Notes to self.

It gets to this point in the day and I’m reminded of the classic line from the movie (not the crappy stage) version of Grease where Jan, the fat Pink Lady, says “Ugh, I have been dieting all day…my mom’s pie is better than this.”  I?  Have been dieting all day.  All week in fact.  8 full days.  I am happy to report that I am a mere two pounds lighter.  And I’m sorry to all the losers on The Biggest Loser.  I screamed at the TV that if you have nothing better to do than work out and eat right all week, the least you could do is lose more than five pounds.

The reality for me (get it, reality?) is that I really don’t have anything better to do.  I had the freaking stomach flu and only lost two pounds.  My friend who half-assed the whole week and gave up nothing except pop lost five.  I have spent the week half crazed with dreams of cake and ice cream and apple pie, strudel and anything else that can be of the apple pastry variety.  I should have done better.  I know I have been cheating…little bites here and there.  Not enough exercise.  The Dr. Pepper addicition that may take a trip to the methadone clinic to kick. 

I finally sat down last night and read through all the WW junk that they gave me that first meeting.  I shoved it in my purse and, like a rhino charging through the jungle, I got out of that little strip mall meeting room.  I will stand on your stupid scale but I will not listen to your corporate mumbo jumbo about getting the most bang for my buck out of nutrient dense foods.  My thought is that I didn’t get this way because I ate too many artichokes.  I’m aware of what I need to do.  Anyway, reading through, on the last page is the legal disclaimer.

In most people, weight loss is temporary. 

So why bother, right?  I was thirty pounds down a mere three months ago.  And thanks to my well-documented Nutty Bar addiction, it’s little wonder that here I sit.  Humiliated. 

Let’s add this to the list of things that make me crazy (see also: white jeans, financed tattoos, Lane Bryant):

People who talk about their weight loss/gain.  And people who talk about how much weight so-and-so has gained/lost.  Also included in this bunch are the buzzkills who complain about the restaurant choice or only eat a quarter of what is served because they don’t want to be fat, vegetarians who complain of being tired and people of my mother’s age (specifically my mother) talking about adding flax and fiber to every possible food.

I guess you could say that I’m calling this one in.  My heart isn’t in it.  I have paid for the month.  I will do it for a month.  Or at least another week.  And I’ll try not to cheat.  I’ll try to pretend that vegetables don’t taste like dirt.  I’ll try not to break out in hives every time I step into that middle-aged oasis of walking shorts, dangly earrings (draws the eyes up, dontcha know) and pep talks.  I don’t want to shop at Old Navy woman.  I would like for my boobs to stay out of my armpits when I lay on my back. 

But here’s why I went in the first place.

I would like to make eye contact with myself in the mirror so that I know what I look like.  That’s really what it’s about.  Yes, I do want that boob job.  But I would like to recognize myself.

My newly minted four year old had a rite of passage today.  She starting swimming lessons.

I had fully expected her swim instructor to be an underfed teenager.  But no.  Her instructor is the same age as my grandma.  Not kidding.  Two days older than dirt.  She’s been teaching preschoolers how to swim for so long that they have named a kiddie pool after her.  And then, said pool became so old that they tore it down.  And she’s still teaching kids how to swim.

At one point, 10 minutes into the lesson, she had made her judgement about my pride and joy.  And she hollers across the pool to the ring of benched mommies “Who is Ella’s mother?”  I raise my hand, scared kind of.  “You need to have a talk with her about following directions.”  All I could squeak out was Okay.  And then I looked to the herd of maternal protection and rolled my eyes as if to say Like I haven’t tried.

I don’t know how tomorrow morning will go.  I hesitate to use the term “battle axe” but I fear that my child will be kicked out of yet another organized activity for doing her own thing.  Bright but active.  That’s the official line.  But the truth is that teachers love the kids that fall into line.  The kids that smile and nod.  And that’s not my kid.  She never stops talking.  She does what the other kids do but in her own time and her own space.  And I can’t step all over that.  I can’t let anyone else do it either.  Not even if there is an antiquated pool named after her.

The night before last, Ella woke me up around sunrise crying from a bad dream.  I comforted her and brought her a juice in a sippy (you’re gonna lose those baby teeth anyway so rot on, right?) and told her that it was still too early for wake up time.  After a glass of water and trip to the bathroom for myself, I tucked back into my bed next to a sleepy toddler.  She felt me in the bed and scootched over until she was right in the crook of my arm and breathed her milky breath in my face.  I was almost asleep when I felt like someone was talking to me.

“You are not alone.” 

I know.  I replied outloud.

And then I was asleep and we all slept past nine.  Was I dreaming?  Did I hear what I wanted to hear?  I may never find out. 

It’s weird feeling so lonely when I have such good friends around.  There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t talk to at least one of them, if not a real visit.  My kids are busy.  I have plenty to do (although my house is quite clean thankyouverymuch).  I just don’t get it.  There are so many little things that I miss.

Like this stupid WW thing.  I am soooo freaking hungry this time of night.  And maybe it’s just habit.  Maybe I’m used to eating a day’s worth of calories after my kids go to bed.  Or maybe it’s because I’m freaking starving?  Like for real hungry?  Or is the thought of having no points to “spend” making me hungry?  That’s why there was no post last night.  I was too hungry to concentrate.  I was cruising foodtv.com for recipies just to look at the pictures.  I was gazing at the kitchen counter, hoping that some fat-free, fiber filled cookies would jump out of the oven and into my mouth because I sure as hell didn’t have the energy to bake my own!  Wasting away…and then I broke down.  Before I could actually eat a whole stick of butter (wrapped in bacon of course), I made a Lean Pocket (5 points) and had a cup of fruit (1 point).  And then went blissfully to sleep.

The point of all of this is that I needed him here.  I needed his ideas.  I needed him to tell me that it was okay to eat if I was hungry.  I needed him to tell me that he would support me no matter what the scale said.  And while I know now that he is still watching over us, it would be nice to have a physical presence.  Not so much anymore to help around the house or because the girls need two parents (I feel like I have a good handle on housekeeping and parenting, at least for today) but because I need someone to take care of me.  I need someone to pick on and make jokes with.  I miss the ass grabbing and the laughing at how much alike we are and “what did we ever do without each other” moments.  Those little bits that are reminders from God that we married correctly.

I ache for that.

I ache for him.  Wow.

What is it about being denied something that makes you want it more and more?

A piece of cake would cost me 12 WW points.  12.  Out of 26.  And yet, I have not thrown out the rest of Ella’s birthday cake.  It stares me in the face all day.  I’m afraid that if I lick the crumbs off the knife I will stick my face in it like I’m a little Japanese guy at a hot dog eating contest and all that will be left will be the box.  And I’ll still eat the crumbs that fall into my shirt.  And yet, the box isn’t in the bottom of my trash can.  Why?

I have found the perfect Ambien (half a tablet) and vitamin B complex combination that will let me sleep but not have the hangover.  The downside of that is that I’m dreaming again.  About the three things that are denied:  food (last night it was all about apple pastries, apple pies…), babies (I have baby lust big time) and sex (last night it was all about someone I actually know…which is creepy). 

It’s been almost a year since, well, sex.  And that was kind of awkward.  But I remember the exact date.  And I don’t know why.  And most of the time it hasn’t mattered.  I’ve been feeling kind of asexual.  Out of it.  Not in the mood.  I have a headache.  Whatever.  But now that I’m dreaming again, it is kind of weirding me out.

Oy, and and babies.  Not being pregnant (other than the first bitty, little kicks) and certainly not cleaning Hi-C out of the air ducts and fishing markers out of the toilet but births and nursing and piles of clean cotton sleepers fresh from the dryer. 

It’s like being overdrawn and wanting to shop.  It’s like wanting a meatlovers pizza on a Friday in Lent.  It’s like my kids and the freaking crack filled fruit snacks (Fruit snacks:  neither fruit nor snacks.  Discuss.).  Like being pregnant and craving nothing but margaritas. 

My day would be more productive if I would quit dreaming up ways to get rid of my kids for a few hours so I can get something done around here.  My house is not going to clean itself so, instead of commenting on its condition, I should get off my ass and clean it. 

But I don’t.  I’m of the whiner generation.  I would like things to go my way.  Regular sex.  Tasty, tasty meals.  A hypoallergenic home.  Downy fresh sheets and towels.  Tan, thin legs sticking out of perfectly white capris and polished toes.  Perky boobs. 

I can’t stop thinking about all the things that I perceive to be missing.  But when I stop to think, I have wasted enough time that I could have done all I wanted to do.  Time’s up, pencils down.  Close your test booklets.  Do not go on to section C until you are told to do so.

So this is it, then?  Yes?  My lack of focus is the only thing holding me back?  I might need a piece of pie to mull that over.

Frickin’ ebay.  It’s been forevah since I’ve sold anything on ebay.  I haven’t even really been on ebay since my nights of “take the ambien plus xanax and then cruise the internet while waiting to get tired” that resulted in a spiffy new Swatch and a pair of clogs that I’ve never worn.  Anyway.  Ebay has changed how it does feedback. 

I’m destashing of sorts.  I have been collecting and hoarding cute fabric for years.  I use probabaly a tenth of what I have (kind of like the contents of my bookshelf, my kitchen gadgets and my spices).  And some of it, I’ve recently been told, is hard to find and therefore worth quite a bit.  I have one piece in particular that I can’t make myself use (because I’ll probably mess it up) so it needs a new home.  Honestly?  If I went through the whole lot I could pay Ella’s preschool tuition for the whole year.  Easily.  Yes, I have a problem.  We’ve identified it and I’m trying to do something about it.

Ebay and I have been friends since early 2002.  I bought my first cloth diapers there.  I bought some of Will’s baby gear.  Sold some stuff.  Not much but still.  I have never, not once had a bad experience.  I went to my listing to make sure it was all right and my feedback says 91.2%.  WTF, ebay??  First of all, they only calculate the last 12 months.  Second, I apparently had one neutral in there.  Retalitory because I had left the seller a neutral because it took 5 freaking weeks to get my stuff.  AND, I paid for priority and she shipped it media mail.  And it wasn’t media.  I just about forgot I had even bought it.  I was honest in *my* feedback:  item perfect but took quite a while to ship.  And I left a neutral.  5 weeks.  That’s too long.  Know what?  If you are going to have surgery, take your shit off ebay, mkay?!? 

So, because I have that one neutral and not very many other feedbacks in the last year it looks like I’m a crappy ebayer.  I knew they had changed the way they did things but not this drastically.  I hope people still bid. 

This whole thing is a giant rant of course.  I’m not going to pimp out my stuff here.  But I will say that ebay and I are totally broken up.  After they hawk my wares of course.

The monument company went lay the foundation for Stephen’s stone a week or so ago.  They discovered that, because of the rules regarding where he is buried, the stone that I designed and picked out will not work.  It cannot be two pieces, it cannot be as tall as it was drawn to be.  You know, information that would have been useful…3 months ago.  So Lance and I had to redesign it (apparently he’s just an ass on the phone; he’s still really nice in person).  I’m not entirely happy but don’t know what to do about it.  The upside is that it’s about 650 bucks cheaper.  The irony there?  That’s how much I owe Mayo.

My guts have settled and I have (sort of) stuck to the WW points thing.  There may or may not have been cake involved.  Just a forkful.  Don’t know how to point that except to say that yesterday was, technically, zero points since whatever I tried to eat, came right out. 

How lame has this become?  My kids have settled and haven’t done or said anything remarkable.  I’m sleeping okay.  We have a good balance again.  My house is a wreck but I’ve kind of stopped caring for a while.  It takes a whole lot of energy that I don’t want to use.  So, we work around it.  It’s too hot and sticky to be outside much unless we are submerged so my garage is filled with recycling that needs to go in and leftover yard sale stuff that needs to find its way to the Goodwill dock. 

Ella did ask me today if Daddy’s butt was hairy.  My reply was “Well, yeah but what made you think of that?”  She said that she just made it up.  What’s with the butt obsession?  Is that a four year old thing?

I finally answered the phone when my mom called today.  She’s been calling off and on for a while now.  She only calls on her way to work (she has an hour commute).  She, of all people, should not be talking and driving so I try not to indulge her.  She asked about Ella’s birthday, made her own assumptions and proceeded to tell me things that I did not ask about like what they bought at Costco and how the roof in their condo is leaking.  Nice.  And that’s why I don’t answer my phone when she calls.  When I told her about my stomach problems, she told me about hers before I could finish.  When I talked about Amelia and how much more she talks, she tells me something clever my nephew said. 

I am quite fortunate to have a few non-internet friends.  They listen to me babble on about my day and about my kids and what I’m doing during the day.  Maybe they feel about me how I feel about my mom.  I should work on that.  Maybe they don’t want to hear about my underwear collection or the woes of washing the same dress five times to get the spaghetti sauce out of it.

Tomorrow I will be not so selfish.  Tomorrow will be “It’s all about you” day.

Happy Birthday Ella!

My big girl.  My four year old.  My I-was-in-labor-with-you-for-36-hours child.  My child who is rarely quiet and never still.  I’m feeling all nostalgic for the baby who is growing up.  Or maybe I’m just weak from puking all day.

That’s right. 

Woke up to pooping, puked in the middle of the day, napped (thank you Robyn) and now I’m back to pooping.  Nice, right?  8 kids at Pizza Hut.  I can hardly look at anyone eating much less stand the smell.  Poor, poor Pizza Hut restroom.  And, while I complain ad nauseaum (get it?) about how I never get time away from the littles, I really did want to spend today with Ella.  I wanted to read her new books and get out the fingerpaints.

Oh, well, right?  Maybe she won’t remember being four?  Could I be so lucky?

The funny part of all this is that the whole time I’m feeling yucky, I think about that leader at Weight Watchers and how she described how to “kickstart” weight loss.  I have eaten next to zero today save a little bit of applesauce so…yeah…I got you all beat, bitches.  Zero points is zero points.  Would be nice not to be so gurgly though.  I will feel even better about this if it was a touch of food poisoning (note to self: don’t eat cool whip from the back of the fridge that hasn’t been touched since February) and not some bug that my kids are in line to get.

Here’s a thought:  worry is nothing but negative fantasy.

I had a good friend tell me that tonight when we were going into Weight Watchers and I was practically breaking out in hives.  I was definitely in need of my xanax salt lick.  I don’t do meetings or large groups of women or corporate things that try to sell you something with their kicky little phrases.  I did fork over my forty bucks but only after I saw the number on the scale go up and up and settle.

Negative fantasy.  It’s hard not to imagine the worst.  I have seen the worst, smelled it and heard it.  I cried over it, slept on it and ate my way through it.  I have dreamt it, buried it and ran away from it.

Is it any wonder, and I’m sure it’s not if you know the whole story, that I’m having a hard time? 

Tomorrow is Ella’s 4th birthday.  And my negative fantasy really hopes that she has a better year this year than last. 

My bat-shit crazy landlady had a crabapple tree delivered this weekend.  My negative fantasy says that it will be dead before she gets around to planting it.

Amelia has been a thorn in my side when it comes to bedtimes (which should explain the lack of a decent quantity of writing around here).  She must be touching me at all times.  I have not had a child free minute in over a week.  Tonight, she went to bed without a fuss.  My negative fantasy hopes that she is still breathing when I go to bed.

Sounds bad doesn’t it?  But I’ve seen it.  I’ve lived it.  And I can’t get it out of my head tonight.

Grandma J has been here for the last 2 nights.  She came bearing enough gifts to make Santa throw up his hands and say “I can compete.”  And then took us to Kohl’s and dropped a couple of Benjamins on the girls for school clothes.  I’m not going to protest.  Even Ella got over her “I don’t want Grandma J to come!”

Ella finally got her Talking Princess Vanity.  It’s pink.  It’s plastic.  It’s probably full of lead paint.  It has batteries.  It goes against every toy rule I have: no characters, no batteries.  And it has caused my formerly tom-boyish preschooler to sit in front of the mirror with a magic wand, a tiera and a hairbrush; saying to herself “I’m so pretty.”  Oh, what have I done?  Can someone get this kid a tractor, please?  Ella will be 4 on Tuesday.  It’s really hard to believe that I have kept something alive for 4 years!

Stephen’s mother is much easier to handle when she’s in my environment.  She wants to get on the floor and play with the kids.  She doesn’t want me to cook which means eating out.  I got out by myself yesterday afternoon.  So things weren’t all bad.  No deep discussions.  She did rent us a movie and got a 6 pack of Smirnoff Ice (”bitch pop” as Stephen used to call it) so I think she intended to have a girl’s night with me.  Which never happened because Amelia wouldn’t settle down.  Again.

All in all, not a bad visit.  Not weird.  I don’t know how I feel about it, to tell the truth.

Well, I’m going to do it.  I’m going to bite the bullet and hope it doesn’t shoot me in the face.

I’m joining Weight Watchers. 

I have spent the last few months kicking it around.  I’m fairly certain that I still hate meetings but I will have two friends to tag along with so when the urge to snark hits me, I won’t be snickering to myself like a fool.  There are a couple of reasons I think I need this.

I need the accountability.  I don’t have anyone to tell me that yes my ass does look fat in these jeans and my hair could use a highlight but I still think you’re pretty. 

I need a scheduled time out of the house.  Since I haven’t gone and gotten the gym membership or signed up for the quilting class that I’m itching to take, I guess I’ll do WW.

I’m tired of being tired.  And, honestly, it’s probably all the refined carbs that pass through my lips.  Mmmmm…yummy, yummy carbs….Maybe eating better will help that?  I’m told that it will.  I’m told that it will make me want to get off my ass and go for a walk. 

I am back to my regularly scheduled weight.  I have been at the same weight for 10 years (except when gestating).  I had lost nearly 30 pounds when I was in crisis mode.  That was also around the time that I had an organ surgically removed (gallbladder).  Since I am unwilling to lose another digestive organ, I will have to take another route.  For the last 10 years (minus the 27 months that I was with child), I have been pretty much okay with my weight.  I didn’t think a whole lot about it.  I wore the same clothes.  I was dating and then married.  I ate what I wanted.  It was all consistent.  But now, after having lost some and gained it all back (in a very, very short period of time) I am not happy.

I would really like to have a breast reduction.  The girls out front have served their God-given purpose.  They have nourished my babies.  And I am done hauling them around.  A nice, average C cup is in order.  And a breast reduction will be my reward.  I am going to do it.  I am going to do it for me.  The BMI charts say that I should weigh about 45 pounds less than what I currently do.  So that’s my goal.  Doing it for me; doing it for my knockers.

Stir up the brownie mix and somebody get me a cupcake because I’m pretty sure they’re going to take it away.