Not much has changed. I'm now stalled at 216. I went down a pound after Thanksgiving--enormously satisfying. The food didn't bother me--I just had a bit of everything and took my time about it. My friend the host gave me a bottle of Baja Bob's martini mixer made with Splenda. Tastes just like Apple Pucker! They don't sell it in Washington, but they do in Oregon--not sure about other states...but one can become a fan on Facebook, and there is always http://www.bajabob.com.
Mr. Salted and myself are headed to the beach for a few days, and I turn forty-one on December 3rd. We're going to read, be tourists, look at stuff, take pictures of stuff, read some more, eat, and sleep. That's about all. Perfect!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
How to Sing the Blues
1. Most blues begin “woke up this morning”.
2. “I got a good woman” is a bad way to begin the blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line: “I got a good woman/with the meanest face in town”.
3. Blues are simple. After you have the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes—sort of: “I got a good woman/with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. She got teeth like Margaret Thatcher, and she weigh 500 pound.”
4. The blues are not about limitless choice. If you stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch—ain’t no way out. Blues cars are Chevys and Cadillacs. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain’t even in the running. Other acceptable blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or southbound train. Walkin’ plays a major part in the blues lifestyle, as does fixin’ to die.
5. Teenagers can’t sing the blues. Adults sing the blues. Blues adulthood means old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.
6. Blues is not a matter of color—it’s a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues. Sonny Liston could. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues. That having been said, the following colors should be nowhere near the blues: (a) violet, (b) beige, and (c) mauve.
7. Blues can take place in New York City, but not in Hawaii or Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle are probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City are still the best cities for having the blues. You can’t have the blues in any place that don’t get rain. Other good places for the blues are: (a) the highway, (b) jailhouse, (c) empty bed, and (d) the bottom of a whiskey glass. Bad places: (a) golf courses, (b) gallery openings, (c) Ivy League institutions, and (d) Macy’s. You can’t have the blues in an office or shopping mall--the lighting is wrong. Go out to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.
8. A man with male pattern baldness ain’t the blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg skiing is not the blues. Breaking your leg ‘cause an alligator be chomping on it is.
9. No one will believe it’s the blues if you wear a suit, unless you happen to be an elderly ethnic person who slept in it.
10. Do you have the right to sing the blues? Yes, if (a) you’re older than dirt; (b) you’re blind; (c) you shot a man in Memphis; (d) you can’t be satisfied.
No, if (a) you were once blind but now can see; (b) you have all your teeth; (c) the man in Memphis lived; or (d) you have a trust fund.
11. If you ask for water and your baby gives you gasoline, it’s the blues. Other acceptable blues beverages include (a) cheap wine; (b) whiskey or bourbon; (c) muddy water; (d) nasty black coffee. The following are NOT blues beverages: (a) Perrier; (b) Chardonnay; (c) Snapple; (d) Slim Fast.
12. If death occurs in a cheap motel or shotgun shack, it’s a blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another blues way to die. So is the electric chair, chronic substance abuse, and dying alone on a broken-down cot. It is not a blues death if you die playing a tennis match or getting liposuction.
13. Some blues names for women: (a) Sadie; (b) Big Mama; (c) Bessie; (d) Fat River Dumpling. Some blues names for men: (a) Joe; (b) Willie; (c) Little Willie; (d) Big Willie. People with names like Michelle, Debbie, Amber or Heather can’t sing the blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.
Making your own blues name is simple. Take (a) name of physical infirmity (Blind, Lame), (b) a fruit (Lemon, Lime), and (c) last name of a President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore) and combine them—for example, Blind Lemon Fillmore.
14. No matter how tragic your life, if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues.
2. “I got a good woman” is a bad way to begin the blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line: “I got a good woman/with the meanest face in town”.
3. Blues are simple. After you have the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes—sort of: “I got a good woman/with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. She got teeth like Margaret Thatcher, and she weigh 500 pound.”
4. The blues are not about limitless choice. If you stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch—ain’t no way out. Blues cars are Chevys and Cadillacs. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain’t even in the running. Other acceptable blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or southbound train. Walkin’ plays a major part in the blues lifestyle, as does fixin’ to die.
5. Teenagers can’t sing the blues. Adults sing the blues. Blues adulthood means old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.
6. Blues is not a matter of color—it’s a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues. Sonny Liston could. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues. That having been said, the following colors should be nowhere near the blues: (a) violet, (b) beige, and (c) mauve.
7. Blues can take place in New York City, but not in Hawaii or Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle are probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City are still the best cities for having the blues. You can’t have the blues in any place that don’t get rain. Other good places for the blues are: (a) the highway, (b) jailhouse, (c) empty bed, and (d) the bottom of a whiskey glass. Bad places: (a) golf courses, (b) gallery openings, (c) Ivy League institutions, and (d) Macy’s. You can’t have the blues in an office or shopping mall--the lighting is wrong. Go out to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.
8. A man with male pattern baldness ain’t the blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg skiing is not the blues. Breaking your leg ‘cause an alligator be chomping on it is.
9. No one will believe it’s the blues if you wear a suit, unless you happen to be an elderly ethnic person who slept in it.
10. Do you have the right to sing the blues? Yes, if (a) you’re older than dirt; (b) you’re blind; (c) you shot a man in Memphis; (d) you can’t be satisfied.
No, if (a) you were once blind but now can see; (b) you have all your teeth; (c) the man in Memphis lived; or (d) you have a trust fund.
11. If you ask for water and your baby gives you gasoline, it’s the blues. Other acceptable blues beverages include (a) cheap wine; (b) whiskey or bourbon; (c) muddy water; (d) nasty black coffee. The following are NOT blues beverages: (a) Perrier; (b) Chardonnay; (c) Snapple; (d) Slim Fast.
12. If death occurs in a cheap motel or shotgun shack, it’s a blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another blues way to die. So is the electric chair, chronic substance abuse, and dying alone on a broken-down cot. It is not a blues death if you die playing a tennis match or getting liposuction.
13. Some blues names for women: (a) Sadie; (b) Big Mama; (c) Bessie; (d) Fat River Dumpling. Some blues names for men: (a) Joe; (b) Willie; (c) Little Willie; (d) Big Willie. People with names like Michelle, Debbie, Amber or Heather can’t sing the blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.
Making your own blues name is simple. Take (a) name of physical infirmity (Blind, Lame), (b) a fruit (Lemon, Lime), and (c) last name of a President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore) and combine them—for example, Blind Lemon Fillmore.
14. No matter how tragic your life, if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thanksgiving
The above is my favorite Thanksgiving cartoon EVER.
I like Thanksgiving; it seems fitting that there should be a day set aside to remember the good things in life. It has become increasingly pleasant over the years as I have chosen to spend it with friends-who-are-family. The food is awesome, and no one calls the cops or even argues. It's good stuff. I have a great deal to be thankful for, but this is what I am most thankful for: a life surrounded by love. In my almost 41 years on Earth, love is something I have had ripped from me, gone without, waited for, been chewed up and spit out by, worked for, and actively spent no small amount of time, energy, and effort to cultivate, so I appreciate it just that much more. It should be noted that the life I am so grateful for doesn't look remotely similar to the ones ones on TV; it does not include parents, siblings, children, or grandchildren. No one bakes me crescent rolls to show their love or includes me in an annual photograph of any kind. As blessed as I am today, it was not always thus. The unabashed, shameless flogging of the traditional holiday horse in the media will always annoy me, but I can tell you this: I would trade my life for no one else's, even if they bake cookies with their mom or sister every year or have three beautiful, healthy children they treasure. I have wanted that life (just like most other people do) at one time or another, but that was not the path meant for me. Many parts of my life have read as tragedy, but as much as is within my control, I have worked hardest at making one fact true: I am in possession of a life surrounded by love.
And I am profoundly thankful.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The almost dog
I love dogs, and I've never had one of my own. (I couldn't have animals as a child, so my first real pet was my Maine Coon cat, BC, when I was thirty.) I love almost every dog, but I have a special soft spot for bulldogs--particularly English or French, but also American bulldogs and even pit bulls. (I don't blame the breed, I blame stupid people.) I love big dogs, but don't have a fenced yard and need a mellow breed that doesn't need to run several miles a day or herd sheep to be happy. I've never seen an English or French bulldog in a shelter, and I pay attention. Last week a French bulldog suddenly popped up at the local shelter. They were only accepting applications to adopt her on Saturday and Sunday, so Mr. Indra and I went in Sunday, met her, and applied. She was quiet, mellow, and sweet, and we fell in love. Her name was Tessa; she seemed freaked out by the chaos of the shelter, and cuddled into us, licking Mr. Salted's hand. She even liked cats, which is apparently quite rare. They said they would let us know Monday, and that they were moving us up to the top of the list because we didn't have kids, I only work part time, we would put her in dog daycare, etc.
During my breaks at work, I looked into a couple of dog daycare places online and started thinking how fun it could be to have a fuzzy buddy around all the time to take on road trips and to snuggle with while my cats are busy doing what they do best--ignoring me. I wondered if she would wear a sweater when it was cold, if she would snore, and if she would ultimately end up preferring Mr. Salted (as every other animal who meets him seems to do).
The shelter didn't call me all day. I knew we were a long shot because French bulldogs are so popular and so rarely in a shelter, but I allowed myself to get my hopes up. (I've never seen one in a shelter.) I decided to stop by on the way home, and they had chosen another family because the application came in sooner than ours had. It turned out that 20 families had applied to adopt her in that short two-day window. I was glad I stopped by and saw her so I could pet her and tell her to have a wonderful life. I only stayed a minute, and she tried to leave when I did, which was hard. One guy that worked there walked me out, talking about all the other great dogs they had (as if I was a dog snob and hadn't noticed them). There were several standouts: a great big Newfie mix, a beautiful year-old Basset hound, a chocolate Lab with three legs that was nonetheless obviously itching to chase a ball for an hour or 12. They all needed yards. I only wanted Tessa.
I am still a little sad today. I know this isn't the most practical time to get a dog, but she would have fit into our family so well and gotten so much love from us. This was the first attempt I've really made to get a dog. I may still keep my eyes open for another adult Frenchie or mix, but I'm not going to get my hopes up again like I did this time. It's just too hard.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Fitting room fiesta!
Despite the multitude of clothes I have either been given or have acquired on Ebay of late, I had to go shopping at an actual bricks-and-mortar store today. (A friend of mine is fond of saying, "I'd get my hair cut online if I could"; I'm with her there.)I have a lot of clothes that almost fit but don't quite yet, or clothes that I can get on but won't feel comfortable wearing in public for a few less pounds. Like a homing pigeon, I was drawn to Fashion Bug--they have long been tried and true, with good basics at reasonable prices, and as a bonus, I even had a coupon that hadn't expired yet.
I made a beeline for the $14.99 stretch pants in navy, black and gray--comfy, forgiving, good for work. When it comes to transitional weight-loss clothing, they are Linus' blanket. I'm down to size 18/20 in those now. (Considering I used to be a 28/30 not so very long ago, I was glad to see a number in the teens anywhere nearby. I strained to remember the last time this was so; oddly enough, it was when my age was also a number in the teens.)
I wanted a pair of jeans, and ran into an interesting quandary. All jeans in plus-size stores at the moment seem to include the word "stretch". "Stretch" denim may be forgiving in its way, but it does nothing to camouflage one's lovely lady lumps. I have short legs, not much ass, and a very round stomach. Needless to say, hilarity ensued; I was eternally grateful that it was visually private hilarity. I did manage to leave with one pair of jeans--after trying on about fifteen others.
I tried on a few shirts, grabbing 22/24s, trying them on, and to my surprise, having to put them all back for 18/20s. When I was a teenager with a job at McDonald's, I remember taking a size 14 in the uniform pants, but a size 20 for the top; despite this, like every woman I have ever talked to about how she loses weight, I seem to be losing it in the chest first. Sisterhood is powerful.
That brings us to the bras. I have had to special-order them for so many years I can't remember buying them in stores anymore; at my largest I wore an H cup. My current size is 40DDD. This Fashion Bug didn't carry that size at all; for DDD, the band size began at 42. I didn't know whether to feel good about being smaller than that or annoyed that the size didn't exist for my convenience. I chose the former.
The salesperson sent me next door to Catherine's on the outside chance they stocked that bra size. Fashion Bug does juniors, misses and plus, where Catherine's is all plus--sizes 16-32 if I'm not mistaken. I've bought a fair amount of clothing at Catherine's over the years. I would say their demographic skews older and more professional, but they are owned by the same parent company.
Catherine's didn't carry that bra size either, at least not in the store. This baffled me--if you can't get DDDs in a plus-size clothing store, where can you get them? They were having a good sale, though--buy any two items in the store, get the third free. I ended up with a long, colorful skirt with a boho feel to it that reminded me of being on a cruise, a black peasant blouse with cool flower embroidery, and my favorite, a black cloche hat. I've always wanted a cloche hat, and happily, it rests as it should atop Charlie Brown-esque melon head. (I love hats, but my head is often too big for the ones I find.) The mind-blower was the size of the clothes--I'm one size from being the smallest size Catherine's carries. The blouse I bought was actually a 14/16. The moral of the story is, try everything on! I have things here at home that are 22s that are too small, but this blouse is a 14/16 and fits perfectly.
Undeterred, I came home and paid a visit to my dear friend Ebay. There I found someone selling a lot of 5 new Bali bras in my size for $75.00--a Buy It Now auction without suspense. Problem solved!
Though my weight hovers at 218, today's shopping trip lowered my frustration level considerably. I saw more difference in my body in fitting-room mirrors than I can in the ones at home or work, and smaller sizes are fitting. I also just realized I've already lost almost half the total weight I want to lose at only 3-1/2 months out from surgery, which is really satisfying, especially given the fact that I am not yet able to begin an exercise program.
I made a beeline for the $14.99 stretch pants in navy, black and gray--comfy, forgiving, good for work. When it comes to transitional weight-loss clothing, they are Linus' blanket. I'm down to size 18/20 in those now. (Considering I used to be a 28/30 not so very long ago, I was glad to see a number in the teens anywhere nearby. I strained to remember the last time this was so; oddly enough, it was when my age was also a number in the teens.)
I wanted a pair of jeans, and ran into an interesting quandary. All jeans in plus-size stores at the moment seem to include the word "stretch". "Stretch" denim may be forgiving in its way, but it does nothing to camouflage one's lovely lady lumps. I have short legs, not much ass, and a very round stomach. Needless to say, hilarity ensued; I was eternally grateful that it was visually private hilarity. I did manage to leave with one pair of jeans--after trying on about fifteen others.
I tried on a few shirts, grabbing 22/24s, trying them on, and to my surprise, having to put them all back for 18/20s. When I was a teenager with a job at McDonald's, I remember taking a size 14 in the uniform pants, but a size 20 for the top; despite this, like every woman I have ever talked to about how she loses weight, I seem to be losing it in the chest first. Sisterhood is powerful.
That brings us to the bras. I have had to special-order them for so many years I can't remember buying them in stores anymore; at my largest I wore an H cup. My current size is 40DDD. This Fashion Bug didn't carry that size at all; for DDD, the band size began at 42. I didn't know whether to feel good about being smaller than that or annoyed that the size didn't exist for my convenience. I chose the former.
The salesperson sent me next door to Catherine's on the outside chance they stocked that bra size. Fashion Bug does juniors, misses and plus, where Catherine's is all plus--sizes 16-32 if I'm not mistaken. I've bought a fair amount of clothing at Catherine's over the years. I would say their demographic skews older and more professional, but they are owned by the same parent company.
Catherine's didn't carry that bra size either, at least not in the store. This baffled me--if you can't get DDDs in a plus-size clothing store, where can you get them? They were having a good sale, though--buy any two items in the store, get the third free. I ended up with a long, colorful skirt with a boho feel to it that reminded me of being on a cruise, a black peasant blouse with cool flower embroidery, and my favorite, a black cloche hat. I've always wanted a cloche hat, and happily, it rests as it should atop Charlie Brown-esque melon head. (I love hats, but my head is often too big for the ones I find.) The mind-blower was the size of the clothes--I'm one size from being the smallest size Catherine's carries. The blouse I bought was actually a 14/16. The moral of the story is, try everything on! I have things here at home that are 22s that are too small, but this blouse is a 14/16 and fits perfectly.
Undeterred, I came home and paid a visit to my dear friend Ebay. There I found someone selling a lot of 5 new Bali bras in my size for $75.00--a Buy It Now auction without suspense. Problem solved!
Though my weight hovers at 218, today's shopping trip lowered my frustration level considerably. I saw more difference in my body in fitting-room mirrors than I can in the ones at home or work, and smaller sizes are fitting. I also just realized I've already lost almost half the total weight I want to lose at only 3-1/2 months out from surgery, which is really satisfying, especially given the fact that I am not yet able to begin an exercise program.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Progress?
Yesterday I went to the ankle doctor and was freed from The Dreaded Boot. He gave me a great brace that is made of some kind of stiffish meshy material and Velcro that wraps around the ankle a couple of times. You wear it over a sock, and it's very shoe-friendly. Today was my first day wearing it, and it felt good. My ankle is always a little sore by the end of the day, but I haven't taken any painkillers for a week or two. I'm still supposed to ice it and rub lotion into the scars. The latter grosses me out, but I'm getting used to it. When I broke it originally, anyone touching that scar sent me into orbit--I'm much more comfortable with it now. Dr. Ankle was amused by my black knee socks with purple skulls; he was pretty sure his 12-year-old daughter had the same pair. I was also sporting my leopard-print Chuck Taylors. (Why dress like a grown-up unless you have to? Socks and shoes are the easiest flamboyant apparel items one can get away with.) I asked him about physical therapy and beginning workouts, and he said we would talk physical therapy at my next appointment in a month and that I needed to let this ankle heal. He studied me for a minute and said, "Why, you're wasting away, young lady!" with a big grin.
I spent three hours today going through clothes. It looked like a consignment shop tornado blew through chez Salted--I have had clothes coming in and going out constantly the last few months. No fewer than eight women I know have given me clothes; there are three or four others that I have been passing things along to as well, and I'm extremely grateful for all of them. On a friend's advice, I finally chose to organize what I had left by size into large Rubbermaid containers. The smallest clothes I have are 14s, and I have to say--size 14s look tiny to me. I can't imagine being that small ever again; I can't believe how many, and how often, people told me I was fat when I actually was that size; it makes me sick (and sad, disgusted, angry, pick the negative emotion of your choice)--that, at that weight, I saw a monster when I looked in the mirror. For better or worse, I've made 14 my absolute goal size. It's the size of the average American woman, and in this case, average is more than good enough for me! Frankly, I'm not sure I can even reach it without plastic surgery in addition to diet and exercise, and I'm only 5'3".
I am currently in a frustrating place in my weight-loss journey. I am not losing much weight the past week or two, if any--fractions of pounds here and there, perhaps. (On the positive side, I'm not gaining it, either.) I'm also not losing weight in any kind of logical fashion--it comes from where it wants to on the body, when it wants to. It's not happening anywhere near fast enough for yours truly, and not having clearance to exercise yet, I can't employ that method to speed things along. Depending on what I wear, I either look like a short, healthy, round woman or like Lumpen Middle-Aged Poster Girl, and never the twain shall meet. I really despise the lumps--I've been shaped that way ever since the Puberty Fairy went on a bender at my house when I was nine or so. The demon stomach has always asserted itself in a big way, and it is doing so as we speak. I am five to ten pounds too heavy for a bunch of the pants I have waiting and, to my dismay, that five to ten pounds isn't going anywhere. I need to go out and buy some cheap stretch pants to tide me over. Sigh. Don't look at me like that--I'm eating what I'm supposed to!
I spent three hours today going through clothes. It looked like a consignment shop tornado blew through chez Salted--I have had clothes coming in and going out constantly the last few months. No fewer than eight women I know have given me clothes; there are three or four others that I have been passing things along to as well, and I'm extremely grateful for all of them. On a friend's advice, I finally chose to organize what I had left by size into large Rubbermaid containers. The smallest clothes I have are 14s, and I have to say--size 14s look tiny to me. I can't imagine being that small ever again; I can't believe how many, and how often, people told me I was fat when I actually was that size; it makes me sick (and sad, disgusted, angry, pick the negative emotion of your choice)--that, at that weight, I saw a monster when I looked in the mirror. For better or worse, I've made 14 my absolute goal size. It's the size of the average American woman, and in this case, average is more than good enough for me! Frankly, I'm not sure I can even reach it without plastic surgery in addition to diet and exercise, and I'm only 5'3".
I am currently in a frustrating place in my weight-loss journey. I am not losing much weight the past week or two, if any--fractions of pounds here and there, perhaps. (On the positive side, I'm not gaining it, either.) I'm also not losing weight in any kind of logical fashion--it comes from where it wants to on the body, when it wants to. It's not happening anywhere near fast enough for yours truly, and not having clearance to exercise yet, I can't employ that method to speed things along. Depending on what I wear, I either look like a short, healthy, round woman or like Lumpen Middle-Aged Poster Girl, and never the twain shall meet. I really despise the lumps--I've been shaped that way ever since the Puberty Fairy went on a bender at my house when I was nine or so. The demon stomach has always asserted itself in a big way, and it is doing so as we speak. I am five to ten pounds too heavy for a bunch of the pants I have waiting and, to my dismay, that five to ten pounds isn't going anywhere. I need to go out and buy some cheap stretch pants to tide me over. Sigh. Don't look at me like that--I'm eating what I'm supposed to!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday 9: Man on the Moon
1. Do you think it was important to send a man to the moon?
The hippie in me wants to say no, it was more important to feed people and make sure they had healthcare. On the other hand, it was good for scientific exploration, we could, it built morale in the US, and maybe it prevented us from shooting a torpedo at a Russian sub.
2. What is your biggest fear?
It's a toss-up between becoming homeless and contracting Alzheimer's. Being tortured is up there too.
3. If someone hung a sign around your neck today, what would it say and why?
"This woman deserves a career break! Give it to her!" Why? I've worked hard all my life at every legal profession other than the sex industry (although I did work for an Internet filtering company where I had to look at porn all day for two years). I couldn't only pursue jobs that would fulfill me or that were in my field because I had to pay the bills. I know, cry me a river, the majority of us could say the same thing. I'm just saying: I'm intelligent, creative, detail-oriented, fun to work with, and I can do anything I set my mind to (outside of becoming a supermodel). I don't have the money for any more education, more's the pity. Do you hear that, universe?
4. What is the longest line that you've stood in and was it worth it?
I know which one felt the longest; waiting in line for the Cure on the "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me" tour in 1986. We were in line eight hours or more. I was in full Batcaver regalia-- tons of makeup, ratted black hair. There were a lot of big semis parked around the venue, it was a hot day, and I got totally sick from the heat and the truck fumes. It was festival seating and we were getting pushed around in the crowd--sometimes we were right up against the stage, but we were pushed all over the place. I lost the friends I had come with in the crush, and was about to pass out. A kindhearted woman with a blue liberty-spiked mohawk grabbed my hand and led me out of the crowd. I subsequently spent most of the concert throwing up into a garbage can, and I hadn't even had a drink!
5. As the holidays approach, what song are looking forward to hearing again?
Bah, humbug. I can stand "Christmas Island" by Leon Redbone; I also like his version of "Let it Snow".
6. Whose music do you think is the most important of your generation's?
R.E.M., X, Nirvana
7. Do you find it is hard to be kind to strangers? Give an example.
Not really. I make an effort to do so unless they are total a**holes.
8. When do usually lose your patience?
Oh, that's funny. Repetitive noises. Whining. People who don't listen. People who don't THINK. People who don't ask questions. People who treat their loved ones like crap and then say they love them. People with a sense of entitlement. How long do you have?
9. Is there a book that you're dying to see as a movie?
I'm anxious to see if they did "The Lovely Bones" justice. Love that book.
The hippie in me wants to say no, it was more important to feed people and make sure they had healthcare. On the other hand, it was good for scientific exploration, we could, it built morale in the US, and maybe it prevented us from shooting a torpedo at a Russian sub.
2. What is your biggest fear?
It's a toss-up between becoming homeless and contracting Alzheimer's. Being tortured is up there too.
3. If someone hung a sign around your neck today, what would it say and why?
"This woman deserves a career break! Give it to her!" Why? I've worked hard all my life at every legal profession other than the sex industry (although I did work for an Internet filtering company where I had to look at porn all day for two years). I couldn't only pursue jobs that would fulfill me or that were in my field because I had to pay the bills. I know, cry me a river, the majority of us could say the same thing. I'm just saying: I'm intelligent, creative, detail-oriented, fun to work with, and I can do anything I set my mind to (outside of becoming a supermodel). I don't have the money for any more education, more's the pity. Do you hear that, universe?
4. What is the longest line that you've stood in and was it worth it?
I know which one felt the longest; waiting in line for the Cure on the "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me" tour in 1986. We were in line eight hours or more. I was in full Batcaver regalia-- tons of makeup, ratted black hair. There were a lot of big semis parked around the venue, it was a hot day, and I got totally sick from the heat and the truck fumes. It was festival seating and we were getting pushed around in the crowd--sometimes we were right up against the stage, but we were pushed all over the place. I lost the friends I had come with in the crush, and was about to pass out. A kindhearted woman with a blue liberty-spiked mohawk grabbed my hand and led me out of the crowd. I subsequently spent most of the concert throwing up into a garbage can, and I hadn't even had a drink!
5. As the holidays approach, what song are looking forward to hearing again?
Bah, humbug. I can stand "Christmas Island" by Leon Redbone; I also like his version of "Let it Snow".
6. Whose music do you think is the most important of your generation's?
R.E.M., X, Nirvana
7. Do you find it is hard to be kind to strangers? Give an example.
Not really. I make an effort to do so unless they are total a**holes.
8. When do usually lose your patience?
Oh, that's funny. Repetitive noises. Whining. People who don't listen. People who don't THINK. People who don't ask questions. People who treat their loved ones like crap and then say they love them. People with a sense of entitlement. How long do you have?
9. Is there a book that you're dying to see as a movie?
I'm anxious to see if they did "The Lovely Bones" justice. Love that book.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I can't eat like other people.
I misplaced my driver's license and haven't been able to find it again. Mr. Salted and I tried to go in on Saturday, but there were probably 200 people in there and three customer service windows open. We lasted about an hour. We waited. We read the paper. I found a chair (my ankle is still in a boot). We listened to a teenage girl whine to her mom (in several different octaves) how hungry she was. We listened to an irritating woman on her cell phone, and another, and another. We listened to our butts grow. Finally, I said to my beloved, "I'm not a patient woman. Let's roll." He's not a patient man, either, so he was happy to oblige. (I knew I could come back during the work week since I'm part-time.) We went to Shari's, where I enjoyed some loaded baked potato soup (I got a couple of meals out of a bowl) and discovered they sell both marionberry and apple pies with no sugar added. (I'm in charge of dessert for Thanksgiving, so guess where I'm getting it?)
This DMV office was closed on Monday, so I stopped in this morning on the way to work. I had to wait about an hour, but there were only 13 or 14 people ahead of me as opposed to the 80 or so people ahead of me that there had been on the weekend. One of the employees came out and said the computers were down, but I stuck around on the outside chance that they could replace my license for me--they were moving people through, albeit at a drunken snail's pace. I had my passport, Social Security card, and the old temporary copy of my license that they had given me before. Because I had that old temporary copy, they could hand-key all my information in and give me a new license! I was actually one of the few people they were able to help. Apparently the DMV computers went down for the entire state. (The moral of the story is, save that paper one--even after you get your permanent one in the mail--in case something like this happens to you!)
I wanted a new driver's license picture because I have lost so much weight, but I had lied about my weight on my license by so much that I couldn't even put my true weight on the damn thing (after losing 80 pounds from my heaviest weight) because I was still 20 pounds from the false weight. I had to laugh at my own foolishness, but the difference in my face when comparing older ID photos to the one taken today is considerable.
When I arrived at work at 9:45 AM, the office was not only locked, but dark and deserted. There was some restructuring that took place without warning yesterday--several people were laid off--which made us all uneasy, and this didn't help. It was a bit eerie. I looked at the common calendar where our department notes our vacation days and such; a large offsite meeting was noted, which explained the dark, empty office. I breathed a sigh of relief. And to my surprise, relief smelled like peanut butter cookies.
Oh, snap! The smell of relief was thus because a heaping plate of homemade peanut butter toffee-chip cookies lurked in the nearby darkness, front and center in our common workspace. Each cookie on the plate was at least four inches in diameter--larger than the plates I eat dinner on these days. It was as though the evil part of my subconscious had made those cookies materialize; I've been thinking about peanut butter cookies often the last few days, wondering if I could maybe locate a recipe for some good sugar-free ones. I adore peanut butter; these days, I eat it on sliced apples or whole-grain crackers. I used to insist on Jif Extra Crunchy, but had to switch to creamy Jif post-WLS.
Dammit. I felt like killing something. I so did not need this temptation. I was hungry, too. No one was around. I decided that I had to eat one.
My first thought, of course: "I could dump." Then I thought if I ate one cookie sl-o-o-o-ow enough, I probably wouldn't; they looked and smelled so good, at this point, I was past caring. So I took one, and nibbled at it until it was gone. My stomach rumbled unhappily for the better part of the afternoon, but I didn't dump.
I had to use the fax machine a few times, and the cookies were right next to it. At one point, I was waiting for a particularly long fax to go through, and I drew a little skull and crossbones on a folded piece of paper and wrote, "(My name), This Means You" which I stuck on top of the pile. I groused about it to my coworkers when they came back from their meeting, and we all laughed about it. For me, it's like having a free plate of cocaine, and I said so, which people found funny. But it's also true. I suddenly felt great kinship with folks I know who struggle to maintain their sobriety. I've always known addiction was addiction was addiction, but I had to truly occupy that knowledge today.
I'm annoyed with myself for eating that cookie; I'm annoyed with my stomach for tolerating it, but it tasted really good and I did enjoy it--I cannot tell a lie. But it was ONE COOKIE. I can't let it ruin my life or impede my progress. And today wasn't like my bulimia, where I would have eaten the entire plate, been sick for days, diving into a vat of self-hatred with a garnish of suicidal ideation. I know I can't bend the entire world to bend to my will or give even the most microscopic shit about my personal struggles, but my God, do you have any inkling how many cookies, cakes, drinks, and various and sundry delicious foods I've passed up? Trust me, it is a huge amount, and I am a mere three months out from surgery. The difference between me and most other people is that I could probably remember each and every time vividly if I started listing them out--and I'd feel at least a little pissed off, or sad, or tired and resigned about each and every occasion.
OK, I get it, universe. I can't eat like other people.
This DMV office was closed on Monday, so I stopped in this morning on the way to work. I had to wait about an hour, but there were only 13 or 14 people ahead of me as opposed to the 80 or so people ahead of me that there had been on the weekend. One of the employees came out and said the computers were down, but I stuck around on the outside chance that they could replace my license for me--they were moving people through, albeit at a drunken snail's pace. I had my passport, Social Security card, and the old temporary copy of my license that they had given me before. Because I had that old temporary copy, they could hand-key all my information in and give me a new license! I was actually one of the few people they were able to help. Apparently the DMV computers went down for the entire state. (The moral of the story is, save that paper one--even after you get your permanent one in the mail--in case something like this happens to you!)
I wanted a new driver's license picture because I have lost so much weight, but I had lied about my weight on my license by so much that I couldn't even put my true weight on the damn thing (after losing 80 pounds from my heaviest weight) because I was still 20 pounds from the false weight. I had to laugh at my own foolishness, but the difference in my face when comparing older ID photos to the one taken today is considerable.
When I arrived at work at 9:45 AM, the office was not only locked, but dark and deserted. There was some restructuring that took place without warning yesterday--several people were laid off--which made us all uneasy, and this didn't help. It was a bit eerie. I looked at the common calendar where our department notes our vacation days and such; a large offsite meeting was noted, which explained the dark, empty office. I breathed a sigh of relief. And to my surprise, relief smelled like peanut butter cookies.
Oh, snap! The smell of relief was thus because a heaping plate of homemade peanut butter toffee-chip cookies lurked in the nearby darkness, front and center in our common workspace. Each cookie on the plate was at least four inches in diameter--larger than the plates I eat dinner on these days. It was as though the evil part of my subconscious had made those cookies materialize; I've been thinking about peanut butter cookies often the last few days, wondering if I could maybe locate a recipe for some good sugar-free ones. I adore peanut butter; these days, I eat it on sliced apples or whole-grain crackers. I used to insist on Jif Extra Crunchy, but had to switch to creamy Jif post-WLS.
Dammit. I felt like killing something. I so did not need this temptation. I was hungry, too. No one was around. I decided that I had to eat one.
My first thought, of course: "I could dump." Then I thought if I ate one cookie sl-o-o-o-ow enough, I probably wouldn't; they looked and smelled so good, at this point, I was past caring. So I took one, and nibbled at it until it was gone. My stomach rumbled unhappily for the better part of the afternoon, but I didn't dump.
I had to use the fax machine a few times, and the cookies were right next to it. At one point, I was waiting for a particularly long fax to go through, and I drew a little skull and crossbones on a folded piece of paper and wrote, "(My name), This Means You" which I stuck on top of the pile. I groused about it to my coworkers when they came back from their meeting, and we all laughed about it. For me, it's like having a free plate of cocaine, and I said so, which people found funny. But it's also true. I suddenly felt great kinship with folks I know who struggle to maintain their sobriety. I've always known addiction was addiction was addiction, but I had to truly occupy that knowledge today.
I'm annoyed with myself for eating that cookie; I'm annoyed with my stomach for tolerating it, but it tasted really good and I did enjoy it--I cannot tell a lie. But it was ONE COOKIE. I can't let it ruin my life or impede my progress. And today wasn't like my bulimia, where I would have eaten the entire plate, been sick for days, diving into a vat of self-hatred with a garnish of suicidal ideation. I know I can't bend the entire world to bend to my will or give even the most microscopic shit about my personal struggles, but my God, do you have any inkling how many cookies, cakes, drinks, and various and sundry delicious foods I've passed up? Trust me, it is a huge amount, and I am a mere three months out from surgery. The difference between me and most other people is that I could probably remember each and every time vividly if I started listing them out--and I'd feel at least a little pissed off, or sad, or tired and resigned about each and every occasion.
OK, I get it, universe. I can't eat like other people.
Saturday 9: Be True To Your School
1. What was your favorite subject in high school?
Anything where I got to write--newspaper (I was editor for a while but was asked to leave for being too controversial), English. They let me do my own Independent Poetry class senior year--I loooooved that.
2. Do you watch reality shows? Which ones?
A weird selection. I watch "American Idol" if I stay interested--I always love the auditions, and Adam Lambert kept me interested this entire year. I watched the first "Rock of Love" and "Flavor of Love"; I watched "Charm School" because I liked all the headmistresses. "Intervention", "DogTown", "Divorce Court" (I like Judge Lynn), "Gene Simmons Family Values" (that whole family is hilarious). I've watched "Ruby" a few times and "I Want to Save Your Life". I prefer those shows to something like "The Biggest Loser"--they're more compassionate and look at the subjects as people, not just fat people. I've watched "Celebrity Fit Club" for the trainwreck more than the weight loss. Mr. Salted and I like "Cops" because we are never having as a bad a day as any of those folks. I liked "The Surreal Life" when it was on. I like "The Locator" a lot. That can really get to me--reuniting with loved ones from your past that you have missed. I always think of my loved ones that have passed on that I wish I could see again.
3. What's your favorite all time reality show?
"Intervention". I think it's an amazing show. I think it's great that it is on the air, because it does anything but glorify drug addiction--if anything it shows what drugs do to people and to families.
4. Do you feel "reality" shows are real or are they faked?
I think it depends on the show.
5. What did you look like when you were a teenager?
Pudgy, awkward, bad hair, thick glasses. I developed a sense of style eventually though.
6. Whose advice do you listen to?
I listen to the few people I truly respect and follow my own advice.
7. How often are you sick?
Not very.
8. Do you like or dislike change?
It can be hard to adjust to, but I try to welcome it. It's usually good.
9. How many times in your life have you had a broken heart?
At least six...most of those times had nothing to do with romantic love or the end of it.
Anything where I got to write--newspaper (I was editor for a while but was asked to leave for being too controversial), English. They let me do my own Independent Poetry class senior year--I loooooved that.
2. Do you watch reality shows? Which ones?
A weird selection. I watch "American Idol" if I stay interested--I always love the auditions, and Adam Lambert kept me interested this entire year. I watched the first "Rock of Love" and "Flavor of Love"; I watched "Charm School" because I liked all the headmistresses. "Intervention", "DogTown", "Divorce Court" (I like Judge Lynn), "Gene Simmons Family Values" (that whole family is hilarious). I've watched "Ruby" a few times and "I Want to Save Your Life". I prefer those shows to something like "The Biggest Loser"--they're more compassionate and look at the subjects as people, not just fat people. I've watched "Celebrity Fit Club" for the trainwreck more than the weight loss. Mr. Salted and I like "Cops" because we are never having as a bad a day as any of those folks. I liked "The Surreal Life" when it was on. I like "The Locator" a lot. That can really get to me--reuniting with loved ones from your past that you have missed. I always think of my loved ones that have passed on that I wish I could see again.
3. What's your favorite all time reality show?
"Intervention". I think it's an amazing show. I think it's great that it is on the air, because it does anything but glorify drug addiction--if anything it shows what drugs do to people and to families.
4. Do you feel "reality" shows are real or are they faked?
I think it depends on the show.
5. What did you look like when you were a teenager?
Pudgy, awkward, bad hair, thick glasses. I developed a sense of style eventually though.
6. Whose advice do you listen to?
I listen to the few people I truly respect and follow my own advice.
7. How often are you sick?
Not very.
8. Do you like or dislike change?
It can be hard to adjust to, but I try to welcome it. It's usually good.
9. How many times in your life have you had a broken heart?
At least six...most of those times had nothing to do with romantic love or the end of it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
3 months post-op appointments
Today I saw both my bariatric surgeon and the head nutritionist of the wellness center. It was a fine, even proud, day in every way. The weather was beautiful. The radio played both "Brick House" and "Radar Love" when I was in traffic, and I rocked out to both with a song in my heart.
I have now lost 52 pounds, 13 of it in the last month alone. The results of my bloodwork? "Perfect". My diabetes and high cholesterol? "Resolved themselves". My diet? "Very good". Protein, vitamins, all present and accounted for in spades. They said my vitamin D levels were the highest they'd seen and how unusual that was.
This feels...good. More than good. I, the person whose former addiction to food has thus far only been matched by her addiction to words, can choose no word for this feeling. (Perhaps it will come to me at 3 AM, as such things often do.)
I also found out that I had misunderstood my surgeon all these months--I thought he had said my ultimate goal weight should be 125 pounds, and I thought he was crazy. What he meant was a 125-pound weight loss would be optimum, which would make my ideal goal weight 150 pounds. After he and I clarified this, I hemmed and hawed a little, and he started to write a goal weight of 175 pounds in my file. Before I knew what I was saying, I heard myself protest, "No! Say it's 150." As a side note, my husband weighs 150; he is 5'4" (one inch taller than I) with a 32-inch waist and wears a size medium shirt. I could CERTAINLY live with being that size, and because I am having this fabulous day, I believe it may well be attainable.
It came to me suddenly--I could learn to love that number. 150 sounds like a poem. Nice. Round. I remember being that exact weight once--in my mid-teens, before it all went horribly wrong, before bulimia kicked into high, before you could rock a baby in one of my bras. I have another defiant reason to learn to love 150; my biological father, drug-addled idiot extraordinaire, once threw a scale at me with all his strength for weighing that very amount. (Fortunately, I ducked.) In honor of what a delusional and abusive fool he was, I am taking that number back with as my goal, with intention and hope of its achievement.
That said, 175 would be just fine too. I was eighteen years old when my weight was in that vicinity; my boyfriend at the time called me his Botticelli and wanted me to pose nude for him. (Sometimes I wish I had--not for him, but for myself, to prove I could have ever been mentioned in the same breath as a Botticelli.)
Mr. Salted and I went to an '80s party last weekend to celebrate a dear friend's 40th birthday. We had a great time--a lot of the people there hadn't seen me for a year or more. Everyone told me how great I looked, how healthy. It was extremely good for my ego.
My entire mental process around this surgery, my weight loss, my relationship to food--all are really interesting, even revelatory (at least to me). Shallow as it may be, the clothes are my favorite part so far, I cannot tell a lie. I'm watching my feminine shape rise out of the huge wall I spent my life building around it with food, and I'm not horrified or threatened by it as I always was in the past; I don't feel the need to hide it with clothes that are two sizes too big. I actually feel okay--not only about being a woman, but about looking like one. And I'm allowing myself to feel good--about all aspects of this. Good is not strong enough a word--"miracle" comes closer.
My nutritionist said to me today--in the gentlest of voices--"Just enjoy this." Her tone sounded as peaceful as I feel right now. That's what this is all about, after all--peace. Feeling good. Making peace not only with my body, but with being female. These are things that not so long ago I could never have envisioned as being possible.
I have now lost 52 pounds, 13 of it in the last month alone. The results of my bloodwork? "Perfect". My diabetes and high cholesterol? "Resolved themselves". My diet? "Very good". Protein, vitamins, all present and accounted for in spades. They said my vitamin D levels were the highest they'd seen and how unusual that was.
This feels...good. More than good. I, the person whose former addiction to food has thus far only been matched by her addiction to words, can choose no word for this feeling. (Perhaps it will come to me at 3 AM, as such things often do.)
I also found out that I had misunderstood my surgeon all these months--I thought he had said my ultimate goal weight should be 125 pounds, and I thought he was crazy. What he meant was a 125-pound weight loss would be optimum, which would make my ideal goal weight 150 pounds. After he and I clarified this, I hemmed and hawed a little, and he started to write a goal weight of 175 pounds in my file. Before I knew what I was saying, I heard myself protest, "No! Say it's 150." As a side note, my husband weighs 150; he is 5'4" (one inch taller than I) with a 32-inch waist and wears a size medium shirt. I could CERTAINLY live with being that size, and because I am having this fabulous day, I believe it may well be attainable.
It came to me suddenly--I could learn to love that number. 150 sounds like a poem. Nice. Round. I remember being that exact weight once--in my mid-teens, before it all went horribly wrong, before bulimia kicked into high, before you could rock a baby in one of my bras. I have another defiant reason to learn to love 150; my biological father, drug-addled idiot extraordinaire, once threw a scale at me with all his strength for weighing that very amount. (Fortunately, I ducked.) In honor of what a delusional and abusive fool he was, I am taking that number back with as my goal, with intention and hope of its achievement.
That said, 175 would be just fine too. I was eighteen years old when my weight was in that vicinity; my boyfriend at the time called me his Botticelli and wanted me to pose nude for him. (Sometimes I wish I had--not for him, but for myself, to prove I could have ever been mentioned in the same breath as a Botticelli.)
Mr. Salted and I went to an '80s party last weekend to celebrate a dear friend's 40th birthday. We had a great time--a lot of the people there hadn't seen me for a year or more. Everyone told me how great I looked, how healthy. It was extremely good for my ego.
My entire mental process around this surgery, my weight loss, my relationship to food--all are really interesting, even revelatory (at least to me). Shallow as it may be, the clothes are my favorite part so far, I cannot tell a lie. I'm watching my feminine shape rise out of the huge wall I spent my life building around it with food, and I'm not horrified or threatened by it as I always was in the past; I don't feel the need to hide it with clothes that are two sizes too big. I actually feel okay--not only about being a woman, but about looking like one. And I'm allowing myself to feel good--about all aspects of this. Good is not strong enough a word--"miracle" comes closer.
My nutritionist said to me today--in the gentlest of voices--"Just enjoy this." Her tone sounded as peaceful as I feel right now. That's what this is all about, after all--peace. Feeling good. Making peace not only with my body, but with being female. These are things that not so long ago I could never have envisioned as being possible.
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About Me
- Salted with Shadows
- Seattle, WA, United States
- This blog focuses largely on a personal journey to and through weight-loss surgery. It's also about reading, writing, animals, photography, love, humor, music, thinking out loud, and memes. In other words...life.
