Jim Is Frequently A Better Person Than Me

Sometimes I fall into a nasty habit of negativity for no good reason at all. It's mostly a bunch of first-world-problems type stuff that gets me down, and then suddenly, I've got something shitty to say about everything, and everybody. Anything and anyone in my life is fair game for a bitchfest, especially those I'm around all the time. The love of my life takes so much flack he doesn't deserve, and I know he's not the only darling husband finding himself on the business end of his wife's sharp tongue.

Here's the crazy part:   Jim doesn't talk shit about me. He doesn't complain to his buddies even when I'm at my cuntiest.  I don't know how he does it! I'd go insane if I didn't have my girls to run to when he flips back and forth between NASCAR and golf, or when he shirks forgets his share of the litter box scooping, or somehow fails to live up to my seemingly infinite supply of expectations that he's (mostly) unaware of.  I thought this was a fairly uncommon phenomenon (in fact, I know it is, because I work around a bunch of men who stand around griping about their wives all day); but then I was talking to my girl Angie, who was talking to a mutual friend of her and her husband, and apparently, hers doesn't talk shit about her either.

Wha?

So after my mind reels about this for a second, she says, "Yeah, so I'm doing this thing where I try not to complain about Hubs".  It made me flash on how common it is for me to criticize Jim for things that don't matter at all, except that it happened to be on my mind and I was in the mood to rag about shit, and I genuinely felt ashamed about it.  I thought about my friend Eric, and how he never says anything untoward about his wife, either, and I start feeling even worse.  I mean, these guys exercise self-control like it's their damn jobs, and I can't seem to find my inner shut-the-fuck-up.

That was last night before bed, and it's been at the back of my mind all day.  I'm thinking Ang's onto something with putting forth the effort not to complain about Mr. Ang.  It's too easy to fall into the habit of fault-finding, and I'd like to respect Jim the way he respects me.  I'm thinking maybe I'll challenge myself to say something positive about him every day (out loud? in public? on facebook? hmm.).  Whatchew think, Ang?  Wanna join the challenge?

  

Willpower, Why Hath Thou Forsaken Me?

I know, I really have a flair for the over-dramatic, but it just hasn't been a good past couple of days. Monday I talked myself into cheesecake (yes, that same cheesecake I blogged about on Monday; that same cheesecake that caused my coworker to call me out on my whiny bitchism). I tracked it, though, and I was determined to not let that piece of lemony, blueberry-ey goodness put a wedge in my week. (Get it? A wedge in my week? Okay, sorry. Moving on. . .)

Then I got some pretty awful news last night. Not good, seeing as how I'm an honest-to-God, dyed-in-the-wool emotional eater. So maybe I can't exactly articulate how terrible news translates to Taco Bell, but it did last night- a seven layer burrito and a nacho supreme. I know, I know! I could have at least eaten off the Fresco menu, but I didn't.

I was tempted not to track it. . . okay, I'd totally decided not to track it and just throw in the towel for the week. But then I got up this morning and decided I just had to know the damage, so I looked it up and tracked it. Turns out it didn't completely wreck my week (I've got 8 weeklies left, and this is my WI day). But I'm still upset, and worried about how that's going to impact my day.

I promise, I'll do my best not to let it.

The Unnecessarily Long Story Of How I Transformed Diet Cocoa Into A Packet Of Pure Awesome

I bought a box of that Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet once when it was on sale for a dollar (I'm a sucker for a good sale). I took it home, all kinds of giddy about having discovered 0 point cocoa; mixed it with 3/4 cup of water, and sat down to enjoy my find.

Of course it would be practically flavorless. Ah, well, it was only a buck, so I wasn't upset about the failed experiment. I put it in my cabinet and promptly forgot about it.

Fast forward a year past it's Best Before Date to this morning. I was frowning into my tea cabinet, at a loss for which one to pick when it occurred to me that I just wasn't in the mood for some tea. I'm not a coffee drinker either, so that was out of the question, but I really wanted a cup of something warm to wake up with. That's when my eyes fell upon the long-forgotten box of Swiss Miss.

I sighed and pulled it down, wondering what the new points value was since the system changed.

Calculator: That vile stuff is no longer free, my friend.

Me: What?!

Calculator: Yup. That cup of watered down, not-quite-sweet hot chocolate will now set you back a whopping one point.

Me: . . . Life hates me.

Calculator: Sometimes.

I went to put it back in the cabinet, when the last line of instructions caught my eye: For more indulgent cocoa, make with milk instead of water.

Huh. Couldn't hurt to try, right? I have a hard time getting my milks in anyway. But upon opening the fridge, I realized we had no milk.

Me: Life really hates me.

Fridge: Yeah, sometimes. Maybe try the soy milk?

Me: I have soy milk?

Fridge: Yeah, it's buried behind the ketchup bottle, the 2 liter of Pepsi and whatever's growing in that blue tupperware bowl.

Me: Right! I bought it for my chai the other day. Thanks, man!

Fridge: You can thank me by cleaning me out today.

I exhumed the soy milk from the back of my refrigerator and calculated the points. 2 points for a cup, 1 for 3/4 cup. I decided it was reasonable, warmed it up, and proceeded to make the cocoa. I was almost afraid to taste it.

The first sip wasn't so bad, but it seemed like it was missing something. I went back into my cabinet and pulled out an unopened bag of gingerbread marshmallows I'd bought on a whim (and because they were on clearance for a buck after Christmas). Crazy, I didn't think I'd ever find a use for those things.

Calculator: You can have up to two for free.

Two seemed plenty, since the cup was pretty small. I mixed the two little gingerbread men in and took another sip. It was heavenly! Exactly what it needed! So here's the point of this unnecessarily long story- a low point recipe for yummy cocoa, while satisfying one of the two milk requirements:

1 packet Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet, 1 point
3/4 cup Soy Slender soy milk, Vanilla flavored (I bet chocolate would be awesome too!), 1 point
2 Jet Puffed Gingerbread flavored marshmallows (I'm sure any marshmallow would do nicely, but these are unbelievable if you can still find them), 0 points

Heat and enjoy!

Now I Know What People Mean When They Say, "It's not the flavor- it's the texture that sicks me out"!

I'm really trying to give whole wheat pasta a chance, but it's just so. . . mealy. I haven't been able to make the leap yet, even though I started off small; I switched from semolina pasta to semolina/whole grain blend, and that wasn't so bad. The flavor was virtually identical, and the texture was only slightly off. After a few dinners, I couldn't even tell that I wasn't eating white pasta anymore.

Satisfied I'd mastered the first step toward whole-grain-dom, I tried to take it to the next level: I bought a box of whole wheat spaghetti. The flavor was noticeably different, and not even unpleasantly so, but I couldn't believe how NASTY the texture was! I thought at first that I'd undercooked it, so I threw it back in the water and boiled it for a while longer. It got mushier, but it retained its graininess, and I ended up just chucking the whole thing and going back to my blend.

Every now and then, I'll come across a box that promises improved texture (I must not be the only one who thinks it's inedibly gritty), and I buy it, full of hope that this time will be the time I can finally convert to whole grain. I go home and cook it, all the while suppressing the fear that the manufacturer was lying to me; my fears are always realized, and I mutter curses at them for robbing me of ~2$. Jerks.

"I'm Full" vs. ". . . But I Already Paid For It!"

It's another whiny Weight Watcher's post, so feel free to skip it if you want to. I won't be offended, I promise!

One of the things WW tries to teach us fat chicks chronic over eaters is how to stop eating before we're so stuffed our pants that are already straining at the seams like a busted can of refrigerator biscuits don't feel comfortable.

I don't know about yall, but I was raised in the Eat What's On Your Plate, There Are Starving Children In China generation. This has had a couple of results: 1) I'm less wasteful, 2) I feel guilty when I don't finish my food, and 3) I learned to completely disregard my brain's natural For The Love of GOD Will You PLEASE Put The Fork Down signals at such an early age that I never learned what "satisfied" felt like. It sounds simple enough, right? Eat until you're not hungry anymore and then stop. But the problem is, if I wasn't suffocating under the weight of way too much food, I thought that meant I was still hungry. There was no middle ground between starving and stuffed.

And if the food's tasty? Forget it- I'm going straight to UnButtonMyJeansVille.

But after doing WW for three years now, I slowly re-acquired that lost ability to stop eating when I'm satisfied; now when I'm overfull, I'm miserable, and it's a great incentive to push the plate away. Yay me for returning to how nature intended my brain to work! Three years sounds like a long time, but when you stop and consider how long it took me to disconnect my full-meter, it's actually a pretty impressive feat.

Yet sometimes, in spite of this new skill, I'll go to put my fork down and take a look at what's left on my plate. And I catch myself thinking, "But I already paid for that!" (translation: I tracked it, and now I feel robbed because I didn't get to finish it). Then the internal argument ensues:

Me: Don't even think about it.

Saboteur-Me: But I TRACKED it!

Me: So what? You're totally satisfied!

Saboteur-Me: But don't they say you should eat ALL your points? If I don't finish this, I won't be eating all my points.

Me: Dude! There's no more space!

Saboteur-Me (in a whiny voice): But it's TAS-ty!

Me (sighing inwardly): It is tasty.

Saboteur-Me (smelling victory): And it's already written down! It's as good as eaten! And I have the points for it, right?

Me: . . . right. . .

Saboteur-Me: It's settled then!

Me (caving): Fine. If you can find some place to put it. . .

But Saboteur-Me has already stopped listening, and is elatedly shoveling the remains of my meal into my eagerly waiting face. I never stood a chance against the conspiracy between Saboteur-Me and her backstabby accomplices- The Taste Buds. Belatedly, my ostensible ally (Stomach) starts objecting to the extra load and starts pushing against her confines (My Jeans).

Me: Where were you ten minutes ago, Stomach?!

*sigh* I get it right most of the time, but I do look forward to the day the wasted points won't matter to me anymore.

Week One's In The Bag! (This Is Not an Interesting Post)

In spite of my misgivings, I am down 1.8 lbs (yay me!). I did have a hard time staying in my points for the first few days- I was averaging 35-44 points a day (I'm not sure if I was really that hungry or if it was panic-induced eating), but the extra 49 came to my rescue.

I leveled off after I re-learned how to distribute my points throughout the day, though, and I was feeling pretty confident about skating into my meeting with a loss. All in all, I have to say, the plan isn't really very different; the new values just take a bit of getting used to.

One thing I'm really hating: the new calculator (warning! incoming pettiness!). It just doesn't flow right! All nutrition labels go fat -> carbs -> fiber -> protein. All. Of. Them. So why does the calculator ask for protein -> carbs -> fat -> fiber? It's all over the place and I'm constantly putting the wrong values in. Sometimes I catch it and correct (pain in the adipose!), but I'm sure there've been times I didn't and just tracked wrong. That mis-entry could be the difference between a loss and . . . well, not-a-loss.

One thing I'm really loving: the "raise" I got for getting up off my ass! I've never been an exercising kind of person, and the fact that I don't have to do as much for my activity points is butter and gravy in my world. And please don't go telling me I'll get addicted to it once I'm in the habit! I waited and waited to love exercise like everyone promised, and I still count the seconds till I can get off the Evil Conveyor Belt of Ultimate Misery- aka my treadmill. It's outright lies, but I'm doing it anyway. Even if my muscles hate me the next day, my cholesterol will be thanking me one day, and it's enough that at least part of me will be grateful.

You Know What's Bullshit?

I fill my tub with sparkling water turned Caribbean blue by the aromatic bath salts I got for Christmas. I lay my book down on the ledge of the tub (the water damaged one, so a good one doesn't get ruined), adjust my bath pillow placement, and place my phone within easy reach; close the door, step in, draw the curtain to trap the steam, and ease myself down into the not-quite-boiling water. An audible sigh of contentment escapes me, rising to mingle with the water vapor saturating the air in the small bathroom I call "mine".

As I lay there, the water gradually escapes via one of those half-way-up-the-tub secondary drains. At first, I ignore it. But soon, bits of me are sticking up above the waterline like bathing vessel islands. I glare at the drain as fully half of my water (and contentment) bails on me, leaving half of me warm and languid, and the other half goose-pimply. My bathing spirit somewhat dampened (har!), I turn the knob and add more water, only to be in the same spot I was fifteen minutes ago.

I have not been able to figure out why these things exist, except to deprive me of about half of my bath water.

It's in case you accidentally leave the water running, so the water has a place to drain off, you may be mentally suggesting.

My answer to that would be (if you were, in fact, suggesting, which you probably aren't), No way; the drain-to-fill ratio is heavily stacked in Fill's favour, and the water would end up overflowing anyway. Not even the unreasonably low placement of the drain would give any added benefit to that scenario.

It's for the babies! The babies could turn the water back on, and they'd drown if that drain wasn't there.

My answer, again, is the comparatively poor drain rate. If some neglectful parent were to leave their baby alone in the tub long enough for the water to over flow, that drain wouldn't save the kid. And shame on you, Theoretical Neglectful Parent, for supplanting watchful parenting with badly-conceptualized household fixtures!

What about the people who fall asleep in the tub? They could drown if the water level was too high!

This may be true, but it's one of the risks we knowingly undertake when we make the decision to plead with Calgon to take us away. Someone could just as easily drown in half a tub of water as a fully one, I'd be willing to bet; especially as small as my tub is. A full tub in my house is a rather idle threat.

One day, I'm going to find a way to plug it up (thus far, saran wrap, plastic bags, silly putty, and press-n-seal have proved to be ineffective measures). Then I will bathe in fully-submerged, baby-endangering, potentially-drownable bliss. It's gonna be. . . well, blissful.

Confession (Dew Write)

Mass Merriment <---- Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.

She snatched the sheet off the pad and wadded it up. Another ball for the basket, and she'd missed it again. This time she didn't bother getting it up to retrieve it; undoubtedly, there'd be more to follow. She frowned at the growing pile of fail in the waste basket next to her desk, disapproving her own inadvertent cliche.

Did he give her any signs? She searched her memories and found them sitting together, chatting companionably at the kitchen table. She remembered feeling full to bursting with feelings for him, but he seemed not to notice. She remembered a few other times of being alone with him, and it was always the same comfortable chat. She remembered barely being able to focus on what he was saying, only wanting to take his face between her small hands, and guide his lips to hers, but if he noticed, he gave no sign.

She looked away from the frustration to ply the pen to the waiting page, and then withdrew it again. The paper stared blankly back at her, offering pressure instead of inspiration. What If tripped her pen, mussing her neat, wispy hand. What if she chose the wrong words and he didn't understand? What if she chose the right words and he didn't care?

What if he did? The thrill and the anxiety and the What If would be gone, replaced by warmth. Not that warmth was bad! She welcomed warmth, but there was always a feeling of loss; of something missing once they abandoned the refuge and cowardice of willful unknowing. Once she looked over that cliff, she'd see the bottom. Reality would replace dream, and while she rejoiced in the solid, actual Him, she would mourn the fantastical, intangible Him. He would fulfill her. He would let her down. He would would love her.

But not right.

Emerging from her reverie, she turned back to her letter, fancying both his acceptance and his rejection with equal parts longing and dread. Ah, but the release! At least she'd have that, and What If relaxed its grip on her pen.

Beloved,

It's been ten days and seven hours since i almost kissed you. . .

Body Function Fail

Lately my jaw has been going lazy on me when i eat. I'll be mid-chew, and my jaw muscles start getting all kinds of tired, and then finishing the bite becomes this major undertaking. Every chomp stretches out in time like i started eating in slow-motion, taking forever to complete one mastication cycle and move on to the next. I reach up and massage the flagging mandible like a boxing coach rubbing down his prize fighter. I even kind of project a mental pep talk to it: 'Come on, you can do this! You can take that bite of tuna! That shit's practically already chewed for you, quit being such a pussy!' I kind of start bobbing my head a bit, like involving my neck is somehow gonna make the job easier, but it doesn't. It just makes my neck tired too.

The Box

Jim and i went to see The Box last night. I really liked it, he just thought it was okay, but we agreed it stirred up some interesting thought.

For those who don't know the premise of the movie, a creepy man shows up on a couple's doorstep with a red button in a box. It looks like this:

He gives them 24 hours to decide if they're going to push the button; if they do, they'll receive a million dollars in cash, but someone they don't know somewhere in the world will die. (I'm not going to spoil the movie, don't worry.)

The premise itself is what intrigues me the most. Think about it: the guy shows up, gives you the wealth-creating-button-o-death, then departs leaving you to stare at it for 24 hours and make your decision. Initially, you'd scoff at it- it's a joke. No WAY this could be for real. At some point, the creepiness of the guy convinces you that this is totally for real. You figure (correctly) that a guy who looks like this doesn't fuck around:

Yes, that's a chunk missing out of the side of his face.

Then you start to rationalize: the money could pay off so many bills, send your child to college, help family members in need. You could do a LOT of good with this money. And it isn't like you KNOW the person who's going to die, right? They're nothing to you. It's probably an old person, or a person in a diseased state. You know, someone who's going to die anyway. Maybe it would even be doing them a kindness.

Do you believe in karma? Could you do it? Could you enjoy the money? Could you live with the knowledge that you just condemned someone's child, mother, brother, husband to die? I could'nt.

Amazingly Awesome

I have a fairly decent vocabulary. It's something i take pride in, though i don't normally mention it, as it makes me feel like i sound self-centered. I like language a lot, and word origins interest me. A pleasant side-effect of knowing where a word comes from is that it helps keep it on the front of the mental shelf, stored and ready for convenient future use. Helps a lot in crossword puzzles, too.

So why is it i find myself falling back on the words "amazing" and "awesome" about eighty percent of the time i'm trying to compliment someone or something? I cringe every time i hear myself refer to something as amazing, or say "awesome" in response to someone's weekend. I sound so insincere, even though i don't FEEL insincere. I think the only reason i get away with it is that everyone else is currently in love with those two words, too.

So! My personal goal: not to use either word for the rest of the week. I endeavor to make use of more meaningful compliments and more creative affirmations. I want to really think about the things i'm saying to people, rather than to fly on verbal autopilot.

Sponge

I lay in my room the other night, waiting patiently for Sleep to come and lay with me. My mind does funny things when i give it free reign to go skipping in whatever direction it chooses, and that night, it made nonsense of the English language.

Sponge. Sponge, i thought. Spun-j.

"Sponge," i whispered out loud.

I rolled it around in my brain. Around the twists and turns, down into my mouth. I poked at it with my tongue, tasting it and feeling the texture of it against my palate. Sponge. I opened my mouth and released it in a soap bubble and let it pop. Sponge. It rained back down on my face, seeped into my pores and bored its way back into my mind.

Sponge.

It stopped sounding like a real word. It felt wrong in my mouth; the shape was amorphous, the consonants didn't match, and the j-sound was positively obscene, because it was the end-sound, but not the end-letter. The e at the end was like a third nipple: freakish and unuseful. I averted my mind's eye from it.

Spongespongspongesponge.

I couldn't anchor it to its definition anymore, or even to a picture of it. It was disconnected, floating around in the ether, an amnesiac word that lost its meaning in a freak collision with my uncomprehending intellect. I worried at its purpose with my restless thoughts, and unraveled it, slowly and methodically, like a poorly knitted afghan.

Sponge.

I reduced it to gibberish. Mere linguistic ruins.

I was concerned about the destruction i wreaked on that word. Could i empty any word? All words? Could i unmake language as easily as it was created? By being too mindful, i think i could. I could dissect them into alphabet soup and swallow them, with comprehension broth, and fathom no more.

Late Again

I tossed back onto my other side again. My neck was starting to get stiff from the effort of craning around and looking at the clock. 11:45. He's late again. You should move the clock where you can just see it, my neck protested at me, my hand moving to gently caress the kink that'd developed there an hour ago. I reached toward the clock, thinking that my neck definitely deserved a reprieve, but stopped. If i moved it into my line of sight, then i'd just stare at it. 11:47. Damn. I let my hand fall uselessly back to the bed.

I turned over again and drew the shutters on my eyes, resolutely thinking of something else. We're out of bread and eggs, which means a trip to Wise Way. I do hate their prices, but they're the only ones around here who carry that whole grain Aunt Millie's bread that my husband likes so much.

I promised myself i'd never wait up for him again.

Ryan asked to go to Illinois to see his girlfriend this weekend, but he has yet to find a job, and i know damn well he's used up the gas money his mom sent for his birthday.

Where is he???

It's all fine and good that he decided not to make friends here in Indiana since it's so close to his old friends in Illinois, but damn it, that does NOT mean i'm responsible for financing his long-distance social life.

I've been lying here for two hours now.

Why don't THEY come out HERE for a change?!

I've been lying to myself for two hours now.

I jerked over onto my my back, abandoning my attempts at marshaling my mutinous thoughts. Angry, unshed tears stung at my eyes with their sharp, spiteful little fingers as i teetered on the blade-thin, blade-sharp edge between anger and despair. Why was i always the one left waiting up for him?! I let myself fall over the edge of despair, gliding gently downward on gossamer wings of self-pity. It just wasn't fair.

I felt my limbs grow heavy, and heard the nonsensical tangent of an unrelated thought whisper through me and did my best not to get excited. He was coming, after all. Weightlessly, i felt him press me down into my bed, and then out of myself. I felt him tether my arms to my body, wrapping me in his warmth, kissing the thoughts out of my mind and scattering them into the night air. I heard my husband snoring quietly next to me, and felt a vague, half-pang of jealousy that sleep always visited him first. I forgave them both, and let my consciousness slip out to go and play amongst my thoughts swirling around over my head.

I Know It Isn't All About Me

I have lots of annoying personality traits. I mean, when my parents conceived me, it's like they intentionally waited until my mom felt like this particular egg contained five eggs' worth of irritating personality traits. That way, no matter which swimmer reached the prize, the result would be an individual guaranteed to make people want to get away from it within moments of having met it. Those dumb enough to befriend it would wish they'd heeded their first instincts.

Yes, indeed, folks, you are reading the ramblings of just such an individual. Save the "Awe, you're not that bad" type sympathies (and if you're having a "You sure the fuck are!" antipathy, save that too, because i don't want to fucking hear it), because i'm about to tell you about one of my least favourite flaws. I think most people have at least one aspect of their personality they'd be willing to undergo an exorcism for, if it meant they'd quit being like that, and mine is the habit of making everything about me, in conjunction with my habit of interrupting people.

Half the time, i don't even realize i'm doing it. Someone will be telling a story or sharing an experience, and i just cut them right off to tell them about my similar experience. Sometimes i don't interrupt, but i still tell them my experience after they're finished. After half an hour with me, i come off as a one-upping Been There Done That bitch who can't shut the fuck up for five minutes.

I think about it later, and i just can't figure out what it is about me that can't listen to someone's weekend recounting without putting in my two cents. Why can't i just say, "Oh that sounds like fun" and ask questions? I mean, they didn't ask about my weekend, i asked about theirs; now i look like i only asked as a segue to my own weekend activities, when i genuinely was interested in their weekend.

I'm thinking it must be because i have difficulty relating to others, and that's my pain-in-the-ass way of compensating. I want that person to know that i understand, and here's why [insert my similar situation here]. I don't mean to make it all about me. I really don't.

Resting On Your Laurels

My boss has one of those cheesy motivational-style posters on her wall that says "Don't Rest On Your Laurels". It's a large poster, in a frame, with no accompanying picture. It's just written in script across a nice mountainy cloudy scene. I was never quite sure what it meant, and without a picture to explain it to me, it was just one of those quasi-mysteries i always meant to investigate, but never remembered to do so until the next time i was sitting in her office looking at the poster.

I rather discovered the meaning the hard way.

Back around October of last year, i hit my 50 pound weight loss milestone. I was intensely proud of myself, and was just beginning to not mind the way my body looked in the mirror (i wouldn't go so far as to say i liked how i was looking, but i was getting there), when something happened. I'm not sure what it was, or how it happened, which means it must've crept up on me gradually. I do remember how it began, though. It began with a piece of pie. Lemon supreme, in case you're wondering.

There it was, sitting on a smallish dish in front of me, flaunting itself in all its tangy, lemony goodness; daring me to eat it. I was eyeballing it, and it was returning my gaze steadily, good old fashioned Western show down style, right there on the table.

"Eat me," it reasoned, "You deserve it after how hard you've worked. I'm just one piece! You even know i'm only ten points! Cut me in half, eat half of me for five! Come on, i'm your FAVOURITE!"

The pie was right: it WAS my favourite. What's not to love about a tangy blanket of lemon, gently snuggled over a thin mattress of cheesecake, with a button of whipped cream sitting like a little semi-sweet pillow at the head of the wedge? I had worked hard! I'd lost FIFTY pounds! And it took me almost a year to do it! If anyone deserved a piece of lemon supreme pie, my friends, i was most certainly that person! And if i only ate half of it, i could enjoy the flavour without the guilt!

Did you see that? That was a prime slice of rationalization i was having as an appetizer to the pie. Because if i had the pie sitting on one shoulder, whispering this insidious bullshit to me, then there was a bound and gagged miniature lump of fat sitting on my other shoulder, pleading with me not to go there, desperately trying to remind me what pie looked like once it'd found its way to my thighs. That "angel" on my other shoulder knew good and well that there was no way i was only going to eat half of that pie. As soon as i put the first forkful onto my tongue, that pie was as good as eaten; and if i hadn't been in public, i probably would've licked the plate. I was a good girl, though, i counted the ten points and faithfully crossed each one off of my bank of thirty five weeklies.

Over the next couple of months, that fifty pound milestone justified all sorts of bad eating behaviours. I completely ignored the fact that the milestone was starting to pass over the horizon back into unseen territory. Several months, and fourteen pounds later, i was sitting back in my boss's office, pondering the laurels. It occurred to me that i knew what laurels were, and that they were given out in wreathes as a prize in ancient Greece. I'd rested on mine, and the extra fourteen pounds was crushing them.

Success isn't a destination, it's a process and it requires a bit of effort to maintain. My problem was, though i hit a nice milestone, i was still miles away from my goal. If i was a marathon runner, it would have been the equivalent of hitting mile twenty, and then going home. So now i'm sitting here, pondering the lesson i've opted to learn the hard way. I've already been down on myself about it, and now i'm going to stop, dust myself off, and start looking back toward the horizon. The goal may no longer be in sight, but i've been there before, and i remember what it looks like.

My Random Bits

My Random Bits:

1. People fight with me to get things done. If someone asks me to do something, and i answer that i will, then i will. But i will do it in my own time, which frequently doesn't coincide with the time frame of the person who asked me to do the thing. But the more someone bugs me to do it, the less inclined i am to do it. So if you're going to ask me to do something, be advised that you're best off asking me WAY in advance, and then not mentioning it again.

2. I am a closet lover of "chick flicks". They have to be good ones, though. Nothing starring Jennifer Lopez or Julia Roberts.

3. I think it's tragic that orange is a Halloween colour...It looks great but cheesy with black all at the same time.

4. At this moment, i have a paper cut on my lip. I have no idea how it got there, seeing as how i haven't licked an envelope or mogged down on a ream of paper any time in recent memory.

5. I think Diet Coke is superior to Diet Pepsi, not because one tastes better than the other, but because i can crack open a can of Diet Coke, let it sit over night, drink it the next morning, and that shit will STILL be plenty fizzy! Diet Pepsi, on the other hand, starts losing its fiz almost immediately, and an hour later, i'm pouring the damn thing out.

6. Every morning when i first wake up, for the last several years, my brain picks up on the exact same spot in Michael Jackson's "Beat It". Specifically the part where he says, "No one wants to BEEEE deFEEEated!". Then i have to fight for the next hour or so to banish it. My goal is to have this done by the time i exit the shower, but it seldom works out that way.

7. I consult my Magic 8-Ball on matters that're probably too important to be consulting a Magic 8-Ball on.

8. I'm fascinated by palindromes.

9. I recently donated all of my boring, generic looking mugs to the Salvation Army. Then i set out on a quest to replace them all with interestingly shaped cups from thrift stores.

10. I really like big, unattractive looking purses. My prize purse is a purple bowling bag-looking aberration. It's awesome.

Open Arms or Open Eyes?

Over the course of the last few years, i've made friends with, and subsequently broken up with, a girl i work with (we'll call her. . . you guessed it, we'll call her "Jane"). I've blogged about this girl several times over the past twoish years, so i won't go into details about why she sucks so much, but her most unpleasant traits seem to be her tendency to lie compulsively, twist the things people say to her around and then tell everyone else about it, and general back-stabbiness.

The problem is, when she's being nice to me, she seems like such a warm, caring, genuine person. I mean, she's so convincing that after being burned by her repeatedly, i have to mentally remind myself when she's talking to me NOT to fall for her bullshit.

Luckily, she's also incredibly predictable. She's one of those people who can't seem to get along with everyone at once. So once she fell out with the other girl at work she was "friends" with (I suppose we'll call her "June". . . and, as an aside, June is the Not A Racist girl from a few blogs back), i figured it was only a matter of time until she started sucking up to me again.

She obliged on my expectations a few days ago, but her tactic has thrown me for a loop. She actually apologized for being cunty.

Normally when she tries to sleaze herself back into my good graces, she just pretends like nothing happened and that things've always been fine. I can't complain about this because i allow her to do it to a degree- i smile and am pleasant to her, but i don't actually tell her anything vital about what's going on in my life nor do i hang out with her outside of work. I hate having the awkwardness of a bad relationship while i'm AT work, so i go along with it most of the time. Spineless? Two-faced? Maybe. I don't pretend to be a perfect person.

But this time, she actually acknowledged some of the meaner things she did to me and apologized for them. I went through the motions of forgiving her; some of the minor transgressions i actually did forgive her for, and others i cannot find it in myself to be so magnanimous about. I probably don't need to say that she seems very genuine and heartfelt in her apologies, but i just can't help but think that if things were okay between her and June, this conversation wouldn't have happened.

I imagine i'll do what i always do: Smile and say it's okay, don't worry about it, and keep my back always facing away from her. I will remind myself daily that open eyes are appropriate when dealing with Jane, not open arms. After all, open arms would expose my back once again, and i'm all too aware of what happens when i do THAT.

My Brain is a Bad Eighties Radio Station Stuck on Repeat

Lately when i wake up in the morning, the very first thing my brain does is pick up in the same spot of Michael Jackson's "Bad". It's agonizing! My waking routine goes something like this:

Alarm sounds.

I get up and turn it off (on autopilot).

My brain starts playing (at full mental volume) "Nooo wants to BEEE deFEAted! Showin' how funky and strong is your fight. . . It doesn't matter who's wrong or right. . ."

You get the idea. It's been happening this way for weeks now. WEEKS! I get in the shower and sing loudly in my vain attempts to uproot this unwanted morning soundtrack from my mind and supplant it with something more palatable. Unfortunately, my brain is rebellious at that time of the morning, and it knows that i fumble for control over it like Helen Keller with a Rubik's cube. As i struggle for dominion over its processes, it skips around from one song i hate to another song i hate, for most of the duration of my morning shower.

"This tainted love you've given, I give you all a boy could give you!"

"What's new, Pussycat? WOOOAHWOAHWOAH!"

"We're caught in a trap. I can't walk out. Because I LOOOVE you too much baybeh!"

"Why, why WHYYYYYY DeLIlah!"

"We built this city on Rock and ROOOOOOOLLL!!!!!"

"When the children cry, let em know we try!"

The moment i give up, it reverts right back to Mr. Jackson belting out his idealized version of a fight. Ultimately i triumph once i get out of the shower and into the living room. My secret weapon of mass disruption: iTunes. Not, fair, i know. But i do have to show my brain who's boss every now and then.

Chicago White Socks

I woke up several times yesterday, shivering like i didn't have any blankets on in the middle of Winter. Odd. I was using the quilt my mom made me for my birthday a few years ago; the same quilt i'd been using all summer long without feeling too hot or too cold. I crawled out of bed and went to examine the thermostat, vowing pain and dismemberment to the person who DARED turn it down that cold under my breath. . .only to discover no one had touched it. Huh. I trudged back to bed and tried to go back to sleep, but i was just too cold. Annoyed, i took stock of my situation. I didn't feel sick, so that was out. The thermostat hadn't changed from the 76 degrees i always leave it on, so that couldn't be it. It's still summertime. . . It made no sense for me to be this cold! But there i was, shivering under my quilt in the middle of summer.

I tried to roll over and ignore it. My feet touched my husband who was nice and warm. I snuggled up to him, only to realize that he was only registering as warm to my feet. Bingo! I got up and put some socks on. It took me a few minutes, but i warmed up nicely and went back to sleep. Funny how cold feet can make you feel like you're living in the Arctic circle, huh?

Stephanie Got Me Thinkin. . .

about the whole censorship thing. While i agree that there are things that kids need to be protected from, i don't think that protection should come in the form of censorship. Think about it:

Would you want someone else deciding what doctor your family sees?

Would you want someone else deciding what religion you're going to start practising?

Would you want someone else to decide what you're going to be eating from now on? How about what you're NOT going to be eating?

How about what you're going to start wearing?

Or what opinions you are no longer allowed to have?

Why anyone would want someone else to limit their choices for them simply for the sake of making things imaccessible to their children is very much beyond me. The right to think and decide for ourselves is a right we should guard most jealously. Censorship is a poor substitute, indeed, for vigilant parenting.