Shake Rattle and Roll, but Mostly Shake!

This blog is turning into a “Bitching Session”. I am terribly sorry about that.

In my previous post I wrote that I wasn’t feeling well, because I had stupidly taken myself off of my stabilizing med due to its side-effects. A few days ago it was my moment of truth. I told my doctor that I had assigned myself to be an “Arm-Chair-Prescription-Dispensing-I-Know-What-is-Better-for-Me-Even-Though-I-Did Not go to Med-School” pharmacist. I found that confessing was a tough pill to swallow.

My Doctor: How are you feeling?
Me: Not so good.
MD: Why?
Me: Because I hate the mood stabilizing pill that I have take.

(In my head I was thinking that YOU MAKE me take, but I wanted to be invited back to my next session.) I continued…

The drug has too many side effects. I really hate taking those nasty pills, so instead of taking them I put them down my garbage disposable.

MD: I see.
Me: I don’t see why I have to take so many pills anyway.

(* Besides this stupid mood stabilizer I am also on 6 other pills. It is quite a cocktail.)

MD: ….

She gives me nothing but a stare.

At this point I should have tried to stare her down. I could have given her a cold icy glare. (I just asked David and he said that I can’t do an icy glare. I guess that will be something I’ll work on.) Instead I fidgeted in my seat and looked out the window. I knew that I had I lost; there was nothing left to say. I would be taking ALL of my meds. Still she was kind, and gave me a chance to plead my case anyway.

MD: What side-effects are you having?

Here was my chance! I started listing the side-effects. I gave some examples, and I might have exaggerated just a tiny bit; you know for dramatics. .

MD: I am sorry but you have no other options at this point.

I never believed that I would actually get away with my crime. I knew that I was guilty. I was pretty certain that I was destined to take this particular med. I think all I wanted to get is absolution for throwing my meds down the garbage disposal.

But wait I forgot one side-effect!

This was my back-up, “only to be used in case of an emergency” side effect. I had to play this card very carefully. I had to be clear, concise, and very accurate, no dramatics this time.

I had never shared this particular side effect with anyone in the medical community. I was afraid that I would be labelled “C-R-A-Z-Y”- too late. I really did think it was just a side-effect; I put up with so many already it was hard to distinguish side-effects from real issues!

Me: I have these seizer like episodes.

I will tell you guys what happens:

1.) A split second before the seizer happens I feel it coming.

2.)I don’t roll around on the ground. The seizers happen mainly in my upper body. I jerk my head and torso back and forth, and my arms go flying.

3.)I do feel like I am going to fall, but my feet manage to keep planted on the ground.

4.)The seizers last for 10 to 15 seconds.

5.)These episodes seem to happen when I am overly stimulated, and in certain lighted areas

6.)I don’t lose consciousness.

7.)I think the “after-seizers” are the worst. It feels like someone stuck a battery up my bum, and volts of electricity goes through my body. These seizers last for one or two seconds. I find these episodes quite annoying.

She started looking at my chart.

Please be the meds, please be the meds, or even be the bipolar.Today I am not so lucky.

MD: Sounds like epilepsy to me; I am quite sure of it.
Me: ... (Now it was my turn to stare. Take that!)
MD: We will have to run test.

(Of course we always have to run test!)

Me: Is it the drugs? Is it the bipolar?
MD: None of the drugs I am giving you would cause this to happen.
Me: Could I be faking this? Is it psychosomatic?
MD: No what you described is epilepsy. The fact that you know the seizure is going to happen just a second or two before it happens is called an epileptic aura. Many epileptics know that they are going to have a seizer moments before the seizure happens

Epileptic aura- Say what? - I thought the fact that I knew it was going to happen meant that it was psychosomatic!

OMG, you have got to be kidding me. I have had enough. I would like to talk to the management, or whoever is in charge of fairness. I have been diagnosed with bipolar, which has given me other mental illnesses. Talk about “free with purchase gifts!” I was born with Cerebral Palsy and now this Epilepsy thing! Forgive me but I just have to say it: “F word, F word, F word”! (At this point I feel I am entitled to drop a few F bombs.)

I was advised to stop driving. Duh! Yes, definitely, I don’t want to cause harm. But now my freedom is severly limited. Oh stop it. That is why you have rain boots; see it was fate. The good news is: when the doctors figure this mess out they will be able to medicate me with MORE drugs, and then I will be able to drive. (Clap, clap, clap!)

UPDATE

We found out what is possibly causing the seizers: It is my Cerebral Palsy. Apparently 1 in 3 children get it, but then they grow out of it. Then there are adults who get it; sadly they don’t grow out of it. At least it is nothing too dramatic. The doctors will be able to medicate me. I still have to do the tests. They are going to induce some episodes and study them. I wish them luck with that, because I mainly get seizures in my kitchen. HA!

You know that saying: “At least I have my health.”
I changed it: to:

“At least I have a sexy husband, a wonderful daughter, a nice home filled with my favorite things; I am surrounded by tons of people that love me, and three Starbucks within walking distance.”

Beauty is Only Skin Deep...

My next quest for beauty is to have a tummy tuck. I am going to lipo my muffin top. I wish I could also get rid of my bat wings and give lift to my “merchandise” a.k.a. “The Girls”.

However the thought of the pain scares me badly. I am not a big fan of discomfort. If I get a hangnail I bitch about it for days on end. Can you imagine what I’ll be like when I get a tummy tuck, lipo, and maybe some lifts? I already feel sorry for those around me. Let me give David and Holly some advice: Hire “stand-ins” for a month and go to Hawaii.

I had my lapband surgery in October of 2007. I thought it was only going to hurt a little bit, because the pamphlet said, “Minimally Invasive.” - Minimally invasive my butt. I was in so much pain. I woke up the day after surgery and thought to myself, “What the hell did I just do?” Getting better was very time consuming. My stomach muscles took months to heal. Minimally invasive…false advertising is what I call it.

The surgeons who are performing the tummy tucks are a little more honest, because they tell you that the tummy tuck is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Ouch! They tell you that moving around for the first week is going to be as uncomfortable as pulling off your toenails with pliers. They also recommend that you limit moving as much as possible. No problem there, Doc. The surgeons even send you home with a fanny pack full of pain meds that go straight to your tummy. (How bad can the pain be if they have to send you home with a fanny pack? Uh… pretty eff-ing bad if you get a fanny pack as your take home gift.) They tell you that you will need around the clock care for one week. (Run David, run.) They warn you that you may have drains. What the hell are drains? All I know is that drains sound painful.

“Hey what’s that coming out of the side of your body?”

“Oh those things; don’t pay any attention to those. Those are just my drains. Yeah they come free with every tummy tuck. Just like the free toy that comes with every Happy Meal. Really I am thrilled to have them. Look I can see how much fluid is coming out of my stomach. They’re cool huh? Hey where are you going?”

I feel sorry for you guys, because when my pain crisis hits all I am going to do is complain and moan in my blog entries. I will have to change my blog title to: I Really Want Pain Meds, and a Cookie.

The good news is that I have to wait for a while before I can hop on the operating table. I have to lose about more 20 pounds. The doctors want me to be at my target weight, before they operate. I set my target weight at 135, but because I was never 135 as a teenager or as an adult we picked 150, which is, I feel is the best weight for me.
I am on a mission to lose 20 pounds. (Insert Mission Impossible theme song.) I am going to lose a pound a week. I need a cheering squad, determination, and a loan

I Wish This Was Just the Flu.

I have never shared while I have been in the throws of my mental illness until now. This entry is difficult to write due to how I am feeling.

Very recently I have been non-compliant with my medication. This has been the only time since I was diagnosed as a bi-polar that I have veered off of my medications. I have a whole list of reasons why I did what I did. The main reasons I took myself off of my stabilizing medication was: The drug caused me to shake and twitch. It caused word aphasia, which was very frustrating. The best way I can describe word aphasia is like this; English became a second language to me. I would be talking about our dishwasher and I could not say the word dishwasher. I knew what the dishwasher was, but I didn’t know the word for dishwasher. After a few agonizing seconds it would come to me, and sadly sometimes it wouldn’t. I would have to do a lot of pointing and someone would have to say the word for me. On average this happened 5 to 10 times a day. (Which is too much.) I could still write the words I was just unable to say the words. Sometimes I gaited instead of walked. I did tell my doctor, but I have already tried the other drugs that are available and I any had very little success or worse yet it caused massive weight gain. (Massive weight gain has caused me deep depression that in the past I have found myself admitted into a hospital.) So taking this medication seems like the lesser of the evils. I should also mention that I have cerebral palsy, and so the doctors have to be extra careful about what meds they prescribe. I hate the meds that I have to take, but I am a rapid cycle bipolar, which means without proper meds I can go up and down several times per day. I have tried to “get off” of my meds, and try more holistic approaches, but that just landed me in the hospital again.

The medication greatly improves the quality of my mental conditions. However, the downsides are the side effects. I feel tired, stupid, unfocused, sleepy, and nauseous. When it was time to take The evil drug I would put it down the garbage disposable when no one was looking. The nasty drug’s side effects mimicked the Parkinson’s side effects. I am back on it as of this morning. Do I feel hopeless and lost? No. For I understand that the way things are; is just part of my current reality.

Just so you know I did not try to do anything stupid last night. I was just on a reckless high, which I recognized to be a problem before it actually got to be a bigger problem. As a result I was medicated with drugs to bring me back down, and that is why I am in a hazy state.

*This blog will not be edited for content, grammar, or flow.

22..20...18...16...

It has been eluding me for over ten years now, but I knew it couldn’t stay away forever. SIZE 14 REG is back in town. The important part is the REG, which means it isn’t a plus size. Right now there are balloons and confetti falling from the ceiling of my walk-in-closet. It does make it more challenging to get dressed in, but it is totally worth it. I am not wearing any plus size clothing today-nope not a stitch; even my panties are REG size. Uh-oh here comes more confetti bye, bye granny panties.

The day of my surgery I waddled into the hospital wearing a size 22 everything. Wow, was I really that big? For me it has been a gradual weight loss, so I really haven’t noticed REALLY big changes. That being said, it is hard to ignore having to buy 4 pant sizes smaller.

“Excuse me miss where do you keep the regular size clothing? You see I haven’t been out of the plus size department in over ten years, so I don’t know where to find it. Is it by fragrances or handbags?”

The first time I ventured into a non-plus size store I was so nervous. I felt as if I was committing a crime of some sort. My heart was beating rapidly, my palms were sweating, and the store’s bright lights were making me feel dizzy. Why such a serve reaction? It was simple, and yet very twisted thinking. I thought that the salespeople were going to ask me to leave. I just knew they were going to tell me that I was too fat and I would have to go back to a plus size store. It was so bad that the first time I went in to a store that was not plus size I could not bring myself to try on any clothing. (I only lasted two minutes inside.) The second time I did try on some clothing, but I only tried on the biggest sizes they had. I wasn’t ready to make a commitment to smaller sizes just yet.

After more therapy and a lot of Starbucks liquid courage I did go into stores and I claimed the clothing sizes that belonged to me.

I went to Macy’s last week and I was walking by the plus size department, which is at the back of this particular Macy’s store. I remember thinking that, “I will never have to shop at the back of this store again. Now I get to shop in the whole damn store, and that is the way it should be.”

I also passed by a Lane Bryant store in the mall. I looked in and saw my former self going through the racks, looking for a size 22/24. Then I caught a glimpse of my size 14 self in the refection from the store front window, and I couldn’t help but smile and think: You Look Marvellous Darling! The Best Is Yet To Come!

Running on my Nerves

I went shopping today. Bob is happy. I am happy. David is sort of happy; the sort of part is because he is our financial advisor, and he doesn’t like to buy stuff. The dog is not happy. We bought a treadmill. (See why the dog is not happy.)

We had to go from store-to-store to find the perfect treadmill. I swear if I just stayed on my quest to find the treadmill; I would have needed one, because I would have burned enough calories just looking for the damn thing!

We went to this one store. I won’t say the name expect to say it starts with an S and ends with an S and has ears in between. They have a bazillion treadmills; okay well maybe twelve.

My method was to examine each one individually. I would get up on the sides of the treadmill and study the console. I was doing absolutely fabulous until I tripped. With much regret I caused an unplugged treadmill’s belt to move. (It was a horrible moment in my life.) The old bat…Err I mean the nice sales lady from behind the counter (Where she had parked herself for the whole time we had been looking at treadmills. “No, we don’t need any help. You just go on about your day of doing nothing. We will sell ourselves a treadmill. Thank you very much.” The nice sales lady in her not-so-nice customer service voice screamed from across the sporting goods section, “Get off that treadmill!” Whoa! Then she decided a lecture would be a good idea in order to explain to me why I should get off the treadmill.

One: If she had been anywhere near me she would have known that my feet were now firmly planted on the sides of her precious piece of machinery. Two: I am not twelve, so she did’t need to lecture me. I gave her an indication that I understood her. (I replied back in my sarcastic now-your-pissing-me-off customer voice which kind of sounded like a twelve year old.) “I understand” But she couldn’t stop with her lecture. “Blah..blah…belt…blah..ruin…you…know…why…blah…blah…break…”

“I understand.”

But she had to have the last word. Now she became an expert. It was like she had seen my picture in the employee lunch room, and it had said, “Watch out! This Woman Will Break Treadmills at Will! She Must be Stopped at Any Cost!” She just would not let the subject drop. Gosh.

“I get it; enough already!” I thought that was a great comeback. I should mention here that I kind of yelled it at her. She got the point. Needless to say we did not purchase our treadmill from S***S. Come on, they have a hard time stopping people from walking on treadmills; what if we got a broken one?

To make a long story short we did buy a treadmill-in the box; we just couldn’t leave it to chance that someone “horsed around” on my investment. Good thing I listened to Miss Grumpy Pants.

David and I had “together” time putting my new toy together. It was very challenging, but we didn’t even consider divorcing. (We almost divorced when we put the barbecue together. Now we get most things pre-assembled; we figure it is cheaper than divorce attorneys.) When it was done I went to my “gym” and had an excellent workout.

I am Going Out with Bob.

My dearest friend “Bob” is urging me to buy myself a present today. That is one thing I like about the guy is he is always looking out for my best interest, and sometimes my best interest is shopping.

I wish we were going to shop in a quaint cozy shopping district. Instead we are shopping for treadmills. Bob, Bob, Bob…wouldn’t you rather go pick out overpriced country themed home accessories? I didn’t think so.

So wish me luck. Here’s hoping I buy the right one; while keeping my piggy bank intact. I will keep you updated, and let you know how my shopping experience goes.

Smile For the Camera!

Is it Time magazine or People that does a “Year in Pictures”? As a celebration to me I thought I would put together a few "before" and “during” pictures. The process is far from over, but I have come a long way. I was 250 pounds, which you probably know from reading my aqua-green side bar on the right hand side.

This is how I have been changing over the last year. The pictures in this blog entry really exposes me to the world. This entry was a daunting emotional task for me. I never considered myself to be a "big girl", instead I was "larger than life". Now looking back on these pictures I am force to reflect on the pain I actually felt. As I take a deep breathe I give you me, all of me, the pained, the lucky, the thrilled, and the happy.

.

This is a picture of me taken two years ago. I was at my heaviest, and the things I find interesting are: At the time this picture was taken I didn’t see myself as this large. (I was probably heavier than 250, but I didn't weigh myself.) I look older and tired. And where did my eyes go? (I also regret buying that sweater; the color looks gross on me.)

"I Like Big Butts!"

This is my daughter Holly and I in August of 2007. I am sitting slanted so I can hide my body. But honey the camera still gets ya. I needed help, and it was coming. Thank goodness! I could not have walked this road without my daughter and my husband.



This is David and me in Las Vegas. I made him take this photo with me. I asked a very attractive couple to take our photo, which they kindly did. This stood out to me because I did not feel worthy to be around ultra-attractive persons. We had been walking around Vegas for about nine hours and you can see that David is tuckered out. What I am also noticing is the water stain on the front of my shirt. When I was heavier I seemed to attract water, soda, juice, food, and crumbs to my tops. It was rare to find a shirt that did not have some kind of mark on it. I thought I was a freak of nature, but now I realize it was just my girth getting in the way. My fork and cup had further to travel to get to my mouth. I could not hold a plate close enough to prevent crumbs from falling; and I also ate much faster then. I must tell you that when I walk away from a meal with a clean shirt I am very proud of my accomplishment. Check out my stain free top sans bib!

These are more pictures of me before I went in for my lapband! One thing is for sure I was, and always will be a "ham"! No I was not on the Price is Right. I went to a show in Vegas.

These are my "before" pictures. I look so beaten down. Pictures were taken October 2, 2007. My surgery was on October 3, 2007.

*Warning: the next picture contains content that is not suitable for younger viewers. Parental discretion is advised. Or those with weak stomachs should skip this next one.*

"I'm Bringing Sexy Back!"
This photo was taken the night I got home from the hospital. Apparently we wanted to capture this moment for eternity. I must have been really drugged up at the time, but I don't know what to say about the person who took the photo. How did they think this was a good idea?

Here I am a week later with my swollen post-op belly. I thought it is funny because I thought I looked preggers. I went to the mall and pretended to waddle to see if people would ask me when I was due. No one did. Oh well, it was for the best. My tummy’s swelling did go away.

This is a picture of me in a pink top taken 2 weeks after surgery.






This picture was taken one month after my lapband was put in. (Still looking tired.)











This picture was taken two months after surgery. Oooo... I am starting to see a space between my arms and my side! And I also have a neck coming. Amy you're looking good! (Not so tired.)

This picture was taken the same month. Isn't it funny how we look better with clothes on?

In this photo I am trying to look smokin' hot. In reality it was freezing outside, in fact I think it was snowing. I remember thinking to myself, "This is as thin as I am probably going to get." HA!"Merry Christmas!" Here I am showcasing a present from Leslie Ann. She made me slippers in my favorite guy: Cookie Monster. I still have them, expect my cat ate one of the eyes off one of the slippers. Maybe next year she will make me a blue hat...Hmmm...I wonder if she reads my blog?

To the right is a camera phone photo.





I think this photo was taken in March. I am actually smaller. I don't have a shirt that fits. It was the best I could do at the time. But I sure felt sexy. Now I am really "Bringing Sexy Back!"





















HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! It has been 7 months since I was banded. This is the first time I think I look good in a picture.

Remember how David looked in Vegas? He was overweight and tired. (I am sorry darling, but you were.) When I got banded he supported me so much that he followed my diet, ate off of my small plates, exercised with me everyday, and lost a ton of weight. How many people can say that they have somebody that devoted to them? (I love you David. Oh yeah and you look hot!)

My daughter Holly took me out for a fancy tea party. We are dressed up in our best dresses, and we are wearing my grandmother’s tea gloves. In our purses we are carrying David’s grandmother’s handkerchiefs. Both grandmothers have passed, so it is important that we take a piece of them with us when we go out for these special occasions. In this picture we are “hamming it up”; what else is new?

This is my grandpa and me. Let me tell you a little bit about my grandfather: He was slated to play baseball in the major league as a pitcher, but it was during the time of the Korean War. As luck would have it- he was drafted. He was loyal to his country so he went without question; figuring that he could return to baseball when his service to his country was over. However, during combat one of his eyes was badly injured making it impossible for him to return to the sport he loved so much. I asked him if he regretted going to war. He said, “No, because I met your grandma at an USO dance, and if I didn’t go to war I would have never met her. And if I never met her, you wouldn’t be here.”
See why I love him so much?


This bathing suit photo was taken at the end of August. Now I am starting to pose. PLEASE...Oh gosh!!



Look at the size of those zucchinis! For once I am not the biggest thing in the picture!

You always in a picture montage with a black and white, so I decided to do the same. I don’t know when in the year this photo was snapped, but it really doesn’t matter.

Singing in the Rain!

Here is a little antidote about my weekend…

I live in British Columbia, and it is true that we walk around with umbrellas for a good part of the year. I don’t mind the rain for the most part. What I don’t like is walking in it. You know why? It is because I am a “kick-up-the-water-on-my-pants-no-matter-what” kind of person. I swear that if there is a tiny puddle I am going to find it, and it is inevitable that my pant legs will be soaking wet. And don’t even mention the “after rain” puddles. Plop, plop, plop, “Oh crap!” Now my pants and shoes are cold and wet. I have to hang up my pants to dry when I come home after a walk. The worse part is I don’t have pants to spare. I have to ask myself is it worth it to go get the mail? If it were not for David I would have a lot of unpaid bills during the rainy season. What is a girl to do? Wear shorts in the rain? No thank you!

The other day I was out shopping. I saw the most beautiful rain boots ever. My newest bestest friends are pink with sparkles. Now I know what you are thinking, and yes I agree that my choice is a little over the top, but come on how could I pass up sparkles? I just had to buy these “oh-so-great-because-they-are-going-to-save-my-pants-from-the-evil-puddles” boots! I looked at the price tag…”OMG! How do these people sleep at night?”

David said in his “I-know-everything” tone, “Sweetheart, of course their expensive they are made out of rubber. Rubber is made out of oil. Oil is expensive, therefore the boots are expensive.”

Uh-huh…
(That is what I call a “Dav-ism”: He truly believes it, but the rest of us know it is probably is not true.) I love Dav-isms.

At any rate he was giving me the green light to buy my boots. Hot damn! Now all I need is it to rain. As I said before I live in the rain country, so I didn’t wait long. I took my new boots out for some serious rain walking. The first puddle I saw I jumped. Wouldn’t you know it; my enthusiastic jumping caused the water to splash so high that came up and soaked the upper part of my jeans! That is what I called a learning curve.

I got used to my rain boots and now I am puddle jumping like a pro, and I couldn’t be happier. My jeans stay dry, and I am smiling in the rain. I am thankful for the little things

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.