The Story of a Dress.

     When I first got engaged, I spent months scouring bridal magazines for the perfect dress.  I had absolutely no idea what a sweetheart neckline was or how taffeta was different from satin.  I was doomed.  

     In my quest for the dress, I discovered what I thought was 'the one' online.  It was an ivory strapless gown with minimal foof and a small silk flower at the waist. I envisioned myself walking down the aisle in this dress.  Kissing my husband in this dress.  Dancing with my Father in this dress.  Twirling in this dress.  It was perfect.    

     The first time I went to the bridal store, I chose this dress along with others to try on.  I wanted to twirl in this dress.  I knew it was perfect.  When I tried it on, my dress dreams were shattered.  The dress the sales lady pulled was not the right size.  It was too small.  It didn't zip.  It didn't fit.  I couldn't get a feel for the dress.  My dress. The sales lady was too shy to get the dress in a bigger size so I could see how it might actually fit.  I was too embarrassed to fight for the dress.  My dress.  

      My self esteem crushed, I gave up.  I wanted to feel beautiful and she made me feel hideous.  Ugly.  Fat. To end the misery, I chose a lesser dress.  It was...meh.  But, it was closer to my actual size and it didn't look too bad.  I was too traumatized and humiliated to keep looking lest I be reminded of my hideousness. My ugliness.  My fatness.  

     The dress hung in my closet until the day of my first fitting.  Occasionally, I would unzip the garment bag and peek at it, trying to come to terms with the fact that this was my wedding gown.  This was what I would be wearing on the day I vowed to spend forever with the man I loved.  

     Occasionally, I would wear the dress and twirl in front of the mirror.  Trying to envision myself walking down the aisle in this dress.  Kissing my husband in this dress.  Dancing with my Father in this dress.  Trying to make it feel perfect.  

       My family at the time consisted of myself, my future husband and our elderly Siberian Husky, Skye.  She had been diagnosed with a urinary tract infection on a Friday, two days before I was to have my first fitting in the dress.  When Sunday came around, Skye was sick.  We attributed it to the infection.  Thought it was something that would pass.  I rescheduled my fitting to tend to her.  Monday would be the day I would tend to the dress.    

     Sunday night was awful.  Skye was up all night, pacing the house and experiencing what seemed to be neurological issues.  I was heartbroken, exhausted and afraid.  Monday morning, the vet told us this may be the end for our girl.  We spent the day trying to keep her comfortable and hoping it was all still attributed to the infection.  Hoping she would come around.  Hoping we wouldn't have to face the end just yet.  Wouldn't have to say goodbye.   

     Monday afternoon,  I had a dress fitting to attend.  Things seemed to be stable with Skye at that moment, so I decided to keep the appointment.  As I left the house, she stopped pacing long enough to look at me as I told her I'd be right back and I loved her.  I have never forgotten that last look.  

     I spent the next hour or so on the pedestal in the back of the bridal store as the Russian seamstress pinned me and spinned me and tried to make small talk.  Looking in the mirror, I tried very hard to focus on the dress and how it was going to look on the big day.  How beautiful it was going to be.  How beautiful I was going to be. 

     Unfortunately, all I could think about was how I hadn't slept and how I may have to make the most difficult decision of my life thus far. All the pinning and spinning in the world couldn't change what I was about to face.  

     As she neared the end of the fitting, I could hear my cell phone ringing in my purse.  I knew it was either my Mother calling to check on Skye or it was my future husband calling to tell me to come home.  Telling me that it was time.  When it continued to ring again and again, I knew it was my husband.  I knew.  It was time.  

     I fought back tears and tried to explain to the Russian seamstress that I had to leave.  I tried to explain that it was time.  She didn't understand so I hurriedly got out of the dress, shoving the pins back in her hands.  I dressed quickly and left, driving home to face what I desperately didn't want to face. What I dreaded to even think about.  To say goodbye. 

     By the time I got home, the dress was long forgotten.  The tears flowed as we loaded our sweet Skye girl into the car and carried her to her peaceful end.  We kissed her and held her as she left us, knowing she would never leave our hearts.  

     That was the day I was fitted to the dress.  My dress.  Each time I put it on after that day, it never felt quite right.  It didn't fit right.  It seemed heavy.  Cumbersome.  On the big day, it needed lots of work. There was last minute pinning and adjusting.  Throughout the day, there was fidgeting.  Pulling.  Fixing.  

     The day was perfect.  The dress was...meh.  

     Two and a half years later, Skye's ashes remain on the bookshelf with her collar.   Two new dogs have joined our family.  My husband and I are happy and in love.  The dress hangs in the closet.  Occasionally, I unzip the garment bag and think about the day I was fitted to the dress.  The day I became a wife in the dress.  My dress.  What I should do with the dress.

     I still don't know.  It just hangs there.  Heavy.  Cumbersome.  Meh.  

       

     

Bah humbug...or whatever.

I think the stress of the past 6 months is finally catching up with me. I'm having that mental breakdown that's been long overdue.

Of course, it probably has a lot to do with TOM stopping by for a nice holiday visit.

Who knows.

I just know that if I don't get it together, someone is going to end up with a lump of coal shoved...it's just bad.

I'm yelling at MB for no reason. I'm yelling at the dog for no...well, for various reasons. I'm just letting my yelling get way out of control. I'm going from 0 to 60 in seconds flat and it isn't pretty.

We certainly have our fair share of stress. We still haven't had time to put our house back together or get any of our winterizing stuff done. We are still adjusting to having a roomate and all of the intrusion that brings. Plus, we have Atticus, who occupies our every waking moment.

It's chaos!

Neither one of us has been able to get back on track with our Fat Fighting. That's only making things worse.

Ugh.

Thank God for Spanx. That's all I can say about that right now.

I don't know, peeps. I have so much to be thankful for right now. So, why the hell can't I let go of the little things and focus on those things?

I mean, I can. I just keep forgetting that.

Perhaps a reminder tattoo is in order. Too bad I'm so fainty in the presence of needles.

(sigh)

At least, this little gem is on netflix right now.

I know what I'll be watching tonight.

How will you be coping with your holiday stress?

Butterflies and body odor.

So, I'm going to be a married woman tomorrow.

It's a weird feeling. I'm nervous, but not really. I'm anxious, but not really. I'm hungry, but not really.

I guess you could say I'm discombobulated.

I'm not nervous about getting hitched. I truly love MB and there is not a doubt in my mind about that part of this whole thing.

I'm more nervous about the ceremony of it all. I'm really more of a sideline type of girl. Being front and center all day long makes me very sweaty. Like butterflies in my stomach, why aren't there any cupcakes in the house but I can't even eat cupcakes because my stomach is in knots kind of sweaty.

Which I fear will then turn into oh my god, who let the skunk into the reception hall kind of sweaty.

You know?

No? No one else is a sweathog? Seriously?

Whatever. Just own it, people.

Anywho, this is officially my last night as a single woman. So, what the hell am I doing? Obviously, I'm sitting in bed, wired as hell, blogging about my sweat problem.

Classy, I know.

It's going to be an awesome day tomorrow and I need to quiet all of the butterflies in my belly so I can get some rest. I have to be ready for the poufy dress and open bar.

This soon to be hitched woman is going to try and get some sleep.

Pray that I get through the big day without tripping on the dance floor or spilling lobster bisque down the front of my dress.

I have a new love in my life.

Sorry MB.

I am in love with Bonnaroo Buzz and it's the real thing.

photo credit

Bonnaroo Buzz is a new flavor from Ben and Jerry's and it is fantastic. I think it is by far the best ice cream flavor I have ever had and I've had a lot.

It combines two of my favorite things in life: ice cream and whiskey.

Seriously.

I didn't even know of it's existence until I saw it at the local Wawa last night. I was craving ice cream after work and stopped to get something. My eyes happened upon Bonnaroo Buzz and it was love at first sight.

"Coffee and Malt Ice Creams with Whiskey Caramel Swirls & English Toffee Pieces"

Whiskey caramel swirl.

"whiskey-tickled caramel" is the line they use on the website. It's what I've been looking for in an ice cream flavor all my life.

I know some of you are going to remind me about the BLitz and ask me how many points that little pint of heaven was.

Points Schmoints!

"Whiskey-tickled caramel"

How the hell can you expect me to resist that?!

I know it was off track but it was totally worth it. I'll be hitting the trails tomorrow to walk it off before consuming some actual whiskey for the St. Patrick's Day celebration.

I already know that 1 jigger (1 1/2 fluid ounces) of whiskey is 2 points.
Knowing is half the battle.

Happy St. Patrick's Day peeps! :)

Blubber, foof and minions.

I went to David's Bridal on Saturday. So there's that.

I also think I had my very first panic attack.

My Mom came up on Saturday to visit and go shopping. I think she realized that I'm not going to go to the bridal shop unless it's by force. That explains her desire to make David's Bridal the first stop of the day.

She's so sneaky.

For some reason, I agree to go. I may have been drunk at the time. It's always a possibility.

Let me explain something. It's not that I'm nervous about getting hitched. I have no doubts about MB and our life together. I just have a lot of doubts about fitting my fat ass into a wedding dress and the thought of it makes me sweat.

So, we walk into the store and are instantly greeted by the greeter. I don't know her actual title, but I'm calling her the greeter. She is cheerful and friendly and everything I ever wanted in all those nasty, nose picking, couldn't care less what aisle the peas are in Walmart greeters.

Anywalmartsucks, the greeter assigns me a consultant. I don't remember the consultant's name because I am too distracted by the rows upon rows of white poof and foof that fill the store.

For the love of taffeta, this is the most foof I've ever seen in my entire life!

As I'm scanning all the foof, I also notice the other brides and their bridal minions. There are swarms of them back by the dressing rooms. They are all poised in front of the pedestals which are sadistically placed in front of rows upon rows of mirrors.

Not a single bride or minion was over a size 6.

I think this is where my face started to lose color.

The mere thought of hauling my foof covered fat ass up onto one of those pedestals for all the tiny brides and tiny minions to see was enough to make me want to barf into the nearest ball of tulle.

Then, I would've owned a lovely barf covered ball of tulle for which to wear on my day of hitching. Not exactly the look I was hoping for.

So, the consultant pulls out a catalog and instantly flips to the fat girl section. Immediate points deducted. But also points added for her ability to do it without missing a beat. A less paranoid fattie probably wouldn't have even noticed.

But I did. I'm like a ninja.

She asks me what I like and I tell her 'as plain as possible'. No foof. No poof. No train. No tulle. Do you have some sort of taffeta snuggie that I could just wear over my jeans? That would be perfect.

She didn't have anything like that.

She did have some very cute simple dresses that I actually liked. We walked through the aisles of foof as she pulled some of them out and made me touch them.

Because how the fabric feels is super important when I have to rip it off of my body because I managed to stuff my fat ass into it but there is no way in hell I'm getting out of it without the use of a rescue truck. I think the paramedics will appreciate the softness of the fabric while they extract me.

You're welcome boys.

I had fondled my fourth dress when she asks me if I want to try anything on.

Mom was ready. Me? Not so much.

I was able to make eye contact with the consultant as she asked me the question again. I'm pretty sure I had lost all color in my face. I was also swooning a bit and seeing stars. I was also on the verge of tears.

Tears.

I wanted to curl up in the fetal position amongst the foof, awaiting my minions to bring me some whiskey.

However, I haven't officially chosen my minions yet and I wouldn't dare drink the required number of whiskey shots to cope with this particular situation while amongst the foof. See the barf comment above.

Thankfully, the consultant could sense my panic. Extra points for her. She totally understood that I just wasn't ready. She got it.

I even felt confident enough that she got it to begin rambling incoherently about not being at my goal weight yet and not wanting to shove my blubber into such beautifully soft foof in front of the judgy judgy minions who looked like they could use a freakin cheeseburger or two.

She had no response for that. She just smiled and suggested we make an appointment for an evening when it's a little more private.

She didn't have midnight appointments. I asked.

So, I didn't try on any dresses but I did end up with homework. Wtf?!

I'm supposed to gather my bridal minions, pick out some styles from the website and call the consultant back so we can make an appointment.

I can totally do shots while I search online, so I think it's going to be okay.

Do you have any advice for me, peeps? How do I get past the whole blubber into tulle anxiety?

I don't think George Clooney likes fat chicks.

So, I was thinking about throwing my panties at a celebrity today.

It's not that I encountered a celebrity or anything. Quite the opposite actually. My evening in the crisis unit was filled with very unglamorous and often odorous people.

No celebrities at all.

But, my coworker was telling me that his wife was going to a concert tonight and had mentioned throwing her panties on stage.

It is Jon Bon Jovi after all. I would consider him panties worthy, I guess. If I was a big Jon Bon Jovi fan.

That's what got me thinking about my own panties. I was thinking about what celebrity I would consider worthy of having my panties thrown into their face.

Or in their general direction since I don't have very good aim.

Then, I started thinking about the fact that I don't really wear panties right now.

Simmer down, fellas. It's not what you think.

I don't wear panties right now because my fat ass only feels truly comfortable in spandex granny panties right now.

I'm sure as hell not throwing them at anyone.

Then, I started thinking about the fact that if I were expecting a celebrity encounter, I would most likely be wearing my spanx.

I don't know if you are familiar with spanx. They are amazing! However, they are really more of a contraption than a piece of sexy lingerie. There is spandex, underwiring, shaping, crotch snaps, boob cut outs.

It's a device, really. A device designed to transform your fatness into a sleek, sexy physique at least until you get home, exhale and unleash the flab.

When I put my spanx on, it becomes a process. Everything has to be squeezed in there just right. All the underwiring has to line up just right. My nipples have to be pointing in the same direction...well, that's every day.

They aren't easy to get in or out of. Definitely not 'easy access' clothing, if you know what I mean. ;)

So, when I imagine myself hanging out at some posh Hollywood party where George Clooney just happens to make eye contact with me, I have trouble picturing my spanx being thrown at him in a suggestive manner.

I don't think there's any way to slip out of them gracefully and then toss them lovingly into his lap.

They aren't exactly dainty.

I can just picture this giant spandex wiry device landing directly on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Then, he picks them up to examine them and says, "Holy sh*t! Where did this come from? Is this underwear? What the f*ck spilled out of these and is it oozing this way?!! Everybody run for safety!!! If it's anything like The Blob, it won't like the cold!! RUN!!"

Not exactly the first impression I want to make on my future sugar daddy.

I'm going to have to start keeping a pair of dainty panties in my purse.
Just in case.

So, what celebrity do you consider panties worthy?
Do tell...

The Slim a Bear incident, revisited.

Back in November 2009, I submitted a winning post on The One Minute Writer. In lieu of some recent events in my household (which you will be reading about later), I have decided to revisit that post. It is what MB and I like to refer to as The Slim A Bear Incident.

If you are not familiar with Slim A Bears, they are a delicious ice cream treat made by Klondike that are 100 calories each.


Yummy, right?

Well, read on to see why we don't buy them anymore and why I'm the luckiest woman on Earth...

I was snuggled up on the couch watching tv when he came home. I already knew that I was guilty. I was just hoping that it would take him a couple days to figure out what I was guilty of and by then, I would've hidden the evidence.
But no such luck. He went for the freezer right away.

"Ummm, baby?"

I had no choice to respond. I was busted and I knew it. "Yes?"

"What happened to the box of ice cream bars we just bought yesterday?"

Oh God. Here we go. Try to lie first. "I don't know, they aren't in there?"

"No."

Lies have failed. "Ohhhhh. You mean the low fat klondike bar rip offs? I made a small sundae with some of then."

"Baby, there were 6 bars in the box. You're telling me you ate all 6 bars in one sitting?"

For crying out loud, now he's judging me. "You see, it's not what it looks like."

"Really? Because it looks like you ate an entire box of ice cream bars."

Oh boy. "Well, yeah. That's what it looks like, but it was an accident."

"You mean, somehow an entire box of ice cream bars accidentally found themselves inside your stomach? How exactly does that happen?"

I have to think a minute on this one. It was a pretty stressful day, but he probably won't buy that, being non-female and all. "Well. Here's what happened: I sampled one of the bars and it was really good."

"Uh huh."

"So, I thought how delicious would these be smushed up with some chocolate syrup on top, like a little sundae. Sounds good, right?"

"Uh huh."

"So, I tried that and as expected, it was delicious. So, somehow after I had the first one, I must've forgotten I already had it and made another one."

"With the entire box."

"Yep. See, it was all an accident. And it really isn't my fault anyway."

"Uh huh."

"It's really my coworker's fault. She was sick today and I had to pick up all of her patients and it doubled my grocery store run, causing us to be super late and tie up 3 lanes in the checkout and all the shoppers gave us dirty looks and it was awful."

"Uh huh. You work with the mentally ill. Your job is never predictable."

"I know, but it's still stressful and I need some release."

"Uh huh."

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you would've liked them at all."

"Well, we'll never know. Because you have no self control."

Ouch. But completely true. "Well, because sometimes accidents happen. Like how we accidentally met and then fell deeply in love."

"Nice."

"I thought so."

"You are forgiven."

I am so lucky that MB is such an understanding person. ;)

This could be the post that makes me single.

It was bound to happen. There was bound to be one post that stood out above all the others to expose me as the crazy person that I am. MB was bound to read it and then realize that he had better run for his life.

Let's all hope and pray that MB is too busy to read today's post. I mean, he kinda already knows I'm insane when it comes to food. Remember the Slim a Bear incident?

Yeah. I revisited that today just so you would have a frame of reference for my dessert induced insanity.

While I was posting my eats over at the BLitz, I started to share a little about what I am now calling The Cake Incident. Then, I realized that an incident of this magnitude truly deserves it's very own post.

So, here we are.

Let's just begin at the beginning, shall we?

It was Thursday night and I was home alone. Unsupervised. MB was away at work and not due home until the next morning.

I had just enjoyed some delicious risotto with sauteed cabbage and was catching up on some tv I had recorded earlier in the week. Of course, I was snuggled up in MB's recliner.
MB: If you are going to focus your anger/contempt on any part of this story, you should focus it on that. In fact, you can just stop reading right now and that would be okay. Looooove you.

It was about halfway through SVU that I realized I was craving something sweet. Specifically, cake.

I tried to distract myself, but it was to no avail. Once the taste for cake hits, there is no satisfying it...unless it's with cake.

I wandered upstairs to my little baking cabinet and discovered that I had a box of lemon cake mix in there. Oh joy!

I also had icing. Double joy!

After stopping to think about the insanity of baking an entire cake just for myself, I realized it was perfectly reasonable.
As long as I did one or all of the following:

- Eat the entire cake, leaving absolutely no evidence behind. This would leave me feeling super fat and bloated and full of guilt, but at least there would be no evidence. Until weigh in day.

- Never tell MB or anyone about this. This means I would have to lie to my blogger peeps and I was not going to do that. Next option.

- Bake the entire cake, but eat only an appropriate portion so that when MB
returned home, he would find a cake with only 1 small slice missing. The small slice that any normal, non-cake-addicted person would eat. That would mean there would be a cake left in my house and that would just be too much temptation.

- Bake the entire cake, eat what I wanted (but not the whole thing because that
would be crazy) and throw away the rest.

- Bake cupcakes, eat what I wanted and then take the rest into work, making
sure I left behind enough so my coworkers wouldn't be all judgey and be wondering how the hell I could've eaten 17 out of 24 cupcakes by myself.

These were my options. Obviously, I have issues.

AnywhyareyoustillreadingthisMB, I came up with a plan.

I pulled out my little square pan and decided to bake the cake in there. I mixed up the batter and poured enough in to just fill up the little square pan. It was perfect. The cake would only be a thin cake that was 9 inches square. I could work with that.

Of course, while the cake was baking, I scoured and put away all the dishes and then licked the bowl. It's the most effective way to clean a mixing bowl. Didn't you know?

Anyjustification, while the cake was baking, I delved further into my plan. I decided that I would cut the 'crust' off the little square cake so that I would be left with a cake that was about the size of a brick. Maybe even a little smaller.

I could work with that.

When I had cut the 'crust' off the finished little square cake, I put the icing on and sat down to enjoy my little brick cake of secrecy and betrayal and shame. This was after I had again scoured and put away all the cake baking tools and thrown the 'crust' in the trash.

While the pup was drooling over me and my cake of shame, I snuggled back into MB's recliner and took my first bite.

Meh.

Good. Not great.

Another bite.

Still meh.

Five bites later...I was done.

My cake of shame just didn't satisfy me and I couldn't eat another bite.
All that work for seven bites of 'meh' cake.

Dammit.

So, I threw the remaining cake of shame away and took the trash outside. Then, I debated with myself about whether I would tell anyone about The Cake Incident.

It's been like a dirty little secret burning in my brain for the past couple days actually. I don't like living a lie. So, here I am. Spilling it about The Cake Incident.

(sigh)

Please tell me that you have a similar form of food related insanity. I promise I won't judge you. Obviously, I have no room to do so anyway.

So, spill it. What's your cake of shame? Do you even have one?

Share a Spoon: Soup's on!

Hi peeps!

It's Share a Spoon day over at Think Tank Momma's place. Momma hosts this little recipe swap every Thursday and it's a great place to get some yummy recipes.

This week, the theme is Souper Salad and Sammies. I told her I was looking for some good sandwich ideas and she hooked me up! She pretty much rocks!

I don't have any good sandwich ideas and I pretty much eat the same old romaine with light caesar when I have a salad. Boring, I know. I'm a creature of habit. What can I say?

Soup is one thing I have plenty of recipes for. MB and I can eat the heck out of some soup. We heart it. Big time.

This little recipe is one of my favorite winter soups. It's hearty enough to really fill you up and warm you up. It's also healthy and light and easy on your waistline.

I hope you enjoy! Make sure you head over to Momma's place to share your favorite Soup, Salad and Sandwich recipes.

Pasta e Fagioli Soup
1 lb lean ground turkey
1 (29oz) can diced tomatoes
2 (14oz) cans red kidney beans, drained
1 (14oz) can chopped spinach, drained
2 (14.5) oz cans chicken broth
1 (8oz) can tomato sauce
3 cups water
1 tbsp minced garlic
1 tbsp dried parsley
1 tsp garlic powder
1.5 tsp salt
.5 tsp ground black pepper
.5 tsp dried basil
.5 lb whole wheat seashell or small shaped pasta
Grated or shredded soy or fat free parmesan (optional)

In a large stockpot, brown the turkey. Add all the ingredients except the pasta. Bring it to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 40 minutes. Add the pasta and cook uncovered until pasta is tender.
Top with cheese, if desired, to serve.
Serves 6-8

Nail guns, crappy rides and not so subtle hints.

I think my chiropractor is trying to tell me to lay off the cupcakes.

I went in for my check up this week so I could get cracked. She's got me coming in every six months at the moment because I'm doing pretty well.

I'm not walking at a 45 degree angle. That's good.

So, typically what happens is that she brings me in and has me lay down on a table like this one...

I lay flat, face down and with my face pushed into the cushions. She then uses some sort of instrument that sounds like a nail gun and nails my spine back into alignment.

In order to see where she needs to shoot me, she has me lift my right arm over my head, my left arm on my lower back, my right foot in and I shake it all about.

Or something.

The point is, I'm face down and she's nail gunning my spine.

It's medical science people.

Now, every time I have gone to see her in the past 4 years, that table has been stationary on the floor. This means that I climb my fat ass onto it and position myself face down.

Kinda reminds me of this blind date I once had where I did way too many shots and woke up in some sort of downward dog position before I even knew what yoga was and then...

Moving on...

During this most recent visit, things were a little different.

I walk in and prepare for the hauling of my ass onto the table. She stops me and proceeds to use the hydraulic lift button that I've never seen before to lift the table into an upright position.

Like so...

I'm a little confused.

Then, she tells me to 'climb on'.

Uh. Okay.

I lean myself up against the table and she proceeds to us the hydraulic lift to lower my fat ass to the ground.

Uh. Bitch.

I know I've had a few too many cupcakes lately but wtf! This is a bit much, don't you think?!

I go with it though.

It is kinda like a ride. Wheeee! Only much much slower and followed by a nail gun to the spine and the struggle to make small talk while your face is shoved into a mattress.

Meh. It's not the Tilt-a-whirl, but it'll do.

So, after the nail gunning is over, I go to get up from the table.

Nope.

She hits that freakin hydraulic lift button again and I'm slowly and awkwardly lifted up to a standing position.

I'm pretty sure I heard an announcement over the intercom: "Please do not attempt to stand up while the table is in motion. You are too fat and you will only cause harm to yourself and anyone in the 200 feet surrounding your blubbery mass. Wait until the table comes to a complete stop and for the love of not causing an earthquake, remain still!"

Yeah.

I think it's time to get my fat ass back on track. Or find a new less judgmental chiropractor.

A day of romance and unsucked chins.

MB and I spent a very romantic day together at the DMV.

Since we share a birthday, we also share an expiration date for our driver's licenses. This means that every 5 years, we get to spend the day together at the DMV.

Yay.

MB's goal was to get up early, get there when they opened and be done with the DMV by 11 so we could go have lunch.

I had other plans.

I'm on night shift this week so I'm up until 2am or 3am once I get home from work and I'm sleeping in until 10am or so.

While I like the idea of getting to the DMV early and getting it over with, I knew it wasn't going to happen. I set the alarm for 9am, because I am an optimist. However, I snoozed until 9:40am and didn't actually get out of bed until 10am.

That was only because MB was fed up and wanted me to get the hell out of bed already so we could go to the DMV and get this the hell over with.

Now, I'm not vain. I am perfectly content leaving the house with no makeup on and my hair pulled up in a bun because I'm too lazy/carefree to blow dry it.

Usually.

DMV picture day is different. My face is going to be immortalized on that little plastic card for the next 5 years.

That's huge! I had to get a little dolled up for that.

MB didn't understand.

MB: Are you ready yet? For the love of...

Me: I'm trying to decide if I should wear a turtleneck or not. It kind of accentuates my chin fat and I don't think that's the look I want.

MB: (walking away) I'm done with this conversation.

We arrive at the DMV much later than MB had hoped. Of course, it was packed. Our numbers were A108 and A109. They were on A82.

Awesome.

We sat and waited.

We kept our eyes out for any 'suspicious activity' because that's what the DMV computer told us to do. All a terrorist needs to succeed is 1 chance. Did you know that?

I didn't.

We also practiced our 'neutral expression' for the license picture. The DMV computer told us that was the best thing for our safety and the safety of our nation.

More stuff I didn't know.

Thank you DMV.

MB found a shoe buddy. Apparently that is someone who is wearing the same shoes as you are. I suggested they acknowledge their shoe buddy status with a hug, but MB wasn't going for it.

Seems like a pretty crappy buddy system if you ask me.

Me: Do you remember how exciting this was when you were 16? Don't you wish it could be like that again?

MB: It wasn't exciting then either.

Me: Did you ever have joy in your life?

MB: Nope.

Me: (flashing my sexiest 'but you've got the joy that is me' grin)

MB: Nope. Still waiting for the joy.

Thank God my number got called. Things could've gotten ugly.

I am so excited to be at the desk, I'm almost giddy. The clerk is not interested in small talk, which disappoints me. He is also not ready for the documents I try to shove at him. This also disappoints me.

He tells me to put my face in the eye thingy and read the third line. I put my face in there but I see nothing. Nothing.

I try to squint but still nothing. The clerk then tells me to push against the bar with my forehead and the eye chart magically appears.

I was getting a little worried for a second there.

Then he tells me to stand against the blue wall and stare straight ahead. I do it, but I misjudge the proximity of the wall to my ass and nearly knock over the entire row of cubicles.

Then, he snaps my picture. That bastard! No time to prepare. No time to adjust the turtleneck and try to suck in the chins. No warning whatsoever!

I'm still reeling from this when he asks for my weight. I didn't even get the chance to give him the fake weight that I had planned to give him. I mean, I still lied about my weight, but it wasn't much of a lie. I only knocked 10 pounds off my actual weight.

It was supposed to be 20.

I don't really care for my clerk.

I'm pretty sure I'm faking it when he starts to chat about Christmas shopping.

It all goes pretty quickly. I grab my crappy, fat faced picture and shove it in my purse. MB finishes up just after me and also shoves his picture away in shame.

I told him Glamour shots were the way to go.

He rolled his eyes and took me to lunch.

It's like Valentine's Day every day for us.

Shopping and a show.

I had a little cash in my pocket (thanks to a visit with my parents and their habit of stuffing 20s in my purse) and decided to do a little shopping. Since I am on a super tight budget at the moment, I hit the local Goodwill.

I have found some really good bargains there and figured I could find some cheap jeans. My size 14s are getting a little big and I can't fit into my size 10s yet. I desperately needed some size 12s to get me through.

I enter the store, which is like a sauna for some reason. It's 70 degrees outside. Why does the heat have to be cranked?

Anyway, I hit the jeans rack just about the same time a family of three also hits the jeans rack. It's a woman and what I assume are her son and daughter. They immediately start to talk about their family dramas for all to hear and I immediately become intrigued.

The daughter is on the phone to someone and this is what I overhear: "Well, what hospital did they take him to?" "Well, where did the helicopter take him?" "Okay. We'll be there soon. We had to stop to take care of something. Tell him that I love him and I'm praying for him."

Okay. So, someone in the family has had a major medical trauma resulting in a helicopter ride to the hospital and they had to stop at the Goodwill to look at jeans.

Awesome.

They keep shopping for awhile, commenting on how ugly some of the jeans are and how the daughter's girlfriend is continuing to date this other girl who isn't nearly as cute as the daughter is. The son finally gets bored and says: "I think I'm going to go to the car and grieve."

Seriously. I can't make this sh*t up.

So, I grab my jeans and make a run for the dressing room so I don't get sucked into an impromptu crisis call on my day off.

I am pleasantly surprised to find that all of my jeans fit. Yay! I fall in love with two pairs of Gap Long and Lean jeans that seem brand new.

They are perfect. I couldn't wait to get home and try them on with my really tall whore boots.

Turns out, I threw out my really tall whore boots after breaking the heel on last year's Birthday Bar Crawl.

Sads.

It's okay. It just gives me an excuse to buy new whore boots this year.

Yay!

I love my new jeans so much that I had to share them with you. I know how much you like to see pics of me in cheap clothing.

This is what happens when you try to do something without including the dog. She just has to nose her way into things one way or another.


I guess she liked what she saw because she had to come back to check herself out. Too cute.


So, this is the full view, without canine obstruction. Sorry it's not the best quality. You can blame the blackberry for that.


This is the side view. I'm learning to be more comfortable with my profile. Rolls and all. They are slowly getting less rolly, but they are still there. (sigh)


Not too shabby for $5 bucks. The other pair is exactly the same cut, but is just slightly lighter.

So, do you hit your local thrift stores? If so, any good bargains to share?

Share a Spoon: Baked pineapple and Corn pudding.

Hi peeps!
I'm joining Think Tank Momma for her Share a Spoon Thursday. The theme is Thanksgiving sides. Yum.

In my family, there are three tables full of food. There is the turkey and about a hundred sides. This includes a ham, a plate of fried oysters, dumplings, mashed potatoes, green beans, peas, pickles, rolls, deviled eggs, corn pudding, baked pineapple, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, stuffing and two kinds of gravy.

The dessert table includes two chocolate pies, one banana cream pie, one pumpkin pie, one apple pie, sometimes a sweet potato pie and an applesauce spice cake.

Is it any wonder I have a problem with food?

Keep in mind that the original Thanksgiving table was home to close to 30 people. As people have passed and whatnot, the table has become home to maybe 10 people. The amount of food hasn't changed though. Not one bit.

Anywaytoomuchfood, I would like to share my two favorite sides from the table of plenty. I may have shared them before, but I'm still going to share them.

Baked Pineapple

5 slices of bread
4 eggs
1 stick softened margarine
1 cup sugar
pinch of salt
1 (16oz) can crushed pineapple

Dice the bread and put in a baking dish. Mix the other ingredients together and pour over the bread. Let set for 1/2 hour. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-45 minutes or until golden brown.

Corn Pudding

2 cups corn
1 tbsp flour
3 tbsp sugar
2 eggs
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup milk
1/2 stick margarine

Put all the ingredients in a blender and mix well. Pour into a baking dish and bake for 45 minutes at 375 degrees.

I was going to share my Mom's sweet potato casserole but there are already a lot of sweet potato recipes posted and I can't find the recipe.

Both of these recipes are super easy and delicious. I've tried to make healthier, low fat versions, but they just don't taste the same to me. Feel free to try it though!

Sweaty ears and inner conflicts.

So, I did Day 13 of the Couch to 5K today.

It was a solo day for me because MB is away right now.
(Serial killers: I do have a stash of assault rifles in every room with just enough rage to blow your face off and not think twice about it.)

MB and I have been doing this together and he is my motivator. He encourages me to push myself and keeps me going when my inner fat girl with self confidence issues wants to give up and make a detour to DQ.

I knew that I would be struggling without him beside me today. The plan for today was to run for 5 minutes, walk 3 minutes, run 5 minutes, walk 3 minutes then run another 5 minutes. On our last run, we ran 5, ran 3, ran 5 then ran 3 and we kicked ass.

So, today should be no problem, right?

Right.

Not so much though.

You see, without MB to be my motivator, I had to rely on my inner self to motivate me. Not my inner fat girl, because obviously her interest lies with ice cream and that is of no use to me.

Not for this particular event, anyway. Maybe later though.

So, I was trying to conjure up an inner runner girl. Someone who could push me to keep running and not give up. All the things that MB does for me now.

What I ended up with was an evil bitch who is just...mean.

I started off okay. My earphones were in. My hat was down low so no one could see my Breathe Right strip. I was ready to run.

The 5 minute warm up walk went by pretty quickly. Then it was time to run.

Me: Hey! Check me out! It's two minutes in and I'm feeling pretty damn good.

Evil Bitch: (yawning with disinterest) Awesome. Are your ears always this sweaty?

Me: ?

Evil Bitch: Your freakin earphones are slipping out. That is the most disgusting thing I think I've ever seen.

Me: Oh. Whatever. I've got 1 minute left! Woohoo! I am kicking ass!

Evil Bitch: (filing her nails) Yeah. You're a rock star. Well, maybe a rock star from the eighties. Or maybe one of those drummers who is now touring solo because his band broke up but no one knows who he is without the band so they have to put 'drummer from...' on the billboard just so people might show up.

Me: (frowning) Well, who the hell cares. That one drummer from the eighties played with only one leg...or something. I bet he still kicks ass (teeheehee). Besides, I just did 5 minutes and I'm not dying! So, screw you!

Evil Bitch: Uh huh.

Me: Here we go. The next 5 minutes. I know I can do it. Dammit. My earphones keep slipping out. That's slightly distracting.

Evil Bitch: You mean disgusting. It's slightly disgusting.

Me: Shut the hell up. I'm trying to focus.

Evil Bitch: You better focus on how your shirt is riding up. That guy was just totally pointing at you! He's probably all: 'Dude, check out the beer gut on that chic! It's like watching jello run!'

Me: Eff you! He was giving me the thumbs up and was all: 'Wow, she is super fat but she is out there doing something about it. I praise her and her efforts.'

Evil Bitch: Uh huh. You really are delusional, aren't you?

Me: Dammit! Would you just shut the hell up or start saying something positive! That was only 3 minutes. You effin bitch!

Evil Bitch: HA! Don't blame me. You're the fatty who can't run to save her life. What if a pack of zombies was after you right now, trying to eat what little brains you have in your head?

Me: I'd be fine. Zombies are super slow.

Evil Bitch: You're even slower. You wouldn't stand a chance.

Me: SHUT THE HELL UP! I've got one more 5 minute run left and I'm doing it! GET THE EFF OUT OF MY HEAD AND LET ME DO IT!

Evil Bitch: Sheesh. Go right ahead. I don't see the point though because you'll never be able to run that 5k you're trying to run.

Me: I will so. How many minutes was that? I need to walk for a second. DAMMIT! These stupid earphones!

Evil Bitch: It was 2 minutes. You might as well give up and just go home and clean your ears out. God, you are disgusting.

Me: (picking up the pace) I will finish this. EFF YOU! Lots of people sweat into their ears. It's perfectly normal.

Evil Bitch: Uh huh. Just give up. You know you want to.

Me: (after another 2 minutes) Dammit! I can't do anymore. (ripping the earphones out) You stupid bitch! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOOD FOR?!!

Evil Bitch: I'm just you honey. You want to keep my quiet? You are going to have to put up one hell of a fight. You think you got what it takes?

Me: (crashing onto the living room floor) It's on bitch! Next run? I'm kicking your ass once and for all. Suck on that!

Cheese fries and cupcakes...STAT!

So, most of you know by now that MB and I are doing the Couch to 5K program.

We are currently on week 4. So far, we've been doing okay. There have been good days and bad days. For me, it seems like there are more bad days than good.

When we first started, it was hard as hell. Neither of us were in great shape and we were both struggling. But, we didn't give up.

We got our fat asses out there three times a week and we did it.

We are doing it.

There have been many a run where we have a conversation similar to this one:

Me: I don't know if we can do this baby.

MB: We can do it. Don't give up, like you usually do.

Me: Nice. I'm not giving up jerk. I'm just saying that I have doubts and I kinda want to give up.

MB: See? Typical GB Girl.

Me: (punching MB) I said I'm not giving up jackass. I'm just saying that this isn't fun for me. When is it going to get fun?

MB: I don't think it's ever going to be fun.

Me: Oh. Then why the hell are we doing it?

MB: (rolling his eyes) Haven't you ever done anything just for the accomplishment of doing it? Just to push yourself and do something new?

Me: Does unofficial training for a cupcake eating contest count? Because I didn't think I could eat a dozen cupcakes, but I pushed myself and...

MB: (punching me) You're dumped.

Me: (rolling my eyes) Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I'm not giving up baby. I'm just having doubts and I'm trying to share them with you. Thanks for being so understanding you big jerk.

MB: You're welcome baby. Anytime.

So, we are on week four. I'm still struggling but it's mostly mental. I have this huge wall of doubt in the back of my head and I am trying really hard, but it just won't go away.

It's that kind of self doubt that says I'm too fat to be doing this. I'm going to cause an earthquake if I try to run a 5k and why would I want to subject the town such a catastrophe.

The kind of self doubt where I envision pictures of me on some website where they make fun of all the fatties who think they can run, but really can't and just end up looking like assholes when they fall on their fat faces and die.

The kind of self doubt where I picture myself crawling to the finish line of the 5k, sweat pouring off of me, panting and crying like I'm in labor, rolling on the ground begging for beer and cheese fries with a side of cupcakes because for the love of chafing thighs, I am soooo done with those whole running thing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why can't I envision myself running across the finish line, cheering because I've done something that I never thought I could do?

I don't know how to tackle this mental problem.

I'm trying.

I'm pushing myself. I'm blocking out all the hooligans who may or may not be laughing at the fat girl. I'm focusing on the positives: how good I feel, how much better I'm looking, how much my confidence has improved, how much farther I can run without dying...

I'm working on it.

But, those doubts are still hovering.

So, tell me...have you run a 5k or had any other type of challenge where you've had to fight your inner doubt demons? How did you suppress them and accomplish your goal?

There aren't enough Squirrel Nut Zippers.

I was speaking of my hatred for all things inflatable yesterday and it got me in the Halloween spirit.

Go figure.

So, I was reminiscing about Halloweens past and some of the oh so lovely costume choices I made throughout the years.

(sidebar: I just looked up reminiscing on my blackberry to find that the last word I looked up was crawdad. Weird.)

Remember those really cheap plastic costumes that were basically trash bags with arm and leg holes and had a picture of what you were supposed to be on the front? Oh, and they came with a mask that attached to your face using the thinnest string of elastic ever which would inevitably snap and sting you right in the eye.

I had quite a few of those over the years.

Good times.

One year, my mother decided to get creative with my costume. I think I was in the third grade, but I'm not sure. All of those years blend together after awhile.

I just remember being in the cafeteria in my little costume and wanting to get the hell out of there and go home where I could stuff my humiliation full of Squirrel Nut Zippers and Mary Janes.

It was the year that E.T. was really popular and I wanted to be E.T.

Original, right? Like I was the only kid who wanted to be E.T. for Halloween that year.

I was a freakin trendsetter.

Anywaycool, my mother had seen the movie and she knew what E.T. looked like. I guess she figured it wouldn't be too hard to make an E.T. costume herself.

After all, he was just one big blob of wrinkly brown alien with a couple feet and some really long arms.

How hard could it be?

Since E.T. was basically all brown, my mother got some really brown fabric. When I say really brown, I basically mean sh*t brown.

I would say dirt brown, but that really doesn't paint the picture of just how this fabric made you feel.

It made you feel like sh*t.

It was polyester. Not a polyester blend. All 100% pure polyester. The extra heavy, extra itchy kind.

My Brownie uniform was made of better fabric than this stuff.


It was like wearing the interior of a 1970 Pinto. Or at least what I imagine the interior to be like if it was turned into a garment.

I remember my mother spending hours sewing this fabric to make my E.T. costume. She would pull out her sewing basket as we watched tv and I would bug her about when I could finally wear it and what it looked like and what shoes I was going to wear and all the other important things.

She may or may not have 'accidentally' stabbed me with a couple pins while she was hemming it.

I didn't complain. I was so excited. My costume was so original and it was going to be the best costume of the whole class.

The big day came and my E.T. costume was finally ready. I had my mask and I had borrowed my Dad's brown work gloves to substitute for alien hands. I was ready.

My mother brings in my finished costume and I put it on.

If anyone was saying 'omg' back then, I would've said O.M.G.

Instead, I just stared at myself in the mirror while my mother beamed in the background. "What do you think?"

'Ummm. Maybe I shouldn't dress up this year. I don't really want to go to the party anyway. Maybe I can go to the library instead.'

"What are you talking about? You're adorable. You look just like E.T.! Get your gloves and your backpack and let's go. You don't want to miss the bus."

So, I was off. I knew right away that I was doomed.

My E.T. costume looked nothing like the lovable little wrinkly alien who stole America's heart.

Instead, I looked like a giant piece of poop.

Not even fun poop or silly poop or scary poop. Just poop. Just a big old lump of brown polyester poop.

Sh*t.

I don't remember much from that day, having repressed it for the purposes of emotional stability and all.

I do vaguely remember every single kid in my class along with every single teacher in the school asking me what I was supposed to be.

When it was party time, I had already ditched the gloves and had my mask hanging around my neck. I was defeated. Just feed me cupcakes and punch and let me stew in the corner with the lunch lady.

Another awesome Halloween for the fat girl who already has enough to worry about besides looking like poop.

Yay!

My mother redeemed herself a couple years later when she made me the coolest Wonder Woman costume ever. It was so awesome. I had the blue underwear, the lasso, the stars. By far, the best costume of my childhood.

So, tell me...what was your worst Halloween costume? Your best?

Evil plastic cats and crappy candy.

So, this is what greets me as I come into my neighborhood now...


Awesome, right?

Keep in mind this is the googled version. I can't take a picture of the actual cat because that particular homeowner has security cameras.

Yeah.

I'm starting to have serious episodes of neighbor hatred. The kind of hatred that makes me want to take a knife to the giant cats and pumpkins and witches that are popping up everywhere.

Remember when I had similar episodes last Christmas?
Click here to relive the drama.

All caught up?

Good.

Don't get me wrong. I love Halloween. It's my favorite holiday. I love scary movies, haunted houses, ghost stories, and of course candy. Duh!

I could do without the hooligans who trick or treat in my neighborhood, but it's okay. I give them the crappy dollar tree candy. You know - Skattles, Twizzlesticks, Sweetards, Buttertoes.

The generic stuff.

Hey, they're lucky I'm not giving them grapes.

The good stuff goes to the cute little kids who say please and thank you and don't run across my lawn.

Jackass hooligans. Grrr.

Anyminikitkatsmmmmm, I always decorate. Later this week, there will be ghosts and pumpkins and witches all over the house. Except for the man cave. MB won't let me decorate down there.

It's like he hates children. Weird.

So, I think some serious retaliation is in order.

I'm thinking of just filling my yard with pumpkins. Real ones. Jack-o-lanterns are what Halloween is all about. I challenge anyone to choose between a jack-o-lantern and a crappy inflatable cat that may or may not be possessed.

Seriously. I think that cat may actually come to life at night and wreak havoc on the neighborhood. It totally explains why my gutter fell down again.

Evil cat sabotage.

It also explains the giant paw prints on my roof.

If that evil thing starts mating with the cat hoarder's cats, It's war! All I need are a bunch of plastic hybrid cats running around.

So, I don't know how I'm going to handle this whole thing. I was kinda happy because no one on my street had put up inflatables. That happiness was shattered.

I have new neighbors moving in on the one side. Before they even moved their stuff in, they had put an inflatable pumpkin in the front yard. I saw the deflated pile of orange hideousness lying next to the driveway.

If this is how they want to introduce themselves to the neighborhood, that's fine with me. At least I don't have to waste time wondering if I'll like them or not.

I'm pretty sure the answer is no.

It's not just the deflated pumpkin. It's the Jerry Springer style argument they had while moving stuff in last night. I don't know which one is the baby mama, but she was not happy and we all had to hear about it.

Anywhosthedaddy, at least there is a bright side to this whole thing. While I was googling pictures of the inflatable cat (I can't take a pic of the actual cat because the cat guy has security cameras), I think I found my Halloween costume!



I love it!

It's second best to the costume that I long to have one day when I am skinny enough to make it look good...


Next year. (sigh)
And yes...MB is totally going to be Alfred Hitchcock.

Share a Spoon: Not for jerks.

I'm not trying to step on Momma's toes, but I am also adding a cake recipe.
It's really the only apple recipe I've ever made.

It's okay. I figured there would be lots of cakes and desserts and whatnot, because who doesn't love an appley delicious dessert?

Jerks, that's who.

Anyway, this is my Aunt Hazel's apple cake recipe and I'm sharing it because it is damn delicious.

Also, it's the cake that made me address certain counter accessibility issues in my kitchen. You can read about that here.

In order to offer up something other than cake, here is a recipe for
Apple Ginger Porkchops. I haven't tried it yet, but I plan to soon. It looks very good.
If you decide to try it out, let me know how it turns out.

FRESH APPLE CAKE
1/2 cup margarine
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 1/2 cup flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
2 1/2 cup chopped cooking apples
1/2 cup chopped walnuts

In a large mixing bowl, cream margarine and sugar; beat in egg. Mix the dry ingredients together with the apples and nuts and add to the creamed mixture. Bake at 350 degrees for about 40-45 minutes, until it tests done. I use a 9x15 inch loaf pan.

CARAMEL FROSTING
2 cups brown sugar
1 stick margarine
1/3 cup canned milk
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp vanilla

Mix first 3 ingredients in a saucepan; cook for 1 minute; add baking powder and vanilla, mix well. Cool. Beat until thick.

ENJOY!
I can't wait to try out everyone's recipes.

It's all sunshine and rainbows until jackassery attacks.

So, I have been avoiding Friday Flip Offs because I've been trying to be more positive and less stressed and more rainbowy and all that crap. I figured if I try to take a less negative and homicidal approach to all the jackassery that tends to come upon me, I will be a better, more relaxed person.

Then, I have a day like today...

It started out pretty well. Skye girl waited until 8:36 am to wake me up to go outside and pee. Then, I crawled back into bed with the intention of just sleeping a little longer before getting up and doing Day Three of Couch to 5K.

I slept a little too long, because it was 10:47am when I woke up.

Oops.

I was ready to run but MB reminded me that we were meeting his Mom for lunch.

Quick shower. Throw on some clothes. Head to the restaurant. Have a delicious lunch with the future mother in law. (Thanks again, if you're reading - great to see you! :))

After lunch, we headed to the local orchard to get apples and then to the pet store to get dog food.

We were considering getting our pup some senior food (tear) and decided to ask the clerk for her advice.

Big mistake.

After the first 6 minutes of her way too informative rant about the benefits of senior dog food vs regular dog food and salmon oil and how active her 7 year old dog is and how this brand is better than that brand and how she is the expert on all things dog food related and knows everything there is to know about everything...MB has already walked away and returns with a bag of the non senior food we usually buy.

That's why I love him.

We came home and chilled for a bit before doing Day Three of
C25K. It was brutal. Neither of us was into it and we were both struggling. We did it, but it wasn't pretty.

So that kinda beat me down a little bit.

As I was crashed on the couch in defeat, I happened to notice a lovely brown stain on the ceiling.

Awesome. We have a leak.

Just what we can't afford right now.

Damn money pit that we call a home.

I'm pretending not to see it at the moment. I really feel that's the best approach.

Just don't be surprised if you read about me in the news sometime soon. I'll be the super drunk lady sitting in her lawn chair in the front yard, watching her house go up in flames.

"Oh hi Officer. (hiccup) I have no idea what happened. (hiccup) I'm just so happy that I was (hiccup) able to get myself out safely. (hiccup) What's that Officer Cutiepie? Oh yeah. It is (hiccup) pure luck that my dog also happened to get out safely (hiccup) along with this bucket full of fish from the pond and all of my vital documents. (hiccup) Yes, those are all my photo albums. How did they get out here? (hiccup) It must be a miracle. Can I (hiccup) play with your handcuffs?"

So, because I'm in a state of denial, I decided to refrain from cooking anything. I already have a burn on my arm from Tuesday's dinner that I'm pretty sure is infected and will require amputation.

Chinese food it is.

I call it in and then shower because C25K makes you stinky. Very stinky.

I enjoy my nice shower and then...the curtain rod falls down on my face.

Death by curtain rod is not how I want to go.

Continuing with the theme of denial, I leave it as is, crumpled on the floor and go get my dinner. I inform MB that there may or may not be a broken shower curtain rod in the shower that I'm choosing not to deal with.

He starts to inform me that said curtain rod has never, ever, ever fallen on him during the entire time he has been showering in the house. I start to give him 'the look' and he stops. "I love you baby." "(grumble)Me too...going to get dinner (grumble)."

I pick up the food incident free and head out of the parking lot.

BAM! Green minivan comes flying out of the second row and I have to slam on the brakes, almost losing my delicious chinese food to the dog hair covered floor mat.

Stupid non-driving scumbag who is more concerned with lighting her cigarette than looking to see who she's about to kill.

Jackass hoebag.

Yeah. I spent the next 1/2 mile cussing her out and giving her the stink eye in my rearview. I showed her.

I finally get over that little episode and make it into my neighborhood where I almost kill 7 hooligans who are playing football in the middle of the street. Of course they were too self-absorbed to get the heck out of my way.

Why on Earth would they have to move for the cars? It's not like they are in the middle of the road or anything.

Sheesh.

"Hey assholes! You see that big open field RIGHT OVER THERE?! Yeah. That's a park! Use it!"

This is why I'm in my pajamas at 7pm. This is also why I'm having a blizzard tonight. Damn the consequences. I need effin ice cream.

Needless to say, I am flipping off all of those who conspired against me today. The happy, stress free, rainbowy crap will resume tomorrow.

That wasn't thunder. That was just my fat ass getting in shape.

So, I ran today.

It has absolutely nothing to do with bad hairdos and really big sunglasses.


*Sidebar - when you google A Flock of Seagulls, you get an equal amount of band pictures and pictures like this:
(That's for you, ampbsl!)

Are you singing the song now?
If not, click here.

Moving on...
MB and I are doing the Couch to 5K plan. We have been talking about getting in shape and running and whatnot and we decided to take the plunge today.

Our first running adventure started out a little something like this:
MB: Are you ready?

Me: Ready for what?

MB: (rolling his eyes) Ready to run? Remember? Couch to 5K?

Me: (lounging on the couch, ironically) Yeah. I'm not ready.

MB: We said today was the day. No more excuses.

Me: Well, I'm doing it. I'm on Step One (pointing to the couch).

MB: (rolling his eyes again) Just get up.


So, I go brush my teeth and try to figure out what to wear. Once I decide on a shirt that maybe doesn't accentuate my fat rolls too much, I grab my sneakers.

Just as I'm reaching for the sneaks, here comes the jingle jingle jingle that I was trying to hide from.
Skye.
She has this weird way of knowing when I am putting my sneaks on and she appears out of nowhere. She has associated my sneaks with her going to the park and she goes CRAZY when she sees me putting them on.
So, of course, it starts.
She nuzzles me, play bows and runs for the door. Runs back, nuzzles me, play bows and runs for the door. Repeat approximately 714 times.
Then, she just runs right for the door and plants herself there.

It just about broke my heart to leave her behind. She is just not a good dog to run with unless you like being jerked back by her leash every 4 seconds when she decides to stop and sniff a patch of grass.

Yeah.

She stayed behind.

Anyway, we started out on our path around the neighborhood.
Walked 5 minutes. Ran 1 minute.

MB: Wow. You are really not breathing the right way.

Me: What do you mean? I'm breathing. How can I screw that up?

MB: Nothing. Nevermind.

We continued on.
Walked 1 minute. Ran 1 minute.

MB: You breathe completely different when you run.

Me: (befuddled) Yeah, jackass. I'm out of shape.

MB: No, it's not that. You need to get your breathing under control.

Me: (getting angry) Uh huh.

We continued on.
Walked 1 minute. Ran 1 minute.

Me: (panting heavily) Why the hell aren't you having trouble breathing?

MB: Because, I know how to do it.

Me: (preparing my fist) What? I know how to breathe.

MB: Well. Not really. You should not be breathing that heavily.

Me: Awesome. I don't know how to breathe.

We continued on.
Walked 1 minute. Ran 1 minute.

Me: Omg. I'm going to die.

MB: You're doing great.

Me: No. I can't breathe.

MB: I know. I just told you that. Why don't you ever listen to me?

Me: Yeah. Yeah. So, what are you doing that I'm not doing, Mr. Runner Man?

MB: I don't know. You're just not doing it right.

Me: (eyes rolling)

MB: Don't get upset. Just try to control your breath.

Me: I'm not getting upset. I just have no idea what to do differently. I'm trying to even it out, but then I feel like I can't catch my breath and I pant. Sexy, huh?

MB: Uh huh. You are hot stuff.

We continued on.
Walked 1 minute. Ran 1 minute.
You get the idea.
We ran the required time for Day One. I don't know what the required time was for Day One because MB was in charge of all that. I'm totally looking it up though so MB doesn't try to make me run more than I'm supposed to.

We walked the rest of the way home and it was a nice outing. I would like to say that I felt better after having done it, but that wouldn't be entirely truthful.

I did feel good that I accomplished it. I did feel good that the only sore spots were my right inner thigh (wtf?) and my boobs.

I think I did some things right.
I was very aware of my posture. I was aware of my movements. I was very (probably too much) aware of my shirt and it's accentutation of my fat rolls. I was also very aware of my sweatpants riding up between my fat thighs.

I really need to find my little spandex shorts to wear under them.

I tried to be aware of my breathing. I was trying to take deep, even breaths but once I started running, it all fell apart. My breath became labored and I started hyperventilating. No matter how hard I tried to control it, I just couldn't.

When we got home, I was dizzy, hot and my legs felt like rubber. I also felt the twinges of The Beast because of the humidity in the air. It wasn't pretty, people.

I know it's my first day and all. I didn't expect it to be easy. It sure as hell wasn't. I'm sure it isn't going to be.

Don't worry. I'm not giving up. I'll be right back out there on Wednesday. Tomorrow, I plan on doing Slim in 6 and some yoga just to loosen things up a bit.

So, peeps. I need your advice.
For those runners out there...please send me some tips. Do you have any suggestions for how I can control my breathing a little better?
Any other helpful advice would be greatly appreciated too. :)