What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

It all started with jelly beans.

Luke and I were at Super Target yesterday, stocking up on important items like diapers, frozen dinners, and hand soap, when we happened to drive through the candy section, specifically the Jelly Belly section, where dozens of miniscule beans bedazzled me with their array of brilliant colors, almost like a rainbow, and suddenly I was overcome with desire for Red Apple Jelly Bellys. "I'll just have a handful every now and then," I promised as I tossed the sack into my cart. "After all, they're fat free!"

Now, at my Super Target, the candy aisle is adjacent to the potato chip aisle, and a variety of Baked Lays beckoned from their place on the end cap. "I'll just have some with lunch," I pledged as I debated between barbeque and cheddar and sour cream. "After all, they're baked!"

Famous last words.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I had consumed approximately twenty points worth of Jelly Bellys, three servings of chips, one Weight Watchers ice cream sandwich, a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, three Fig Newtons, and my weight in defiance, tired of counting points, measuring portions, and turning down a cup of milk with dinner because I'd rather spend the points on cookies (the Weight Watchers ones, of course). It didn't help that today I was home from work, which meant instant access to all things guilt-inducing and an afternoon of Beverly Hills, 90210, the first season, because it was on sale for twenty bucks. (Remind me sometime to talk about how this show has seriously warped my impression of raising teenagers; also, how Jim Walsh is pretty much, "Way to go, son, just use a rubber" with Brandon after he lays his first girlfriend but will fuhREAK out later when Brenda does the nasty with Dylan. Sexism, it is a bitch!). So for now I'm enjoying the goodies and promising to get back on the saddle tomorrow.

Binge eating aside, it's been a wonderful weekend, the highlight of which was a trip to the Indianapolis Zoo. It was Kara's first time, and our first real outside activity as a family (walks around the complex don't count), and as the three of us made our way from the parking lot to the front entrance, all I could say was, "This is what I've always wanted."

The outing was inspired in part because Indy has a few koalas on loan for the summer, so that was the first place we went. Did you know that because koalas live on eucalyptus, a food that's shockingly low in nutrition, they spend anywhere from eighteen to twenty-two hours A DAY asleep? Thus, to capture one awake and on camera was quite a feat. Way to go, Luke.

Next were the seals, where we hung for about an hour because our stop there coincided with Kara's next bottle and she was taking her sweet little time. But eventually she finished, and Luke scooped her up to give her an up-close-and-personal view, and watching them, my heart melted.

As if THAT weren't precious enough, the oceans exhibit was even better, as Kara's eyes were drawn to the brightly colored fish just inches from her nose. It was amazing to see her smile as various forms of sealife crossed her path and Luke beam with pride as he pointed out their features. He's always had a soft spot for nature and animals, so I know this trip was especially meaningful for him.

Of course, I had my turn, too, and took great delight in identifying giraffes, elephants, and monkeys, all of which we see in our favorite bedtime book.

Apparently Kara's hands were far more appealing than posing for a happy shot with Momma.

But not for Daddy!

I could eat them up, I love them both so much.

Afterwards, Luke and I spent some time watching Juno, and when it comes to that movie, I don't know what to say. The dialogue was a cross between Dawson's Creek and every Kevin Smith film I've ever seen, only less believable, but really, it was the act of watching the main characters navigate through the adoption process that brought me to tears, because I couldn't imagine my life without Kara. I felt a new kind of hurt for the moms who choose this process, for whatever reason.

The soundtrack, on the other hand? Totally awesome.

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Check out my latest post on Parents, wherein I contemplate family size.

More options than an Old Country Buffet

While I was busy debating how to address my high school reunion, surprisingly, life carried on. Here's just a sampling of what's been occupying my time:

Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008
Geez, you might be thinking, is she really still talking about this? Hell, yes, I'm still talking about this, today is day 55 of my cycle and still not a word from that bitch Aunt Flo. I took another test when I came home from work this afternoon because my stomach felt jittery before lunch, but alas, still negative, my fourth one since Mother's Day weekend. It's not so much that I'm freaked out about maybe having children THIRTEEN MONTHS APART, HOLY CRAP, but more like dying of curiosity; however, even that attitude isn't doing me any good, so I've decided to just sit tight until I'm presented with either two pink lines or a bloodbath in my underwear. I've been cramping on and off for days, and my gut feeling is that I'm not pregnant, but my gut also told me I would deliver Kara before her due date, possibly without drugs, and we all know how that went down.

While waiting for the latest test to register, Luke jokingly asked if there was a way to jumpstart my period. "If you can speed up labor, why not this?" he said.

Indeed.

Weight Watchers
Today marks week three of Weight Watchers 2.0, and things are going...okay. I've not been as dedicated as I was the first time around, so there were several incidents involving pancakes, bacon, and chicken strips, but I've lost 4.2 pounds to date--almost two pounds since last week--and that's not a bad thing. I've really enjoyed the ability to track my eating habits and calculate Points values online; it was through the Web site that I learned one point plus one point doesn't necessarily equal two. As in, three of the Weight Watchers one-point chocolate chip cookies are five points, not three, and I'm not sure why that is, exactly, but being off by a couple of points each day definitely makes a difference on the scale. I just discovered this gem a few days ago, and my newfound knowledge is bound to make a positive impact on next week's weigh-in.

I will say that I participated in a free health risk assessment at work the other day, and baby weight aside, I'm much healthier than I originally thought. In 2005 I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and my efforts to bring it down were half-hearted at best. I was pregnant for most of 2007, and pregnancy raises cholesterol, so it wasn't until now that I was in a position to retest. I'm happy to report that all of my levels are in the optimal or near-optimal range, and I can breathe a little easier knowing I've reduced my risk for heart disease. It was in taking that test that I realized I'm doing Weight Watchers for more than just the weight loss. I've had an effed-up mentality regarding food for years, and I want to put my best foot forward and engage in a healthier lifestyle. I want Kara to look at me and see a strong role model for making good choices about food and exercise, and I want her to think that it's easy. I don't want her to use food to get attention, like I did when I made myself throw up for three weeks in junior high. I don't want her to obsess over supposed imperfections or compare herself to peers with drastically different body types or run to food whenever she needs comfort. But if I want that for her, I have to want it for me, too. And I do.

But hot damn, do I miss my spinach dip.

It's not all bad, though. I've been doing a little more in the kitchen, and on Tuesday night I used my Take Five! cookbook, a collection of Weight Watchers recipes with only five main ingredients, to make Pita Pizzas for five points a piece. And they were delicious. Isabel, you bonafide pizza lover you, they will not disappoint. I promise.

House
After months of hemming and hawing and pouring over Excel spreadsheets to make sure we are really in a financial position to do this, Luke and I took our first major step in becoming homeowners and mailed off an application to the Indianapolis Neighborhood Housing Partnership, a non-profit that helps first-time owners secure their first house. Now, Luke and I both have excellent credit (quick shout-out to myfico.com, where we purchased our credit reports and Fico scores from all three bureaus for forty-five bucks a piece), so we don't need to go through an agency to make this happen, but the INHP has relationships with banks throughout the city that will offer loans without requiring a down payment OR private mortgage insurance to qualified buyers. Plus, I took a (free!) intro-to-home-buying class last spring that they sponsored at a local university, and it was very infomative. It certainly couldn't hurt to see what they can offer us.

Our lease on this apartment is up at the end of July, but we'll definitely need more time then that to get our act together, so the plan is to switch to a month-to-month lease and close on a property sometime in September. We won't start looking until we've been pre-approved by a lender, which should allow us to move forward relatively quickly once we've found the house of our dreams. Luke and I are beyond excited about being able to do this and STILL have someone home with Kara. I know how lucky we are and I thank God every night for it.

My Gorgeous Baby
Kara turned five months old on Saturday, and she is taking the world by storm: scooting backwards, becoming more vocal, and as of Sunday, experimenting with rice cereal. She won't entertain more than a few spoonfuls before she's pushing away the spoon, but she's extremely interested in everything on our plates, so this is a good place to start.

Plus, she looks absolutely adorable in her high chair.

She continues to hold herself up really well and can sit unsupported for about ten minutes before toppling over like a house of cards.

She's also still snacking on her fingers and toes with passionate abandon.

So, to sum up, things are going really well right now, even if I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends. Work is extremely busy, and I'm helping with a baby shower for my sister Samantha in June, which means invites needed to go out like, yesterday, and writing for Parents always keeps me on my toes. (Not sure why me wanting to clean my daughter's toes from a strange dog's germs is basis for telling me to relax, as if I couldn't wait to dip her foot in bleach or something, or why not wanting my five-month-old baby to be approached by a dog I don't know means I'm afraid of all dogs all the time, but whatever.) Sure, there are times I'm afraid of passing out behind the wheel, but really, what's a good night's sleep, anyway?

I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

I just joined Weight Watchers Online, God help me

I go ahead and get you guys all fired up about my intent to tackle deeper, more meaningful topics, and yet the next post you read is going to be all about fitness. Which I have written about before, ad nauseum, without showing any real progress.

That's about to change.

Last night, I joined Weight Watchers Online and blew a hundred dollars on a three-month membership, basic starting kit, two cookbooks, and a calculatorish Points-tracking thingie.

When I first hopped on the Weight Watchers bandwagon four years ago in Rensselaer, I attended meetings once a week, documented my food and drink intake with a paper and pen, and used a hand-held slider to calculate Points on the fly. Now, in an effort to save some money, I'm doing it all through their Web site, which has this elaborate set-up for tracking points and searching for recipes and participating on message boards, and I feel a little bit like a ninety-year-old woman who's being asked to send an e-mail for the first time. These new-fangled contraptions are hurting my brain.

But this morning I measured out a cup of Cheerios and a half cup of skim milk topped with sliced banana, and when making my lunch last night I learned I've been scarfing about eight servings of raisins in one sitting every day.

Like I said before, I won't continue with Weight Loss Wednesday because it stresses me out too much, but I will report my progress and let you guys know how I'm doing. Just for posterity, I'm going to tell you that my starting weight is 145 pounds, and my first goal is to lose ten percent of my body weight, which equals to 130.5--just half a pound shy of my overall goal weight (for now). And while I'm not attending meetings, May is Health and Fitness Month at work, and today kicks off our version of the Biggest Loser Challenge, so I will weigh in with our HR director and track my progress via our internal wellness blog, which I launched yesterday (am corporate pioneer!). She's also going to take "before" pictures of those willing to digitally capture how out of shape they are, so I'll drop that into this post this afternoon.

Edited to add on 5/6/08: Finally, finally, here is my "Before" picture (pay no mind to the crazy bush head that will surely one day devour us all, it was pre-trim):

Now I am ready to do this. Now is the time.

Any other Weight Watchers devotees? I know all about Emily's success with the online program (which was actually part of my inspiration to join in the first place), and Kelly signed up last week. Anyone else? And on a related note, exactly how many slices make up two ounces of deli-style lunchmeat?

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Footnotes:

Read all about my "dads are not moms" rant and yesterday's car trouble on Parents.

Monday was my blogiversary! Every year I think I'm going to make a big to-do, and every year it passes me by like a fart in the wind (thank you, Shawshank Redemption, for the colorful choice of words). As I refocus on my blog as well as my approach to wellness, the timing of my return couldn't be any more perfect.

Or any less perfect. Really, if I'd been on my game, my subconscious would have known to post on Monday, and then I could be telling you that blogging is so ingrained in my personal core that the good Lord in Heaven inspired me to publish on my big day.

Apparently God isn't much into blogs.

Last but not least, here is a picture of my kid. Luke picked me up from work on Tuesday and dressed her in this super-cute outfit, which about killed my coworkers with adorableness. Can you blame them?

Weight Loss Wednesday: Just what I needed

I've drafted the subtitle to this entry about oh, eighty gazillion times since Friday night, the most popular one being "I can explain" because not only did I eat out THREE EFFING TIMES this weekend, Monday saw me eating Luke's famous corned beef and cabbage like a piggy at a trough. I did not have high hopes for the scale.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 146
CURRENT WEIGHT: 144.5
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 14.5

I usually hop on first thing in the morning, right before I shower, so the significance of the numbers didn't kick in until I was conditioning my hair, because the whole time I was focused on a new subtitle, "I'll take what I can get," forgetting I wasn't starting out at 145 like I did last week and thinking I'd only lost half a pound. But then it hit me: Was 146 last week! Was horse with feedbag! Lost a pound and a half this time!

I am so happy I swear I could shit rainbows.

And let me tell you, I worked my ass off for that pound and a half. When Luke and I went to Red Lobster on Friday night to finally redeem his birthday gift card from my sister and brother-in-law, I ordered grilled chicken and a baked potato instead of the fried strips I really wanted. On Saturday, when I met up with some Indianapolis-area bloggers at a restaurant right down the street from my apartment (who were fabulous, by the way), my eyes feasted hungrily on the choices at my disposal: baby-back ribs, steak, big fat juicy burger, even spinach dip! But I already knew I'd be going to Red Robin the next day (Samantha was in town and had not yet been introduced to their deliciousness) so I went for chicken once again, this time chicken fajitas, and what do you know, they were awesome. I had my big fat juicy burger the next night, even some cheesesticks and fries, so my hopes for recording a loss were slowly beginning to dwindle. And after Luke's St. Patrick's Day feast, I assumed all was lost, so much so that yesterday afternoon I even had a Snickers bar because really, when you're convinced that progress is no longer possible, what's one more guilty pleasure?

But all wasn't lost! The only thing lost was weight. I lost weight because I made some better food choices and even managed to take a couple of walks before the rainy weather returned. The size-twelve black pants I bought from Express have more give in the waist, and.... Well, that's about it, no other noticeable differences, but I don't care. Like I said earlier, I'll take what I can get. Especially since I'm still so down about returning to work. It was so heartening to see that I really can do this.

It's going to be a good day.

Weight Loss Wednesday: At least I said "No" to KFC last night; that's like losing three pounds right there

It's my first official weigh-in since announcing my goal weight last week, but not even the pressure of sharing my numbers online was enough to change my ways.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 145
CURRENT WEIGHT: 146
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 16

The first half of the day continues to go well: Cheerios, sandwich, fresh fruit, raisins, yogurt, some 100-calorie Honey Maid crisps, and a mug of hot chocolate for a pick-me-up around ten. It's the after-work hours that slay me.

I know what the problem is. The problem is I go to bed at eleven-thirty, and by the time I come home I've been running around for almost twelve hours on less than six hours of sleep. I'm tired. I'm out of sorts after being gone from Kara all day. Luke's worn out from being WITH Kara all day. My only source of comfort is food. The burger and fries I had on Sunday night made me feel good. The spinach dip on Monday was like chicken soup for my soul.

But both times, after the first few bites, I felt guilty. Guilty for completely disregarding my weight-loss goals and not taking my high cholesterol more seriously. I want to be successful at this. I need to be successful. I just need better motivation.

I also need exercise, and with spring on the way, that will finally be possible. Luke and I are going stir-crazy in this apartment, biding our time until the snow melts permanently and the temperature's high enough to take Kara for a stroll. Indianapolis has some wonderful parks and walking trails; those paired with my early schedule and Daylight Savings Time should mean we'll have no problems becoming one with The Great Outdoors. I'd love to take advantage of the complimentary gym membership now offered by my company as well, but honestly, I don't think I could stand another two hours a week away from home, not when our "situation" is still so new.

I mean, could you hit the treadmill knowing this face was waiting for you?

I didn't think so.

For more health-related goodness, check out the conversation over at Parents regarding the controversial HPV vaccine. It's wicked fun.

Weight Loss Wednesday: Game on!

But only for like eight minutes because my alarm is set for five o'clock in the morning, which means I should've gone to bed yesterday. I promised you a Weight Loss Wednesday, though, and a Weight Loss Wednesday is what you're gonna get.

Minus the actual weight loss.

CURRENT WEIGHT: 145
GOAL WEIGHT: 130

With numbers like those, a sane and rational person wouldn't let the clerk at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles assume she was still a hundred and twenty pounds when updating her driver's license last week. She wouldn't delude herself into thinking her weight gain wasn't that noticeable or that wearing a black tee shirt would totally camoflauge her bowl full of jelly.

God, would I love to meet HER.

And things were going so well, too. Remember back in January when I was all, "Look at me, I've lost all this baby weight, I'm gonna be the best me ever, blah blah blah"? I used to wonder how a new mother could possibly gain weight when she's on her feet for ninety percent of her day, feeding the baby, bouncing the baby, changing the baby, the baby, the baby, the baby. Now I know that stress and sleep deprivation bring on the mad munchies more powerful then even the strongest pot (I'm assuming, I seriously never took more than a drag, and even that I messed up). Somewhere between then and now I forgot what apples looked like and stuffed myself with potato chips. I've consumed Reese's Cups at 9:00 a.m. and Snickers ice cream bars at noon. I'm not proud of this. But I didn't care enough to do anything about it until I was crying in Eddie Bauer's dressing room because I couldn't squeeze my ass into a pair of jeans.

Life is already hella-emotional right now without throwing my body issues into the mix, but I actually think returning to work will play a key role in forming better eating habits, mostly because the lab doesn't stock their freezer with Ben and Jerry's and my fingers will be too busy pecking at the keyboard to open a candy wrapper. That alone should shave at least five pounds off my mid-section, but just in case, I'm also vowing to pack lighter lunches and increase my water intake. Today started strong; I began my morning with Honey Nut Cheerios and sliced banana, had two cups of hot chocolate for a little caffeine rush, and devoured a roast beef deli sandwich, handful of raisins, and one sorely missed apple for lunch. But Luke and I were both so disoriented from our very long day that come dinnertime we said "Screw nutrition" and grabbed a pizza from Papa Murphy's. At least it was vegetarian.

I originally planned to talk more about my fitness plan and how I decided on my goal weight, but seeing as it's already eleven o'clock and I have to get up at the butt crack of dawn, you'll have to make do with my not-entirely-cohesive ramblings and one adorable baby picture.

Friday can't come fast enough.

On the bright side, my socks still fit

First off, last Friday's BFF was so awesome that Luke and I were actually inspired to rent Raising Arizona. My first choice was Good Will Hunting, since the burger bit Fraulein N posted reminded me I've yet to see this movie, but it was out. Out! What are the odds? So Luke called me from Blockbuster and asked for a runner-up, and I pulled up the entry and read through the comments until the glory that is 1987 Nicolas Cage sprang up from the monitor, and there you have it. I hadn't seen it since middle school, and if I were the one sporting a diaper instead of Kara, I'd have changed it more times than I have fingers. (You know, because of the laughing.)

Second, I'll be taking these here Huggies and any cash you got.

Third, did you know 1987 was 21 years ago? GOD.

Anyway, last Thursday was my big back-to-work shopping spree, and it went...okay. First stop? Indy's fancy schmancy Fashion Mall, home to the state's only Sephora. It opened just shy of three years ago, meriting a feature in the city's daily newspaper, and the only reason I knew what it was at the time was Amalah. I'd only really started wearing make-up the year before, thanks to my friend, Kendra, who dragged me to the Clinique counter at the now-defunct Parisian's and got me done up all nice and purty like. I've been a Clinique fan ever since. (Actually, I'm a fan of ALL make-up counters, simply for the fact that I'm horrible at determining things like whether or not my foundation should be Nude or Shell and I'd rather pay twenty dollars on one I've tested personally then three due through trial and error.)

ANYWAY, Sephora. I've been in Sephora a couple of times before to buy primer and lip gloss, but I mostly stick to Clinique because the girls at the counter are always uber-nice and I'm not overwhelmed by thirty-seven million products. However, Amalah's Advice Smackdown column gives testimony to a variety of life-changing beauty essentials, ninety-eight percent of them outside of the Clinique family, so I thought What the hell and decided to branch out. Plus, my skincare regimen, which until three days ago consisted of a horribly drying Clearasil face wash and Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturizing Gel (the latter of which you'll have to pry from my cold, dead hands, it's that silky on my cheeks), was in desperate need of an upgrade.

Before embarking on my journey, I made a list of the items I planned to hunt down:

• "On A Clear Day" acne starter kit by Philosophy
• Sue Devitt 70% Seaweed Gel Foundation
• Foundation primer
• Eye cream
• Mascara

Originally I thought about investing in some new blush and eye shadow, but seeing as I barely take the time to wash my freaking face, I thought it best to focus on products that'll manage or at least camoflauge my skin problems. Plus, I was already worried about how badly this delightful little trip might dent my bank account. But am working mother! If I have to leave my kid, I'm going to look damn good doing it.

Walking in, I wasn't quite sure where to start, because the products are sorted by brand, not item category, so you can't just head to the foundation section, you have to find the foundation section of every product in the store. Since I was firm on the Philosophy kit, I found the acne gift set first and luckily was approached by a sales consultant who helped me take care of the rest. I told her about my oily complexion and frequent break-outs (which she could tell just by looking at me, how embarrassing), and she suggested Smashbox Photo Finish Light Foundation Primer and LORAC Breakthrough Performance Foundation, so I forgot about Sue Devitt and went with that, but not after frantically scouring through Clinique's partial display for appropriate substitutes, because oh my God, I never thought I'd pay thirty-six dollars for PRIMER, but Clinique doesn't make a primer, and while they do carry oil-free foundation, they don't include SPF, and SPF is a must for long-term skin care, according to Amalah and any dermatologist, and I'm not about to whip out my Banana Boat sunblock when I'm still wearing a winter coat.

After realizing I'd already spent a hundred and twenty bucks without yet buying a stitch of clothing, I almost flaked out on the eye cream, but then I remembered my new working-mother stance and thew in Clinique's All About Eyes because it was the cheapest one I could find. Apparently Clinique is to Sephora what CoverGirl is to Clinique. Fabulous.

End result: one hundred and fifty-seven dollars, but that's OK because I swear I'm already seeing a difference. Plus, I scored a free mascara for signing up for their rewards program, so I guess we know who came out on top there. Suckas.

On to mall number two, where my precious New York and Company awaited my return.

I had high hopes for New York and Company and thus felt no shame in throwing shirt after pant after sweater over my arm, wondering how much I could justify to Luke and also if tears would be necessary to earn financial absolution. But after an hour and a half of looking at myself in the dressing room mirror, sucking in my stomach as hard as I could, and seriously considering hauling ass to Motherhood Maternity, I ended up with three shirts and a sweater, and I returned the sweater and two of the shirts after a brief stint at the Limited, where I scored dress slacks and a collar shirt that gave my squishy mom bod more dependable support. It didn't help that I'd forgotten to wear my shaper from home, one I picked up last summer before Kara began to wreak havoc on my belly button (seriously. I don't think it'll ever look the same) and actually does what it's supposed to do (SHAPE) and not just serve as a cover-up layer for the season's latest boobie tops (hint, hint New York and Company). By the time I made it to Eddie Bauer, Luke called to see how I was doing, and I broke down a little bit right there in the dressing room. Oh, how I long for the days of size-ten pants and small-to-medium tees!

In other words, best shopping spree EVER.

When I got home, Luke gave me a pep talk about how my body was only nine weeks postpartum and still needed time to heal, and I read your comments on this entry and perked up even more. I thought a lot about Christina's Clinton-and-Stacy-inspired remark about how nobody looks inside your pants and wondered why we gals let ourselves get so worked up on the number aspect of our clothing, especially since all the stores follow completely different sizing guidelines. None of the twelves at NY&C fit quite right, but the twelves at the Limited were almost perfect; just a tad of muffin top, but nothing a baggy shirt couldn't conceal.

Then I went to Old Navy and surrendered to a pair of size-fourteen jeans because the twelves were just too effing tight. I would've cried if they didn't fit me so well. Not only was there NO muffin top, they were even a bit roomy.

So today I'm heading back to the mall to exchange my new dress slacks, because I'd rather admire myself in pants two sizes bigger than my pre-pregnancy clothes then settle for the next size up simply because I can lock the zipper. Hell, now I'm questioning whether I was ever a ten in the first place.

Despite my liberating epiphany, though, I'm thinking it's time to revive Weight Loss Wednesday, so be on the look-out for that in a couple of days. Because that won't be depressing at all!

In other news, I finally broke my no-work-talk-on-maternity-leave rule and met with my supervisor for lunch on Friday. It was a nice way to get acclimated on what's been happening in my absence and mentally prepare myself for my return. Plus, I brought up and was approved for a new work schedule, so starting next Wednesday, I'll be pulling seven to three-thirty shifts with half an hour for lunch. I'm beyond excited about this. I'll miss traffic both ways and totally make it home in time for Judge Judy.

Seeing Kara will be nice, too.

142.8

It's amazing how relative life can be. For example, before I got pregnant, the number listed in this entry's title would've been reason enough to hole up in the bathroom and have a good cry, because for my height and frame, it would've pushed me out of all the pants I owned and categorized me as overweight. Now, though, exactly one month after delivering my first baby, seeing 142.8 on the scale makes me breathe a sigh of relief, because it means I've lost all but five pounds of my pregnancy weight. It means I can fit into my tee-shirts again, and my pajama pants, and my bras. It means for the first time since March, I physically feel like myself again.

For several days after my c-section, I was a mess. Stomach ballooned to the size of a volleyball, face and upper body holding enough water to quench the thirst of a high school chess team. (What? Those guys need fluids, too.) Looking at pictures taken during that first week actually make me cringe, because I barely recognize myself, so the fact that I'm posting one here is proof of just how much I love you all. I'm nothing if not about the honesty.

I'm not sure how it happened--a combination of pumping, baby bouncing, and eating small meals faster than the speed of light, probably--but it wasn't long before my uterus began to deflate, my double chin disappeared, and my cheeks stopped fashioning themselves after Alvin and the Chipmunks. I feel very lucky to have lost the bulk of my baby luggage so quickly, and even though I have yet to pull out my pre-maternity clothing, even though there's no way my current ass will make its way into my New York and Company jeans, and even though my stomach looks more like a plate of corned beef hash than my favorite banana pancake, you won't hear me complaining. I'm well aware that some women have a much harder time.

But there are still miles to go before I can call myself healthy.

Those of you who've been following me since my pre-baby days will remember my on-again, off-again quest to lose weight and get back to somewhere within a hundred and twenty-something pounds. You'll remember my successful bout with Weight Watchers almost four years ago, and how I fell off the point-counting wagon, and how in 2006 I started (read: stole from another fellow blogger) Weight Loss Wednesday to monitor my progress. You'll remember how the scale always seemed to fluctuate between the same five-pound range because I was never motivated enough to keep away from that damn (yet delicious, I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean it) Ben and Jerry's. Truth be told, I was never THAT concerned, because I wasn't THAT overweight, and I could still shop at my favorite stores without wandering into the plus sizes, and there was plenty of time to get down to a respectable number. Really, if I wanted to, I could ditch that weight in a matter of weeks. If I really wanted to.

And then I had a baby, which has completely changed the way I view my body and the challenge of weight loss.

It's not that I'm disgusted with my appearance. For having a child surgically removed from my uterus, I think I look pretty damn good, thank you very much. I won't be wearing a bikini anytime soon, but I wasn't going to do that, anyway, no matter what the scale said. I'm proud my body was able to grow and deliver such a beautifully healthy baby and handle the recovery process so well. And I'm thankful I was able to get pregnant, so easily, without complications. Again, I know not everyone is so lucky.

But still, there are new obstacles for me to face. Like....

I was overweight before I had Kara. Now, there's another five pounds to deal with, which puts me that much farther from my overall weight-loss goal.

I was never a fan of my stomach. I had a gut roll that always poked through my tee-shirts, eliminating the possibility of wearing low-rise jeans, belly-bearing tops, and even belts because they always cut into my waistline, making it hard for me to sit comfortably. Now, though, it's been totally massacred. I have no idea if it's still transitioning back to its pre-pregnancy state or if what I've got is here to stay. I'd post a picture, but even I'm not that gutsy. (No pun intended.)

Before, I had a hard enough time making wellness a priority. I didn't put much effort into making healthy meals, and my YMCA membership didn't last more than a couple of months. Between work and my personal life, it seemed like I was always too busy to put energy into anything else. And now? I still have all of those things, plus a third person who depends on me to feed her when she's hungry and wipe her butt when she craps. If I was busy before, what the hell do I call myself now? How am I going to nip this in the bud once and for all, before I get pregnant with baby number two and gain even more?

Ironically, I think the whole reason I took on this new body shape will be the reason I get out of it: my daughter. I want her to have a fit mother. I want to be able to run through the park with her and go hiking with her and jump rope with her without gasping for breath. I want her to see me and know what it means to live a healthy life. I DON'T want her to look at me and think, "I hope that's not hereditary." I don't want her to see pictures of me in my younger days and wonder what the hell happened.

I want her to love me for who I am, but that means I have to be the best "me" possible. And there's still a long way to go.

I have a confession to make.

I think I thought I could have this baby and not gain weight.

Really! Despite the weight loss I experienced as a result of "morning" sickness in the early part of my pregnancy, my belly continued to grow, Freka continued to thrive, and my doctors continued to tell me not to worry. So I didn't. In fact, I relished it. I was a good ten pounds heavier than I should've been at the time we conceived and in no hurry to put on any more than absolutely necessary.

WEIGHT ON 2/28: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 136.4
TOTAL PREGNANCY POUNDS GAINED: 0.8

Holy automated scale, Batman! A positive number! I'm totally blaming the two bowls of Cocoa Puffs I had before I stepped on. The Snickers cheesecake I had after dinner last night may also have been a contributing factor.

Seriously, though, it was a little jarring. At my last appointment, my doctor said it's not always necessary to gain the standard twenty-five to thirty-five pounds, so long as I was subscribing to healthy eating habits. Which I was all for. Who doesn't want to be a tiny pregnant woman? But now reality has set in. I cannot gestate for nine months and stay within that coveted one-hundred-and-twenty-pound range I was striving for pre-conception. And that's OK.

Because I have new maternity clothes.

Before our trip to the Cheesecake Factory, Luke and I stopped by a couple of shoe stores and Mimi Maternity to find some things to wear for BlogHer next week. The cute, comfy ballet flats I bought in May are still cute and still flat, but they're not as comfy as I originally thought. Oddly enough, the bottoms of my feet are fine; it's the tops that suffer from the criss-cross of the tight elastic straps. As for clothing, well, I'm not down with the idea of rotating the same four tops for the next four months.

Every time I walk into Mimi, I am hopeful. Their items are classy and sophisticated and totally support the image of the "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful and with child" woman I always hoped to convey. However, they also charge eighty dollars for a damn top, so the most I've walked away with is their underwwear, which I don't even like anymore because they constantly fall off my belly. The high-cut Motherhood ones are much more my style, even if their sexuality is equal to that of a ripe peach.

Anyway, I don't know why I thought last night's visit would be different, because it wasn't, so Luke and I went to dinner and I ate my cheesecake, secretly hoping the sales pieces I found on Gap Maternity's Web site could arrive before I left next Thursday. Afterwards we hit a Target close to the mall so Luke could look for a new wallet, and I actually found some tee shirts that weren't unravelling at the seams or carting an outrageous price tag. So I bought four and wore one to work this morning, and oh my God, did I get the comments about how pregnant I looked!

But for the very first time, I didn't care. For the very first time, I felt comfortable in my new skin, wearing my new clothes and donning freshly trimmed hair. I wanted to get on with my bad mamma-jamma self.

You have no idea how scared I was that someone would walk in and witness me taking a picture of my own reflection in the company john. I suppose I could've blamed it on pregnancy brain.

What? It's Technically Still Wednesday

Geez, with only sixteen minutes left to Weight Loss Wednesday, you'd think there was bad news to report. But actually, I did myself proud.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

Not bad, right? I'm not sure how it happened, really, since not only did I move forward with my plans to indulge in a big, heaping bowl of spinach dip this weekend while my beloved was out of town, I did it TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Once on Saturday night while enjoying my long-awaited Sex and the City marathon, and once the night before at a quaint little pub with Jessi, a blog reader who works and attends law school in Indianapolis. I was so nervous about meeting someone whose sole perception of me was based on meticulously crafted entries and goofy pictures that almost always involve Photoshopping some of the acne off my cheeks, so afraid I'd look like an asshole when referencing something from my blog, as if I assumed people had nothing better to do then commit my archives to memory, but the minute I laid eyes on her happy smile outside the Aristocrat in Broadripple, I immediately relaxed and let myself be carried away by good conversation. Which lasted two hours. It was that awesome.

Plus, I felt a little like a rock star when we would delve into a new topic and she knew exactly what I was talking about, like when we were swapping stories about old boyfriends and I'd said only a few words about my second one before Jessi was like, "Oh, when you were Trophy Frema?" And I was like, "Oh, yeah!"

(How many of you have met other bloggers/blog readers? Did you have a similarly awesome experience?)

In other news, I can't deny my feelings any longer. I miss All My Children.

The Bible reading is becoming harder to keep up with, despite my intentionally leaving the Good Book in plain sight on the nightstand instead of tucked away on a shelf halfway across the room, but I still manage to get my time in more often than not. And I still enjoy it and feel like I've learned a lot. However, the absence of AMC from my daily routine is almost impossible to bear. No, I haven't cheated, thanks so much for your faith in me, that is, unless you count desperately flipping through soap mags in the check-out aisle at Target as cheating, which I don't, because I totally didn't learn anything about whether or not Krystal's had her illegitimate baby, Tad knows his own son is (unknowingly) (of course) playing daddy to the long-lost daughter he once thought died in utero, Babe's fake death has been brought to light, or Kendall is still carrying hottie Zach's child. Easter Sunday will indeed be a glorious day, because in addition to celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, I'll also be reprogramming my VCR to record channel six every week day at one o'clock eastern standard time. Let us rejoice and be glad.

On a related note, Carrisa asked me last week why I decided on AMC as my Lenten sacrifice, which was a perfectly valid question; after all, boycotting daytime television doesn't eliminate disease or help the poor or even make a difference to anyone but me. I really wanted to pick something, though, that hit me where it hurt, and if you had any idea how much time I spent catching up on episodes, lurking on message boards, and combing through character bios, you'd know that by the time Lent rolled around this year I was on the verge of obsessed. For my own peace of mind, I wanted to know that I wasn't as dependent on such a shallow form of entertainment as I thought, and when times got tough, I tried to remember how insignificant my sacrifice was when compared to what Jesus did for us, even though it was an insanely important part of my life. I love the history and the characters and the laughable plots and the inappropriate wardrobe choices made for Susan Lucci (how many times did she wear strapless dresses in November, girlfriends? How many?) and the guilty-pleasure escapism provided by the great and wonderful land of Pine Valley, but I had to prove to myself I could take a step back when that love got out of control.

How about the rest of you fellow Lenten observers? Are you happy with the choices you made regarding your own Easter sacrifice? (If in fact you gave anything up in the first place; I know not every Christian denomination does this.) How did you do? What did you learn?

P.S. Both Bethiclaus and David have decided to take the WLW plunge. Let's show 'em some love, shall we?

Baby Steps Wednesday

Baby steps, indeed.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.2

I blame the absence of any truly significant weight loss this week on Luke's surprise dessert Tuesday night. The day had been going so well otherwise; me weighing in at a respectable 137.2 that morning, the two of us feasting on a light dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, my future plans of nursing a small bowl of berry rainbow sherbet before bed. Then, suddenly, I noticed the oven was on.

Surprise! Luke said. Pillsbury cinnamon bread!

Foiled again!

In an effort to remain content with eating at home, we often pick up fun breakfast items from the grocery store to have on the weekends, like muffins or cinnamon rolls. Who knew one could partake in the joy during the evening hours?

After it finished baking, Luke presented his spontaneous masterpiece on one of our largest Target dishes, along with two forks, and we delighted in the gooey, frosty goodness. Ten minutes later, Luke had stopped with the delighting; meanwhile, I was packing it away like a rabid squirrel on the cusp of hibernating for the winter. The look on my husband's face clued me in that we probably weren't meant to finish it off in one sitting.

And to think I told my new ob/gyn I was giving diet and exercise "an honest try." Ha!

My appointment yesterday ended my journey to find a doctor who could manage both the care of my nether region and the delivery of my first child before either was actually necessary. The first one I met with two Fridays ago was receptive to all of my questions, but Dr. Wonderful (do you think she'll mind if I call her that?) took a more proactive approach in providing information. She initiated conversations about office procedures, equipment capabilities (3D ultrasounds right in their office!), how to time conception, standard L & D practices, and anything else you could possibly think of; plus, the fact that she was a young, healthy woman currently experiencing pregnancy herself--she's due at the end of the month--put me at ease right away. I knew within the first five minutes I'd found the right person.

Before I left, Dr. Wonderful sent me off with a generous sampling of prenatal vitamins, and it's now starting to hit me that holy crap, I'm trying to grow a baby inside of me. For the first time in my life, I'm counting the days on the calendar in anticipation of my next fertile window, Luke and I both so excited about finally taking the next step in our relationship as a family. There's no guessing how long it will be before the little person I'm so in love with already will assume his/her rightful place in the world, but knowing that we're finally OK with putting ourselves out there, well, right now that's fantastic enough.

Not so much that I'm laying off the junk food, apparently, but fantastic just the same. I'll get there, sweet baby, I promise!

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

Bah Humbug Thursday

Because I can't very well call it Wednesday if I'm posting at 1:12 Thursday morning, can I?

My last official Weight Loss Wednesday entry was on March 7, when I delighted in a lovely reading of 135.8 pounds. Then I went to Chicago and had a grand ole time. Two pounds of grand, to be exact.

It's been downhill ever since.

LAST WEEK'S (SECRET) WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.8

I don't know what happened to bring about this new blasé attitude, but for the last two weeks I've eaten whatever I liked without paying mind to the consequences. It all started the Thursday before our Chi-town extravaganza, upon Luke's receiving a totally well-deserved but completely unexpected cash bonus from work and our decision to celebrate with a dinner out; it snowballed on Friday with a trip to Steak 'N Shake after our Jerry Seinfeld show and climaxed several times during the weekend over mushroom pizza, my dad's barbeque ribs, and bagels at Panera to hold us over for the drive back home. The following Friday I gave in to my burning desire for two dollars and forty-two cents' worth of grease and potato at Chi-Town Dogs and Beef, maybe to relive happy memories from the city, I don't know, and then on Monday we dared to step foot in a local burger joint because nothing sounded good at home. The finale last night? Spinach dip. And if you think it's good with one cup of Parmesan cheese, imagine the ecstasy that follows an extra fourth. I don't know which was more offensive to my scale's delicate senses, the extra three pounds or the unabashed flatulence.

We were doing so well there for a while. I thought I'd finally become the master of my nutritional destiny, perfected avoiding the triggers that lead to junk-food cravings that in turn lead to spending money and ultimately credit card balances that give me nightmares to this day. One weekend away and it all went to pot. But for some reason I don't have it in me to muster up the appropriate level of concern, partly because I'm still living off the high you get from a smart hair cut and therefore have convinced myself I can wear the extra pounds so long as I keep my salon appointments, and partly because so many other things are out of wack that reflecting on my life's path over a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins doesn't sound so bad.

What am I thinking about? I'm thinking about how Luke and I have accelerated our plans for family expansion and are curently moving full speed ahead in all things baby. About our very recent decision to hold off on buying a home right now and how this will probably lead to caring for an infant in this eensy weensy one-bedroom apartment, not to mention my dermatologist's "skin therapy" is leaving tiny red dots all across my nose and forehead and I'd much rather use the perscription money for a pedicure. Nothing's wrong, exactly--the baby news is quite exciting!--but it's like someone took the Earth from their gym shoes and sprinkled it all over our short-term road map. Dirt is everywhere. Everything feels unsettled.

Still hanging in there with Lent. I've slacked off a little on the Bible reading but haven't missed more than four nights altogether, and the characters on All My Children continue to manage fine without me, though sometimes I miss it so violently I can't hear. Luckily, Blockbuster Online has filled in some of that screen time; this month alone we've seen The Departed, Lady in the Water, The Night Listener, and two episodes off the second disc of Big Love, which, can I just say, made my night when I saw a Suze Orman cameo and Lionel Richie "Hello?" cover within just twenty minutes of each other. They almost made up for the absence of Bill Paxton's butt cheeks. I'm setting high standards for episode five.

The weather's still exhibiting Sybil-like tendencies, but the recent time change means the sun doesn't set until around eight o'clock here, so I'm sure it's only another couple of weeks before Luke and I can leave our own sneaker dust on the path of the city's various greenways and the trails winding through our state parks, which should increase my motivation to get physical (physical) once again. Plus, I've signed up for a free, six-course home-buying series at the local university over a series of lunch hours spanning March and April, so the more I learn about credit reports and mortgages and escrows and such, the less willing I'll be to blow our down-payment money on smoothies from the mall. At least, here's hoping.

(Speaking of credit reports, OMG. My first class in the home series focused on money management and credit maintenance, which whatever, Suze has so already told me everything I need to know, but it did encourage me to obtain a free copy of my credit report for the first time ever. By law, every individual is entitled to receive one free copy a year from each of the three major credit bureaus, but until now I was afraid to. It's kind of like going to the dentist; nothing's wrong as long as you don't go, right? But suddenly I knew I couldn't be a baby about it anymore. If there's an error on my report, it needed to be fixed before Luke and I stepped foot in a bank to ask for wads of dough. Luckily everything was in the proper order, and the report itself was surprisingly easy to read, but I was still blown away at the sheer amount of detail. I can tell you the highest balance accrued on the Fashion Bug card I had for two years in Rensselaer or what I paid towards my Limited statement in June 2005. I know all the different ways my name's been spelled in U.S. mail and how many different addresses I've had. Twenty-two pages. It's all there.

Have you ever seen your credit report? Because you so should. Really.)

(...And one more: Have you seen Isabel's rockin' post about TLF? If not, GO. Go now.)

Life-Is-Good Wednesday

Seven days in and already I love March. The sun is out longer, there's less ice to scrape off the windshield of my car, and current temperatures are leveling out in respectable double digits.

When it comes to Weight Loss Wednesday, though, I much prefer negative numbers.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

OK, so I didn't lose the pound and a half I vowed to in last week's update, but I'm still impressed because, point-two pounds? Please. That's the (eight) handful(s) of M&Ms I scarfed down over the weekend. It's the fudge pop I had while watching The Departed last night. If I'd kept away from both, I'd be at 135 even. At least.

When it comes to eating, weekends at home are the epitome of temptation. Flipping through the pages of Marie Claire is more interesting with a package of Fig Newtons, and it's incredibly difficult to watch television without feasting on some sort of delectable treat, but I'm getting better. The biggest change in my habits this past week has been my recent befriending of the water bottle, which gives me something to grab on to when I don't know what to do with my hands and keeps the urinary tract sufficiently flushed as I strive to reduce the frequency of my UTIs. We go everywhere together, though his countless attempts to score during our trips to the bathroom have been unsuccessful. He's a fresh one, that bottle.

 

My new, sexually-aggressive BFF. I think I'll call him Wilson.

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to hit the trails of our state parks and get moving after four months of sitting like a blob on the couch. Our annual pass has been purchased, the gym shoes moved to a more prominent position in the closet. It's time.

Since Weight Loss Wednesday and Ash Wednesday fell on the same day, this time of the week always seems most appropriate for filling you in on my Lenten commitments. Still AMC-free, though I did read yesterday's update in the paper and was surprised to learn Zach and Kendall have come face-to-face with Alexander Cambias, Senior, aka Zach's presumed-dead father, aka Pine Valley serial killer, and my first reaction was to rush to my desktop and pull up the soap's message board to get the full scoop. I didn't, but boy, did I want to. I'm still not sure what I'll do come Easter. I love my show, but I enjoy my newfound free time. Luke certainly doesn't miss it. We'll see.

The Bible reading continues to be one of the best parts of my day. It's a peaceful way to wind down before lights-out, and I'm constantly (re)inspired by Jesus's words and teachings. Challenging myself to put them into practice is another story, but at least I'm thinking about people and things in a way that I wasn't before, even going so far as to seriously contemplate repairing one of the family bridges that was burned a couple of years ago (even though the other person totally started it) (apparently the eight-year-old in me is not competely on board yet). Which raises a question: when you decide to forgive someone, do you have to let them know? I mean, I'm sure she isn't spending her waking hours gazing out the kitchen window, secretly wishing to be part of my life again. I don't even know if she's aware of how much she hurt me. Maybe it's enough to internally put those feelings in the past and plaster on a happy face the next time I see her, which might very well be years away.

On the other hand, I could've behaved more gracefully, and Jesus does talk about "making peace with your brother before offering your sacrifice."

What are your experiences with forgiveness? Have you ever had to forgive someone for your own peace of mind? Has anyone ever forgiven you when you didn't expect it? Or, when you didn't think there was anything to forgive?

This isn't how I imagined ending this post, but now I'm curious. Bring it on.

Oh, What a Beautiful Wednesday

Oh, what a beautiful day!

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.6

I knew a loss was coming. After pledging to stop binging for Jesus exactly seven days ago, I've been stepping on the scale every other morning in anticipation of Weight Loss Wednesday, looking for proof that my efforts weren't in vain. Apparently my Lord and Savior is a more effective motivator than being able to button my pants.

There's so much to talk about, and I've been meaning to blog every day since Monday, but for some reason the words aren't coming like I want them to. I've been pleasantly surprised at my ability to exert self-control, to step away from that bag of salt-and-pepper potato chips, box of Git 'Er Done™ chocolates received from well-meaning neighbors, and coveted package of Thin Mints before doing serious damage to my waistline and self-esteem. (This is good news for Luke, who gave up cookies for Lent. Poor Luke!) (Also, how evil are the Girl Scouts for scheduling their deliveries after Ash Wednesday?) The progress hasn't been huge--turning down a third slice of pizza is grand, but it's still pizza, and dude, two slices!--but I'm happy. To make my ten-pound goal more attainable, I'm setting several mini-goals to help me get there. For example: next week I'll aim for an even 134 on the scale. If I'm successful, I'll have lost my first five pounds since moving forward with this whole "Fitness Schmitness" attitude last November. (Well, it would've been five pounds; either way, I'm counting it as a big deal, seeing as my lowest weight thus far's been 135.) And if that happens, there will most definitely be a picture, which might be scary for all of us, seeing as I'm three weeks overdue for a hair cut. March 10th can't come fast enough.

In regards to my Lenten commitments, I've been doing well in that department, too. Last Tuesday I deleted the Monday-through-Friday recording of All My Children from my VCR and took my New American Bible down from its dusty spot on my bookshelf, placing it on top of the cheapie plastic filing cabinet next to my nightstand (on top of Christopher Pike's Spellbound, which I found at Half-Price Books for a quarter and am just now reading for the first time, OMG) so that I'm more likely to pick it up before bed. So far I've touched on the first couple of chapters in Genesis and the beginning of Matthew's gospel (including the introduction), and for the first time, I feel like I'm really thinking about the life Jesus lived and what he went through before he died. Also, with all the religious exploration I've done in the last year, I'm more interested in studying this Good Book as a historical text. I used to think the Bible was just the Bible--one universal table of contents, one agreed-upon translation--when really each denomination embraces a particular version and all of these versions have nuances unique to their sect and oh my gosh, it's a miracle Christianity survived when we all can't even agree on the same damn manual.

Anyway, let's move on to the AMC thing, which, let's face it, is probably what you're really most interested in. Logistically speaking, the not-watching part of it hasn't been hard; since I'm not taping it, and I don't have cable, and not having cable means not having SOAP NET, there's no way to cheat on that one unless I make the twenty-five minute commute back home to plop on my couch and catch up on Zach and Kendall's progress with the Satin Slayer (seriously one of the dumbest storylines this show has ever done but I still want to see Alexander Cambias, Senior brought to justice) in real time. And since making two round trips to work five times a day would put a serious damper on my gas budget, there you go. No AMC.

Giving up the message board, however, hasn't been as simple. Before last Wednesday, I was checking that puppy at least three times an hour, reveling in the latest batch of spoilers and enjoying discussions on controversial plot points, like whether or not Krystal carrying Tad's baby and passing it off as Adam's is just as detestable as her helping Babe keep Bianca's baby for ten months, allowing Bianca to believe that Miranda drowned in a river minutes after her birth (close, but the "your baby's dead" thing still wins). I enjoy reading episode threads maintained by various posters and the lively commentary they provide. Those people have no idea who I am, but lurking on that site has been a fun way to stay connected with a show that in 2004 fast became my favorite form of escapism.

As fellow AMC junkie Dawnie can attest to, committing to a daily program is no easy task; forty-five minutes a day isn't too bad, but when you miss Monday's episode, you spend the length of a movie catching up on Monday and Tuesday. Miss Monday and Tuesday and you're going to start your Wednesday two hours and fifteen minutes in the hole. "I'll just skim through the scenes with JR and Babe and Tad and Krystal and ignore the rest," you think, but suddenly it's twelve-thirty in the morning and you're wondering what the hell happened to your evening, and hey, at what point did your husband go to bed without you?

So this boycott, it's been a good thing. Though I was flipping through the entertainment section of the paper yesterday and accidentally glanced at the weekly soap update. Nothing was revealed I didn't already know, but still, it was enough to peak my interest. AMC, what have you done to me?

In other news, today is the last day of the first month of Luke's and my new budgeting system. More details tomorrow.

Double-Duty Wednesday

I was pretty sneaky last week, huh? Going on about my teenage years and former flames, parental trials and tribulations, basking in the afterglow of the Internet's sympathy, all the while ignoring the white elephant that was Weight Loss Wednesday.

I didn't skip out completely--I did submit myself to the unforgiving nature of the scale, and I was neither pleased nor surprised with the one-point-two extra pounds of insulation I seemed to have accumulated watching all those DVDs from Blockbuster Online.

Things aren't much better this week:

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.8

Apparently skipping out on my after-dinner ice cream indulgence last night was just enough to register a loss this morning. Go me.

After work yesterday I abandoned the business-casual khakis I wore to the office and slipped into a pair of my favorite NY&C jeans, and I was horrified to realize how tight they felt in the thigh. I could still button them without cutting off circulation to my brain and legs, but it wasn't a comfortable fit, and I didn't make it further than watching Monday's episode of Heroes before I was rummaging through my dresser drawers, searching for my favorite draw-string pajama pants, pants that probably deserve an Honorable Mention in my hypothetical top five, so often are we together.

As I mull over another week of missed opportunities to become a stronger, healthier person, I also remember that today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, the first of forty days (forty-six, actually, thanks Wikipedia!) spent in preparation for Jesus's death on the Cross and subsequent resurrection. I can remember going to church after school with my mother as a kid to receive my yearly thumbing of ashes, contemplating a suitable sacrifice to show my thanks, which usually turned out to be something like cookies or chocolate (Chips Ahoy products being the ultimate tester, Mom loved to keep a package in the freezer) and I never made it past week two. Since stumbling blindly into adulthood, I can't remember making any Lenten offerings, but this year, in light of all that's taken place in my spiritual journey and how truly blessed I feel to enjoy this stage of my life with such a wonderful person, I think I have a special responsibiltiy to do something outside of myself, something to show God how appreciative I am for everything He's given me, which includes the body I spend so much time picking apart.

I complain and complain and complain about my rolly-polly belly, my alarmingly round face, my flabby back fat, and yet I continue to gorge myself on cookies and candy and handfuls of shredded cheese when I'm supposed to be washing pots and pans. I'm not thirteen pounds overweight because of a slow metabolism or gestating baby, but rather a lack of self control, and I've been so angry with myself for caring more about snacks than the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. It's not right, especially when I have an actual condition to control. In addition to wanting to be around for my husband and our future children for decades of years to come, I have an obligation to God to make smarter choices with this body He created specifically for me.

So, during this season of reflection, every time I reach for that bag of Keebler Fudge Stripes, every time I think of diving into a mountain of berry rainbow sherbet, I will remember what God has done for me and and treat my body with more respect. I will think before I open the pantry door. And I will remember that my spinach-dip recipe doesn't really need a full cup of Parmesan cheese. (Ah, cheese, both friend and foe!)

I am also giving up All My Children. What, you didn't think I'd take the easy way out, did you?

Since I've been dragging my feet over the weight-loss thing for such a long time, and since it's actually a personal benefit to slim down and eat better, it didn't seem right to offer my harmful caloric intake to God. I thought it would be more of a sacrifice to cut out a vice, something I genuinely love and encounter on a regular basis but doesn't add to my quality of life. Luke suggested spinach dip, but since I only pig out on a batch once or twice a month, that didn't work, either. Then he suggested my blog, and I laughed hysterically. AMC it is.

I also wanted to make a positive commitment during this time and settled on reading some part of the Bible every day. I like hearing scripture readings during church services, and though I studied scripture in high school and college, I don't remember a lot of what I learned, so I'm looking forward to reaquainting myself with the Good Book.

There's still one week to go before March, but already I'm experiencing a new beginning.

Greedy or Not Greedy? (See Also: Could've-Been-Worse Wednesday, But We'll Get to That)

Last week I mentioned several topics I've been meaning to address in upcoming entries, and seeing as tonight I experienced a series of conniptions over a social worker's rejection of almost two hundred thousand dollars, this is the perfect time to discuss Deal Or No Deal, only the best game show to hit television since Ray Combs hosted the Family Feud.

Besides the charming, gloriously bald essence that is Howie Mandel, one of the reasons I'm so enraptured with DOND is that at any given moment, the life of an average Joe (or Josephine) can change forever--if you know how far to push your luck. You're delighted for the middle-class construction worker who can open up his own restaurant, for the Italian retiree who can finally pay off his home and arrange for quality medical care.

(Unless you're the twenty-year-old college student who settled out of the game for a pink Escalade, a vehicle whose value will depreciate faster than you can release your own urine, in which case you deserve every high-interest loan this world has to offer, you stupid, foolish twit.)

Whether the amount is ten thousand or one million, that money is a gift that holds the power to relieve burdens and rectify situations that otherwise might've taken decades to resolve. And of course, it doesn't escape your attention that, one day, that contestant could be you.

Every time Howie relays the banker's latest offer, I think about what I would do with that money, understanding that my priorities will change according to the rise and fall of the numbers. If it's twenty thousand dollars, I'd pay off the Cobalt and set aside the remaining dough for a down payment on a house, which when combined with Luke's and my savings would total that magical twenty percent. With fifty thousand, I'd spend ten on the house, ten on the car, and pay off my private Sallie Mae loan, whose monthly payment fluctuates every quarter and will soon be equal to the price of our new digital camera. With a grand, I'd put it towards the Visa and thank the Lord we didn't have to pull from savings to foot the bill. I don't even entertain the million because seriously, people, nobody on this show has ever gotten the million. You have a better chance of marrying your second cousin than you do winning a million dollars, which is exactly why I don't understand the contestants who turn down offer after offer after offer because they're confident the million is in their case. They're on a mission. They "deserve" this money, and they're going to get it.

Except when they don't. Emika, tonight's audience pick, was a social worker with a small son who admitted her salary was fewer than 50K a year. In the first round she knocked out five amounts smaller than fifteen hundred dollars, thus increasing her chances of toting a significant wad of Benjamins in her case, so she passed on twelve months worth of income. She did it again at sixty-one thousand, and sixty-eight thousand, and again at eighty-four thousand, and once more just for the hell of it at ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. Approximately four times her pay. The cost of one middle-class house. A mind-blowing retirement account that could reap immeasurable benefits via compounding interest. Paid tuition for her son to the best schools this country has to offer. But she said no. And why? Because a two-million dollar figure taunted her from its place on the tally board. Because her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and urged her to open one more case, even though the next highest amount plummeted to fifty thousand bucks. Because even though Emika was visibly sobbing over the thought of saying "No deal" to such a life-changing amount of money, according to her, "I came here to win."

So she opened one more case--the two-million-dollar case--and minutes later received an offer of seventy-five hundred dollars, barely the cost of a used car.

Oh, was I mad, because I so badly wanted this woman to win her some money. I wanted to see her cry tears of joy when she realized she would never lack for anything again, that this money provided a platform on which to build new opportunities, a new life that didn't involve debating over generic versus name-brand products at the grocery store or fretting over how to finance her son's continuing education or even her own. But no. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars is a miracle, but not miracle enough. Thanks anyway, Jesus!

Lucky for her she still made a good deal, eventually accepting 15K before learning her own case contained just two pennies. It could've been worse; last month, some pervy dude from Alabama turned down two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars only to walk away with a fin. Here, buddy; enjoy this White Castle sack with NBC's compliments.

This may sound incredibly naive, but I would never want to win a million dollars, mainly because it'd create more problems than I'm equipped to handle. When you have that much money at your disposal, how in the world do you spend it? Which charities do you support? Which requests do you honor? Should every single relative on both sides of the family get a small cut, even if they already make a comfortable living, or do you reserve it for the ones in danger of having their heat turn