Monthly Archives: December 2010

How we manage the holidays

“Peej…..how do you manage to stave off boredom and thirst while playing with your boys all day at the rink or the toboggan hill in the forest?”

PJ: “ummmm…..”

(This post proudly brought to you by my dear husband.  And Coors Light).  I was too busy contemplating weightloss

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Happiness weighs more than a barbie doll

Dear Bathroom Scale that smells like piss and crap

I am breaking up with you.

You suck the life out of me.  I have spent twenty years trying to please you – nothing I ever do makes you happy.  Any pleasure you have ever given me has been temporary and volatile.

Stupid scale: Why couldn’t you be more like my heart monitor.  It always encourages me, gently beeping to remind to work a little tougher, keeping a record of all that I have done, not mocking me for eating that extra slice of pizza.

When I look at you all I see reflected back are my jiggly thighs and gooey squishy belly.  You are a constant reminder of all that I have not accomplished.  All you care about are pounds and ounces: you never once acknowledged my muscles or endurance or energy level.

You have cost me thousands of dollars.  Trying to please you, I have invested in books, videos, workout pants, horrific supplements, weights, gym memberships.  And even when I am feeling good and exercising, nothing I ever do is good enough for you.  All those times, I would plead, cry, I even resorted to lying to you, setting the dial to below your zero – nothing worked.

You would dictate the way I felt, what I wore, the length of my skirt. I have been your whore for too long.

And  when I was bloated and feeling crummy?  Those extra pounds you would pack on always made me feel so special and loved.

You are the reason I own so many *forgivable* pants and stretchy tunics.

Muscle weighs more than fat.  Happiness weighs more than a barbie doll

It’s as if you wanted to weigh me down  with unhappiness misery and failure

I realized it was never even you I wanted: I had you confused with health and vitality and happiness and the confidence to wear skinny jeans.

And btw, my friends never liked you either.  They always told me to get rid of you, that I was too good for you. That you weren’t  good for my self-worth or happiness.

You are useless.  The only people who even need you are butchers, bakers and pediatricians.

You were the most stubborn thing in my life: never budging an ounce in the right direction.  You are cold & heartless.  Like metal and tempered glass.

We are so over: I have found a very nice tape measure in a flattering shade of green.

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3×528-13+4= frustrations & funky odors!!

and that’s how much I weigh…or at least that’s what it feels like.  For the first time ever (and this includes to pregnancies) I actually feel as if my stomach is too big.  It hurts. It whines. It makes strange noises and occasionally emits funky odors.

a good support system is very important

I don’t get it – I have been writing about weight loss for weeks now. And talking about it.  I read about it incessantly. And still no weight loss.  So I am going to try um, acting on it now.   I will go old-school – and by this I mean jump (carefully) on a scale and actually look at the number. I do know  I am past overweight – this is where the word obese is joyously introduced into conversation. I feel like shit and am beginning to smell like it too.

For the record, I am trying to lose weight for me but mainly because my doctor suggested it.  I am noticing a trend where educated, articulate feminist gals are not meant to  admit to wanting to lose weight.  It is akin to giving up the vote and putting our bras back on (for the record, I barely wear one…just sayin).  One women remarked that with my attitude, it is a blessing that I do not have girls.  Here’s the thing: I like feeling pretty And sometimes I feel pretty in a dress and makeup (but never, ever with heels, those things hurt, man). and sometimes I feel all pretty and snuggly in my pj’s with a well- moisturized face and freshly brushed teeth. Sometimes I feel pretty, sweating along to a crazy Jillian Michels DVD.  I don’t know how you define it, but pretty to me mainly feels like there is alway the hint of a smile and a twinkly in my eye. I stand a little straighter and smile more.  If I get that from being able to wear size 8 jeans (as if!!!) then amazing.  I also know that regardless of size, making the right food choices and pumping some iron while listening to Flashdance also make s me feel pretty good too. But not being able to reach down to the ground properly and farting and huffing & puffing up the stairs: Not so pretty.  So I have chosen not to wait: by my 40th birthday I want to feel 16 pounds prettier.  Just call me Gloria!!

p.s. this 16pounds will not get me to svelte….it’s just that my birthday is 8 weeks away (Valentines Day but don’t worry there will be plenty of reminders) and 2 pounds a week seemed reasonable. I will still have miles to go after that, not too worry!

Is your will-power as flabby as your flesh?

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karma chameleon

They say you can never really understand the present until you understand the past.  And well, nothing is more important (or so it seemed) than high school – just ask Quinn or Finn but especially Kurt. High school days were not my Glory Days.  But they weren’t awful either.  I am almost ashamed to admit I was not a total loser in school – it seems ubiquitous & necessary these days.  It sometime seems as if the opposite of Loser is Bully these days but maybe that’s another post, n’est pas?

 

Apparently, I loved Bananarama, Siouxie & the Banshees, Boy George and Stompin Tom, all equally!!

Anyhow – of course High School is hard.  And it can suck. And I spent an awful lot of time trying to figure it (and myself) all out.  Apparently my solution was to see what hair-style suited me best.  I’m sure that explains my almost daily hairstyle shift.  Yes, part of it was simply trying to fit in, but I do remember just really getting a kick out of all the different groups & cliques & styles.  Well, almost all. I was never attracted to the jocks. I saved that for later when I married one. I would skip from group to group, changing my hair colour & musical tastes as I went.  At its worst, I thought myself a follower – a pathetic spineless moldy slab of jello (um, high school remember: hormones & all things dramatic to the max). At it’s best, I loved all the variety and my ability to fit in everywhere. I was open to all and not tethered by any. I was a free-spirit and learned from it all.  Either version has me averse to commitment.

So – Present Day &  I should know better than to join a gym.  Or sign up for boxing classes. Or commit to daily walks with a pal. I may have finally committed to one hair colour (that which best covers my greys) but I am still  the same curious, ever-changing, shifting, easily distracted gal.

By way of example, in the last few days I have considered joining a boxing club, trying indoor surfing (ok, this one really does sound awesome), trying out the couch to 5km and weight-training.  Understand – these are all amazing offerings, but they all also require some degree of commitment. And it may have taken 20 (or so) years but at last I have figured out that 1. Neon just doesn’t suit me and 2. I should not commit – not ever – to commitment (um, other than to my DH, obviously)

totally bitchin, dude...

So – this year, I will challenge myself to trying something new & different each month. I will only sign up for trial classes (preferably free ones!) and will not invest in any new equipment, DVD or class.  If you have any ideas or suggestions – for exercise, not hairstyles – I would love to hear them!!

 

 

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no scandal but plenty of biscotti.

Today’s post was meant to be about our Xmas party. I was going to describe all the festivities and food and anecdotes. I was hoping there would be at least one scandal (there wasn’t) and a few funny things to remark on (tons, actually!) I was also hoping to write about my healthy food/alcohol choices. But that would be a lie. And for the record, I can lie like a rug when it suits me – just ask my husband/mom/kids or anyone whose known me longer than 20 minutes – but there were too many witnesses and besides, now I have stage fright. Normally, writing this blog is free-flowing, easy & fast. Afterall, I have spent over half my lifetime contemplating the size of my ass versus the *ideal* length of my shirts.And I don’t mind sharing my thoughts about it either.

no scandals, but lots of biscotti

But last week I discovered that a few people actually read this blog.  That this blog has even landed me a few interesting work possibilities, a few people have forwarded this onto their buddies, but mainly that others have found it resonated with them.

This was unexpected, really & truly.

I am not edgy or funny. I am not an informed source nor a controversial one. Basically, I have no schtick.  And yet.  It is such  mixed feeling.  On the one hand I post links to this blog on Facebook, and twitter – clearly I am shamelessly advertising this blog. And then when people refer to it, I brush it off, dismiss their compliments.

WTF??

I want people to read this and to comment on it but when they do I get all stuffy and change the subject.  Gentle reader, I do appreciate it, more than (my) words can ever say.  I just do self-deprecating way better than I do proud . The pattern emerging is that I seek your approval (silently pleading for it, actually)  and then run away, shame-faced when I get it. It is very similar to when I lose a few pounds and then *reward* myself with an entire bag of chips. Um, and a chocolate bar.  How banal and predictable.

I don’t know why but it reminds me of my husbands ultimate all-time favorite joke:

Did you hear about the sadist and the masochist?

The masochist says to the sadist, “Hurt me, hurt me!”  the sadist answers, “No.”

oh my flippin eyeballs, this took forever to write…honesty sucks sometimes!!!  (but don’t tell my husband, he thinks I am cleaning up right now)

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Meet Bitchy’s little cousin, Feisty.

“So I read what she wrote on the facebook page of the girl who said that thing to her, can you believe it – what a bitch!”

So in my last post, I blamed my weight gain on my mom. Today, I’d like to take aim at mean-spirited  people instead (yes – I do realize that blaming everyone except for myself may be counter-productive but that’s another post.) .  Earlier I found out I was being accused of playing mind games and other fun juvenile stuff. My problem with this is that 1)  I prefer to go for the heart, preferably with dagger or crossbow rather than waste my time with a soft, squidgy brain fat and 2) This kind of crap makes me want to eat – a lot!

As I was listening to all the gory details of my supposed treacherous behavior, all I could think of was chocolate chip cookies.  And pies. And carrot cake.  My friends voice started to sound not unlike that of Charlie Browns teacher as I wondered which would be faster: baking something or a trip to the grocery store (and if you knew just how much I abhor both baking and going out in the snow, you’ll understand the gravity of the situation.

The thing is, I cannot not get upset about these things.  And as far as my thighs are concerned, feeling upset is the same thing as eating the damn cookies anyhow.

Enter Bitchy’s  little cousin, Feisty.

Feisty has come a long way (baby). Historically, feisty was defined as aggressive, nervous, touchy but is now more often used to describe one as spirited, assertive and able to speak up for oneself. I love the fact that a word can evolve over time, rather than lay dormant, useless. I love that depending on by who and how it is viewed, Feisty can be both aggressive & touchy, as well as assertive and spunky.  Bitchy – on the other had –  is over. Bitchy is  empty, void of any punch & vitality.  It is a useless one-dimensional catch-all used by people too lazy and spineless to know better.  So the fact that I was called one – meh, big deal!

meh...

Feisty on the other hand is awesome! Feisty shouted out to drink some water so I did.  Later,  Feisty just rolled her eyes when I tried to justify my sudden craving for a burger & fries and wordlessly brought out the hummus and carrots instead. Feisty reminded me to work out instead of pig-out. Feisty could beat Bitchy in a thumb-wrestle any day. Basically, Feisty rocks and I’m so glad to have met her!

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the peas & latkes

Did you grow up, blaming things (and by things I do mean everythings) on your mom, only to turn into a mom yourself eventually ( or at the very least an adult) and feel mortified & ashamed by those accusations? Um, me neither…but this time maybe it really is my mom’s fault that I have weight *issues* (you will discover this is my least favorite word ever and can only say it while rolling my eyes and grinding my teeth) And not just her fault but the fault of her mom and her mom’s mom and for sure her mom’s mom’s mom’s mom…

See, growing up jewish  really is all about the food.  We did not keep a kosher household but I do love me a big ol’ jewish spread: chopped liver, gefilte fish, kreplach, blintzes, knishe, challah, kishka . Any family get-together, celebration or  even the most casual meeting happily revolved around the food.  To her credit, my sister, a vegetarian did try to expand my palette and question my food choices.   She brought me to a John Robbins Diet For a New America workshop when I was around 14 but gave up on me when I kept asking when they’d be serving the Baskin-Robbins ice cream his family created.

(sidebar: my spell check did not recognize a single one of those dishes – kinda like my husband)

Luckily for my arteries, I moved away from home to a land filled with gentiles & fresh vegetables but nary a matzoh ball in sight.

yummy goodness

I do not have the inclination or talent to reproduce these dishes. The closest thing to a latke in these here parts is a tatter tot and I’m just not that desperate – yet. But with Hanukkah upon us, and dreidels hanging from our Christmas tree, I am getting hungry and know at the end of the day it’ll come down to this: If I can convince my MIL to make the latkes for us, should I smother them in applesauce or sour cream. Either way, I promise not to blame her for it!

sourcream or applesauce?

(Full disclosure: I was not going to write another blog post today, I swear I am not trying to bore you all to death. But then I heard this song and was inspired beyond belief. so I suppose I could have put the link to this at the top of the page and you could have just skipped all this blah blah blah – but I didn’t. and this song makes it all worthwhile, I swear!

latkelicious-jon-fursh-sydney-and-crew-2006

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Filed under Saucy, Un-burnt Food