Little tiny things can make, break, or just help get through a day sometimes. Grocery shopping today, I was cheered by the fact that Nestle Quik comes in sugar-free. I bought some and got to have a guilt-free glass of chocolate milk this afternoon. Protein is going to be increasingly important after surgery, so milk, string cheese, yogurt, and cottage cheese will remain my close companions. Adding up my protein grams every night as well as the calorie count has been crazy; most days I make it to the 60-80 gram range where they want me without a problem, but a "bad day" it hovers at maybe half that. The nutritionist said protein would help me heal after surgery, whatever that means--the inside of my stomach, I guess, since this is going to be laproscopic surgery.
There is something incredibly comforting about a glass of chocolate milk.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Snap, crackle, pop
Yesterday my ankles were popping and cracking and felt a little weak, so I didn't want to go for a walk on the street in case the bum one gave out again. I decided to do one of my DVD workouts inside, so I did "Rockin' Body" with Shawn T--the "Hip Hop Abs" guy. (I can make it through about 15-20 minutes, which is to say, not much past the warm-up.) They move pretty fast, but as long as I march or move at the same pace, I call it good. (Obviously I'm not going to be as smiling and oiled up as the people on the DVD.)
So I made it 20 minutes and quit when I was tired and had a good heart rate. I felt okay at first, but about ten minutes later I realized my bum ankle was sore--sore enough to want to stay off for the day. Since it has given out several times, and always at an inopportune time, I wanted to baby it, and I did. By the time I went to bed, it felt just about normal.
So I wake up this morning and the pain has left my ankle altogether, but has traveled and settled into my hip. The bum ankle and hip are both on the left side--both have been broken in the past. The left hip has been enough of a bugaboo to warrant cortisone shots; I have a tight IT band. The orthopedists' solution was physical therapy and stretching, which were marginally helpful temporarily. They suggested surgery, but I just could not see that and would rather take the three cortisone shots a year or whatever is allowed, but it's been years since I had a cortisone shot in my hip. Mostly I just deal; if it's really bad, I take a muscle relaxer. Which is probably the course of action for this afternoon, after all the errands are done.
I have always felt like an old person on the inside, but somehow it was easier when the physical outside seemed young--at least it was a physical contradiction that was tangible and could be argued when I felt like an old shoe someone threw up in. Now my outsides are rapidly morphing to match the insides; I'm finding that a wee bit depressing.
So I made it 20 minutes and quit when I was tired and had a good heart rate. I felt okay at first, but about ten minutes later I realized my bum ankle was sore--sore enough to want to stay off for the day. Since it has given out several times, and always at an inopportune time, I wanted to baby it, and I did. By the time I went to bed, it felt just about normal.
So I wake up this morning and the pain has left my ankle altogether, but has traveled and settled into my hip. The bum ankle and hip are both on the left side--both have been broken in the past. The left hip has been enough of a bugaboo to warrant cortisone shots; I have a tight IT band. The orthopedists' solution was physical therapy and stretching, which were marginally helpful temporarily. They suggested surgery, but I just could not see that and would rather take the three cortisone shots a year or whatever is allowed, but it's been years since I had a cortisone shot in my hip. Mostly I just deal; if it's really bad, I take a muscle relaxer. Which is probably the course of action for this afternoon, after all the errands are done.
I have always felt like an old person on the inside, but somehow it was easier when the physical outside seemed young--at least it was a physical contradiction that was tangible and could be argued when I felt like an old shoe someone threw up in. Now my outsides are rapidly morphing to match the insides; I'm finding that a wee bit depressing.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Basset hounds
I went to a local "Basset Bash" this weekend. I love Basset hounds, have always wanted one, but don't have a fenced yard (Washington Basset Rescue told me this was a requirement because they like to visit people) and, in theory, am not home enough in real life when I'm not amidst this midlife economic, health and career segue. I love their long velvety ears, soulful eyes, and overall sweetness. Some people have told me derisively that they are "stupid", but that's in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? I couldn't believe how many of them, when they see a person--any person--started to wag their tails and wanted to be pet, even though it was cold and rainy and some of them were wearing costumes. This unadorned guy turned out to be my favorite shot of the day; I have a bunch more on my Flickr site.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Another day of TCB
Today was bill-paying, laundry, post office, Costco day. I can't complain about going to Costco, since one of my dearest friends just had her husband take her there for their 21st anniversary--not to get her a present, but to buy groceries for the household. (That is about 87 kinds of wrong. Guys? Writing a nice love note still costs absolutely nothing.)
I was doing my strength training exercises yesterday while watching the World Figure Skating Championships on TV. It was discouraging to be tired from doing reps with 2-pound weights when these incredible athletes are jumping and spinning and dancing on ice, but I never claimed to even be of the same species as world-class figure skaters. I just enjoy watching that sport and always have.
I was doing my strength training exercises yesterday while watching the World Figure Skating Championships on TV. It was discouraging to be tired from doing reps with 2-pound weights when these incredible athletes are jumping and spinning and dancing on ice, but I never claimed to even be of the same species as world-class figure skaters. I just enjoy watching that sport and always have.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Hello, lover!
Two nice-looking gentlemen of Latino descent--one of whom was named Angel and certainly looked more than a little like one (I find Latino gentlemen particularly easy on the eyes, always have; I'm married, not dead)--delivered our shiny new fridge this morning. It's so pretty and clean, I almost don't want to put the magnets back on it. Almost. (I'm a fridge-magnet addict. They fit everyone, you know.)
I've never had a new fridge before. I used to order them in lots of 15 for the job I had in subsidized housing, and I'll be damned if this wasn't the same fridge I used to order! Good old no-frills Hotpoint workhorses. They have cool doors designed to hold gallon containers and Costco-size jars of mayonnaise, and the crisper drawers have handy little vegetable symbols on one side and fruit symbols on the other.
After I got all the food back in it and surveyed this wondrous new appliance, I thought about "Sex and the City", when Carrie would see new Manolo Blahniks in the shoe-store window and say, "Hello, lover!" It isn't so much the stuff in the fridge that plagues me, however; it's the damn candy aisle. My addiction du jour: Doves Promises, the milk chocolate, Bananas Foster flavor. Drool.
I've never had a new fridge before. I used to order them in lots of 15 for the job I had in subsidized housing, and I'll be damned if this wasn't the same fridge I used to order! Good old no-frills Hotpoint workhorses. They have cool doors designed to hold gallon containers and Costco-size jars of mayonnaise, and the crisper drawers have handy little vegetable symbols on one side and fruit symbols on the other.
After I got all the food back in it and surveyed this wondrous new appliance, I thought about "Sex and the City", when Carrie would see new Manolo Blahniks in the shoe-store window and say, "Hello, lover!" It isn't so much the stuff in the fridge that plagues me, however; it's the damn candy aisle. My addiction du jour: Doves Promises, the milk chocolate, Bananas Foster flavor. Drool.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Instinct
The recent behavior of my cats (I have a total of three) has led me to reflect on instinct.
One of my cats always wants to be where I am, and sometimes will sit and stare into my face for half an hour or more--which I still find disconcerting, even though I've had him for five years. Almost every time he does it, I say (or at least think), "WHY is this crazy cat staring at me?" I've never been fond of being looked for extended periods of time in general, and I've never had any person or animal do it with quite this amount of intensity. He will never sit on anyone's lap and hates to be picked up, but yesterday he was systematically bringing me all of his toy mice, and then jumping up in my face to see what I thought of them. He gives a loud meow and puts one paw on me if I don't respond enthusiastically enough to his gifts or to his presence in general. He does this almost daily--I think it's a combination of his natural prey drive instincts and in effect telling me, "See? I do love you, even if I don't sit in your lap like those other saps."
My other two cats are a matched set of tuxedo boys and were about three months old when they were found behind a dumpster at a business park where I used to work. Everyone in the office fell in love with them; they were healthy, loving, and purred a lot, but no one could take both of them but me and I didn't want them separated. They absolutely clung to each other for the first year or so--they even cried to be put in the same cage when I took them to the vet to be neutered, which melted the hearts of everyone who worked there. They still play and interact like siblings, wrestling, chasing each other, and settling down for the occasional snuggle, but one is much more aggressive and independent than the other. The less aggressive one actually snuggles more often with Mr. Prey Drive than he does with his brother now.
The more aggressive of the two tuxedo cats is the one who had me thinking about instinct--our nickname for him is Darth Kneader. He always wants to be where we are rather than sit in laps, but for whatever reason, he waits until we are both in bed, comes up between us, and kneads. We're talking determined, brisk kneading accompanied by a five-alarm purr, sometimes continuing for an hour, and usually about 3 or 4 AM. After that is accomplished, ol' Darth goes and gets a snack, then retires to the end of the bed or goes about his early morning business elsewhere. He was probably separated from his mother too soon--even so, it blows my mind that kneading still corresponds with eating for him, even though he is almost two years old and his food comes out of a dish and has for quite some time.
I have often wondered if my relationship to food was affected by the death of my mother when I was two years of age. Food on the whole is so fraught with mother energy and issues of comfort and security; the movie "Eating", that I referenced a while ago in this blog, was chock-a-block full of women talking about how their mothers affected their relationship to food. I've talked to enough women with eating issues to know that mothers often pass down their own food and body image issues down to their daughters. (So can fathers and other people, obviously, but mothers seem to be the most frequent culprits.) Oftentimes, mothers get blamed too much for things in general, but they can certainly have a dog in this particular fight, or so the anecdotal evidence would seem to indicate.
I know my views on this issue aren't without bias, but I can say that when I was contemplating motherhood myself, my biggest fear was that I would die before I could raise my children, a fear that made sense given my own experience. My second biggest fear? That I would pass on my food issues to them.
I'm going to read more about this.
One of my cats always wants to be where I am, and sometimes will sit and stare into my face for half an hour or more--which I still find disconcerting, even though I've had him for five years. Almost every time he does it, I say (or at least think), "WHY is this crazy cat staring at me?" I've never been fond of being looked for extended periods of time in general, and I've never had any person or animal do it with quite this amount of intensity. He will never sit on anyone's lap and hates to be picked up, but yesterday he was systematically bringing me all of his toy mice, and then jumping up in my face to see what I thought of them. He gives a loud meow and puts one paw on me if I don't respond enthusiastically enough to his gifts or to his presence in general. He does this almost daily--I think it's a combination of his natural prey drive instincts and in effect telling me, "See? I do love you, even if I don't sit in your lap like those other saps."
My other two cats are a matched set of tuxedo boys and were about three months old when they were found behind a dumpster at a business park where I used to work. Everyone in the office fell in love with them; they were healthy, loving, and purred a lot, but no one could take both of them but me and I didn't want them separated. They absolutely clung to each other for the first year or so--they even cried to be put in the same cage when I took them to the vet to be neutered, which melted the hearts of everyone who worked there. They still play and interact like siblings, wrestling, chasing each other, and settling down for the occasional snuggle, but one is much more aggressive and independent than the other. The less aggressive one actually snuggles more often with Mr. Prey Drive than he does with his brother now.
The more aggressive of the two tuxedo cats is the one who had me thinking about instinct--our nickname for him is Darth Kneader. He always wants to be where we are rather than sit in laps, but for whatever reason, he waits until we are both in bed, comes up between us, and kneads. We're talking determined, brisk kneading accompanied by a five-alarm purr, sometimes continuing for an hour, and usually about 3 or 4 AM. After that is accomplished, ol' Darth goes and gets a snack, then retires to the end of the bed or goes about his early morning business elsewhere. He was probably separated from his mother too soon--even so, it blows my mind that kneading still corresponds with eating for him, even though he is almost two years old and his food comes out of a dish and has for quite some time.
I have often wondered if my relationship to food was affected by the death of my mother when I was two years of age. Food on the whole is so fraught with mother energy and issues of comfort and security; the movie "Eating", that I referenced a while ago in this blog, was chock-a-block full of women talking about how their mothers affected their relationship to food. I've talked to enough women with eating issues to know that mothers often pass down their own food and body image issues down to their daughters. (So can fathers and other people, obviously, but mothers seem to be the most frequent culprits.) Oftentimes, mothers get blamed too much for things in general, but they can certainly have a dog in this particular fight, or so the anecdotal evidence would seem to indicate.
I know my views on this issue aren't without bias, but I can say that when I was contemplating motherhood myself, my biggest fear was that I would die before I could raise my children, a fear that made sense given my own experience. My second biggest fear? That I would pass on my food issues to them.
I'm going to read more about this.
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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.
