter now than I did last pregnancy, when I weighed 20 pounds more.  I cannot freaking wait till I look pregnant, and not like I'm trying to smuggle a medium sized inner tube under my shirt.  I am not joking, if it gets any worse, I'm moving exclusively into sweat pants and maternity wear by the end of the week.


Saturday, September 3, 2011

An oldie but, well, my favorite.

This is an entry I wrote on my Xanga site, 4 years ago yesterday.  To date, it may just be my favorite thing that I've ever written.  It's a little racy, so skip it, or read with caution, or with a glass of wine, whichever's your pleasure.

My title is: Another stupid example of how our country is made up of whiney faced a-holes who sue people for making coffee too hot call them racists or biggots or sexists for having any thought that contradicts what any other person might think or say or do- An Essay.                                                      

So last night was Friday, and Shane and I went to the grocery store to pick up some eggs. While waiting in line, we decided to purchase our very first Cosmo magazine, in order to discover how a woman might pleasure her man in a way no other woman might have had the nerve to do so yet. (It was called: "The Sex He Secretly Craves". We were guessing anal. It wasn't anal. Awkwaaard...) 

But as we skimmed through the glossy pages of sexual suggestions, we came across something rather alarming: an article entitled A New Kind of Date Rape. Well see, personally I was getting pretty bored with both the "too drunk to know better", and the "sure her lips said no but her va-jay-jay said yes yes" forms of date rape, so I was intrigued.  

So here are the steps to the posh new date rape fad we must all fall in with, sayeth Cosmo, Goddess of creepy sex tips and so so perfume swatches: 
1) If we both get really really drunk, and then we're fooling around, and I whisper no, but we're basically about in the act, and you don't zip up before I pass out, (seriously, I'm that drunk), you raped me. Slammer time. 
2) If we both get really really drunk, and we've actually begun the act of coitus, and I say no, and you don't immediately pull out and tell you how much you respect me for my mind, you've got it, more slammer time. 
3) If we both get really really drunk, and have again begun the bow chick chicka part of the evening, and I don't so much as say "no", but maybe stiffen up in a way that displays a certain distaste for what's currently going on, and you don't run out of the room with your pants still around your ankles, once again, I'm raped, you're imprisoned. 
4) And lastly, say.... oh, I don't know, we both get like, really really drunk, and then we're fooling around, and that's nice, and then we go a little farther, and then you (how do we put this in a PG, "babies still come from storks" way) "begin the beautiful act of love by comin on in for the special hug time" (Nope, that sounded really kind of pervy) and then I make a groany type noise, and you say, "What's wrong?" and immediately leave the special hug scenario so as not to in any way do something I don't want, well for you sir, you're sicko rapist, that'll by 5 years hard time.  

Cosmo notes the fact that this new rape phenomenon (which they call "Gray Rape") is in part due to (gasp) excessive drinking, women becoming more sexually aggressive, and the culture and lifestyle of "Screw me now, get my name later". However, they also go on to discuss that women need to be allowed the "right" to continue expressing themselves in a sexually and heavily intoxicated way. Just know, as a man, if you happen to make eye contact with a woman who is both sexual AND heavily intoxicated, you are probably a rapist. Now off to jail with you, you sexual miscreant. No passing Go, no collecting any actual Pooty Tang.

Aaaaaaand Bloat.

Feeling very poochy lately, which is another way of saying that I feel like my stomach region has taken on a life of its own and has decided on a general expansion of property.  I feel fat.  Tight pants.  It feels uncomfortable to lay on my stomach.  The whole 9 yards.

I've been mostly blaming this on my to-ridiculous-to-mention eating habits (por ejemplo, I made ice-cream a meal every single day for like, 3 weeks), but today I found some wonderful news:  By about 6 weeks, (aka, now) I should be able to notice a little "tightening around the waist" especially since this isn't my first rodeo.

So yay!!!  Pregnancy Book also suggested that I "probably have gained a few pounds by now". Which begs the question, how do you know me so well, Pregnancy Book?!?  Uh-may-zing.

Sorry I haven't resumed writing lately, I've tried a couple of times, but it got a little confusing to read when my head collapsed onto the keyboard.  If anyone notices these days that I'm walking around with the letter J embedded in my forehead, remember how sleepy baby-making gets you.  And now it's 7:30, time for my daughter's bath, followed by my pre-bedtime nap.  Ah, c'est la vie!

Saturday, August 27, 2011

THIS is why I can't have nice things.

And by things, I very obviously mean fingernails.

Here's the deal: I am a child.  I am messy, twitchy, and impatient.  I have absolutely no idea how other people do it, but I simply canNOT keep polish on my fingernails.  To begin with, I'm just really bad at painting them. Half the paint always ends up on the skin surrounding the nail.  Now assuming I get... oh man, I really want fooood!  No.  No.  Dinner date is coming soon. Do not, do NOT raid the fridge now.  Okay.  Sorry about that.  Now assuming I actually get some paint ON the nails, it always gets smudged or scraped while it's still wet and no matter how early I finish them, I wake up with something akin to a face-print on at least one nail the next morning.  I have spent many a Sunday morning strategically hiding the one moron nail through seven dozen hand shakes, so as to not seem like a maniac.  Come to think of it, really, really not sure if my hidden finger handshakes are actually helping there.

So, I'm terrible at painting my nails.  Established.  Obvious next option is to pay other people to do it, because APPARENTLY this is a really prominent business model, and there are people willing to paint my nails for small amounts of money on every third corner all around the city, right?  NO. And here's why:

1) I don't like to pay people to do things that I can do myself.  Even if I can't do it myself.  I don't like to pay people for things that I think maybe I should be able to do myself.

2) I don't like sitting there watching other people scrub my hands and feet.  It feels awkward, like I'm trying to subjugate the local Asian population, and I just don't feel comfortable with that.

3) There's a good chance that everyone everywhere is making fun of me.  I would give you a list of my top 100 reasons why, but THEN you might think I'm neurotic and crazy.  Just know that it's probably true.

4) I don't understand or appreciate tipping.  Especially at businesses where people set their own prices, and I'm paying them directly.  I think I have grossly overtipped, and I KNOW I've grossly undertipped, and this feeds right into the 100 reasons why people are talking about me behind my back.  That's not exactly the same as the list in #3, but there's a little bit of crossover, certainly.

5) Forget what I said in #1. Mostly, I don't like paying for anything.

So unless something magical changes about that list, these are the reasons why my nails will always look like they were painted by a serial killer.  As for today, I already took the polish off, maybe 30 minutes after painting them.  So no harm done, except for that creepy stained pink look that dark colors leave behind.  I'll keep my toe polish.  For one, my toes farther away from your eyes than my hands are. I hope.  For two, I can always hide them in my shoes, and no one has to know how bad I am at painting them.  So, you know. Win win.

Hope you're all having a day with fewer regrets than mine!  Oh, and keep those personalized art orders coming in.  You're gonna want one of those things when I'm famous and you're jealous.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Symtomatologizing, and other fun facts.

Wonderful news:  Despite all of my anxiety, I made it through the WHOLE NIGHT without any panicked moments, or even having to use the restroom at all!  I'd mention how I'm a big fan of celebrating small victories, but I would consider NOT wetting the bed as a way-too-old adult to be a pretty sizeable victory.

So after 8 1/2 hours of sleep, I'm so tired this morning I wish I could cry.  It's also about time that I let you know I've been putting on some weight, which is entirely inappropriate for someone who is five minutes pregnant.  151.4 this morning, which makes loads of sense when you consider the amount of ice cream I've been consuming.

Sometimes I used to wish I could make it halfway through a pregnancy without realizing I was pregnant, in hopes that I'd spend a month or two NOT getting all blimpified.  I guess I can only dream...

Note for the day: It doesn't really count as "eating for two" when one of those two is the size of a poppy seed.


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

4 weeks along... can it really get worse than this?!?

I went to bed last night, and as always, spent the night deeply engaged in some way too strange and way too realistic dreams, as is common during pregnancy days.  In the middle of one of these dreams, the content of which I cannot remember, I had one of those "dreaming you're using the restroom because you need to pee" dreams, when all of a sudden, REAL!!!  That's right.  I had started, just started, to pee.

Now I'm not going to say I wet the bed, because the bed was not wet.  This incident was not nearly that severe.  But what I AM saying is that, whatever the mechanism is that tells you to wake up when you need to use the restroom maaaay have broken on me.  I had no inclination to wake up until I had the actual physical sensation of CRAP NO I'VE STARTED TO PEE.  It was terrifying.  I haven't done that since I was about 7, and it freaked me out so much I couldn't fall back asleep for almost 2 more hours.

Let's get some perspective here.  Yes, I went to the bathroom before going to bed. Twice.  And yes, I'm pregnant.  But also, the baby, who is just now becoming an embryo, is approximately 1mm long.  It does not yet have legs with which to kick or use my bladder as its own personal trampoline, but by simple virtue of its existence, I have suddenly become incontinent, and by golly, I am WAY too old and WAY too young for that.

Ha. Just saw a commercial regarding "urgency".  I feel ya, sista.

So needless to say, I'm terrified.  Not sure if this is normal, it's certainly something I didn't have before, and I just can't imagine how much worse it may get as this pregnany... DOUBLE HA! Now Whoopi Goldberg talking about bladder leakage.  And NO, oddly enough, I'm not watching WE.  People who aren't working at 12:30pm must have a lot of bladder issues.  Okay, back to it.... progresses.  As this pregnancy progresses.  I may very well be in 24/7 Depends by week 12.

Anyway, I'm sure there are tons of you who are gagging at your computer screens right now, wishing I would NOT have disclosed to the world my nighttime bladder control issues.  But I've decided that since I'm not going to be losing any weight anytime soon, instead, I'm going to share every glorious and GORious detail of these baby building months.

So cheers, and hope you all feel control of all of your most important bodily functions today!

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Hey now!

It seems I have this really insightful sister-in-law.  So insightful, in fact, that even from multiple states away, she was able to pick up on the maybe not-so-subtleties of my behavior changes.  Ashley's not blogging these days.  Why?

OBVIOUSLY, she's pregnant.
Yep, that's 5 points to you, Katie, for realizing that I COULDN'T blog over the past week and a half, mostly because I was too afraid I would fall into a long stream of ITHINKI'MPREGNANTITHINKI'MPREGNANTITHINKI'MPREGNANTITHINKI'MPREGNANTITHINKI'MPREGNANT.

And I wasn't going to blog about it before my family knew about it.  Or at least, for heaven's sake, until I knew about it.

So there you have it, the reason that A) I haven't been blogging as much, and B) I haven't been weight-losing at all.  See the deal is, we started trying to have a second baby about 5 months ago.  With our first, it was immediate.  Within a blink, faster than you could say, "hey maybe we should start trying for a baby", we had one.  It was awesome, and I assumed, indicative of highly predictable pregnancies to come.

In April, we started trying to have a baby, and I stopped trying to be skinny.  I assumed I'd be pregnant within 5 minutes and any efforts I made would be completely wasted.  Also, I LOVE excuses to stop working out.  And anyone who wants to tell me that you "should still work out during pregnancy!" can bite my butt.  Well that was my excuse for the first few months, and after that, I guess I was just out of practice.  And frustrated that things weren't working as quickly as I thought they should.  Which is to say, I never knew you could feel so absolutely pissed off about having to buy a box of tampons.  The more you know, huh?

Anyway, with all that said, be prepared for a new flavor around this blog, weight gain progress, giant belly pics, and tales about all the times I've cried that day.  (Yesterday it was FOUR!)  You  know, the kind of stuff that will make you feel MUCH better, and way sexier about yourself.  That is my 9 month long gift to you.

Oh, and P.S.- Do you like my drawing?  I really am kind of proud of it, I'm thinking of forgetting everything else and making this a place to exhibit my art.  Let me know if you'd like an original print, I can design something especially for you.  We'll bang out a price later.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

1 Year Anniversary!

That's right folks, it has officially been 1 year since this weight loss journey started.  Woo hoo!  Anniversary celebration time!!  Maybe I should take myself out for a nice dinner, or buy me a flower.  That sounds nice.

Okay, so technically I'm almost a week late on this diet-iversary.  Oops.  I promise that once the summer is over and my life gets more normal my blogging (and hopefully my diet) will become part of my life again.

ANYWAY, today is not a day for apologies.  Instead, it is a day for some authentic Jersey-style fist pumping.  Today is the day where I can remember what I felt like 1 year ago.  So follow me back, if you will.  Walk down memory lane with me... :: With a Wayne's World style "Diddloo! Diddloo! Diddloo!"::

August, 2010:  I was sitting in my office at Visalia Youth Services, waiting for another client who skipped our session.  I started wandering around the internet, researching diet plans, reading reviews, and checking prices.  I decided on Slim-Fast, mostly because of the price.  My mother-in-law had been over a few weeks ago, and was telling me about a meal plan she had used to lose upwards of 20 pounds.  She looked awesome.  And I looked like the Michelin man.  And I didn't believe, never really believed, that I could look like myself ever again.  I figured with Slim-Fast, at least it would cut my calories and if (WHEN) I failed at it, I wouldn't feel more depressed for having wasted my money.  I'd just still be fat.

So yeah, suffice it to say, I was kinda depressed.  Add to this the fact that I was having severe, constant back pain.  And terrible allergy symptoms.  And was starting to have regular panic attacks.  Then my brother's wedding was coming.  I'd bought the bridesmaid dress months before, size 14, and it was pretty friggin' tight. I figured I'd lose a lot more weight (my daughter would be nearly 11 months, you can lose TONS of weight by then, right?) but I could just have the fat-lady dress taken in.

Unfortunately, when it was time to have the dress fitted to me, the only "taking in" that had to be done was in the shoulders.  Because you'd think size 14 girls would have bigger jugs than I  had, right?  Go figure.  In FACT, the seamstress highly recommended I invest in some quality "shapewear" just to, you know, "smooth some stuff out".  Translate: "To insure my belly rolls weren't going to bust any seams on this too tightly fitting dress".

"But I swear seamstress lady!  I know the wedding is in 3 weeks, but I'm on a diet!  It'll work, I promise...ish."


And I did diet.  By the wedding, I was almost 10 pounds down, and not busting at the seams of that dress.  At least as much.  


 I'm not saying I wasn't happy here.  I was ecstatic for my baby brother and his gorgeous bride.  I just felt like Gigantor.
 Cute baby didn't like strangers or cameras so much back then.  Note how Mommy's "You'd Totally Think I was Pregnant" belly works as a nice munchkin supporter.  Always a bright side!
 Here you can see what I was up against.  My ridiculously beautiful sister-in-law and her posse.  Geez, I could have at least gotten a tan.  A tan may have helped.  Also, note the shoes.  Best shoes I've ever owned ever.
Yep.  That's my belly and booty.  And yep, it's got loads of shapewear on it.  But there's some level of chub that won't be maintained by spandex.

Now here we are.  1 year later, after loads of prayer, tons of support, and a good amount of complaining about hunger and stupid exercise, I'm right around 45 pounds down.  In an effort to celebrate and make a fair comparison, I've jumped back into the dress for the first time since that day!

Yes, I'd just gotten out of the shower, and no, I was not wearing makeup.  I probably hadn't even brushed my hair, if I'm honest, but my hair is not the feature here. The feature is the fact that I have TWO discernible ankles.
 Even my daughter is excited about it!  "Ta Da!!!"  She was also emphatic about telling me that I looked "Cuuuuute!" She really notices when I wear dresses or skirts.  That's because I never wear dresses or skirts.
 I'm not stretching it. It's not stretchy.  It's just pulled out enough to fit me and, well, probably most of another me.  Or my skinny arsed husband.
 As you can see, I've evidently lost the most weight in my clavicle.  Hellooooooo clavicle.

Measuring tape belt of awesomeness

So there ya go!  Smaller in the body, weirder in the face.  These days, I have very little back pain (I was still built a little wonky, I'll always have a little pain), I almost never feel anxious, and a lot of my allergy problems are gone.  I'm healthier.  And I'm happier.  And I'm totally cool with taking weird, makeup-free pictures of myself because now I have sexier ankles.  Speaking of which, I really need to work on convincing my husband that ankles are sexy.

Well, I'm off, probably to work out again.  These pictures make me want to increase my awesome and NOT my waistline.

Hope you all find a reason to celebrate today!  And if you don't have one, make it up.  Your reasons to celebrate are only limited by your imagination.  I.E. "Woo hoo! It's Grocery Shopping Thursday!!! Time to have a living room parade!"




Wednesday, August 3, 2011

PSA. No, scratch that, Public Service WARNING.

Hey you.  That's right, you.  Yeah, you, EVERY SINGLE PERSON I KNOW.  I have a favor, of sorts, to ask of you.  Or maybe it's a command.  Or maybe, we'll call it a fair warning.

Anyway, it's this:

STOP SAYING TO MY FACE THAT MY DAUGHTER IS SOOO INCREDIBLY LUCKY TO HAVE HER FATHER'S BODY TYPE.

I get it, okay?  I understand that he is skinny, and she is skinny, and that's just wonderful for the two of them.  But what you're essentially saying is that my daughter really dodged a bullet in that she DOESN'T have MY body.  And while I can't disagree with you on this point, we may be all be missing something here.  I HAVE MY BODY.  It's nice for my dear sweet girl that she doesn't have to go through life looking like ::shudder:: her mother, but unfortunately for yours truly, I DO have to look like me.  And I would really appreciate any help I can get in pretending that this is not such a horrible fate.

I'm pretty sure I've reached my limit on smiling in response to this statement and agreeing that yep, "she's just a little thing" and trying my hardest to live vicariously through my luckylucky daughter and ignore the way I'm being insulted to my face.  And anyway, BEST case scenario, that response just turns me into a crazed stage mother, and then all of a sudden my luckylucky daughter has a pretty serious cocaine habit.

So there it is.  And now that you've all been warned, you should also know that the next person who says this to me is risking a swift-but-intense punch to the face.  But in my defense, come on.  You were asking for it.


Oh right, this was a PSA:

The more you know....

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Keep on, keepin on.

Mmmmmm, just finished my delicious and totally fulfilling lunch: a Slim-Fast bar washed down with a nice cool glass of ice water.  Man, I am just livin' the life.

So, since reconvening the diet and dropping soda on Wednesday, I've dropped back down from 152 to about 147.  That may seem super fast, 5 pounds in 4 days, but really, it's not.  147 to 151 is my normal range, so losing and gaining within those numbers happens pretty stinkin fast.  Getting below 146 will be the true mark of dieting success, I cannot WAIT to see that happen. I cannot wait to see that happen so much I'm almost willing to chop off 2 pounds worth of chub myself if it refuses to come off on its own.  THAT, my friend, is motivation.

The best part about getting serious again has been the fact that, honestly, it's not been nearly as difficult as I thought it would be.  No soda-withdrawal symptoms, no headaches, no shakes, I don't feel like I'm starving to death, and I haven't cried once!  Well, at least, not about the food.  And crying about other things doesn't count.  I haven't been working out as much as I should, strictly speaking, but it's overcast and magnificent today, so maybe I'll go for a run again today.  Seriously.  It's that magnificent.

I have a milestone coming up soon.  On August 6th, it will have officially been 1 year since I began this weight loss journey.  I'd sort of been hoping to hit 50 pounds lost by then, but let's be honest, that's 6 more pounds in 6 days and that's pretty doubtful, unless I just decided to officially stop eating completely, and I like eating waaaay too much for that.  Hence the reason I had more than 50 pounds to lose.  BIG big shock there.

Anyway, be prepared for some reflections on the year and a few new before/currently pictures.  A full year of transformation... that's kind of intense.

Happy Sunday y'all!  Hope you're counting your own blessings today!

Thursday, July 28, 2011

I'm back in the Saddle Again!

Well, sort of.  My first day back on the diet was a pretty intense fail, which was at least 75% NOTMYFAULT.  I'm choosing to blame a nice elderly Filipino lady who bought me a cheeseburger (which she later forced into my hands) even though I had insisted that I'd already eaten lunch.  No, she didn't force it into my mouth, I did that part willingly.  But only to be nice.   I didn't enjoy it at all.  I promise.

Just the same, I've had that ol' Gene Autry song stuck in my head for a couple of days.  If you'd like to picture it, know that my inner monologue wears chaps and smokes a really nasty cigarette.  And even though yesterday didn't work out as well as I'd hoped, the game is friggin on.  I'm working out (twice already this week, but a third "very active with the child" day, which I think counts for at least 3/4 point) and I'm going hardcore on the Slim Fast plan again that worked so well for me... when I did it.... throughout this past year.

Oh, and I'm off soda completely.  It's about 38 hours since that last Diet Dr. Shasta, and so far, I'm okay. I'm not sure when the shakes are supposed to start, but I'm ready for it.  I just hope my husband's ready for all the whining and crying.

I'd like to say that it feels great to be back on track, but the best I can say is that it feels a little bit good.  It also feels like deprivation, and like every muscle in my body hurts.  It feels like getting restless leg syndrome at night, because for some odd reason, that gets worse when I exercise.

Apparently I'm seriously out of shape again.  My muscles feel atrophied, I get winded more easily, and my stomach is decidedly poochier. In the last week or so, my weight ballooned up from 147 to 152.  155 is my "healthy weight" limit, and I think I'd like to be farther away from overweight.  I'm back "down" to 150 as of today, so that gives me 15 more pounds, MINIMUM, to lose in the next 70 days.  Totally doable. Right?  Right.

So there we are.  This blog is going to be filled with weight loss updates again the next couple of months, because if I don't tell you, I might just stop doing it.  And stop doing it is not an option.

Hope you have a grab-the-reigns sort of day!

Monday, July 25, 2011

An Ode to One Lonely Soda

There is one more soda in the fridge.

One lonely soda, and, when I drink it, there will be no sodas.  And it will be all my fault.

Not because I drank the soda.  No.  That is what soda is for: to be enjoyed by happy addicts like myself.  But after sometime tomorrow, when I inevitably decide to drink that one last Diet Dr. Shasta, I've decided to something stupid and impulsive and life changing.

I've decided to go off soda.  Yeah, I know.  Probably for a month or something, at least that's the goal for now.

I'm not sure why I've decided this.  No wait, that's not true.  I decided it because I was watching Extreme Makeover: Chubby Bunny Edition, and I felt super inspired to take one giant leap in my effort to be "Lookin' Great by Twenty Eight".... or another slogan for my weight loss goal that doesn't sound like someone should slap my mother for having given birth to me.  Right.

What I DON'T know is why I feel the need to take each stupid impulse I have so friggin seriously.  Remind me this later:  Just because I have a thought, doesn't mean I need to act on it.  In fact, thoughts are real easy to move past!  Look: boop.  Just had one.  Then I moved on.  Wow!  Please remind me of this moment if I ever decide to say, shave off all my hair,  go on any singular-food-item diet or try any program that includes the words "colon cleanse". Nnnno. If God had intended for us to clean out our colons.... nnnnno.

I'll give you another update when that last soda is gone and this thing actually starts.  I'm pretty excited about the fact that I've found a way to make my summer a little bit worse, so I'm sure you'll be hearing a lot about it.

Hope you are.... not so flippant with your life choices!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Giddy-Up

The scale just told me I'm fat.  The scale better watch its mouth, or it's going to get a punch in the face.

Coming down from nearly 200 pounds, the 140's have felt pretty stinkin comfortable this summer.  I feel like me.  I feel younger.  I feel healthier and, in general, happier, and less encumbered by my own body.  I haven't hit the goals I wanted to, exactly, but I felt pretty comfortable, and it's hard to keep going when you don't have the motivation to.  Because here's my dirty little secret:  I totally know how to maintain 147 with basically no work.  I don't exercise.  I allow myself to eat veritable crap when I want to eat veritable crap.  I just make sure that once I get closer to 150, I cut back.  I eat 1200 calories for a day or two, I make sure I'm a little more active, and blam-o.  I stay at 147.  Weight maintenance is awesome.  Of course, technically speaking, I'm still about 20lbs over my goal weight, so I really should be so focused on weight maintenance.  Seems I may have skipped a step or 20.  Wups!

Well, it seems something in me has finally snapped.  I'm not feeling so comfortable with myself anymore.  My perspective has changed, I'm not a person coming down from nearly 200 pounds anymore, who may look "pretty good, considering".  I'm a person who has maintained the 140's for months, and only temporarily saw the underbelly of 145 after spending a week being violently ill.  I'm a person with a sad belly button who would like to stop having to adjust her pants in hope of avoiding that inevitable and deplorable muffin top.

I'm not saying I hate my body.  My body ran a friggin 1/2 marathon, and I'm still proud of it.  But just the same, I still want to achieve the best me.

So here's a goal that I'm deciding on as I write it.  I will be 28 years way too old (oooh my, what happened to my youth!!) on October 6th, and I want to, nay, WILL hit 135 by then.  2 1/2 months, about 12 pounds.  If I get my tush in gear, it's totally attainable.

So friends, family, blog friends, keep me accountable.  Ask me if I'm running some more.  Make me feel really bad about that.  Oh, and ask if my belly button is in a better mood, because I think that may be my new personal barometer.

Hope you all have a goal-meeting Sunday!

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Me 'n my sad little friend :-(

Fun news flash!  This weekend, I found something new about my body that makes me feel completely and utterly depressed.  Not just because I don't like it, and not because it reminds me how infrequently I'm working out.  No.  It's because well, it's my belly button.  And it's sad.

I've only recently discovered my belly button, which is why this is a sudden news flash, and I haven't had to deal with it for years now.  A significant portion of Friday afternoon was spent with my family on a backyard Slip 'n Slide.  Yes, side note, we own a Slip 'n Slide, even though our daughter isn't even 2 yet.  But for your information, we owned it long before she was ever born.  Oh, and this is the SECOND one we bought since we've been married.  So what.  We like to Slide.

So somewhere between chucking my daughter and myself down that slippery wet awesomeness, it seems I lost my belly button ring.  Don't cringe, it didn't hurt.  Everyone always cringes, but truly I didn't even notice till I found a portion of the ring lying at my feet.

Here I probably need to stop.  Yes, I have a pierced navel.  I did that with my roommates about 9 1/2 years ago.  No, I didn't have a sexy stomach then.  No, I don't have a sexy stomach now, and no where in the middle did I ever have a sexy stomach.  In the beginning we did it because it felt crazy and fun, like getting a tattoo that you could just pop out when you were done with it.  Later it became a thing where, well to be frank, my stomach looks better pierced than not-pierced.  Especially now, because due to fatness and post-pregnancy sagginess, my belly button is sad.

I think a really good belly button would always look somewhat surprised.

See how it stands there, gaping, open-mouthed at the sun?  It's beautiful.  It's filled with wonder and enjoyment.  Now that is a nice, surprised belly button.






This, on the other hand, is a sad belly button.  Notice how it is pucker faced and droopy.  It is not happy.  It is not going to gaze into the sunlight with awe-struck wonder.  It is going to hide beneath as many clothes as it could find, and it is going to pout.  Because that is what sad belly buttons do.

No, before you ask, this is not my belly button.  My belly button is less puckered and less droopy, but larger than this one.  Like a deep, gaping maw in the middle of my body.  I think it might possibly reach my spine.

Point being, I don't like my belly button.  I look at its sad little droopy face and I feel depressed.  Cheer up, ol' friend!  All is not lost!  Maybe I'll lose some weight and you'll be a little flatter, maybe even less droopy!  Or shoot, maybe I'll save up some money and have someone cut off you and the rest of my lower abdomen and have someone make me a new belly button.  A better belly button.  One that looks like the center of a sunshine, like it might just start singing cheery songs to me when I'm feeling blue.  Yes, I think this might be the plan.


But for now, I'm stuck with my old depressing belly button.  I'm tempted to get a new ring and hide him, but I know now that this is just a bandaid, a sad little mask hiding me from the truth.  For now, though, here's something to look at while I make the final decision: a belly button with a Harrison Ford smirk.

Hope you have a cheery-belly day!!

Friday, July 22, 2011

OooOOooooh Love Hurts

Shane and I got married a little over 5 years ago.  Just like most people on their wedding days, I felt very much caught up in the wonder and blessing of that moment.  FINALLY.  Finally, we get to stand before our friends, before God, and commit every one of our tomorrows to each other.  Finally we get to be together, be each other's family, to start our own life.  Finally, we get to be together, in love, forever.

Forever.  Now that's a crock.

Amidst the beauty and wonder of that amazing day, amidst the promises of love and commitment to each other and to God, I distinctly remember staring into the eyes of the man I loved and thinking one very clear thought:  This is NOT going to end well.

Now, I should probably say here, that when Shane and I said till death do us part, we meant it.  For better or worse, for happy about it or kicking and screaming, till DEATH do us part.  And that, my friends, is the real problem here.  We're not going to get a divorce.  Ever.  It's simply not an option, I-absolutely-do-not-care-what-happens-along-the-way-you-are-stuck-with-me-so-suck-it-Shane.  (You know, we didn't come out and say it, but I think the "Suck it" was really implied in our vows.)  But that fact, unfortunately, does not exactly guarantee you a happily ever after.  Death still happens.  As a woman, I've got a greater than 50% chance of outliving my spouse.  I do not like those odds.

Oh, and having kids, that's even worse.  I have a daughter.  She's almost two, and she's absolutely adorable.  She spends most of her day playing and giggling and making statements like, "Oh, you funny", "I loooooove Mommy" and "I looooooove Daddy".  She is rock freakin awesome and she makes my life like, 1000 times better.  But I will lose her.  WILL.  Even if she survives to a ripe old age, long past the day when I pass on, I will lose her.  She'll move away.  She'll get married.  She's certain to stop talking to me entirely by the time she turns 14. She'll grow up, and find her own life and own way and own family.  One way or another, I have a 100% chance of losing my sparkly eyed baby girl.

So why?  Why do we care about others?  Why do we get married?  Why do we have kids?  Why do we rip our own hearts out, hand them to others and simply say "There ya go, now be careful with that!"

I guess the answer must be that it's somehow worth it.  God gives us love to give, and we only really get to experience it when we take that risk, when we give it away.  Someday, whether days or decades from now, life is going to hurt like freakin crazy.  And I know that, because I have chosen to love.  And when it does, I hope I can remember that every moment, up to and including that one was an undeserved blessing.  In fact, maybe it's time to start remembering that now.

Hope you all can count your own undeserved blessings today!

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Parenting Fail: How, it seems, I've given my daughter a weight complex

Despite my strong resolve to NOT pass my own body image issues to my pure, innocent child, it seems I have failed.  And she's only 21 months old.

A few weeks ago, when my daughter was going through a "hold me all the time I think the ground might be lava" phase, I may have, MAAAAY have told her that she was getting heavy.  I didn't call her fat (though she's heard me call myself fat, and repeated it, and there's a fat fish in a Dr. Seuss book that she likes to point out), I didn't call her chubby, or big, or anything I thought sounded offensive.  But now, every time I pick her up (only me, mind you, she doesn't say it with anyone else) she says in her most exaggerated tone: "Woooooaaaaaah Heeeaaaavy!" Come on Madelyn.  I wasn't THAT dramatic about it.  Cut me some slack!

When I was a child, my mom worked out some.  She had (like all women who have ever existed ever) put on some weight having my brother and I, and worked hard to try and get back in pre-parenting shape.

Now it's important that I say here, that I don't remember any of the following:
1) My mom complaining about her own weight
2) My mom seeming depressed about her weight
3) My mom calling herself fat
4) Anyone else calling my mom fat
5) And DEFINITELY, my mom calling me fat

What I do remember is a slightly shorter list:
1) That my mom occasionally exercised, mostly to videos on TV.
2) That she did some of this with me.
3) Sitting with her and doing stretches, when I had to have been no older than 4.
4) I remember that it hurt, and that I thus deduced that anything that caused me pain must be "healthy" for me.

Here's the point, though:  Somewhere in there, I became crazy.  I have memories of my 5, 6, 7 year old self, who was a little tall and knobby-kneed, thinking I was fat.  I was certainly a little taller and broader than a lot of my classmates, but that was my bones.  Not my fat.

I have no idea why I felt so insecure as a child, but I vowed to myself that I would do everything in my power to avoid that same fate for my child.  And what did I do? I went and called her heavy.  And she reminds me of that fact every freakin day.

Of course, as I am regularly reminded by friends and family, Madelyn is skinny.  Despite her sizeable cranium (that one's from me, thankyouverymuch) it seems quite obvious she has "her father's physique".  Seriously guys?  It's that obvious?  I'M A FRIGGIN SIZE 6, EVEN SIZE 4 ON A GOOD DAY!!!  I'm not a dang elephant or anything here, she... well, she could have my physique... Oh never mind.

Point being, she'll find plenty to complain about.  Every woman does.  I just really hope I didn't give her something to complain about before she hit the ripe old age of 2.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...