I Have a New Friend!

Have you ever heard of the Body Bugg? Or as I like to call him “Bob”. I have him attached to the upper part of my right arm. We get along great just as long as I exercise my ass off and I keep my calories down. If I fail to complete these two tasks Bob gets a little testy with me.

Here is the deal with my friend Bob. I go to Bob’s website, log what I have eaten for the day, and then download the calories my body has burned for the day. (Thanks Bob for keeping track for me; let’s all give Bob a big round of applause!) The goal is simple: consume less calories then you burn. My goal is to have a deficit of 600 calories a day. That sounds easy! It is, as long as you don’t consume a 450 calorie Starbuck’s chocolate chip cookie! Damn! Damn! Damn! At 10:00 pm I load me and Bob’s information to my computer, and when I get the bad news I am 300 calories short of my goal it means I will have to go out and do what I call the “Bob walk”. It is what I like to call my one hour walk of shame to get to my goal. My neighbours see me out there at 10:30 walking with my head hung low; I imagine they are thinking to themselves; “What a crazy lady to be walking at this hour!” It’s all Bob’s fault; notice how I didn’t blame the cookie?

As luck would have it I met Leslie through Bob; Leslie Sansone that is. She tortures me with these high level walking DVDs “That burn a lot of calories. Doesn’t it feel good to get in shape? Don’t you just have a better day? Walk, walk, walk. Good for you!” as per Leslie. I do ten miles or 1 ½ hour three times a week of “walking” with Leslie. Curses to Bob! Can you keep a secret? No matter how annoying Leslie might be, I am getting in shape. I can even do swats! (Just like Horatio Caine; without the dead bodies of course. But if I see an unfortunate dead body I will be able to swat down and say something profound.)

The good news is, since I got my new friends I have lost seven beautiful pounds! I love Bob, but I am just mildly found of Leslie.

Here I am. Are You Still There?

I am staring at the blank web page before me and wondering why I haven’t wrote a word in so long. It isn’t like I don’t think about it; it is just… I don’t know. I get caught up with trying to live, and then I get lost in the process. Do you know what I mean? I wish it were New Year’s so I could make a resolution to write in my blog!

I have so much to share with you but all the information is all jumbled up and stuck in the northern region of my body where my brain should be located. I should make a list, write about it, and then we will all feel better.

Here are the upcoming chapters in my blog: (In no particular order.)

Why I haven’t written in so long. (Hey, I can check that one off! I am doing so well!)

Exercise it’s a bitch and so am I! (I am making up these great titles as I go.)

How the economy has put a stop to my shopping, and now I am bummed (or a bitch- I will make that decision closer to the time of posting). (This one will be more of a rant.)

When the economy improves I am going to get plastic surgery. (This one will be about praying for miracles and buying lottery tickets. Oh and I am going to discuss my vanity issues.)

I am going to write something interesting on my husband David; stay tuned for that.

I am not going to B.S. you. I have not written due to a number of factors. One, my life is pretty boring and there hasn’t been much to report on. Two, I am getting hooked on daytime TV. (I am still waiting for Dr. Phil to put some verbs in his sentences.) Three, I am spending a lot of time with David. He has to go back to work soon, so I am taking advantage of our last precious moments together.

I have thought about blogging everyday, and I have been wondering how you have been doing? I have no idea who reads these tid-bits of my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about you.

I am not discussing my weight loss, because my body is not doing what I want it to. Enough said. You will have to wait for another instalment (or rant as I like to call them) to find out what is going on in that department.

I missed you all and I will write on Friday. I am going to the Sunshine Coast to relax, and possibly something brilliant will come to me.

Amy

Why I Hate the Dollar Store!

Why did it happen to me? Why? Why? Why?

I am a traditional person. I don’t give into fads, especially expensive fads at that. But I underestimated the power of the addiction, and overestimated my ability to stay out of the danger zone.

It started innocently enough I was at the dollar store. Now let me digress here and say:
I hate dollar stores with a passion. Just the smell of the dollar store is enough to make me run for the door, or not even go in for that matter. My friends make fun of me for not shopping on the cheap, but I stand firm in my beliefs that if a store has a foul “packaged” smell to it; then you ought not be shopping there. I have never willingly entered a dollar store just to “check it out”.

However I was with a good friend of mine who was in need of beading supplies and she thought that paying retail was like pulling teeth out without the novocaine. We went down the crap isle; I mean the craft isle in search of her beading stuff. To make a long story short the magnificent almighty dollar store failed to carry what she was looking for. (If we had went to Michael’s liked I suggested she would have found it there. One for me, zero for the dollar store.) On our way back down the isle I turned my head ever so slightly to the right and I noticed scrapbooking supplies. I decided to pick up a few things for Holly’s birthday. I was there anyway enduring the smell; why not?

That was the moment the evil scrapbooking gods had me and my wallet in their gasp. Life as I knew it changed for ever; $20 to start, after that a million dollars and counting!

I gave Holly her token birthday gift a week before her birthday, and just as I suspected she absolutely went wild over it. But come on it was dollar store crap…I mean crafts. We had to get the “good stuff.” Immediately we jumped in my VW beetle and sped to our neighbourhood scrapbooking store-no crap there, just 5000sq feet of expensive retail supplies, to which I had no idea how to use. We filled our basket with what we figured the essentials to be: a cutter, some stickers, a few pens and paper, paper, paper. $125.00 later we were out of there. We made a promise to each other that we would not become one of those scrapbook people that buy and buy and buy just for the sake of buying. No we would only buy what we needed. We got home and we laid our treasure out on the living room floor.

This part is David’s fault…

David was sitting with us looking at the receipt and looking pale as he scanned the total. He noticed that the shop gave a 10% discount, and he asked if we had received our discount. We had not. It was an injustice that we had to fix at once. In a matter of two minutes we were back at the overwhelming-heaven-of-a-scrapbooking-supply-store. We broke our oath right then and there and dropped another $25 dollars, because everything was “just so adorable”.

I like to consider myself a smart woman and it did not make sense to me to pay retail prices for scrapbooking supplies, so I revved up my ebay account and started shopping for the goods from the comfort of my easy-chair. (*Notice the following statement is a plug for ebay.) If you love to scrapbook ebay is the way to go. You get name brand products at hell of a savings. Go and check it out.)

My obsession runs deeper than ebay. Now I am going to Michaels and I am walking through the scrapbooking isles. Most of the time I stand there trying to figure out what all the contraptions and dohickies are for.

At the present moment I have refrained from making anymore purchases, but I can’t tell you what tomorrow will hold. One thing I know for sure is: I am blaming my new found addiction on the dollar store! I hate those places.

All Good Things (and Bad) Must Come to an End

My second post was dedicated to my crazy scale, and this post will be the same. I actually spend quite a bit of time reflecting on my relationship with my scale. I must admit that I have a dysfunctional relationship with my scale. Whenever I stand on it in my bathroom I promise myself I will not weigh myself for at least a week. However when I wake up the next morning I hear the scale calling to me, “Amy…Amy…come weigh yourself. You have probably lost ten pounds. Come and see.” And like any addict I am back on the scale looking down at the numbers waiting for my fix for the day.

I swore to myself that I would never buy myself a scale, but my pusher (a.k.a. doctor) weighed me on his and his scale and it showed a weight loss of 16 pounds in ten days. From that point on I was hooked. I went out and bought my own, and ever since then I have been chasing that same high I got at the doctor’s office. It even got so bad I became a three times a day weigher. I was hopeless.

Then last week a miracle happened that would force me and my scale apart forever. That miracle was David. No, there was no dramatic intervention or such. It was much simpler. David got on the scale and broke it! (I am laughing…right now, because thank God it wasn’t me. I would have died right there on the spot.) The scale just plain gave out; it split down the center! (Again I am laughing…) Crack…big crack…you should have seen his face; it was priceless.

Thanks to David I have finally not weighed myself in 10 days. I probably will not go out and buy another scale. However I can’t make any promises because I am going to see my doctor (a.k.a. pusher.) in a few weeks and if his scale shows a great weight loss all bets are off. Next time I will buy a heavy-duty-industrial-strength-you-can-weigh-anything-on-it-kind!

Head Over Heals

I can't write that much because I got myself in a bit of a jam.

It all started with a goal to walk to over 100km by the end of August. So far I am 35km done. Yesterday I went out to complete another 10k and took David with me. We were busy talking and walking, which in hindsight may have been a problem for me.

We were in our local high school's parking lot on our way to the track when I tripped over a stone. I flew through the air and my face landed on the pavement. I used my left side of my face and shoulder to skid across the pavement. The good news was I could barely feel the pain, because of the throbbing pain in my neck and the back of my head. I had a sneaky suspicion that the pain was caused by the snap I heard in my neck as I hit the pavement. Normally when I fall I can get up, brush myself, and limp down the road. But this time I could not get up, in fact I could not move. We were afraid that I was seriously hurt, so David called an ambulance. OMG it was so much drama. They had to do the putting on of the neck brace thing, and it was unbearably painful when they moved me to the ambulance. To make matters worse I had to fall on a really hot day; I was so thirsty. They wouldn't even give me ice chips, so I had that gross glue pasty stuff stuck to my lips. To top it off the brace was digging into the back of my head where my migraine was, and they weren't in any particular rush to take it off. I thought this was the worse I have ever felt. I promised when I felt better I would start living life to the fullest. I would never take life for granted. (You know the pain must be bad if you start re-evaluating your life in an emergency room bed.) I finally got pain meds, which made me so sick I started to shake, and had a great desire to loose my cookies. They took a lot of x-rays, which was difficult because I couldn't stop shaking, and I was afraid I was going to barf on the x-ray table. How would that work? My x-rays came back with no neck injuries and I was free to return home.

Now it is the next day and I am feeling a lot better, but I am still feeling a little under the weather.

Only I could cause so much drama with one little rock…

Wagons Ho!

Why do we call it “falling off the wagon”? I decided to internet sleuth, which means I used my normal method. I went to Google and browsed the first page. If the first page did not net results I changed my search words, because who wants to click on more than one page? After all I would be there all day going through page after page and I would never get on with my blog entry.

Let's get back to “falling off the wagon”. I am positive that most of you know where the phrase originated from, but for the very few who don’t I decided to cut and paste YAHOO’s answer:

In the late 1800s, many Americans campaigned for a government ban on liquor (crazy, we know). Those who chose to live the sober life were said to be "on the wagon." Maven’s Word of the Day explains that in this case, the "wagon" was actually a water cart used to hose down dusty roads on hot days. Basically, saying that a person was "on the wagon" was shorthand for "they would sooner climb aboard a water cart to quench their thirst" than have a drop of liquor. We doubt many demonstrated the vow by actually jumping up on carts, but the phrase makes their commitment clear.

Now that you know what falling off the wagon is I know you will understand how serious my situation is. I fell off the wagon. In essence I gave up hose water for a cookie. (I just filled in my addiction.) I have been bumping down a road lined with baked goods for four whole days without succumbing to one cookie. And then I was just looking over the side, and bam I did a face plant into a big chocolate chip cookie.

It was easier to stay away from temptation in the 1800’s then it is today. I am positive there were no on-board-wagon-TVs in the 1800’s, so those folks were not tempted by tantalizing alcohol commercials as they rode down the road getting splinters on their bums. I on the other hand sit in my comfortable chair in front of my television and I am accosted with commercial after commercial telling me to go and buy Pepperidge Farm cookies. (A person can only be so strong.) Another thing that made life easy on them guys back then was the the amount of bars they had to choose from. They probably only had one watering hole they could go to . I on the other hand have a hundred stores that I could drive to in thirty minutes and buy cookies from. You see how my life is so much more challenging? All my whining aside the fact remains I, like so many jumped out of the wagon and hit the ground with a thud.

I am proud of my accomplishment to resist my bakery frienemys for four days. I am shooting for seven this time around. I would be BSing you and myself to say that I am going to stay away from cookies forever. I am never going to be able to do that; unless the Girl Scouts stop selling cookies door-to-door. Instead I am trying to learn moderation.

Some of us are lucky enough to come back on board the water cart with bruises and new determination to stay put this time. For some of us we need all of the above plus a good friend and a rope.

I am going to sign out, go and clean up my bruises, put on some band-aids, and hoist myself back up into the cart. When the wagon stops in front of the bakery next Friday I will be the first one out. Maybe...Probably...Where is that rope?

If I am Not to Blame, Then Nobody is!

My favorite TV show character is Cookie Monster. The irony is I blame my cookie addiction on him. Day-after-day I would sit in front of the TV and watch him show no self control as he ate plate after plate of chocolate chip cookies. Even at a young age I noticed that he did not gain weight. The message: Cookies were not fatting.

I would salivate as I watched Sesame Street at nine in the morning on PBS. After the show was over I had to have my fix. I would tip toe into the kitchen making sure the coast was clear. I would get our old white chair that did not have even legs; making it very unstable. I would stack a pile of phonebooks on top of it because the chair by itself would prove not high enough to reach the cupboard that held the “good stuff

As I would drag the chair across the kitchen floor I would always curse my mother for putting all the good food up high. I promised myself when I became a mom I would make sure the good tasting food was where my kids could reach it. With my wobbly chair and the phonebooks in place I began my climb up the chair I made it to the chairs ledge. There was only an inch or so to grip my toes on. I’d better get on with this; up to the first phonebook, and up I went to the second. The books slid as I stepped from one to the other; I forgot that phonebooks were so slippery. As I climbed to the top phonebook the chair started to sway. I reached out to catch myself on the counter, but I was higher than the counter and lower than the cupboard. I balanced with all my strength; after all this Operation Cookie! As I found my balance on the leaning kitchen tower that I constructed I reached for the cupboard, but I could not quite reach. “If only we had another phone book.” I said out loud in my kid-spoiled-pouty-I-want-it-now voice. At this point I should have retreated, but I Really Wanted a Cookie! Determined I got up on my tippy toes, and with the tips of my fingers, holding my breathe I managed to will the cupboard open. Then I took a leap of faith, and I mean literally. I jumped off my gerry-rigged platform Indiana Jones style, and somehow managed to barely grasp the cupboard’s edge. (By the way I scraped and bruised my chin, and bit my tongue. How come we never see Mr. Jones do that?) Nonetheless my mission had to continue. I saw the cookies in the cupboard; I took my free hand and reached in and grabbed my reward. Bingo! I had them; I could feel the plastic crunch sound of the Oreo container. I had succeeded! Now how to get down with my treasure. The getting up part was easy, it would be the getting down that would prove to be a challenging part. With my feet dangling in the air I began to search out for the phonebook staircase. No luck, because I forgot to mention that when I jumped for the cupboard the chair and the phonebooks had toppled over. I thought quickly, if I could just swing my legs and find the counter; I could land on it and get down from there! The only problem was: as a young child I wasn’t coordinated enough to swing my feet to land on ANYTHING whatsoever! But I did not know any better, so I tried. I failed. The Oreos and I came crashing down to the kitchen floor. I can still remember the feeling of the wind being pushed out of me. But only that wasn’t the worse part. Right then my mom came into the kitchen and started in on me about the chair, the phonebooks, the cupboard door, and the big thud. It was this time in my childhood that I decided that if I had a kid that I would not come in the kitchen and scream at them if I saw phonebooks, a chair, and my child on the ground. I would be nicer. But this still wasn’t the worst part. The worst part-Yup you guessed it; she saw the cookies and put them back in the cupboard. All that work for nothing. Another mental note: When I became an adult I will not have a white wobbly old chair; instead I will buy a proper step stool. I blamed being put on restriction and the headache that followed on Cookie Monster.

I also blame my cookie addiction on the blue guy. He rotted my impressionable young mind with the images of him enjoying himself (Om nom nom nom nom.) while he ate plates full of cookies with wild abandonment. Those images alone lead me to crave chocolate chips and complex carbohydrates. Cookies are my worst addiction. (Nobody bring up Starbucks as I am trying to prove a point!) I truly believe in my heart that I would be a size 2 if it weren’t for Cookie Monster. He was my bad influence. Because of my newest theory I no longer have to take responsibility for my weight gain. All of my bad decisions and habits rest on the conscience of someone else, which makes me free to blame everything on someone else.

I have spoken to Cookie Monster’s legal representatives and unlike McDonalds he feels bad about my circumstance. (After all he is a preschool toy and he is supposed to teach kids to be honest.) He has agreed to pay me proceeds out of his yearly salary, which thrilled me beyond words. (Jackpot) As is it…It turns out that Cookie Monster is paid in strictly in cookies. It figures. Now who can I sue… (I mean blame) for my weight problem, because it feels much better to blame …( I mean sue) others!
PS…
Cookie Monster if you are reading this; please know that you are my hero and still my favorite!

Sitting Down is Not What it Used to be

This is a short blog entry today…
It is more of an observation really. Here it is: I keep sitting on this uncomfortable object. No matter where I sit it seems to follow. When I am on the couch I check to see if I am sitting on the rim of a pillow, or I check to see if the pillow cushion is adjusted correctly. Sometimes it feels like I am sitting on an electrical cord. Day-after-day, chair-after-chair I sit uncomfortably. Then it dawned on me…the problem is my butt bone. I am not used to having such a thing anymore. I am used to my comfy fatty butt cushion, and now that it is gone I have to sit on is my bony butt. I love my bony butt!

Focus, Smile, Click!

Why are there no pictures of me? I have been pounding that question lately. As you may have guessed by now the camera is my siren call. Even when I was bigger I couldn’t stay away from the magic of the flashbulb. The camera allows me to let to be the center of attention for a lifetime and beyond. I love the thought of that!

I married a man with very few flaws, but one of his shortcomings is taking pictures of me. It is not that he doesn’t like taking pictures. He will take pictures of sunsets, bodies of water, and buildings. I am also sure he has even taken pictures of blades of grass. (Well maybe I am exaggerating a little.) At heart he may fancy himself to be some sort of nouveau photographer. I have no idea. But come on…where are the pictures of me? We don’t have pictures of my weight loss hotness. We don’t have pictures of me sitting here writing this blog. True we do have pictures of buildings and grass. He has an excuse for his lack of Amy picture taking. (He calls it a reason, but I call it an excuse.) In his formative “photographer” years he was one of those people that would take someone’s picture: snap…and then immediately move the camera. You know what I am talking about. As a result of him moving the camera he would cut off the heads of his subjects and made them fuzzy to boot. This was especially bad because it was before digital came out, and you were forced to pay for crappy pictures. If you were lucky enough to have your picture taken by mine truly this would have been your experience: You would go to the drive-thru Kodak photo both and excitedly open your photo envelope hoping to see a wonderful picture of you posed with Rod Steward. (Hey I am going back in time to tell this story, so I had to use Rod.) Only to find out that David, because of his lack of picture taking talent has cut off both of your heads. Now who will believe you when you tell people you met Rod at Baskin Robins? I think David got chewed out a lot by people after they visited the Kodak drive-thru. Given this I can understand why he is a little camera shy. BUT we have been together for almost eighteen years, and in those eighteen years I have given him numerous photography lessons. The one about holding the camera up for a second or two after you hit the button was lesson one, which he mastered; thank you very much. All this being said he still prefers buildings over people.

UPDATE

Since writing this blog and letting David proof read it. (I did that because I did not want him to sue me for talking bad about his photography skills in my blog.) The first thing he did was get the camera. The second thing he did was start to take pictures of me. The issue I had with that was: I was in the bathroom. (Washing my hands, but still.)

Oh yeah BTW…he is going to set up his own blog called, “All My Wife Wants is a Cookie.” And his first entry is going to be: “My Wife is a Meanie!” I am waiting on bated breathe for that blog to hit the internet. How about you?

You Can't Aways Get What You Want...When You Want it.

I am coming up to ten months on my weight loss journey! I have to say that this has been a wonderful experience.

It is true that at times it has been frustrating; especially when I was in the land of 185 for two months. I swear that I did everything I could to leave that neighbourhood, but the scale just wouldn’t move! Week after week 185…damn…damn…damn! Then shit…shit…shit! Then I would scream at the scale, “You Mother F*%#KING piece of shit.” I swear the digital numbers of 1-8-5 were laughing at me.

Thank goodness I am stubborn; I did not give up. I just kept plugging away. I upped my exercised and cut my calories. I was so determined to kill the number combination of 1-8-5 forever. (Insert Mission Impossible Theme Song here.) Then two weeks ago I blasted the 5 right out of the water.

As of today I weigh 180, which means I have lost a total of 68 pounds. I never dreamed of losing 68 pounds in 10 months. If you could see me now I am dancing around my house and doing karate chops in the air, which is making typing this blog entry a little harder than normal.

You know what is the hardest part about having the band? Well yes, for some of us it is eating rice, but for me it is the urge to compare myself to other bander’s weight loss. Don’t misunderstand me I am happy that other people are having great success, but I get down on myself when I don’t achieve the same results. I have to ask myself why I am so competitive. For me it all comes down to self esteem. I have come to a conclusion that even if it takes me two months to lose five pounds then that is what am going to I do. It dawned on me; I have to have faith in myself, and not look at this as a race. If I was able to go to war with my scale and not give up by going to a buffet; then I can stay the course. This is about me, my faith, my determination, and my POS scale! I believe that this weight will be long gone, and guess what? It will be sooner that later. Just call me Rocky.

My goal is to lose 12 pounds by October 3rd. Bring it on!

Do You Know Where Your Child is?

David and I are on a honeymoon again. Thanks to generous grandparents Holly has had the opportunity of a lifetime to go to France for five weeks. I know I couldn’t believe it either! It was David’s parents who took her. Oh you should have heard David complain over and over again, “When I was her age they never took me to France! All I got was camping trips where we drove around BC down unmarked dirt roads!” He got over it when he realized that we would be alone for five weeks. Now please don’t misunderstand me we did miss her, but we were thrilled to have time to ourselves.
We spent our time bike riding, running (not my favorite part), hiking, going to outdoor markets, dining on David’s gourmet cooking, and sleeping in. We also went to a drive-in movie. It was awesome; it was also David’s first time. To my delight they rolled the dancing hot dogs and ice creams during the intermission. We had a fabulous time. We are very lucky that we still enjoy spending time together.
She was home for five days and then my parents decided they needed a turn and they took her camping for two weeks. (Insert sigh.) This time it is me that really wants to go on a real vacation. I would settle for anything…I just want to get away. I step outside and just to the southwest of me I hear Hawaii calling my name. It is my turn to complain…”Why doesn’t anyone take me to France?”

Down the Wishing Well

I seem to have the “Alice in Wonderland” syndrome. I don’t mean to keep disappearing but it has been a hectic summer for me.

Not to complain but my BP has acting up, so my doc increased my meds, which has made me a little “slow”. It has taken me a while to get back to old myself. Apparently my newest latest greatest thing is night-time-amnesia. I am totally not kidding! I can not remember anything that happens an hour before I go to sleep. I seem perfectly normal; I talk, I clean, I watch TV, ect. Last night for instance: David and I were packing things for our daughter to take camping. The first time I packed her I packed too much stuff, because I believe that you must have all the comforts of home when camping. Even if that means you have no where to sit, because your luggage takes up too much room- that’s too damn bad! My dad who is in charge of the motor home did not share my views, so as a result I was forced (against my will) to re-pack. David and I sat down to re-pack her; only it was late at night, so I took my bedtime meds right before we started.

This is what happened according to David…

We repacked for Holly’s trip. Apparently I removed two pairs of bottoms, which is important because now she only had four pairs of pants for twelve days. I left in all of the twenty different tops, which according to my math would have been smarter to remove a few of those babies instead of the pants. I took out the one pair of black socks, stating that the socks didn’t match anything she was taking with her. I also removed quiet a few of her books, which is bad because I removed the first book in a two part serious, but I left the second one. Now she won’t be able to read that book. What was I thinking? I also decided in the process of packing that I needed a big glass of milk…I have no idea, so don’t ask. After that I passed out on the couch. According to David.

This has been happening for a few weeks now. The last thing I remember is taking my meds and then waking up in the morning. It is kind of a pain, because I miss big chunks of my night. David and I have conversations that I have no memory of. I don't recall television programs. Nada. Zip. Nothing. The good news is I am writing this blog entry at 16:05 so I am fully awake and aware. Or am I?

It seems that every corner I go around there are more diagnoses, and illnesses to tack on. I guess that one illness to battle is not enough for me. Instead of pulling the covers over my head I do more cognitive therapy and they add on more medicine that I take. There are so many days that I don’t feel well that I can’t even go on the internet. I don’t know if I will ever feel as good as I once did before my break (Doctors use the word “break” instead of “mental-break-down”. I think they think it lessens the blow. But it really doesn’t.) I have spent too many days trying to recover. I have spent too many moments feeling guilty about sapping precious energy and time from my little family. I just want to get well, and maybe eat a few delicious cookies along the way. (Don’t get me started on the weight gain the meds cause!)


I really don’t want to turn this blog into a place where I complain about having a mental illness. I live with it every day. I fight it everyday. Because of that I want you to see the little things in my mind that are just me. . I don’t want anyone to read this and feel sorry for me. I have a great life with a great family who battles this battle with me everyday. I am one of the lucky ones. My journey is the road less travelled.

I have so much I want to say to you…a lot has happened in the last two months.

I Have it all Figured Out for the Year.

I hate going to the company Christmas parties. You’ve been there: you are assigned to a table, you make small talk, you eat too much of a buffet meal, and then the dreaded part…the lights start to flash, the disco ball comes down, and the music starts to blare.

My heart goes thump-thump-thump, but not to the beat. Do you know why? If you ask anyone who knows me they will tell you that I am tone deaf. I can’t hear the beat, feel the beat, or even know that there is a beat. In a nutshell I dislike dancing- thank you very much. I have a tiny secret that gets me a free pass out of dancing: I put on really high heels that I can not possibly walk in and by the time it is time to dance my feet hurt too much, “Oh well maybe next year.” (Insert big sigh).

David is a different species all together he is what I refer to as a homo-disco- sapien. Let me put it to you this way: He received a disco ball as a Christmas present from a co-worker. He will dance with anybody , to anything and he looks so happy doing it. I do catch him staring longingly at me as if to say, “I wish this was you.” To which I respond with exaggeratingly pointing my finger to my feet, and making a sad "Oh I wish this didn't hurt so much" face. To his credit he never dances the slow songs with any one other than me. If I am not willing to dance he will sit at the table and look at me with puppy dog eyes. (All right I give in.) We go to the dance floor and we start in the waltz pose, however I forget which side we hold our arms up. David whispers in my ear, “Love let me lead.” No problem with me. However that is easier said than done. We end up doing a push-pull-marathon on the dance floor, to which I am not keeping beat to. Finally David gives up and we end up dancing like junior high school kids: His arms at my waist with my arms around his neck and our feet just slightly moving side to side. David is a good sport, because he keeps taking me to these parties each and every year.

My third and final task of this year is:
To learn rhythm (to the best of my God given ability.) And then to take dancing lessons with David, mainly to learn what arm we are suppose to put up when we are slow dancing.

Also dancing lessons will enable me to let go and to let him lead. Oh yeah and most importantly dancing lessons will give me more dancing moves other than the ones I learned in middle school.

David sweetheart this last accomplishment is for us. I want you to twirl me around the dance floor. I want to be the only lady who gets your attention and dancing feet moving. I want to dance in the moonlight with you. I am going to end this blog because I have to break out the disco ball…now where did I hide that thing?

Number Two on my List!

I have some fantastic news! I have come up with accomplishment number two! I must give you some background before I explain why I have chosen this particular activity.

For the last couple of summers some old friends, and us would venture down south to a cabin with a trout lake. Supposedly everyone caught at least a couple of fish during their short visits. We believed we should have no problems whatsoever right? We bought our fishing licenses and rented a rowboat with motor. We all had the same thought: “We are totally going to clean this lake out.” We were so cocky that we pored over the rules and limits to how many fish we could take back. When we got to what we considered the “perfect” fishing spot, we dropped our lines. I threw my line in over my head, and everyone else took cover. We waited thirty seconds for a bite, and had no luck. (Apparently we lacked patience.) So we decided that it must be our bait, so we tried different bait: cheese ball bait, green bait, orange bait, and marshmallow bait. We also tried different lures. It didn’t help. During our time on the boat we noticed that there were Canadian geese making loud obnoxious laughing noises. Normally we wouldn’t have paid much attention to these geese, but because of our lack of superb fisher-skills we had the impression that they were laughing at us. Between the birds laughing and our laughing we did not manage to catch any fish. However I did catch some mighty fine seaweed, which the birds found hilarious!

The next year we decided to endure the same adventure. Thank goodness the birds were on a v-cay because there was no laugh track during our fishing adventure. My greatest moment was when I actually caught two fish! One was too small, so we had to set him free. (Good thing we had read the rules the year before.) But one was just right. IN YOUR FACE FISH; I AM A FISHER WOMAN! That night the fish was eaten and that was the best day of our trip*

*Disclaimer:
I used a closed line, which I feel is totally acceptable. My friend had to tie the line, put the red and white bobble thingy at the end of my line, and put a hook on too, because I had no clue how to make a knot. I put my bait at the end of the line, but most of the time it fell off, so the fish received a “free lunch” When my line got tangled everyone had to untangle it for me. Did I mention when I casted my line out everyone still ran for cover? I am not sure why. When the fish were caught I refused to touch them, so my friend had to unhook the fish and “take care of it” Soprano’s style. When it was time to scale the fish I watched with my eyes closed most of the time. I reluctantly held the fish for a picture, but of course that was for bragging rights. I almost forgot I named the fish Frank. To my credit I was the only one who actually caught seaweed or a fish. I did not eat the fish. I do not like the taste of fish especially when it was cooked in Frito-Lay chips and taco seasoning. (We were not as confident on our second trip that we would actually catch anything, so we did not bring anything remotely great tasting to bring out the proper flavor of Frank.)Yuck! Poor Frito-Lay-Frank, as we refer him now.

I got hooked on fishing. I would like to learn how to be a “some what” of a fishing expert, hell I would just be happy with the following: Knotting my line. Preparing of my pole so it is strong enough to reel in the “big one” (well at least a small to medium one.) I want to make sure the fish do not get a free lunch. I want friends to be comfortable enough to not have to run cover every time I cast out. I want to learn to gut a fish. I want to learn how to prepare a delicious fish dish that even I would eat. (Those of you that have stock in Frito-Lay I am so sorry.)

How am I going to accomplish such a feat?
The good news is that I live 20 minutes from one of the best fishing spots in British Columbia, so there are no excuses.
I can dress like a fisher-person, because I can buy cute fisher-clothes, and fisher-items, because I like to shop
I could read a book, or I could take expensive lessons. Or… I ask my wonderful brother Monte for his help.

Monte has worked at fishing resorts and he knows everything about fishing. He is my little brother and if I am not mistaken I think there is a clause that says a little brother must do what ever a big sister asks him to do. I asked Monte to read my blog and I don’t want to guilt him (too much), but he holds the key to my second accomplishment to this year.
Why this accomplish is important to me: Fishing gives me great joy and more importantly peace; I am ecstatic when I am out in the water with the hopes of catching a fish. At this point my skill set does not allow me to go fishing whenever I want. I could now but I have a feeling that I probably would end up in the emergency room with a fishing-something-or-other sticking out from an important body part which I need. I desperately need someone more experienced to teach me, so I can not go whenever the mood strikes. I don’t want have to depend on someone else. I want to be able to do what I want whenever I want. (I also want to spend extra time with my brother.)

I love you Monte!

Life in the Bike Lane

Just a short comment today… I got a bike yesterday, and to be honest I am not the same carefree cyclist I was at the age of seven. I thought once you learned to ride a bike you never forgot. In my case that is “practically” true, but I would not use the word graceful to describe my cycling abilities. In my current situation I have a difficult time keeping the bike and myself straight and upright; the bike I kind of wobble down the road. To top it off I am a chicken when it comes to biking near traffic on the busy highways. Is it gauche to ride on the sidewalks if you are 34? Hmm... I thought as much. My last complaint is the bruises on my butt. OUCH! Comfy saddle my ass. (I knew I should have spent my money on a flat screen TV instead; at least my ass would be much happier. Maybe a little bigger, but at least it wouldn’t hurt so much.)

I have wanted a bike for a long time. I was too afraid that my butt would be swallowed up by the saddle seat and all the public would see is my bum with a bike rod sticking up into it. Thanks to my surgery and my weight loss I feel more confident to take to the streets on two wheels. Isn't it funny how much I held myself back because of my weight? Besides the butt-bruise-discomfort-issue I feel so free and light spinning down the road. Yeah I am still on the back roads mind you, but I still feel good never the less.

First Attempt at a 10K...No Really!

I am so beat! I feel like a wet pair of jeans that have yet to have come out of the washer-machine; all stiff and unwearable. I swear to you that I stretched. I prepared. I brought water and almonds. I wore my best pair of sneakers. I did everything I knew how to do today to make myself as comfortable as possible. I even went as far as to hire two coaches slash trainers. It is true that my trainers are on the cheap, as they are my husband and my ten year old daughter Holly, but free is free. What can I say?

Why do I hurt so much? In my brilliant moment (not so much) of wisdom I decided to walk 10K to “see” how it felt. You know to try it on for size. I went on to Google maps and carefully mapped out my route to make sure it was a 10K walk.

We started out around 10:30 in the morning. It was starting to get a little hot, but really how long would this walk take us? No more than an hour…an hour and fifteen minutes tops. Hey we can handle an hour or so. David was so excited about the prospect of what I was taking on, and I was grateful for his support and willingness to share my first 10K walk. I also managed to sucker him into a 10K walk every week for that matter; for the sake of “training”. I have to admit the first 7 ½ K were easy to accomplish, but after that we were starting to feel the power of the sun’s rays.. Apparently when the sun comes out it gets very HOT; who knew? We started to drag our butts and I started to question whose idea this was to come out here in the blazing heat and walk 10 bloody kilometres! But only I couldn’t complain because we both knew it was all my idea. Damn! At this point the only time we talked was to make comments about the how long roads seemed to be, and other times was when I asked David what time it was.

The best news is we made it home at 12:36 thank goodness; it was touch and go for awhile there. (For those keeping track the walk took us two hours and six minutes.) The bad news is that as it turns out our home has stairs! Who bough…oh yeah it was me again. As the night goes on my body gets stiffer…where is that A535?

*I did forget to put on sunscreen, as a result my face and shoulders look like a red delicious apple. Next week I must make sure I add sunscreen to my list of things to do.

BTW…On our route David noticed a bicycle shop and decided that we should buy new bikes. His reasoning: we need to be more active. What? We are going out in the next few days to buy ourselves some new wheels. Personally I think it is because David does not want to “walk/run” beside me as I train, instead he has a unrealistic dream of “coaching” me while he rides while I run. Well I got new for him…

Number One on my List.

I wanted to show you what the love of my life David actually looks like. We have a phenomenal life together! I couldn’t ask for a better partner to navigate through this life with. This picture was taken on my 34th birthday.

As for my 35th year as promised I am making a list of things I want to do this year that will make this year a year to remember. I had to really think about what it was that I wanted to accomplish this year. It doesn’t have to be spectacular, but it does have to hold a special meaning to me.

For the first item on my list:

I am going to run the Vancouver Sun Run. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this run: it is the largest 10K run in Canada and the second largest in North America. Over 51,000 people run the Sun Run every year. Now I am not expecting to win by ANY means, but I WILL beat the average.

I went for my first walk/jog exercise today. I did pretty well; I ran for 8 minutes and walked for 40. I only came home because I ran out of water. I have ten months to get into "running" shape and I am determined to stay focused! My eye is on the prize, which will be bragging rights and a framed picture of course.

Why is this particular exercise important to me? It is simple- I hate running. I haven't got it quite right. I have not mastered running, and it is just out of my grasp. I also fear running because I am overweight. I hate the thought of my 'jell-O' body running down the road. That being said I want to do something that is hard, but will become easier the more I do it. Truthfully- I want to kick 40,000 other people’s ass.

#1: Run my butt off for ten months, and then join thousands of other people for a run, and finish before they do. See you at the finish line in April 2009

David loves to shop!

If you have been keeping up with my blog from the beginning you read about my theory about buying clothes for shrinking women (and men.) If you haven’t I’ll wait…
Okay, I’ll assume you are all caught up on my ramblings.

I was such a clothes horse. I used clothes to feel better about being overweight. Well it was worse than I thought, because when I started clearing out my closet of all bigger sizes I filled up boxes and boxes, bags and bags. I was embarrassed about how much clothes I had accumulated over the years. (Who knew you needed twelve pairs of capri pants, and thirty tank tops? Who am I Oprah?) I donated, I gave, I cried, and then I donated some more. You should see my bare closet! Now your voice can echoe off the walls, because there is nothing there to impact the sound.

David, God bless his heart thinks that every woman needs twelve pairs of capris, and thirty tank tops, so when he saw my bare closet this caused him great concern. He asked me when I was planning on going shopping to replace my clothes. I told him that I would do it soon. But as the days ticked by and the magic clothing fairies failed to fill my walk-in-closet with new attire he got antsier. “Do you want to go shopping?” he would ask me in a tone that was similar to the tone we use to ask the dog if he wants to go for a walk.

I finally agreed to go shopping and when we got to the mall I went to the plus size stores as usual. (Go with what you know.) Here is my method for finding the “perfect” fit:

Pants- to find the perfect fitting pair of pants you must be able to pull them off of your hips without unbuttoning them. (Nope there is no elastic involved!)
Panties-to find the perfect fitting pair of undies they must have a bubble of fabric and air in the bum for added windy comfort.
Bra-(My personal favorite) to find the perfect fitting bra you must be able to fit grapefruit plus your own merchandise in the cup, and when you bounce you must still be able to give yourself a black eye from your merchandise whacking you in your face. Grandma would be so proud!
Shirt-To find the perfect shirt buy one that is too big so you can pretend that it is your boyfriend’s and/or husband’s shirt. *tip: try and find a shirt that makes your ass look big too.

Yesterday, my family took me into a regular sized woman’s store. I agreed (reluctantly) to go because the sign on the window said: up to size 18. My daughter and my husband start to pull dresses of off the rack and I notice that they are not pulling the biggest size. “Whoa wait a minute. I am a XXL if I am even that lucky.” They didn’t listen and they kept pulling their favorite dresses. I decided to leave the dress department, because I was afraid if someone saw me in the store they might ask me to leave. My heart was pounding so I started to look at capris. (You know I only have two pairs I am down by ten.) I grabbed the biggest size and ran away from the display like I was committing a crime. I went to change room I grabbed the only XXL dress, which I picked and put it on. I came out of the change room and it was too big, well according to them, according to me it fit all of the requirements listed above. I went back in to the evil change room and tried on dress after dress in smaller sizes; I even went down to a large. It fit but I wasn’t mentally ready for the responsibility that comes with a large. I also tried on a size twelve skirt and it fit comfortably with no problem except when I sat down it did show my lovely “roll”, so that was a definite NO! As for the capris it turned out that I didn’t pick out the largest size, but on a positive note it did pass my pull it off with having to waste time with out having to fuss with buttons and zippers;.

After all that I did not buy anything, but it was a great accomplishment towards feeling better in my own skin. When I get down to my goal weight of 160 pounds I believe that I will strangely get the Oprah clothes buying bug again…hum! Only 23 more pounds to go.

Only 2 more days...

I am turning 34 on Saturday. I have mixed feelings about being 34. I am not one of those people who fear aging or pretend to be younger than I actually am. I am just me. I hangout and don’t count the years passing by, but I do wonder what the next years will hold. That is where my problem lies.

I have dreams but I let my dreams fall through my fingers; promising myself I will make new dreams a reality next year. But day-after-day I do the same thing and live the same life. I am still waiting for life to happen to me. What happens between the hope of a new year and just becoming content to wait for next year to make new promises?

Now don’t misunderstand me; I am not talking about going to the gym and working out 5 times a week, or eating vegetables with every meal. No I am talking about feeling alive, happy, and accomplished. I don’t want to tread water instead I want to sail on a yacht. I want to look back on my 34th year and say: "That was a fantastic year! I had so many wonderful adventures with so many wonderful people!" Does this make sense to anyone? Before Saturday I am going to make a list of things I will do this year that will bring me great joy.

Stay tuned…

Life is a Highway

I am starting to have more good days than bad now, which is fantastic!

I live close to a busy road. I hate this road with a passion. When I bought my house I did not notice the road, or either it did not bother me at the time. It is the traffic that I can’t stand; especially the young gentlemen who find it necessary to trick out their 1990 Mustangs by removing the muffler. On my walks I will avoid this road by walking the back roads even if it takes twice the amount of time. Since I am not feeling too great I am forced to walk the shortest distance to get to where I want to go, which means taking the "no mufflers necessary highway”.

One day I had to pick my daughter up from school; I noticed a elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair on the side of the road. She was under a small tree that barely covered her and it was a rather warm day. I kept walking assuming she was waiting for a ride, but I was irritated at the same time that someone would make her wait on the side of the road I despised so much. When I came back with my daughter in tow she was still there! I was even more distraught on her behalf.

A few days later I ventured out with again to pick up Holly from school. The weather was colder and I was wearing a coat. I looked for the woman in the wheelchair and she was there, she had a blanket on her lap and she is watching the traffic speed by. She didn’t look unhappy but she didn’t look pleased either. She was not there when I passed by on my way home.

I very rarely drive because David is home more, and I like to be chauffeured (some things never change.) I notice the wheelchair lady day after day. It kind of is a game in my head, will she be there or will she not. More often than not she is there. I can’t wrap my brain around why she would sit out there so close to this road and just watch the traffic go by.

I start to wonder is there something that I am misunderstanding about this road or town. Now I want to talk to her and bring her cookies and tea and learn all of her wise secrets. I start to imagine myself bringing my own chair over and seeing the world through her eyes.

I don’t know if she is crazy, but that wouldn’t bother me anyway. I wouldn’t care if she was sick, because so am I. In fact I would admire that, because during my worse months this year I locked myself in my house, and refused to come outside. If I found out that her family just wheels her out there just to get her out of their hair, and she has no say in the matter. I would sit with her and share conversations.

In the end I have come to some conclusions:
Maybe she is waiting for somebody.
Maybe she just wants to be left alone for some peace and quiet.
Maybe she is too sick to even notice that I was there if I approached her.
Maybe I should learn to tolerate a busy road.

That all being said I am going to start to walk on her side of the road to say “hello” because you never know what can happen!