Note: I wrote this at work (on Friday, duh) and am posting it now that I'm home. I spent today trying to find a decent priced super large suitcase for my upcoming trip. I did not find anything under $80.00. Bah. My headache and I are off to lay down. Enjoy:
Just another thrilling Friday trying to keep my eyes open at my desk, wondering if I can sneak off to nap in a conference room or better yet take a company car and nap in a park somewhere, because sun sounds so utterly delightful.
When I first took my new job (this job, which is over a year old now) they told me that we would be moving from our windowless warehouse to a new building with windows in about two months. After my experiences at my last job with construction and timetables I knew that two months probably meant 2 years, but it didn't matter, I would have taken a job in an open sewage holding tank if it meant getting the ever living daylights out of my last job.
At the * new * job I spent over a year in what used to be an evidence holding room (seriously, mystery stained carpet and all), crammed in with three other people like sardines, in a tiny windowless cinder block cage, always with the promise of our new window-fied building to come.
Sitting that close to anyone for that long is bound to cause some trouble. I can't even be with myself sometimes; I just drive me crazy. But imagine being in a 10X8 foot space with no air vents, very poor lighting, right next to the garage so fumes constantly waft in, and your typical totally off kilter nut bar co-workers. I'll tell you about them someday. Like someday when the statute for me being Dooced runs out.
In the meantime I will tell you this: When we finally got to start packing up for the new location I was thrilled. Hello Windows! Hello no longer sharing every intimate daily moment of three co-workers' lives, hearing every phone conversation, listening to the guy behind me snore daily while he reeked of Jim Beam, wondering how many dead bodies the guy in front of me had amassed in his basement and listening to the same three stores told daily by the lady next to me as though we had never met and she had never told them before. Hello happiness!
You know what happens next.
They built up the entire interior of the new building with 8 foot cubicle walls so that no natural light filters in anywhere. They blocked all potential window views unless you take a field trip to visit one. The few windows that they didn't board up (for security reasons) they put dark film over and keep the blinds drawn.
I have no window. I have no natural light. I'm back to daily nodding off at my just cold enough to be annoying desk while the person in the cube across from me uses 90% of their day to make personal calls which I get to be a part of because guess what? The cube walls don't filter noise. At all. I can hear an envelope opening clear across the building. They also decided to build mini cube fortresses, so within the eight foot walls I have only 4 foot tall walls, thus totally eliminating any privacy, while at the same time eliminating contact with natural light.
How will our economy ever flourish if they can't even let us have windows?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
On leg shavi
The significant other is out of town for 5 days and I have to say, I am quite liking it. Not that I don't adore him, and sometimes feel like squishing him all up so that I can hold all of him in one hand and smother him and love him and call him my very own, but there is something absolutely delightful about not shaving my legs for four days.
I hate shaving my legs.
I've never even seen my underarm hair grown in, but that is a different story. It is close. It is a much smaller percentage of my total body surface area. I don't even have to look at the area, darnit, it is just a few swipes and I'm done. The leg hair however? Hoo Boy. I've gone entire seasons without shaving it at all. It is so freeing and comfortable to let the little fellas grow in. If it weren't so ugly I would totally never shave again. Alas, even we blondes have to shave our legs; so tomorrow the hair must go before I go to pick up the boy from the airport.
I've caught up on reading, watched a bit of TV, gone lingerie shopping (that, I'm afraid, is a post for another time once my eyesight fully returns and I stop involuntarily screaming. I'm sure with time and therapy the PTSD and flashbacks will fade), had lunch with friends and allowed laundry to form dangerously high piles all over my living room. At least I sorted the laundry, now, if it would just evolve sentient thought and walk itself into the washer, I mean, I can't be expected to do everything.
I thought that in the boy's absence I'd finally have time to scrub my bathroom floor, do a good grocery shopping trip, clean like crazy, iron my sheets and plan out my whole packing for our upcoming trip. Such things did not happen. I may not allow him to see my apartment tomorrow evening. Apparently when I stop shaving my legs I also stop doing things like dishes and vacuuming and laundry. Who knew that an obnoxious task that I abhor is actually the crux of my productivity?
Maybe I can make him take a solo vacation again in the future. This time was work related so maybe I could encourage him to take on more challenges at work. That way I will have another few days to lay around my house like a slob, watching dirt breed, and unintentionally exfoliating my bed sheets with my legs.
It's a good thing he can't see me while he is gone.
I hate shaving my legs.
I've never even seen my underarm hair grown in, but that is a different story. It is close. It is a much smaller percentage of my total body surface area. I don't even have to look at the area, darnit, it is just a few swipes and I'm done. The leg hair however? Hoo Boy. I've gone entire seasons without shaving it at all. It is so freeing and comfortable to let the little fellas grow in. If it weren't so ugly I would totally never shave again. Alas, even we blondes have to shave our legs; so tomorrow the hair must go before I go to pick up the boy from the airport.
I've caught up on reading, watched a bit of TV, gone lingerie shopping (that, I'm afraid, is a post for another time once my eyesight fully returns and I stop involuntarily screaming. I'm sure with time and therapy the PTSD and flashbacks will fade), had lunch with friends and allowed laundry to form dangerously high piles all over my living room. At least I sorted the laundry, now, if it would just evolve sentient thought and walk itself into the washer, I mean, I can't be expected to do everything.
I thought that in the boy's absence I'd finally have time to scrub my bathroom floor, do a good grocery shopping trip, clean like crazy, iron my sheets and plan out my whole packing for our upcoming trip. Such things did not happen. I may not allow him to see my apartment tomorrow evening. Apparently when I stop shaving my legs I also stop doing things like dishes and vacuuming and laundry. Who knew that an obnoxious task that I abhor is actually the crux of my productivity?
Maybe I can make him take a solo vacation again in the future. This time was work related so maybe I could encourage him to take on more challenges at work. That way I will have another few days to lay around my house like a slob, watching dirt breed, and unintentionally exfoliating my bed sheets with my legs.
It's a good thing he can't see me while he is gone.
Monday, September 15, 2008
27
Lordy how long has it been?
The last 5 months have been quite…delightful. And by that I mean, Thank whatever there is to thank that I get to wake up everyday and breathe and exist and be. I think I’ve gone all tree hugging and hippie-fied on you: Perhaps the meaning of life is simply to live it.
I have nothing profound to say about nearly dying from a ruptured ulcer on my intestines. I can write something funny about how I scheduled a whole day to myself to flip the ever living hell out and how my mind split into two distinct and competing places: First, I should just say fuck all and jet off to a beach somewhere because life is freaky and precious and small and I could be gone tomorrow so screw bills and debt and the trappings that smother us all. Second: I should stay here and really, finally, get all my crap together because if I do die who wants to sort through piles of size four clothing that won’t fit me until I’ve decomposed for at least a year and stacks of financial papers?
I’ve compromised a bit on both, first by actively trying to live every moment in the moment every day (this is fun when you have the right attitude, and not all hard and scary like your brain tries to trick you into thinking) and I’m also cleaning out all the crap I’ve accumulated and trying to make the stuff I will keep organized. There might even be a novel somewhere if I piece together the bits of binder paper and receipts I’ve scribbled things on over the years, but it will take much time to get it all in one place.
My recent birthday, unlike pretty much every single birthday since I was 9, didn’t shake me up quite as much this year. I don’t know if it has as much to do with the fact that I am so damn happy to be alive so much as there is an imperceptible line it seems I have crossed and suddenly I feel no pressure. I turned 27 just a few days ago. Somehow my brain is no longer concerned with my weight or my career progress or the fact that I make no money, own no house, and will be paying on my car long after my great grandchildren have come and gone.
No, instead, it is as though there was some imaginary age line that I had to be successful by and since it didn’t happen my brain just decided to give up, and I don’t mean give up in a bad way, I just mean that since the goals weren’t met by a designated time my internal psycho clock of doom has shrugged off and gone away. “You’re too old”, my brain seems to say, “and we are over it, so we are gone now”. My insecurities no longer want me to weigh double digits and compete with 19 year olds. My failure meter suddenly seized up and isn’t screaming at me every second of every damn day. “So what?” My brain seems so to say, “you didn’t make it so we are gone now”.
It is really, very nice.
I also suspect that is has something with the last vestiges of youth falling away. It is as though I only conceived of ever being in my early 20s and therefore had to cram all success and perfection into those years because there was nothing beyond. I had envisioned nothing for myself in this time and therefore have no crazy standard to live up to. I don’t know if perhaps months of heavy painkillers has finally doped out my brain to such a point that it doesn’t function right anymore or if maybe, just maybe, I’m finally learning to relax and let go, but it is a strange feeling to wake up and think “Hey, I’m okay” and have that be okay.
Bah. Enough introspection. I am still dating the very nice boy who took me to the hospital so many months ago when I thought I just had a very bad stomach flu and didn’t realize that I kept passing out from pain. The very nice boy and I are taking a tropical vacation, my first ever!, in three weeks and though it would be nice to have dropped, oh, say, 15 pounds, that isn’t going to happen and I don’t care. (fear ye not, I have supplemental medical insurance just for this trip)
Work is fine. It pays almost all the bills, nearly every month, and it isn’t giving me another ulcer. Being in that I no longer control the internet access like I did at my old job (working just three doors down from HELL with horrid, crazy people for no money at all), I am unable to blog from work, which, let’s be frank, is the best time to post. I’m freshest in the morning and who doesn’t love to pound out a good entry before the day really gets going?
The other problem is that my co-workers here are not the troglodytes of the past who didn’t even understand email, these people read blogs, and I fear the day when one of them, or the boyfriend, finds said blog. Because YES, judge away, the boyfriend does not know about said blog and nor will he, perhaps ever. Some things have to be anonymous, ya know?
I don’t know how or what 27 is supposed to look like, dress like, or act. But it feels good. Good and old and rather scary with responsibility at the same time. But it feels mature and assured and pressure free. I even had low lights put in my naturally blonde hair which darkened it considerably, which to a normal person may not sound like much but to me was a big change. I like it darker, it makes me happy, and screw it if my mother hates it. I’m a grown adult woman and I’m alive. ALIVE.
Do you understand how neat that is?
The last 5 months have been quite…delightful. And by that I mean, Thank whatever there is to thank that I get to wake up everyday and breathe and exist and be. I think I’ve gone all tree hugging and hippie-fied on you: Perhaps the meaning of life is simply to live it.
I have nothing profound to say about nearly dying from a ruptured ulcer on my intestines. I can write something funny about how I scheduled a whole day to myself to flip the ever living hell out and how my mind split into two distinct and competing places: First, I should just say fuck all and jet off to a beach somewhere because life is freaky and precious and small and I could be gone tomorrow so screw bills and debt and the trappings that smother us all. Second: I should stay here and really, finally, get all my crap together because if I do die who wants to sort through piles of size four clothing that won’t fit me until I’ve decomposed for at least a year and stacks of financial papers?
I’ve compromised a bit on both, first by actively trying to live every moment in the moment every day (this is fun when you have the right attitude, and not all hard and scary like your brain tries to trick you into thinking) and I’m also cleaning out all the crap I’ve accumulated and trying to make the stuff I will keep organized. There might even be a novel somewhere if I piece together the bits of binder paper and receipts I’ve scribbled things on over the years, but it will take much time to get it all in one place.
My recent birthday, unlike pretty much every single birthday since I was 9, didn’t shake me up quite as much this year. I don’t know if it has as much to do with the fact that I am so damn happy to be alive so much as there is an imperceptible line it seems I have crossed and suddenly I feel no pressure. I turned 27 just a few days ago. Somehow my brain is no longer concerned with my weight or my career progress or the fact that I make no money, own no house, and will be paying on my car long after my great grandchildren have come and gone.
No, instead, it is as though there was some imaginary age line that I had to be successful by and since it didn’t happen my brain just decided to give up, and I don’t mean give up in a bad way, I just mean that since the goals weren’t met by a designated time my internal psycho clock of doom has shrugged off and gone away. “You’re too old”, my brain seems to say, “and we are over it, so we are gone now”. My insecurities no longer want me to weigh double digits and compete with 19 year olds. My failure meter suddenly seized up and isn’t screaming at me every second of every damn day. “So what?” My brain seems so to say, “you didn’t make it so we are gone now”.
It is really, very nice.
I also suspect that is has something with the last vestiges of youth falling away. It is as though I only conceived of ever being in my early 20s and therefore had to cram all success and perfection into those years because there was nothing beyond. I had envisioned nothing for myself in this time and therefore have no crazy standard to live up to. I don’t know if perhaps months of heavy painkillers has finally doped out my brain to such a point that it doesn’t function right anymore or if maybe, just maybe, I’m finally learning to relax and let go, but it is a strange feeling to wake up and think “Hey, I’m okay” and have that be okay.
Bah. Enough introspection. I am still dating the very nice boy who took me to the hospital so many months ago when I thought I just had a very bad stomach flu and didn’t realize that I kept passing out from pain. The very nice boy and I are taking a tropical vacation, my first ever!, in three weeks and though it would be nice to have dropped, oh, say, 15 pounds, that isn’t going to happen and I don’t care. (fear ye not, I have supplemental medical insurance just for this trip)
Work is fine. It pays almost all the bills, nearly every month, and it isn’t giving me another ulcer. Being in that I no longer control the internet access like I did at my old job (working just three doors down from HELL with horrid, crazy people for no money at all), I am unable to blog from work, which, let’s be frank, is the best time to post. I’m freshest in the morning and who doesn’t love to pound out a good entry before the day really gets going?
The other problem is that my co-workers here are not the troglodytes of the past who didn’t even understand email, these people read blogs, and I fear the day when one of them, or the boyfriend, finds said blog. Because YES, judge away, the boyfriend does not know about said blog and nor will he, perhaps ever. Some things have to be anonymous, ya know?
I don’t know how or what 27 is supposed to look like, dress like, or act. But it feels good. Good and old and rather scary with responsibility at the same time. But it feels mature and assured and pressure free. I even had low lights put in my naturally blonde hair which darkened it considerably, which to a normal person may not sound like much but to me was a big change. I like it darker, it makes me happy, and screw it if my mother hates it. I’m a grown adult woman and I’m alive. ALIVE.
Do you understand how neat that is?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
How many more titles can I make called Yes I Am Still Here?
Am. So. Tired.
But still alive, so NOTHING to complain about.
My guts are still in a tumble, and my belly is still swollen and sticking out, but if the inflammation goes down more I may avoid surgery. My energy levels are still incredibly low, yes, even lower than when I am going through a depressive episode, but since I can attribute it to something I am taking it marginally better.
My neck hurts. Always. And if I don't pay attention and wind up guarding it my back pain winds up excrutiatingly bad. 6 days out of 7 I have a pretty good attitude about constant, ridiculous, ongoing pain but by day 7 I'm not so optimistic, especially since I can't take the edge off with any painkillers (hello ulcer) and drinking is not an option (what am I, really stupid?) and I can't just run my head into a wall to knock myself out (that would exacerbate the neck injury, me thinks).
My birthday is coming up so of course I'm getting all introspective and miserable. This health chapter of my life started the end of April and has eaten up four months of my time. I always get down on myself this time of year and not really doing anything for so a long time has left me antsy. Where is my "career" going? Why is it so hard to find decent friends? Why did I make it another year still being 20 lbs overweight? WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?
What the hell indeed.
Tonight I am sitting home alone because I am too tired to even attempt to find someone to do something with and instead I am probably going to fall asleep while the sun is still out only to wake up to back and neck spasms at which time I will watch basic cable infomercials until I fall asleep again. But even for all of this I cannot stress enough: I am still alive. And that is very, very good.
But still alive, so NOTHING to complain about.
My guts are still in a tumble, and my belly is still swollen and sticking out, but if the inflammation goes down more I may avoid surgery. My energy levels are still incredibly low, yes, even lower than when I am going through a depressive episode, but since I can attribute it to something I am taking it marginally better.
My neck hurts. Always. And if I don't pay attention and wind up guarding it my back pain winds up excrutiatingly bad. 6 days out of 7 I have a pretty good attitude about constant, ridiculous, ongoing pain but by day 7 I'm not so optimistic, especially since I can't take the edge off with any painkillers (hello ulcer) and drinking is not an option (what am I, really stupid?) and I can't just run my head into a wall to knock myself out (that would exacerbate the neck injury, me thinks).
My birthday is coming up so of course I'm getting all introspective and miserable. This health chapter of my life started the end of April and has eaten up four months of my time. I always get down on myself this time of year and not really doing anything for so a long time has left me antsy. Where is my "career" going? Why is it so hard to find decent friends? Why did I make it another year still being 20 lbs overweight? WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?
What the hell indeed.
Tonight I am sitting home alone because I am too tired to even attempt to find someone to do something with and instead I am probably going to fall asleep while the sun is still out only to wake up to back and neck spasms at which time I will watch basic cable infomercials until I fall asleep again. But even for all of this I cannot stress enough: I am still alive. And that is very, very good.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
One down, just a few more to go
Skin cancer cells are only pre cancerous and fully treatable. I go back in in three weeks.
August 7 I know what kind of surgery I need and how long the recovery will be for my twisted intestines and ulcer.
Thank you for the kind words and support.
August 7 I know what kind of surgery I need and how long the recovery will be for my twisted intestines and ulcer.
Thank you for the kind words and support.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Good Grief
The Good:
I'm still alive (this has much importance later, see below)
I'm still employed
I have a car that starts every day
I'm dating
My apartment has managed to stay some semblance of clean for several months
The Bad:
We lost my Grandmother on May 8,2008.
The next day I nearly died in the hospital. If my boyfriend hadn't been there to drag me to the ER when I passed out from pain I wouldn't be here today.
My intestines twisted and ruptured. I had a firm 80% chance of death. I am currently a mass of swollen scar tissue in my abdomin and I need major surgery soon. The reason I didn't take the emergency surgery they tried to give me in the hospital is a long and convoluted tale based on them not being clear about what was wrong with me and me being so high on morphine and thowing up everywhere that I begged off for just a couple of hours because I wanted to understand what they were saying.
I am apparently quite lucky to be alive, which I didn't fully know until just this Thursday, when I was tag team berrated by specialists who finally got my damn paperwork (some clerk forgot to send it or something) and I am rather in shock, and scared, because I don't know how I am supposed to process this information.
I greatly tore pretty much everything in the left side of my neck and besides being in constant daily pain I have physical therapy three times a week until hell freezes over and I can't take any pain pills to help.
The intestine rupture prevents me from taking any pain pills to help. My primary doctor asked, after scaring the bejebus out of me, if I was tired all the time. Of course! But I thought it was just being in constant neck and back pain that was wearing me down. Turns out I'm recovering from freaking near death and that, among other little things, takes it's toll on a person.
And suprise! It looks like I may have skin cancer. I get some things biopsied on the 16th of this month. Skin cancer runs in my family.
Could there be anymore?
Sure, but those are the major points.
And my neck is killing me. As always.
I've missed you guys much, and I promise it won't be three months until I write again, but it may be weeks at a time. I need to see more specialists and figure out what they are going to do about this mess, which really is a gigantic stupid mess that makes me even more tired and frustrated on top of everything else.
I could really use a drink right now. Or 10. But since that is out of the question why don't you have a few for me?
Hugs for you all.
I'm still alive (this has much importance later, see below)
I'm still employed
I have a car that starts every day
I'm dating
My apartment has managed to stay some semblance of clean for several months
The Bad:
We lost my Grandmother on May 8,2008.
The next day I nearly died in the hospital. If my boyfriend hadn't been there to drag me to the ER when I passed out from pain I wouldn't be here today.
My intestines twisted and ruptured. I had a firm 80% chance of death. I am currently a mass of swollen scar tissue in my abdomin and I need major surgery soon. The reason I didn't take the emergency surgery they tried to give me in the hospital is a long and convoluted tale based on them not being clear about what was wrong with me and me being so high on morphine and thowing up everywhere that I begged off for just a couple of hours because I wanted to understand what they were saying.
I am apparently quite lucky to be alive, which I didn't fully know until just this Thursday, when I was tag team berrated by specialists who finally got my damn paperwork (some clerk forgot to send it or something) and I am rather in shock, and scared, because I don't know how I am supposed to process this information.
I greatly tore pretty much everything in the left side of my neck and besides being in constant daily pain I have physical therapy three times a week until hell freezes over and I can't take any pain pills to help.
The intestine rupture prevents me from taking any pain pills to help. My primary doctor asked, after scaring the bejebus out of me, if I was tired all the time. Of course! But I thought it was just being in constant neck and back pain that was wearing me down. Turns out I'm recovering from freaking near death and that, among other little things, takes it's toll on a person.
And suprise! It looks like I may have skin cancer. I get some things biopsied on the 16th of this month. Skin cancer runs in my family.
Could there be anymore?
Sure, but those are the major points.
And my neck is killing me. As always.
I've missed you guys much, and I promise it won't be three months until I write again, but it may be weeks at a time. I need to see more specialists and figure out what they are going to do about this mess, which really is a gigantic stupid mess that makes me even more tired and frustrated on top of everything else.
I could really use a drink right now. Or 10. But since that is out of the question why don't you have a few for me?
Hugs for you all.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
This Post Brought to you by...
Vicodin
Muscle Relaxers
Anti-inflamitories
Frozen Bags of Peas
And some massive heartbreak/disappointment
I also have to be quick because I am not supposed to be on the computer (shhhh, don't tell anyone). A couple of weeks ago, while out being social (with people! I know!) I managed to mess my neck up really, really bad. It may have been the wicked awesome dance moves, or the smooch fest with an old flame, or maybe just me having the audacity to move my neck, but I did something bad. I'm still in substantial pain and have missed much work on mandatory bed rest. The massive, major, heartbreaking side affect of all this is that I MISSED THE DAMN LINGERIE SHOW. The pain did not make me cry. The sheer boredom of being trapped alone in my apartment for days on end with nothing but narcotics to keep me company did not make me cry.
But being forced to drop out of the show made me cry.
It will be a couple of weeks before I can post again because I'm still on mandatory no computer use (the angle is bad for my neck) so I won't be able to catch up with all of you for a long time. I miss you all badly. The only words of wisdom I have for you is this: If you ever sign up to be in a lingerie show that you are super phyched up for don't go and fuck your neck up because you will cry for two weeks after the missed show because the opportunity will never again present itself.
Now it is time for more meds and seriously, my neck is spasming. Gah.
I miss you.
Muscle Relaxers
Anti-inflamitories
Frozen Bags of Peas
And some massive heartbreak/disappointment
I also have to be quick because I am not supposed to be on the computer (shhhh, don't tell anyone). A couple of weeks ago, while out being social (with people! I know!) I managed to mess my neck up really, really bad. It may have been the wicked awesome dance moves, or the smooch fest with an old flame, or maybe just me having the audacity to move my neck, but I did something bad. I'm still in substantial pain and have missed much work on mandatory bed rest. The massive, major, heartbreaking side affect of all this is that I MISSED THE DAMN LINGERIE SHOW. The pain did not make me cry. The sheer boredom of being trapped alone in my apartment for days on end with nothing but narcotics to keep me company did not make me cry.
But being forced to drop out of the show made me cry.
It will be a couple of weeks before I can post again because I'm still on mandatory no computer use (the angle is bad for my neck) so I won't be able to catch up with all of you for a long time. I miss you all badly. The only words of wisdom I have for you is this: If you ever sign up to be in a lingerie show that you are super phyched up for don't go and fuck your neck up because you will cry for two weeks after the missed show because the opportunity will never again present itself.
Now it is time for more meds and seriously, my neck is spasming. Gah.
I miss you.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
A porky vacation
I gained 7 pounds in less than a week.
And it was soooooooo worth it.
I pretty much ate my way through my mini-vacation. Almost a full course meal every two hours. Of course there was also the ocean, the comedy show we saw, people watching and more but there was food: Food. Food. Food.
And now I have to pay the price. I need to work out two times a day, everyday, and eat nothing but air and water until april 12th.
Sallyacious and Thelongversion I have to get in a message for you both: Wordpress hates me and has eaten many of my comments after I try to post them. I don't know if it is my computer or what but I'm giving up and just sticking a postit to my computer screen in hopes that it magically finds it way to you.
I'm off to eat another delicious air meal. Kisses.
And it was soooooooo worth it.
I pretty much ate my way through my mini-vacation. Almost a full course meal every two hours. Of course there was also the ocean, the comedy show we saw, people watching and more but there was food: Food. Food. Food.
And now I have to pay the price. I need to work out two times a day, everyday, and eat nothing but air and water until april 12th.
Sallyacious and Thelongversion I have to get in a message for you both: Wordpress hates me and has eaten many of my comments after I try to post them. I don't know if it is my computer or what but I'm giving up and just sticking a postit to my computer screen in hopes that it magically finds it way to you.
I'm off to eat another delicious air meal. Kisses.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I'm still here, even if my internet isn't
You know what rocks?
The fact that I am a pretty high level IT person and I can't get my own damn home internet to work.
Yup, it rocks.
It proves that the "professionals", regardless the field, likely have little to no clue what is going on and probably got a liberal arts degree that will only serve to keep the person in perpetual student loan debt until death.
So I'm sitting the corner of my bedroom, huddled against the wall on the floor because I can't move the network cable for the internet or else it will inexplicably die. I probably have to buy a new network cable. Or it has something to do with the magnetic fields sent out by the sun, but really, who understands the mysteries of non working internet? No one. And those who do are liars. Dirty, dirty liars.
I'm glad I at least got it to work enough to post this becuase I am leaving town for four days and didn't want to go even longer between posts. I am going on an extended girls weekend in a fab city. Naturally this means that one of the girls is acting super flaky and weird and started dating a really, super creepy married guy. AWESOME. The other girl has some kind of viral doom plague and can't talk without launching into a crippling coughing fit. Why, why, oh why does everything I attempt to do have to be such trouble? Did I steal money from the blind in a previous life? Kick puppies? Do you think it is my gaping head wound?
My wrists are killing me and I'm cold so I'm going to post this while I can. Take care y'all!
The fact that I am a pretty high level IT person and I can't get my own damn home internet to work.
Yup, it rocks.
It proves that the "professionals", regardless the field, likely have little to no clue what is going on and probably got a liberal arts degree that will only serve to keep the person in perpetual student loan debt until death.
So I'm sitting the corner of my bedroom, huddled against the wall on the floor because I can't move the network cable for the internet or else it will inexplicably die. I probably have to buy a new network cable. Or it has something to do with the magnetic fields sent out by the sun, but really, who understands the mysteries of non working internet? No one. And those who do are liars. Dirty, dirty liars.
I'm glad I at least got it to work enough to post this becuase I am leaving town for four days and didn't want to go even longer between posts. I am going on an extended girls weekend in a fab city. Naturally this means that one of the girls is acting super flaky and weird and started dating a really, super creepy married guy. AWESOME. The other girl has some kind of viral doom plague and can't talk without launching into a crippling coughing fit. Why, why, oh why does everything I attempt to do have to be such trouble? Did I steal money from the blind in a previous life? Kick puppies? Do you think it is my gaping head wound?
My wrists are killing me and I'm cold so I'm going to post this while I can. Take care y'all!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Sometimes I wish you guys lived in the same city as me so bad so that we could hang out. You could tell me which pair of latex thigh high boots best complimented the bustier I have to wear in the upcoming fashion show and I, in turn, could listen endlessly to you talk about your varied and facinating lives.
Is it possible to miss people you've never met?
As for people I've met in "real life" I was supposed to go out tonight. Then it snowed like a foot. This would not deter me in any way because I grew up in snow country and snow is no biggie, but it freaks out the people in the city where I live and especially the people I was supposed to meet up with tonight. Luckily they called before I put my makeup on but to say I'm bummed doesn't even cover it. I was really, really lookig forward to tonight and facing another night alone (in a series of what? 10,000?) makes my little heart break a bit. Ah well. There will be other nights right?
Right?
...
...
...
I should pull the pin curls out of my hair but I just don't have the heart yet. If I spent this much time on my hair the universe will come up with something for me to do, yes? No? Okay. I guess I'll just turn in early. And dream of a social life.
Is it possible to miss people you've never met?
As for people I've met in "real life" I was supposed to go out tonight. Then it snowed like a foot. This would not deter me in any way because I grew up in snow country and snow is no biggie, but it freaks out the people in the city where I live and especially the people I was supposed to meet up with tonight. Luckily they called before I put my makeup on but to say I'm bummed doesn't even cover it. I was really, really lookig forward to tonight and facing another night alone (in a series of what? 10,000?) makes my little heart break a bit. Ah well. There will be other nights right?
Right?
...
...
...
I should pull the pin curls out of my hair but I just don't have the heart yet. If I spent this much time on my hair the universe will come up with something for me to do, yes? No? Okay. I guess I'll just turn in early. And dream of a social life.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Do these extra 25 pounds make me look fat?
The fashion show is in April.
I will be wearing lingerie and perhaps a spring dress or two (you know, the ones they cut up and glue sequins and shit to because they are "designers").
It is for charity.
Last year I helped put it together and run it.
This year I am modeling.
Because I am not getting any younger.
Or any fucking thinner(arrrg! and fuck!).
And it is something different.
Does this clear up any questions? Yes? No?
Now if you need me I'll be walking about in 6 inch (no joke!) lucite platforms and trying in hold my gut in while I clean my apartment.
No booze and still going strong :)
I will be wearing lingerie and perhaps a spring dress or two (you know, the ones they cut up and glue sequins and shit to because they are "designers").
It is for charity.
Last year I helped put it together and run it.
This year I am modeling.
Because I am not getting any younger.
Or any fucking thinner(arrrg! and fuck!).
And it is something different.
Does this clear up any questions? Yes? No?
Now if you need me I'll be walking about in 6 inch (no joke!) lucite platforms and trying in hold my gut in while I clean my apartment.
No booze and still going strong :)
Monday, February 18, 2008
Fashion show fitting round one
Yesterday I had to visit two of the places that will be dressing me for the upcoming fashion show for charity. The first place went pretty well; it was noted that I am the "curviest" girl in the show, and the shortest, which is great because at 5'2 and size six I am not tipping scales but still. Sheesh. I was releived when the first vintage dress I tried on, in a size eleven, fit like a glove. I looked like something out of a Doris Day movie. It is floor length with an empire waste, very tailored, and lace over the whole dress. I was happy to realize that I wouldn't have to lose any weight to wear it. The yellow doesn't wash me out and in relation to whatever else they might have me in I was pleased to have the opportunity to glam it up retro style. Yeah. Well. That was before mention of thigh high black patent leather boots, cutting the bottom off of the dress and various other travesties to fashion.
Yesterday, as it turns out, was not such a good day.
After my visit to the vintage clothing purveyor I had to swing by what I will now affectionately call the stripper shop of hell. Conveniently located in the drug district, ironically sharing a store front with boy scouts of America, I wandered into the shop only to be greeted by a two year old. And no one else. The shop owners (I think) were in the back, doing something illegal, leaving me with a small child in a store surrounded by latex and 8 inch high heels. Finally a surly woman about my age, but much worse for the wear, came out to the front and looked me up and down like I was useless to her. The woman has no interest in me, wasn't sure I would be "comfortable" in her clothes and said I should try to come back in a month or something, whatever. I left as the two year old was running laps around the store and the mom (?) disappeared into the back. At least she didn't make me try anything on.
By this point I was feeling rather stupid. Who am I kidding? I mean yes, I'm not getting any younger, and this is the year of doing things different, but the looks in the eyes of everyone I'd met so far blatantly said "You aren't 19, you aren't skinny, and you're too old for this. You are kinda sad." I figured that I was just being hypersensitive and decided to not think about any of it. I've been cleaning out even more of my closet recently and came across stacks of size 0-2 jeans with the tags still on them. My vintage size eleven self hauled them, along with stacks of other twee clothes, to a second hand store that takes in quality clothing and pays you a few bucks for each piece. As my last stop of the day I went back to the store to collect whatever clothes they didn't want and perhaps a few dollars. The size eight behind the counter, in all of her dumb seventeen year old glory, said that they wouldn't be taking any of the clothes because the jeans were too high wasted and the shirts were too short, but tell my daughter better luck next time.
I'm 26 for fuck's sake.
I felt like smacking that little bitch around.
I deposited the clothes in a charity bin and went home.
I'm old.
I'm hopelessly out of style.
I hate all of the current style.
I'm overweight.
And because I'm no longer 19 I am apparently no longer a viable member of society.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I nice fitting pair of jeans and a cute new pair of boots would probably make me feel better but I'm in total and complete financial ruin and can't even afford to go get myself a gallon of milk today. I'm pretty miserable today too.
But as far as I can tell I'm still in the show. Thursday I go for more fittings. If I don't slash my wrists first.
Yesterday, as it turns out, was not such a good day.
After my visit to the vintage clothing purveyor I had to swing by what I will now affectionately call the stripper shop of hell. Conveniently located in the drug district, ironically sharing a store front with boy scouts of America, I wandered into the shop only to be greeted by a two year old. And no one else. The shop owners (I think) were in the back, doing something illegal, leaving me with a small child in a store surrounded by latex and 8 inch high heels. Finally a surly woman about my age, but much worse for the wear, came out to the front and looked me up and down like I was useless to her. The woman has no interest in me, wasn't sure I would be "comfortable" in her clothes and said I should try to come back in a month or something, whatever. I left as the two year old was running laps around the store and the mom (?) disappeared into the back. At least she didn't make me try anything on.
By this point I was feeling rather stupid. Who am I kidding? I mean yes, I'm not getting any younger, and this is the year of doing things different, but the looks in the eyes of everyone I'd met so far blatantly said "You aren't 19, you aren't skinny, and you're too old for this. You are kinda sad." I figured that I was just being hypersensitive and decided to not think about any of it. I've been cleaning out even more of my closet recently and came across stacks of size 0-2 jeans with the tags still on them. My vintage size eleven self hauled them, along with stacks of other twee clothes, to a second hand store that takes in quality clothing and pays you a few bucks for each piece. As my last stop of the day I went back to the store to collect whatever clothes they didn't want and perhaps a few dollars. The size eight behind the counter, in all of her dumb seventeen year old glory, said that they wouldn't be taking any of the clothes because the jeans were too high wasted and the shirts were too short, but tell my daughter better luck next time.
I'm 26 for fuck's sake.
I felt like smacking that little bitch around.
I deposited the clothes in a charity bin and went home.
I'm old.
I'm hopelessly out of style.
I hate all of the current style.
I'm overweight.
And because I'm no longer 19 I am apparently no longer a viable member of society.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I nice fitting pair of jeans and a cute new pair of boots would probably make me feel better but I'm in total and complete financial ruin and can't even afford to go get myself a gallon of milk today. I'm pretty miserable today too.
But as far as I can tell I'm still in the show. Thursday I go for more fittings. If I don't slash my wrists first.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Home Sick
Yesterday I ran around like a fool and for the first time in a long time ate fast food.
Bad. Idea.
Oh nacho cheese, why hath thee forsaken me?
By 7:00 last night I was sweating, had the chills, shaking and running a temperature. I blamed it on the intake of cafeine, which I never drink because it makes me all sick and loopy, and instead kept going until 11 last night when I finally came home and passed out. By this morning I was in agony. I still managed to get dressed, do my hair and makeup, and get my lunch together, but about 10 minutes before I leave in the morning I couldn't take it anymore. I called in sick and beat a hasty retreat to my bathroom where I've been for 7 hours. SEVEN hours. And I still feel like hell.
The thing is, at my last job I still would have made it to work. The bathroom was decidedly more private and I wouldn't have had my entire department watching me go in and out of it all day. At my current job I pass the open door of every manager to get to the ladies room and even better; the bathroom door opens right into the entire shared common cubicle cluster for the whole office. I stayed home more out of fear of sharing my Gordita mishap with the office than my inability to make it to work even with a broken leg.
I know that I did the right thing but I HATE staying home. Hate. Especially on a Monday. This can't look good. But I can't let myself feel guilty: I'm still shakey and clammy, water is the only thing that will stay down, and I would not have been able to live down being responsible for sharing my gastronomical nightmare with an office full of people.
Still.
I'm freaking out.
In other news I agreed to trounce down a catwalk in lingerie in April. I had to restart my ban on booze a few days ago but that is okay; I think my insane decision to dress like a hoochie for charity is just what I need to get that final push of motivation going for me. Even better; I can't survive today without losing some weight, right?
Gah.
(And still the spell check won't work. I'm going to have to start composing in Word and copying over, but not today, too weak to toggle between windows.)
Bad. Idea.
Oh nacho cheese, why hath thee forsaken me?
By 7:00 last night I was sweating, had the chills, shaking and running a temperature. I blamed it on the intake of cafeine, which I never drink because it makes me all sick and loopy, and instead kept going until 11 last night when I finally came home and passed out. By this morning I was in agony. I still managed to get dressed, do my hair and makeup, and get my lunch together, but about 10 minutes before I leave in the morning I couldn't take it anymore. I called in sick and beat a hasty retreat to my bathroom where I've been for 7 hours. SEVEN hours. And I still feel like hell.
The thing is, at my last job I still would have made it to work. The bathroom was decidedly more private and I wouldn't have had my entire department watching me go in and out of it all day. At my current job I pass the open door of every manager to get to the ladies room and even better; the bathroom door opens right into the entire shared common cubicle cluster for the whole office. I stayed home more out of fear of sharing my Gordita mishap with the office than my inability to make it to work even with a broken leg.
I know that I did the right thing but I HATE staying home. Hate. Especially on a Monday. This can't look good. But I can't let myself feel guilty: I'm still shakey and clammy, water is the only thing that will stay down, and I would not have been able to live down being responsible for sharing my gastronomical nightmare with an office full of people.
Still.
I'm freaking out.
In other news I agreed to trounce down a catwalk in lingerie in April. I had to restart my ban on booze a few days ago but that is okay; I think my insane decision to dress like a hoochie for charity is just what I need to get that final push of motivation going for me. Even better; I can't survive today without losing some weight, right?
Gah.
(And still the spell check won't work. I'm going to have to start composing in Word and copying over, but not today, too weak to toggle between windows.)
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Starting Over
Ah, Anonymous, who ever you are, this is some great advice: "Don't look upon not drinking as "I can't drink alcohol". Try and see it in more of a "I could drink, but right now, I am not going to because I want to become more healthy". It does help to alter your perception. "Can't" seems to foster more rebellion and irritation about constraints."
I had two glasses of wine last night.
I have to start my 21 days over again.
All I can say is at least it wasn’t two bottles of wine but still: Who am I if I can’t even trust myself?
Today it’s wine, tomorrow it’s nacho cheese and next week I’m probably up to heroin. Great. Maybe I can just knock a few of my teeth out in anticipation of my new lifestyle. Best part is even with a crippling drug addiction I probably still won’t lose any damn weight. I’ll be the only coke whore that weighs 400 pounds.
There is a rumor that tonight I’m having numerous people over at my (currently filthy) apartment for a cocktail party. Well, a wine party. Great timing, right? Me of no self restraint? Having people over to drink cases of wine. Perhaps if I just shoot myself in the foot now I can get this over with quicker. Saying that I don’t plan to drink tonight means nothing in light of the fact that I made it hardly 6 days into a 21 day moratorium on booze.
So, these people I’m supposedly having over, they are all female. Which means my apartment has to be clean, I have to look nice and I have to have good food to offer. Whereas I am the sort of person who would order pizza and explain that the “pepperoni goes well with Merlot, I swear” I cannot get away with such things tonight. So I have to clean my apartment, lose 10 pounds, figure out a menu, go shopping, cook said menu, and figure out what 10 grown adult women do while standing around and drinking.
I’m an adult now. What do adults do when they hang out? WHAT? I have no freaking idea. Everyone is going to be bored.
What the hell am I going to serve to eat? What the hell does a cocktail party menu look like? And how the hell am I going to afford this?
Why can’t I just order pizza?
And why the hell don’t I have one GD ounce of self restraint?
I had two glasses of wine last night.
I have to start my 21 days over again.
All I can say is at least it wasn’t two bottles of wine but still: Who am I if I can’t even trust myself?
Today it’s wine, tomorrow it’s nacho cheese and next week I’m probably up to heroin. Great. Maybe I can just knock a few of my teeth out in anticipation of my new lifestyle. Best part is even with a crippling drug addiction I probably still won’t lose any damn weight. I’ll be the only coke whore that weighs 400 pounds.
There is a rumor that tonight I’m having numerous people over at my (currently filthy) apartment for a cocktail party. Well, a wine party. Great timing, right? Me of no self restraint? Having people over to drink cases of wine. Perhaps if I just shoot myself in the foot now I can get this over with quicker. Saying that I don’t plan to drink tonight means nothing in light of the fact that I made it hardly 6 days into a 21 day moratorium on booze.
So, these people I’m supposedly having over, they are all female. Which means my apartment has to be clean, I have to look nice and I have to have good food to offer. Whereas I am the sort of person who would order pizza and explain that the “pepperoni goes well with Merlot, I swear” I cannot get away with such things tonight. So I have to clean my apartment, lose 10 pounds, figure out a menu, go shopping, cook said menu, and figure out what 10 grown adult women do while standing around and drinking.
I’m an adult now. What do adults do when they hang out? WHAT? I have no freaking idea. Everyone is going to be bored.
What the hell am I going to serve to eat? What the hell does a cocktail party menu look like? And how the hell am I going to afford this?
Why can’t I just order pizza?
And why the hell don’t I have one GD ounce of self restraint?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Another One Bites The Dust
Chocklate is taking it offline yo, offline and underground, fo real.
I feel her pain. I had to take my original blog private because even though I never posted pics of myself I did use my real name and too many people wound up knowing about it. The problem with blogging is that while it is a great outlet and a wonderful social network it is also now almost impossible to be anonymous or enjoy some modicum of privacy. The world is too small these days.
I miss what I like to think of as my "naive" blogging days; when I railed against my hellacious job, insaine co-workers and shared all my insecurities with an unseen world. Now I work at a place where people actually access the internet, and know how to use it, so I can't reference anything that happens on a daily basis anymore. Not that I would be blogging about my job; things are much, much better since I left Shit Company Of Sweet Fucking Hell, but I can't really write about anything else. If I have a dentist appointment I can't write about it because I get super paranoid that the internet whores I work with are all over the web like crazy on Britney and I don't want them to put two and two together. I have to wind up postponing things or not writing about them at all, which, if you followed me from the other blog here you have likely picked up on.
It is too bad to see Chocklate go but I absolutely understand why she has to. The lack of true anonymity on the internet can actually be percieved as a good thing; it causes people to think more about their actions and have some accountability. Still, it would be nice to bitch about how much I want a damn ciggarette or how much I really, really want to make out with a few of my co-workers without being worried that my Grandma and my (super hot) Boss are going to find out about it later.
*sigh*
What are we to do? If you don't have the freedom to blog totally out in the open, like some of the big bloggers, then do you hide behind a fake persona and censor the hell out of yourself? It is a fine line to walk. I know I struggle daily wanting to share stories with you guys and then having to pull back for fear of repercussions, which makes the blog content super lame. Do we all win because we are accountable or do we all lose because we aren't as authentic as we could be?
What do you do?
(Hey, no booze for 5 days so far, yay me)
(Also, still no damn spell check.)
I feel her pain. I had to take my original blog private because even though I never posted pics of myself I did use my real name and too many people wound up knowing about it. The problem with blogging is that while it is a great outlet and a wonderful social network it is also now almost impossible to be anonymous or enjoy some modicum of privacy. The world is too small these days.
I miss what I like to think of as my "naive" blogging days; when I railed against my hellacious job, insaine co-workers and shared all my insecurities with an unseen world. Now I work at a place where people actually access the internet, and know how to use it, so I can't reference anything that happens on a daily basis anymore. Not that I would be blogging about my job; things are much, much better since I left Shit Company Of Sweet Fucking Hell, but I can't really write about anything else. If I have a dentist appointment I can't write about it because I get super paranoid that the internet whores I work with are all over the web like crazy on Britney and I don't want them to put two and two together. I have to wind up postponing things or not writing about them at all, which, if you followed me from the other blog here you have likely picked up on.
It is too bad to see Chocklate go but I absolutely understand why she has to. The lack of true anonymity on the internet can actually be percieved as a good thing; it causes people to think more about their actions and have some accountability. Still, it would be nice to bitch about how much I want a damn ciggarette or how much I really, really want to make out with a few of my co-workers without being worried that my Grandma and my (super hot) Boss are going to find out about it later.
*sigh*
What are we to do? If you don't have the freedom to blog totally out in the open, like some of the big bloggers, then do you hide behind a fake persona and censor the hell out of yourself? It is a fine line to walk. I know I struggle daily wanting to share stories with you guys and then having to pull back for fear of repercussions, which makes the blog content super lame. Do we all win because we are accountable or do we all lose because we aren't as authentic as we could be?
What do you do?
(Hey, no booze for 5 days so far, yay me)
(Also, still no damn spell check.)
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
17 days to go
Provided, of course, that I make it through tonight. Which I will. I WILL make it through tonight.
I'll be fine. I have coffee with some ladies tonight, a few new books to read and plenty of cleaning to do around my apartment so I won't even think of the case of wine I have in my apartment or the vodka in my freezer or the bars down the street.
Instead I'll think about how great it feels to wake up without a hangover and how nice it is not to send stupid drunk texts and I'll daydream about the great new pair of jeans I'll find when I'm down five pounds.
Only 17 days of no alcohol to a healthier me. Not that I plan to slam tequilla shots the second my three weeks booze free is up, so no worries. It's just the way life sometimes is; someone tells you you can't have something so naturally that is the only thing you want. It's like when I decide no more deep fried cheese dipped in ranch dressing, it is all I can think about for days when I normally only think about it in passing.
Well, I'm off to coffee. Be good for me, or if not, share your stories of bad with the internet, we love that kind of stuff.
(Also,b blogger spellcheck has crapped out so if there are glaring errors please wait until I can fix them tomorrow)
I'll be fine. I have coffee with some ladies tonight, a few new books to read and plenty of cleaning to do around my apartment so I won't even think of the case of wine I have in my apartment or the vodka in my freezer or the bars down the street.
Instead I'll think about how great it feels to wake up without a hangover and how nice it is not to send stupid drunk texts and I'll daydream about the great new pair of jeans I'll find when I'm down five pounds.
Only 17 days of no alcohol to a healthier me. Not that I plan to slam tequilla shots the second my three weeks booze free is up, so no worries. It's just the way life sometimes is; someone tells you you can't have something so naturally that is the only thing you want. It's like when I decide no more deep fried cheese dipped in ranch dressing, it is all I can think about for days when I normally only think about it in passing.
Well, I'm off to coffee. Be good for me, or if not, share your stories of bad with the internet, we love that kind of stuff.
(Also,b blogger spellcheck has crapped out so if there are glaring errors please wait until I can fix them tomorrow)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Day three booze detox
WHEN I make it through tonight I will have gone a whopping three days without drinking wonderful, delicious, evil alcohol.
Yay me!
Only 18 days to go. Not that I'm counting or anything. Noooooo.
Thank you for the support. I'm not that good at graphing, or making Quadrants, so I'm not sure how well I'll document it but I'll try. Let's pretend that currently I weigh 100 lbs (I do weight this, plus some, but it is a nice round number) and that my waste is elevently million fat fatty inches around, I mean, 10 inches around. In 18 more days I'll tell you the pounds and inches I hopefully lost (you damn foreigners will have to do the conversion to your heathen measuring systems yourself).
With supportive folks like The CEO and Sallyacious I should do just fine. Of course there are totally unsupportive folks like Mr. 24 year old who doesn't know what alcohol does to your metabolism after 25 but it's nice to have him along for the ride too. Skinny jeans here I come! Okay, well, how about less fat jeans? Good? Yes? And then maybe I can try dating again? Not that my curviness is keeping me from dating; more likely the stark lack of men available is doing that, but still, one thing at a time people.
In other news I need to tell you that Raisin Bran is decidedly not a low calorie food. One serving has about 200 calories and I usually eat 4-5 servings in one sitting. Hmmmmm. Glad I noted the box before I ruined my diet. I'm still doing good on food/exercise so I'm watching what I eat.
My something different today? Managing to freaking blog when I got home from the gym as opposed to falling asleep. I'm doing pretty good, 2008 is shaping up to be alright.
Yay me!
Only 18 days to go. Not that I'm counting or anything. Noooooo.
Thank you for the support. I'm not that good at graphing, or making Quadrants, so I'm not sure how well I'll document it but I'll try. Let's pretend that currently I weigh 100 lbs (I do weight this, plus some, but it is a nice round number) and that my waste is elevently million fat fatty inches around, I mean, 10 inches around. In 18 more days I'll tell you the pounds and inches I hopefully lost (you damn foreigners will have to do the conversion to your heathen measuring systems yourself).
With supportive folks like The CEO and Sallyacious I should do just fine. Of course there are totally unsupportive folks like Mr. 24 year old who doesn't know what alcohol does to your metabolism after 25 but it's nice to have him along for the ride too. Skinny jeans here I come! Okay, well, how about less fat jeans? Good? Yes? And then maybe I can try dating again? Not that my curviness is keeping me from dating; more likely the stark lack of men available is doing that, but still, one thing at a time people.
In other news I need to tell you that Raisin Bran is decidedly not a low calorie food. One serving has about 200 calories and I usually eat 4-5 servings in one sitting. Hmmmmm. Glad I noted the box before I ruined my diet. I'm still doing good on food/exercise so I'm watching what I eat.
My something different today? Managing to freaking blog when I got home from the gym as opposed to falling asleep. I'm doing pretty good, 2008 is shaping up to be alright.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sotally Tober
Okay, okay, OKAY. I'm cutting back on the booze. Entirely. This weekend I *only* had about two bottles of wine (which, sadly, in an improvement) and since I don't want to find myself at any meetings introducing myself by my first name only and attaching a label along with it I'm going cold turkey.
I'm tired of being fat and cutting the extra calories and metabolic slowing of sweet sweet alcohol might help me make a difference. Plus I could save a few bucks in the long run. Benefits abound.
My liver, it sighs with relief.
If I continue to exercise and watch my diet and cut out booze I should see results in three weeks right? Maybe lose a couple of pounds, a couple of inches? 21 days? So let's say I stay dry for three weeks and chart the results. You'll have to stay with me though, I need a support group here, and instead of drinking my angst away you all might be subjected to hours of rambling so I don't continue on this path.
How lame is that? Cutting out booze for three weeks? I really do sound like I might have a problem. Hmmmm.
The catalyst, ironically, has been the upswing in my social life. I'm getting out there and doing things with people, real people!, but I'm so nervous, a drink helps. And then after one drink another keeps me chatty and smiling and comfortable. So with an increase in my social life came a huge increase in my drinking. Plus just hanging out with people seems to involve alcohol, it is the social drug, and no matter what I do or where I go there is alcohol available. That doesn't mean I have to drink it but it does mean that I need to learn to relax and have a good time without it. I know I am capable of this but I have been instead choosing to take the "easy" way out, which is actually the far more detrimental way out.
So there you have it. Three weeks to get off the juice and three weeks to slim this tire of flab that resides around where my waist should be. I bet it will be hard at first, like my struggle to get off the cheese (nacho), but I'll feel better and much happier in the long run.
That, or start really branching out my social circle by winding up at those meetings I mentioned earlier.
We will see.
I'm tired of being fat and cutting the extra calories and metabolic slowing of sweet sweet alcohol might help me make a difference. Plus I could save a few bucks in the long run. Benefits abound.
My liver, it sighs with relief.
If I continue to exercise and watch my diet and cut out booze I should see results in three weeks right? Maybe lose a couple of pounds, a couple of inches? 21 days? So let's say I stay dry for three weeks and chart the results. You'll have to stay with me though, I need a support group here, and instead of drinking my angst away you all might be subjected to hours of rambling so I don't continue on this path.
How lame is that? Cutting out booze for three weeks? I really do sound like I might have a problem. Hmmmm.
The catalyst, ironically, has been the upswing in my social life. I'm getting out there and doing things with people, real people!, but I'm so nervous, a drink helps. And then after one drink another keeps me chatty and smiling and comfortable. So with an increase in my social life came a huge increase in my drinking. Plus just hanging out with people seems to involve alcohol, it is the social drug, and no matter what I do or where I go there is alcohol available. That doesn't mean I have to drink it but it does mean that I need to learn to relax and have a good time without it. I know I am capable of this but I have been instead choosing to take the "easy" way out, which is actually the far more detrimental way out.
So there you have it. Three weeks to get off the juice and three weeks to slim this tire of flab that resides around where my waist should be. I bet it will be hard at first, like my struggle to get off the cheese (nacho), but I'll feel better and much happier in the long run.
That, or start really branching out my social circle by winding up at those meetings I mentioned earlier.
We will see.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The fatness continues...
Yes I keep track of what I eat everyday in a little book.
I count calories, protein, vitamins and carbs.
Currently my biggest downfall appears to be alcohol. The spirits, they are just so delicious when they hit my mouth. And then I drink a bottle of wine.
But even a bottle of wine, or two, a week, on top of a 1300 calorie perfectly balanced diet and major exercise shouldn't make the fatness I currently support. DAMNIT.
If only my boobs would grow with my gut, then maybe I wouldn't mind so much.
What? Superficial? Me? Only when I've had a damn bottle of wine. Like tonight.
Gah.
I count calories, protein, vitamins and carbs.
Currently my biggest downfall appears to be alcohol. The spirits, they are just so delicious when they hit my mouth. And then I drink a bottle of wine.
But even a bottle of wine, or two, a week, on top of a 1300 calorie perfectly balanced diet and major exercise shouldn't make the fatness I currently support. DAMNIT.
If only my boobs would grow with my gut, then maybe I wouldn't mind so much.
What? Superficial? Me? Only when I've had a damn bottle of wine. Like tonight.
Gah.
Monday, January 21, 2008
I have no idea how to lose weight
And keep it off.
There, I said it.
On Christmas I was down 7 pounds. I've still been working out, though I tapered off a day or two a week, I don't eat horrible food and I cut way back on the drinking. Now, less than a month later, I WEIGHT SEVEN POUNDS HEAVIER. SON OF A BITCH. And it isn't muscle gain, believe me, I wish I could pull that excuse, no, this is the sort of gain that makes buttoning my pants up impossible.
I could cry people. I could cry and try to comfort myself by drinking Alfredo sauce, fuck the pasta part, just give the sauce in a vat.
I don't know what to do. I obviously have no idea how to get this to work. I've read everything, I've taken every health class, I've watched everything on weight loss and mapped out numerous sane weight loss plans. I've never put myself on drastic or crazy diets. I don't know what I'm doing or how I'm doing it wrong and I'm at my wits end. Now, to be just a little fair, I'm on a hormone regimen that holds extra fat around my mid section, but that probably only accounts for a quarter of my troubles. I'm 15-20 fatty pounds overweight, and I'm not talking glamour pounds, I'm talking layers of globby spongy spill over fat.
I drink at least 10 glasses of water a day.
I genuinely like vegetables and they don't even need to be covered in cheese.
I don't drink soda.
I don't drink coffee.
I'm not a huge fan of sweets so I'm not pounding chocolate in secret every day.
I'm really, very, sadly discouraged and I don't know what to do anymore. Working out makes me feel good but it isn't doing anything for me; I'm just taking my fat out for a jog. I want to be back down to one chin. I want to have less than a 30' waste (I'm really short). I just don't know how to get to these things.
How does meth work again?
There, I said it.
On Christmas I was down 7 pounds. I've still been working out, though I tapered off a day or two a week, I don't eat horrible food and I cut way back on the drinking. Now, less than a month later, I WEIGHT SEVEN POUNDS HEAVIER. SON OF A BITCH. And it isn't muscle gain, believe me, I wish I could pull that excuse, no, this is the sort of gain that makes buttoning my pants up impossible.
I could cry people. I could cry and try to comfort myself by drinking Alfredo sauce, fuck the pasta part, just give the sauce in a vat.
I don't know what to do. I obviously have no idea how to get this to work. I've read everything, I've taken every health class, I've watched everything on weight loss and mapped out numerous sane weight loss plans. I've never put myself on drastic or crazy diets. I don't know what I'm doing or how I'm doing it wrong and I'm at my wits end. Now, to be just a little fair, I'm on a hormone regimen that holds extra fat around my mid section, but that probably only accounts for a quarter of my troubles. I'm 15-20 fatty pounds overweight, and I'm not talking glamour pounds, I'm talking layers of globby spongy spill over fat.
I drink at least 10 glasses of water a day.
I genuinely like vegetables and they don't even need to be covered in cheese.
I don't drink soda.
I don't drink coffee.
I'm not a huge fan of sweets so I'm not pounding chocolate in secret every day.
I'm really, very, sadly discouraged and I don't know what to do anymore. Working out makes me feel good but it isn't doing anything for me; I'm just taking my fat out for a jog. I want to be back down to one chin. I want to have less than a 30' waste (I'm really short). I just don't know how to get to these things.
How does meth work again?
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Celibacy is not so great as you would think it would be. yeah.
Is it possible to have a borderline non-sexual crush on someone? I mean, let's say that you enjoy talking with them, flirting with them, emailing them etc. Your day brightens when you know you will see them. You even get butterflies being close to them. But you absolutely cannot see yourself in a sexual situation with them? They are of the gender you are attracted to, they smell nice, have good hair and yet...nothing.
This is a whole new crush category for me. I'm not sure what to think. I can't even imagine kissing them. Every day relationships with other humans get a little weirder for me. Of course, it has been over a year now since I kissed anybody (much less anything else) so maybe I'm just confused and slipping into nun mode.
In other news I'm doing pretty good on the Different Thing Every Day goal. Today I went to the gym. That isn't different in that I haven't done it before but it is different in that I didn't come home and pass out in a pile of empty wine bottles and pizza boxes. Yay for me! I would like my next different thing to be make out with somebody, oh for the love of gob, almost anybody, but please make him cute and non-committal and it would be kind of great if I never saw him again. Whew. I guess I haven't totally lost my sex drive.
This is a whole new crush category for me. I'm not sure what to think. I can't even imagine kissing them. Every day relationships with other humans get a little weirder for me. Of course, it has been over a year now since I kissed anybody (much less anything else) so maybe I'm just confused and slipping into nun mode.
In other news I'm doing pretty good on the Different Thing Every Day goal. Today I went to the gym. That isn't different in that I haven't done it before but it is different in that I didn't come home and pass out in a pile of empty wine bottles and pizza boxes. Yay for me! I would like my next different thing to be make out with somebody, oh for the love of gob, almost anybody, but please make him cute and non-committal and it would be kind of great if I never saw him again. Whew. I guess I haven't totally lost my sex drive.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
feh on the resolution thing
2008 will be the year that I do things differently. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Well guess what, I've only ever really done the same thing. So this year I plan to do things differently. It doesn't have to be the "right" thing, which I so constantly get hung up on, it just has to be the different thing. That is all.
Do I normally just go home and go to bed? Fine, but that day I have to drive home a different way. Or I have to go by a different shop. Or I have to do my dishes before I fall asleep. Something. Anything. It doesn't matter as long as it is different.
Of course as I type this I feel like crapness; something is setting up shop in my respitory system so I can't do much of anything different tonight. I wanted to hit the gym or do a tape but now my bed is calling. Maybe I'll actually wash my face before I pass out, that would be different.
So any suggestions? Should I shed these last 15 lbs and become a cage dancer? Make out with my co-worker even though it is career suicide? Read a new book every week? Make plans for a big vacation? What should I do different? It can be big or small and I promise I will make every effort to do it. After all, you guys are like my best (imaginary internet) friends and I really do value your input. Plus I want to entertain you.
Damn sinuses. To bed with me now.
Do I normally just go home and go to bed? Fine, but that day I have to drive home a different way. Or I have to go by a different shop. Or I have to do my dishes before I fall asleep. Something. Anything. It doesn't matter as long as it is different.
Of course as I type this I feel like crapness; something is setting up shop in my respitory system so I can't do much of anything different tonight. I wanted to hit the gym or do a tape but now my bed is calling. Maybe I'll actually wash my face before I pass out, that would be different.
So any suggestions? Should I shed these last 15 lbs and become a cage dancer? Make out with my co-worker even though it is career suicide? Read a new book every week? Make plans for a big vacation? What should I do different? It can be big or small and I promise I will make every effort to do it. After all, you guys are like my best (imaginary internet) friends and I really do value your input. Plus I want to entertain you.
Damn sinuses. To bed with me now.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Hello Drunk
Um, What?
Look at the post below and come back. I direct you there because I can't even link to it. The post itself (not just the writing) is so jacked up that blogger won't allow me to link to it. Yikes.
I have no freaking idea folks. Not a clue. I keep re-reading its cryptic message, delivered from the realms of my subconscious and I am coming up with nothing. It is quite possibly both the funniest thing and the saddest thing I have ever written. Bacardi and Cranberry! I renounce thee! Really. I woke up the next morning and someone (I was the only person in my apartment that night) had poured a perfectly good bottle of rum down the sink and written "You SUcks" on the bottle with a sharpie.
I think it was just a bad batch of rum.
I think I'm not buying a rum for a few weeks, months, years, until they straighten out this mess. This will give me time to figure out how to get the candle wax out of my carpet, off of my coffee table and out of my damn couch that magically appeared the next morning and time to discover, why, exactly, I pulled all of my nylons and stockings out onto the floor of my closet and overturned the drawer they were in. Hidden messages from my brain stem? Brilliant schemes I need only drink too much to access again? The world will never know. I've had peeps over to my place (!) six times in less than a month, including a huge New Year's bash, and my apartment sustained no damage. I sit down to have a quiet evening with Bacardi, who I trusted, and wind up sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Who is the trusted blogger I speak of in the post below? Why do I reference Dr. Phil? Was I on to something good? Damnit, if only we knew.
If only we knew.
Look at the post below and come back. I direct you there because I can't even link to it. The post itself (not just the writing) is so jacked up that blogger won't allow me to link to it. Yikes.
I have no freaking idea folks. Not a clue. I keep re-reading its cryptic message, delivered from the realms of my subconscious and I am coming up with nothing. It is quite possibly both the funniest thing and the saddest thing I have ever written. Bacardi and Cranberry! I renounce thee! Really. I woke up the next morning and someone (I was the only person in my apartment that night) had poured a perfectly good bottle of rum down the sink and written "You SUcks" on the bottle with a sharpie.
I think it was just a bad batch of rum.
I think I'm not buying a rum for a few weeks, months, years, until they straighten out this mess. This will give me time to figure out how to get the candle wax out of my carpet, off of my coffee table and out of my damn couch that magically appeared the next morning and time to discover, why, exactly, I pulled all of my nylons and stockings out onto the floor of my closet and overturned the drawer they were in. Hidden messages from my brain stem? Brilliant schemes I need only drink too much to access again? The world will never know. I've had peeps over to my place (!) six times in less than a month, including a huge New Year's bash, and my apartment sustained no damage. I sit down to have a quiet evening with Bacardi, who I trusted, and wind up sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Who is the trusted blogger I speak of in the post below? Why do I reference Dr. Phil? Was I on to something good? Damnit, if only we knew.
If only we knew.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Once upon a time, when I read through the archives of a very ex favorite blogger, I was hightly critical. Given a smidge of bacardi I am still critical. Not so critial that I will still cut any of you out of my life BITCH but still. It has still taken me still like a MONTH to write this stit. It is 8 at night at Dr. F'n phil is one. Damn.
F
F
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
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