Taste Bust

On Sunday, the most glorious thing happened: I had Oreos.

These were my first Oreos of the year. We didn't have them growing up as a kid (grama's house featured the off-brand vanilla variety) so there were too many nights as a depressed young woman I'd eat a whole package of the mint kind. With a glass of milk, of course.

I was buying gauze at the pharmacy on Sunday when they caught my eye. There was a snack stand, and among the carb- and calorie-laden options was a four pack of mint oreos, dipped in chocolate. They were the very definition of where heaven and hell combine.

I wasn't particularly hungry but bought them with a note of forgiveness and apology. I knew that they would take alot longer to work off than they would to eat, but my self-indulgence said it was ok.

So in the car, I ripped open the package. And .... mmm .... they were gone.

My first Oreos of the year and they were gone without me realizing it.

I do this sometimes. Ok, a lot of times. I eat so fast or so mindlessly that I barely taste something. I look down and it's all gone - how did that happen? Oh yeah, I'm a pig.

The same sort of thing happened tonight. I got home from work at 10 and since I'd not eaten (no groceries + dumb = dumb and hungry Ang). I had two bowls of cereal, scooping the yum in my mouth with nary a pause. One bowl gone, I poured another. I figured it was my caloric right.

Well, I'm paying for it. It's 430, I've been awake for an hour and Craig just groaned at me. I dont know that I wouldn't have woken if I'd eaten the cereal and actually REALIZED what I was putting in my mouth at the speed of light, but maybe it would have been worth it.

Mind Control

For the past two weekends, it's become glaringly obvious how much I let others control my feelings. Not like a zombie or anything, and I'm not talking about the evil media (although the ShamWow guy has me convinced). Rather, it's likely someone I know. And they don't always use that power for good rather than evil.

Yesterday Craig and I had a fight after lunch because he wanted to go home and I wanted to do errands. My aversion to making two trips to the west end is so that I would rather he stay in the car and moan. After one stop, I took him home since he was feeling so icky, because the guilt was making me feel icky too. But because of that fight, I took my sweet time doing errands. Usually I want to spend every spare second of our Sundays together, but this time I wandered around Target, spending 20 minutes in the floss aisle.

And because I was upset and guilty and angry, I decided to REALLY show him and buy a bar of Cadbury dairy milk. And Eat. The whole. Thing.

Ha! Now I can be bitchy AND fat!!

It's like I should assign myself Thinking Error Reports.

Another example of this, also an issue on Sundays, is church. We used to LOVE our church and we went every week. But after I got fired from my youth ministry job (no fault of my own), we just haven't been able to go back. We've made amends with pretty much everyone involved. I took the complaint to the staff comittee. And we even went back a few times. But it just doesn't feel the same anymore.

So because of someone else's asshat behavior, we no longer worship where we married. We don't really go to church at all, actually. And the place I nurtured my spirituality is gone, along with it, my feeling of connection to the Spirit.

It sucks, really.

You'd think as someone who knows so much about OTHER people's minds, I'd be able to at least control my own. And yeah, I'm working on it. But it's a goal much harder to measure than 'lose five pounds'. I think the first step, no more fight chocolate. The first rule of fight chocolate is to not have fight chocolate.

sacrifice

So I made Craig read my most-recent blog posts earlier. When he was finished, I asked him what he thought.

"Very good honey. You are quite dedicated."

This, from the man who NYT begged to run their copy desk (that's my version of the story at least). I know I'm a good writer. I know I'm a bit funny. Why doesn't anyone else know it? And better yet, why doesn't anyone else know it and offer me a book deal and lots of money to do it?

I'm just as good as all the other fat-chick writers. My last name includes Lancaster, which I'd like to consider puts me on the same level as Jen. And I swear, the tales of me sweating all over the gym and mentally hating the gym rat next to me are HIlarious.

Actually, I think I already know what I'm missing.

Alcohol.

See, a couple summers back Craig and I included microbrews, liquor, and over-priced pretty drinks from various restaurant decks among our very own food pyramid (filled out by nachos, fried chicken and burgers. Hey, the nachos had lettuce!). And at the end of the summer, when I realized in a flash of brilliance, "hmm, I think I'm gaining weight," evenings at the three-pint max brewery were the first of the food groups to go. And since then, I've just not gotten back into the habit of drinking. Grad school was in the way, and I don't have that many hard-drinking friends anymore. And to be honest, since I quit smoking the stench of bars make me want to vomit prior to a single drop (in the good old days, I only threw up to drink more).

As it is, we have a wine fridge full of goodies we brought back from California. Three months ago. The best wine in the country, bought at the vineyard, and we haven't tapped it. My former self would be so disappointed. My current self just begs me to be in bed by 9.

But in the effort of accomplishing the life long dream of being a writer who gets paid for it (and doesn't ever have to cover a 4H cat show), I have decided I can do it. I will work out. I will write. I will explore food and self-esteem issues via the world wide web, allowing whoever would chance upon my blog to point and laugh or commiserate and champion.

And, I will drink.

Hey, it's all the name of having my chubby, double-chinned, beaming (and soon to be drunk) face on the jacket of a book. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I'm Number One

I am officially the fattest person in my family.

Oh fuck.

Now, I'm used to being the smartest, cutest and funniest. But those are titles I'm proud to claim. Fattest, though I've been in the running for the top spot for about 7years, I actually tried to avoid.

You've seen that Craig is quickly joining the ranks of the anorectics. And mom, in her own battle of the bulge, hit the 206 mark this week. At this point, I'd just be happy with 246.

So in addition to fattest, I need to make hay to gain the titles of 'healthiest eating' and 'works out the most'. Craig has agreed to purchase me some training sessions for my combined anniversary-Christmas-VDay gift. And my schedule shall continue to permit water aerobics two days a week. Fall is quickly approaching but weekend walks are certainly in the cards for another month or two. And now that I know I can handle the hellish-est of Ultimate Fitness, let's see what an easy day there looks like, shall we?

Because this is one area in which I wanted to be the biggest loser instead of the reining champ.

Fruit Fracas

I really like fruit. What a bold, out-there statement, huh? But the thing is, I don't actually eat all that much of it. Because as much as I may long for the cool, sweet, citrus of summer, I really hate cutting it.

And yes, I'm aware this could be classified as 'lazy'.

I have a decent knife or two, gifts from the nuptials last year. But I have so many bad memories of trying to SAW through melons with my parents' dull blades that I forget it doesn't have to be that bad in my kitchen.

So last week, I bought a cantaloupe, watermelon and strawberries with the full intention of including them in lunches throughout the week. But between the nightly exhaustion and morning-ly rush, it didn't happen. Last night though, enjoying a night home with the pups, I had time to spare. So I selected a sharp knife and prepared for a mess.

Mess, averted. The whole ordeal took me less than five minutes. And in less than another hour, I ate the whole colorful spread.

So see, even if pulling out a knife is too daunting a task, when I put my mind to it, I can do anything. Even eat an entire watermelon (small!), cantaloupe and quart of strawberries in one sitting. That's easier than actually putting the bowl in the fridge, after all.

"It's Water Weight"

Man, I wish that I could assign the water-weight label to 80 pounds or so. But since it's not possible, I am using the water to my benefit.

I am EXERCISING in it.

I went to a couple bad-ass classes this week. Monday was Ultimate Fitness, featuring a workout that made even the instructor beg for mercy. Tuesday's was advertised as a 'gentle' workout, titled 'Mind-Body Connection'. It was actually a beginner's Pilates class that resulted in me sweating all over the Y-provided mat.

Wednesdays at work are what I affectionately refer to as 'hell day'. The day starts with a meeting from 9-11:30 a.m. There's another at 1:30, which lasts til about 3. At 3 or 3:15 (depending on if it's training or just a staff meeting), we meet until 4 when a lot of people go home. It is also a day at which I arrive to work at 8 a.m. after working until 9 p.m. the previous night. Now, my work may not be physical but my mind is sure flexing muscle. And after a summer of unemployment, let me just say it's HARD.

So on Wednesday, instead of collapsing at home at 5 p.m. like a sane person, I went to the pool. There is a water exercise class (apparently the term 'aerobics' is dated, who knew?) that starts at 5:30, just enough time for me to hang up on the computer-help tech and ride bike the three blocks to the Y. Normally, I would rather swim in hot lava than put on a swimsuit in public, but since the other people in this class are actually bigger and more out of shape than me, I can actually pull it off (or pull it on, if you will - ha! fat girl in a swimsuit joke!).

As I walked into the water, the stress melted away. My brow unfurrowed. My breathing returned to a normal range.

I even frolicked.

I grew up in the pool, riding my bike the two miles into town to jump in at noon then pedaling up the hill and around the cemetary home around 8 p.m. Northeastern Montana summer features sunshine until about 9 from the time school is out until the bells ring for return. I loved every freckly, chlorinated minute of it. I lifeguarded a summer after high school, which remains among the few selected as 'best summer EVER'. So, I have an affinity for the pool.

Rather than wear a belt, I chose to work my core extra hard and just work it without the floatation device. I may have waterboarded myself during the crunches, and I think the ladies who wear towels on their heads may have been less than amused at my twisty-turny splashing, but I was as happy as a fish.

I vowed to remember how much I enjoyed it on Friday as well, when I would have two more fatiguing days. So I returned tonight. It's not that hard of a workout, although my heart rate rises and the resistance is certainly working my muscles better than my preferred activity of reading.

And as long as I'm the youngest in the class, I'm going to bust my ass like I'm Michael Phelps.

Not Fair Fatty

As you're aware, my husband was in a horrific motorcycle accident a month ago. A deer jumped in front of him on the interstate, he wiped out, broke his ribs, got road rash, collapsed his lung and lacerated his spleen. He continues to be in pain, and suffering side effects we weren't counting on (apparently he left his sense of humor on the highway with most of his arm skin).

But thank God, he is doing better and I have him around still. I mean, I am getting all sorts of excuse-mileage out of this one!

But I have to admit, my sympathy for him has greatly diminished of late. You see, when one's internal organs are all buggered up, apparently the stomach doesn't want anything in it. The first week in the hospital, I had to force him to eat anything. I was thrilled when he had three or four spoonfuls of mac and cheese. He didn't even want carrot cake, which he would salivate on command for previously.

It didn't change much when we got home. He would have a nibble of one of the various fab meals brought to us by his coworkers (see: the time Ang ate a whole pan of homemade mac and cheese). He threw away a milk shake. And when he made his fabulously famous chicken and dumplings, he was done before I was back for a second helping.

A couple weeks ago my aunt was visiting. We don't see her often since she lives in the middle of nowhere. She immediately commented on how much weight he's lost. God Bless her, she didn't comment on how much weight I have NOT lost.

Today, Craig posted these photos on facebook:


They are the 'before' and 'after' shots of Craig. In so many ways, our life has turned been divided into 'before' and 'after' the accident. Now, for Craig, it coincides with 'before' and 'after' he lost 20+ pounds in a month without running a step.

For the record, he doesn't recommend this as a weight loss solution. In addition to the $35K medical-bill pricetag, I guess it hurts.