calling, calling, calling me home.

I'm really digging the numbered posts these days. Let's continue the tradition.

1.

I've been fighting tooth and nail to get back to my "pre-binge drinking" weight of 226.0. I feel like it's been harder than usual and of course I'm getting frustrated because all things considered, this weekend wasn't the worst calorie binge I've had and yet it seems harder than anything I've ever had to recover from. Boyfriend mentioned something that annoyed me at first, but the more I think about it the more it seems that he's right. He said maybe my true weight was never 226. WHICH IS RIDICULOUS. The scale said it, so that makes it true. Except... not.

::: CONFESSION TIME :::

I'm on two diuretics, and I'm painfully aware of it at all hours of the day. In case you're not familiar with this branch of pharmaceutics, they're also known as water pills. As in, the pills you take to drop weight fast (except it's not real weight loss because in reality all you're doing is dehydrating your body). And that's exactly what happened. I was subconsciously abusing my prescriptions to get results. Shit... that sounds bad. Let me make is super super clear: I was not taking more than the dose recommended to me by my physician; no, instead, I was purposely weighing myself after several trips to the bathroom, taking full advantage of the diuretic effect of my medications. I would wait to weigh myself until I had peed 3-4 times to maximize the water weight that was off my body.

The problem with water pills and weight loss is that as soon as you drink anything, you gain the weight back. It's not fat loss, it's not muscle increase, it's just a cheap way of tricking the scale, and what's worse is that it's only temporary. So there you go, lesson learned. It's no wonder that I'm struggling with my weight after a liquid binge, I must have been seriously dehydrated. Note to self: don't do that again.

Today's good news is that my weight is now 228.5, which makes it a quick 2.5 pounds away from 226. It's not nearly as bad as I thought. I can do this... I CAN DO THIS.

2.

I'm sitting at work, munching on a giant Greek salad and enjoying my 40th cup of iced raspberry tea of my own making, feeling pretty damn good about myself when my boss walks in. Just to let you know, we got a new employee fridge recently which is much bigger and better than our old one and delights me to no end. It should be of no surprise to anyone that I've taken over a significant amount of space storing veggies and cheeses and dressings (all my favorite work foods). My boss took a peek inside the fridge and asked if "the garden" (his words) was mine. Then, he went on a light-hearted rant about "rabbit foods" (also his words) and his secret to weight loss. Are you ready for it? It's a good one. His advice: eat a large "lunch" at 8:30am, nothing for real lunch at noon, and a small nibble before 5pm. Absolutely no eating after 5pm. He says you can have WHATEVER you want for 8:30am lunch, you can even eat two steaks if you want, any day every day, as long as you don't eat at noon or after 5pm. Also, according to him, exercise is unnecessary and all this country needs to fix obesity is to walk faster. Not farther, just faster.

It's a good thing I like my boss or else I might have punched him.

This is what real rabbit food looks like. Eew.

3.

Tonight is my last night at work until I leave on an extended weekend vacation of sorts. I don't normally work nights, but I made the concession in favor of a coworker who agreed to cover my ass so I could take five days off. Win-win, I guess. I'll be leaving for Des Moines first thing in the morning to help my mom tend to wedding-related festivities for her secretary (and my personal friend). Thursday is the bachelorette party, Friday is the rehearsal, and Saturday is the wedding. We're not family so we're keeping our distance on the actual wedding stuff, but my mom and I took full advantage of our respective positions as employer/friend to control the bachelorette party. My dad's prepping the food tonight and he's on his way to the store to buy all the supplies and he called me to see if I needed him to pick up anything for the bar. [Fun fact of the day: I once worked as a professional bartender, and for that reason I'm always expected to tend the bar at family functions.]

Dad says, "I have two handles of vodka and one of Bacardi. Is that enough?" Oh dear Jesus. If this is foreshadowing of what my weekend is going to be, then I'm in big trouble. I do have to say though, how awesome it is to work at the kind of place that allows me to spend my working hours planning a bar menu for a bachelorette party. Fo' serious. On my desk I have a long list of alcohols and ingredients with one word ("FRUITY") scrolled across the top of the page serving as inspiration for the cocktails that I am expected to provide tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'm going to need several blenders. I'm pretty sure my boss is laughing at me.

4.

Can we please talk about this, please?!

I HAVE NO WORDS. NEVER MIND.

hot and fresh out the kitchen.

I have a lot to talk about because I watched too much TV this weekend. The following post is an example of why TV is bad. Baaaaaad.

1. Boyfriend and I are kind of foodies. Not in the gourmet sense, just in the whatever-is-delicious sense. We're always up for a new food adventure, so it's no wonder that the Food Network is playing on our TV at least 50% of the time we spend watching.

I have yet to watch the episode "Creme Fraiche" of South Park without pissing my pants laughing. Ever. And I've seen it like a dozen times.

Guy Fieri, Robert Irvine, and Alton Brown are like my three best friends. No joke. But as I was nursing a hangover from my favorite spot on the couch across from the TV, I couldn't help but notice how much mother fucking butter is in everything. EV-ER-Y-THING. We weren't even watching mother fucking Paula Deen, it was just Triple D!

2. Which leads me to my next point: I am not eating out. Ever. Never, ever again. Watching the behind-the-scenes cooking process at the restaurants profiled on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives has proved to me that you can't eat healthy anywhere. Boyfriend and I tried to play the game of "count the calories" but we both gave up on an APPETIZER FOR ONE that cleared 3000 calories.

Never eating out again.

3. Add to the list of things that I'm never doing again: drinking alcohol. I know I've made reference to this before, but for those of you who don't listen read, here it goes again: I don't drink alcohol. Not regularly, at least. I'm not aiming for sobriety, this isn't for religious purposes, and if I can be perfectly frank, I don't intend on being Sober Nancy forever. I like to drink, I know how to knock them back, and if you challenge me I can probably drink you under the table. I come from a proud line of alcoholics and I have no intent of letting that tradition die. But despite my best efforts, I have come to the final conclusion that there is NO WAY to drink and lose weight at the same time.

In fact, I had the scare of my life this weekend:

On Friday, as soon as boyfriend let me know that we were going out drinking, I went to the gym and then to the pool for a total of 1 hour of strenuous activity. I even purposely cut back on dinner to make room for alcohol calories. I had 5 beers and 4.5 Long Islands from 7:30pm to bar close. I should also mention that I spent at least half an hour crazy dancing (it counts as exercise! it does!). At the end of the night I had to buy my DD food before she could drive us home, and a friend who was also out with us totally saved my ass by finding my phone so I owed him a burrito too. We went to Pancheros so I could repay my friends for their nice deeds, and somehow boyfriend came out with a burrito too. I remember not being hungry, and yet there I was, half a burrito sliding down my throat.

When we came home, out of nowhere boyfriend brings out some herbal refreshments. I took a hit and next thing I know I was raiding the fridge for something delicious. Before passing out I ate a bowl of spicy mac and sausage while thinking "wtf am I doing?" The entire time I was drinking, I was vaguely aware of my actions, at some points I even asked myself "what's going on, bro?" but at no point did I feel like I was in control.

Alcohol = zero impulse control.

The next day I had a headache, I was nauseous and ravenous at the same time, and thirsty. It was the world's worst thirst. I made the mistake of weighing myself: 236.0.

How. In the fuck. Does that happenen?!?! Last week I was jumping for joy over 226, and Saturday morning I'm crying at the number between my toes. Ten pounds. TEN POUNDS.

It took me a whole weekend and then some to recover. As of noon today my weight is at 229.0, but I'm almost certain some of that is fluid retention. I see it in my legs, they look puffy and watery but I have no reasonable explanation for the swelling aside from "alcohol is the devil."

Binge drinking took me out of the gym for a day and a half, caused me to retain ridiculous amounts of water, made me feel like shit, reduced/eliminated my ability to say "no" to things like unnecessary servings of food and extra glasses of booze. And after the party was over, all I had to show for it was a headache and a hangover.

3. So now it's Monday, I'm back on a regimen of salad, water, and gratuitous amounts of running, and I'm praying to any deity that will listen that I see my weight return to 226 sooner rather than later. I'm really disappointed with how this weekend played out and I have no one to blame but myself. And what's worse is that I have a shitty week at work before I skip town early on Thursday for a extra long weekend filled with wedding festivities for a good friend.

Fuck me.

men's shirts, short skirts.

Nothing like running 1.5 miles in 100% humidity at a pace of 11:26 to perk up a sluggish night. #mothafuckinrockstar

chillin’ out maxin’ relaxin’ all cool.

Two things:

1. I accidentally starved myself yesterday. Here's how it happened: as usual, our grocery situation is dire. We have had exactly zero time for food shopping because boyfriend is taking his comprehensive exams today and our trip out of town this weekend did nothing to help our lack-of-time issues. I did bring food to work with me, but it was back-of-the-fridge scraps and I was more focused on my colossally awesome discovery of homemade sugar free vanilla iced coffee. I never took the time to eat yesterday and my hunger didn't come to my attention until after a jaunt in the pool [see point #2]. By the time we left the pool, I was ready to skin a person alive for a pound of flesh so we made the decision to skip the cooking process and go out to dinner instead. I had every intention of gorging myself on the biggest plate of pasta on the menu, but once we got to the restaurant I changed my mind when I saw the specials of the day. I chose the grilled cajun chicken sandwich with a cup of spicy tomato soup and it took every ounce of control to keep from inhaling my food whole.

I have to admit, it was a huge load off knowing that I went into that meal with the day's calorie intake hovering at exactly zero, but I hated the way it felt physically. I had to take special care to eat slowly, chew my food adequately, and enjoy the meal as opposed to just swallowing the food. Before I knew it, my soup cup was empty and my sandwich had vanished from the plate but I still had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. We had to run to the grocery store on the way home from dinner to grab a few items and I made a special stop at the bakery section for a slice of red velvet cake with the idea that a morsel of dessert would settle the feeling in my stomach. It didn't. I just felt gross, the starving feeling ever present but the sudden influx of food creating a glob that refused to move. It was hours before I could even consider having a drink of water out of fear that I would only upset my stomach situation.

Today, I can definitively say that I learned a very valuable lesson: eating regularly throughout the day is super duper important. I don't even have the benefit of saying that yesterday's mishap was an experiment in calorie cutting, it just happened by accident. But, I promise you this... it won't happen again.

2. It was a steamy 93 degrees in Iowa City, Iowa yesterday. It's June, this weather isn't unusual, so I don't know why I'm making it a point to bring it to your attention. The point is, it was perfect pool weather.

I came home from work and saw that boyfriend was in desperate need of distraction from his studies for today's pending exam [if for some reason you skipped reading point #1, you should go back and read that now. NOW.] so I floated the idea of going to the pool. For once, he was surprisingly receptive. Normally I have to pull teeth to get him to go with me but this time he eagerly pulled out his swim trunks and sun screen. He was worried that our complex's pool would be crawling with small children and annoying college students who refuse to take summer jobs and stink up our beautiful town even though classes aren't in session, but we went anyway. It came as a surprise to us both when we found the pool empty. EMPTY. A hot and sunny day in June at 4 in the afternoon and it was EMPTY. WTF. I hate people who can't appreciate good things.

Anyhow...

We had the pool to ourselves for the better part of an hour until two girls walked in. I didn't actually see them walk in, one minute we were alone and the next minute two girls we sitting on the edge of the pool getting their feet wet. It's a giant pet peeve of mine when girls go to the pool to tan because, well... pools are for pooling swimming. You can tan anywhere so stop polluting my pool area, mmkay? I was sending death stares their way from across the pool to let them know that I disapproved of their decision to 1) dress in bathing suits, 2) walk to the pool, 3) sit INCHES away from the pool and 4) NOT GET WET. Please, enlighten me. WHY BOTHER?! [PS - this shit really upsets me, fo' realz].

These girls were really cute, probably closer to my age, and they were having a conversation about how annoying college girls are, so naturally my hatred subsided and I eased up on their lack of pool etiquette. Then I took to admiring their bathing suits. One girl was naturally lean (bitch) and wore the cutest (CUTEST) black bikini. If was the bikini wearing type, I would own THAT suit... it was just too cute. The other girl was long and toned and had really pretty complexion for someone who fake bakes (eew), but she wore a one-piece and I could not figure out why. I remained fixated on her (yep, I totally did the across-the-pool-creeper-stare) trying to figure out why a tanned, toned, pretty girl like herself would opt for the one-piece when her less cute friend had the best bathing suit on the planet. Then she jumped in the pool. I watched as she stroked her way from wall to wall noticing something only a fat girl could appreciate: arm flab.

If you Google "creeper stare," a whole bunch of Asian girls and some Minecraft shit comes up. What gives?

Let me explain to you why I found this shocking. One-piece girl (that's why I'm calling her) was seriously fit, maybe 5'7" and by my estimates weighing between 140-150. The stems on that girl were walking advertisements for elliptical machines everywhere. I know nature can be cruel, but there's no way she was born with toned legs and seriously flabby arms. Nope, this was the mark of some seriously rapid weight loss. Sure enough, as she climbed the ladder out of the pool I saw copious folds of loose, draping skin from the back of her thighs, arms, and midsection. Suddenly the one-piece made all the sense in the world.

Of course I couldn't just let this girl soak up the sun in peace. Nope, I creeper-stared from across the pool for the duration of our swim. She even had loose skin around her neck and I figured out that her fake tan was a desperate attempt to hide the effects that weight loss had had on her skin. The reason I found this girl so fascinating was because I've never seen anyone do the serious weight loss thing before. Not in person, anyhow. The Biggest Loser does a bang up job of glossing over the skin issues, the show doesn't offer even a fraction of an episode to cover the challenges of going out in public in a bathing suit; no, instead, they focus on polished before-and-after shots and let the contestants do their cheesy mascara-dripping Miss America bullshit as they play a voice-over of their confidence boosting, life changing journey blah blah blah. Believe me, it would be WONDERFUL knowing that a major TV channel is going to pick up the tab on my makeover and stock my closet with beautiful designer clothes in sizes that only have a single digit. That would seriously help the process in ways I can only begin to fathom. But instead, us normal folk have to go about it our own ways without trainers or beauty consultants, only seeing physicians infrequently for regular check-ups and almost never for vanity reasons such as laser treatments or skin removal.

That bitch Kate Gosselin was selfish and reckless with fertility treatments and she got a free tummy tuck and a reality show. I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to pay my gym membership when it comes due in August, but I promise not a single TV producer is going to lose sleep over it.

Seeing that girl yesterday brought up many of my fears and worries. I wished I could have swam to her end of the pool to tell her what a fuckin rock star she is and that I understand what it's like, but I decided to let her live her life like a normal girl instead of the life of a former fatty.

I couldn't sleep last night thinking about all the various scenarios that could play out in the next few months. What if I gain weight? What if I stop losing weight? Or worse, what if I lose more weight only to regret it later? It sounds stupid, I know. How could anyone ever regret losing weight? Skinny = better, everyone knows that. But there are some things you can't take back, no matter how hard you try. Like flabby arms. I worry that some day I'll have to employ a surgeon to fix my arm problem or forever be plagued with blemished wedding photos because I insisted on having a sleeveless dress.

I was tossing around in bed, numbers bouncing around in my empty head.
My weight: 226.
Total weight loss to date: 66 pounds.
Next goal: 220 pounds, 6 pounds to lose.
The last time I weighed that much/err... that little: October 2005.
The weight that I think I would be proud to say out loud: 175.
Number of pounds until final goal: 51.

I don't know what any of those numbers mean anymore. When I was at my heaviest, I thought 50 pounds lost was impossible; now that I've lost 66 pounds I think "that's not enough." A year ago I would have killed to weigh 226 but this weekend I was grabbing at my stomach hating how much flesh there was. I used to take pride in being a curvy, sexy size 18, but yesterday I seriously contemplated deleting my Facebook account to erase the traces of my former full-figured self. Suffice it to say, I think I'm having an identity crisis. It's not that I've become obsessed with how I look, this certainly isn't an issue of vanity, it's that I've had a huge shift in my lifestyle and thought process and it's altered every single aspect of my being. I just bought a load of clothes in March in a size smaller. At the time, everything was snug, some things didn't even fit, but I was determined to make myself fit the clothes. I've spent the better part of this week tugging at my clothes, trying to keep my panties and skirts from falling off my ass and my shirts from revealing the sliver of my anatomy that I prefer to keep private.

It's beyond just not knowing where I stand in the clothing rack spectrum. It's that I don't know what I look like, I have no concept of size, it's that my brain consciously knows I lost sixty-plus pounds but my unconscious brain is stuck at "fat." I have more weight to lose so obviously I can benefit from this kind of mentality, but I worry that I won't know when to stop when the time comes. I believe they call that anorexia. I have a lot on my mind these days.

hear my thoughts in every note.

I was thinking about how bad today was going to suck. I was thinking about how badly I wished I could call into work, spend the morning sleeping in, get back to some sense of normalcy.

Everything about this weekend threw me off. Here's how it started:

Friday night I couldn't sleep and I ended up spending the night on the couch. I don't know what's going on with my sleep these days, but it's all kinds of suck. I woke Saturday morning afternoon, had a sushi lunch, then jumped in the car for two hours of highway driving. From the moment we walked through the door at my parents' house, we were inundated with food. OM NOM NOM. I convinced boyfriend at the last minute to join me to visit my parents this weekend and he was kind of grumpy about it but I didn't want to push the issue. Within an hour, he was voluntarily voicing his displeasure. No worries, it was humorous. He said one of the main reasons he didn't want to come was because my parents' food makes him fat. I laughed, of course, and then reminded him that I grew up with MY parents and TWO grandmothers. It's no wonder I've been fat all my life.

I could talk about the food but it will just make me hungry, so we're going to skip it after this one comment: it was delicious and there was a lot of it.

Couple our sharp increase in food intake with no exercise and a really poor night of sleep (my doggy has no sense of "personal space") and it was a recipe for BLAH. We had to make the two-hour drive back home on a full stomach and it was 120 miles of BLAHHHHH. We left my parents' house early with every intention of making it home in time to still go to the gym, but as soon as we unloaded the car my desire to exercise went out the window. Thankfully, boyfriend has a really strong sense of duty. REALLY STRONG. He said he was going to the gym with or without me, and of course I couldn't stand knowing that he was burning calories as I sat motionless at my computer.

The first 15 minutes at the gym were all kinds of suck. I felt fat and slow and I just wanted my heart to stop racing so hard (it never did). But the tail end of my workout was phenomenal, so much that I was excited to run the 1.5 miles back home (which was also great, by the way). When I came home I was SO SO SO glad I went to the gym. If I had it my way, I would have spent the night suffering out my overindulgence on the couch, whining about all the foods I knew I shouldn't have eaten. Thankfully, I have the bestest gym buddy ever who made me realize that the best cure for overeating is to sweat it out.

Sure, it's Monday. I thought today was going to suck. I woke up with a raging case of nausea, debated calling into work sick, and then realized I was up early enough that it was possible to sneak in a nap and still make it to work on time. Yeah, I totally power napped this morning. Let me tell you something: Mondays are much better if you start out with a power nap. PLUSSSS, omg you guys, I went to Sam's Club yesterday and discovered the coffee section. I bought a bottle of sugar free vanilla coffee syrup for $4 so that I can make my own iced coffees instead of handing over $2.64 to McDonald's every time I'm in the mood for a beverage.

Thanks for the suggestion, McD's. I BELIEVE I WILL.

So happy Monday. I'm anticipating a slow day at work filled with Desperate Housewives and loads of sugar free vanilla iced coffee. And a serious case of the warm-and-fuzzies knowing that I went to the gym last night even though that's exactly the opposite of what I really wanted to do. I'M A GOD DAMN ROCK STAR.

the depths of your despair.

I'm the middle of a 12 hour work day (semi-voluntary... long story) wanting to rip my hair out. Twelve hours at a desk job is torture. I'm closing in on hour four and I've probably paced back and forth at least a mile out of sheer boredom.

There aren't nearly enough cat videos on all of the Internet to keep me entertained today.

So to distract me break up the monotony (both of my day at work, and of the theme of my blog) we're going to introduce a new feature: What I Ate!

Before I go any further, you need to know this. I've been stuck at 232.0 for the last two weeks. May was a really shitty month for weight loss. I was completely frustrated wondering how many more miles, how much longer on the elliptical I'd have to torture myself with before the scale became my friend again. I couldn't figure out how weight loss was so easy in the beginning with so little exercise, and now I struggle to lose HALF A POUND running five miles a day. I don't get it.

Over the last few days, I've gotten back to my roots: lettuce. I fuckin love salads which has made my weight loss process SO much easier, but lately I had gotten away from that habit and instead opted for other things (*ahem* that burger I had on Tuesday). I was stunned (STUNNED) this morning to step on the scale and see 229.5 between my toes, because I haven't been to the gym since Tuesday and I was CERTAIN that would reflect on the scale.

Muchos gracias to lettuce, this week's VIP, for kicking my ass into a skinnier shape while still being oh-so-delicious.

I know lettuce in a box is really wasteful (sue me, tree huggers), BUT I LOVE THIS SHIT. Each time I go grocery shopping I pick up two of these boxes and a bag of loose leaf spinach. It stays fresh and crisp for a surprisingly long time (I've pushed it as far as two weeks) plus I love that it's a convenient little package of variety. You can't expect me to know the difference between iceberg and radicchio and all that other farmer shit. I see purple, I see green... perfect, that's all I need to know. I pay $2.00 per box and I can usually make 2-3 salads from it which makes this SUPER SUPER cost efficient.

Greek Salad recipe

• 1/3 box of lettuce
• 1/2 cucumber, thinly sliced
• 1 medium tomato, roughly diced
• 10 olives (I prefer stuffed manzanilla olives)
• onion, cut in rings (optional)
• sprinkle of Feta cheese
• 2 tbsp balsamic vinaigrette

Meatless Buffalo Chicken Salad

I know it sounds weird to have "meatless" and "chicken" in the name, but hear me out. I love all the flavors of buffalo chicken wings and did my best to translate that into a salad.

• 1/3 box of lettuce
• 1 medium tomato, roughly diced
• 2-3 stalks of celery, chopped
• 1/3 medium onion, roughly chopped
• sprinkle of bleu cheese crumbles
• shot of Frank's Red Hot as a dressing (optional)

What I love about both of these salads is that they clock in around 400 calories each and they're HUGE and easy to make. The majority of the calories comes from the cheeses and dressings but that's also where all the flavor comes from. Do not make the mistake of eliminating the cheeses in an attempt to cut calories, firstly because you won't enjoy these salads as much without, and secondly because your body needs fats to absorb the nutrients you find in vegetables.

To make my salad-creating experience much easier, I always keep a list of certain items on hand: lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, olives, avocados, black beans, canned corn, celery, and carrots. In addition to this, I have no less than 4 salad dressings (balsamic vinaigrette, Caesar dressing, ranch, bleu cheese) in addition to Frank's Red Hot and apple cider vinegar. Cheeses are super important to me, but I spring for the pricier varieties like Feta, bleu cheese, and fresh Parmesan. Because they have strong, easily identifiable flavors, I find that a little goes a long way which helps in justifying the price and also keeps me from eating too much, thus saving the calories.

I think croutons are disgusting so you'll never find those on my plate, and I prefer to keep meat products out of my salads as much as possible. I do make an exception, though, for fish such as tuna and salmon and shrimp in small quantities.

A final note, and this applies to all foods including salads: if there's something on your plate that does not bring something to the meal in terms of FLAVOR, TEXTURE, or NUTRIENTS, it probably has no business being there at all. Many times, I found myself adding extra toppings such as shredded cheeses (like colbyjack) only to realize that I ate the extra calories without actually receiving anything from the addition of such items.

Damn, now I'm hungry.

sweet surrender.

I was thinking about going for a run after work, and instead I made myself a white russian.

The drink in my hand has about as many calories as my dinner.

Fuck.

Oh, but so delicious.

keep me thinking that we almost had it all.

I have a few emotional things to share today, so naturally I'm setting the tone with a bitter, angry, break-up song. Not the least bit applicable to this situation. But ima do it anyway because it's Celine. YOU CAN'T STOP ME.

First and foremost, exactly one year ago today I was laying in the innards of an MRI machine fighting back the tears (mostly because I was worried I had a brain tumor, but also because I was really sad about my weight). Those were scary days, my friends. Scary, scary days.

That day was horrible for one reason in particular: I had to be weighed, and no less than ten people saw my weight and repeated it out loud. On top of all the other stresses I encountered in this experience, I was swimming in incomprehension. How the fuck did I let it get that bad?

I still don't have an answer for that. People who have never struggled with their weight assume that fat people are lazy pigs, but even with a year's hindsight and sixty pounds lost I can't agree with that assessment of my life. Which, yet again, begs the question: How did I let it get that bad?

I had a beacon of hope throughout my horrible diagnosis experience knowing that we were set to travel to Las Vegas in less than two weeks from the onset of this series of events. I had a brand new, black sequined Calvin Klein skirt and two tickets to see Celine Dion perform at Caesar's Palace. I was convinced there was NOTHING in this world that could take away from the excitement that was constantly threatening to boil over the brim and explode from my body in uncontrollable fits of happiness.

Faster than I knew what was happening, it was the last night of our trip, the night we had dinner reservations at Mesa Grill and a date with Celine. I had my sequined skirt, brand new sandals, and perfectly manicured nails ready to take as many pictures as Caesar's would allow. I stood in front of the marquee, giant smile on my face, thinking to myself "you're a god damn rock star." I loved every picture and I was certain I would look back on this trip with the fondest of memories.

I look at those pictures now with sadness; mostly, I'm sad realizing how absolutely lost I was back then.

My whole life, I've made it a point not to define myself by my weight, because in all honesty... I am so much better than that. I watched my sister struggle through an eating disorder for most of my conscious life. The effects were profound: it caused my parents to almost divorce (twice), I have a poor relationship with food and a non-existent relationship with my sister.

On any given day, I know exactly how much I weigh. EXACTLY. This is the first time in my life I've had such a high degree of self-awareness, at least when it comes to my weight. It came as a surprise, however, to realize that this is the first time in my life that my self-consciousness has been suppressed to an almost undetectable level. I had been living as if not knowing my weight (the number) would mean that I wouldn't be aware of my weight (the size). I am not a number, I will not be defined by a number, I will not be controlled by a number.

My weight loss has been marked by a progression of comments from those closest to me: "how much have you lost?" from the curious coworker, "you look incredible!" from the impressed friend, "we're proud of you" from my ever-supportive parents. My epiphany came from the things that weren't said, the "what did you way before"s and the "shame on you for gaining all that weight"s. At the end of the day, it's not the number on the scale that matters, or the number on the tags of your clothes; instead, it's health, it's happiness, it's a general sense of well-being that brings meaning to life.

As I laid in the belly of the MRI, trying my hardest to keep still, I made promises to myself. A promise that I would never again have cake or ice cream or candy. A promise that no alcohol would graze my lips. A promise that breads, pastas, cheeses, and all those other wonderful "bad" foods would never reach my stomach. This time, I was going to lose the weight and do it right.

Most importantly, I made a promise to myself to get healthy.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I broke most of my own promises. I've boozed, caked, ice creamed, breaded, cheesed my way through this entire journey. Along the way, I've gained weight. I've had foods I knew I shouldn't have. I've had second helpings that I didn't even want. I stopped at the McDonald's drive-thru for ice cream that I didn't earn. Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you: none of this means I failed. Not a single thing.

June 13, 2011: 292.0 pounds. Sad panda.
June 13, 2012: 230.0 pounds. BAMF.

I'm still a good six weeks away from my next neuro appointment, but I have a gut feeling I'm going to get the news I've been hoping for. I just goes to show how far hard work, silent tears, and a steel resolve can take you.

Cheers to another year of life, and one of improving health.

gonna make your head burn.

I love these ladies more than most things in life. One more so than the other (by a long shot), but that's not the point. I also don't want to go into the whole who-sang-it-better debate because honestly, I don't give a shit. It's my favorite singer singing one of my favorite songs, in my world we call this a dream come true.

I had a really shitty day at the gym, and a really shitty run home. But four miles, fifty minutes, and 720 calories later, I'm home. And I have a new song on my iPod.

Can I get a "fuck yeah"? FUCK YEAH.

zig-a-zig ah.

Forty things for Monday.

1. Once, I got so shitfaced drunk that I convinced myself that forty was spelled f-o-u-r-t-y (it's important to note how monumental this is because I'm such a sucker for proper spelling). It was during a very heated game of Scrabble with two of my bestest college buddies. I should probably mention that this happened at my parents' house. In front of my parents. And we were all underage. There are pictures that I had to remove from Facebook once I grew up enough to realize that no such evidence should EVER be shared publicly. Ahh, growing pains.

2. It's Monday. I'm at work. It's Monday and I'm at work. WTF IS GOING ON HERE! At the end of the spring semester, it was decided that my work schedule would NOT include Mondays (I only work a 4-day week and having a Friday-Saturday-Sunday three-day-weekend wasn't allowed so I took the Saturday-Sunday-Monday option). My boss thinks we're on the brink of a financial crisis (editor's note: uuh, no, we're not. boss man doesn't spend nearly as much time here as I do so I'm going to consider myself the authority on the matter and I say he's way off on this one) and his solution was to move me back to Mondays. I don't mind Mondays, but it feels hella weird because I'm so used to starting my week on Tuesday morning.

3. The upside to this Monday bullshit is that I now have the Friday-Saturday-Sunday combo that I've always dreamed of. My coworkers take issue with my schedule because I tend to have the nicest hours and the easiest days. We have a real problem with people not wanting to work weekends (myself being the worst offender) but the difference between me and them is that 1) I'm supervisor, 2) I've been here the longest, 3) I have worked weekends for YEARS, and 4) I've paid my dues. THREE DAY WEEKEND FOR THE WIN.

4. I hit the motherfucking jackpot at the University Surplus store on Saturday. For those of you not familiar with the Surplus concept, here's a rundown: various University departments donate their old shit back to the University so that it can re-sell said shit to lesser endowed departments. Twice a month, a public sale is held where people can pick through the stuff that hasn't already been snatched up. It's held at a giant warehouse, the stuff that's sold ranges from furniture, file cabinets, computers, various office supplies, equipment, and my favorite... sporting goods. The UI athletic department (well, all college athletic departments do this) orders a shit ton of Hawkeye branded Nike and Adidas goods to give to student athletes. Whatever is leftover after all the athletes have helped themselves is sold to the public. Mostly, it's t-shirts and track pants from the football team in ridiculously large sizes (2x-4x), but that's perfect for boyfriend. This is where he picked up his favorite Nike Dri Fit shirts, and was exactly the reason we returned this weekend. I was hoping, with track season being over now, that I would be able to snag a pair of Nike running shorts for myself but alas all that was available was softball pants (um, eew). I poked around to help boyfriend find stuff for himself, picked up a few items for my favorite uncle's birthday this week, and figured the trip to be a wash for myself. Before stepping out, boyfriend noticed a box tucked away in a corner that read "Sports bras: $10." Scribbled roughly in Sharpie below the typed text read "XL ONLY." Thank jeebus boyfriend knows me well because he grabbed my arm and saved me from walking out on the best deal of the century.

Maybe I'm exaggerating, but for serious... a good bra is worth the money. A good bra is even better at 1/3 the price.

It was an ENTIRE box of BRAND NEW, plastic sealed, tags-on Nike Pro Victory Dri Fit sports bras. IN MY SIZE. FOR TEN BUCKS EACH. In case you're unfamiliar with these bras, they retail for $30, never go on sale, and they're easily the BEST SPORTS BRAS INVENTED. I have a full rack and running makes me wish for a mastectomy. Nike helps. Nike helps A LOT. I picked up three, ideally I should have gotten more but I just bought a stack of bras a few weeks ago when I found them on clearance at Old Navy for $5 each. I thought THAT was the deal of the century so I bought four, bringing my total to ten. Now I have three more, and my sports bras are outnumbering my actual bras and I think I have a problem.

5. I've been running outdoors, during the day, in the heat. OMG. I never thought that would be possible for me. In all honesty, it's only the 1.4 miles from the gym to my apartment and it helps tremendously to know that my suffering only lasts 20 minutes tops. If I were to just step out for a 5 mile jog under those conditions, I'm sure I'd only get 200 meters in before quitting. I've realized that running is a mind trip and I do best if I trick myself, and right now my biggest trick is convincing myself to run in 88 degrees and ENJOY IT. No, seriously. I enjoy it. Yesterday, it was a blistering 88 and sunny, but I was sad when I made it the full 1.4 miles to my apartment because the breeze I was getting was absolutely divine. If it wasn't for the fact that I was out of water and had already run 2.6 miles before at the gym, I would have kept going. Perhaps today after work.

6. This summer marks the first time in forever that I haven't been in school. You would think that means I have lots of free time and I'm on top of my shit, right? Nope. In case I haven't mentioned this before, I have really poor time management skills. Really poor. I'm in the middle of three books right now. I can't even focus enough to read ONE book start-to-finish. I'm also tending a pretty serious garden, but if you saw the state of my petunias you'd wonder why I even bother. It's a pity, really. Not to mention, I feel terrible for being responsible for the death of these helpless little plants, but Iowa is suffering from an unusually dry summer and I resent having to water my own plants. RAIN, DAMN IT! My closet's a mess, I have an entire load of FOLDED laundry in the basket that I've been too lazy to put in its proper place. For fuck's sake, it's even FOLDED and I can't even bother to put it away. My kitchen floor is a mess from when I had my dogs stay... a month ago. Basically, I'm a hot mess, and I don't know how to fix it.

7. Continuing in the trend of hot mess, I think I've gained three pounds? I put the question mark there on purpose for a reason: I could very well be wrong. You see, my BM has been off. Very, VERY off. I went three days without so much as a whisper of a poop. I don't know what's going on, but I upped my roughage hoping that would help. Fiber One and broccoli galore, nothing changed. Thankfully, I'm still very lactose intolerant so I turned to my arch nemesis, a large glass of milk, for help. I'm thinking 20 ounces was overkill, but it worked. We'll see if the scale agrees later.

8. I'm not a big TV watcher, I don't know if you have noticed. I have my shows (Grey's, Private Practice, House, South Park, L&O:SVU) that I DVR, but other than that 0.09% of my day is spent watching anything else on TV. Boyfriend has a serious TV addiction, he's a passive watcher... he'll watch if something interests him, or he'll just have the TV on in the background because I think the sound is soothing to him? I hate TV noise, it sets me on edge. But he insists (INSISTS) on watching during dinner, so my 0.09% comes from having to sit through old episodes of Storage Wars or Pawn Stars as I eat. I don't mind it so much because mouth sounds gross me out and dinner time is the worst. Buttt... something happened last night and I didn't have the energy to stop it: I watched True Blood. I had been reading on the couch while boyfriend watched Mad Men, then he left me in the living room with the TV on and I was too lazy to find the remote. So here's my two cents: firstly, Mad Men SUCKED. I don't know why people think that show is such a big fuckin deal because it's not. IT'S NOT. Secondly, I have no respect for people who watch True Blood. Vampires don't exist, this story line is stupid, grow up. PLUSSSS - what the fuck is with this show snatching up all the good actors from network TV shows? Seriously, Chris Meloni and Scott Foley, you should both be ashamed. I cried like a little baby bitch when I realized that my dreams of seeing an Elliot/Olivia hookup would never happen, and then I cried like a little baby bitch again when Henry died and left Teddy a barely functional widow, and THEN I cried like a little baby bitch AGAIN when Teddy had to leave Seattle Grace because she was only sticking around to be near her dead husband's ghost. My two favorite shows are RUINED because these ass hats decided they wanted a pay cut to work on a really terrible show. Please, Hollywood, cut this shit out.

9. I peed five times within the first two hours after waking. FIVE TIMES. And I'm not talking a little trickle. It was five full bladder dumps. I hate diuretics. HATE HATE HATE. But for some reason I always forget that when ice cream is involved. If I could just lose like 15 more pounds I'm sure I could convince my doc to cut the meds. Fifteen measly pounds. Oh, but Coldstone...

10. I can't count as high as forty today, so we're gonna cut this short and call it a day.

cheeseburger in paradise.

I have a shopping problem. Actually, the only problem is that I want more things than my bank account will afford. First world problems, eh?

(PS - there's a gross nasty fucker in my lobby right at this very moment who clearly has never been taught that eating with one's mouth open is BAD FUCKIN MANNERS. Gross. GROSS.)

I've been worn out on shopping lately, mostly due to the fact that I've turned over my wardrobe three times in the last year (seriously). I am tired of buying clothes. I'm tired of having to take three sizes of the same item to dressing rooms with me just to figure out what size I am now. I hate clothes, so I've just decided to let my current wardrobe drape, however unsightly, until absolutely nothing stays on my body without the use of duct tape and bungee cords. Sure, I'll be a hot mess, but it'll save me MANY trips to the mall and muchos buckos in my wallet.

(PS - the nasty donut-eating fucker I mentioned earlier... just tried to convince me of the goodness of Our Great Lord Jesus Christ. Umm... go away.)

Donuts are gross. Also, I should probably mention that I don't eat chocolate... because chocolate is gross.

I hate clothes, but my shopping habit remains. I have this nervous energy that doesn't go away until I get a package in the mail or I score a good deal at my favorite store (most psychologists would be screaming ADDICTION at this... and they're probably right). I tried indulging my frivolity by shopping for shoes, but I'm unsure as to which Five Fingers I want next (Komodosport LS? Speed? Treksport?). I even flirted with the idea of getting normal shoes (but still à la Vibram) with the New Balance Minimus (when I wore normal shoes, New Balance was probably the most comfortable least problematic of all brands I tried). eBay even has them on sale for $60 no tax free shipping, but they're the freaking Minimus20 and I would only possibly consider the MinimusZERO, though not at full price.

My shoe shopping a bust, I turned my sights onto other things: Dri Fit gear for the boyfriend. He's absolutely in love with his Iowa Hawkeyes Dri Fit shirts by Nike, but he only has two. We're planning on going to the University's official athletic outlet when it opens this weekend, but I feel bad that he has to have all his workout gear in black and gold when I know that deep down he'd rather be sporting blue and white (here's a joke for you: What's a Nittany Lion? DEAD. BAHAHAHA... fuck you, Penn State). Alas, my exhaustive Google searches did not yield any of his favorite sports teams in Dri Fit items in his size. FOILED AGAIN!

So now I face the arduous task of coming up with something else I can blow my money on. Ugh, I hate having everything I need, I lack the creativity necessary for such a shopping problem. FML.

In other news...

Boyfriend is insisting that we consistently go to the gym at night. As in 9:30 PM. He had the most child-like fit last night when I tried suggesting we go at a more appropriate time, say... 5:30pm. He's absolutely convinced that 9:30 is the perfect time to exercise because it gives him a few hours to "relax." Let me tell you all the reasons that 9:30 is a horrible time:

Firstly, no. No no no no no. By 9:30, I want to sleep. Waiting until 9:30 means there's an extraordinarily high chance that 1) I'll already be asleep or 2) I won't have any motivation to go.

Secondly, no matter how hard I/we try, we always end up having dinner late(ish). As much as I would love to have dinner waiting for my love when he comes home from work, no... scratch that. Fuck that noise. I work more hours a week than he does. I make more money, have more commitments, and still I find time to clean house, do the laundry, tend a garden, and maintain several hobbies. That lazy bastard can cook for himself or wait for me to cook as it fits my schedule. Which means we usually eat late.

I made the mistake of following him to the gym last night even though I knew I should have gone on my own earlier in the day. My run, in short: IT WAS HORRIBLE. I spent the entire time choking down burps of vomit and worrying that my bowels were on the brink of doing unspeakable things. I cut my run short and spent the rest of our dedicated gym time suffering it out on the highest setting on the crossramp. Post-dinner exercising is ALWAYS bad. Always.

Thirdly, the timing/sleep factor is too huge for me to ignore. So we go to the gym at 9:30. Boyfriend exercises for 35 minutes, plus 5 minutes of dawdling, for a total of 40 minutes. Then I run the 20 minutes back home. In case you're not keeping track, it's now 10:30 pm. If I immediately jump in the shower and take the bare minimum amount of time to ready myself for sleep, I don't hit the sheets until 11pm (keep in mind, I have a 5:30am wake-up for work). At BEST, I'm getting 6.5 hours of sleep. At. Best. That doesn't take into account the fact that there's only one shower in our apartment and I'm almost always having to fight boyfriend for the first turn, nor does it consider the jump in energy one experiences after an intense workout. Last night, I didn't see sleep until 2am. I barely got a nap before my alarm went off, and now it's 10am and I'm seriously contemplating a second cup of coffee.

This isn't good for my health.

I'm concerned that I'll slip into old habits and have to beg my fatter friends to give me my fat clothes back. My ass looks great in a size 14 dress, but that hamburger looks so damn delicious.

ils savaient comment fêter.

Hokay. I totally lied. I've been running. I HAD TO run. As much as I love reading, House of Leaves is eating me alive. I've had four nights of terrible sleep, I have to keep the lights on and know where my boyfriend is at all times. I'm constantly closing doors, I even went to the trouble of cleaning up my closet so that I could contain the threatening darkness that plagues me at all hours of the day.

I had to run.

Something about physically running makes me feel better. Like maybe, if I run fast enough, I can outpace the horror that is always just a few steps behind me. I can't see it, but I feel it. The hairs stick straight up on the back of my neck to give me warning: don't turn around.

Running helps.

known. some. call. is. air. am?

Last week there was a promo for free shipping at Half.com. Suddenly, all those $0.97 books I wanted to read seemed like a good (and financially wise) idea. I found a few books I was mildly interested in but fell seriously short of the $10 minimum I needed to complete my order.

And then I remembered the haunting description of a book I had read about earlier this year. I found at copy at my local Barnes & Noble but the $19.99 price stag struck me as being too steep for a weekend hobby (I LOVE me some books, but my parents were always very vocal in their protests against my desire to purchase new books... protests that inhabit my mind even today). Besides, I was too busy not reading for classes to consider getting a 700 page book for distraction. I really don't need to seek out reasons for distraction, I come about that easily enough on my own.

The book is called House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. I found it on a list of the scariest books of all time, as ranked by the Huffington Post. I literally cannot find a review that says this book isn't scary, or that it is over-hyped. It is legitly the scariest shit I've ever read. Mind fuck extraordinaire.

And for no good reason, too.

Nothing extraordinary has happened in the book (I'm on page 80 after approx. 10 hours of reading [ps - WHOA there's a lot to digest]) and yet I am literally rooted to my chair, afraid to move lest I turn my head and have to face the source of my fear.

This is not a book review. I won't even try because there's no way I could do it justice. I have pages upon pages upon pages of notes, dozens of tabs open on my browser (thesaurus, dictionary, Wiki, Google Translate, Exploration Z, various links I found on search engines...) and it occurs to me: one could go mad in an empty room.

I don't expect you to understand (unless you've read the book), but my purpose in mentioning any of this is as follows: books make me fat. As a kid, I didn't live in the safest city so my parents insisted that we I stay inside. Not only that, but we didn't have cable TV and those were the days before the Internet. I developed a serious passion for three things: Barbies, LEGOs, and books. All three kept me entertained for hours on end, they were activities I could do on my own (because my sister never wanted anything to do with me) within the confines of our house. I associate time off from school (holidays, summers) with reading because that's what I did when there was no school and my parents weren't home to watch us during the week while they worked. It's summer, I am not in school, and I will forever be a latchkey kid. Always.

Most other people my age associate the summer months with vacations and swimming and outdoor activities. Nope, not me. The phrase "swimsuit season" doesn't apply to me because I never had the chance to care about my figure nor how it might appear tied to the strings of a bikini. It's summer and all I want to do is read. Half.com has enabled me in the worst way possible; since I got House of Leaves, I haven't been to the gym or gone for a run. And I'm afraid it will stay that way until I finish the book.