Slapping chipper and nineteen-sixty

"You've lost three pounds. That's great!" said the lady at Weight Watchers who weighed me. All bright and chipper-like.

I had a sudden urge to slap that silly chipper sideways.

I am such an idiot. I really, really thought I was going to lose five. So instead of being thrilled that I lost three pounds in one week I was grumpy. It's a wonder Dave doesn't kick me straight in my wide white arse. Instead, he sent me to bed like an overtired child who doesn't know they're overtired.

This morning I am back to my normal self – whatever that means.

***
And in the category of people say the darndest things ....

Last night I sat beside this cute little old lady at the Weight Watchers meeting. She was new and confused about how the program works. I explained a few things, suggested she talk to the leader (Diane) and gave her my best "be positive - you can do it" speech.

My Weight Watchers key chain had broke (you get it for losing 10% of your body weight) so at the end of the meeting I asked Diane for a new one – apparently they're insured for life so if you break one, they'll replace it! Awesome! So as I was replacing my charms on the key ring, the little old lady beside me asked what they were for.

"This one is for attending 16 meetings," I said.

"That's nice," she replied.

"This one is for losing 25 pounds."

She nodded, smiling.

"And this one is for losing 50 pounds."

She got a funny expression on her face. I waited for her to say, "Wow! That is fabulous! Congratulations!"

Instead she said, "So you were quite large, then."

Bitch.

***

I was stalking other bloggers this morning and came across a 49-year-old named Librarygirl in Melbourne, Australia, who says she is fixated on seeing what other 49-year-olds look like and so posted a scintillating array of photos featuring celebrities when they were her age.

Suddenly I had to find out what other people my age – born in 1960 – look like:

Sean Penn. Does he get better looking as he gets older, or what?
Wait, I'm gonna make him bigger. Just because he makes me all swooney.

Tildan Swinton. I know, you're having trouble placing her. She won an Oscar
for Best Actress in 2008 for her role in Michael Clayton.

Jennifer Grey. Remember Dirty Dancing? Yah, she had the Time of her Life then.
She looks great though. Real. Like, if she lived on your street she'd be the hottest
thing in the neighbourhood, right?

Bono. 

Julianne Moore. I just saw her on Anderson Cooper's show
and I was smitten with her. Her favourite animal is the BEAVER,
which is one of MY favourite animals. And we're the same
AGE. So really, we're like total sameys. See the resemblance?
I'm making her bigger, too, because we're so much the same.

Kristin Scott-Thomas and some guy. She's most famous for her
role in The English Patient. My reading glasses from the grocery store look
just like Kristin's. I'm sure that's where she got hers.

Stanley Tucci. This guy is great in everything.
One of my favourites is Big Night, in which he
plays a co-owner of a failing restaurant trying
hard to save the business. They make timpano,
one of the most incredible and complicated
Italian foods ever. I made it once. It was DELISH.

Daryl Hannah, having a bad day.
I'll always think of Daryl as the mermaid in Splash.

Kenneth Branagh. Saw him a short time ago
in My Week With Marilyn. He was, as usual, amazing.

Meg Tilly. She was the best thing about
The Big Chill. And doesn't she look cute?
She reminds me of my cousin Kelly in
this photo.

Valerie Bertinelli. How can she possibly lose all
that weight and still have boobs?
They're the first things to go! As soon as your
body hears the word 'diet,' it's boob-overboard!

Back on track

Floundering. Isn't it a great word?

Not when you're floundering around with weight loss. I need focus to get the job done but focus has been smooshed by flounder and I really haven't been doing well since Christmas. I hadn't given up entirely but when I missed two Weight Watchers meetings in a row and then gained seven pounds, I knew I had some serious attitude adjustments to make. So last week I went back to WW, faced the music, and resolved to climb back on that wagon train.

I also set a personal goal: I vowed to lose five pounds in a week. I've been watching Biggest Loser on TV and they don't seem to have any trouble losing five pounds or more in a week so I thought, if those guys can do it, so can I!

As a result, I have been a model child for Weight Watchers. I have been on plan, every minute. I have exercised every single day. On the weekend I split wood and I split wood and I split wood, blah, blah, blah – surely that counts as exercise because at this moment every single bit of my blubbery body is shrieking with throbbiness.

Tonight is weigh-in.

Tonight the bell tolls. I sure hope it tolls for me.

BY THE WAY: If you're into watching your weight, you'll want to check out this COOL blog I discovered this morning. I found it via my Weight Watchers newsletter and it's run by a tattooed beauty named Sheryl whose every pore oozes pink inspiration. You can find her here: http://www.sherylyvette.com/

Completo el poopo

Chuck Wendig knows how to finish his shit.

If you had one more day off, what would you do?

I'm thinking on that this morning... the last morning off from work since what feels like forever, or at least a month. When I first realized I was looking at a substantial break from work due to my cataracts, it seemed like such a looooonnnnnng time. I had ideas to fill that time. Some goals. And yet here it is at the end and I haven't accomplished anything.

I was hoping to lose weight in an intensive home training regime but I think I've gained eight to 10 pounds. (I find out tonight when I drag my sorry ass back to Weight Watchers after a three week hiatus. Oh gawd, I don't want to go ... I know I have to face the music but I really, really hate that song.) I've fallen off the Good Ship Motivation and it's time to get back on before I fall off completely and drown.

I was also hoping to have done some writing on my novel ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I've been watching The Biggest Loser on TV because even though it's horrendously stupid it motivates me. The show's theme this year is No Excuses so I'm trying to live by that. Yes, I was told not to exercise following the surgery but no one told me to eat everything in sight. And yes, I couldn't see the darned computer so it was hard to do any writing – but that didn't stop me from blah-blah-blahing on this blog. So you see, I really don't have any excuses, other than I am lazy and unmotivated.

Feeling this way isn't nice. It's rather depressing, in fact. Last night Dave asked me, "What's wrong?" And I said, "nothing," because it was easier than going into a big song and dance about never finishing my novel and gaining all my weight back and generally spouting into tears and wailing and moaning and such.

As much as I complained last November about being crazy busy, writing NaNo and exercising like a fiend, I was in my element. I was on point. I was happy as a pig in you-know-what.

Today it all changes. I shall exercise today. I shall write today. I shall go to Weight Watchers tonight and face the music. Tomorrow I will go back to work with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I have accomplished so much these past months. Instead of thinking, "woe is me, it's all over," I shall get back on that horse and, as Chuck Wendig so eloquently put it in a recent blog post called 25 Things I Want To Say To Aspiring Writers, FINISH MY SHIT. COMPLETO EL POOPO.

(Thanks to Helen Howell for pointing out that post. That Chuck guy, he's a ripper.)

COMPLETO EL POOPO.
GET 'ER DONE.
QUIT WHINING.

Ah feck it.

Bitchy people, wrinkles and blogging buddies

I'm fecking old. Look at those wrinkles. Time for Old of Olay.

Quiet day here.

There's a fire in the wood stove, a chicken defrosting on the counter. Ben, the white cat, is sitting in the windowsill, licking what used to be his balls. I'm doing laundry, in spite of the fact that it costs more on a weekday (stupid Hydro), because I'm preparing for my surgery tomorrow. Whenever I prepare for anything – a camping trip, dinner guests, cataract surgery – I do laundry. When the beds have clean sheets, when every last towel is clean and smells fresh, I feel fully prepared for whatever lies ahead. Probably if I was ever called away to some emergency the first thing I would do is throw in a load of whites.

***

Yesterday something funny happened. Me and Dave (Dave and me? WTF, I'll never get it straight) went to Scrawl-Mart to pick up an office chair for my son, Sam. And some carrots, because I eat 10 pounds per week – I'm not shittin' ya. I think my skin is tinged with orange.

A woman came up to me in the produce section. She had a warm, curious smile on her face.

"Are you Cathy?" she asked.

I nodded. Unsure. Did I owe her money?

"I read your blog," she said. "I wasn't sure at first if it was you but then I saw Dave and I knew!"

I laughed. "A blogger friend of mine named Alan Davidson says Dave is the most photographed man on the internet."

We had a great conversation, standing by the carrots in Wal-Nuts. Sue lives just up the road from me, near Bracebridge, Ontario. She has just started beekeeping and she runs a nifty blog called Backyard Bees. (You should pay her a visit – her poor blog is kinda lonely and she has funny stories about backing into trees and runaway roosters.) Anyway, Sue was LOVELY. I was thrilled to meet her. Truth be known, I think bloggers are the nicest people. I've never come across a blogger I don't like. (Here's a link to the time I met Alan and Laurita Miller.) My dream is to meet all of them. Sue Harding suggested chartering a jet and fly around meeting everyone. Wouldn't that just be the cat's ass?

Another blogger friend of mine, Shelagh Duffett (an amazing artist, photographer and writer) went to a luncheon for all the local bloggers in her neighbourhood. You have to go and check her post. They had amazingly gorgeous, luscious food and, I'm sure, plenty of fabulous conversation. I know from past experience that when you meet other bloggers, you never run out of things to talk about. They're like best friends you didn't even know you had.

As for meeting Sue, I have another thing to confess: if truth be told it was also AWESOME to have somebody stop you in a store and RECOGNIZE you from your BLOG! I mean, come on, you'd be lying if you denied it! I walked around on Cloud Nine the whole rest of the day! Back in the days when I didn't say back in the days, I wrote a column for a community newspaper, part of my job as a reporter. It was common to have people come up to you in the grocery store and say, "Aren't you that arsehole who works for the paper?" But this was the first time it has happened since I started blogging a couple years ago. Thanks so much, Sue!

Some day I'd like to host a tea for the bloggers in this neck of the woods. I'd have to invite Sue, my friend Deb, Malcolm, Sarah and Ed, for starters. I just know we'd have plenty to yak about.

***

It's been a weird few weeks, being at home, unable to see clearly. I was hoping to have gotten some writing done but, honestly, I can't see well enough to do it. Heck, I was playing cards with friends the other night and I couldn't see what cards were turned up. I had to ask. Their answer was always, "That's the Queen of hearts." I believed them the first 18 times they told me that. Tomorrow is the surgery. I'm excited to be able to see again but I'm nervous.

Somebody asked me, "How can you blog if you can't see?" Answer? I can't! Good thing I touch-type. Good thing I have spell-check. Good thing I can blow up my computer screen, like, a million per cent.

I called the Huntsville blood clinic to ask if I could squeeze in some blood work before the surgery. I have to fast anyway so I thought I'd get my cholesterol checked at the same time. I've been holding on to the requisition form for a while now because it's such a pain in the ass to fast and then get to the clinic, blah, blah, blah.

So I phoned the girl to ask if she thought I had time and, MAN, WHAT A BIATCH! She was the grumpiest of all grumpy-assed-grumps I've talked to in a long time! I was polite, and nice, and told her I had to be at the hospital at 9 a.m. for surgery and did she think I had time for blood work? You'd think I'd ask her for her LIVER. Feck! Not surprised, though. Every time I go there I am dazzled by the complete rudeness. The nurses are OK but the people who do the paperwork are just ignorant! (So sue me! It's the truth! You think people LIKE fasting and getting blood work done? You ever think they're not well and maybe you should be NICE to them?)

***

Yesterday I used all my Shopper's Drug Mart Optimum points (and some of Dave's money) to buy a bunch of Oil of Olay products (thanks, honey-bun). Since I lost 56 pounds (and still am going for more) my face has sagged. It's like someone popped a friggin' balloon. I went from lovely fat-puffed skin to an old lady in less than six months.

Don't bother shoring up my ego. It's true. The only good thing about fat is it pouffs out your wrinkles.

Normally I ignore the ads on Facebook but I saw one for a skincare test for Oil of Olay and I was bored so I did it. The recommended a bunch of skin care products for old bags such as myself. (If you want to do the test, go here.)

Already I've used it twice and, by rights, I should look like a teenager again.

Pfffft.

***

If I die on the slab tomorrow, please, will someone please finish my novel? It's 75% done. I'd appreciate volunteers so Dave can give you a call if I croak.

Also, to my kids and my husband and my family and you, of course – I love you all. Even though you're a big pain in my ass sometimes.

***

P.S. I've got Weight Watchers tonight and I think I'm in trouble. I had french fries the other night. NECTAR OF THE GODS. And now I think they're stuck on my lily white ever-loving, growing-smaller arse. Can you see them? Yep, that's them. Swiss Chalet specials.

God I miss junk food. God I miss seeing. God I'm long-winded. Sorry.

P.S.S. I've got lots more letters to come in my Letters from a Friend series. If I don't croak tomorrow, I'll post them when I get a chance. Just so you know I haven't forgotten y'all. (I love saying y'all.)

Linda Simoni-Wastila – Letter from a Friend

Once upon a time, when my jean size was enormous somewhat larger, Linda Simoni-Wastila sent me a jar of homemade peach jam. I gobbled it up, so fast the postage stamp wasn't even dry yet. It looked, and tasted, like she had reached out into the sky and captured sunshine with a butterfly net, then mixed it with crystalline sugary sweetness and preserved it, with love, in a pretty glass jar. 

The jam is long gone but its flavour lingers. When I think of Linda, my thoughts are tinged soft with peach.

I know a number of Lindas (when I was in school there were as many Lindas as Cathys and Susans) so sometimes Dave has a hard time knowing who I'm talking about. "Which Linda?" he'll say, when I mention a story she has written, or something witty she has posted on one of her blogs, leftbrainwrite or bluetruedream. All I have to say is, "The jam Linda," and he nods and says, "Ahhh."

Funny, isn't it, how we come to identify our blogging friends with such labels. I'm glad that it's jam that labels Linda with Dave, because I have a much more sobering label that forever links me with her. We've both lost our fathers; me, a few years back, hers, not all that long ago. Whenever I write about my dad, Linda is there with a reassuring comment. The same when she writes about hers. I realize that everyone in the world can be connected by grief, but somehow our own connection has solidified over the last couple of years by this sadness.

We understand each other. And that's good.

While I feel like I know her intimately, what I actually know about Linda wouldn't fill more than a couple of paragraphs. She lives in the United States, somewhere near Baltimore, Maryland. She's a part-time writer, like me, only she's way more committed and has actually finished a book, and we hooked up through Friday Flash. She's a mom, she's an academic, she's a minister's wife and she's a fabulous cook. She takes writing classes, she's on board with the Weight Watchers program (but I mean, pffft, she's like Twiggy next to me) and apparently she's as bad at cross-country skiing as I am. She struggles with the business of the everyday, like all of us, and somehow she keeps the many and varied aspects of her life in balance. 

Linda is observant, intelligent and sensitive. She has a quality of dignity about her; a gentle strength, that shines through every word she writes. 

One of the words she writes the most is "peace." She signs every comment with it. And when you see it, that signature word, that peace, you feel her spirit, her quiet goodness, her offer of friendship, and sometimes, when you're feeling low, it is powerful enough to make you weep.

Hello friend!

I hope this letter finds you happy, writing like a mad woman on your novel, and not pondering funeral songs. I am, per usual, in the midst of chaos, but what else is new? Busy suits me, the alternative not a healthy one. Mostly I am consumed with work and this smorgasbord I am hosting for church folks. A friend is helping, but when we came up with the idea, we forgot the point of a smorgasbord is a LOT of food, which means a LOT of baking and curing and saucing. So, I write to you in between bread risings and cookie batches. Please forgive me if I sound confused—I likely am.

*

It is late here. Three loaves of Pulla cool on wire racks. The house smells of yeast and cardamom and I want to saw off an end, smear butter over the still-warm bread, but I think – what would Cathy do? You would walk-away; after all, you can walk away from Christmas cookies. You are a better woman than me, so I compromise: a small piece, no butter. Good enough for company, and still within my daily points.

Tomorrow will tempt me. But to be safe, I planned low-fat options (ta-da!), like cucumber rounds topped with salmon and a dab of wasabi-infused cream cheese. Tomorrow I will blow Weight Watchers, but that is what bonus points are for. Come Sunday, back to salad and veggies. By the way, I don’t think I would have returned to Weight Watchers without your public bravery, so thank you. Knowing you are battling similar temptations helps, a lot. And now the oven timer is dinging, I thought I was done baking…

*

It is early morning. The sun slants low over the treetops. Lea, my baby girl, practically a tween (when did that happen?!), sits beside me while I write to you (she says hi), watching robins pull worms and grubs from the grass. There are a hundred birds at least. A red-headed bird flies into their midst. The flock rises in a chattering cloud and flies to the safety of the pear tree. Lea runs upstairs for ‘the bird book’ and finds the woodpecker page. We deduce, based on size and shape, the intruder is a red-bellied wood-pecker. My aunt gave me that book when I was my daughter’s age. I feel the tug of family and history, of people I have loved in this life, and the morning turns bitter-sweet.

*

To sit, at last, to sit. The smorgasbord went well—the guests laughed and talked, their tongues looser from the beer and glogg. They left with full, happy bellies, the best I could hope for. My family has scattered to other corners of the house. I sip a small glass of white wine while I write. Peace. Yes.

Making this meal took more work than I ever imagined. Preparing these foods, many for the first time, I felt kinship with my grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, cousins. Kneading the Pulla dough, infusing the milk with cardamom, braiding the tubes into loaves, I imagined Mumu beside me, whispering the steps, guiding my hands. Brewing the glogg reminded me of my grandfather simmering the mixture of wine, port, and brandy in a soup pot in the week before Christmas. After he died, my mother continued the tradition, and now I make the ancestral potion. The sweet smell of glogg on the stovetop will always connect me to my mother and her father.

Food plays such an integral role in my memories. I love food, to make it, to eat it, to write about it. In one novel, my character Phoebe makes Pulla and remembers her mother, dead over a decade, and feels overwhelming grief. But as she massages the dough, sadness turns to the realization that everything she needs from her mother she has already received—a strength she can invoke anytime by the simple act of making bread, by remembering.

Preparing these ‘memory’ foods feels like small sacred acts, like resting flowers at gravesites. A way to honor my family and how they have shaped me and, in turn, passing memories to my children.

Anyway, enough of this sentimental mush. One more week before classes start, enough time to research snipers, Afghanistan geography, and hammer out Jeremiah’s story. Who is Jeremiah? You’ll find out soon enough, once I get down his bones. And I can’t wait to meet the characters you have cooked up this past year. So lucky, aren’t we, to love who we love, and to live as we do. For that I am grateful, just as I am grateful for your friendship. So take care, you. Hug your boys close, then tell them to hug you for me.

Love and peace, Linda

25,613 words and Fifty Pounds

I'm overwhelmed, honestly, just overwhelmed. Other than having a colonoscopy, this day was as perfect as any day ever has a right to be.
I wrote more than 4,000 words this morning, bringing my NaNo word count to 25,613 words.
Tonight I went to Weight Watchers and found out I'd lost seven pounds this week, bringing my total to an absolutely incredible FIFTY POUNDS.
I have no words but my heart is as light as a feather on a spring breeze.

14,235 words, 43 pounds and the hunt

I was all worried about gaining at the Weight Watchers weigh-in last night but I was down a pound and a half, bringing my total to 43 pounds.

I have a sort of losing buddy at WW – she has lost the same amount as me and has about the same to lose so we've made a bit of a pact. Both of us aren't even thinking of our big goal – it's just too depressing to think about. But we've got our eyes on the 50 pound prize. I was thinking last night, wow, only seven more pounds and I hit the big 5-0. Remarkable, really.

It's like participating in NaNo – I can't possibly think of writing 50,000 words in one month, but when I focus on the present I know it's possible to write 1,667 words in one day.

One pound, one word, one step at a time.

Here's another quote from my new favourite book The War of Art, in which author Steven Pressfield compares his writing day to going hunting:

"The sun isn't up yet; it's cold, the fields are sopping. Brambles scratch my ankles, branches snap back in my face. The hill is a sonofabitch but what can you do? Set one foot in front of another and keep climbing. 

"An hour passes. I'm warmer now, the pace has got my blood going. The years have taught me one skill: how to be miserable. I know how to shut up and keep humping. This is a great asset because it's human, the proper role for a mortal. It does not offend the gods, but elicits their intercession. My bitching self is receding now. The instincts are taking over. Another hour passes. I turn the corner of a thicket and there he is, the nice fat hare I knew would show up if I just kept plugging."

12,112 words and 40 million calories

What is up with feeling ravenous while I'm writing?

As you know I've been going to Weight Watchers for a while and I've been doing pretty good, if I do say so myself – and, of course, I do. Last week I broke the 40 pound mark – down 41.5 pounds in total since the end of July. Which is awesome, I know. But I was starting to feel I had this diet thing licked. I knew what I was doing.

Unfortunately since I started National Novel Writing Month last week I've been so hungry I could eat the arse end out of a skunk. Maybe two skunks. Those two up there are looking pretty arse-a-licious.

I sit down to write every night and, about halfway through, I am craving carboyhydrates so bad I run out of the kitchen and find the most fattening thing we have on hand. Fortunately, that's only melba toast, but still. An entire package of melba toast is not On Plan.

I thought that maybe heavy duty thinking burns more calories but, alas, apparently that's not so. I did a quick Google search this morning and found an interesting article on the Scientific American website –Science of Snacks: Why Thinking Makes You Hungry.

It's a terrific article – funny, too. But here's the money quotes, for me:

A study in the journal Psychosomatic Medicine contends that intellectual work—that’s right, I’m calling writing this stuff, ya know, intellectual—induces a big increase in caloric intake. The research had 14 Canadian students do three things at different times: sit and relax; complete a series of memory and attention tests; and read and summarize a text. After 45 minutes at each task, the kids were treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet lunch. Because Canada has a truly advanced code of human-subject research ethics.

Each session of intellectual work required the burning of only three more calories than relaxing did. But when the students hit the buffet table after the text summation, they took in an additional 203 calories. And after the memory and attention tests, the subjects consumed another 253 calories. Blood samples taken before, during and after the activities found that all that thinking causes big fluctuations in glucose and insulin levels. And because glucose fuels the neurons, a transitory low level in the brain may signal the stomach to get the hands to fill up the mouth, even though the energy actually spent has gone up just a hair. The researchers note that such “caloric overcompensation following intellectual work, combined with the fact that we are less physically active when doing intellectual tasks, could contribute to the obesity epidemic.”

Crap, eh? 

And here I thought I'd be all skinny when I went to my Weight Watchers meeting tonight, because my brain had burned all these calories. In all honesty, I'm not expecting any miracles on the scale tonight. This might even be the first week I've gained. I hope not, but those melba toast do punch a wallop when you're practically inhaling them.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Momma Bear, the eff word and other crappy subjects

Maybe eating Fibre 1 for breakfast isn't the best idea when you've had the poops for two weeks.
I'm having a Crohn's flare-up, or something. I can't get through the day without a fistful of Imodium. I know. You don't want to hear this. Trust me, I don't want to live it. Life is just shitty that way sometimes.

Speaking of stink, it's raining like stink outside. It's been raining for two weeks solid. The only good thing about this much rain is it makes you appreciate blue sky when you see it.

Just got off the phone with the vice-principal of my son's high school. I had a mouthful of Fibre 1 when I answered so I was all muffley and "bl-hell-umph-o," like that. He sounded confused at first. But it was 7:45 a.m. and I'm still in my nightie, the pink one with "Best Mom" on it that I bought for myself because my children are boys and they wouldn't set foot in a women's lingerie department. So there was a big hullaballoo yesterday morning. I was in the same Best Mom nightie (no, I never wash it, never), drinking my coffee, recovering from my latest trip to the bathroom, when I spotted this boy talking trash to my son on Facebook. This Grade Nine person must be an english major because he used the eff word extremely creatively as he invited me son to the high school parking lot at high noon to show how effing tough he is.

I'm sure he just wanted to have tea with my son. Maybe discuss the use of the eff word in modern literature, something like that. Because he insisted, in a later FB blurb, that he had no plans to beat the crap out of my son.

Apparently my son, who I love but who isn't perfect, much like his mother and the entire rest of the human population, said some very mean things to a young girl. My son said she had said mean things to him first. So we had a big discussion about not saying mean things to anyone, anyone at ALL, but especially not to a girl because, well, if you ever hope to have a lasting relationship with a woman, talking trash to them is not going to win them over. So this other kid was coming to the girl's defence, like a knight in shining armour, ready to take a round out of my son to defend her honour. Which, you know, is admirable in a way. The girl probably really appreciated it. Hey, if my husband wanted to take a round out of someone for talking bad to me, I'd appreciate it. (In a big way. Like, he'd be smiling for a week afterwards.) But I really couldn't have some kid beating up my son in the parking lot, could I? I mean, I'm his mother. It's my job to defend my children. Not just my job, my calling. I love them and, while I respect the knight in shining armour's decision to defend the girl, I can't have him laying a thumping on my offspring.

So I copied the entire conversation onto a text document and e-mailed it to the principal and then the vice-principal had both boys in for a separate visit and straightened them out. At least, I hope it's straightened out. The last thing I want is more anger, more retribution. The thing about kids today, the thing about Facebook and texting, is it's all there for the record. It's not like the old days when you could threaten someone verbally and then deny it ever happened because there was no evidence. When you threaten someone on Facebook, it's there for the world to see. You can delete it, sure, but if someone (like me) has already copied it and pasted it somewhere else, you're euchred.

And the way kids talk on Facebook? Unbelievable! The things that come out of their mouths is reprehensible. Why do they talk like that? It's disgusting! Is this something they're going to grow out of or is this next generation going to live life verbalizing like sailors? When they're grandparents, are they going to talk to their grand-babies that way? "C'mere you effing cute effer, sit your effing arse up here on your effing grandma's effing knee, you effing effer-snapper."

Anyway, that was my day yesterday. The vice-principal called this morning just to catch up and fill me in on the details, which was nice. And it was nice that he caught me in between trips to the bathroom. Tomorrow I go to the hospital for my Crohn's treatment, which is a very good thing. Cause life is too short to be this shitty.

The Wedding Crasher Ramble

I do my best writing when I'm not writing at all. You should see the stuff I've never written, driving home from work. My mind ticks through the deepest, funniest truths as the wheels turn. The minute I get out of the vehicle? It stops. It's like the alarm goes off and I've woke up from whatever I was dreaming.

That picture? That's me on board the Wenonah II last Friday night. Dave and I scored some free tickets for the sunset dinner cruise from my lovely boss. Everyone else got to go for a lunch cruise a couple weeks back but I couldn't go because I was already booked off for the North Words writers' workshop. My boss, being the nice guy that he is, got tickets for me and Dave to go on our own time. Funny how time goes – I kept thinking I had weeks to use the tickets. Then suddenly time ran out and it was do or die as the cruising season drew to a close on the weekend. So, even though I haven't been feeling well lately (stupid Crohn's is flaring up), I bunged myself up with a heavy dose of Imodium and we set sail.

When we arrived at the wharf in Port Carling all we saw was a sea of really well dressed passengers. Like, suits and fancy dresses and high heels well dressed. Like, suddenly Dave and I, both wearing jeans, felt like total slobs ... me in my periwinkle Gore-Tex Pro Bass Shop fishing jacket, a bobber, lip balm, emergency lighter and half a box of Kleenex in my pockets (I really do have to clean out those pockets after our fishing trips). We had no idea there was a dress code! Turns out, there isn't, but almost the entire boat had been booked for a wedding reception. A private room on the top level of the boat had been booked by a small but rowdy group of seniors who kept ordering rounds of drinks from the harried waitress. Other than them, there were only four people on the boat who weren't wedding guests: me, Dave, and Obnoxious Legal Student and his Pretty Girlfriend. This guy, wow... where do I begin. This guy thought he was all that and a giant economy sized bag of chips. All he talked about was himself – yeah, I KNOW, that's all I do on my blog... and in real life... but I'm discussing his failure as a human being right now, not mine ... anyway, he never shut up about himself for the three and a half hours we were on that boat. It was all "law course this" and "what inspires me that" and "would you like me to buy you a cottage in Muskoka braggin" and, I dunno, he was just obnoxious. Everyone makes jokes about lawyers but, after listening to this lawyer-in-training, I could understand why. That poor woman he was with was like a deer in the headlights. I'm sure she thought she had found herself a "catch," a guy who would buy her all the fancy things in life, but at what cost? I swear her eyes were glazed over for the whole trip. She had that Stepford Wives smile pasted on her pretty face. He never asked her one question about herself. Is that what it's like, to marry for money? You give up your soul? I was tempted to push him off the boat when no one was looking, save her from a lifetime of servitude. But she'd probably just find another one. You can't help people who won't help themselves.

It took us no time at all to figure out we were in the midst of a wedding but it was a few minutes longer when two brides walked by, hand in hand, and I realized this wasn't any ordinary wedding. I heard the lawyer-dude whisper to his girlfriend that there was not one, but two wedding receptions on board. I leaned over and whispered, "I think there's only one wedding." He looked at me like I was a bug. So I raised my eyebrows and waggled them a bit in the brides' direction. "Do you see any grooms?" I asked. Lawyer-dude still didn't get it but his girlfriend grinned ear to ear and she pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "Oh, I see," she said, eyes dancing. Her boyfriend still looked stunned. I thought, he'll make someone a real smart lawyer some day. A real student of human nature.

So not only had we crashed a wedding, we had crashed a lesbian wedding. What an absolute trip we had! Surreal, hilarious and perfect in every way – the brides came over and introduced themselves and invited us to join in their festivities. I thought, I gotta get a picture of me with them for my blog but time flew and before I knew it we were docking again, the brides were surrounded by well-wishers and I missed my opportunity. I hate it when that happens. Life is so short. I like grabbing it by the balls and savouring every single moment.

There wasn't much to see, scenery wise, when it was dark by seven o'clock and it was raining cats and dogs outside. So we cozied up in the bar and got talking to the friendly bartender, a ginger-haired lass named Kate who wanted to know where we were from. "Bracebridge," we said. And, oh yes, she was from Bracebridge, too, whereabouts, she wanted to know. I said she probably wouldn't know it, just a little known road off into the woods along the Muskoka River and I said the name and her eyes lit up and she started laughing. "Oh, I know that road!" she said, and then told us she was our neighbour, living just down the road from us. Well then we had a merry old conversation about what a small world it is and promised to get together some time and have coffee and chat more. It was a lovely trip, and I had a couple of drinks (something I rarely do) and a slice of chocolate mousse cake (also something I rarely do) and life was very, very good.

I did well at Weight Watchers last night – down eight pounds in two weeks for a total of 39 pounds so far. I can't believe I've lost that much already (since the last week of July). I'm starting to see and feel the difference. Not too long ago I hated photos of myself. Now I look at them in no small amount of amazement. I post them without worrying about it. To someone who doesn't know me, you may look at that photo and think, "there's a chunky girl." But to me, I see smaller legs and cheekbones starting to appear in a round face. I see I have far to go but I appreciate how far I've come. I can't believe how well I'm doing – losing weight is the hardest thing for me, harder than quitting smoking, harder than anything. It takes constant attention, constant will. But the WW program is sensible and easy to follow and I know, as long as I keep my eyes on the prize, that I can be as slender as I want. One day at a time. I got an email yesterday from a relative who is struggling with addiction to alcohol and drugs. He wants a place to live, far away from his temptations, where he can clean up. After some thought I sent him the contact information for a nearby treatment centre. He wrote back that he just needed a place to stay, he could do it on his own. No, I hasten to disagree. He can't do it on his own, like I can't lose weight on my own. I need the accountability that Weight Watchers gives me. That scale, once a week, that judgement. Plus, I get support from the women at my meetings, from the leader, from the WW plan. I've tried to lose weight on my own, but I am not strong enough. Few people are. When I quit smoking, I asked for help from my doctor. I know plenty about addiction. Many people in my family have struggled with it. My own father went to a treatment centre for his alcohol addiction and you know what? It helped him. He never drank again (with one exception, just before he died, he went to the corner store and bought a bottle and had one shot, just to see how he felt about it. Obviously he didn't think much, because the rest of the bottle was untouched). If everyone could do it on their own, there would be no need for WW or AA or residential treatment centres. We need help and there's no shame in asking. I think this relative is still in denial – until he stops blaming his surroundings and shoulders the blame for the demons in his own head; until he decides to accept help, he's not ready to be clean. I think what he wants is to live with us, but I can't share my life with an addict. Can't. Won't. Been there and got the t-shirt. I don't plan on enabling anybody.

In closing this ramble, I want to express my sincere condolences to my cousins who recently lost a close friend (almost family member) to cancer. Jane was lovely and wonderful and appreciated everything life had to offer. What an incredible shame to lose her. I am so sorry. I also want to send hope to my cousin and my friend Kelly, who is fighting an equally horrific battle with post traumatic stress disorder. Kel, I worry about you every day. I think about you all the time. I want to do something to help you – I just don't know what to do other than to say you are loved, you are special, we need your spirit, your talent, your sunny laugh. Keep fighting, Kel. I'm being selfish, now, I know. But it's my strongest wish. Hugs to you and everyone in your family.

27 Pounds!

Five-and-a-half pounds lost this week!

Twenty-seven total!

Me, braggin!

ME, DANCING!

Diet Tip#1: Be Prepared

That there was last Tuesday's lunch.

And that huge pile of food on the counter doesn't even include the fat-free salad dressing, two apples and a banana I threw in the bag when I was ready to go.

Well no, it was my lunch and my dinner because on Tuesdays I work late. So to prevent my ravenous self from raiding Crunchie bars from the vending machine, I packed two meals. Truly, being prepared is the biggest thing you do can do to lose weight.

Oh, but it's a gawdawful amount of work. Peeling, chopping, boiling, rinse, repeat.

I feel like I'm running a diner.

Take this morning, for example. I boiled a chicken breast for lunch and an egg for breakfast. I washed and chopped strawberries, which I added to a bowl of Fibre 1 bran cereal and then added non-fat, no-sugar yogurt. (Delish, by the way.) Then I chopped half a head of lettuce, a couple of carrots and the chicken. I peeled the egg, and ate it, then grabbed a pita from the freezer. I packed the chicken separate from the salad so the lettuce wouldn't wilt, threw it all in a bag and added a banana and an apple.

It's a lot of work! But it's SO worth it – I have a healthy, well-balanced breakfast and lunch, with fruit to nosh on for snacks, and I feel full and satisfied and totally immune to the charms of the vending machine.
Part of my problem before is I never ate breakfast and never made time to pack a lunch so it was a regular thing to go out and grab some kind of greasy fast food.

You're probably also thinking, holy mother of all that is hungry, is she EVER eating a lot!

Yeah! I am! But more on that later. For now, be like the Girl Guides: Be Prepared!

Oh! And I was down another two and a half pounds this week, for a grand total of 21and a half since the beginning of August.

I. Feel. Fabulous.

Happy Birthday, Sam!

Sam-I-Am,

That Sam-I-Am.

How I love my Sam-I-Am.

I could eat him up with jam.

Happy Birthday, Sam-I-Am.

No secret, I've been going to Weight Watchers* for seven weeks and one of my biggest supporters is my now-11-year-old son, Sam.

I hadn't seen him for three weeks because his father was on holidays and had the kids with him on the weekends I normally would have had them. (Missed them fierce, by the way.) Sam never forgot that I was on a diet, though, always remembering to ask me, "how much did you lose this week, Mom?"

When I finally saw him on Friday he said, "You even LOOK skinnier."

Fine words, those. Of course I had to milk it. "Oh yeah?" sez I. "Where exactly do I look skinnier?"

He looked me up and down, analyzing, then said, "Your outline is skinnier."

(I got him a really, really good birthday present.)

* There was no meeting here on Monday, which is my WW night, because of the Labour Day holiday so I haven't been weighed for almost two weeks. Except for Sam's birthday cake, a hot dog at the drive-in (that wasn't even very good - does that count?) and a pot luck last Sunday, I have been on plan. I'm hoping for a few more pounds down the drain to make that outline of mine even skinnier.

No Jann Arden for me

Yesterday I was, like, JANN ARDEN IS COMING TO HUNTSVILLE! And then three minutes later I was, like, HER CONCERT'S SOLD OUT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I JUST FOUND OUT!

Sorry about the all-caps. But that was my face, one big round all-cap. I love Jann Arden, are you kidding me? I've been trying to see her in concert since forever and every damned time I get wind she's going to be performing anywhere near my neck of the woods, she sells out in 30 seconds. OK, so I exaggerate. Maybe it's more like 45 seconds. She was in North Bay a couple of years ago but I missed her because I wasn't quick enough. Toronto – not quick enough. Both cities are a ways away from me but I was willing to make the drive because, as I have said, I loves me some Jann Arden.

Then, yesterday, I found out she would be performing in Huntsville, which is 20 minutes up the road! Twenty minutes! Jann Arden! I was woot-wooting all over the office ... until my workmate, Lynda, discovered the concert was already sold out.

Excuse me. I must pause. I'm tearing up again.

When I finished pouting and wailing I got busy and started my Stalk Jann Arden Campaign. I sent her about a 406 messages on Twitter trying to weasel a ticket out of her stellar self. I think I even promised her an interview here on my blog (that hardly anybody reads because it's been so boring lately, and hey, I can't blame you) thinking that Muskoka River blog coverage would give Jann the publicity, fame and fortune she has so far been sadly lacking. Yes, I think that's what every celebrity needs, a post here at the River.

Mizz Arden, sadly, did not get back to me. Probably she was too overwhelmed by my offer, I'm thinking. But. And here's a pretty cool but (not that kind of butt) – SHE STARTED FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER!

Now I'm all weirded out. The pressure to tweet only good stuff is intense, so I'm not tweeting anything at all. Not that I tweet a lot to begin with but, still. Jann's listening. So do I pretend to be all cool, like I don't notice that she's following, just like when you're in high school and a cute boy walks by and you're like la-dee-dah-dee-dah at your locker, pretending your heart isn't in your tonsils? Or do I get all smarmy and send her smeemy messages like, "Thanks for the follow, Jann." Or, the classic, "how's it going, eh?" because she's Canadian and probably likes having other Canadians say eh to her a lot.

On a completely different note, also requiring all-caps, I WAS DOWN ANOTHER FOUR AND A HALF POUNDS LAST NIGHT AT WEIGHT WATCHERS!!!!!!!! Woot! Woot! Root beer toot! That's 19 pounds in six weeks, NOT THAT I'M COUNTING or anything!

Who's dancing all over the kitchen right now?

P.S. So I just saw Laura Eno's comment... Laura, get outta town, you don't know who Jann Arden is???? Won't do, sistah, won't do at all. Here's one of her biggest hits – take a couple minutes to listen and tell me you still don't know who she is!!! Also, thanks for accepting all my poundage! I sincerely appreciate that! (And hugs to Laurita and Delores - love you guys!)

And then she said

I've got blog-blank-page-itis. I'm staring at this screen thinking, there is absolutely nothing new in my life but there is, actually, I just have blog-blank-page-itis.
I have new hair, for starters. Tracy at The Renaissance in Bracebridge gave me a sassy slanted bob. The back is cut to army regulation, right at the hairline, and the front is cut to my jawline. Almost all of the dead-kilt-by-blonding hair has been chopped off and what's left of it has been dyed to a satisfyingly rich chestnut brown.

I remind myself of my cousin, Kelly. Kelly, if you're reading this, I look just like you for some reason. I mean, I probably look nothing like you but when I look in the mirror I'm all, "hey Kelly, how's it going?"

Oh, and I have a new exercise bike. I now have a treadmill, an eliptical and a bike, which is practically an entire home gym, so why do I still look like the side of a barn? I am working on that. This week has been another good one, diet-wise. I'm finding the Weight Watchers program easy-peasy and the built-in cheat mechanisms mean I'm not going hungry. Tonight's my Monday weigh-in/meeting and I'm hoping for another couple pounds down the drain. Or should I say down the toilet. When you eat as many vegetables as I do, you spend a lot of time whizzing. So anyway, I've been feeling real thin. The bathtub is getting wider, my clothes are loosening up and I have a ton of energy. But then I went into Canadian Tire on Sunday and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the security mirrors and I couldn't reconcile the old fat woman in the mirror with my sleek new self. (Who has self-image problems? heh) Who cares what I looked like in the stupid mirror – I was there to buy a bicycle and get all fit!

I've been faithfully riding my bike up and down the road for a few weeks now but was stymied last week by work and social schmoozing and couldn't get out on my bike at all. When I had time it was pouring rain. Not to mention the days are already getting shorter and soon the snow will be on the ground. I didn't want to give up all that pedalling goodness so I decided an exercise bike was the ticket. Yes, I have a treadmill and an eliptical but I have bad knees and I really can't take the impact. The bike lets me sit on my arse and pedal without knee stress. So I went to Wal-mart because our local Canadian Tire doesn't sell exercise equipment, and bought a recumbent bike for $299 plus tax. On Sunday Dave put it together and the damned thing wouldn't work. The electronics were all screwed up. So we took it back and then went down the road to the Gravenhurst Canadian Tire where we picked up a way-better bike for a way-better price. This bike was regularly $399, on sale for $199. Bargoon, eh! I don't know why I buy anything at Wal-mart. First of all I hate the way they treat their employees and their business practises. And a lot of the stuff they sell is just crap. Live and learn, I guess. Having said that, you'll probably see me there next week.

I'm hoping all my friends on the east coast are doing OK in the wake of Hurricane Irene. I've been watching the news and crossing my fingers for you, hoping and praying you're safe and sound and dry.

Speaking of weather, I had to laugh this morning while watching Canada AM. The weather guy, Jeff, announced that the temperature high in St. Johns, Newfoundland, would be 27 degrees C. "Finally," he said, "they're getting summer temperatures just as summer is over." When Dave and I were in Newfoundland last October it was as hot as hades. I packed sweaters but I should have brought shorts. Ninety degrees in the shade, it was. Oh well. To Laurita and Alan and the folks, enjoy it while you can!

Great, now my fingers stink

Uck. I accidentally touched goo from Dave's salmon sandwich when I was cleaning up the kitchen just now. I had purposely avoided touching any crumbs on the counter but didn't discover until my fingers were in the goo that he had made the sammich on top of the dishwasher. Touched the goo, smelled my fingers, went "blech," scrubbed fingers with Palmolive. Smelling my fingers just now and they still have a lingering fish smell. May have to go wash fingers again. Once a guy from work brought smoked trout and sauerkraut to work and heated it up in the microwave. The whole building smelled like gack. The boss came in from lunch and said, "Who the fuck died in here?" So the legend goes. I didn't actually hear him because I was at my desk, retching.

The key word in that paragraph? Dishwasher! It's, like, the best thing that has ever happened. In. My. Entire. Life. Some day I'm going to do an entire post about the dishwasher, complete with erotic photos of its loveliness. Maybe even a centrefold with a staple in it's silverware rack.

Lost three and a half pounds at Weight Watchers this week. That's 14 and a half pounds in four weeks. Nobody has really noticed any changes yet but I know, for a fact, that my ass is getting smaller. My underwear actually go around it now, not hovering nervously waiting at the top, worried about stretching over the whole thing. My ass is like a planet, but not Saturn, because it doesn't have any rings, unless you want to count my underwear, which sort of ring it. So yes, it's exactly like Saturn.

Tomorrow I have a hair appointment. Did I mention my hair? I hate it right now. What's left of it. About half of it broke off. I seriously have hardly any hair. I look like I've been through chemotherapy. I have to do a comb-over or one side is balder than the other. My once thick locks are now stringy and thin and fried to a crisp. It's the blonding that killed it. Bleached it off in chunks, it did. Made it all brittle. Then I went to bed a couple times with a ponytail and it snapped off where the ponytail holder was. So now I have a dilemma. Do I get it all cut off and start over? Do I cut off to chin length and wait a couple months for the balding areas to catch up to the rest? Do I keep it blonde and risk killing hair in order to avoid skunk head? Or do I go back to brown and do root touch-ups every week? Will seriously consider any advice on this very important topic ...

The 10-Pound Ribbon

There's a new blue ribbon in my Weight Watchers kit, the kind of ribbon a prize pig gets at a county fair. "I LOST 10 POUNDS," it proclaims in bold gold lettering. The 10 is inside a gold star.

Stupid ribbon. What am I going to do with a ribbon? Am I going to pin it on my shirt and wear it to work today? (Does the fat lady really want to draw more attention to herself by increasing the resemblance to Babe?) I will probably wind up taping it to the fridge door. Then, every time I think about eating something I shouldn't, I'll see that ribbon and think twice. Still, it's just a dumb ribbon. So why did I care so much when I almost didn't get it?

Last night I went to my Weight Watchers meeting, my third one, and I was a little disappointed when I only lost one and a half pounds. Yes, it's still a loss but, compared to the nine and a half pounds from last week it seemed a minor accomplishment. "Oh, only one and a half pounds?" I said to the lady weighing me. She made a face at me when she was filling in my information. "You've lost 11 pounds in three weeks," she snapped. "That sounds like a pretty amazing weight loss to me."

There are all kinds of rewards at WW; things like star stickers and ribbons and key chains. I can't even tell you what they are because I'm new and I haven't figured it all out yet. At the end of each meeting the leader goes through the reports from everybody's weigh-ins and announces milestones like who has reached their goal; who has lost 5% of their body weight; and who has lost 10 pounds. I thought, I've lost 10 pounds, and waited for the leader to call my name.

She never did call my name. She called many other women's names, but mine wasn't among them.

I felt ignored. Unimportant. And kind of mad, too. I asked the woman behind me, "Did you get that for losing 10 pounds in one week?" She shook her head. "No, it's just for 10 pounds, period." So I stuck up my hand and when the leader called on me I said, with some embarrassment, "So you get a ribbon when you lose 10 pounds?" She said yes. Then I said, "I lost 10 pounds. Actually I lost 11 pounds." And she made a big fuss and came over and gave me a ribbon and I felt my face go red, but in a good way. The leader then proceeded to say that when we reach a milestone we have to let the ladies at weigh-in know so they can write our names down on the sheet and claim our rewards. "You have to ask," the leader said. "You've earned it. You deserve it. Make sure you ask."

Funny how life is. Yesterday I had a similar thing happen at work. Our company is launching a brand new newspaper and I was asked to design it. The whole newspaper. Exciting, right? I know! I have designed an entire newspaper once before and it was the most fun I ever had in my job. And quite an honour. To me it is a sign of respect that I was asked to perform such an important function. I'm also aware that I'm saving the company big money. Once upon a time, a long time ago in a land far away, I worked in the big city for a national medical magazine. When it was time to have the publication redesigned, the company paid half a million dollars for a big-name designer and his crew do the work. That man has designed some of the most prestigious publications in the world. Now, I don't even pretend to produce the kind of work he does and my stuff isn't even close to being worthy of that kind of dough. Still, I produced a good-looking style for the newspaper, a style that was accepted by my superiors with nothing but praise, for only the cost of my regular wage. In other words, cheap!

Today our first issue goes to press so yesterday was all about getting down to the nitty gritty. Part of what I did yesterday was design a two-page spread outlining the 'who we are' part of the paper. The  editor had given me a rudimentary map: he wanted pictures of the big wigs here and pictures of the not so big wigs there, and he divided the paper into three departments: sales, editorial and distribution. There was no composing department. No recognition of my work as the designer and as the ongoing person who puts pages together; no recognition of any of the production team, except for our manager. I felt slighted, to say the least.

Composing is usually the least prestigious part of most newspapers. Composing and distribution. We're the magic elves who make the thing look pretty, who make sure it gets to the press and the ones who deliver it to your mailbox. We don't sell advertising and bring the money in. We don't have the celebrity caché of the reporters, who rub elbows with the big wigs in town. We just hunker down and do our jobs and basically get ignored by everyone else. If we screw up we sure hear about it; but there is no morale-boosting bonuses or recognition. We just toil away in the salt mines and dream about pats on the back.

Last week was kind of bizzare, though. Last week we had a union vote at work. The lines of warfare were evenly distributed between advertising, which is generally company-oriented, and editorial, which is generally union-oriented. The wild card in the mix was production. Nobody knew how we were going to vote. Suddenly we were the most popular kids on the block. People in editorial who barely said good morning to us were suddenly greeting us with smiles at the back door. The company head honcho was sending us e-mails saying "Dear Colleagues" beseeching us to consider not voting for the union. We felt uncomfortable but very popular. I actually took the opportunity to send an e-mail to the head honcho, pointing out that we were generally ignored by the company and perhaps the occasional pat on the back or including us more often as part of the team would be a good idea. I got a great response to the e-mail. I thought my message got through.

And then yesterday. No acknowledgement whatsoever of the part composing plays in the new newspaper. I wondered how to react. Should I just ignore the situation? Should I demand that pat on the back, that blue "I lost 10 pounds" ribbon?

Hell yes. I earned it. I deserve it. I am just as important as anybody else. Every time I allow myself to be treated like a doormat reinforces the idea that it's okay to treat me as a doormat. It's hard to ask for recognition. One most levels I believe good work should stand on its own merits; that my own satisfaction is enough – who cares what someone else thinks? But deep in my heart of hearts I am still that child who seeks approval from her parents, from her teacher, from everyone.

It's just a stupid ribbon.

But it's mine.

Nine-and-a-half pounds

I had the most amazing day yesterday. One of those perfect days where everything goes right and "Suddenly I See" by KC Tunstall (above) is the theme song for your life.
I joined Weight Watchers two weeks ago but didn't get to weigh in last week because Monday was a holiday in Ontario and there was no meeting. I stayed on track like a saint for those two weeks and was excited about going to last night's meeting, hoping I lost at least four pounds.
But nope. I lost nine-and-a-half pounds! I got on the scale and Darlene, my weigher-in lady, stumbled a bit when she calculated the loss. Me? I WHOOPED! I mean, WHOOPED! People stared and smiled and congratulated me. I got a silver "bravo" star. I felt AMAZING.
Then I came home and saw a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table. Dave had bought me flowers! "No matter how you made out at your meeting I thought these would put a smile on your face." Awww! Poor baby, he wasn't feeling good, either. I made us a healthy chicken and veg supper and he went to bed.
Then the second amazing thing happened: I sat down at my computer and wrote nearly 1,400 words on my novel.
Nine-and-a-half pounds and 1,400 words! I was so excited when I went to bed that I could hardly sleep! I still feel like it's Christmas this morning! There are not enough exclamation points for how good I feel!
Some of the old birds at the meeting sniffed a little at my big weight loss. "She's new," they said to each other. "It's always easiest the first few weeks." Hey, they're absolutely right. The first few weeks is all water as your shocked body starts to release its death grip on all the fat that's been laying claim to you and yours. The hard part in weight loss is several months down the road when every half pound loss is a victory and you're bored of the food and your enthusiasm has waned. That is true. I've been there. I know. Still. NINE-AND-A-HALF POUNDS! I feel like anything is possible right now. I can see a thinner version of myself. It's all within my grasp. The light switch in my head has snapped to "healthy" and I'm going with the flow.
As for the novel, wow, I am making great progress. This is the most and the best writing I've done in my life. I have struggled with my own self-worth as a writer for too long, mulling over whether it is possible instead of buckling down and doing it. Every time I turn away from my project I worry if I have what it takes to get back on it and write more. I swear, it's even harder than the diet. Both, I'm realizing, are lifestyle decisions. I am healthier. I am writing. I can do this.
Thanks to Tammy and Lou for inspiration on both counts. oxoxo

Camp Journal Day #3

I had to write something to get rid of that last post. Stick my head down the toilet and flush it? Omigawd, can I be any more dramatic? Thanks for all your messages of support – means the world to me, honest. You'll be happy to know Day #2 and Day #3 have been completely fabulous. Or maybe you might have been happier knowing I was unhappy because nothing cheeses a person off more than a person on vacation having too good a time. Oh come on, admit it. The minute somebody starts yakking about what a great time they had you zone out, start thinking of that salami sandwich you had for lunch, and how every time you burp it still tastes like salami.
Not that I had salami for lunch. I joined Weight Watchers, see, and I've been scarfing down a lot of chicken and veg. My friend Tammy said, "You're so brave joining WW just before going on vacation," but honestly, this is the best kind of vacation for waistline trimming. All we do all day is swim, bike and walk. Everything is a walk when you're camping; even going to the bathroom is an aerobic workout and I'm not talking about the pushing!!!
Must go - my camping buddies have shown up for the de rigeur campfire. They are exhausted from carrying chairs and crap down the road to our campsite. "My arms are falling off," complained one.
See? Aerobics, I tell ya.