Collywobbles -- a rumbly in my tumbly

This one was given to me by anonymous.  I think they were just too chicken to tell me they wanted me to talk about my intestinal disturbances.

Fat chance I would avoid that topic!!

In 10 days, it will be one year since I was diagnosed with Celiac's Disease.  I know, every time I mention gluten my sister Lyn has promised to punch a kitten, but she's just going to have to suck it up.  It's a year and I will talk about it if I want to.

Now being without bread and such good things is second nature to me.  I am aware of what I can eat and where I can eat and how I feel when I eat and... blah blah blah.

I have always been one who is self-aware in the personal sense.  I know (expect during times of PMS) exactly what I am feeling and why.  I know my weaknesses and strengths; I know my motivation and my barriers.  What I have never paid attention to is my body.

During many doctors, dentists and chiropractor appointments I have been asked questions about pain, changes in my physical being, and how something makes me feel.  Unless the answer is "sleepy" or "hungry", I normally have no response.  How long has this been bothering you? is met with a blank stare.

This life style change has caused me to be uber aware of my body's responses.  Every gurgle or fart causes me to examine what I've eaten, if it could be glutened and what I need to do to avoid this feeling later.

It gets really confusing.  I mean, normal people fart (except for one ex-roommate -- did we educate her!) However, when a person with Celiac's farts or feels bloated, there is widespread PANIC!  I mean, I could have overloaded on salt OR I could have eaten something that will cause me to have Alzheimers.

You can see the problem right?

Even stress -- heck, especially stress -- makes my tummy do flip flops (not the shoes) and makes me wonder if I've done something wrong.

I guess the thing is to learn the difference between being glutened and just having the collywobbles.

Mmmm, food #reverb10

December 26 Soul food. What did you eat this year that you will never forget? What went into your mouth & touched your soul? (Prompt by @mysticflavor)

This is a bad thing to ask me this year.  Especially after my first Christmas (and Thanksgiving and Halloween) where I have had to stay away from things I normally love.  There have been no butter tarts, no mini Wonderbars, no turkey (stupid pre-stuffed birds), no nothing that I love.

So, to think about what food I have eaten that I have loved?

Meh.  If it doesn't have gluten, I'm not interested.

I'm not like many other people I know who love food.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I didn't get to be "hefty" by not loving food, but I'm no connoisseur.  I like plain.  I like boring.  I like un-fancy.  I don't like things I don't recognize or things I get served to me at high end restaurants.  If I'm offered poutine made of: 1) handcut fries, goat cheese and duck gravy, or 2) Burger King fries, gummy cheese curds, and unknown substance gravy; I will choose the Burger King any day.

I also prefer $2 chocolate Easter bunnies from Wal-Mart.

I'm a girl of simple tastes.  Or is that bad tastes?

This year, if you ask what I remember most of the food I've eaten... I guess I would have to say the roasted chicken from Ukraine.

But that might be because I ate it almost every meal for the entire 2 weeks.

It was still good.

Life's lessons #reverb10

December 17 Lesson learned. What was the best thing you learned about yourself this past year? And how will you apply that lesson going forward? (Prompt by @tea_austen)

I have never been the sort to take care of my body.  I have never been careful of what I put into it (like that time I ate a Lego piece) nor how I treated it (if I did, I wouldn't hurt it so much!).

This year, since my diagnosis of Celiac's disease (I know, I'm tired of hearing about it too) I have been much more cognizant of my body.  I have learned that I have to appreciate this "meat suit" that houses the rocking personality that is me.  I have learned that I have to listen to it, care for it, treat it right.  I have to eat better foods, spend more time with it, exercise it, care for it, and love it.

Like with this post, my life lesson is that I need to deal with my body as though it's a part of me and not just something I resent, loathe, judge, hide, and fatten up.

Who knew I would have to be in my 30s to appreciate something that's been with me since the beginning?

My body, my friend? #reverb10

December 12 Body integration. This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present? (prompt by @patrickcantype)

I have never particularly been fond of my body -- not what it looks like, nor how it feels.  There is always something I am unhappy with, something I feel should be different, something that is unlike other people's and therefore not as good.  My body (like many women's) is a point of constant contention and worry and disgust.

This year, however, I have been aware of my body in a different way.  Since the diagnosis of Celiac's disease, I have been hyper aware of every part of my body.  For good or bad.  Suddenly, I knew that the things that had always been part of my body were no longer "normal".  Suddenly, I felt good and realized that how I'd been living for years was not how it needed to be.

Since that time, I've been much more aware of my body.  More aware of how it feels, how it reacts, and what is good for it.  I am aware of what I put in it and how much.  I am aware of the changes in it from day to day. And, I'm learning to appreciate it.

A lot of my new-found appreciation for my body has come from the fact that I am in my 30s.  I can look back at my body and say that I have never been quite as fat as I thought I was.  And now, I'm losing weight, maintaining a healthier weight, and determined to keep it that way.

This coming year, I plan to get back into exercising more so that I can better take care of the body that I have learned to begrudgingly accept.  I'm determined to take it for what it is and celebrate it while I can.

It may not be much, but it's all I've got.  Best to keep it happy.

How "butt" leads to "gluten" and vice versa

Last night, Janny and I hit the town.  We had ourselves a monstrous supper at Montana's where the waitress plopped my meal in front of me with a "1/4 chicken no gluten" like as though other people order chicken with gluten.  After eating too much and both wishing we had brought our eatin' pants, we decided to kill some time before the movie by hitting up the local Chapters.

I mean, on a night out on the town, a bookstore should always be involved.

We wandered around and I loaded up on sale items and the most expensive date book ever.  Then, we checked out the new computers they had installed for items search.  Janny commented on how the computers were Macs, but had no Mac icons.  I noted it had no mouse and for the life of me I didn't know how to get from one area of the page to another.

We figured we should try a search to figure it out.  Being that we are both of the most mature sort, we entered the word "butt".

A couple of books showed up (like The Time My Butt Exploded -- awesome!) and the screen showed there were more pages of options.  We tabbed around and pushed the arrows, etc.  It was so frustrating.

Finally, I stabbed my finger at the screen on the arrow showing more pages.  It moved!  I got super excited.  Just then, a staff person came by to offer some assistance.  We assured him we had figured it out, so were fine.  He moved on.

Then I looked at what was on the second page.  Gluten Free Cookbooks!  I looked at Janny and said "How did it get to Gluten Free stuff?  How did it know?"

Janny replied, "Well, we did type in butt".

It was then we heard the staff person burst out laughing.  I guess he hadn't moved on very far.

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For clarification: the author of the Gluten cookbooks is named Butt.  Also, I figured it was fair that "butt" would lead to "gluten" because, for me, "gluten" always leads to "butt".

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The last post was my 2,000 post.  I love that it is about Remembrance Day.

And then it blew my mind. Pretty by Katie Makkai

I had a post ready in my brain.  It was funny and pithy.  Then I finally got a chance to watch a video that teacherlady sent to me ages ago.

There is one or two small F bombs, but they are totally appropriately used.  So, for those who will be offended, you've been warned.

This video.  This woman's poetry.  This... punch to the ovaries about how we, and all of society, make women (our children and each other) feel about themselves...

Wow.

Boobs and memory loss

I am a big fan of putting things away "for safe keeping" or "where I wil never lose it".  I put things away in the same place they were the first time I used them, thinking that I will remember that place when I need the item.  I am most often completely wrong.

You would think I would understand this about myself and do the sensible thing -- ie: actually put something where it belongs and/or will be safe.  Ah, apparently, you do not know me.

I have been saving a gift certificate for a while now.  I have been waiting to settle to a normal weight after losing so much with the diagnosis of Celiac's disease in March.  I figured that I would get the girls a nice new home (in this case "the girls" mean "Laverne and Shirley" not Ky and LynnieC) so as to flaunt my weight loss. 

Since I have stopped the constant-weight-loss-despite-eating-crap, aka: the best time of my life, I decided that this would be the week I get my fancy new digs.  The day I went out to use my gift certificate, I decided I should actually find it.  I looked in my wallet (reasonable thought) but couldn't find it.  Then, I looked in my other wallet that carries all my extra cards and things.  It wasn't there. 

I checked the lock box where The Guy keeps important things.  Not there.  Then I checked every pocket of every purse I had in my closet.  Nothing.  I tore apart the house.  I moved things, cleaned out drawers and searched through books and boxes.  Nothing.

Finally I remembered what I had done with it.  It is in the pocket of my purple purse!!!  You know, the purple purse.  Um, where did I put that again?  It's not in my closet.  Not in the spare closet.  Not in the sewing room.  Oh crap.  Did I give it to Value Village??

No, I couldn't have done that.  It's got to be somewhere.  I searched everything again.  Nothing.

In the end, I decided to go out and use some other gift certificates I had.  I went to the cheap bra shop and bought some on sale.  Four bras and seven pair of underwear for the same price as one bra in the fancy shop.  The girls are happy enough, but know these are just a cheap alternate until I find the other gift certificate.

Then we're going uptown, ladies.

Sweating and Snacking -- two things I'm good at

A month or so ago, I was contacted by a group wanting to send me the new Kraft Sweat and Snack package.  Since I've been slacking on the Wii lately, I thought I would give it a try.

Today, it arrived in the mail!

Well, at first I thought it was a garbage can.  It came in a large package with a garbage can on the side.  Since I didn't order a garbage can, I was confused.

Look, goodies!!

When I opened it, I knew my kit had finally arrived.  I was super pumped!  I love things in boxes, it's like Christmas any time of the year.

Even Monty was pretty excited.

 I love exercise equipment.  I know that is weird, considering how difficult I find it to be active, but I love the feel of gym mats, pulleys, exercise balls, etc.  One by one, I opened the containers and examined my haul.

The goods.  Also, Monty saw a camera, so posed.

 I got an exercise ball (in pink!), a yoga mat (it's squishy!), three different stretchy pull things to help with muscles and things (I'm awesome at exercise), a nifty gym bag (in neon!), a skipping rope, and 3 types of rice thins. 

This was one of the real reasons I wanted to get this package.  The Kraft Rice Thins Brown Rice Crisps in three varieties.  They are all gluten free!  Since my diagnosis with Celiac's Disease in March, I've been on the hunt for good snacking material. 

After playing with the pulley things (I'm so weak!) and taking way too long to figure out how to get into the yoga mat bag (side zipper), I sat down to try the Rice Crisps.  First up: Sour Cream and French Onion -- pretty good, nice taste, will likely be a regular in my snack closet.  Second: Sweet Mesquite Barbecue -- really quite good, very BBQ ish and will be good to replace my favourite Mesquite chips which I can't eat any more.  Third and finally: Sea Salt and Pepper -- I'm a big baby, so these were too peppery.  I liked them, but likely not one I will keep.

Now that I've talked about them again, I'm going to go back upstairs and get some more.

Tomorrow, I will work out!

I need to start wearing a bib

Tonight, The Guy, myself and LynnieC went out for supper at a local pizza place, Houston's.  I ordered Greek souvlaki which is one of my favourites and went to town.  I'd only had toast (GF of course) with peanut butter at lunch time and then Lyn and I walked around the lake, so I was ravenous.  I went to town on the meal. 

Nearing the end, I tried to pry a sticky piece of meat off the wooden stick it had been cooked on.  Finally it jarred loose and shot back into my lap. 

As I was shaking the meat and rice off my lap, I told Lyn of the first supper The Guy and I went to while on our second date.  At that same restaurant, the same meal, the same incident.  That time, while I was prying the meat off the wooden stick, instead of shooting it at myself, I shot it across the table at The Guy. 

I stopped telling the story and looked at The Guy.  And that's when you fell in love with me right?

He looked up and smiled.  Then he said, You have rice on your boobs.

Averting my eyes

This weekend, The Guy and I joined Crazybarefeet and her new friend to go to a Bally Dancing recital.  Crazybarefeet has taken a few belly dancing classes over the years and thought it would be a fun way to spend the evening.  I told The Guy it would be a bunch of hot, near naked, young women dancing around sexily, so I was sure he could handle it.

Oh how wrong I was.  I had two out of four right, but that wasn't near enough.

If you've been to a professional belly dancing performance, I'm sure you think I'm crazy.  The professional belly dancers are amazing, beautiful, graceful, and sexy.

There were some of them there too.

Two of the near-professional dancers were amazing.  One shimmied her hips so quickly I could not even fathom how it happened.  Her jingly scarf went crazy and it was awesome.  After watching her, I knew why people went to belly dancing class.  The other was so graceful and smooth, I wanted to be her.

Then came the other groups.  Brave women who had practiced their moves all year and were courageous enough to stand on a stage, bellies bared to the world, and shake their money maker. 

Don't get me wrong.  I've lived around heavy or over-sized people my whole life.  I think people are beautiful whether or not they are plus sized.  Most of the women I have admired and loved have been bigger women.  I have never been repulsed by their size or thought less of them for their bodies.  Except for that one time my father ran downstairs to yell at us while wearing only his whitey tighties.  Sorry Dad, but that was just wrong.

This was up there with the most horrific thing I had ever seen.  I know it makes me a judgmental b*tch, but there it is.  Eight of the largest women I have ever seen -- each no less than 350 lbs -- standing on stage with no bra, a small shrug tied between their breasts and their bellies out for God and country to see.  Then they danced.  With canes.

I should be celebrating their bravery.  I should have looked at their dancing skills and their enjoyment of the performance.  All I could see was the horror that was their bellies uncovered.  I heartily agreed with The Guy when he whispered "Cover your shame!"  No one was meant to see belly fat move like that.

I looked down.  I looked at the seat in front of me, I looked at The Guy.  I looked at the name of the person who donated the money to pay for the seat in front of me (Laycock.  HA!)  I couldn't watch those women.

When it was done, we moved onto the next group like nothing had happened.  A few other heavy women came out, but none near as large as that group.  Some wore tank tops under their shrugs so that people could view their intentional belly movements without seeing the belly moving by itself.  I applauded their modesty and their thoughtfulness.  I have images seared into my brain that I will never be able to wash out.

When the performance was over, Crazybarefeet looked at me and asked how I thought it was.  I said all that could come to mind "It was okay.  Some of it was awesome, some of it was weird, and some of it was horrific."

I'm not joining that class.  Unless I'm allowed to wear a mumu.

Another one bites the dust aka: I should have thrown it out years ago

A few years ago, I wrote about my favourite sweatshirt I wore all the time in University.  I had all but forgotten about my favourite sweatshirt from high school.

Yes, I have a favourite sweatshirt from every period of my life.  Shush.

I'm currently in Ed'ton visiting LynnieC and helping her pack up all her crap for the fourth time in three years.  (She's actually moved eight times in 6 years, but I haven't been around for some of them.  Thank the good Lord.)  We've been going through all her clothes and other things trying to pair down.

In one of her boxes of "keep" clothes, I found this:

Note the armpit holes, the frayed collar, the right cuff held on by a safety pin.

My Pembina Valley sweatshirt.

I stole this sweatshirt from a friend who played for the Pembina Valley hockey team in Podunk, Manitoba.  Okay, it's not actually called Podunk, but it might as well have been.

I loved this sweatshirt.

It was oversized, acid washed, and well... ugly.  But I loved it with every fibre of my being.  I wore it all the time.  I wore it to school, to sleep, to hang out, to go out with friends.  ALL THE TIME.  This is not an understatement.  It was this or my father's oversized suit jacket with the cuffs rolled up to a jaunty length.

It was the early 90s.  Stop judging me.

After I decided the sweatshirt was too ratty for me, (Mind you, the safety pin didn't say that to me.  Nor did the armpit hole.) I gave the sweatshirt to Lyn.  Or, she stole it.  Our relationship is pretty open that way.  She wore it for awhile and then put it in her box of things she couldn't part with.

Ten years later, it seems a little pathetic.  We threw it out.  But, we threw it out with fine memories of days gone by.

Day 17 -- Gluten free and not homicidal

It's been 17 days since I've gone gluten free.  In some ways, it's been a real adjustment.  I keep finding things I will never be able to have again -- Wunderbars! Oreo Blizzards! camp hot dogs on buns! -- but I have also found things that I do like and I can eat.  So, I'm making adjustments.

I find I actually like quinoa.

I'm eating healthier and I feel better.  No stomach pain, lessened headaches, no bloating, no excess gas (oh, the things you learn about me), no other intestinal issues.  I feel better.  Unless I accidentally ingest something gluten and then it's like the gates of hell unleashed in my stomach, but you know, for the most part, I feel better.

I've also lost 12 pounds since I was diagnosed with Celiac disease.  Apparently, the doc's suggestion that all gluten products (because they couldn't be processed) were just going directly to fat storage, wasn't such a far off thing.  I still feel fat, but I'm less heavy than I was.  So there is that.

It's going to be a long haul.  For the most part, I'm pretty glad for it.

I have a complaint about women's night clothes

Despite the fact I'm repeating myself, I'm going to say it again.  I have a complaint about women's night clothes.  Since there doesn't seem to be a good outlet to take my complaint to, I will voice it to you all.  And you will have to suffer.

Women's night clothes come in two varieties: 1) heavenly comfortable but utilitarian (read: ugly) or 2) sinfully gorgeous but completely impractical (read: my boobs fall out).  My brother's just stopped reading to go throw up.  Sorry about that.  (If you're of weak stomach, or genetically related to me, you can stop here.)

Don't get me wrong.  I love pretty night clothes.  Nightgowns, robes, short sets, etc.  I love them.  I had them long before I had anyone to look at them.  They are soft and slinky and shiny and silky.  Beautiful. 

And completely impossible to sleep in.

I have two sets of night clothes.  The first group consists of sweat pants or yoga pants of varying shapes, sizes and thicknesses (some for winter, some for summer) and tank tops or T shirts.  Sometimes I wear a sports bra for extra support and/or layers.  These are comfortable night clothes and I love them.  However, they are not pretty.  They are great for cold nights and times when you are sick, or just don't want to wear grownup clothes.

The second set of nightwear I own consists of pretty colours, soft materials, sprinkles of lace, slips of cotton, and the complete inability to hold my boobs anywhere for any length of time.  I got a good portion of pretty nightwear for our wedding and managed to break most of it within the first night of wearing it.  No, it wasn't anything exciting that caused it.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  There was no ripping of bodices.  It was just me.  I put these items on and they knew what they were in for.

I'm a roller.  I toss, I turn, I scoot, I wiggle.  Night clothing is in for a rough time.  Pretty and delicate nightgowns are mercilessly torn from my body as I decide to go one way and the clothing stays behind.  Straps break, seams pull, lace tears.  I wake up with one strap missing, one boob hanging out, and the entire nightgown on backwards.  It is not a pretty sight.

I've tried to stay away from wearing these items for any length of time.  They are now more for presentation and less for practicality.  I then moved towards little tank and short sets or slinky long pants to try and combine the two clothing dimensions.  Alas, this too is not meant to be.

Pretty tank tops are, let's say, less about function and more about design.  They are lovely and soft, but I am forever falling out of them.  These outfits are meant for those with less than a B cup of feminine goodness.  Those who don't need a village to support "the girls".  However, I am determined I will not be thwarted.  I will continue to search for a set of night clothes that are pretty and stay put, but I worry it will be a long search.

Until then, The Guy is going to have to get used to T shirts and sweat pants.

Conversations with Grandma #876,910

Grandma loves to call people fat.  She doesn't mean it cruelly, but she doesn't have the filter that tells her to SHUT THE HELL UP.

Grandma has an image bank in her memory of every person she's ever met.  That image is of every person at their skinniest point ever -- then she minuses 10 lbs.  So, if she knew you when you were a teen, you are the skinniest version of yourself in her mind.  When she sees you at 35 and you're not the same size you were in highschool, she thinks you've gained all that weight since the last time she's seen you.  Even if she saw you last week at this same heavier size.

So she doesn't mean to be a horrible person.  She is just utterly shocked that you managed to gain 50 lbs since she saw you last.  We've talked to her about it, but it's just not sinking in.  And, at 90, really is there a point any more?

This weekend at the funeral, she managed to call quite a few people fat before we even got threw the main doors of the church.  Then she went in to see her sister and exclaimed that she had never seen her sister look worse!  She's even lost weight since she saw her at the home last week!

Um, yeah, Gram... it's cuz she died.

Without missing a beat, she walked up to my second cousin and asked who he was.  When he said his name, she looked at him with confusion.  I leaned in closely and whispered "Don't be offended.  She's about to call you fat."

Grandma looked at him and without guile said, "Didn't you used to be taller?"

Wheatless home on the prairies

Since my sister Ky announced in February she was diagnosed with Celiac's disease, we knew it was a matter of time before the rest of us had to get tested.  We all have similar symptoms and have been going to doctors for years with limited success.  Now that we know it exists in our family, we can get tested.

I got home from Victoria and immediately went to the doctor to get the test underway.  One big blood test later (seriously, I don't think I had blood left when they were done) I had to wait for the results.  Since I've had numerous other health issues going on, the one week waiting period turned into three in order for all the results to come in at the same time.

Wednesday was that time.

I walked into the doctor's office, got into my paper gown (the physical was that day too, oh joy) and waited.  I've been a bit anxious about what the results of the Celiac test would be, so finally being so close to an answer was a bit nerve racking.

My lovely doctor came in, sat down, told me the results of the test and immediately took my blood pressure.  Not such a good choice it turns out.  Perhaps she should have reversed that?

I have Celiac's disease.  My levels were far and beyond the highest of the measurable scales.  The levels that were "extremely high" were left in the dust by my results.  For once, I'm an overachiever.  Yay me.

It means going on a gluten-free diet.  No wheat.  No bread.  No pasta.  No cereal.  Forever. 

I've had a month to digest this (pardon the pun) but it was still kind of a kick to the junk.  I know I will adjust.  I will be forced to eat healthier and this is awesome.  However, I have to admit, I am in mourning.  It's going to be a big adjustment.  I'm going to have to learn how to cook healthier, want to cook healthier, eat healthier, want to eat healthier.  I'm going to have to stop eating a family sized box of Mini Wheats a month.

I know it will be good for me.  I will likely lose weight (Dr. figures my body can't process the gluten so it stores it -- just in cases).  I will not be as tired.  I will not be as irritable.  I will not be as gassy.  (The world rejoices at that one.  Especially Monty and The Guy.  Dutch oven gets old fast.)  I will feel better. 

Really, I should be looking on the up side of this.  It will be nice not to have bi-polar intestines with the emotional stability of a pubescent teenage girl in the hysterics of unrequited love. 

But I will really miss Mini Wheats.

Mmm, donuts

This doesn't have anything to do with donuts.  Or it didn't, until I saw something mentioning a donut and now it is all I can think of.   Not store bought donuts though, but the kind you make at home.  Crispy, fried, hot, pieces of bread dough boiled alive in oil and drizzled with syrup.  Dough dogs, dough boys, or whatever you call them.  Yummy goodness.

When we were little, one of my favourite things about visiting my Grandma was that she would make dough dogs.  It was her specialty.  I have discovered over the years that each family has their own version of dough dogs called by many names.  Grandma would make them for us when we came to visit. 

Grandma would have the dough ready as if by magic (which is to say, while we weren't paying attention) and she would boil a pot of oil on the stove to bake them in.  My mom wouldn't make them for us.  She was terrified of boiling oil.  I can understand this.  My brother and I once dumped a pot of boiling oil on the floor in the kitchen and destroyed her linoleum, but that is another story.

When she was finished, we would sit at the table with a plate in front of us.  Each dog would be lathered with attention.  Sometimes with butter, sometimes with honey, sometimes with jam, sometimes rolled in sugar.  We would eat as many as we could until the plate was taken away.  I can taste them if I close my eyes.

Someday, when I have kids and grandkids, I plan to stand in the kitchen and make them up a plate of dough dogs so they too can have the memories of things boiled in oil.  Mmmm.



The moral of this story is: It sucks to be working nights while trying to eat healthy and totally PMSing.

I get Tourettes when I exercise

Is that normal?

Every time I work out, I get Tourettes.  I start out slow with the odd "Dammit!" here and there, but as the intensity of the workout increases, so does my vocabulary.

Sometimes I am glad no one but The Guy and Monty listen to me work out.  It is not a pretty thing.  Not to mention how bad it is to watch me when I work out.

Here is a list of things I said while working out today.  Note: This is toned down so my aunties who read it don't die from the shame of swear words.

Not that I say those.  Nope.

Anyway, on with the list.

• Son of a ...  (there were many variations on this theme)
• motherless goat
• biscuit maker
• heartless hooker
• Ha! Suck on THAT you stupid bird.
• Ack.  I cannot jump over that many wood things.
• I keep hitting the wall!  Stupid effing bike.
• Unbalanced?  I will give you unbalanced, you bastard.
• I hate you, smug hula man.
• No! NO!!!  NO!!!  Dammit.  Wall.
• Yes, I'm shaky.  I'm standing on one leg.  You're a computer.  YOU don't get shaky.  You don't have legs.

Sometimes, I think getting into shape is not worth the stress.

Resolutions no more! Part 1: January

With January jumping down our throats and demanding we come deal with the future, most people have come to the annual conclusion that they kind of suck and should do something about that.  I too have gone through the disparaging moments during and after Christmas where I stood with a cookie in each hand, my gut hanging over my belt, and thought "Hmm. I should do something."  Well, that something was eat another cookie.

But now, I have firmly grabbed my butt with both hands and admitted I have a problem.  My problem is making New Years Resolutions and then failing by February (if I last that long) where I then say to hell with it, throw my hands in the air and grab onto the nearest cookie for dear life.

No more, my friends.  No more.  No more two months of success for 10 months of dismal failure and guilt.

This year, I am making myself do a monthly to-do list.  An evaluation of sorts.  Of things I would like to do, when I would like to achieve them, and what I will get when I'm done.  Now, you can call them resolutions, but they aren't so grandiose or of such broad-spectrum.  They are small, attainable, livable things.  I got the idea from here but they still call these things resolutions.  I call them... well, I don't know.  A list of sorts.  I would love to print them all out and keep them somewhere.  Maybe in my sewing room!

So, that is my plan.  Here is my list for January.  Some of the things may spill into February, but that is okay.

• To finish my thank you cards by the end of the second week of January and mail them.  DONE! JAN 10
• To empty and sort the junk drawers (the kitchen, the wine cabinet, the spare room x4) (I have a lot of junk... don't tell The Guy.)
• To go through my closet and pare down the amount of clothes I have in there.  (My reward for this one is to purchase "key" pieces to replace them!)
• To go through a couple of the boxes now littering the basement.  Pare down, delegate, toss, etc.
• Organize my sewing area and set up my sewing machine.  (Reward? TO SEW SOMETHING!!!)
• To eat more responsibly this includes:
• One take out or restaurant meal a week
• One Timmy's tea a week (one cream and sugar)
• Limited pop intake
• Bring lunches to work
• Small amounts of snack or dessert -- not nothing, but just a little of some things
• Walk the dog more often or for longer at one time
• Work out on the Wii and the elliptical every week (at least 3 times in total)

There it is.  My plan.  I always like having a plan.  It makes me feel better.  Like I will actually get things done.  Like I can get things done!

This is a write up for Write of Passage -- The Resolution

Or, I'll feed them to death

I took the dogs to the vet yesterday. Just Madison and Vicki. Montel stayed home by himself for the first time. He wasn't overly impressed, but I gave him a handful of dog treats as I left. Madison had her regular check up and vaccinations to get taken care of. Vicki was there to be checked out before flying out West to live with Ky.

Last year, Madison had been chewing her feet to the point of agony. The vet assumed it was allergies (and not "the crazy" which I assumed) so I was told to change her diet. For 8 months, we have fed the dogs a dry food made of fish and potato.

It didn't cure Madison's chewing. It did, however, cause Vicki to have the rankest farts known to man. Madison started eating her own food as well as the food belonging to everyone else. I accredit this to the fact it smelled like crotch. We were all thankful when the 8 month trial was over and we could go back to the non-crotch smelling dog food.

Fast forward to the vet visit, where the tech took Madison to be weighed. She came back grimacing and told me Madison has gained some significant weight this year. 2.3 kg to be exact. Or, for the non-kg people, 5 lbs. FIVE. POUNDS.

She only weighs 18 lbs. Well, at least she used to. Five pounds to a dog that size is like 50 lbs to a human. I was stunned. I mean, I know Maddy has been eating every one's food, but to gain this much? What did I do? I pondered. Oh. What I did was forget to change the amount of food given to each dog based on the amount of calories in the food. Oops.

So, now Vicki has gained 2 lbs since October and Montel has seemed a little heftier than usual. Madison has officially entered into the obese category. And now? The whole house is on a diet. Myself included.

Brootiful

Tonight, I had Teacher Lady take some pictures of me in my wedding dress. Yes, this was partially that I just wanted to wear it again and partly because of the slight problems with the other pictures which were taken.

When I went to try my dress on the day I bought it, I had Crazybarefeet's daughter take some pictures so I could send them to my sisters. This is how I discovered that dear M hates me. She took pictures, yes. However, each time she managed to get me looking mildly challenged.

I showed the original pictures to Teacher Lady tonight and we both laughed til we were sick. We agreed that my dear viewers need to see the faces I am making in each picture. I cropped the pictures so you can't see my dress, but can see what mean things M did to me.

I'm very excited to be a bride.
No, really.

Okay, maybe I'm a little freaked out.

Or, just amused with a hint of disgust?

Did I ever stop talking the whole time? See? I must be excited.

Nope. Apparently not.

I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and... Lord, I am going to need a lot of work.