I had a shit day

That's a line from a Pink song, but it's twoo! So twoo! I had a terrible shit day.

And I guess I'd better say right now that if you don't care for profanity, you probably don't want to read any further.  And I mean foul filthy profanity. So if you keep reading, don't blame me if you're disgusted.

Wherein Faith Confesses What an Idiot She Can Be

Let me get the good stuff out of the way first, before I tell on myself. I hit two goals in one fell swoop today! My first two Weight Watchers goals involved (1) hitting my 5% goal (losing 5% of my starting weight) and (2) hitting 15 pounds. I thought I made 5% last week, but they round up, so I had to get to 14 pounds lost to hit the 5%. So when I weighed in today, I was blissed to find that I've lost a bit over 15 pounds! Woohoo! My next goals are to get to the 10% mark, and 25 pounds. I'll just keep taking it bit by bit until I get to where I want to go.

Now to tell on myself. I love music. I've probably already made that clear. And I've been listening mainly to 3 albums for the last 4 weeks: Lily Allen, Alright Still; Dee Does Broadway; and the soundtrack to The Great Gatsby.  I did have my phone on shuffle last Saturday at work, but that's rare just because I have been going from song to song to song until I find one that fits my mood, while these 3 albums have pretty consistently matched my mood of late.

Anyway, today for some reason I didn't put it on an album. I just plugged it into my car and let it shuffle and I passed over song after song after song, singing and dancing when one I was in the mood for came on, and then going to the next one.  One of my all-time favourite songs came on, a Billy Idol number, and I was singing and dancing and amusing myself at the thought of using the songs as Facebook statuses or texts to one of my best friends, when the horrifying thought hit me.

I called my sister. "Is Dancing with Myself about masturbation?"

Because you know how embarrassing that could have potentially been for me, if I'd texted just the song title to my best friend.  "Dancing With Myself."  "Oh really? Tell me more," or, conversely, "TMI." And I'd have been clueless.  Or announced to my world via Facebook status: Dancing With Myself. I have some incredibly filthy-minded friends who wouldn't hesitate to take the mickey out of me.

Thank the FSM that my sister loves me and tells me the truth.  She asked if I really thought that song was about dancing by oneself, and I confessed that I did. I guess maybe because I spend a good part of my life feeling alone in the middle of crowds or groups of people, so it's such a familiar feeling to me that I take it for granted.

So yeah. I was mentally imagining Billy Idol sneering at all the empty-eyed bimbos around him and dancing proudly by himself, showing his moves.  Because dude! That man can sneer! So sexy!

And I won't be texting that song title to anyone, or using it as a status, and I'll only sing and dance to it when I'm alone, you know, dancing by myself. Literally. Not masturbating--I'm not sure I could manage that while singing and dancing.

Feelin' Freaky

So I'm starting to think I may be in this for the long haul. I  may actually make it. And it's a freakish, bizarre feeling.  Sure, I've had plenty of daydreams where I was magically thin and svelte and slender and lean and luscious and all that good stuff, but the closest I got was back in '01 where I got down to 205 before the inevitable climb back up.

That's really embarrassing to admit, by the way, although I don't know why it should be. It's not like I look like I weigh 120 pounds and people would be surprised to find out what I really weigh. But there you have it. I weigh a LOT, and it's still over 40 pounds less than I weighed at my highest.

Anyway, I digress. Here's the dealio. Today at work I realized I have actually gotten into some really good habits.  I eat breakfast every morning (well, every morning except Sunday, when I sleep until 9:30 or 10 and then go have lunch with my family). And by breakfast I mean high protein, not sweet. This morning I was trying to figure out what I wanted, and I ended up getting an egg  mc muffin (kind of yucky, not really my thing) and eating about half of it before deciding I'd had enough and chucking the rest. And then when I got hungry before it was time for my lunch, which has actually gotten to be pretty rare for me, I meandered to the fridge at work where I have a bag with fresh veggies, edamame hummus, some lean meat, and some laughing cow light cheese wedges. I had some veggies and hummus and a little meat.  And that kept me nicely full so that when I went for lunch I just got some soup because I decided I'd rather have a relatively light soup instead of the heavy lunches they tend to offer at the work cafe.  And I actually checked the labels on the bags of chips (because I wanted a few tortilla chips to crush into my soup because yum), and about freaked out when I saw how fattening Fritos are. I mean, I realize they're hardly a health food, but I was a little shocked by just how greasy those things are. I got some lighter chips, and only ate about half of them, and halfway through my soup I was full so I stopped eating.  And so on and so forth. You get the picture.

And I told my sister that I think I might just make it this time, and she's feeling the same way, which is cool. We're either our best allies or our worst enemies when it comes to food. It's nice to be both on the same page at the same time.  I told her that I've had some times lately where I've been angry or frustrated and I wanted to eat, because that's what I do when I'm angry or frustrated and in a situation where I can't cuss like the daughter of a sailor that I am, but I couldn't because I either was full of good food, or I wasn't hungry.

If you've never been an emotional eater, that last sentence wouldn't make any sense to you. Well, okay, so you couldn't eat because you weren't hungry. Logical. But if you're an emotional eater, you know that hunger has absolutely nothing to do with emotional eating.  So anyway, now that I'm paying attention to how I feel physically, I don't quite know what to do with myself when I'm angry or frustrated and can't cuss like the daughter of a sailor. I mean, one day at work I had a particularly difficult customer, and when I hung up the phone I muttered--sotto voce, I thought--dumbass motherf***er. Fortunately the few people who heard me thought it was funny and laughed, but it's not professional and I don't like doing that at work. So I can't cuss and I can't eat. What can I do? I'm pretty much tied to my desk and phone except for brief potty breaks that I owe to the copious amounts of fluid I consume (all either very low calorie or calorie free, another lovely new habit), I don't really have the luxury of taking more than a 3 minute walk to the bathroom. Any suggestions are definitely welcomed.

Another thing: I have a bionic knee. It doesn't quite work like that of the $6 million dollar man, but it gets me around. Stairs are tough.  I always feel like I'm going to propel myself headfirst down the stairs so I usually elevator it, and I feel self-conscious about that. I always think people look at me and think I'm too freaking lazy to walk up one flight of stairs, no wonder I'm so fat. But it's not lazy so much as it is things not working well. But today I got my courage up, and I walked down the stairs at lunch and after work. I had to hold on to the rail, and get a kind of swinging gait going that must have been amusing had anyone been around to see me, but it worked! Woot!  I'm going to keep practicing the stairs, and maybe someday I can go down them without feeling like Tarzan swinging from vine to vine.

So positive changes are happening, and my daydreams are definitely getting more interesting. It's going to be exciting when some of those daydreams become reality.

And in other breaking news: I got some really cute lacy undies a few weeks ago, and wore one of them today. Super melvins did those things give me a wedgie from hell! Why the heck do people voluntarily stick fabric in those places? I just don't get it. Not comfortable. Not a sexy feeling, in my opinion, unless it comes off again right away. Painful. I'm going back to my decidedly unsexy although cute and very comfortable boyshort undies.

Naked and Unashamed

Yesterday I went into the office for a while. Normally when I'm working before 8, after 5, and on Saturdays, I've got my iPhone blasting music into headphones that I wear. It blocks outside distractions and keeps me amused.  But I didn't feel like wearing headphones, and my co-worker sitting next to me was happy to have the music going, even if she didn't like everything I was playing.  So I put it on shuffle, set it down, and went to work.

But I had to stop every so often and fast forward over a song. Hasa Diga Eebowai? Yeah, no. One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces? Sorry (by Nerfherder, and it's awesomely funny). Detachable Penis? And so on.  Now I didn't mind fast fowarding over songs I thought might be offensive to her.

But it did get me to thinking.  The music I listen to is such an intimate expression of my personality that I'd almost find it easier to take off my clothes and stand naked in front of someone than to hand them my iPod/iPhone and let them go through my music. I would hesitate even to let Joe go through my music, and I've been married to him for almost 22 years.  I think the only person in my life with whom I could share all of my music is my sister. That's it.

It's so revealing. It tells things about me that I can admit to myself only in the wee small hours of the morning, when I'm willing to face my loneliness and admit my fears.

I have extremely eclectic tastes when it comes to music. There are few genres that I won't have at least a song or two from, even if I wouldn't list them as genres I like (for the record, overall not a fan of modern country or rap, although there are definitely exceptions). Jazz? Zydeco? World music? Samba? Ballads? Hair metal? Broadway? Pop? Classic rock? New Wave? Punk? Alternative? Blues? Yes, please.

There are the songs that make me happy when I'm mad at my husband.  Wherever He Ain't, sung by the incomparable Bernadette Peters from the musical Mack and Mabel. Could I Leave You? Please Don't Scream. Even the only Taylor Swift song I own meets this need. (I think it's called Mean).

There are songs that make me get up and dance. There are songs that sing to the blues I so often carry around with me. Songs that make me feel there is hope. Songs that make me feel I have no hope. Songs of joy, songs of pain, songs of sorrow.

It's the humanity in each song that sings to me.

And I'll tell you songs that I think you might like, and I may force you to listen to a song or CD that moves me, but don't be offended if I don't just hand over my iPod and tell you to have at it. Because I won't.

It's no secret that my marriage is less than happy, although I love my husband dearly and wouldn't hurt him for anything. But in those 3 a.m. wakeful bouts, I dream about true love and happiness. For me, the greatest sign of perfect trust would be giving someone my music and letting him listen to it and know who I am. I'm afraid that will never happen.

Growing Out Your Hair

Trying to get physically healthy is, I think, a little like growing out your hair.

It takes time.  Sometimes you're so frustrated, you mentally say fuck it and go tell your stylist to chop it back off. But before she even has the colour mixed, you realize how long you've been working on growing it back out, so you change your mind and tell her you just want a little trim.

But you have to shake things up, too. I mean, who wants to wear the same hair style all the freakin' time? (If you do, my apologies for assuming otherwise. I mean no offense.)  So you change the colour, and put in bright red streaks (at my next appointment 3 weeks from Saturday, I will be getting, yes, cherry red streaks) or blue or purple or whatever makes you happy.

I've been half-heartedly doing Weight Watchers for a couple of months. I've lost 10 pounds, a reasonably respectable amount, and I've definitely gotten smaller, as I'm back into some clothes that I optimistically had hanging in my closet. I've got a helluva long way to go, but that's cool. I told one of my co-workers at last week's meeting that I can't even think of my end goal right now. I have to just think about today. Now.

So we have a cafe at work, and they have good food, for the most part. By good I mean tasty, not necessarily the healthiest. Most days you can at least get a decent cup of soup. Some days they have an incredible salad toss, although for some reason they have no lowfat/reduced fat/nonfat salad dressings. (Note to self--take a little cup of salad dressing to work with me on the days they do the salad toss. N.B. if you like creamy, tangy dressings, I recommend the Bolthouse Farms yogurt dressings. Delicious, and only 1 WW point per tablespoon).  But take today--the entree was apricot chicken, which looked tasty but was probably full of sugar thanks to the jam glazing the chicken, served with rice (can't eat because of the lap band) and several different blends of veggies that looked like they were all soaked in butter and/or oil. The grill was a turkey burger with bacon, mushrooms, and Swiss cheese, an undeniably tasty concoction but not conducive to, well, figuratively growing out my hair. I didn't want hummus because I had it yesterday, and wasn't in the mood to eat it with pretzels (I like my hummus with veggies). So I ended up with a lackluster tuna sandwich, of which I ate half.

I have to digress for a moment, because one of the things we talked about in last week's WW meeting was emotions and how to handle them without eating. Invariably people talked about getting some exercise, or talking a walk, or even walking away from your desk. I was uber stressed today due to work stuff, and I got up and took a walk, all right. I walked all the way to the bathroom where I had a nice pee, and then I walked to the snack machine and bought a 3 Musketeers bar, and walked back to my desk and ate it.  I don't think that's quite the type of walk everyone had in mind, but it worked for me.  And it was a deliberate, conscious decision. I knew I could fit it into my day, and it wasn't a big deal.

Anyway, one of my hurdles when it comes to taking my lunches to work is time. I get out of bed at the latest possible moment that allows me time to go to the bathroom, brush my hair and teeth, put on deodorant, possibly slap on some makeup, get dressed, and get to the car in time to be at work as close to 6 a.m. as possible. (This won't last, but it's going to go on for at least another month, probably.)  That means if it's not ready for me to grab and go, I won't take it.  So today I stopped at the grocery store on my way home from work and got a nice assortment of fresh veggies and fruit, a box of 4 mini-packs of hummus, a box of 4 mini-packs of cubed roast turkey breast, and 4 bottles of this really disgustingly nasty tasting Braggs vinegar drinks that I like despite the fact that they taste disgustingly nasty--they're so nasty I think they must be good for me, and I do feel better after having drunk one, so there you go.  And I also got a little bit of pasta salad and edamame salad to have for tonight's dinner.  Joe obligingly portioned out the carrots, celery, broccoli, cauliflower, and bell pepper into baggies for me, and then he made me 4 more little baggies of cherries and grapes. I made 4 lunch bags (Wednesday through Saturday), each containing a little tub of hummus, a little tub of cubed roast turkey breast, a bag of veggies, a bag of fruit, a nasty disgusting Braggs vinegar drink, and a little wedge of Laughing Cow light cheese. And they're all in the refrigerator, so I just have to wander through the kitchen on my way through the house in the morning, and voila, my lunch is all ready to go.

It took comparatively little time to do this, just a little planning ahead more than anything. Joe was impressed that I'm actually doing this (not that it's new--I've periodically gone on healthy binges only to spectacularly fall off the wagon) and was nicely encouraging. And I do feel better when I eat better. F'r instance, yesterday I had a cup of pasta e fagiole soup, a cup of cantaloupe and honeydew melon for lunch, with the aforementioned hummus and pretzel thins for a snack, and felt MUCH better than I did today after eating half a tuna sandwich and some Fritos (oh, didn't I mention the Fritos?) with a 3 Musketeers bar as a stress chaser.

It's all good. Today I figuratively told the hairdresser to chop my damn hair off short, and then changed my mind before she did it. Changed my routine a wee bit, and hope it takes.

You Know It's Bad

When you're making yourself sick.  I'm just sayin'.  Dunno why the tummy rumblies, but they're unpleasant. One slipped out at work, but considering I put in over 13 hours today, only having one little fart sneak out seems fairly miraculous.

Oy Did That Piss Me Off!!!!

Without making too long a story of it, a few years ago I left the religion in which I spent 30 years. It took a while to get up the nerve to tell my mother, and she reacted as one might expect.

She's written emails to the family that make it pretty clear that she's convinced I'm going to hell when I die, and that makes her sad, but she knows where she's going (cue harps).  Those emails sting, but I try to laugh it off.

I haven't talked to her  a lot lately due to my insane work schedule, so I gave her a call yesterday while I was stuck in traffic on the way home from work. No worries--the phone goes through my car speakers, so I wasn't trying to juggle a telephone. Anyway, we were having a reasonably decent conversation, and I'm not sure how, but we ended up on the topic of Dorothy L. Sayers.

Dorothy L. Sayers was the author of the excellent Lord Peter Wimsey mystery novels. She did a superb translation of Dante's Divine Comedy.  Just a brilliant woman.  Anyway, I told my mother that every once in a while, Amazon will drop the price on a Sayers novel and I'll snap it up for my iPad. Recently they did that with Strong Poison. I then asked my mother if she'd read any of Jill Patton Walsh's continuation of the Lord Peter Wimsey/Harriet Vane novels, and she said she'd read two of them, and we talked about them for a few moments. The dialog is wrong, and they lack the sparkle that Sayers prose carried, but they're not bad.  My mother then interjected that she was glad Bunter (Lord Peter's manservant) got married in one of the books. I was glad, too, but as it turned out, for a different reason than my mother.

"There were some indications that Bunter might be homosexual," she said.

I was speechless, then made a hasty excuse to end the conversation.

My mother was glad that Lord Peter's manservant got married, not because she wanted this fictional character to have a happy and fulfilling home life, but because she was worried that he was gay.

Did she think that he was having fantasies about romantic liaisons with Lord Peter?

Does it even fucking matter?

People kill each other. People mutilate each other. There is famine. Disease. People stealing other people's livelihoods and retirement accounts. Parents abusing their children.

And my mother was worried because a fictional character might be homosexual.

You know what, Mom? I'll stick with people who are funny, smart, kind, loving, decent, honourable people. And I don't give a damn who they sleep with.