Grab My RSS Because I Like How It Feels

I'm taking an indefinite break. If you need me, you can find me at lisa h golden at gmail dot com.

And if you want to know if there are any new posts, I recommend you take my rss feed. I'll also let you know via Facebook and Twitter if/when I start blogging again.

I'd say go see my blogroll, but since I killed that in an ill conceived effort to clean things up and never got around to rebuilding it, well.....you know. Dumb. Ass.

Be well, be good to each other and don't take any wooden nickels. Unless, you know, you like wooden nickels.

Much love and gratitude...

Lisa

Take Your Pick

5:14 a.m., the alarm goes off
MathMan: I had a dream that I ran for Congress and won.
Me: That's cool. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

5:30 a.m., the alarm goes off again
Me: So in this dream, you were going to be a congressman?
MathMan: Uh huh, I was talking to Phil Gingrey about it.
Me: I see. So he was still a congressman, too?
MathMan: Yeah.......you know, it was only after I won that I thought about the skeleton in the closet?
Me: Jesus Christ! Which one?

Perhaps a Plot Idea for My Next Story?

I sat down to write about the fact that I've finished draft one of the manuscript. But since it's 10:00 p.m. and there was a poo on the floor of the second stall of the bathroom in the 5th grade hall at Sophia's school, I have to listen to all the nuances surrounding the mystery of who did it, and why (an intriguing question, I admit), who reported it and who finally cleaned it up. Sophie just got home after spending the afternoon with one of her girlfriends. We're now playing catch up on how her day went. The poop features prominently.

Sadly, I'm antsy and not using my best active listening skills. I've worked all day on the manuscript and it's finished! Draft one that is. I'm anxious to overshare and blow off some steam. She's still giving me the fine details about someone's indiscriminate use of the bathroom floor.

"Perhaps you could go tell Daddy about it? I'm just trying to write a little piece."

"Daddy doesn't appreciate a good poop story like you do."

Ah. Well, thank goodness I bring something unique to the parenting table.

L is for Lisa who (fill in the blank)

Ever have one of those days when you're really, really glad that there's no one following you around with a video camera?

When the day started, I didn't quite feel that way. Oh sure, I began the day by locking myself in the laundry room. Thankfully I'd dropped my cellphone into my pocket and was able to text MathMan to come let me out. Actually, Nate heard me knocking on the door and let me out before MathMan arrived downstairs.

But that was just a fluke, right?

Later, after I dropped MathMan off at work and drove home, I was dealing with an increasing need to pee. Some of you are familiar with my need to squeeze when I sneeze because of um, plumbing issues. (Don't have kids? Laugh away. Your time will come.) Well, I sat at the last stoplight before reaching home and felt a sneeze coming on. The light turned green, I sneezed, forgetting that I had the car in first gear and as I reflexively crossed my legs, the car lurched forward and died.

I arrived home and rushed upstairs, dropping my purse on the floor outside the bathroom door. After I finished my business, I opened the bathroom door, forgetting that the purse had become a little booby trap. It was a nice fall.....

Did I mention that I think I broke a couple of my toes last week by stubbing them on the elliptical?

Typically, though, I'm pretty sure-footed. I suspect that existential pay back stuff is at work again. I have recently had the temerity to joke MathMan about being a klutz.

After I shook off the fall, I ventured back outside to gather up some trash that had collected in our side yard. We have a ditch that attracts all manner of effluvium from the neighborhood. I bent down to pick up a piece of a small, plastic clothes basket. I didn't realize that it was fused to the ground by a tasty mixture of dead leaves and mud. I yanked, but nothing happened. I yanked again, harder. I didn't have my mouth shut all the way which is how I know the mixture was tasty.

The rest of the day has been mostly uneventful. Mostly. After working on my manuscript for a couple of hours, I was feeling peckish. I looked in the fridge and there was the custard sauce I'd made to accompany chocolate chess pie over the weekend. The pie was gone (ahem, not me entirely) so I decided I may as well enjoy the wee bit of custard that was just going to go to waste otherwise. I spooned it out of its little glass cup enjoying its sweet goodness while I watched the birds at the feeder. A cat rubbed up against my leg. I dipped my finger into the custard and bent down to give the cat a lick. He gave me a warm thank you nuzzle and I stood, bumping my head on the edge of the kitchen table. The custard bowl clattered to the floor.

"Well, let's just hope that's the last of my klutziness today," I sighed and rubbed my head. The cat rolled his marble eyes at me and went about cleaning up the custard from the floor.

Unemployment Diary - Domesticated

When I lost my job in December, I had a few sleepless nights where I worried and worried hard about the money. Now we've almost reached that point where you think "Well, hell, what else can go wrong?" Of course, the glass half empty side of my brain warns against that kind of thinking. Ask and ye shall receive the answer. And there's always an answer.

But the work? I don't miss it. I'm finding what I do now to be so much more rewarding. I realize now that even though I'd been in my line of work for nearly twenty years, I've never really felt it defined me. Except for the martyr aspect. I was most adept at working my butt off only to give away the credit to some volunteer. In that way, motherhood is similar, I'm afraid. At least the way I practice it.

Nevertheless, it took me no time to adjust to not having a long commute or going to an office and pretending to be a grown up, all serious and stuff. And panty hose? Yeah. No.

Sure I miss the drives with MathMan, but we've instituted Sunday Morning Bed Ins where we hang out, watch DVDS, have breakfast and lunch in bed, read and just laze about, enjoying each other's company immensely. Sometime around 11am, we even unlock the bedroom door so the kids can join us as we do nothing much at all. At first, they were all "Aren't you guys ever going to get out of bed?" And now they're getting use to it. "Just don't think about the wild monkey sex your parents have on the bed and you'll be fine," we tell them. Works like a charm.

(Note: Not leaving the house and not being online is a great way to NOT spend money.)

Even now, as I wait for the unemployment insurance to kick in, I'm Fretty McWorry about money, but this is not a new hobby. Being unemployed has only exacerbated the situation.

I keep reminding myself that it is all in how you look at things, right? So I lost my job. Now I have time to write. And housework is less of a hassle when I'm not cramming it into the weekends and evenings. I realized sometime during week 2 of unemployment that I don't mind doing housework as long as I don't have an audience. It's when other people are sitting around on their firm teen asses while I work that I get petulant. As it should be. But leave me alone and I'm knocking Mr. Clean and the Tidy Bowl Man out of my way as I buzz around getting things done.

And the cats don't mind my rhetorical snark such as "Who left this half a brownie on the mantel?" or "Why is there a sock on the ceiling fan?" They simply yawn, stretch and find another patch of sunlight in which to sit and observe the woman who insists on talking to them in that high voice.

And don't let this get around because I have a reputation to maintain, but I dig that I'm here for the kids more than I could be before. And I like them. Mostly. See? It's not all bad.

Have I mentioned our carbon footprint? It's shrinking! We save gas on that long commute. So the dryer broke? Pain in the ass, right? Well, sure, but now we're saving money and using less energy by not running a dryer. I do the laundry, I hang it to dry in the basement, and then iron it to soften it up. Even the socks. Trust me, it works and it's incredibly meditative, this ironing thing. I mostly do it while watching old movies, so what's not to love? Chloe did wonder aloud at the need for ironing boxers and panties until I made her do the feel test. That shut her up pretty quickly. Or she was simply indulging me so that I wouldn't force her to touch Nate's boxers. Either way, she concurred.

While I'm ironing (no apron required), my favorite old movies to watch are from the 1930s. I see the portrayals of the Great Depression and think "we don't have it that bad" and I'm fine. We're fine. We still have a roof over our heads and meals on the table. Real meals for a change. We eat at home almost exclusively now. Turns out, I'm a pretty good cook. It's much easier to make a meal when you're not tired from being at the office all day and then driving for freaking ever to get home. You should see what I can do with some ground roadkill and bread crumbs.

We're economizing any way we can. We already gave up a car. We're thinking about getting rid of the satellite t.v., but I'm dragging my feet. I must confirm that we can get Turner Classic Movies on the basic package. Everyone is brownbagging it these days. We go to the library for our books, DVDS and CDs.

Meanwhile, I make other efforts, too. I'm fattening up the little finches at the feeder in case we run out of cat food. I go around the house and unplug unused electronics and switch off lights, sometimes even when someone is in the room. "Come on, you can pee in the dark. It's not like you're reading..." has become one of my oft-repeated phrases along with "Turn off that light when you leave the room" and "Nope, sorry, no money for that."

Even the little life hiccups aren't bad. Today, Nate had a fever and needed to come home from school. I walked over to get him and we walked back home together, chatting all the way. Now had the weather been like it was yesterday, all rainy and gray, this would be an entirely different blog post, but the skies are blue and the sun is bright and even the strong winds weren't enough to make me whine about the walk through the subdivision, across the covered bridge and through the park to reach the school. It was quite nice and I can count it as additional exercise. Bonus!

My unemployment insurance should kick in shortly and that will be most welcome. It will pay for gas, groceries and rent. Those money-grubbing credit cards that get their payments each month via the Chapter 13 bankruptcy might have to work with us on reducing our burden. I'm not holding my breath. I'm learning to cross bridges when I come to them, you know?

For now, I'm looking for a job, but for each resume I send out, I'm torn between knowing I need the job and not being too thrilled about going back to the grind.

It's been nice, this idea that I can keep the house and be a mother and write and that's enough. Of course, that it's not. But still. I do not now nor have I ever needed a job outside the home to feel fulfilled or to keep boredom at bay. I can't even imagine being bored anymore. I still don't have enough hours in the the day to do everything I want to do.

I'm reminded of my friend Bonnie Flowers once again. We were sitting at our desks in the bullpen we occupied at the AARP office in Chicago and the subject of the two income trap came up. We were a split group of two wage earner homes and single parent homes. None of us hated the idea of being able to work, but there was plenty of grousing about the need for all of us to be working.

"I wish I had a time machine," Bonnie said. "I'd go find that first woman who thought her husband was going to the office every day to have a party and decided that she wanted to work, too, and I'd smack her. Hard."

A bit hyperbolic, to be sure, but she definitely had a point.....I don't want to take away anyone's right or desire to work outside the home, but it would be nice to not feel like we're going to drown if I don't find full time work. Perhaps it's time for the pendulum to swing back a bit. Or more accurately, maybe it already has.

Did your mother ever tell you that if you don't have anything nice to say, then say nothing at all.

Yeah?

Well, so did mine.

Man, I think I need a snack. And drinks, Several lots of drinks.

Still Editing

That is all.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I am a mess of self-doubt. I am re-reading this story, this novel, this manuscript and I'm thinking it is utter crap. I'm prepared to chuck it in the bin and walk away, forgetting that I ever entertained the idea that I could write a story.

I'm sick of the story, fed up with the characters and unsure of the narration. Should it be first person? Is there really a story there? Is there too much in the beginning and not enough in the second part? Wrap things up or leave them hanging? Do I give enough description? Is the writing too simple, not literary enough? What if I've just wasted all this time telling the wrong story, using these characters the wrong way?

I put the pages down and do something else. Play cards with Sophia, watch British murder mysteries with MathMan and Chloe. Goof around with Nathan. Pet a cat and stare out the window.

I think about the novels I'm reading lately. What is it that I like? What don't I like? How do their characters develop enough so that the reader cares what happens to them? And don't even get me started about genre. I haven't a clue where this story will fit.

Considering all that's wrong with the world (and, by the way, I'm heartened to see the good that disasters like Haiti bring out in people), all of this is incredibly petty, meaningless stuff. But it's my stuff and hopefully it will unlock a different kind of future for me and my family and so I press on even when all I'd rather do is read a book without analyzing it or catch another old film on TMC.

I'm about 90 pages from done with my read-through edits, so it's back to it. There is likely a bit more writing to do.

Be well and be good to each other and yourselves....

Lisa

Never Fear

Vintage Pussies for Peace

Dear People of the Internets,

Lisa hasn't died. She hasn't stopped writing. We're holding her hostage until she finishes editing her manuscript. She's on page 99 after a whirlwind of editing yesterday. In the meantime, we are struggling to get her to focus. Those of you who've met her, know what we mean.

As it is, we cannot turn our collective backs on her because the minute we do, she's vacuuming or screwing around on Facebook or scrubbing and organizing. We understand that this is how she processes things, but it's damned annoying. The book is almost there.

As you may know, we can't continue our advocacy work and lying about in patches of sun without the financial support of Lisa. Left to MathMan alone, we would be out on our ten ears or sold off to be made into catgut strings for violins. We understand that we are here at Golden Manor through the begging of children and the beneficence of Lisa, so we understand the gravity of this situation. That sweet, but insane woman (have you heard that voice she uses when she talks to us?) must finish this book and find an agent and get the book published in order for us to continue to have the kibble and shelter we so richly deserve for being so heartbreakingly adorable and peace loving.

So please forgive Lisa her absence from this blog and yours. You know she's on a desktop computer now that she's lost her job. That it so our advantage. We've figured out that the thing she calls a "mouse," but is NOT(duh! daft woman!) is critical to her ability to sit at the computer and waste precious time. As long as she can't find her "mouse," we have a better chance of "encouraging" her to read and edit.

Wishing you peace and Fancy Feast for 2010, we are,

The Pussies for Peace

P.S. We've remained silent on the activities of the Obama Administration vis a vis Afghanistan, etc. because we have not achieved a consensus among ourselves. It's a little like herding cats, you know.....

Sparked

I can't believe I missed my blog's anniversary. I'd say blogiversary, but I'm never sure how to spell it. Bloggaversary? Bloggiversary? Anyway, it's been a year since I switched to writing in this one place because I was overloaded with blog commitments. And what do you think I've noticed today? Of course, the commitments have piled on again. But now it's more of the twitter, facebook variety, which are quicker and to the point. Much easier to see a lot in a shorter amount of time. Still a major source of time gone missing.

Because too much is never enough, I've added two new places where I'm tracking my lifestyle changes, but I'm only going to use one. It's here. I'm going to stop using the first one I started. I like the tracking better on this one. I've spent a good part of the day setting things up on that fitness website and it reminds me a bit of the old days when we would spend two hours setting up our Barbie houses and fifteen minutes actually playing. Nevertheless, I'm going to do what I can to use the available and free technology on my quest for fitness.

It felt just a bit hypocritical as I set up the pages today while I ate things like birthday cake, potato chips and Kraft Dinner warmed over. Alternately sucking some Betty Crocker frosting straight from the tube and taking my measurements seemed just a bit over the top, but I won't let the shame of it stop me from getting up tomorrow and trying to eat things that won't make me sorry later.

Since I started paying attention, I've lost 2 pounds. It's a good start and I'm trying hard not to freak out about what a setback today might have been. I know it's counterproductive and will only lead to me doing the old "might as well have that bowl of ice cream now that I've already blown the day" attitude. To tell you the truth, though, a day of being completely sedentary and consuming mostly refined sugar has left me feeling sluggish and yawning. It's 6:30 in the evening and I'm ready for bed. I need to remember this feeling and the knowledge that it's a direct result of my wicked, wicked ways.

Until then, well, you know......

My kind of veggie plate! Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes and a sweet potato.
At least the beans were green.

Adventures in Real Parenting: TMI Thursday

This post is part of the

Story Number One: I Blame Testosterone
Scene: It's early morning, during the recent holiday break. MathMan and I are in bed. My cell phone rings. I hesitate to answer it, then decide that since one of our children spent the night elsewhere, I'd better answer it.

Me: Hello?
Nathan: Mom?
Me: Yes? Is everything okay?
Nathan: Well..
Me, getting impatient: Okay. What. Spill it.
Nathan: The police made me call.
Me, now getting a bit panicky: POLICE? What the hell? Are you okay?
Nathan: I'm fine. We just got busted for jumping off the roof of the clubhouse at Claw Woods.
Me: Oh. Well, that was stupid of you. Do we need to come get you? Where are you?
Nathan: We're back at B's house. No, you can come get me at 11:30.
Me: All right. I take it you didn't get arrested. Do we need to do anything?
Nathan: No, but the back of the cop car is really small.
Me: That's good to know. We'll see you at 11:30. Then I want details. How stupid you guys are.
Nathan: Okay. It took four cop cars and eight cops to apprehend three fourteen year olds who were sitting on a sidewalk.
Me: They must not have had anything to do. Still - you guys are idiots. We're going to be talking about this later.
Nathan: I know.
Me: By the way - this better be the first and last time you call me to tell me you've been picked up by the police. You interrupted Daddy and me in the middle of morning sex.
Nathan: Mom!!! Is that my punishment?
Me: Did it make you want to throw up?
Nathan: Yes.
Me: Then yes. It's a start.

I punched the off button on my cell and said to MathMan over my shoulder. "That's the last time I answer the phone in the middle of sex."

"I still can't believe you answered it this time," he said right before he...


Story Number 2 - I Still Don't Know How She Knows, but She Knows
Sophia walked into my office a few days ago and stood next to me. I could tell that something was up, but I was in the middle of writing and tried to deflect her. I hate it when I forget to shut my door when I'm working.

She wasn't going to budge so I finally engaged. We chatted about this and that, but it was clear that we'd not yet hit on the real reason she was hovering over my shoulder. I decided to simply ask and here is what she told me..."There is a used condom in the leaf pile by the fire pit."

Curiosity about how she knew what it was flickered through my brain, but hey, she's almost eleven and it's a world that only allows us the illusion that we're shielding our kids from the grown up stuff, so I skipped that question and inquired with the morbid "Did you touch it?'

"Gross, Mom! No! It's mixed up in the leaves."

"Well, who does it belong to?"

"How should I know?" Her eyes were bugging out of her head.

"I wonder how it got there," I thought out loud. "So why did you want me to know?"

"I want you to go get it and throw it away."

Ah. Okay, so there it was. The real reason. She was grossed out and wanted it disposed of. Seemed reasonable enough to me. "Go tell Daddy," I smiled and pointed toward the door. He has a penis, condoms should be his department. If it were a tampon, I'd be called to duty, right?

She shook her head and left.

But that was not the end of it. She did mention it to her father and he responded with an alacrity to match my own.

She mentioned it at least six times every day.

Fast forward to Tuesday. Chloe was pulling out the driveway on her way back to school. We'd had a wee bit of a cry and many hugs. As she drove away, I sauntered out to the leaf pile. It only took me ten seconds to see the deflated, transparent and definitely used sheath lying there amongst the dry, browned and curling oak leaves. An ewwwww escaped my lips.

My cellphone rang. "Hello."
"You're looking for that condom, aren't you?"
"I am."
"And?"
"Found it."
"Gross. What did you do with it?"
"Kicked some leaves over it."
"Smooth."
"You know it."

I turned around and walked away.

Not Built to Last

I just go getting a bit too smug about this whole unemployment thing and, well, you can see for yourself....

In 2003, we bought a new washer and dryer when we moved from Illinois to Georgia. We left behind some Kenmores that we got with the last house. They must have been about fifteen years old and were still running strong.

In October 2006, the "new" washer died. We replaced it.
In November 2006, the "new"dryer conked out. Again with the replacing.

We bought the extended warranty from Lowes. We high-fived each other in the parking lot, congratulating ourselves for learning a valuable lesson about today's manufacturing methods. Things aren't built to last. Companies don't want you to have that washer/dryer for fifteen years, dummy.

A few weeks ago, the dryer started making noises. I complained, but nothing happened. The noises got louder. MathMan called the warranty company. Apparently, my dialing finger is broken. The truth is - I leave some of this stuff up to MathMan because we have terrible feuds about the division of labor. If I barrel in and do everything, I relinquish my right to gripe that he's not doing enough around here. We actually had a very funny (in retrospect) fight about that this summer, but I can't tell you because I included it in the novel.

Anyway - the tech came out yesterday (I love this guy, we talk gardening) and what do you know? What ails the dryer isn't covered under the warranty. Of course not. The dryer isn't heating up and isn't really safe to use. Repairs would be near $300. He recommended that next time we get a Kenmore or a Whirlpool.

As soon as he finished wiping my tears and left, I began considering how I might go about stealing a dryer from those perpetual yard sales set up along Highway 278 (I'll have to figure out how to hotwire some truck first), I guess I'll be doing laundry old school. Washing and hang drying in the laundry room. When the weather warms up a bit, I might even ask MathMan to string me a clothes line in the backyard.

I'd love to sputter in surprise that the universe could find yet another way to try to squeeze money out of us, just when we're about to feel the pinch of unemployment, but screw it. The silver lining is that we can reduce our carbon footprint (some), I can work or read while our clothes tumble around in the dryer when I do make the occasional trip to the laundromat and it won't kill me see how laundry was done before dryers were a common household item. I think I'd like to live back then, well, let me try my hand at it, even in this small way. At least I won't have to blue the whites and heat up my iron in the fire. Yet.......

The fact remains, there are millions and millions of people who have it far worse than I do. So my dryer is busted? It could be worse. It can always be worse. And if it ever is ..... I'll always have absinthe.

Will Get Back to You When I Can See My Toes

Well, cake got involved yesterday. I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully deny my inner four year old. As many of you pointed out yesterday, that's no excuse for not trying. I agree.

I'm touched by the outpouring of support for this endeavor. Some of you mentioned that you relate to my issues. Naturally, I'm glad in the misery loves company way. In comments, some of you have noted that you'll get started on this as soon as this food or that food is gone. I completely understand.

As I've mentioned in emails to some of you, Sophia's birthday is on the 7th and so there will be more cake in the house. She's turning eleven and wants a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. Too bad she doesn't want a radish cake with Brussels sprouts frosting. Now that, I could away from without feeling the least little pang.

And since she has the nerve to turn eleven, I suppose I should have the decency to stop considering this extra heft my last little bit of pregnancy weight.

Thanks for your comments yesterday, even those of you who offered advice, you bunch of rule breakers. As predicted, I heard from the water pusher. I still say noted. I also heard from those of you who've had good results from moderation, even the most basic of exercise, Weight Watchers with fabulous group leaders, and the subtraction of just one food sin at a time. I heard warnings about the perils of using the old "muscle weighs more than fat" argument for having another Krispy Kreme and I'll keep in mind that it's not just the cake, but the potato chips, too, that add more cushion for the pushin.

I was glad to hear, too, from the folks who don't want me to delude myself with ideas that I, too, can look like an adolescent boy with concave cheeks and ribs all pokey outy. It's true, I was never a chick who could balance a ruler across her hip bones so I promise not to go too nuts.

The other comment that caught my eye was the one about not becoming too judgmental and preachy. As if! And even though I am not a fan of Dr. Pepper anymore (I think I threw it up in the 7th grade), it's highly unlikely that I'll ever fully give up drinking the occasional root beer or Coca Cola. I mean, if you don't drink at least one Coke a month, they won't let you vote in the state of Georgia, so right there is reason enough.

The point is, though, this is for my health and hopefully will last long enough for me to fit into some of the clothes I've been drooling over on etsy. This is not to shame you or anyone you love. I've never been an all or nothing kind of person, even when I've wanted desperately to be one. If I offer any tips at all, it will likely be in the form of "don't try this at home without medical supervision and a fire extinguisher close at hand."

So where does that leave yesterday? Was it a success? If you're interested, you can see the chronicle of shame and horror here. There's a general post, a nutrition post and an exercise post. Bets on how long the nutrition and exercise posts will last? Nevermind. I'm going to log the fun stuff over there instead of cluttering this blog up with my constant ruminations about my input and output, the crush I have on my elliptical and when I think I can start wearing pants with zippers again.

For those of you who'd rather not click that link, here's a quick recap of lessons learned:
1. I can zip through 45 minutes on the elliptical as long as I am distracted by something good and commercial free on the telly or by having someone with which to chat. Thanks to MathMan for keeping me company yesterday.

2. According to my elliptical's readout, I "ran" 8 miles in that 45 minutes. Now, I don't trust the accuracy of that, but it's nice to know that I could manage a 5k as long as I'm being towed along on my trusty exercise machine. Listen, I don't really imagine myself participating in something as bone jarring as running this frame through a 5k unless orgasms are involved. So.

3. If Sophie and I are going to have 'tea' when she arrives home from school, I must choose things that contain fiber, perhaps some lean protein and not a lot of carbs. Hot chocolate with toast can't be my fall back so that I get my sweet tooth fix.

And finally, these Hershey's Kisses in the drawer next to me? They need to get gone.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a carrot to nibble.

Call Me Mike or Mary Anne

I have battled my weight since 1987.
In August 1984, I left my hometown weighing 107 pounds and wearing girls size 12 jeans (I'm short. Very short. 5'3/4" short. Short.)
In September 1984, I discovered that weekends, including keg parties and pizza consumed at 2 a.m., began on Thursday nights and ended with the first class on Monday morning. If I managed to make it to class, that is.
In the spring of 1985, I started trying to match bite for Dunkin Donuts bite my boyfriend who was about 6' 1" and who officially qualified as a stringbean. He had a certificate and everything.
Even all that youthful, nubile sex didn't save me from gaining a few pounds.
By July 1985, the size 12 jeans no longer fit. Good thing I was working at Sears so I could use my employee discount to buy some skirts and pants with elastic waistbands.
I went to France for a summer semester in 1987. There I lived on wine, pastries, pizza, coffee, beer spiked with all manner of sin and whatever I could get my hands on at Flunch. No, I didn't really like French food. What a shame my palate was so limited back then. Talk about missed opportunities!
However, thankfully, when I was in France, I walked everywhere.
Then I came back to U.S. and enjoyed all the things I'd missed while I was away. No, I don't mean fruits and vegetables and whole grains. I mean Oreos, peanut butter, Arby's, Skyline Chili and Big Boys. The sandwiches, not the gender.
As luck would have it, I chose that same moment to give up walking for the great American past time of sitting behind the wheel of a car on an ever-expanding bottom.
And so it began. The slow slide into the reality that is fat genes, fat jeans and tears in front of the mirror because no fair!!!! I'm shaped just like Grandma Hewitt!!!

Why couldn't I have really been adopted like my sister told me I was?

Getting married, settling down, and having children did not help matters.
Phentermine did. But that's no solution, clearly. I can suppress my appetite, but eventually, my bad habits catch up with me. Again.

You see, I come by my bad habits honestly. You know how some people are Charmin people or Chevy people? My dad was a Ford man who loved his Pepsi. Cereal wasn't breakfast until we'd ladled tablespoons of sugar over it. That was a gift from our mom. Dad's breakfast of choice was a tall glass of 2% milk with about 1/4 cup of Hershey's Syrup added for giggles. The only bread in our house was white.

I learned well how to nurture my sweet tooth like it was my most precious possession. If I want to clear my family from a room, I don't have to pass gas (although that can work if I've consumed the proper combination of chocolate and green peppers). Nope, all I have to do is load a bowl with cherry jello, sprinkle it with sugar and pour milk over it. Sugar sprinkled on gelatinous sugar. You'd think I was eating raw brains or something.

But I am not here to play the blame game. I'm a grown up. I am perfectly capable of making my own choices now. I just choose to make all the wrong ones when it comes to food and exercise.

It's come to my attention, however, through the baleful stare I receive from the scales right before they squeeze their eyes shut in pain as I step on them, that things are horribly out of control. Again. I am obese. Contrary to conventional wisdom, saying it does not make it any easier. I no longer can see myself as a potentially thin person. I can't even remember what it looked like. Even my eyelids look fat. No really.

Bless his heart, MathMan pointed it out the other day without knowing.
Him: Are you sinuses bothering you?
Me: Yes, a little. Why?
Him: Your eyes look puffy.

When he left the room, I ran, okay... I lumbered to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. More injustice! My mother's eyelids had attached themselves to my face!

I have nothing and no one to blame but myself.

I'm genetically predisposed to being rotund. I carry my weight around my middle like a fat little apple on fat little legs. Let's just say, I would hate to read how someone might describe me in writing.

You know, once, a long long time ago, when I worked for AARP, one of the older volunteers (older being someone in their late 80s, perspective, my friends) was overheard describing me as "you know, that pretty, chubby girl." I was crushed. I wanted to parse the heck out of that statement. Did he mean pretty, but chubby or pretty chubby as in "Watch it, girly, or you'll find yourself crossing the line from chubby to fatso before you can say Ice Cream Sandwich."

But I knew what he meant. Chubby, but too cute to call a fatty. That was then. Now, I don't even qualify as cute or a girl. I'm silver-haired and swaddled in a layer of lard that is going to kill me. Slowly. But dead is dead. And I'm not a fan of the nasty way people who are festering with slow killers, the proverbial ticking time bombs, age.

So I'm making some changes and I'm going to log them online because I'm too cheap to go out and buy a notebook. And besides, I've forgotten how to write longhand.

From time to time, I'll share some of my journey? adventure? shame? with you. I know, you're thrilled. But perhaps watching me flounder about in this fat suit (see, I still don't want to believe this is the real me) will A. Make you feel better about yourself; B. Give you some universal sense that you are not alone in your struggles, whatever they maybe; and/or C. Make you laugh, because let's not kid ourselves, watching the fat chick slip and fall? Even I, with my highly cultured sense of humor, find that funny.

The thing I'm not seeking here, to be just flat out honest with you, is advice. People, I'm 44 years old, moderately educated and weigh - well, let's not get too personal. I'm aware of what I should be doing. Both my parents have hypertension and each has some level of diabetes. There have been incidents of colon cancer and breast cancer on my father's side. On my mother's side, it's like nothing to have open heart surgery. People, I get it. I really, really do. But getting it and implementing it are two entirely different things. I am an emotional eater with a heavy hitter sweet tooth. I am allergic to exercise. Really. I have a doctor's note.

But there it is, plain and simple, what I need to do. Eat less of what's bad for me. Eat more of what's good for me. Move more. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. And for that one person who is going to email me and tell me to make sure I'm drinking enough water. Noted.

So if I don't want your advice, why I am writing about it? Well, accountability. You know, MathMan has a cute way of describing accountability. He likens it to Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel. In the book, Mike and his trusty steam shovel Mary Anne dig better, faster, deeper when they have an audience.

Well, writing about this need to get healthy is my own way of doing a Mike Mulligan. If I write about it, I know one or more of you are going to occasionally remind me of my plan to be healthy. Oh yeah, you'll whack me with it just after I bake a pie or write about consuming martinis and wine full of empty calories. And that's cool. That's accountability. That's what friends are for, right?

But then there are those of you who will snatch a picture of me from my flickr and send it to me and make me want to grind my teeth and scream at the universe and dive head first into some Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. And that's cool, too. There's a bit of me who likes you when you're cruel.

Of course, I should say here that I am indeed doing this for my health. But the truth is that I want to get skinny so that I can indulge my fantasies of swanning about in steampunk fashions or vintage clothing from the 30s, 40s and 50s.

Mostly, though, I'm doing this Because I soooo need a day when I can look in the mirror and not say to myself "Fat, fat, the water rat....."

Whatever it takes, People, whatever it takes......

But Then You Might Want to Know What My Secret Is...

Well, my one job today, besides looking for a job, was to wake the children early to get them back into the habit of rising in time for school. The added benefit would be that they might go to bed at a decent hour.

If you look carefully, you might see that MathMan and I have somewhat thrown in the towel on the whole parenting thing. Oh the things I haven't told you.....

So this morning, I managed, but only just. All three children were awakened well before 1 o'clock pee em. Each was handed a cup of piping hot chocolate. Whipped cream and marshmallows were proffered. Cinnamon rolls had been freed from their cardboard tube and baked, if you can call it that, to just the acceptable amount of doughyness. Hey - it's how they take their tubular baked goods. What can I say? I decided long ago to choose my battles. The doneness of cinnamon rolls is not something I'm going to fret about when there are bigger issues like how many viewing hours of Yo' Mama is acceptable and what are the merits of this or that type of birth control.

Icing was spread on the gooey pinwheels. Rolls were distributed. They took their places around the table and stared out the window at the many and varied birds who were hopping about on the feeder which dangles from the side of the upper deck. That sounds as if we live on the Love Boat. Sadly, we do not. It's just another run-of-the-mill raised ranch in a middling subdivision in the Georgia. We do, though, have an upper and a lower deck. But no Lido Deck. And no Gopher, Captain Stubing, Julie or Isaac. Although---MathMan can shake a damn good martini.

Oh, foo, where was I? Oh, yes, telling you tales of my darling poppets as they burned their tongues sipped their hot chocolate and stared, unblinking out the window which always looks a bit too dark because it's coated in that sunblock stuff. Which, BTW, goes all gnarly when licked with a cat tongue.

They, the children, didn't have much to say at 8:45 a.m.

I filled the void by holding forth on some ideas to get us through the day without using violence or too many bad names. You see, we have this last day to enjoy each others company before Chloe goes back to Brenau and the other two start back with classes. MathMan, that poor, poor man, had to go to school today for meetings and such. I admit, I envy him not one little bit.

Included in my list is some reading time, some movie time, several games of Canasta (that's where the bad names might come into play), perhaps a trip to town (dear lord, we are so Green Acres), and then nap time. Because after getting up at 5:30 this morning with MathMan, I'm already feeling like I've put in a full day. People, it's 10:30 a.m.

It doesn't seem possible that just a couple of days ago, I stayed in my sleeping gear until well past two in the afternoon, lolling among the comforter and sheets, reading over two hundred pages of a novel to finish it in a single day. That is the first time I've done that this millennium. It could definitely become a habit.

So here we are, the day staring us down. Dinner has already been dispatched since I made a big pot of chicken noodle soup yesterday and went crazy and made some chicken salad, too. (Dear young chicken - thank you for being so meaty and delicious.) We just need to fill the day with wholesome, family-unity moments that they will remember for the rest of their lives. Isn't that the way I'm supposed to approach this? I'm so shaky with the prescribed good mom stuff.

Anyway, I've taken an informal survey and reading time has been vetoed. What a bunch of poops. They're split on movie time because we can't yet get a consensus on what to watch. Nap time is a definite. So is Canasta. They're always up for an opportunity to beat each other using acceptable means. But for now, they're ready to shower and get out of the house. Fair enough. I'll just take a book with me.

Another year already?

In 2008, I told you how it was going to be the Year of Clean Living. After 2007, which involved the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol, yo-yo weight gain, a distinct lack of exercise and all kinds of personal numbskullery, I thought that 2008 should herald a time in which I took better care of myself and those around me.

That last about 3 days, 6 hours and 14 minutes.

In 2009, I didn't resolve anything that I can remember, but that doesn't seem to have mattered. In a year that included a Chapter 13 bankruptcy, a foreclosure, moving the household, The Summer of Marital Strife, the ongoing joys and heartaches of raising three kids, the acquisition of yet another cat and recent unemployment, it's clear that any resolution for healthier living I'd have dared to make would have gone straight into the proverbial toilet anyway. For those of you who don't know, I am not now nor have I ever been one who doesn't eat when she's upset. If only!

Reading back on that last paragraph, I realize that we've been living the Real American Dream circa 2009. How quaint of us.

But I digress.

So there we were, ringing in 2010 with lots of chocolate bought half price at Target, sipping MathMan's signature KamaSutra Olive Juiced Martinis, and watching Rear Window. It seemed quite fitting somehow. We stayed up just past midnight, drank enough, but not too much, and I didn't eat so much chocolate that I ended up wishing for instant death. There were no fights, no large emotional upheavals and the only fireworks were those being set off by our neighbors behind us. It was just kind of calm, with the coolness of Grace Kelly in the background.

So where does that leave 2010? Well, I'm not laying out any big plans for radical change. No, instead I'm going with moderation in all things. Balance will be my motto. Or more accurately, as I mentioned this morning to MathMan "I'm going to eat salad so I can drink alcohol."

As long as the salad is made of chocolate ice cream and pie, I should be fine.

Happy 2010! Thank you for being a part of this.