Per Annum

At this time of year many of us look back at the previous twelve months and take an inventory of our accomplishments and consider goals for the year ahead. I started this blog on December 29, 2009 and one year later I am sitting here trying to find something to say that will inspire my readers but I am at a loss. How can I offer a profound tid-bit about weight loss when all I can think about is the Cadbury Cream Egg I ate just an hour ago (Yes, it is December and the Cadbury's are already prominently displayed in my local Rite Aid--there is no hope for any of us). I can't really say that I've lost two dress sizes, or that I have competed in triathlon events, or even that I have had a great awakening and am now a work-out-every-day-exercise freak. One year later, most of my shirts are still XL, I still don't like exercising, and I'd still rather eat chocolate cake than carrot sticks.

The most important change this past year is much more subtle, but much more meaningful to me than numbers on the scale. When I really think about the best thing that has happened, it is this: I have learned to care about myself. Before last year, you would find me stuck on the couch wearing old, stained t-shirts feeling very sorry for myself. And while I still enjoy an evening relaxing in my most prized homeless attire, I've allowed myself, for the most part, to look and feel good. The most depressing, I-can't-do-it day is always a little bit better with washed hair, normal clothes, and a little makeup. It says "Although I am feeling terrible, I deserve to look awesome!” I've learned that when I do exercise regularly, I feel much better, and really I deserve to feel good. And although I still indulge in my favorite treats, I have learned that eating too much food is not the way to happiness (OK I LIED, those LINDOR chocolate truffles are a one-way ticket to bliss). But really, food isn't as big of an issue because I listen to my true needs. I am so happy and truly proud of how I've changed, and that is the best New Years gift of all.

Happy Munchies

I went to the doctor last week and I am proud to report that I have gained very little weight.  In fact I am currently the same weight as five months ago (and just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I am secure about the actual number on the scale, I'm still not telling you).  When I explain my minimal weight-gain, folks sometimes tilt their head and squint, looking in my eyes for some sign of an eating disorder followed by, "I don't know if that's healthy." Let me tell you how "unhealthy" or malnourished I've been: today's food: chicken and WHITE rice, sugary cereal with 2% milk, diet soda, padthai noodles, eggrolls, coconut chicken curry (lunch and dinner), gulps of apple juice, apples dipped in caramel, pumpkin bread, Izze pomegranate soda (the same soda many onlookers mistook for a wine cooler--doesn't look so good with the swollen belly).  So no, clearly I'm not dieting.  Perhaps I am jinxing myself by telling you this and next week I will pack on 20 pounds.  But for now, things are going well and I want to celebrate.  I think my sincere effort to change my habits before I become pregnant made all difference.  I've learned to focus on when I'm FULL, eat things that I want to eat within reason (to avoid the inevitable cheating binge), and gained strength from running and walking (oh yeah, and chasing around the three-year-old zoo monkey).  And really, don't worry that I'm not gaming weight---there are plenty of nutrients for the baby neatly packaged in the sagging bulges which surround my womb.  And I welcome the little thing (GIRL BY THE WAY) to munch on my ample storage.

An Early Thanksgiving

I FELT MY BABY MOVE!! With the tornado of emotions and indigestion I've been experiencing, you may think that "feeling" my baby at such an early stage is just wishful thinking--ITS NOT. Imagine a small fish in your lower abdomen flapping its fins against your insides. Mothers, you know what I'm talking about. My first pregnancy, I remember this feeling, but I brushed it off as anxiety or upset stomach. As the baby grew, I realized it was not my body creating the sensation but the tiny life inside of me. This pregnancy has been difficult and I have been ACHING for this little flutter--a reminder of how incredibly lucky I am to be pregnant. I find myself constantly putting my hand on my belly (heavily padded with adipose tissue) just to say "hi" to the little one. It’s the most miraculous thing to feel him/her say "Hi" back.

Now for the next piece of good news: I've had a burst of energy these past two days...HOORAY! I already feel the intense nesting instincts pushing me to do something I hate and rarely do: CLEAN! However, I must use discretion; this instinct drives me to throw PILES of stuff away that I later realize I could use. We have a very small space and things defiantly need to be sorted, but how do I know if it’s time to let something go or if my neurotic pregnant-self is just being over-zealous? (I'm hoping for answers from sisters who have become clean FREAKS in recent years). I LOVE plastic bins; I could put so many treasures in plastic bins then move them to our next phase of life in late spring. Store or let it go? How do I know the answer to this ever-worrisome principle of organization? Some tips would be well appreciated.

WAIST-FULL RANT

I did not want to say goodbye to August without a single post--so here it goes. I've suffered a terrible spell of writers-block these past few weeks. It seemed almost silly to write about weight loss when I am pregnant and likely to be GAINing weight. Also I am sensitive to the fact that many readers are NOT pregnant, and reading my rants about a pregnant body and the nasty things that are happening under and on my skin will probably get old and irritating, however (but, nonetheless, be it as it may, still,--PICK any conditional transition word of your liking): This is MY blog! Take it or leave it, love it or hate it, shmuv it or shmate it. I have been feeling very lonely and isolated in this pregnancy--like I would be breaking some sort of secret code of silence amongst women if I discuss my life and experiences while pregnant, as if it were a SIN. It is not a sin; we all need support and love no matter where we are in life, pregnant, or no-pregnant. On that note...

I have not moved my body in four weeks!! How's THAT for weight-loss motivation!!?? Everyone experiences different challenges in first-trimester pregnancy. For me, it seems my little baby has been injecting me with regular, hourly doses of nausea-inducing Nyquil. I feel very spacey, almost drunk, tired, and sick to my stomach. (It's ok, I can do this, just temporary, I tell myself) Last week I was so frustrated and sick of being sick I quoted a funny line from "The Wedding Singer" on facebook that said, "I just want someone to hold me and tell me everything is gonna be alright." Unfortunately my friends didn't catch the tongue-n-cheek tone of my plea, and were actually quite concerned for me. It was nice to know that people care, but really, IM FINE. Especially fine now that I've had a chance to see what has been causing me all this grief--the little two-inch perfect person in my belly swimming on the sonogram monitor--AMAZING. After I got the first glimpse of that little life and its heart-beat, things felt a lot more manageable, and I am actually much more awake and settled than weeks past, BLESSING.

Another blessing: I lost 10 pounds during this first trimester--no appetite. I am sure I will make up for it and more in weeks to come, but it is nice to have a little more wiggle room early on. Speaking of wiggle room--I can't find a darn pair of pants that are comfortable. Shameful as it may seem, since my daughter was born I have stuck with elastic-band waist-lines (GRANDMA!!). I am past the point of jeans and I can’t let the elastic-pants hang on my normal waist because my belly button is extra sensitive, and if I let the waist sit on my hips, I get all kinds of blubber spillage, creating the classic "tire" look. I guess I could always pull the waist right under my boobs, right? (I have a sister in-law that was known to carefully track the distance between her belly button and top of her pants to make sure  they didn't ride up as she aged--it seems we ladies just keep pulling them up and up and up, until the pants are covering our pendulous breasts).

There is something to be said for button/zipper pants. Although not comfortable for the chunky among us, the discomfort can actually serve as an important REMINDER. For example "Self, stop eating, or you're gonna have to undo the top button," or "Oh, these jeans fit fine last month, I must be gaining a few inches." Gentle nudges from our favorite pants to remind us that staying a certain size takes work. But Ugghhh the stretchy pants are so ACEPTING of my bulges. When this baby is born I suppose I could make a goal to wear NORMAL pants at least 3 days out of the week, and on a good day of running I can reward myself by curling up in my MC-Hammer tent pants (and see how spacious they have become?). I'll let you know how THAT goes, but for now, me and my stretchy pants are going to happily expand throughout this pregnancy.

Why I let children hurt my feelings

"You have a hole in your head," a niece of mine declared bluntly a few years ago. She was pointing to my forehead--the very distinct chicken-pock scar above my left eyebrow that looks like a little crater. I laughed at the honest assessment and said, "Yes, I do have a hole in my head."

The hole in my head was fine, funny really, but lately I haven't been able to shrug-off the comments from blunt little ones--especially the FAT comments. For example, after hearing that I was pregnant, a young boy asked, "Oh so that's why you're so fat?" I responded, "Well, I'm really not that fat." He was confused, "No, you actually look pretty fat to me." He wasn't trying to be rude; he was quite serious and firm in his observation.

On a different occasion a boy whispered (I say whispered when I really mean SHOUTED in a raspy voice, clearly audible) "Guess what, I have to tell you a secret," speaking to my then two-year-old daughter. Ally leaned her head toward the boy eager to hear the news, "Your Mom is really fat!" He put his hand to his mouth and laughed in my direction. It didn't really faze my daughter, but I was mad! His intent was clearly malicious. "That is not a nice thing to say, and you know it," I said in a firm tone, "You owe me an apology." He looked down, shamed, as if to say, "Oh No! You weren’t supposed to HEAR that," then said sorry.

There are several other specific examples of this exact circumstance, but I think you get the picture: Kids think I'm fat and are not afraid to tell me to my face. The second child in my opinion was old enough to know that he was being rude, but most of the time, kids are just kids--honest and blunt. The child is simply stating a fact, a description of his or her visual perception, so why do I let it hurt? Here's what I came up with. First, I'm hormonal--a sad commercial hurts right now. Second, these things are usually said in the presence of my daughter and I am wary of her acquiring some sort of complex amongst her peers about having a Fat Mommy. Third, the paranoid, catty, old lady in me says, "Their skinny moms put them up to this!" Fourth, unlike the children, I have the experiences that have helped me attach other meanings to "You are fat," like “You are”: useless, ugly, lazy, yucky, etc. And finally, it simply hurts to hear no matter where it comes from.

So I'd like to hear your opinion on the matter. Have kids ever said hurtful things to you? Were you able to shrug it off without much thought? Should kids be allowed to say these things just because they are kids, or should they know better? How do you socialize your children to be sensitive while still having good judgment about reality? Thanks for letting me whine, and I'm eager to hear your response.

Food Changes

About two months ago I had ALMOST mastered The "Listening" techniques described in the book, "Women, Food, and God." The change was tangible and empowering--I felt great and unstoppable. I had learned to LISTEN to when my body said "STOP EATING JUNK FOOD AND FEED ME SOME FRESH THINGS FROM THE EARTH!!" Then two weeks later, I allowed myself to "bite" a little fast food. One bite, two, still no complaints from my belly, three, four, and a carton of fries and hamburger later I realized my body LIKED what I was eating. "Maybe I'm....no, just stressed out, yup, It'll pass," After another five days of eating like a HIPO trapped in McDonalds, I took my monthly pregnancy test (I have kept the folks at First Response in business). One line, not two, I put down the stick and went to tell my mother I was not pregnant. I was disappointed and nonchalantly swayed back to the bathroom where the test laid face-down. I picked it up, turned it over, just to make sure. GASP!! Those little lines on that pee strip suddenly made me feel like the luckiest, happiest, most fortunate person in the world! THRILLING!

I've had the usual issues with pregnancy: moodiness, tiredness, nausea--nothing crazy. People ask me "How are you feeling?" And I respond, "I'm feeling terrible but I'm soooo happy!!" HA! Luckily for me and future baby, I've lost my taste for fast food binges. AND for the FIRST time in my life I cannot stand sweets!! Just the thought of digging into a chocolate mousse cake makes me want to gag. I've wanted salt and protein. BUT I put brown sugar on my tuna sandwich and that was GOOD. I also have a strange aversion to drinking water. I have to choke it down to keep my kidneys healthy (I developed a stone during my first pregnancy). Also, the only food that makes my stomach feel better is Starchy, Whitey, Bready, Bread--bagels, Ritz crackers all the good things that you're never supposed to eat.

Weight gain doesn't worry me too much, I'm just really happy I lost a few pounds BEFORE I became pregnant--I'll know what to do after baby comes, and most importantly I'll know I CAN DO IT. So bring on the bagels and salt meat, however, if someone would like to write a book about managing hunger and cravings during pregnancy, I would happily read it.

Poignant Pepperoni

It's been hotter than Satan's mistress these last three days, and from all my extra TV time, it seems this is a trend across the country. I've had my three window AC units working overtime to compensate for my bun-in-the-oven hot flashes and have managed to stay busy making sure the couch stays put. My life hasn't been completely wasteful, in fact, I walked a WHOLE 5K for the third day in a row this morning. OH! Thanks for the advice on exercise during pregnancy, I will defiantly keep it simple. (And I sincerely hope my tiny baby is doing tae bo in there with me--really Sonia, I do--Oh and Ashley S. I WAS talking about you in Chick Filet, you are nice to me)

My girlie and I played "Catch me if you can" with the garden hose on Thursday--a terrible muddy mess but great fun. It was approaching dinner and I had no intention of digging through my kitchen mess to make anything, and I would NOT turn on the oven. So I did what any sensible lazy person would do: I ordered a carryout pepperoni pizza. I squelched the tiny guilt inside and loaded little girlie in the car to fetch my easy, greasy sustenance.

I don't know if you've noticed, but Dominos Pizza has changed their recipe, and unfortunately for me, it is REALLY good, really convenient, and REALLY inexpensive. They are all trying to kill me! When we arrived outside the red, white, and blue emblem, I hoisted Ally out of her car seat into the 102+ weather to walk to the double glass doors of my latest Sin Factory. I handed over my magic plastic and received my prize--a piping hot pepperoni pizza. As I walked outside with a firm grip on my dinner and on my toddler's hand, I noticed that the clouds were thickening and turning gray--it was a definite change from the beating sun a few minutes earlier, but I welcomed the possibility of rain.

With everything in order, I headed down the road toward home. It's a busy street with three-to-four lanes each way and a speed limit of 45. Out the right-hand window I saw the familiar orange trees with over-ripe fruit that someone did not bother picking--I guess they decided it would be cheaper to let the orbs fall to the ground rather than pay wages to have them harvested. On the left were other looming monuments to the current economic decline: rows of stucco shopping malls left to the elements--most empty but some with abandoned paint buckets and stirring sticks: the dust of someone's dreams.

About 100 yards beyond the orange grove, a young family caught my eye. I counted five children, the youngest in a stroller, probably 9 months old. The tallest child looked to be no more than 8 or 9. The couple looked hot and worried but determined to continue to wherever it was they were going. Despite the new cloud cover, I knew the heat outside my air-conditioned car was nearly unbearable. "Flip around and give them your pizza," I heard myself say. There was no oncoming traffic for at least a quarter mile and if I was going to make a U-turn, now would be my chance. With about 1.5 seconds to question my instincts, I flipped across the road, turned on my hazards, and walked toward the family.

"What are you thinking, this is the stupidest thing you've ever done, they are probably fine and just headed to the next bus stop, they're gonna think you're racist, naive, or rude for offering them food," I warned myself. But that little nudging in my heart could not be ignored no matter how silly I felt. I addressed the father and asked, "Do you guys have any plans for dinner tonight?" He glared at me a little. "Why do you ask that?" He said, with a commanding air of concern and protection. SEE, YOU'RE STUPID, THEY DON'T NEED ANYTHING, I said to myself. "Oh, I don't know," I stammered, "I just picked up a hot...uh...large, pepperoni pizza from the corner, and I was wondering if, um you might want it," I said almost shaking.

His shoulders dropped, and he wiped his head as if relieved, and his wife put her hand on her chest, looked to the sky and whispered something inaudible. "I'm sorry I came off like that at first," he said in a new, friendly tone, "See, people have been shouting at us from their cars all along this street for us to get the H*&% outta here, and when you turned around so fast, we weren't sure if you were just another angry person, or what you were doing." I took a deep breath and said, "I am so sorry I startled you. I know it must seem very strange for me to pull up here and offer you a pizza, but I saw you and your children and something told me I needed to stop." The wife whispered again to the sky.

"I really appreciate that," he said, a little unnerved. "Hey, uh, I'm Riki, and this is my wife Tanishia," he said offering his hand. "I'm Christina, it's nice to meet you," I said taking each of their hands in turn. The oldest daughter's eyes perked "OH! And my name is Christie, kinda like YOU!" I chuckled, "That's a great name!!" I turned again to the parents and said, "Would you like the pizza? It is pepperoni," I repeated stupidly, "I just got it a minute ago, I haven't touched it, I promise." Ricki nodded his head, "Yeah, that's really nice of you, you know it's funny you stopped cause we're really having a hard time, and just yesterday I had to sell most of my things." I nodded, "I know, things are really tough."

Meanwhile, my daughter began to sob in the car as if sensing their plight. "I'll be right there baby," I said. "Here you go," I handed the pizza to Christie who had the sweetest smile, and the parents thanked me again. "Well, enjoy, and you guys will be in my prayers," I said. Rickie nodded and replied, "Yeah, I really appreciate that."

I stepped back into the car, my eyes welling toward my cheeks. After I turned on the car my daughter said in sobs, "That was my pizza, I wanted that pizza for me!" In a broken voice I responded, "Sweetie, those children didn't have any pizza for dinner, it was so nice of you to share with them." She wiped her tears and seemed to understand. I drove home with a heavy heart and looked up to that familiar place in the sky feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I laughed through the swollen lump in my throat thinking how humorously God chose to deliver me from temptation. It's my new diet. I call it the Friendly Fast Food Diet, and I highly recommend it.

What to do...

A little thanks to my sisties for giving me the old "Chin up, gal" in the last post--Siblings are great to have around even when they are smaller than you...maybe...ESPECIALLY when they are smaller than you. They can look at the world through clear lenses, whereas I must squint through my blubber goggles (JOKE).

Here is my dilemma: I am AFRAID to EXERCISE. When my heart rate accelerates and my skin drips with sweat I feel like I am hurting my tiny little baby. I have wanted this little miracle for a LONG time, and I want to do everything to make sure I carry to term. I know I know, NOT exercising could hurt the baby MORE, gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, all those great things. SO, where do I go to find a SENSIBle workout routine for my pregnancy? I know ladies who would run MILES until they were about 5 months along--more power to em', but I simply cannot do that. Part of me is making an excuse for myself; we know how much I love a good excuse not to exercise. But MOST of me really is concerned and wants to find something that is effective and safe---any answers?

CRAVINGS!!!!

The Fatly Duckling Resurfaces

About three weeks before my big family reunion, I had my spanx all in a twist thinking "My family won't even KNOW that I've lost weight." You see, it had been over 14 months since I'd seen any of my siblings, and when I DID see them, May 2009, it was only for a few hours. "I should go on a crash diet, I should stop eating carbs, I should run 5 miles every day so I can face my family!" were just a few of my frantic thoughts. After a couple days of thinking (and eating), I realized that none of my siblings were sitting home obsessing about how much weight I've lost, despite my inflated sense of importance, so I decided to forget the crash diet and enjoy my daughter and husband.

Apparently some of my family members had the same idea as me--one sibling lost 10 pounds in a week, another was sad that he or she did not have a chance to lose weight before the reunion and there were many other personal stories of weight success and failure. I realized that in a large family everyone wants to stand out and be special--no matter how far removed we all are from the old dinner table in Michigan. After seeing some of my family, especially my sisters, I was feeling really down. "I'm fat, I'm no good, they are skinny, they are all perfect, I am a blob slob," were the themes of my pity party. The second night at the reunion these thoughts were so overpowering that I couldn't sleep. "Stop it! You are special too!!," a little voice screamed in my head, well, not exactly an audible scream, it was more of a really strong impression. "You know you have worked hard, you are loved by your family, so STOP IT!" And I did. I slept peacefully and dropped the label of Fat Family Pariah.

I did receive compliments from my family, and it was really nice. I didn’t let my Fatly Duckling image bother me anymore--I just wanted to have fun. The best compliment I received was from a sister who saw me and said, "You look like a MOVIESTAR!" Awww thanks. I put extra thought into my 4 inch wedges that day to look more like a full-figured runway model, instead of a stocky average height lady. "What is wrong with you!? And what is wrong with your family to make you feel this way!?" You ask. There is nothing wrong with my family. This self-consciousness was all about SELF. Once I gave up the poor-me act, I really enjoyed myself, AND my skinny sisters. (They are all gonna get mad at me in the comments section, LOVE YOU GUYS). So here is my life lesson from this experience: Don't expect people to MAKE you happy about yourself, you must be happy with YOURSELF first, and the compliments and well-wishes will just be the cherry on top.

What to do with all these baskets

In the first few months of our marriage, my parents were kind enough to hire my husband as a handy-man. While sweating to the 50's for a nice wad of cash, he got his first glimpse of my mother's basement and her obsession with BASKETS. "There is an entire room of JUST baskets, and then the storage room...more baskets!!!" My Husband said in livid disbelief. I replied: "Baskets are great, so cute and so functional--you can do anything with a basket." Although I knew he was exaggerating the scale of my mother's basket collection, he did have a valid point. There were over 100 baskets against the wall one atop the other. Some stacks were brick-wall sturdy, while others were shaky and crumbled to a mess of twisted whicker, plastic, and wood. The collection was impressive and diverse--there were antique baskets, cheap dollar-store baskets, seasonal baskets, and even the Rolls Royce of woven baskets: Longaberger-- I own a few given to me by lovely mother. Apparently a little 12'' round can cost $150 +. Some dude was REALLY smart and banked on the idea that goo-goo eyed basket women would fork over ridiculous amounts of money for a "Hand made" jewel of their own.

I've never met a woman who did NOT like baskets, but personally, my gravitation towards the woven bowls tip-toes the border of unhealthy. My apple didn't fall too far from the tree, and sometimes I think my apple is still dangling. My mom has 17 children and sixty-something grandchildren (I've lost count, really, I'm not joking, I got tired of counting) So at least she could actually USE hundreds of baskets for gifts/gatherings etc, and she does, so her collection is in a constant flux.

Some women are purse people or shoe people, I am a container people, er, person. I know, I've heard, there is an entire store dedicated to containers. I've not been there, for, reasons. Just like some people who have parents with a drinking problem decide never to take the first drink, I've decided not to take the first step into the Container Store. But I do spend extra time in the plastic bin isle of Wal Mart and Target. If you are a dreamer, you understand the obsession with containers--so many possibilities. "Oh the things I can put in THIS one, and this one, and that one, oooh and those ones." I get into a little trouble when I buy containers preemptively. I say, "Oh there MUST be something to put in this," and pretty soon I have more containers than I have things to put in them.

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket," the saying says. What about "Don't buy more baskets than you have eggs." I have never been one to put all of ANYTHING in one basket, I have what me and my sister call "Hobby ADD." There is reading, running (ish), writing, crafting--so many sub categories that I can't even begin, gardening, blogging, surfing, sewing, basket weaving (just kidding, but wouldn't that be perfect!), painting, scanning, canning, planning--so many directions to choose, so many Baskets to place what is most precious: TIME. With the little one on the way, I have had to think critically about putting too many eggs in too many baskets--spreading myself thin. (Haha, egg, pregnant, get it?) So I decided that I will pare down my "Basket" collection (places where I spend, or, waste, my time) into three categories: Family, God, and Self. If I am being completely honest, I have WAY too many eggs in the self basket--so many crafts, so little time. I do think it is important to HAVE a self basket, we don't want any ladies losing their minds, but I would much rather have my sense of self wrapped up in my family and my Maker. So now for the cleanup--anybody in need of a few hundred baskets?

Make way for baby

I'm PREGNANT...more info to come

Random projects and success

I think this is the longest break I've had between blog posts. Everything is going really well, I've just been busy with STUFF. First, rushing around to scan 50 years of photos before my parents golden anniversary celebration and second, making hair bows. I have a little trick I'm really good at: find something I really like and instead of buying it, try to "save" money by spending quadruple on supplies to make it at home. My little girl is almost three and her sparse head of hair decided to sprout a little within the last few months. A friend of mine fixed it with a flower bow during a play date and I was hooked! I could have bought nine bunches of flowers from the dollar store and been all done, but I am not practical enough to make such a grounded decision. After making two or three flowers with rhinestones in the middle, the dreamer in me said that I could be a millionaire by selling them. Instead, I opted for the instant gratification of giving them away to friends and family (It's funny how much more people like things when they are free). There are plenty of plastic rhinestone jeweled flower bows on the market, so I decided I would raise the bar by using real Swarovski crystals instead of plastic--it really makes them shine. However, I must admit the "I need to spend the extra money on crystals," is a difficult sell. My husband has been very nice about it though, because he knows I'd probably be pigging out on "Big Carl" hamburgers without the distraction. (I know this is a "Weight Loss" story, but my meat-eating friends should REALLY try the Big Carl, it’s the best piece of processed beef I've ever had. And no, I've not seen "Food Inc.")

According to the book I've been reading, it is not a good policy to "shame" myself, so I won't tell you ALL about the shameful lack of exercise lately (I'll just tell you mostly about it). When I step outside here in the hot California sun, five minutes of standing makes me feel like I ran a mile, and the heat makes me want to sleep like a bear in hibernation. It is not even the hottest part of the year, AGHH. I've come to the conclusion that I may have to show my face at the gym again--I hate it, but not as much as waking early during summer break and sweating like a Rhino during dry season while trying to shed a few calories. Despite my lack of regular intense activity, I've still lost weight. The principles I've learned, which I described in the last two posts, have really stuck, and I am simply not gorging myself like I used to. Maybe it is easier to avoid food when my body isn’t burning as many calories every day. Whatever the case, I'll take the lower numbers on the scale, loosened clothes, and wait for it…a bra that hasn’t fit me since before my daughter was born. Just yesterday, after dressing in a sensible outfit, I burst into the family room and shouted to my peeps, “My boobs are getting so tiny!” My husband looked at me like, “You are out of your stinkin’ mind,” then realized I was actually VERY excited, switched his face and said, “Uh, Proud of you!”

Listening to the monster within

Since December 29, 2009, when I vowed to get myself in shape, I have been "caught" several times. The first was in front of the Girls Scout cookie table just beyond the sliding doors of the local grocery store. I was undressing two boxes of Samoas, with my eyes, when a female acquaintance said, "Oh Christina, you really don't need that!" I looked up, shrugged, gave an awkward squint-smile, and said, "Yeah, you're right." I took the walk of sheepish-shame to my car feeling very silly and a little humiliated. And as is usually the case, I came up with some incredible come-backs about five minutes after the encounter. "From what I can see, you don't need them either, yet here you are, standing right next to me in front of the cookies!" Or, "Oh, it's nice to see you too, jerk!" And "Hey, you're not the boss of me!!" I drove home daydreaming of this playground confrontation and how it should have panned out. Then I parked the car and said to myself, "Hey, wait a minute, don't be mad at her for saying that--you ASKED for it--literally." Just a week after starting this blog I emailed many people asking for their "Support" in my weight-loss goals. I also publicize the blog heavily on Facebook. The woman, in her own way, was trying to offer support.

I was also "caught" three weeks ago at Chick-Fil-A with a hefty (fried) chicken sandwich and an EXTRA-LARGE carton of fries. This person was lovely and polite and asked how I was doing and didn't say a thing about what I was eating. But for some reason I felt that I had to "Confess" before I was comfortable moving on with the conversation, "Oh, (cheesy grin) It's French Fry day--I let myself have fries once every two-weeks or else I'd just go crazy!!" She looked at me reassuringly as if to say, "It's ok, really, I don't care." And we moved on with our conversation. So here is my problem with this: Somehow I have felt accountable to others for my exercise and eating--I've made my problem their problem. I mean, I know my friends and acquaintances don't sit home thinking about how much I currently weigh or how I "Cheated" today, but somehow my insecure self convinces me this is true.

I am officially declaring myself OFF A DIET. "Gasp!" "NO, It can't be!!" Well, it is, and I am still losing weight. I'm not a big fan of diets anyway, but now, I am completely letting go of the feelings of restriction, burden, and shame. From reading "Women, Food, and God," I have learned that my body actually tells me when I should stop eating--guess what, it was made to do that--I just haven't been listening to it for a while. The author, Geneen Roth, says to do an experiment: eat whatever it is you want to eat and listen to your belly. "To my belly??" "You mean I must listen to that awful, stretched-out monster...THING that has ruined my life? The floppy mess of lipids that REFUSES to scrunch into a suitable pair of jeans--the belly that makes young children ask (and adults wonder) if I am 'With child?'" Yes, yes, and yes, I must listen to my belly.

I have put the experiment to the test--I've eaten pizza, cake, and of course, Chick-Fil-A. Part of the experiment is to listen to my body's response to each bite and describe my hunger on a scale from one-to-ten. Here is one example of how this has actually worked, two nights ago: I eat one slice of pepperoni pizza--my belly isn't growling anymore, but I am still a little hungry, maybe a 4 or 5 on a 10 scale. Another slice: bite one, two, three...and my stomach feels HEAVY, and I stop after 1 and 1/2 slices, with something to drink, and that completes dinner. Can you believe it--only 1 and 1/2 slices of PIZZA!? I can hardly believe it myself. Of course a diet of pizza, fried chicken, and cake is not healthy even if I only have small amounts. I still need the nutrients from good, whole, foods. The purpose of this method is not to necessarily "Eat whatever I want," but to eat whatever my BODY wants. And today, guess what? It wanted a glass of water instead of a diet coke, and yesterday, some apple slices. Over time I compare how my belly feels after eating certain foods and really LISTEN. The feelings after an apple compared to a large order of fries are very different--and paying attention to this difference is the key. My body "wants" to eat healthy foods, I've just been giving it whatever my HEAD thought it needed. So if you see me in Barnes and Noble with a huge frothy cup of hot cocoa topped with a mountain of whipped-cream, don't worry, because I am listening. Now I just need to figure out which body part tells me to stop placing bids on eBay...

Women, Food, and Gosh-golly, it's starting to make sence

I decided to read Oprah's latest cure-all for food-junkies: "Women, Food, and God" I am halfway through and after just a few chapters I was able to seriously think about where food fits in my life. I came up with this analogy--food is like the bad boyfriend who I KNOW I should dump, but I take his crap anyway because it feels better to be with someone than face the scary thought of being alone--can you imagine--BY MYSELF. Hey, Hey, readers, I'm not talking about my husband, rather it was a pattern in my younger dating years--before I met my knight in shining scrubs. My analogy still doesn't make sense? Ok. It is much easier to eat a hot batch of Carl's Junior cris-cut fries, when I am not actually hungry, than to deal with the emotions that drove me to eat them. Just like it is easier to stay in a relationship which is not fulfilling than to face the emotions of loss and loneliness that come with saying goodbye. Don't tell me I'm crazy, sooo many women have done this with past boyfriends. And for me the eat-junk-when-not-hungry triggers are usually stress, loneliness, or boredom.

Some of the book is a little "Out there," and talks about "oneness," "deep meditation," but for the most part, I am really enjoying the insights that have popped in my head while reading--my "Aha moments," to use an Oprah phrase. The best of these has to be gratitude. I must be grateful for what I have now and be kind to the person I am now, or I will end up a skinny person with fat emotional wounds. In an effort to be honest on this blog I have spoken of flab, cellulite, particular eating binges, and other eternal sins of a women on a weight-loss program. According to the book, this is called "Shaming myself." While I do want to be more positive, I can't promise that I won't throw in a few silly jabs, and quips about my failures--I am a silly person, and I'd rather laugh at myself than cry. BUT I will be nicer to me because I know that my value as a person is not in my weight. My dearest friend said to me the other day, "I've seen your weight fluctuate over the years, but really, I don't care, because you are a good person, and you are my friend." (Sorry S. if I didn't get it exactly right). So it might sound like I have a wonderful excuse to give up--beauty is on the inside. I'm not giving up. When I drop the emotional weight by believing in and valuing myself, the physical weight follows, because I know I deserve to be healthy.

Just two short posts ago I lamented about bathing suit season, well, I returned those men's board shorts (I forgot men don't have hips). Our little family went to the beach for memorial day and I wore my black one-piece and a knee-length, breezy cover-up. I was holding my daughters hands as the surf washed over her legs while hoisting my cover-up above my knees to allow the water to pass. Not only was the stance awkward, but it was no fun. So we ran back to our towels, I whipped off my cover-up and ran back down to the water with my little girl--white, prickly, mushy, legs and all. I decided if the strangers didn't like what they saw--there were many other places to look, it's the OCEAN. With just my bathing suit, I was able to dance in the water and play Run-away-from-the-waves. I was certainly not a swimsuit model, but I was GREATFUL for my body--without it I could never learn to run another 5K, swim in the ocean with my favorite little person, or glide on the elliptical next to that creepy guy. Half-naked on the beach, I felt free.

My new biggest fan

I am a person very guilty of living by the mantra, "If everyone likes me, everything is fine." Wouldn't it be funny if someone toll-painted that quote on a decorative, wood, wall-piece to hang above their hearth in place of "Home is where the heart is." I guess my in-your-face saying would be honest but defiantly a little jarring and awkward for the guests.

I've said many times that I NEED your comments, and really I HAVE needed them to feel validated, worthwhile, and accepted. But I have come to the realization that when I am out there sweating like a dehydrated pig, or making choices about what to eat, unfortunately I am usually by myself and don't have the benefit of your motivating comments. So I am working on something new--becoming my own biggest fan. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a healthy, "Self, you can do this, and you know you can," way. Please feel free to comment, and I will comment back--but do not feel obligated. If I continue on my weight loss journey depending on other people, I will end up a skinny person full of self-doubt. I have come so far, and I have worked so hard, but a voice inside still sometimes says "You haven't worked hard enough." And it is this voice that makes me want to give up and just be what I think I am--a Fatty. So as head of my own fan club here is my first comment to myself--Good job working hard and allowing yourself to not be perfect, because no one is.

Bathing Cellu-suit Season

I know it has been a week, but I've had good intentions and even better excuses. I will be honest from the start. I only exercised three times last week and I've been eating like an obese wild boar in heat. I've had take-out from this place and that, extra sizzling butter on my Ruth's Chris steak, chocolate parfaits, and many more unmentionables for one who is trying to "Lose it." However, believe it or not, this past week would be a diet compared to a "Bad" week in my sedentary days, progress you see.

Me and my little family enjoyed a beautiful silver morning at Newport Beach complete with forget-your-troubles breeze, and a take-in-the-moment soothing sound of the splashing surf. Despite my poetic applause for the ocean, it put me in quite an emotional tizzy. The truth that has been screaming at me in stores, across ads, and with the weather finally splashed me in the face: it is bathing suit season.

My daughter loves to swim, and so do I, really you can't NOT swim here in the summer--it is sweltering. I've lost 25 pounds but there is no hiding the damage that has been done--stretch marks and curdled fat. I personally don't think bathing suits are flattering on ANYONE. Swimwear magazines are not fair--the models have the warning of the photo shoot, perfectly tinted skin, a fan blowing their hair, and of course, the digital air-brush touch-ups. Last year around the pool I modeled a two-piece number--black with white polka-dots, and a fanny-skirt that I thought covered my hips and thighs. Looking back I think that ugly thing actually ACCENTUATED all the wrong things, and it had NO support for the bazoombas. Needles to say, that one is going in the trash. I think I am going to dust off a simple one-piece Speedo suit: black, WITH cups.

I've been looking high and low for cover-ups that I can actually SWIM in. The little breezy things that tie around the waist are not enough. I can't afford the few seconds of shame it takes to toss it on my towel before plunging in the water. So, I went against all fashion advice and bought a nice, comfortable, swimmable pair of men's board shorts. Trust me, I looked at the ladies version of the board short, and "Short" is too mild a term--the way those tiny things ride up my cellu-butt--more like board thongs. I decided that because I'm usually only with my daughter--I don't have anyone to impress but her. And the most important thing to her is that mommy have fun in the pool. I might look like a chubby surfer dude with huge man-boobs, but I will be comfortable and free to PLAY. Now I just need an option #2 for when her daddy decides to come with us...

The Whole Truth

There's No Hiding

I've made a TINY effort to be better about my messy tendencies around the house, but the onslaught of heat has forced me to go into OCD clean over-drive (OCD clean for me is just a little less tidy than what most people would call "normal") The warm weather has invited some vigilant intruders seeking refuge--ants. Our house is old. I think it was built in the early 1900s. In fact, an elderly woman on our street said, "Oh, my sister and her husband did the renovations on that house in 1950." I don't say this to complain; I am happy as a lark and snug as a bug--along with some other snug bugs. It just seems the ants on this property are especially evolved to find the tiniest cracks in the wall. They are even emerging from cracks in the PAINT! It's like they already KNEW where to go before they arrived--as if their antie aunties have been passing the information from one generation to the next. No amount of modern doors, caulk, and paint can hide the fact that this is an old house with some very old friends.

Mothers know that ant-watching can be great entertainment for children, whether observing with a face pressed on the glass of an ant farm, or hovering over a tiny hill in the dirt. I've been doing my own ant-investigation and I'm with the hoodlum boys who say we must fry all the ants with a magnifying glass. Ants are not evil creatures, but when they pour, I mean literally, pour out of a long shut cabinet, and crawl up arms and legs by tens, or make their way into the refrigerator--I'm sorry, it's over.

Because of these ants, snacking is threatening my weight-loss AND my house. Some of the snacks of days and months past fell aside to be forgotten by me, but discovered later by the devil insects (I guess I lied about ants not being evil). Earlier this week, while I was crouched under my computer desk to study the comings and goings of the little black specks, I found a crowd gathered around two Easter M&Ms. Powdered doughnut pieces were in especially high demand. Some ants could not compete for the most popular goods, but there were plenty unidentifiable crumbs for picking. As I continued to scan the floor, I was amazed by the highways of ants avoiding a big, chocolate, cube-thing. I squatted lower to see what it was.

A few weeks ago I tried to "trick" my chocolate-craving brain by purchasing dark cubes from the health-food store called "Energy Nuggets." About one-inch squared (I mean cubed), they vaguely resembled walnut-filled brownies. They are packed with sunflower seeds, peanuts, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, cashews, Carob Powder, and peanut butter. I could only eat one--they tasted like nutty cardboard, but I figured they were a better pick than brownies. I must have dropped that lone nugget on the floor in disgust. The ants were no fools to my silly mind trick. They took one look at the plump square and probably thought it was a human cube-shaped corn poop because that is exactly what it looks like outside of the deceiving package. I can't hide from the remnants of my eating-cheating or the wild insects that reap the benefits, but I can learn one thing from them--if it looks like a poop, it probably tastes like poop. So next time I think I'm just going to eat the brownie instead and run a little longer, oh, and of course, clean up after myself.

Activism

Since I have committed myself to a life of activism--staying physically active--I have decreased my time in front of good old TV. I average about 4 hours per week these days. But months ago, as a pacifist (that's the opposite of activist, right?) It was much more than that; more hours in front of the TV than I care to admit. OK FINE! Some days were spent entirely in front of the TV--cue shameful head-hang.

More than half of my weekly TV hours are spent watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. Call me a middle-aged woman with emotional problems if you must. Phil has become a little too sensational for my taste, but it takes a lot for Oprah to irritate me. As I was indulging in my laziness today, listening to Laura Bush chat with Oprah, I saw a few ads that got me thinking. First, the lap-band surgery. I realized that I am officially under the healthy weight to consider lap-band surgery--meaning I am too skinny to have lap-band surgery! WOW, I haven't been too skinny for ANYTHING in a long time. I'm mindful that lap-band is a last resort for morbidly obese people, but still, it was a moment. At first I was happy, then I thought, UGH, now I REALLY have to do this the hard way.

Then there came the plus-size bra ad from Playtex. So irritating. I get it, heavy-set women in their bras talk about how freeing it feels to wear big, breathable hosiery. But as a big, busty woman myself, I can tell you from experience--PLAYTEX bras are horrible!! First of all, the bra comes in a BOX, A BOX. They spent so little time at the factory fabricating the misshaped garment that they actually had time to put it in a box. Secondly, and most important, it is NOT supportive. Maybe I got the wrong size, but I decided to pass on the RIGHT sized boob-holder that makes me look like cone-shaped, slouching granny. I think I would rather see a grown man in a whip-cream bikini than watch that ad again.

I exercised today! But it was a sad reminder that from now on I MUST get up at 6:00 am. The SoCal sun is getting too hot to exert my body beyond breakfast time. The hot where I live is not like the beach, it is very dry, and exhausting. I took my daughter up the mountain trail again. Oh, by the way, apparently the things I call mountains are "Hills" around here, but I don't buy it. Those beasts are mountains to this mid-western girl, okay!? I sound cynical and grouchy, but that is just my menstrual migraine talking (you're welcome for sharing, now you can write it in your day-planner to prepare for next month), I am actually very happy today, and very proud to call myself an activist.

Head in the Coulds

I didn't exercise this morning. I absolutely refused to wake up--despite my husband's diligent pleading. Here is the credit again for the REAL person responsible for me getting up before 8:00 am---my husband is always right at 6:00 a.m. and I never loisten to him, shame on me---He just read over my shoulder and typed that, and he thought I would erase it out of embarrassment, who's embarrassed now? Gosh I love that little buger.

When I typed the title for this entry I meant to say "Head in the clouds." I was about to correct my type-o but decided my mistake was applicable. When I begin to see success I get full of hot air and tell myself that I don't need to exercise today because I have already worked hard enough. In this way, my head is in the CLOUDS. But as I have mentioned many times, this is not a diet, but a life change. Again and again I come to the realization that life-changes don't happen overnight and they don't REMAIN unless they are maintained, forever. There is a reason they call it a "life" change, it is meant to last for life.

I don't want to have my head in the clouds then have my head stuck in the COULDS. Let me explain: If I get lazy and let this change slip by, I will be moping around saying, "If only I COULD have stuck with the program. If only I could have eaten one treat a day. I could have felt much better than I do now," and so on. In order to keep my head out of the "Coulds," I must first keep it out of the clouds of arrogance and mediocrity. So maybe you nice folks should stop telling me I am doing such a good job and I look like a super model, because it is beginning to get to me. Just kidding. No one ever said I look like a super model, and I cannot receive enough encouragement during this humiliating process. I just have to remember in my quiet moments that this is not over--it is never over. I really don't want to look back and say, "I could have been something better."

She'll Be Jiggling Down The Mountain

Simpsons fans out there--you must remember the episode where Homer got a physical exam and the doctor did a fat-content test without the use of a pincher gadget (those are so scary--they remind me of Saturdays long ago when my dad would chase me and my sisters around the house with live lobsters right before they were to be sacrificed in boiling water). Instead of being pinched by the fat-o-meter, Homer simply striped to his underwear and the doctor poked his belly and started a stop-watch. The amount of time it took for his blubber to stop jiggling was the obesity indicator. After about a minute, his fat was still dancing and he exclaimed, "Wooo Hooo, look at er' go!" I admire Homer for embracing his fat and obsession with food--it creates many wonderful moments that help the rest of us, in the real world, laugh about all our struggles with weight.

So how did this obscure Simpsons clip suddenly pop into my head? For several days I have been quite literally, jiggling down the mountain. Please see entry "Spank You Very Much" to understand the status of my skin, yeeesh. I have tired a little of the same old pavement during my daily exercise, so I have traversed the mountain trial that I talked about in the previous entry. The exercise is very intensive--I huff and puff and sweat like a piggy in a house made of sticks. Add a stroller on top, and I am barley holding on. But thank goodness for the high-end stroller with shocks (and bike-shop tire tube upgrade, ehem, ehem), it glides easily over the rocks and debris along the trail.

When in nature I begin to sympathize with mountain people--you know the ones who say, "Forget You!" to society and live like wild animals off of the land. When I'm walking the trail, part of me wants to forget about all the junk and dirty dishes in my house and eat wild berries for the rest of my life. But then, I don't think I could ever bring myself to weave a blanket out of my over-grown armpit hair, so eventually I make it back to my home and the comforts of modern living--but I understand the temptation. Anyway, for those of you who want a true jiggle-test here it is: find a nice, steep, gravel trail, and RUN down. All off my capable muscles are busy keeping me upright and what is hanging is left to gravity, scary.

My knee is doing quite well. I am up to .5 miles of running three times per week. The other days include speed-walking and combo-weights (workout for arms and legs at the same time, I HATE it, but very effective). The trail-blazing has added new dimension to the usual speed-walking, so I think I'll keep it up. Check out my weight stats. I'm working hard. And just for your entertainment, I thought I'd draw a picture of what I would look like as a Mountain Woman.  I'd be quite thin, but that doesn't make up for all the other stuff I'd have to go through.

In the Mountain

Recently my sweet little girl has had so much to talk about and often requires undivided attention with a few exceptions: when playing in the kitchen sink (the real one), watching Little Einstein's, or with friends. She lets me do domestic duties like cooking and cleaning--she actually seems quite fond of this. I am hoping she will grow up to be much like her tidy aunties on my husband's side, because she doesn't have a prayer from my blood-line.

Lately my daughter has been using some unique methods to get my attention. Just two days ago I was immersed in hand-stitching the collar of a little bear Cinderella dress (I know, a CINDERELLA costume for a BEAR! I will "Blag" all about it later--blog bragging) when suddenly--STAB. Ally took the pin I set aside to jab me in the knee and exclaimed, "POKE!" Poke indeed. And yesterday, with my back turned for a moment at Joann Fabrics, she picked up an unusually long, synthetic orchid and used it to fish down little pots. The problem: these pots were made of glass. "PLUNK, CRASH, SPLAT," I heard in rhythm twice, turned around and saw the blue and yellow remnants of the clearance items on the floor. "Ally, no-no," She looked at me, quite shocked at what she had accomplished (she was standing in the cart away from the shelf, so luckily the glass didn't hurt her) paused a moment, then reached the orchid up once again to smash a third glass pot--as if to say, "Take THAT."

She clearly is not as thrilled with my doll-clothing project as I am, and would much rather have me play with her NOW than spend time making clothes for little figures that she doesn't even own yet. So today I made a special effort to REALLY give her my undivided attention. This morning I completed the ENTIRE 20 minutes of Jillian Michaels 30-day shred for the FIRST time ever (before she woke); later we ate breakfast and played in the yard. In the afternoon, after my daughter didn't nap for a half-an-hour, I burst in her room and said, "Let's go to the mountain!" She was startled by my abrupt declaration and sheepishly holding her soggy diaper and pointing to a wet spot on the floor. "It's yellow pee-pee in there, you need to clean it up." That's my girl. So, I cleaned up the mess, got her dressed, and off we went. On Saturday, I discovered a nice mountain trail about .5 miles from our house. It is gravel and dirt, easy on the joints, and offers the quiet that can only be found in untouched nature.

As we winded around the dirty hills, she was absolutely silent. I could tell that she was enjoying the new scenery but mostly, she was simply glad to know that I was available. I pointed out butterflies, flowers, lizards, grass, birds--I even tried to catch a butterfly for her entertainment--perfect exercise and perfect fun. There are moments when everything stops and I am reminded that my first job is Mother. The little figurines will always be the same size, but my little girl is changing every day. The clothes will have to wait because I have more important things to do, like catch little creatures in the mountain with my daughter.

Tiny Distraction

As some of you know I have an insatiable obsession with miniature things. Perhaps it is because I wish my hips would make themselves a little more minute. When I combine my love for crafts and tiny things, I have the perfect recipe for avoiding any binge-eating disaster. Here is a picture of the quail egg that I gave to my mom for Easter. It stands about 3/4 inches. Sorry about the blurry image--in my dejunking I have misplaced my camera so I had to use my video camera and extract pictures from the moving image.

Now for my latest snacking-stopper: homemade clothes for my calico critters, AHH--way too cute and fun, I get all giddy just thinking about it. I opened a few of the critters in front of my daughter purposefully and she sat beside me (well actually scavenged through my craft goodies) while I worked on little outfits. I took the little figures and used them as models for creating patterns, and when I would set one down to grab material, she would snatch it like a hawk. "No no, mommy gets to keep these until you poop in the toilet," I said. Pooping has been a real struggle, and the makeup bribery simply didn't do the trick, but when I told her she could HAVE these animals once she pooped, she was suddenly very motivated. "And when I go poo-poo in the big-girl potty, I can have the baby kitty, Huh Mommy?" She said with bright eyes. I said yes. So here is what I have come up with so far: a ballerina princess outfit for the "child" kitty, and a dress for the "adult" bear. Again, sorry for the fuzzy images. I placed the spice container in the frame so you could see the scale. When I perfect my methods, I plan to sell the clothes on eBay. I also have a blue version of the ballerina princess. Who needs to diet when you can spend hours working on tiny little treasures. No thinking of food means no eating of food--perfect tiny distraction.

Rainbow Bright

This time of year always makes me a little blue because it marks the anniversary of my sister's passing due to Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Two days ago, on the same day she passed in 2000, I was driving and glaring into the remorseful, gray clouds wondering why this particular day always seems to have rain, every year, wherever I am, just as that day 10 years ago in Michigan when I lost my big sister. The sky cried right along with loved ones, and once again the clouds began to weep in California. As I continued in my reverie of painful thoughts, I said a silent prayer asking for something to remind me of happiness and gratitude. Within five minutes, while turning right on the main drag toward my house, in the middle of the muddiest cloud, sprang a beautiful, bright, rainbow. I laughed and said, "Thanks Julie."

This past weekend I found the perfect venue to honor my sister's memory while fulfilling my sometimes insatiable need to acquire things: A garage sale with proceeds donated to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Just like you must exercise away excess fat, it is important to exercise excess junk. So in order to "binge" at this yard sale I required myself to do a little junk "work out." I donated my items and the lady offered to give me the things I wanted to take home for free, but I said no; It didn't feel right to rob the items meant for cancer research.

I think women are particularly guilty of presenting status symbols to one another, to say, "I am worthwhile," or, "Because I have this THING, I am a cut above." And you thought high school was over. Of course there are the designer purses, big rocks cast in gold, clothing, but among new mothers it is all about the stroller. A high-end stroller for a young mom is the equivalent of a sparkling porche bought by a newly successful business man. Both say, "Look at me, I am doing my job, and very well." I admit, I HAD to have the high-end stroller when I was eight months pregnant, and thank you family for all chipping-in to buy it. But my homeless nurse attire while pushing the high-end baby buggy must keep onlookers guessing. "She probably stole it," or, "Oh wonderful, another vagabond using a baby stroller to cart her junk around."

Here is my point with all this: I bought several items at the garage sale that to me were symbols of being "A cut above." The first item was a Barbie Jeep Power Wheels--yes it goes, FAST (my daughter drove it like she was in a demolition derby, so we fastened her helmet), and a barely used Barbie Dream House. The Power Wheels are just pure fun, but the dream house, I donno, it's locked away in storage. I realized kids can be spoiled, even on second-hand items, and honestly, was I buying it for my daughter, or because I thought it would make me look like a cool mom? I'm not sure. There is nothing wrong with nice things, especially when they come at a good price, and when they are useful, like my stroller. I just think it is important to be mindful of where "Things" fit into priorities and sense of self. Just like food, if I am consuming goods to fill some void besides pure need, I really shouldn't be consuming them at all. But thank goodness for donation--I cannot have an over-stuffed house AND an overstuffed belly. Wouldn't it be great if there were a place for fat donation?--You acquire too much blubber-junk in your trunk and simply unload it? Don't ask about the medical details and mechanics of this fantasy, alright? The organizer guy on Oprah has a theory that clutter and weight are quite connected. He published a book called "Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Big?" He is a well-dressed Aussie with a quick wit and great clean up advice--I think I might read that book. Sorry my Australian readers (yes I see you, and thanks) I cannot think of the guy's name.

I have finally tackled my Jillian Michaels goal. I've done her 30-day shred three times now--only about 20 minutes, good enough. But I had to mute the sound yesterday. My aching body and her "Get it done" tone were grinding on my nerves. Have you ever noticed that she scowls with her lips open when she is working out--like she is saying, "Look at me, I'm HARD CORE." She is great, I'm just bitter, cause she's in shape, and I'm not, YET. The running/walking is going well, and happening daily--I'm running .5 miles now every other day. OH! And today I wore jeans for the first time in two years. They were digging into my gut, but with the right shirt I have to say I looked "A cut above." The digging was also a good reminder not to overeat.

Thank you for your comments, please, please keep them coming. I know it's been a few days since I've posted, so I thought I'd make up for it by ranting just a little longer than usual. I'm going to keep chugging away remembering that just as rainbows emerge from the darkest clouds, success springs from difficulty. And through the toughness I can be something better.

Mind Trickery

I've been trying to cut back, just a tiny bit, but I do what every other committed food-junkie would do: replace one bad habit with another. Shopping!! Shopping is wondrous because if I over-haul, I can take the junk back the next day. It is not entirely intentional, it just sort of happens--the buy-it-then-return-it cycle. I buy something I believe I MUST have to move forward in life, then I get the "stomach ache," typical buyer's remorse. It's not so big a problem as food and sedentary life-style. If shopping made me gain weight I would be a good-looking, plus-size model (a comfortable size 12): heavy, but nothing outrageous. Unfortunately with food there is no receipt. "Taking it back" is called bulimia.

I've found a couple things that make me feel like I have indulged when I really haven't. The first is Salt N' Vinegar kettle chips. When I crave salt, I can't go to any regular potato chip--the bag would be mostly empty in just 10 minutes time. Instead I eat Salt N' Vinegar Kettle Brand chips. They are so potent that my tongue can only handle about 5 or 6 chips while still fulfilling my salt craving. The next is Ben and Jerry's--so, so naughty (Yes pumpkin queen, I'm talking to you). I am a little bit lactose intolerant, so I can only eat a few bites of ice cream before my body says, "No more." Oh! You must try the 3 oz. container. It comes with a little spoon; perfect for cheating on-the-go. But, as I said in my last post, there are some treats that are simply off-limits. It's just a matter of coming to terms with those limits. What if I had a little burial for all of my naughty treats? That might be funny, but honestly, I'd be grave-robbing within a few hours.

Luckily I have recently discovered a little mind-trick for the shopaholic in me: Craig's List. While it is wildly popular, I just made my first purchase--a whole garbage bag of girl clothes for $15! There were more than 30 items inside, and sorting through them was like Christmas morning. I am going to wash them in hot, hot water, maybe twice. My sister-in-law tells a horrific second-hand story of buying a fur coat that caused a lice epidemic in her dormitory, YIKES.

I need to find a trick for one particular spending obsession: Calico Critters--overpriced little animal figurines with tiny clothes and accessories, way too cute for any self-control. I love toys and having a daughter is the perfect excuse to buy too many of them. I decided to set aside a little money to buy critters for potty training motivation. I've only purchased two little animals, but I've been simply obsessed with them. They are my spending version of the powdered doughnut. When I am kicked out of my apartment and swimming in animal figurines, I'll know that it is time to go on a crash toy diet.

Portion Perfect

I didn't run today OR do Jillian Michals, but I DID get my heart pumping. Tomorrow I will run for sure, but Jillian, no promises. Commitment to her DVD feels a little bit like cliff-diving. I know it will be great when I finally jump off--but that is the key: jumping off.

My school of thought for dieting says "Eat a treat, but only once a day, and just a tiny bit." The daily indulgence has been a few squares of chocolate--that is until Easter came around. Did you know you can get sick of chocolate? Just try eating a bite of Cadbury Egg every day from Valentine's to Easter--you will understand. Now my wicked wonder is powdered doughnuts. Here's my dilemma: I have no control around powdered doughnuts. "Just eat two, then close the box." No dice. Then I said, "If I buy the 6-peice package, cheating would only cost me four more doughnuts instead of a baker's dozen." The marketing people at Hostess know exactly what they are doing. They do not make the skinny cellophane to keep the doughnuts fresh for the next day. The snowy dumplings are meant to be devoured!! And it is no coincidence that the pack of six is much fluffier and expensive than the box. Bottom line: this fat brat cannot eat powdered doughnuts—at least not more than maybe once a week. Unfortunately for me, and the Hostess stock-holders, the perfect portion doughnut would only be a little larger than a dime. Not quite enough to make cheating worth it. But be sure that my dreams will be full of doughnut clouds and powdered sugar thunderstorms—pure Heaven.

Spank You Very Much

If you have lost a nice chunk of weight--especially after having a child--you know all about the SKIN issues. Let's be completely honest with one another: having a baby is ugly business--at least for the epidermis. If you feel like you know me a little bit, you understand that I am not one for excessive vanity. I did not have a baby because I thought it would make me look cute, but common ladies!! At least warn a girl about the skin expansion! It's like time-lapse photography of continental drift from space. Or images of the melting ice-caps from a computer-generated global warming video. My skin is slowly eaten away by the polluted fat until I am one, big, blue, stretch-mark ball.

Despite the apparent bitterness, I am starting to forgive all of the skinny people I used to hate--as if they personally attacked my blood-relatives--(skinny brats, Marathon Barbie, and other epithets). But I will not EVER, never, forgive the people who say, "Oh, um, I don't know if I'm just different, but I didn't get ANY stretch marks when I was pregnant/gained weight/growing up." That is just plain mean! It feels like someone who says, "I have never liked fried food," or, "I wish I could eat more, but I'm just always so, like, full."

Even though I have lost quite a few inches and pounds, I have not lost the SKIN. The bulk is replaced by misplaced flaps and odd-looking rolls. A couple days ago I was drooling over a SPANKS catalogue--you know reasonable-sized celebrities aren't just magically flat under their clothes, they wear SPANKS. I really, really wanted to order a few things just to smooth out my silhouette. They were too pricey for my current situation, so I went to ROSS and found the comparable "Shapewear." I got a nice black pair of biker-short things that pulled all the way to my bra. They were size large, but they looked like they could fit my daughter's baby doll. It's amazing how they can make fabric quadruple in size. If only my skin was made the same way--what a mean trick. I was nervous about feeling like I couldn't breathe--but they were very reasonable. Have you ever heard the stories of nineteenth-century ladies fainting in church from their restrictive whale-bone corsets? The underwear people have advanced a lot since then, luckily for me. It worked out nicely and gave me smooth lines to wear a fitted, flattering dress. Just the perfect little accent to a shrinking waist-line.

Cloud Three

So, do you like when I respond directly to your comments? Does it make you want to comment more? I hope so; this would be so much more difficult without all of the support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

When thinking about how to describe my new-shoe experience, the first thing that came to mind was "Cloud Nine." But then I realized, not only is it cliché; to be honest, I don't even know what it means. If something fantastic is cloud nine, what is something that is cloud 1 through 8?  I suppose because humans are historically fascinated with flight and defying gravity, we use expressions of different degrees of weightlessness to describe our experience and mood. When content, you "walk with your head high," when  thrilled you "walk on air," and when ecstatic you "walk on Cloud Nine." I'd say it was much better than simply a high head and better than walking on air, but not quite cloud nine. I was on a perfect Cloud Three.

"You should never have to 'break in' shoes," the man clarified yesterday. "If they don't feel comfortable the moment you begin your run, they are not the right shoes." I really didn't believe him at the time. Never in my life have I been able to simply "Go" without some discomfort--that was different today. It felt like I was bouncing on bubble wrap while keeping the air capsules in-tact (Don't you just love bubble wrap? Even as a grown person I can't pass up an opportunity to stomp on a fresh piece; the sound is just so satisfying) When I finished my run (at half-way point in my 5K walk), my knee did not hurt! My run was about a quarter mile; that’s just perfect for now. The shoes felt like like my feet got a flattering new bra: sensible and supportive.

I am not going to get too excited--I don't want my self-confidence all wrapped up in running--if it continues to work, fantastic, if not, that's ok too. Either way I am committed to staying active.  Taking the man's advice, I talked and sang during my run to make sure my heart-rate was in the zone. The technique also helped me speed up when I began slacking my power-walk. I'm sure I looked a little like the haggard crazies who lament to the oxygen.

Here is my plan to keep things slow and steady: I will run every other day in the middle of my walk, and on the walk-only days I will face Jillian and her 30-Day Shred. Each week I will add about .1 miles--nice and steady. That means by the time I reach my 10K, I will be able to run about 1.3 miles. Perfect!

Second Chance

Before I begin I must admit to something terrible--I have participated in what I call "Insider blogging." Blog comments are meant to be left out of a person's own free will and not motivated by inside information. But I have compelled some people to leave comments on my blog. You see, sometimes I get scared when there is nothing said. It feels like readers are literally saying "Whoa, um, no comment!" (Smirk, eye roll) So, in the past, I have begged a family member or close friend to write a comment to get the discussion going--or just to have something THERE to help me feel less, um, NAKED. I am not a complete fraud, however, I have only compelled about 5 or so comments, but I thought I should be honest. And here is my commitment to you: I will respond each time there are comments--in the comment section, starting with "Costco Coutor." I have struggled with this because I thought people would think I'm weird for commenting on my own comments. Then I realized that many of you comment to get a response, and I shall give them to you, just check back once in a while. And please COMMENT, I'm begging you!! Even if you don't like me, comment, please--any attention is good attention (hahha, joking). Whew, I feel so much LIGHTER now that I have repented. Oh, one more thing. I know my posts have been scarce as of late, and suddenly I can't stop talking. It is a simple case of writers block--sometimes you have something to say, and sometimes you just don't. I cannot commit to any post quota because forced writing sounds very mechanical and robotic--I want to be as fresh as possible. Thank you for riding on my roller coaster--fun isn't it?


Ok, now for my second chance--I am going to start running again. I took a big hit to the ego when I had to stop a few months ago, but I am proud for continuing to exercise despite my sense of loss--the old me would just give up and say, "I guess I'm just going to be fat now." My knee is finally healed so I thought I would rip it up again and run a 10K. Just kidding, not about the 10K, but about ripping up my knee. This time must be different, SOO, instead of getting quickie cheap shoes at Kohl's --I went to a running store. I told the man (complete with black track suit and a mid-western air of discontent) all about my plight, even brought in my old shoes, and he was extremely helpful. He had a very familiar accent and personality. I asked him if he was from the mid-west, "Yes, I'm from ChiCAAAAAGo." I responded, "Oh I knew it!" jumping a little, "I'm from Detroit." He glared at me with the wonderful attitude that only people "Back east" have--but I think my enthusiasm was disarming. Midwestern and Eastern folks get a bad rap for being gloomy and short-tempered, but I don't think that's fair. I think people east of Kentucky are generally more guarded and it comes across as snobbish--they would call all the bubbles in California "fake." Plus, here we are spoiled with abundant mood-lifting sunshine. I tried about 10 different pairs (running and walking in each--forgot the sports bra, YIKES, after I type I'm gonna go ice the welts on my chin) My little girl was with me of course and she followed right along. She removed her Dora shoes and dug through the sock bin. She chased after me in men's socks, that looked like trampled bunny ears swinging from her feet, and said "Time to race together," each time I tried on a new pair. A half-an-hour into the fitting, I smelled a familiar waft. It was impossible to ignore in the tiny store so I decided just to make it public "Oh you need a diaper change, don't you!?" The man looked away, uncomfortable, and I asked (already knowing the answer,) "Do you have children?" No he did not. But it was better than pretending nothing happened--like the mystery fart at tea which twists the faces of all the gentlefolk. He found me the right pair about two minutes after that, quite luckily for him.


He and the other lady (with butt-length hair painted in gray--she was holding a flyer about a clothing-optional run, hahaha) gave me plenty of good advice. The main thing was: SLOW DOWN. I probably injured myself last time by increasing distance too quickly, going too long, and too fast. No more than a 10% increase in distance per week--a good rule of thumb. So to answer your question, I will probably not be RUNNING the 10K the whole way, it is in June, and I am not going to tear open my limbs to get there, but I want to participate anyway. It is a nice little challenge to put on the horizon. I told him I was running for weight-loss and he said that if I could not talk and run at the same time, I was going too fast. I should be able to do labored speaking or singing while in a good cardio heart range. If I start running and begin to lose my breath, "Stop and walk," he said. Woo hoo, no more beating myself up for stopping and walking!! He said it was important to change things up--create muscle confusion--it keeps the body out of stasis and in fat-burning mode. Which reminds me, I need to dust off that Jillian Michaels DVD. I haven't touched it for a month, she scared me away (sorry Cathy). But I can do it; I must do it. Monday, I will start on Monday and report back.


The shoes took quite a bite out of my spending money, but it's worth it. They have a great return/damage policy and gave me tons of info. Also, I realized I am a 10 1/2, not a 10, and my left foot should be in an 11, HAHA. No wonder I got blisters last time. Life lesson: find out what fits, not what looks like a sexy number (that includes bra size, no matter how scary). The shoes are a brand I have never heard of, "Saucony." Sounds trendy and expensive, don't you think? Aren't I popular now? My plan right now is to continue to walk my 3 miles, but run 3-4 blocks in-between, then I will add a block every other day. "Slow and steady wins the race." I am so happy and feel a new wind of excitement for the journey ahead, YAY!

Costco Coutour

Since my little darling was born, I boxed up all of my clothes (size 6 and 8) and marked them "CLOTHES THAT DON'T FIT ME YET." Sadly, they are still rotting in storage--it's ok. Right after she was born I wore T-shirts, scrubs, and pajama pants. About 8 months later I realized my body was not bouncing back on its own so I splurged on a few nice looking BIG MAMA clothes. Here is the mistake I made: I bought sizes that were HUGE on me--like XXXL. I tried to hide behind tent-like structures until the magical day when size 6 would come calling. Let me tell you something from personal experience---DON'T BUY TENT CLOTHES!! Although they may be comfortable and breezy, they only add inches to your silhouette. I am much bigger than before giving birth, but I still have a waist, and Big Mama clothes don't accentuate natural curves--they make me look like a big, fat, shipping crate. (By the way, Ally, Sweetie, if you are reading this sometime in the future, it is not your fault that I am fat, it is MY fault and mine alone. You are the best thing in my life and I would gain another 300 pounds if that was the only way I could keep you. Mommy's just trying to be healthy so we can do lots of fun things together for a long, long time.) Another benefit of wearing slightly form-fitting clothes (I'll pass on the silver body gloves for now) is that they make me focus on my posture and my shape. It is difficult to hide a weekend-binge bulge in a nice, fitted little top. If something feels a little bit uncomfortable--like it's tugging a little more--I know it's time to get my butt back on healthy habit highway.

As part of my goal to rid my wardrobe of tent-structures, I treated myself to a little shopping at Costco. I really like buying clothes there because I can take them HOME to try on and not have to worry about a 50-page return policy, the clothes are well-made, brand-names at reasonable prices (it's amazing how my Wal Mart clothes shred themselves to pieces), and most of the items feature a classic look instead of being overly trendy--I don't have money to buy new clothes each season. I picked a pair of jeans size 14--I haven't been able to pull size 14 over my hips in over two years--the audacity of hope. And two others, size 16, which I knew would fit comfortably. A few tops sprinkled on top and I was ready to go. This is the best part--each pair of pants had a zipper, and, can you imagine...Buttons!! Another little scapegoat I have used these past two years is the elastic waist--but I have come to the sobering conclusion that elastic wastes are for geriatric patients and pregnant women. Oh hum. I ran inside with my pile of clothes and FIRST tried on the size fourteen pair--and guess what? THEY FIT OVER MY HIPS. Don't get too excited though; my saggy hip flab spilled over generously into a king size muffin top (see above). And to button them would mean the end of my poor tailbone; and way too tight in all the wrong places--that wouldn't be fair to the innocent children. But I was happy nonetheless. I ended with just two shirts and said "No way" to the tent ones, and "Bye bye" to the buttons and zippers. I am not ready to be THAT uncomfortable yet. I have been spoiled. After my next 15 pounds I will make a point of buying myself a FLATTERING pair of real pants, something to work toward. But for now, I will watch my daughter devour that naughty Costco-dog while I dream of skinnier times and sip an ice cold diet coke. Ahhh

The Fat Debate

One correction--the show I talked about in my last post is actually called, "The Price of Beauty." And I lied. I want to be thin, now! Just like all you other little brats. I'm sick of suffocating in my own skin.

I had the chance to watch a Dr. Phil episode which featured two sides of what he called "The Fat Debate." One side featured three ladies all 300+ who were on the "Fat" side, and the lightweights, including Jillian Michaels, on the side of "Thin." So what is the debate--you are either fat or thin, right? Wrong! The big girls argued that there is too much prejudice against fat people, in fact, one lady is the chairwoman of an organization called "Promoting Fat Awareness," something like that. They said the thin folks (on the other side of the argument) had no right to assume fat people were lazy, unhealthy, or disgusting--fat has much more to do with genetics than people will admit. You can imagine what the skinny side had to say. The bald man, personal trainer like Jillian, sported a muscle Tee that said "No Chubbies." The Fatties went crazy over that one. He has a very unique training method--He takes his victims into the torture chamber--weight room--has them do all sorts of crazy contortions, and if they slack off he throws JUNK FOOD AT THEM. Sign me up!! "Hey fatty, you gettin' tired huh, huh!!? Fine! Then just eat more crap, here take this--Hi-YA, and THAT--HEEYAA," and I open my mouth to catch the flying Twinkies--perfect!! This guy argued that fat people make themselves that way and deserve no sympathy from him or the rest of society. If you have to buy two airplane tickets, fine-- your fault for being fat, he argued. He also said that the big girls didn't do themselves any good playing the victim card.

While I understand where the big girls are coming from, I don't think it is ever healthy to play the victim card. Disclaimer!!! I am not talking about people with severe mental, emotional, or medical disabilities. More people with the attitude, "I am this way because of a, b, or c, NOT because of anything I can control." One thing that really helped me lose was being honest with myself. Sort of being my own drill-sergeant. "Hey you! You ate and sat your way into this, so you must walk, run, or jog your way out." It was kind of liberating actually--to realize that I had control over my future. Part of me wanted to say "This is how I am, take me or leave me" and ignore my weight issues. But when I first started seeing results I realized that I have the power to become something better and stronger. In this way, I think that being "Fat" is more of a mental block people put on themselves than a real physical problem that keeps them from losing weight. I had to get over the mental hurdles of changing. I wasn't supposed to go to the gym--fat people don't go to the gym. I wasn't supposed to eat healthy, I am a pig. I can't wear anything but baggy clothes--I am ugly. Just a few of the jumps I had to overcome in the beginning.

This debate had too much talk about dieting and less about lifestyle. I have never in my life successfully completed a diet and maintained the weight loss. So I sat down with myself and said, "I am going to lose weight for real this time, so no dieting." Instead I made a few CONSISTANT changes in my life that I knew I could handle. I cannot quit eating sweats, so I still eat them. I would have a mental breakdown without bread, so it is still in my diet. But I exercise 6 days a week, no questions asked--something I have never been able to do until now. I felt like the big girls just accepted their "Fatness" after failing years of diets. I wish I could shake them and say, "You can lose weight without dieting!" Small changes, a little at a time, lead to better habits, better habits lead to better choices, better choices lead to weight loss--and it doesn't happen overnight.

Lastly, I don't think it is ever appropriate to treat someone with disrespect. Part of being a mature, well-adjusted human being is learning to live respectfully with people who are different--even, FAT! Don't judge a book by its cover. "That's just something fat people say." Hahaha, but really if an adult is making fun of another person because of their size, he or she needs a wake-up call, not the fatty. I know I make fun of myself all the time, but that works for me, it helps me laugh off the outside pressures and just continue on course. But I will never in my life, ever, make comments about another fat person again. It is a very lonely, difficult place to be, and meanness never helps anything. So what do you guys think? Do fat people deserve their plight? Is there too much prejudice against large people? Tell me everything, and again, thanks, without this blog I would be 20 pounds heavier loathing is self pity.

My own little fattening hut

I am really into this new show called, "Real Beauty" on VH1. Jessica Simpson (I know, I know) goes around the world to see how other cultures define beauty. The last episode featured a new bride in Uganda, Africa. The young women was draped in beautiful silks and surrounded by loved ones in her bridal party--only female of course, until after the ceremony. She was giddy and enthusiastic about her new life, AND, wait for it--80 pounds heavier than two months previous. Her mother and aunt explained the ritual of the "Fattening Hut." Symbols of status among men include owning large herds of cows and having a large, fleshy, fat wife (more than one if you could afford it), "You want your wife to look like the cows," said one young man. So, this blushing bride had spent 60 days in a clay hut doing absolutely nothing but drink jug after jug of fresh, herb laced, cow's milk while her mother messaged her expanding flesh with oil. They showed the empty jugs at about 1:00 p.m., and she had already consumed what looked like a gallon and a half of pure, creamy, milk! Can you imagine!? Eighty pounds in two months!! To prepare for her wedding day! The first thing I thought was, "What about the stretch marks!!??" I can't even conjure in my mind how whipped up her skin must be. An interviewer asked a group of men, "But how fat is TOO fat?" And one man responded, "If she cannot walk easily, the wife is too fat." HA! I am living in the wrong country! My poor husband, his status shrinking each week.

I have spent the last few days in my own little fattening hut. On Friday, I treated myself to Delhi Palace, an all-you-can-eat Indian lunch. I used to go there almost every week, but since my weight loss journey began, I changed it to once every financial quarter. I GORGED on curry paneer, chicken tika masala (cream base), fresh bread (Nan), and deep fried veggie samosas, SOOO good. When I came home I was a little sad to find that my new bra had a large, light green stain splashed on it--in my crazed eating I spilled the mint chutney on my shirt and I guess it leaked through. On Saturday, I picked up four dozen white rolls, a three-tier carrot cake, and an apple pie (sugar free, like that even counts now) in support of a church bake sale. We ate two-dozen rolls by day's end, and the pie was half devoured. Then Easter Sunday--three buttered rolls for breakfast, potatoes, steak, noodle salad, fresh-squeezed lemonade, a lime and condensed milk drink, chocolate, LOTS of chocolate, and finally a HUGE piece of carrot cake, and plenty of rolls for dinner. By Monday afternoon I was feeling like a lost sinner, so I took the entire cake, and the remaining rolls and dumped them in the trash. Now that I have a few pounds off my body, I actually APRECIATE the feeling of eating healthily--so it was time to say bye-bye to endless carbs, but what FUN!

I know people love to hate Jessica Simpson, but I really think her show is a noble attempt to reveal human nature. No matter where we come from, there are pressures on women to take extreme measures to conform to society's rules about beauty--weather they say you must be fair, or dark, fat, or thin--they are all the same: man-made. We rarely look at the worth of a soul before we judge the outer shell. So instead of becoming something I am not, I am at peace with one goal: being healthy. True health, I believe, is true beauty.

Oology

I told you yesterday about the little craft that has kept me busy and slim this past week, but I forgot that the ones remaining belong to a few people who read this blog, so a picture would ruin the surprise--I'll post those next week. Our grocery store sells quail eggs and taking a tip from my sisters-in-law, who showed me how to craft chicken eggs using beads, I decided to do the same thing but on a smaller scale--with quail eggs. Here is what I do. First, I wash the egg and poke a hole in both ends then flush out the contents. I cover the egg in about eight layers of Elmer's glue--letting each layer dry before the next. Then I take special seed beads from Japan, they are called Deilcas, and place the beads in any configuration imaginable. Delicas are the best because they are the only seed beads I've found that are uniform in size--so you can actually make a grid of what you want the end product to look like--it is a miniscule mosaic. After all the beads are adhered (I cover the ENTIRE surface of the egg in seed beads), I start my favorite part--spicing it up with Swarovski crystals. These little gems are not cheap (about $10 for 100), but luckily in my working days I has a fascination for the little diamonds and stocked up, so I had plenty of sizes and colors to choose from. When the egg is to my liking, I shine it with Windex; it is the perfect little trick for making the crystals sparkle. I sent one to my mom last week, and she was really happy. You might wonder how I could send such a fragile object through the postal system. Well, my little girl threw that egg on the ground at least a dozen times before I put it in the mail. You see, the layers of Elmer's glue and the tight layer of beads protect the egg, so in the end, it is actually quite durable. It is a very intricate process, but just the thing I needed to keep my mind off snacking. Does anyone else find that having something difficult to DO can actually make you not think about food? My daughter and I went to the local county museum today and they had a whole floor dedicated to Oology; the study of eggs. I was fascinated by all of the different eggs. There were so many sizes, shapes, and colors. Each new little egg on display gave me a new idea for crafting. So when the museum curator winds up missing hundreds of display eggs, tell him the eggs are fine, but just a little bit more sparkly than before.