Plugging Away

Accountability.

I can’t escape it.

It’s on blogs. It’s on status updates. It’s all around.

Mostly, I’ve seen it in regards to people’s New Year’s resolutions or the start of many a-training season and race goals. People coming clean about weight/eating issues, people calling themselves out when they half-ass workouts.

So as I embark on my own personal goals post-pregnancy, I have decided to hold my own self accountable - come clean about my own shortcomings or shame-based behaviors.

First, in regards to my fitness. I mentioned that I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Early May. So that means I need to be flushing all my excuses down the shame-toilet and hitting the gym daily. Right now, this does not happen. Why? Because after multiple all-night feedings, my mornings usually consist of handing the offspring to my husband, and either:

A) Going back to bed for a few extra hours or
B) Sitting on the couch, inhaling hot coffee, and staring blankly into the television (which sadly is usually on Kelly Ripa because I am too damn tired to change it after the early morning news ended prior to it) while I wait for said offspring to wake from his all-too-brief nap looking for his milkies.

The day then unfolds with a series of feedings, diaper changes, and quality time. The next thing I know, it’s 10pm, and I’ve managed to make excuses all day to avoid the gym.

I made it to the gym three times last week, and even got in a 3-mile run Sunday (which I then paid for with excrutiating muscle soreness for the next two days, courtosy of my 3-month hiatus from anything more physical than climbing the stairs to my 2-floor apartment, and that didn’t even happen everday. Shit, when I see it on paper, it hits me how lazy I got in those final months, bedrest or not.)

So I went back twice this week, and got in a 60-minute workout both times, which included 30 minutes on the elliptical and a 2-mile run with a warm-up and cool down. And it sucked the whole time. Both times.

No, seriously. Like, I finally felt a warm kinship to the contestants on the Biggest Loser during their first few weeks. Quite a change from where I was 10 months ago, when you would have found me sitting on my couch, calling them cry babies, and screaming at them for not respecting their amazing opportunity.

But I’ll go back. Again. And again. And then at some point, it won’t actually suck. As much.

So accountability goal #1 – post every workout, which includes doing something physical everyday – even if it means walking around the dang block. This way, I am forced to actually leave the house, move my body, and continue getting my fitness back so that I can actually tolerate myself. Oh, and also finish the race.

Next up – weight. Now, while I can’t actually bring myself to post the number of my current – ahem – situation, I will post the amount needed to lose, and the amount lost. So, at my doctor’s appointment Monday, I weighed in at a heafty…number. The number was 27 pounds over my normal weight (3 down from the initial 30, so some early progress?) So once a week, I will check in with my progress and post the amount lost that week – kind of like a poor man’s version of a Weight Watchers meeting. But without Jennifer Hudson singing empowering songs in the background as my own personal soundtrack.

And in order to do this, I will need to post more – even it’s just a numbers update, sans (questionably) witty commentary. Once daily - a workout post. Once weekly - a weight update.

Now that I’ve put that out there, I need to follow through. And this will be hard because I go back to work in a week, so I'll be fullt-ime mom and full-time psychologist again. But I want to do this for at least the next month, because I figure that will be enough time to actually get me back on track to the point I actually like being healthy again. Because right now, the only thing I really like is laying on the couch, streaming movies from Netflix, eating cheese puffs and cake frosting from a plastic jar while hanging with my kid and making funny faces to get him to smile (though not necessarily in that order – but wouldn’t it be shameful if I liked cheese puffs and cake frosting more than my kid? Shit, I’d need more than blog accountability – I’d need an intervention from child protective services. And a nutritionist).

And naturally I can’t end a post without a picture (or ten) of my offspring. Yeah, I’ve become THAT mom.
My husband calls this SuperBaby. That's his cape.

Morning after a long night. In my robe that I almost never take off. It's covered in spit-up but I don't care. Yeah, I've reached that point in new motherhood where I just don't give a shit anymore. Unless there is literally diareha on it (mine or his), I'll wear it as long as it's conducive to warmth and breastfeeding.

Daddy time.

And now, here's the picture I promised in the last post. The first is my son at about three weeks.

And this is me at about six months.

So now that we've clearly confirmed who the mother is, I'll get back to you when we find the dad.

So That's Where They Put the Gym!

Wanted to first say that I appreciate all the well wishes and comments on the previous post. I usually try to respond to all email notifications of the comments, but for some reason when I hit reply lately, it just gives me that generic “no-reply blogger” email address. It only lets me respond to a handful of people, so I apologize if I can’t get to your email. But I really appreciate them.

To that end, there are a couple of things that I wanted to respond to from the comments:

1. In regards to breastfeeding – I too have come to walk around the house in my nursing bra and/or nothing at all – heck, it’s my house, and the nips need a breather, you know? Many a day you might see me lounging on the couch, dark circles under my eyes, baby passed out with the milk-drunks next to me, and a shirt nowhere to be found. Some days, especially the ones when he feeds every hour, it’s simply not worth the effort to keep putting it on and off. The only time this didn’t work was when my in-laws were in town for a week for Christmas. After all, we may be close, but we are not THAT close. The last thing any of us need is for my father-in-law to be making a midnight potty-run and see my big old milkers hanging out in the living room, baby on one end and half-asleep mama on the other.

2. You haven’t lived until you’ve literally sucked the snot out of your child’s nose. With your own mouth, yo.

3. I mentioned this in the previous post, but it’s worth reiterating – doody does fly. And airborne doodys are (ahem) messy. And stain.

4. Been living in my sweats for a while (post-pregnancy gift from my friend A, from Victoria’s Secret, size Large, and oh-so-comfortable). My husband thinks I’ve become one of those women who have just given up. Not true, I say. “Giving up” happens the day I ask for a minivan.

But the wonders of motherhood aside, I’d also like to proudly announce that I did make it to the gym – four weeks and one day since my stomach was cut open and my world changed with my new little man (although coupled with the previous few months of bedrest and inactivity, it’s felt like a year since I broke a sweat not related to my intake of French fries, pie or hot wings). I didn’t get medical clearance yet, but I was getting sick of sitting around complaining about how jiggly and heavy and I was, and needed to do something about it.

Also at the gym, I had the displeasure of stepping on a scale since a week before delivery. The way I figured it, I had gained somewhere around 45 pounds during pregnancy, and estimated that I had about 20 pounds of residual baby weight to lose. Turns out that it’s, uh, slightly more than 20 pounds. I mean, 20 pounds was bad enough, and I felt mentally prepared to deal with the scale’s reality, but nothing prepared me for the number that I actually saw.

So here goes my admission. My ground zero. My starting block. The largest weight hurdle I have ever had to overcome.

I am 30 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight.

To.The.Pound.

And yes, that’s with the baby OUTSIDE my body.

Granted, some of that might have to do with my cartoonishly large bosoms, but seriously – the rest of it is in my belly, ass, and thighs.

Possibly a few pounds in my neck and double chins.

Maybe a few in my elephant-ears upper arms.

Ugh. I’m gross. Just GROSS. I want to barf Pop Tarts just thinking about this mess I call my body.

But instead of crying (I save that for the 3am feedings), I sucked it up, mounted the elliptical, and pressed Start. I made it through 25 minutes, and oddly considered that a victory.

And then after that, I got on the treadmill. Can’t run just yet, but I jacked the incline and walked as long as I could before I could no longer tolerate the moldy stink coming from the man next to me. Which was 20 minutes.

And then I hit some quick weights.

And then my boobs were going to explode and I knew there was a one-month old about a mile away wondering where his lunch was, so I called it a day and headed home.

Overall, I feel good that I did it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And considering I was ready to make yet another excuse this morning to NOT go, I consider it a win (and I had a REAL good one to skip yet again, be it that the previous night was our most challenging yet, with Baby D having a cold, difficulty breathing, and thus difficulty feeding. Cue a major crying episode – both mama and child – and 5am was a bit of shit show at our house.)

(Side note: I know I am making motherhood sound awful, but the truth is, minus a couple of rough moments, our kid is great. I need to give the little chubby pork chop some credit – he’s in this crazy unfamiliar, loud, and bright world filled with all sorts of confusion, and yet he seems to handle it like a champ. He’s gaining weight, getting long and even gives us a smile here and there. But who wants to hear about all the awesomeness when there are dirty diapers, erratic sleep, crying jags and gassy infants to wail about, right? Right.)

As for the fitness, I don’t have much time to be making any more excuses anyways – I registered for the Wisconsin half-marathon – to continue my streak of running that race every year – and it’s a mere five months away. I don’t anticipate a PR (which I had two years ago there), but I know I can finish if I get my training in order.

Plus, my ass needs a healthier goal than “how many times can you eat at Five Guys in six months time?” Shit, I PR'd that bitch back in pregnancy month 6.

And here' is what I have to show for that nutritional acheivement:






How I spent my New Years Eve.

First bath - success!



Tryin' to be all fancy and stuff. At least he knew to color-coordinate his outfit to with his soothie. He's smooth like that. And not at all like his hygeine-and-fashion-challenged mother.

Well, I think we know who he got his forehead from.



One month old in this picture. My son and his baby Buddha belly. This kid barely misses a meal, lemme tell ya.

Almost outgrown his bassinet in just four weeks. He'll be stepping it up to the crib soon!

Thoughts To Distract From The Fact That, Under Other Circumstances, I Would Be Doing Ironman Madison This Weekend

1.It’s probably a good thing that "Rescue Me" is ending the series. I hate saying that, but shit – the wheels done fell off that wagon about two seasons ago. I adored this series, especially because I watched it off of dvd while I rode my bike on a trainer all winter in prep for IM AZ and feel a special connection to it. But it’s not the same. It’s not funny – it’s just kinda silly. Of course, I say this as I am about to watch the series finale, and, when coupled with my raging hormones, will probably bawl my eyes out. ‘Cause that’s how my mood swings these days.

2.Speaking of raging hormones – holy effing maternity meltdown tonight. It started at Gap Maternity (where I was lured into thinking it held the treasures of cute maternity jeans – spoiler alert – it didn’t). For the first time in my 6 ½ months, I tried on maternity clothes that were not hand-me-downs from my sister’s closet. Long story short - it didn’t go well. Looking at myself in the mirror in my bedroom is not the same ballgame as checking out the new, rounder M in the three-way mirror of the Gap. Couple that with the last few weeks of noticing how – in general – I just look different, older, balder, chalkier and ugly – and I lost it. In a way that you just can’t come back from to resume happy shopping. It’s not a fat versus skinny thing – it’s a getting-older-frumpier-in-need-of-a-haricut-and-makeover-and-holy-shit-nice-eye-bags-and-double-chin thing.

3.I think I have finally spanned the spectrum of pregnancy experiences. From the uber sick to the super tired, and now into the “holy-shit-where-did-this-energy-come-from-did-someone-slip-me-meth?” I can barely wind down enough to go to sleep at night, I can’t read enough books, and I want to run all the time. And when I start running, I don’t want to stop. And my mind starts thinking crazy thoughts like “I could do a half-marathon!” and I need to be talked off of that ledge. Right? Right?!?!?

4.Speaking of running, I have been helping my sister Ellen prepare for her first marathon. I’ve been meeting her on the weekends to keep her company on long runs. Now, I don’t do all of the miles – like, if she has 14, I meet her halfway and do 7, or if she has 10, I can do that – but nothing quite yet over 10. This past weekend, she had 18 – so I did the middle 11-ish (was supposed to be 10 but I slightly miscalculated). Now you can see why the idea of a half-marathon doesn’t seem so crazy, right? Again, right?!?!?

5.I feel I need to qualify the last two points with this: I don’t mention this running stuff because I need/want people to tell me all sorts of validating things. In my last post, I mentioned that girl who always posts the blow-by-blow of her pregnancy on Facebook because she needs people to tell her how awesome she is that she kept running up to her third trimester, yada yada

(Side bar #1 - man,can I just reiterate how much she bugs that SHIT out of me – seriously, how many more half-nekkid growing belly pics or videos of her baby moving around in her belly do I need to see? Dang, I get that you’re excited, but come one – it’s the Internets - how about emailing that shit to your family instead of posting it for the world to see? No offense but the LAST thing I am going to do is post half-nakkid pics or belly videos on Facebook so that shady kid I sat next to in the second grade and who tortured me with his wet boogers and haven’t’ heard from since until he Friended me and who may or may not be an ex-con can see. Uh, no thanks.)

Now where was I? Oh right. For the record, I haven’t maintained my running for bragging rights or praise – I run so I can feel like I’m not a big fat slob, and so the mountain I will need to climb comes January isn’t so, well, enormous. And I write it here because this is like my journal, and that’s what you do in a journal – keep track of the good (running and poptarts) and the bad (body image and celulite). So that’s that.

(Side bar #2 - My above rant about Facebook posting does not apply to those that have documented their pregnancies on their blogs - which I read, enjoy and benefit from - especially posts from active triathlete bloggers who post about workout clothes tips and how to survive these crazy thoughts triggered by this 9-month mess. Yeah, I know - it's a double standard that I have no problem with blog posts but I get annoyed by the Facebook girl. And maybe it's not really about the Facebook posts at all, but more about that girl herself and all her annoyingness. Or maybe I just appreciate the stories/tips as opposed to the status updates. Or maybe I'm just a bitch. Yeah, that might be it.)

6.Speaking of body image, at my niece’s birthday party the other day, my mom told me that she is now convinced I am having a boy. When I asked her why, she stated, “Because when I had a boy, my ass got big like that too.” And in case I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, she pointed to my ass, and held out her hands about two feet wide. Just for a visual perspective. Fuck it - I ate the cake anyways.

7.Speaking of baby, mine’s still growing. Like I mentioned, I am 6 ½ months (although according to my husband and his mad mathmatic skills, I’m 5 months – hmmm…guess when the baby pops out a month ahead of his personal schedule, I’ll feign surprise). Kicking like a maniac, trying to punch out my belly button. And although we have opted not to find out, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if a baby girl doesn't fall out of my lady bits in the next few months.

8.Totally unrelated - I’m always surprised when I watch a Sex in the City that I haven’t seen before. Especially the super early ones in which Carrie actually looks at and talks to the camera. That’s weird – I’m glad they stopped that.

9.Getting back to point 6, this pregnancy is a big mind fuck – especially for chicks like me who have a history of screwy eating and body-image issues. I didn’t realize how much I think or worry about my weight and appearance until last week, when I saw a friend for the first time in a while, and I spent way too much time lamenting about my new – ahem – proportions. Man, I sounded so shallow – and even said that a time or two. I am embarrassed that I care so much. I am keeping my fingers crossed that all this shit will become insignificant once this kid arrives – because that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I wonder if this kid realizes how much pressure she's under - what with all the responsibility of giving me a new personality and world view. Shoo - and she probably thinks all she needs to do is look cute and drink some boobie milk. Dear Baby: This is your wake up call. Momma needs a new perspective.

Vanity Sizing

Nice thing about Christmas shopping is that, when it's all done, you can justify buying yourself a thing or two.

In my case, I wandered into the female apparel store with a gift card from a previous birthday.

Genius! I can get myself a gift without having to spend any more real money!

I quickly tried on a bunch of sale dresses (I love a good dress but hate the ordeal of stripping all my Midwest winter layers), and settled on one little sexy number (well, MY version of sexy, which means it wasn't running tights from Target). And the price was RIGHT ON! I'll take it!

I tried on the second dress - a longer, maxi type dress that was super hot.

Only problem was...it was a touch too big. Needed to be a bit smaller in the empire-type waist.

I put all my regular clothes back on (jeans, hoodie and ball cap), stepped outside of the changing stall, and peered around the corner to see if I could just run to the rack and snatch it quick.

"Can I help you with anything?" asks the tiny are-you-even-legal-working-age pixie from behind me.

"Uh yeah. I was just going to grab a different size for this dress," says I, feeling like Buddy the Elf lumbering around a workshop filled with Santa's helpers.

"Oh, I can get that for you. What size do you need?" offers the pixie, so tiny and petite she makes Tinkerbell look like Brian Urlacher.

"Um sure. I need a size (one size smaller than what I was holding)."

And that's when it happened.

Fucking pixie gave me the Manhattan once over.

THE MANHATTAN ONCE OVER!!!!

THEN, as if dropping the last chunk of coal into a stocking filled with elephant turds, she adds:

"Really?"

Bitch, what?

Hell NO I didn't just see this child check me out and then question my size!

In my head I responded, "You minuscule lady-child! What the hell was that?!?! What size do I need, you ask? I need size I'm-an-Ironman-who-spends-as-much-time-working-my-ass-off-in-the-gym-daily-as-you-do-applying-your-pancake-makeup. It's a specialty size-do you carry it? I'm not fucking Shrek for crying out loud! Not all small people have to walk around with their boobies hanging out their tops and jeans so tight you are begging for a yeast infection (see also: yourself). Who do you think you are with your "Really?" You, who's biggest life goal is to organize the shoe section before closing so you can rush home to your Camaro-driving-former-football-captain-now-stoner townie boyfriend, pay his rent, and cook his dinner, all with the promise of a ring and a wedding THAT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now go flutter your wings over to that rack and get me my dress, or I will slap that blond right off yo' head."

To her face I said, "Yes, thank you so much."

*smile*

Merry Christmas and God Bless Us Everyone!

Of Food and Stuff

1.
Remember when we used to crimp our hair? Yeah, me too. That was the SHIT. Or when we wore like two or three Swatches at the same time? Makes me laugh at what we thought was cool. I wonder what we will laugh at 20 years from now. My money’s on skinny jeans.

2.
I can’t say for sure why, but I am always surprised when I see people rollerblading. But yet not as surprised as I was to see a lady running in leg warmers today.

3.
Man, how disappointed were you when you eagerly bit into a chocolate bunny on Easter, only to realize it was hallow – not solid? I WAS *shakes fist at Easter bunny*

4.
Not 100% sure what surprised me more – that I saw “Hot Tub Time Machine” in the theatres, that I liked it, or that I did this all without eating a single kernel of popcorn or candy. I’m gonna go with the lack of junk food because I can’t remember one other movie that I have ever gone to without eating either of these two things – and we go to the movies almost every week.

5.
Dear Brad:

That is all.
Love,
Jenn

6.
Conversation with my husband:
Me: Why are we on a diet again?
Him: Because when I look down, I want to see my wee-wee.
Me: Well, I can see mine when I look down. Can I open the ice cream now?

Speaking of diet, I should explain that the husband and myself are not so much on a diet, per se, as we are trying to clean up our eating. This means no junk in the house, meals are laden with veggies, and our snacks are of the orange carrot-y variety instead of greasy fried salty potato-y variety. In addition, we have re-evaluated our perception of "portion" and late-night snacking.

“We” call it a lifestyle change.

“I” call it my own private hell.

As a former eating disorder individual, my previous obsession with food is minuscule compared to the amount of time I now spend thinking about it. I mean, I’m taking pictures of cake frosting containers at the grocery store and posting them to Facebook, for crying out loud. Not to mention the fact that hardly a conversation goes by the words “chocolate chip” aren’t mentioned.

Them is not the behaviors of the sane.

However, this is also eye-opening. It is really making me aware of how much mindless eating I do during the day, and how much of an emotional eater I really am. I mean, every time I get a little frustrated or bored or depressed, I head to the kitchen while grumbling about how “starving” I am.

And I’m not. I’m not starving at all.

I’m being a little whiney bitch, is all.

Also interesting (at least to myself) was an article I read this week about a recent study that found high fat and sugary food have the same addictive qualities as cocaine.

Now, I’ve never tired cocaine, but after the true detox of this past week, I can attest to the fact that I am very likely addicted to the sugar. I sort of knew this before – or at least make jokes about it- but now I am fairly certain it’s true. The need for increased amounts to experience a high, the obsessive thoughts when I don’t have it, the desperate scrounging in far corners of the house for a hidden stash – I’m one mini-skirt and some blue eye shadow away from making some really bad decisions just to score a Snickers.

It’s hard not to get discouraged about the lack of visible progress, as well. Now, I’m smart enough to know that things like this take time, but I would think that this new improved eating, coupled with ramped up training, would deliver at least some preliminary results.

And I got nuthin’.

Nada.

A big fat donut hole.

Donut hole.

DONUT HOLE!!!!!!!

*crumbles to the ground weeping*
Deep……Sigh.

I better get hip bones sharp enough to slice turkey and clavicles I can hang laundry from out of all this.

And I know this will get easier. I mean, it’s sugar, for crying out loud. It’s not like it’s air or water.

Sweet, sweet buttercream frosted air and chocolate infused water….

Reset

As noted in the previous post, I decided to make a list of resolutions.

Oh I know – you are probably saying, “I NEVER make resolutions. They’re so silly!”

Well, true - and honestly I have never been one to make them, either.

But like I said in a previous post, I like the idea of a “Reset” button.

See, my list is comprised of things that I already do, I just want to do BETTER.

And frankly, I need goals.

So with that said, here they are – my life but BETTER.

My Resolutions:

1. Tell it like it is.
Fuck it. I am so sick of sugar-coating people’s self-denials and excuses. I am no longer supporting their delusions. Have a long history of not ever following through on ANYTHING, but rather digging in your bag of excuses to soften the blow of your failure? Don’t come see me, because I will call you out like a nun in Catholic school. It’s not a complete erasing of my empathy, but rather this new behavioral change will be reserved for those among us who are chronic bullshitters. I mean, someone has to say it, and I suspect the rest of the people in your life aren’t, or we wouldn’t be in the position, now would we?


2. Train better.
Speaking of being called out on denials – I’m calling myself out on this one. Yeah, I work out regularly. But I need to concentrate on doing more than just lollygagging for an hour on the bike in front of my tv. If there’s no sweat, it never happened.

Towards that end, I have become quite a fan of hill interverals on the treadmill and will start speed intervals as well. I figure since I am not doing a ton of distance stuff this season (and by distance stuff I mean full Ironman), I might as well try to quicken myself up and perhaps lose a pound or two in the process.

And like I mentioned, fear IS my greatest motivation. Sure, there’s fear of having a shitty race season or never getting better/faster/stronger – watching your race results stagnant while all your peers fly by with their Kona-bound dreams. But more importantly, there’s fear of looking like John Goodman’s more attractive-yet-just-as-fat-twin in my race photos. If I have to look at another picture of myself in my tri-suit looking like something processed in the Oscar Meyer factory, or glimpse my ass in a three-way mirror looking like I was beat with a bag of nickels, I will scream.

No mas, mi amigos. No mas.

It’s a new day.


3. Eat Better.
This anti-denial thing is becoming a theme, isn’t it?

This resolution should really read: eat less candy and cupcakes, you fatass. See, turns out that I actually eat pretty well – veggies, lean meats, fruits by the truckload.

But my reality is that these are usually sandwiched between peanut MnM’s, Spice Gum Drops, and brownies. And this has GOT to change.

I mean, there is no point working my ass off at the gym, then turning around and mowing a box of Mike n Ikes, right? What a waste. So I try to ask myself as I go for another cookie: “How many miles is this going to cost you?” Sometimes it helps, and sometimes the licorice bits win out. But sometimes is better than no times, right? And me being a lazy person, I don’t want to run any more miles than necessary, you know?

So my goal here is this – set aside crap-food craving until Sunday. If I want to still rot my face out with a super-size box of Dots, then I can have at it. But my hope is that I won’t, or that I will get to Sunday, and only be able to eat a few.

Mmmmm…Dots……


4. Be a Better Person
Okay, let me explain this. If left to myself, I would sit in my house all day, get my work done, and then just read, read, read. It’s the hermit-tendencies in me, I admit. And I think my mom would tell you that I have always been that way – I like to be by myself.

But it doesn’t work really well when you have family, friends, and a husband all demanding attention.

So rather than give in to my own self desires of solitary confinement (I love you Andy Dufraine), I will make a better effort at getting out, participating in life, and sharing my time with others. You know - get busy living (there you are again, Andy!)

And like it.

That said, under this resolution is the promise to give back – Cheese and I have talked about this a bit already. See, in high school, I was all about community service – perhaps it was Jesuit upbringing – but I did just about everything, including a out-of-state trip to rural Kentucky to build houses.

But as an adult, like a lot of stuff, community service just fell by the wayside – what with my busy schedule of Facebook stalking, Biggest Loser-watching, movie attending, and general life observing/bitching.

Now granted, I give a lot of money (“a lot” being relative to my income and the Joe Biden) to various causes and charities. But I have been a bit more selfish with my time, and that’s not cool.

So in becoming a better person, I will actively give back my time to a valuable cause. It’s about darn time.


5. Be a more patient person.
Wow, did this little flaw bubble to the surface this year. Now, to be fair, most people say that they don’t see this side of me, but I know it’s there and it bothers me. See, I always sort of border on the fence between “good psychologist” and “bat-shit-rip-your-head-off-type-crazy” on any given day. But I really noticed I has taken a sharp dive to the latter side of the yard this year, particularly as work started to pile up. The more cases we got, the more cases I began to take on, and the more families I had to see face-to-face.

And let me tell you – nothing boils my blood more than a selfish, dysfunctional parent who justifies child abuse by their own hands, or exposing their child to daily domestic violence because they don’t think the kids actually sees it.

Some days, it’s all I can do not to haul off and punch these people in their smug-ass faces. I know - not good for a psychologist to say. But it’s one thing to neutrally assess, analyze and treat this dysfunction (which I do very well, thankyouverymuch), and a whole ‘nother to be a human being with feelings and empathy for the kids.

So my vow is to really try to improve this patience thing by any means possible. I have no plan, and might just have to wing it.

I know – good luck, right?

So that about sums up my personal goals for this year. Basic, and nothing to obscenely hard, like climb Mt. Everest – which, BTW, I would NEVER do because I effing hate this cold weather.

And “try new things” didn’t make the list this year anyways.

But perhaps, if reminded, I will do a mid-year check to see my progress.

Here’s to hoping there is some.

Hello Old Friend

In honor of the new year 2010, I decided to break from my usually Facebook stalking and write a sinkin’ post.

No way does it have anything to do with the barrage of emails and texts from family members wondering about the lack of posting.

Nothing at all.

Or you, Angie F.

Naw, I kid, I kid – I need a little accountability when it comes to this thing nowadays, and I appreciate the "where in the world are you?" check-ins.

It's just that most of the time, I just don’t feel I have a ton to say anymore.

Well, at least not race/training wise - I'm fat and out of shape. That sums it up.

However, in regards to all stuff local/world/political, I usually have a mindful of stuff, espeically with the nonstop news/reading of the last few months.

But given the firestorm of last year, I haven't quite recovered from bashing and hence am keeping most of my thoughts in that regard to after-dinner conversations.

Interestingly, taking those topics off the table for this blog has been a hard decision to make too - after all, this is my blog, I should be able to say anything I want, no?

But there's too much emotion involved on both sides, and my thoughts were being massively misinterpreted all the time. I just got tired of having to justify my opinion, and later read comments by other people about me on other sites (yeah, I read those)that it just wasn't worth the anger and frustration.

Wait, hang on – I gotta poop.

Hey, it’s early morning (for me) and the coffee’s kicking in – give me a break.

…………..

……*flush*……..

Okay, I’m back.

Where was I?

Poop.

Right.

Quick relate side note here - I’ve developed this new (to me) habit of the bathroom.

I read in there now.

I know it’s not that weird because a lot of people do, but for me it is.

See, as someone who drinks a ton of water and already spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, I never quite understood the willful spending of additional minutes browsing some random magazine while trying to pinch one off.

I am generally a wait-til-the-very-last-second-it-falls-out-then-sprint-to-the-bathroom-and-drop-it-flush-wash-and-leave kinda gal.

But two things happened over the holidays to change all of this:

1. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I had at least four airplane trips, and hence lots of constipation, thus requiring me to spend extra time in the loo working for the pay-off.

2. I found both a Runner’s World and a Triathlete magazine I got at least two months back that I must have (gasp!) thrown into my nightstand reading pile and forgot about. Seeing as how the absolutely MUST get read, I decided I would pass my excruciating painful waste of minutes crapping by reading them.

And voila! A new habit is born.

So bowel movements aside, let’s give a run down of the last month since my absence:

.
.
.
Umm..
.
.
Work…..
.
.
Cheese’s recovering…
.
.
Two Christmas’s in Kansas…….
.
.
.
Yup, that about sums it up.

Can you see why I haven’t posted?

Basically between work, Cheese's arm, more work, and the holidays, I haven’t really had a ton to say. Life just…is.

Once I get my act together I am going to come up with a list of resolutions, though.

I used to not make any, and really I still don’t, but this year for some reason, I really like the idea of the “Reset” button. It’s been a good year in many respects (what with getting married and all), but I have also let some things slide, so I like the idea of kick starting some newer/better habits, you know?

So sit tight, and I promise I will power off that list in the next 24 hours.

And most likely from the bathroom.

Bracing for Steelhead 70.3

(devin sent this to me yesterday - taken on the 4th of july, in case people forgot what I looked like, what with my shameful lack of posting)

So the day of reckoning has arrived.

It’s my first (and only) tri of the season.

Steelhead 70.3.

I know - crazy right? I can't even remember if I have mentioned once that I was racing this season.

Yeah, that should suffice as the foreshadowing on what is to come.

To say that I feel grossly undertrained would be way too obvious.

I mean, I guess when you are standing on front of your mirror the night before you leave, trying to find some fit-approriate race clothes because nothing you have fits after having not raced in a year, you should probably re-evaluate your (lack of) race strategy.

As in, re-evaluate and shut it down.

But no, true gluttons for punishment would NEVER be so impulsive.

No - what we do instead is make a last-minute run to the tri-store for a wet bra, say a small prayer to the Love-Handle Gods in the hopes they make nice with your (possibly too tight) tri shorts, and get to packin’.

Oh yeah, lest I forget to mention that I also received my "lady friend" last night, complete with vomit-inducing cramps, bloat, and back pain.

Seriously - EVERY.SINGLE.RACE. for the last 18 months (including last year's Ironman, and all the 1/2 marathons this year) have started with this mess.

So again, my perpetual question to the Injustices of the World: Why do you have to make being a lady SUCK ASS? And can't you just let me have a race without worrying baout my uterus dropping out in T1?

Geesh.

Oh, and have I mentioned that the water is about as cold as it was last year, when I pulled out the STELLAR performance at Racine?

Ahh, let’s re-live that awesome weekend, shall we?

*folds hands under chin and looks longingly in the distance*

Oh, wait. That’s right.

I DNF’d.

And this would be my first tri since that time.

So given my ill-preparation, my ugly outfit (‘cause it’s all about looking cute, no?), mensus (what an awesome word), and my recent history of pussing out in the cold water, I would say that I am a wee bit (read: pants-crapping) nervous.

So nervous that I started binge eating JuJu Bees and have commenced nervous-stomach diarrhea.

(Dear Clyde, who will be housing me tonight – Don’t worry. It should clear up by the time I drive up later. I think. I hope. Ah hell, just get the plastic mattress pad ready just in case.)

So in just a bit, I will be off – heading up to pick up the packet, check in the bike (which, up until my birthday, was held together with duct tape – looks like it’s not just my ass width that I've let slide a bit...) and try to hunker down with all my positive thoughts to get me through the swim.

See you all on the other side!

(p.s. – on a total random side note, did you know that July is National Ice Cream Month? I sure didn’t, and I sure as hell have some celebrating to make up - Why do I find these things out on the 31st?!?!?!?!? What are the odds that August is National Brownie Month?)

Personal Training

For my birthday, my sister Devin and her husband got me 2 hours of personal training at my gym.

Similar to the personal training hours I am trying to win with the new contest.

(Update on that contest: I am almost through my second punch card in order to get my tee-shirt, so that means I only have one more punch card to go through to enter the personal training raffle. All in all, I have about 18 more visits. Now, you may think to yourself, "My goodness, M, have you even gotten off the couch AT ALL this summer, with that many visits left?!?!?" And to that I would say, "Well, with the addition of my swim workouts in a separate 50-meter pool now, and my rides done outside or on a trainer, I am getting my workouts in, just not always at the gym." Sigh. If there were only a way I can make that hour I spent on my trainer watching New Jersey Housewives Lost Footage count toward a punch on my card!)

Anyfatty, I had my first session this morning with my personal trainer.

Holy Kick-My-Ass.

Good news: My fitness enabled me to stay upright even when my mind was trying to ignore my quads screaming, "Get down! Take cover! Stop, drop and roll yourself out the door and back home!" So I wasn't totally humiliated at my strength level.

Bad news: My strength level. As in, I sense he may have taken it easy on me today, which is why I didn't, in fact, collapse in on myself.

I imagine what I went through is sort of akin to what people are doing with this whole Crossfit thing.

In fact, I read one of Andra's comments on FB about Crossfit saying she was a bit "barfy," and found myself a little barfy on the way home.

So that's good, right?

Do we have a win?

I'm gonna say yes. I am a true believer that pain (unless its of the knee/herniated disc variety) is weakness leaving the body.

And I felt that today - like I had gotten too comfortable in my own routine that my body has gotten soft and lazy. It needed a wake up call, a fire in the belly.

Even if that fire is only 30-minutes long.

Oh, and I solved the "barfy" problem by annialating everything in the fridge when I got home.

So next sessions goals?

1. Don't die.

2. Wipe the snot from your nose BEFORE it hits the ground during lunges.

Anything else is just a bonus.

Looking For Me Today?

You can find me over here.

Happy reading!

FAT
To celebrate my one year anniversary as an Ironman, I weighed myself at the gym last week.

Turns out that my once-favorite Ironman motto of “You will do this” has become “If it ain’t elastic, I ain’t wearing it.”


Stink
My farts have been really bad as of late. Like, smell wise. And potency.

The kind where, 10 minutes after you fart, it still hangs thick in the air like the shame over a bedroom the morning after a one night stand.

Or so I’ve heard.

From my friends.

They’re real sluts.


Twit
I have reached the pinnacle of voyeurism. No, it wasn’t the obsessive scouring of photos every time I get a friend request on FB, or even the routine checking of blogs.

I mean, yes - I still do those.

But I refer now to the fact that I have been on Twitter for a week now, have yet to post even once, but check it about one an hour.

Twitter is like the cliff-notes version of blogging. One liners, right to the point.

“Just got back from run and it sucked.”

“Made cookies and ate them all.”

And it was all fun and games until this morning – when I didn’t get to the remote control fast enough, and ended up having my senses assaulted by the *ahem* ladies of The View.

Turns out good old Barbara W is all about the Twitter now.

So I figure, if 150-year-old ladies are getting on this bandwagon, maybe its already time to get off.

I mean, first Ashton, then Oprah, and now this?

Is there ANYTHING cool a celebrity doesn’t ruin?!?!?!


Drink Up
My job has officially turned me into a wino. No shit. For the last 10 years, I have been virtually alcohol free, save a few minor incidents of which we no longer speak.

And all photos have been burned.

Anylush, I have now taken to having a glass of wine every night. I figure, hey, if I have to work until midnight, just to round out my 18 hour days, why not do it with some of this magic elixir everyone is talking about?

I have somehow reasoned that a glass of wine is somehow sooo much better and less of a "on-her-way-to-being-a-drunk-in-the-gutter"-type-vice then pouring myself a stiff martini.

Just how is this different?

I don’t know.

But four glasses in, I don’t care either.

Life as Usual

First things first
Thanks for being patient with this whole transition. I myself find it to be a massive ass cramp to have to sign in every.single.time, so I appreciate those who make that effort.

That said, I had a chuckle over all the comments about it being a super secret club – I made a comment to Flatman about how people would think this was a lot less cool if they knew that the girl on the other side of the screen was:

A) A virtual shut-in who found it too time-consuming to change her clothes on a daily basis and often even slept in them for that matter
B) May go all day without brushing her teeth, and
C) Has taken to eating her dinner of cereal out of a measuring bowl because she can’t be bothered to actually look through the three cabinets to figure out where she unpacked the real bowls.

A month and a half ago.

Yup – I certainly am a prize.

(and I will have you know that I almost hit “publish” before I noticed I wrote bowels instead of bowls. So I guess I have that going for myself – I don’t eat my cereal out of bowels).


Second things second
What with all the excitement of private bloggers and criminals, I really haven’t said much about the fact that I have:

A.) Gained three more pounds, now upping the total to 13 for my post-IM physique;

B.) Cheese comes home today.

And you know what call the day of his return?

PM Day.

As in, Personal Maintenance.

Although it really should named “Gosh Damn that Wax Sure is Hot and Can You Please Not Wax the Actual Skin Off My Lip This Time Because It Makes Me Look Like I Have Herpes” Day, but that’s such a mouthful, yeah?

With Cheese gone all the time, there’s a lot of room to get really lazy about personal upkeep. I mean seriously – if I tweeze my eyebrows , wack down my leg hair and wax my lip hair ONCE once during his absence, I call it a victory for personal hygeine. ‘Cause whose looking? Really?

The only regular appointment I keep is with the bikini waxer – Cheese home or not – mostly because I still swim and frankly, like Samantha said on Sex In The City – “I could be on Death Row and still not have that situation.”

Oh, and while I am the topic of lady bits – I was at the Y last week, and on my way to the pool, through the showers, there was a lady shaving her lady bits. IN THE PUBLIC SHOWER. Not even, like, in a stall – like in the open shower area, where you just have the spouts.

Now, call me prude, but this seemed a bit…unsanitary? I don’t even know if that’s the right word. I mean, I personally don’t care about the shaving part (like I said, I’m a waxer – to each his own – and besides, I’d rather you clean it up because you can’t BELIEVE how uncomfortable it is to be swimming next to some with….”the situation.” I mean, how do you NOT look, yeah?)

And yeah. I stared.

Shame's just a four-letter word. And I ain't got none.

But to be taking care of such private business in such a public place seemed off. But again, maybe I am old fashioned.

Well, old fashioned in the sense that it’s apparently okay to talk about lady bits on a blog, just not shave them in public. See the difference? Yeah, me neither.


Third things is last
The weight thing is a surprise I must say – seeing how I have been such Spinnervals whore these last few weeks. And speaking of whore, is it me or are Spinnervals like cycling porn?

Lemme break this down:
1. You got all the weird awkward camera angles – on the ground looking up, head-on, from behind, and frankly, the lighting does no one any favors.

2. You go the cyclists themselves – trying to out perform the guy next to them, trying not to look directly at the camera and the creepiness when they do – it’s a reminder that it’s actually a job, and hey, maybe they aren’t really enjoying this.

3. The music – are you kidding me with this? Real porn might actually have a leg up on this one.

4. The in-between set interviews and story lines are about as realistic and well-scripted as the “plumber coming to fix the pipes.”

Hmm.

Looking over this post I gotta say – lady bits and porn?

No wonder you need to sign in now.

I Need To Stop Working From Home

Things that Are Good About Being Home Alone
1.Eating popcorn in bed
2.Sleeping diagonal
3.Riding my trainer whenever I feel like it
4.Drinking as much coffee as I want without anyone making a comment about it
5.Going to bed without the glare of the TV in my face
6.Not having to share the quilt
7.Eating yogurt and ice cream for dinner.
8.Sitting in my favorite recliner for hours on end

Things Not Good About Being Home Alone
1.Being home alone without him.


Blech
So as I mentioned the other day, I haven’t really been on the ball about working out lately. And low and behold, it has actually resulted in some poundage. In a recent post, I estimated six pounds. Turns out – it exactly ten, since IM (damn scale).

Now, before I get any sassy comment about being “fucked in the head” or having a bad body image, let me say this: this is not about how I look, necessarily. I think we all know what it feels like to carry an extra ten pounds – we all know how uncomfortable it can be, and how discouraging it is when you have to rely soley on the black elastic yoga pants for weeks on end because nothing else fits. It sucks.

And I feel like shit about it. I feel heavy and soft. While I not necessarily trying to be skinnier, I just want to be in better shape.

So to that end, I have started back on the training program. Three days in, and feeling good. In fact, to mix it up a bit today, I put on one of the Spinnerval DVDs I had from last training season.

Holy Ass Kicking, Troy!

I actually had to stop pedaling halfway through to catch my breath because I was lightheaded and about to pedal myself right out the front window. By the end, I vowed to keep doing the DVD every week until it becomes easy. And then once that happens, I will start the other DVD, and work it until THAT one becomes easy.

Well, at least that’s the plan. I’m comin’ to get ya, skinny jeans!


Yikes! Ike!
Good gosh. Have you seen the footage from Ike? Oh my. Talk about devastation. My least favorite network in the world, CNN, was showing aerial views of different cities, like Bolivar, with literally nothing left of these places but sticks coming out of the ground (houses used to be on the sticks). When they said “certain death,” they meant it. It honestly looks like when that tsunami hit a couple years ago.

Cheese is in the heart of it all. I worry about him – about him being safe, about his stress level, about the chaos he is standing in, about the total devestation he has to make sense of. It sounds like, from the view of the company, this might be their biggest storm ever, bypassing Katrina in terms of widespread destruction.

Hang in there, baby. You're doing good out there.


And Why, You Ask?
I have decided that, for as much as people want to bitch about how biased Fox is, CNN (the Clinton News Network) is officially above and beyond the most biased network I have ever watched.

For example, twice in the last few days, people have stated that both McCain and Obama are guilty of things, but oddly, CNN only posts the sound bites about McCain. Rove made statements about both candidates fighting unfair (I know – pot and the kettle, right?) but the only part of his interview that gets broadcasted or written about is the part where he says McCain has crossed the line.

Similarly, Greenspan made statements about both candidates proposed tax policies, but you have to dig all the way to the bottom of the article to find out that, yes, in fact, he was talking about both, not just McCain. In fact, the title of the article was something to the effect of “Greenspan says McCain tax policies miss the mark.” Four paragraphs later…..”Oh yeah, and by the way, he said Obama’s aren’t great either….”

And don’t EVEN get me started on the eye-bleaching trash known as The View. While Elizabeth Hassl-whateverhernameis is by no means an appropriate political commentator, those bitches make it seem like every conservative is the reincarnation of Evil. They will spend 60 minutes kissing the asses clean of certain politicians and their wives, but can’t even put aside their own biases for 15 minutes to conduct a “fair” interview. Give me a fucking break, Whoopi and Joy.

And before you all jump down my throat, I am simply making a comment on the bias of reporting. If it was skewed in McCain’s favor, I’d call bullshit on that too. But at this point, I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a news report skewed in McCain’s favor.

Seriously – why is it so fucking hard for people/politicians/analysts/commentators to simply stick to the issues? Just list the facts – and have faith that the American people will choose what is best for them. Why are we constantly being fed commentary on what the networks WANT us to believe?

I’d like to believe that most people, by this point, know how they are going to vote. If you don’t, what the heck are you waiting for? The information is out there – the truth (not the CNN version) is a click away, you just need to read it.

Both politicians are simply repeating themselves at this point. I think both parties need to close up shop, go on vacation, and see where the chips fall in November.

Enough already.

Ramblings of a Tired Mind

How is Paris Hilton still relevant? And for a grown ass woman, why does she still talk like a baby?

I don’t know one single person outside of my brother Nolan who watches “The Real World.” So why’s it still on?

My skin has been revolting against me.

Celebrities need to shut the fuck up when it comes to politics. This goes for both Dem and Republican supporters. And yeah, I’m talking to you - Madonna, Matt Damon, Daddy Yankee, and Chuck Norris. Are they entitled to their own opinions? Sure, we all are. But still – they need to shut the fuck up. And especially that Russell Brand douche – he doesn’t even live in this country, yet MTV allows him to get his ass on stage and vomit verbal diarrhea all over the Music Awards. Apparently having a side part in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” gives him the commentary rights of a CNN broadcaster. Well, at least he biased like one.

I have run exactly three times in three weeks. Should come as no surprise that I have gained more than six pounds over that same time frame. Needless to say, I am not feeling so hot about myself. In fact, I feel much like a stuffed sausage most of the time.

On that note, I have somehow started drinking soda and eating cheese. I NEVER drank soda before. But some reason, I find myself drinking it with almost every meal. It really doesn’t make it any better that it is diet soda. And the cheese? Yeah, no idea what that’s about.

I have eaten more burritos in the last seven days then I have in the last seven years. Hmm.

My street is lined with maple trees or some type of tree that covers my car with this sappy syrup sticky stuff every morning. It’s like driving a Hyundai pancake, but without the pancake.

I now have the apartment to myself for the next three weeks….what should I do first?

Quirks and Stuff

I got tagged by Tri-Dogma, and since I have decided to spare you all from my self-loathing today, I will do this - it seems a bit more cheerful.

I also got tagged by Erin an uber long time ago, so I am going to post that one as well.

So here's a lot of nothing about Megan! Enjoy!

Six Quirks about Me
1. I spend a ginormous amount of time in bed. And not in the sexy-time way - it just happens to be the only furniture in my apartment.

2. I was the youngest person in my graduate school class. And though I have been a supervisor for the last three years, I have never supervised anyone younger then me. One of my supervisees even called me "Kiddo" once.

3. I swallow my gum. Not like one piece here and there - but I can go through a whole pack of Strawberry Orbit in a day, most of it ending up in my belly. And on that note, I spend an painfully large amount of time thinking about food. I make lots of jokes, but I internally obsess over food and it's counterpart - weight. I thought IM cured me of these demons - not so much.

4. When we were little, my sister fell out of the car when my mom was driving. I was sitting next to her, but I didn't say a word - I just looked out the back window of the station wagon as she rolled to the curb. For some reason, me and her didn't really get along, and I thought that if I just stayed silent, my mom would, well, forget, about her by the time we got home. Other drivers had to alert my mom, who returned to find my sister sitting on the side of the road. Then of course I disliked her more becuase I thought she did it just to make my mom love her more.

5. Last week I ate eight peaches in one day.

6. I have a lot of hiphop on my iPod, and when a song comes on, I get all attitudey and badass-like, as if I actually have some street cred - that if "shit pops off," I can "lay some mother fuckers out."

Tagged by Erin
How would you describe your running 10 years ago?
Let’s see – I would have been 22, so I guess I could say I was reacquainting myself to it. I had the ultimate goal of the marathon in my head, and was then just starting with my first 5K – which I still remember. It was February, snowy and cold, and finished on Lower Wacker Drive. I was cheered on my all the homeless men that live down there in the winter, as well and my sister Devin and my mom!!!! I felt so proud of myself – I was coming off of a really difficult time in my life, and it was a major accomplishment for me.

What is your best/worst race/running memory?
Best - My first Chicago Marathon – the whole thing.
Worst - The second Chicago Marathon – running injured from Mile 10 on.

Also good was the 2.5 hour training run I did while Cheese waited in the car for me. He came out at the very end, and clapped for me as I finished – like I had won a race or something. It was cute. And another? When I ran the last few miles of my sister Devin's Ohio marathon. I think about that run when I want to quit my workouts - cause she never did.

Why do you run?
When I ran the Chicago Marathon the first time, I saw a woman with a sign that said, “What are you running from?” It was at Mile 9, and for the rest of the run, I thought about that. What I can up with was that I was running from years of abusing my body with an eating disorder (15 years), of unhealthy eating and drinking habits, and of hating myself. And today, I still run for these reasons.

What is the best/worst piece of running advice you’ve gotten?
My dad told me once I would hurt myself, so I shouldn’t run. Oddly, it was the best and worst advice – worst because it could have stopped me from doing it all together at the time, but best because, even though he was right, I still ran anyways, because I was stubborn and it was like giving all the naysayers a big middle finger.

Tell us something suprising about yourself?
Well, as someone who has been dubbed an “over-discloser,” I can’t imagine what I haven’t vomited out all over this blog.

Birthday in Pictures

Well, thanks for indulging me in two days worth of birthday posts. All the comments were amazing and sweet! I am not really the type of person that makes a who week's event out of the b-day, but for some bizarre reason, I felt compelled to post tons of pictures. It's been, like, my thang lately. So here are some more!

I think I failed to mention that my mother's birthday was yesterday, while mine was today. Now how's THAT for a birthday present: "Mrs. Megan's Mom, you have given birth to a girl - your life now rocks - happy birthday." So we celebrated both together. My mom looks really good for 40, yeah?.....just kidding.

Cheese took this picture of Baby Nolan. Doesn't he look like one of those kids from Whoville? You know, from the Dr. Suess books? Sorry, Ellie, but he does. The funniest part was this was the exact same look he gave Cheese all night - never changed. It's like a mix of "Who the hell is this guy?" and "Got any more Tostitos?"

Mom, Cheese, and my brother-in-law Nat.

Cheese putting his country boy talents to use - shuking corn.

Yeah, it's me....relaxing...

This needs no caption. It just is. Sweet, sweet delicious cake. And when I finished my two pieces, I ate the leftover frosting off the plates of my mom and my sister.

The Sister Girls Three.

Me at 32. Shit I'm getting old.

Cheese rubbing his "food baby," Ellie rubbing her ba-.....oh wait, I can't tell that secret yet.....

So for my actual birthday, I mostly worked, and then took two hours off at the end of the day to go for a run with Cheese. The weather was beautiful, and I needed to run off that cake. After the run, we gorged on sushi and then went to a movie, where I actually limited myself to one box of candy and a small popcorn. I call that a win-win!

Run over, six miles in the books. Have you met my back fat yet? Take it in. It's pretty delicious.

And speaking of delicious, I will end my birthday post with a picture of two very sweaty people. It's like the "birthday cake" ending to this post...but without the cake. Just the birthday. And some sweat. Fantastic.

And So It Goes

"Diet" is "Evil" Spelled with Different Letters
So I have figured out where I may have gone wrong in this whole food business.

Of course, there are the obvious pot holes – the bad foods, yada yada – I get it, no sugar.

And I have been doing really good with the whole "no candy and ice cream" bit, even if it means I have resorted to knawing the skin off the side of my fingers right by the fingernails.

Anyone else notice that blood can, in a delerium, taste like cookie dough?

But lately I have been eating those 100-calories packs – you know the ones that actual take the guess work out of it and do the whole appropriate measuring for you?

See, my former fool-proof method of NOT eating entire bags of stuff was too keep the bag in the cabinet across the room, so that I would have to actually get up when I wanted more.

And since we all know how lazy I am, it was a safe bet that after two handfuls, no potato chip tasted THAT good for another trip.

But then this little trick stopped working. Why? Well, mostly because I live in an apartment where the kitchen cabinet is three feet from my bed.

You do the math.

So back to that 100-calorie packs. See, I figured this would be my new fool-proof method, and I thought, "Self, you know what 100 calories look like - so you have one pack and move one! Genius! Back to skinny Ironman jeans in no time!"

Turns out my 100-calories guess-timate weren’t all that far off.

If I was a eating for a family of six.

When you actually look at it, 100 calories is really not that much. I mean, it’s like four Triscuits. Who eats just four Triscuts?

Well, I guess me…now.

Shucks.

And I love this whole idea of making everything "mini" - like, you won't know your only eating four Triscuts if they're cut up into twenty ant-size crackers.

Mmmmm, yummmy....can I get a side of air with that?

Bottom line? I can cut out all the sweets in the world, but if I am inhaling eight packages of 100-calorie Chex mix, well then what’s the point?

Ah, moderation.

I hate you.



Fire-Fighting
And on the topic of weight - Here’s a question.

Why are running partners important?

It’s always good to have someone on hand to stop-drop-and-roll your chub when you catch fire from the friction of inner thigh rub.

Without ‘em, you’re just another girl making a run for the waters of Lake Michigan with smoke coming out of her ass.

Bringing Home the Fat

Plane landed.

Luggage collected.

Guess what it’s time for?

A diet.

At some point, when you eat massive quantities of ice cream, Sour Patch Kids, Junior Mints, Twizzlers, Coke Zero (wha--?), and movie theatre popcorn, your ass looks up at you and says, “Come on, Meg. Really?”

Well, maybe not YOUR ass, 'cause that would be just weird - your ass looking at me.

I mean, MY ass.

And what an ass it has become.

Oh, and in case you might be thinking that I have exaggerated the amount of ice cream ingested, here’s a little story:

Last night, after a baseball game, complete with hot pretzels and peanuts (which I eat WITH the shells because I LOVE the salt), I came home, pulled out the quart of ice cream, and proudly proclaimed that I would finish the whole thing.

Cheese looked at me and said, “Yeah right. You can’t eat that whole thing.”

And them?

Them is fightin’ words.

Less then 20 minutes later – DONE.

And he may or may not have run screaming from the room, disgusted at the ugly display of gluttony I put on, wailing something about “Did not sign up for this food monster…who are you….your double chin is scaring me…..blah blah something.”

But I can’t be too sure, as I myself was laid out on the ground in a sugar coma, eyes in a transfixed state at the empty wrappers of candy in the garbage can, specks of sugar clinging for dear life at the corners of my mouth.

Twice-a-day running and pool visits apparently weren’t enough to assuage the pounds.

So instead, I came home from Oklahoma with belly fat and hips the size of the actual state itself.

Oh, and we are not even going in the direction of the GI issues.

Suffice to say that the body does not process, say, Gummy Bears, the same it would a meal of salmon and spinach.

Ugh.

I seriously can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep bitching about how bad I eat and how fat I am getting. I need to actually do something.

I need a detox.

And not the stick-a-tube-of-liquid-up-your-ass-and-flush kind of detox. Just a real good, back-on-the-good-food-wagon detox.

Wow. Sounds like I’ll be a bucket of laughs for the next few days.

Seriously.

Fruit and veggies have no sense of humor.

Who Cares? Post #2

Have you ever had one of those days where, you've been off the workouts for a while, your clothes are getting sort of tight, and you know for sure you managed to find those 5-7 pounds that you previously lost somewhere on the road over the last few months?

But you just don't care?

In fact, the extra LBs kinda makes you WANT to have a binge day, and you even go so far as to plan it out?

Welcome to my Thursday.

And to celebrate the steady climb in my waist size, this is what I had for lunch.

And your eyes are not deceiving you - that's 3/4 of a cake.

That last bit I saved for dessert tonight.

See, I have SOME self-control.

According to the nutritional label, I figure that to be about 900 calories worth of cake, in the span of 8 minutes.

And guess what?

I still don't give a fuck.

It's not a bad mood-type thing...not at all. Just an I-don't-care thing. And an I-spend-too-much-time-worrying-about-my-fat-ass thing.

Onto the Cheetos.

Life in Slow Motion

Two days, my ass.

There was a lot of misinformation given to me prior to this little adventure, one of which was that I would only spend two days in the hospital.

I came home yesterday– four days later.

Now, I suppose it’s not so much of a complaint – after all, I could have never arrived back home and that would have sucked, so four days versus two days – eh, I can deal.

And besides, I was in NO shape to come home after two days.

Because even more egregious than the misinformation of my stay length was the reported amount of pain that I would be experiencing. For example, they told me, “Shortly after waking up, you may have some mild discomfort around the stitched area which we can treat with a mild painkiller. And the stitched area will include three small holes in your belly and then one two-inch cut just below the belly button, from which we will take out the kidney.”

What they should have said was, “Shortly after waking up, confused and delirious from the anesthesia, you will notice that you will be paralyzed from pain, and for the next two days, you will not be able to sleep, sit, or stand up straight because of the trauma to your muscles, from which you will never recover.”

“Oh, and by the way – sorry about that ‘two inch’ cut – turns out it’s the same size as the five-inch job your sister had WHEN WE PULLED OUT A TEN POUND BABY FROM HER STOMACH. Oh, and there are four slashes, not three dots, like we thought. But we tried - So have fun in a bikini, bitch.”

I was also told, "And sometimes patient will have some mild discomfort from the gas that builds up when the organs are moved, but it’s not that bad for everyone.”

What they should have said is, “Now, you will feel like a three-hundred pound man is standing on your chest, and punching on your abdomen at the same time, you won’t be able to laugh for three weeks, and have fun trying to take a shit – ‘cause it ain’t gonna happen.”

Short story long – the pain has been unimaginable – like nothing I can ever put into words.

On the positive side - the night before the surgery, my sister Ellen joked that I was one kidney transplant away from my goal weight.

We laughed– but the reality is that I haven’t weighed this little since I was ten. No shit on that. It’s a good thing the pain is pretty limiting on my physical abilities, otherwise I’d be off to Gap Kids to get myself a new wardrobe, and calling up Nicole Ritchie for some maintenance tips.

Ahh, I know - it will come back on sooner than I can say Dunkin Donuts. Lemme just enjoy my "Save the Babies Campaign" look for its fleeting exisitance.

Also on the positive side is that I approached the recovery like training – every time they came in for meals or vitals, (noon, 4pm, and 4am), I used that as my cue to get my walking socks on and went out to do my laps up and down the halls. But after each round, I needed a nap. And just like training, there were times when it hurt like hell to do another lap, but I kept telling myself, "Don't go back to bed, don't got back to that room without doing another lap."

But everything right now takes twice, if not three times as long to do as normal. I am slowwwwww.....

I think the most emotional part of the whole weekend was when my mom, my brother and I were shuffling down the hall pushing our IV poles. We passed a young woman from housekeeping, who was clearly starting at us, but in a curious way. As we passed, my mother looked over and said, “Yup, they’re both mine.”

It kind a broke my heart a little.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for my mother to get her own exercise walking from unit to unit for the last four days, or sitting in the waiting room post-surgery wondering of either or both of her kids would emerge safe.

My sister drove my mom home last night after they brought me home, and she said that she had never seen my mom look so tired.

Just writing makes me teary. Man, that must have sucked.

What’s craziest is that exactly two weeks ago this morning, I had just crossed the finish line at Ironman Arizona. I was at the peak of physical fitness, had dedicated months and years to caring for and building up my body. I toed that start line in the best condition I could have imagined for myself. And when I crossed that finish line two weeks ago, I was at the top of my world – my energy was limitless.

And when I got home yesterday, I went out for two trips around the block – my new training program. During that short trip, I had to practice my breathing (which is horribly difficult, labored and shallow), forcing myself to inhale despite the pain. And when I arrived home, I needed a nap. I slept for two hours, woke up, and needed another one. I then proceeded to sleep almost 10 hours during the night.

There’s a lot more to report on those days – the nursing follies (the first night was so bad, my surgeon filed a formal complaint), the pain-riddled silent sobs and back rubs from my mom sitting on the side of my bed, the balloon feet/cankles and feet-rubs from Ellen, the Mike ‘n Ike’s and Wheat Thins my mom snuck in Saturday, the way I would fake-sleep mid-sentence when I thought my estranged and deranged cousins came to visit (long story, but dang if it didn't have me and my mom in laughing tears), the kidney shaped pillow my brother's wife made me.

There's just a lot, and I won't bore you.

I am just glad to be home right now.

I am glad to be doing well enough to go back to work today.

I am glad that, even if I decided not to go back today, the State of Illinois did one thing right and covers four weeks paid leave for donors.

I am glad I had a Blackberry in the hospital to read the comments left on Cheese's updates.

I am glad that people won't hold any responses I attempted to send back against me, given my morphine state.

I am glad to have my family and bloggers.

I am glad when I pass gas, because it means I am getting better.

I am even more glad when I poop - Jackpot!

I am glad to be alive.