there but for fortune go I

Cynthia posted this little nugget of a meme and because I am lazy and in need of a giggle I tried it. The challenge was to google "unfortunately, (your name)" and post the first ten non-repetitive results. Like Cynthia, I chose instead to post only my favorite unfortunate fates:

Unfortunately GiGi was used as a brood bitch and...

Unfortunately, Gigi has become victim of recent changes.

Unfortunately, Gigi’s artist name is a bit too common, so searching for her music can be a tad more difficult than other artists.

Unfortunately, Gigi threw that menu, with most of the dishes, out the window.

Unfortunately, Gigi's magical attacks also will target your partner, so this limits her usefulness in a multiplayer setting.

Unfortunately Gigi speaks today.

Unfortunately, Gigi is in love with Gaston, and though she does not wish to become his mistress, she decides that a) she loves him too much to reject him.

Unfortunately Gigi has a point when he said there'd be alot of swearing.

Unfortunately, Gigi was brought in as an accomplice in dragging that storyline out and I've had a problem with her ever since.

Unfortunately, Gigi has a problem getting her teeth in the way, and deflating old Sammy.

Unfortunately, Gigi makes every scene awkward to watch as she continuously flirts with and teases Mouth, regardless of who's around.

Unfortunately, GiGi won the battle despite that she needed instructions to play the game.



I know. That's 12. But unfortunately, Gigi, well, see above.

thar she (allegedly) blows

We were strolling along the boardwalk in front of the fabulous waterfront homes of Balboa Island in Newport Beach. I was trying to convey to Robbie why it was perfectly acceptable to peer openly into the living rooms of the homes' wealthy occupants.

"Will you please stop staring into people's windows!" she had requested, most unreasonably I thought. "It's rude."

"No it isn't," I explained patiently. "They want us to stare! Those windows are there for us, the lowly proles. They're our firsthand look into the lifestyles of the rich and not-so-famous, who are by definition insecure. We're their target audience. They need to see our soot-smudged little faces, clutching the sills, gazing upward with envy and awe at their tasteful opulence. It helps define them."

I was really enjoying waxing populist. It comes naturally to me. Especially at sunset, after a martini or two.

"They feed on our envy," I continued. "It's how they know who they are. They thrive on it."

"It's still rude," she insisted mildly, pulling out her camera.

"They could always draw the curtains. But you don't see them doing that now, do you?"

And indeed, there is something inherently theatrical about the Balboa boardwalk scene; designer set pieces framed by those huge picture windows, strategically illuminated from within. Recessed lights softly reflect the polished surface of grand pianos and decorative wine openers; enormous overstuffed sofas are tossed casually, invitingly, with billowy pillows of tapestry and silk. Twinkling lamps highlight gleaming telescopes on tripods, acres of hardwood flooring and etched glass. Lovely, stately, pristine. And at 6:30 pm on a Saturday evening, suspiciously unoccupied.

"You would think that at this point they'd be more afraid of a class uprising. Of the unwashed masses coming at them with pitchforks and shovels, like Marie Antoinette," she mused, snapping discreetly.

You would think. Looking around, there did seem to be a curious lack of long-handled tools topped with metal or spiky prongs laying about for a fully functioning harbor. Not even an anchor. The area had been prole-proofed. The least they could have done was provided us with nerf bats. Off with their hedgefund-happy heads!

Except these guys. They look kinda fun.

We were both celebrating and lamenting our earlier whale watching excursion out of Davy Jones' Locker, an annual event since 2004 or 05. Davy Jones guarantees their trips with free rain checks, so that if no whales or dolphins are spotted you get to sail again at any time for free. When we first started coming out, tickets were $14; today they would have set us back a whopping $30 bucks apiece. But we've been sailing free for years, and in time have forgotten about the whales altogether and just come to think of it as a pleasant day at sea. All we've ever spotted were seagulls and sea lions.


Until today.



"Whale! At 1:00!" hollered the captain. About 30 people flew to starboard at once. That means to the right, ye scurvy landlubbers. And I know right is starboard because I just looked it up.

"No! Sorry! 2:00!" shouted our I'm-pretty-sure-sea-worthy captain. We all turned our heads ever so slightly in unison.

And thar she blew.

At least we think so. Turns out, thar was pretty far. The truth is, although Captain Don't-call-me-Ahab Rick chased her for the better part of an hour, we never got close enough to truly appreciate much of her. We did see her spray far in the distance, but then again, this is Southern California, birthplace of Hollywood and special effects; for all we know, that could have been the old shark effect from Universal's 'Jaws' theme ride, reworked into a harbor leviathan. I was once on an excursion (and much smaller boat) out of Dana Point when a California grey whale swam right up next to us, close enough to reach out and stroke, to see every barnacle on her sleek broad back. I swear, you could smell the deep sea depth of her. It was a surreal and magnificent experience. This, well, this could have been a floating log. A very large, fast-moving log.

Disembarking, we felt a little deflated.

"It's the end of an era," said Robbie sadly.

I sighed. "No more free trips. I'm going to miss Balboa."

One hour and a refreshing cocktail later, we were feeling much brighter.

"To next year, in Dana point," toasted Robbie.

And thar we goes.

dissed by the stars

Horoscope: Cancer

In Horoscopes

After years of painstaking research and rigorous clinical trials, medical science still doesn't have an answer for why you're such a jerk.

I feel like a number

Diets tend to make one obsessively numbers oriented, and for the past couple of weeks they've been much on my mind. It occurs to me that my entire life has been recorded, at least at one level, as little more than a series of weights and measures which I have allowed to create my identity as a woman and which continue to influence how I feel about myself today. I thought I was smarter than that.

I am not. I can still recall how much I weighed at varying points in my personal history with a precision lacking in any other aspect of my life. I can't remember my cell number or the name of my last dentist, but I can tell you that I was 15 years old and 130 lbs when Seventeen magazine and the family doctor informed me that 130 was too fat for a teenager of my (disappointing) 5' 4" height. I had thought I was taller than that.

The doctor went on to tell me that if I kept it up at this rate I would be extremely overweight by the time I was 30. I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by 'extremely', but I knew that the idea of being 30 at all sounded terrifying enough. I can tell you that I went on a diet that summer and lost 16 lbs, thrilled that I weighed 114 lbs on my 16th birthday and vowing that I would weigh the same on every birthday for the rest of my life.

I did not keep that vow. And I never shall.

When my first boyfriend broke up with me at age 18 I starved myself down to 107; when my second broke up with me 2 years later I only managed a to whittle my frame down to a paltry 108. I took this to mean that my love for him was not as great as it had been for the first, a realization that added just enough regret to help me achieve a dangerously waifish 105. The self-induced pain of hunger masked the inflicted anguish of rejection. It felt good, regaining physical control as I imagined myself being devoured from the inside out, literally and emotionally. In the meantime, I assuaged my misery with an endless supply of whiskey sours, Virginia Slims, and Gloria Gaynor belting out I Will Survive on the jukebox at 25 cents a play. Disco Saves.

Sadly, over the years I grew accustomed to breakups and they could no longer be used as a reliable means of weight control. I learned to exercise. After I got married and the threat of a breakup became, although not impossible certainly, at least less frequent, I found that happiness was just another way of saying that I had to work out more. I thought I was more sensible than that.

5.77 miles in 45 minutes on the Precor burns about 400.02 calories, which means I'll have to do at least 2.15 miles on the tread at a rate of 4.0 mph to burn a total of 600 calories. But 45 minutes on the elliptical can vary between 5.75 and 6.35 miles depending on the pace and hits about 500 calories, meaning I can cut the tread to about 1 to 1.25 miles to burn the 600 and create a nice even mileage total as well, only if I do 6.35 miles precor I'll probably have to do 1.75 tread because I feel guilty if I do less than 1 and hate to stop at a number like 1.65 because it's so close to the end of the lap at 1.75. 1.67 is sometimes OK because it's 1 1/3, which seems more of an accomplishment and less of a wimp-out than 1 1/2, and represents approximately 7-10 additional calories; again, depending on the pace and ratio to vertical incline.

There are 104 calories in one baked potato and 200 in 2 tablespoons of butter; 30 in a cup of broccoli; 300 in a can of tuna packed in oil; 110 in a glass of Chardonnay but I like a large glass, more like 140 or so and after 2 who's counting anyway? Not I, surely. But the cardiac/sculpt instructor says it takes a deficit of 3600 calories to lose 1 pound; by cutting out 100 calories a day it will take 36 days to lose 1 pound. 36 days x 26 pounds = 936 days to achieve this particular Fitness Fetish goal, or 468 days if cutting 200 and there goes my glass of wine.

Bored? Yeah, me too. I thought I was more interesting than that.

And of course, it all adds up to little in the end. I will be no more or less loved, less engaged in the world, no more or less likely to have left a lasting impression on the lives of the people I care about. It is a tale told by a chubby idiot, full of math and fury, signifying nothing.

What Number Are You?

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker. You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does. Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations. You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it. At Your Best: You are sharp, inventive, and creative. You have the skills to lead the world. At Your Worst: You are reclusive, weird, and a bit paranoid. Your Fixation: Greed Your Primary Fear: Being useless or incompetent Your Primary Desire: Being competent and needed Other Number 5's: Bill Gates, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Bjork, and Stephen Hawking.

What Number Are You?

For the record, I am not paranoid.
Why are you looking at me like that?

can't post now ~ gotta finish this

So I was toodlin' around yesterday when I should have been working/cleaning/rolling quarters/kiting checks/staring off into space. But it was actually in the course of doing some legitimate research (I swear) when I stumbled across this little divertissement and...well, a girl just cannot have too many avatars, as far as I'm concerned. They're like Barbies for grown-up geeky girls. Everyone needs a Barbie, right? No? Just me? Okay.

Sure, I know you're busy ~ like me, you're struggling hard to make up believable resumes (what year would I have graduated college if I were the 38 year-old systems engineer I am claiming to be? Where would I have gone? Is a $150k starting salary too high? Too low? Should I also be fluent in Chinese? What will I wear to my new office?) all the while upending your couch in search of loose change to pay for that last latte before the corner Starbucks closes and Armageddon commences.

Or maybe you're just energetically combing YouTube for video mix-ups of Christian Bale's rant, poo-flinging chimps and another one of those whack-job preachers calling Obama the Antichrist. All great fun, I agree. But even that kind of effort gets exhausting after a while.

It'll waste of a good hour or so of your life, I promise.

You're welcome.

I love my little avi. I think she'll get a tattoo.

tabula rasa

Lately I've been playing around with trying to turn a few poorly written personal journal pages into a few poorly illustrated personal journal pages with predictably muddled results. In the process, I have learned two things about myself which I will proceed to put down here, as god knows I am currently unable to put them down there, for reasons which will be soon become clear.

A) I have the aesthetic and attention span of a six year old girl.

Despite having recently purchased and perused not one but three gorgeous new books on how to create successful mixed-media collages, I do not not understand these new materials at all. Acrylic paints remain an unfathomable mystery to me, and I cannot seem to grasp how to handle them without brushes drying up and the paper buckling and splotching willy-nilly while I am busily distracted elsewhere, cutting up magazine photos and gluing down pretty plastic pearls. It appears to require more organization and forethought than I am accustomed to. When it comes to the art of collage, I am still a child eating molding paste and dreaming about unicorns, gaily coating everything in sight with glitter and faerie dust, and thinking it magic.

B) I am not that bright.

Actually, this is probably a subset of A, but as I have predetermined that this should be part of an epic 2 Random Things You Don't Know About Me post, it gets its own heading. Although, come to think of it, you may already know this about me, or at least suspect as much. Consider yourself validated.

Inspired by the likes of Judy Wise, Teesha Moore and Amber Gibbs I attempted to
decorate a few journal pages of my own. This seemed to be going remarkably well, and so pleased was I with my cleverness that I even wrote a haiku to grace one of the freshly renovated pages. It was beautiful, that little poem; elegant, self-contained ~ a delicately framed image of the mountains being seduced by enveloping storm clouds. I like writing haiku because it combines two of my favorite things; precise imagery and counting to 7. Plus, they are easy to remember until I can write them down. And because I also like smooth, shiny things, I added to all my pretty pages what I thought was a light coat of glossy gel medium.

You may guess the rest.

I now have a journal full of pretty pages on which nothing may be written. They are sealed; no gel pen, no graphite, no watercolor pencil; no ballpoint, nor Sharpie, nor quill dipped in blood will adhere to the now impermeable surface of my mini masterpieces. Diaries without drama, journals without joy. It is the Never-starting Story.

Of course, I could still paste prose into them, or use acrylics and a very narrow brush to paint entries, calligraphy style, but frankly this is demanding far too much of my limited literary abilities; already there had been a question of what I could write that would be deemed pretty page-worthy. Hauntingly beautiful and long forgotten haiku aside (verily, I swear; a brilliant addition to the art of counted syllables, it was) what was I going to set down in my Japanese garden; the daily calorie count? Miles on the treadmill? My thoughts on the president's stimulus package? Surely, painting one's daily weigh-in is going a step too far.


The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on...

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend

Pay no attention to the dazzling creature you see before you, light dancing off the mirrors of her magnificently mosaic frame. The Fitness Blog is clinically depressed, and feels not her power.

Three weeks into the Most Pointless Diet in the History of Womankind, I have gained back 2 pounds, leaving me just 6 pounds less than I was when I started. Not to mention infinitely more sober, which has done nothing to improve my mood. If I get any more clear-headed I'm going to have to start going to meetings. Preferably meetings sponsored by Celebrity Rehab's Dr. Drew, whose freshly detoxed people all seem to turn up weeks later on TMZ partying at Teddy's or Chez Deux, none the worse for wear. And lookin' mighty trim, I'd like to point out.

In any case, I am frustrated and unhappy with my sudden inability to control my own body. I know how to do this thing, dammit. I have been a dedicated dieter since the age of 15 when, much to my mother's dismay, I dropped 15 pounds on a balanced diet of black coffee, TAB and teenage angst. Since then, whenever I put on a couple of pounds I simply throw myself into the latest diet craze, be it Grapefruit, Atkins, the Zone or Cabbage Soup. I vaguely recall one which started with rice cakes and peanut butter in the morning and ended with canned red beets and tuna at night. Oddly, it was not all that bad, and not the worst regimen by far. Certainly not as bad as eating several grapefruit a day. Those vodka and grapefruits can really get to you over the course of an evening.

Inevitably, I would get back down to where I wanted to be and resume normal eating habits, which are generally not all that different from what I've been putting down here for the past 3 weeks: primarily fruits and vegetables 3 or 4 days a week; steak, chicken, fish or pasta on weekends. The only difference is that when I'm not dieting, I really let go when I play. When I'm dieting I don't, and aside from the one blowout weekend, I haven't this time either. I've behaved myself. I've counted calories. I haven't seen a potato chip or M&M in weeks. I've run and stepped and downward-dogged myself from here to Texas, and still I can't fit into my jeans. Frankly, I'm flummoxed. And it goes without saying, poorly dressed.

An article in this week's Times on the merits of fasting states that women of my age should be eating between 1600 and 1800 calories a day. I would like to be on that diet. And everyone seems to be losing weight; the folks over at The Biggest Loser are losing 10-15 pounds a week; anyone gaining weight, as I have, would have been laughed clear off the farm. Or beaten to death by that mean-girl trainer, Jillian. Now there's a woman with issues.

But the reality is that years of extreme dieting, coupled with decades of regular, strenuous workouts have slowed my metabolic rate down to that of a tree sloth. In fact, I have developed a metabolism so ruthlessly efficient that I no longer burn calories, I create them. And the vast storage areas required to house them. Thus, I am a victim of evolution. I should be studied by scientists. And possibly theologians. I'd love to be able to settle that dispute.

The good news is that if my plane ever crashes into the Andes or a deserted island somewhere I will be able to exist for months without food, and therefore not forced to eat my fellow survivors for energy.

The bad news is that I will be so insufferable in my smug plumptitude that my fellow survivors will choose me to be eaten first. It's a win/lose situation.

So, I win. I am the Biggest Loser!

good news/bad news

It was a good news/bad news kind of weekend.

The good news is that it was great, full of food, friends and frivolity; exactly the kind of thing Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were invented for. Possibly Thursdays. Wednesdays would be too much, we must all have our limits, what is wrong with you?!! Therefore I do hereby declare Thursdays to be the Weekend Wild Card. All weekends shall begin with an optional Thursday. Forthwith.

After a Friday night pasta-making party for which I made some high-calorie appetizers (bacon, salami and cheese, oh my!) I hit the highway early Saturday for the LA Art Show at the massive Staple Center with a fellow art and fun-loving pal. We sailed across town on the wings of angels and arrived just in time to spend the next 55 minutes sitting around trying to get into the parking garage. C'est LA.

But the day was beautiful and the exhibit, featuring top notch galleries from around the nation, was comprehensive. We wandered among paintings and sculpture for hours, seeking inspiration in everything ranging from early French Impressionist oils to the latest in contemporary mixed-media objects, including some oddly executed, dubiously conceived student work (I'm looking at you, giant pink papier mache' penis in a guillotine!) So comprehensive was the show that it even furnished its own occasional celeb sightings; I am quite certain I nearly made eye contact with Ted Danson, who is lookin' mighty fine if indeed it was him. And if it wasn't, well, someone is keeping themselves up very nicely. Kudos to you, Tall, Tanned and Silver, whoever you may be.

After the show we hit the deliciously old-school Palm restaurant for dinner and drinks and one last hoorah before settling in for the long bleak breadlines to come. I had the Mahi Mahi, half the Gigi Salad (truly ~ how could we not?) and several loaves of bread (little known fact; art appreciation is an inexplicably carby-hardy endeavor. No really, it is...beauty burns bicarbo...oh, stop judging me!)

So what I'm saying is, it was all pretty terrific, which is good.

But I'm also saying it was seriously terrific, and my diet is trashed. Which is bad.

I'm screwed.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Talkin' trash: Monday
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110

Lunch: I swear I just forgot

Dinner: 1 bowl Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 100
leftover salami and cheese: 400 calories? 500? 6? who knows? who cares? it's over. I'm sad.

And yet, to quote Lenny from 'The Simpsons' as he plunged to a likely death over the cliff, "I regret nothing......!"


Daily total: 700 ~ 800 ~ 1006 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 24 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: +3 lbs.

OK. I regret that. I regret that a lot.

pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off

The country has new leadership, renewed purpose and yes, fresh hope. I am happy, simply moved beyond words and will suffer no cynics on this most joyful day. I can only imagine the thrill of all those who chose to journey to Washington for this historic occasion. Today, as I listened to the somber, measured speech of our President and watched an exuberant crowd of millions cheer in a new dawn I thought, it's true ~ we really did do it. I have never been as proud to be an American as I was this morning.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the fitness blog cares naught for parades;
it is Killjoy, the Dick Cheneyiest of blogs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Precor: 3.57 miles (45 minutes)

treadmill: 3.25 miles (42 minutes)

6.82 miles total

(leg machines - 15 minutes)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 bowl Campbells soup 100

Dinner: spinach 50
baked potato 105
w/ lots of butter 200


daily total: 455 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss (from last weigh-in): +.5

that's plus 1/2 lb since yesterday, after eating just 600 calories.

Conclusion: Hope is fattening. If I get any Hopier, in 3 months I'll be 60 pounds heavier. But chock fulla Hope, baby.

how can we miss him if he won't go away?

As our nation's capitol swells with thousands of cheering, joyful, tearful throngs eager to celebrate a future filled with new hope for our people, restored belief in our leaders and a renewed dedication to the principles of our democracy, there is no place I'd rather be than in Washington DC right now. And there is no place I'd rather be at this very moment than the Huffington Post Inaugural Ball at the Newseum. I hear that place is rockin'.

But, as with all the good parties, I am not there but here, rockin' the PJ's in the dark dungeons of the internets; listening to MSNBC and wishing to the gods that I could at least have a glass of wine, fer cryin' out loud; I mean, what's 110 measley calories when we're making history here people...

So, I'm doing this instead. So far my high score is 9. Remember ~ they break to the left.





We'll miss the laughter, but not the tears. The many, many tears. So long, George.



~~~~~~~~~~~
Torment Today:
~~~~~~~~~~~

the Diet is annoyed that it does not get Martin Luther King Day off
and intends to sue


Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110


Lunch: 1 bowl chicken w/ wild rice soup 120 calories


Dinner: 1 whole can Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 200
frozen peas 100
w/butter 100


Daily total: 630 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 22 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: -2 lbs.

the fitness blog can hardly keep its eyes open

Last night was date night and yet somehow uneventful ~ no movie, just a couple of Blonde Ales down at the local brew pub, a shared mini pizza and then off to a chain restaurant for a bland tilapia in an overly sweetened pineapple mango salsa. There were a couple of glasses of wine of a distinctly box-like vintage. All in all not a brilliant evening but, as Turk never tires of telling me, we are in the midst of a recession and beggars can't be choosers. Appropriately enough, we were home in time to watch The Office. It all seems hardly worth breaking a diet for. In fact, as dates go this one was pretty unimpressive, from a calorie-countish point of view. Frankly, I don't know if I should even keep seeing this guy. Still, he does make me smile...

Someone sent me this today, and you've probably seen it as well. I don't know who the author is but it's certainly apt and far more clever than I this evening, so in it goes.

Twas the month after Christmas,

and all through the house,

Nothing would fit me,

not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled,

the chocolate I'd taste

At the holiday parties

had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales

there arose such a number!

When I walked to the store

(less a walk than a lumber),

I'd remember the marvellous meals I'd prepared;

The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt

And prepared once again to do battle with dirt...

I said to myself, as I only can,

"You can't spend a winter, disguised as a man!"

So, away with the last of the sour cream dip.

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished

Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.

I'll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie.

I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore...

But isn't that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.

~~~~
Today
~~~~

gym:

precor: 3.59 miles 45 minutes
treadmill: 1.66 miles 22 minutes

total: 5.25 miles

Breakfast: coffee
grapes 100

Lunch:
grapes 60
apple 60

Happy Hour: oh, the love of...it's Friday! What am I, made of stone?
2 lite beers 180

Dinner: big salad

lettuce 45
onion 40
tuna 300
10 olives 90
1 tbs rice vinegar dressing 20
salad subtotal 505

daily total 905 calories

But, am drinking a glass of wine as we speak...so + 110.

Damn, that adds up.

Diets suck.


net/gain loss since Thursday: -.5

if it's tuesday, it must be baked potato(!)

The excitement never ends.

One of the problems with keeping a daily blog (as opposed to the occasionally bi-monthly format I usually manage) is the fact that it requires me to, you know, log in on a daily basis. I'm just not that good at it ~ I view blog time as another form of indulgence that needs to be kept in check. I am too readily distracted in here, too easily seduced ~ I forget myself in realities in which I have no real place, losing myself in other lives, the product of other people's imaginations.

Keeping a daily blog also encourages me to do a lot more blathering. Is it wise or even rational to want other people to know of one's continual struggles with weight, self-denial and/or bad reality TV? To show sketches of oneself dressed in one's jammies, standing on a bathroom scale?

No. It's unseemly, is what it is. I question my judgment in this as in all things. But of course, I don't know how to stop.

Speaking of questionable judgment, I stayed up watching The Really Desperate Housewives of Orange County again last night. I think it may be some sort of chemical imbalance. And may I just say that Tamra is an ugly, ugly human being?

For those of you who don't know because you have better, more positive things to do, Tamra is a 40-something year-old self-described 'Princess' who, last night, deliberately encouraged another woman, whom she does not like, to get 'stupid... naked wasted' at her etiquette-themed dinner party (Tamra's husband is making her take etiquette lessons...that's right. So she throws a 'formal' dinner party in what appears to be her kitchen revolving around etiquette and tequila...No, I swear I am not making this up). Then, to add creepiness to cruelty, the woman virtually pimps out her adolescent son to seduce the poor foolish creature.

In a nest of vipers, Tamra is a multi-headed Hydra. I would not have been a bit surprised had her eyes suddenly rolled back in her shiny yellow head as her jaws unhinged and the putrid black, pus-filled darkness where once had been her soul came gushing forth. Now that's good television.

Karma, Tamra. Know it. Fear it. It's coming for you. And it's carrying a fish fork.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's drama
~~~~~~~~~~~

elliptical machine: 5.77 miles (45 minutes)

treadmill: 2.34 miles (35 minutes)

8.11 miles total

(leg machines - no more than 15 minutes)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee
1 apple 60

Lunch: 1 bowl Progresso soup 100

Dinner: broccoli 30
carrot 25
baked potato 105
w/ lots of butter 250

410 calories subtotal

daily total: 570 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss (from last weigh-in): -1.5

~~~~
Today
~~~~

gym:

precor: 3.69 miles 45 minutes
treadmill: 3.36 miles 42 minutes

(arms)

total: 7.05 miles

Breakfast: coffee
grapes 100

Lunch: grapes 60
soup 100

Dinner: big salad

lettuce 45
onion 40
tuna 300
10 olives 90
1 tbs rice vinegar dressing 20
1 inch cube cheese 110.....subtotal 605

daily total 865 calories

Ok. That's a lot. It was a big salad. I was hungry. And pissed off. Because...

net/gain loss since yesterday: +1

See, I ate 570 calories yesterday. Burned over 800.

And still managed to gain weight.

Seriously. That must have been a whole lot of butter on that there potato.

the fitness blog does not do weekends

Lotus does weekends, but they rarely have to do with fitness. And Lotus never tells.

Well, sometimes she does, but then she usually forgets. In any case, she's not telling this weekend. Suffice it to say that as of this morning she has lost an unexciting grand total of 5 pounds. Her worthy opponent, she is reliably informed, has lost more. This makes Lotus happy for her friendly opponent but sad for herself because she is very competitive, something which causes her to continue to refer to herself in the third person for no apparent reason. Which confuses her mightily, as she has a difficult enough time maintaining consistency of tense and personage under the best of circumstances.

Her head begins to hurt, and she steps away from the keyboard in order to get a grip, possibly on a sandwich.


Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 60

Lunch: V8 juice 70

Snack: 1 carrot 25

Dinner: 1 bowl vegetable soup 90

1 small salad 245
(lettuce 40
onion 15
Gorgonzola cheese 100
5 black olives 50
2 tbs dressing 40)

Daily subtotal: 490

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.36 miles

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss to date: -5 lbs.

last night was 'date night'

And to no one's surprise, I fell off the wagon, hitting my head several times on the way down. This is nothing new and to be expected; I may be willing to starve several days a week in the interests of health and beauty but I will never give up my date nights, nor will I give up anything I wish to do on them. I will have my bread and butter and eat them too, preferably washed down with copious amounts of wine or vodka or whatever else is being poured. I will pay the price in poundage tomorrow, or as the case may be, today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's debacle:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 bowl Progresso chicken/rice soup 100

~~~~~~~~~~

Went to see 'Nixon Frost'** ~ excellent movie! I give it 4 martinis and an olive. As a good democrat and proud liberal I never expected to feel such compassion for the ex-President, nor to get so caught up in the drama of events surrounding what I recall as being a rather dull interview. But of course, I was very, very young, and everything was dull. I was but a toddler, I tell you. But I digress.

Turk, who rarely stays awake during an entire film, gave 'Nixon Frost'** a shockingly hyperbolic, "I really enjoyed that movie," thus earning it an Oscar.

snack: 1 large bucket of popcorn 1650/2 = a shockingly hyperbolic 825 calories

And I'd do it again.

After the movie we hit a brand new local wine bar to check it out. Overpriced wine, reasonable menu, depending on who you ask; Turk groaned on about how the place would never make it in this economy. I groaned on about he was always groaning on, and about how we really need a decent restaurant out here in the boonies and the only way to keep one was to patronize it. We argued about economic pessimism and my desire to spend money we don't have.

2 glasses unexceptional wine: 200 calories

I wouldn't do it again.

Headed for the local cheap n' cheerful Chinese:

dinner:

Szechuan chicken: I'm guesstimating here; I don't measure food in grams. In fact, I refuse to measure food at all. A large portion; let's call it 500.

I polished it off. With chopsticks.

and steamed rice 210

2 glasses unexceptional but appropriately priced wine: 200 calories

Jasmine tea

Daily total: 2035 calories

no exercise

Fortune cookie says: you will not be getting on a scale in the morning.

And damned if it wasn't true!

~~~~~~~~~~~
Today's Penance
~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 can V8 juice 70 calories

off to the gym. Take me treadmill, for I have sinned.


** turns out the actual title is 'Frost Nixon' ~ seems I am politically and/or titularly dyslexic

day 3

Ha! Just made it.
~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

1 apple 60

Lunch: 2 celery stalks 10

1/2 tsp. Trader Joe's Red Pepper sauce 10

subtotal 80 calories


Dinner: Big salad:

lettuce 45
black olives 140
w/oil 90
1/2 cup Gorgonzola 400 (?!) Really? looked it up; had no idea. Bugger.
2 tbs dressing 40

1/2 cup homemade pasta sauce snuck from Hub's plate during preparation 65
it was delicious


780 calories subtotal total

daily total: 860 calories

~~~~~~~~~~


elliptical machine: 5.92 miles

treadmill: 2.36 miles

8.28 miles total

(also; arm machines)

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss: -3 lbs.

Again, just water weight. Still don't care. Still claimin' it.

Day 2 ~ fitness blog balking

By neglecting to post yesterday, I have already failed in my solemn pledge to be boring on a daily basis. It will not happen again. I plead fatigue and loss of brain power, due only in part to lack of proper nutrition and severe muscle strain. The time I had designated Official Nightly Blog time I instead spent watching 'The Real Housewives of Orange County.' Clearly, hunger has unhinged me.

Seriously, what is wrong with these women? The silicone from their breasts has migrated to their egos, causing them to swell beyond all human recognition, and the botox in their faces has clearly paralyzed their brains, resulting in seizures. How else to explain those sudden crying jags and bewildering catfights? Or the sight of a thirty-something year old woman in a hot pink track suit dancing around the manse screeching with delight over the $65,000 engagement ring her beloved has bought her, even as said beloved lay in the ICU battling cancer? It has to be some form of surgically enhanced dementia. There is no other explanation. Doctors should be called.

So why would anyone in their right mind want to watch this coven of shrieking harpies, their spoiled children and beleaguered husbands? And why can't I stop?

There must be something in the water.

I should drink less water.

Off to the gym.

~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday's Bore
~~~~~~~~~

Precor step machine: 7875 strides

whatever that means. Damn machine was broken and wouldn't give mileage, just strideage.

Look, we have very specific goals here, people, and how are we supposed to know when we hit those goals if you give us distance in miles on the treadmill, in strides on a step machine, grunts per lap on the elliptical trainer and kilometers on the stationary bike? Consistency, please. We are way too hungry to do the math.

I'm calling it 3.60 miles. Who's gonna argue?

treadmill: 2.60 miles

6.20 miles total

(also; leg machines)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 5 celery stalks 25 calories

1 1/2 bowls of Progresso/leftovers from yesterday soup 245

270 calories total

Dinner: 2 celery stalks 10
broccoli 30
carrot 22
baked potato 104
w/ lots of butter 200

366 calories total

daily total: 636 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss: -5 lbs.

I know, I know.

Water loss, not fat. Still counts. I'm takin' it.

self-flagellation is a bore

And yet, as mad monks and fallen preachers all know, it is sometimes necessary and oddly satisfying. That doesn't mean, of course, that you must bear witness, and in fact I neither expect nor encourage you to do so. By all means, avert your eyes. It only gets worse from here.

For I weighed myself this morning after yoga class, something I have avoided doing for at least a month now, maybe two. I thought I was prepared for the result ~ I know where I've been and what I've been doing ~ but I was not. I was horrified. I was mortified. I believe I may have shed a tear on the ride home. I have been self-indulging to the point of abject stupidity since November (of 2007) and am thoroughly disgusted with myself. I have gone up not one but two sizes in the past year...

I will say no more on the point. I have little patience with whiny mopers who refuse to take responsibility for their own actions. But that is precisely the person I have become; a woman in need of a serious ass-kicking. And she could stand to miss a meal too.

And so, gentle reader, I am once again embarking on the dread Fitness Blog. And again I am sorry, for it never goes well. It is going to be dull. It is going to be dreary. It is going to entertain no one, least of all me. But until I lose this millstone around my neck (and waist, hip and thighs) I will not be worth knowing. I'm sticking with it this time too, because I have a wager on the outcome, and I never lose a bet. Ever.

Rest assured, this is going to bore me more than it bores you. And dudes, it is totally going to bore you.

GOAL: 26 pounds, 3 months, no whining

Day 1:

yoga: 1 hour
treadmill: 2.05 miles, 23 minutes

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 apple

Dinner: 1 bowl of tomato/cabbage soup

deep into the nog blog

One of my favorite columnists, Al Martinez of the LA Times has coined a phrase in describing what happens to people caught during times of shared difficulties; We huddle together in bad times, he writes. The spirits snuggle.

I love the descriptive aptness of that phrase, the spirits snuggle. It conjures up images of sleeping puppies, all cuddly and tossed together in soft furry heaps of companionship and warmth. Sometimes, we all just need to feel one another's heart beat. A reminder of our shared humanity, that we reach out to each other with hope, comfort and kindness because without it, there is nothing.

I wish you all the joys of the season. I wish you love and laughter and a cherished memory or two to hold close in the flickering of the candlelight. Most of all I wish you peace, from the bottom of my heart. Happy holidays to you all. May your spirits snuggle.

jager angels

Black leather boots and bustiers. Fishnet stockings, DayGlo orange wigs and more tattoos and eyeliner than Amy Winehouse at a biker rally, it was an unlikely getup for a couple of angels. Yet for all its sexy outrageousness, the Jagermeister shooter girls managed to look innocently adorable.

We were sitting at the bar waiting for our table to open up in the dining room. Turk had talked me into going out to dinner in spite of my reluctance ~ frankly, I am not at all happy with the creeping frumpiness of my appearance. I just want to stay home and hide.

I know. I should be bigger than this. I'm not. I shouldn't care, but I do. I'm supposed to love myself and embrace the older, wiser, more beautiful goddess within. I really can't.

I am, if anything, annoyed with her. It was never my intention to live long enough to look this old in the first place. While all my friends were busy becoming doctors, lawyers and engineers I was working on my 10 year plan to live hard, die young and leave a beautiful corpse. Typically, in this, as in so many things, I failed to apply myself and wound up here, in a nondescript middle age, dealing with this frumpiness, this encroaching Elmer Fuddliness. Fat, furrowed and befuddled am I.

The girls came up to give their pitch regarding the exemplary qualities of Jagermeister. They laughed good-naturedly when Turk, clearly dazzled by such bodacious attention, claimed to be a German prince in exile, pining away for Jager, the milk of his youth. They were really very sweet. Then, leaving us with a smile and the gift of an orange paper-flower lei, they were moving on toward the next customer when suddenly they turned back and one girl exclaimed, "We just have to tell you how pretty you are!" Her friend nodded, beaming.

And so help me Aphrodite, just for a while I felt lighter.

See what I mean? Angels.

My angels carry shot glasses. Like I always knew they would.

is our children learning?

I found this one at Girlyshoes and had to do it because I feel the need to prove that I'm not as dumb as my cartoon looks. I have too read stuff! Just, you know, not a lot of stuff on the list. Also, I don't actually remember all the stuff that I did read, not to mention...

Wait, what was this about again? Oh, yeah ~ me is sure smart! For a toon.

Instructions:

Look at the list and bold those you have read.

Underline those you intend to read. I didn't do this. I don't know how to underline things. Or even un-underline from a quick cut and paste job (see above re: toony smartness.) Let's just assume I plan to read all of them, and will get to Ulysses and Jude the Obscure as soon as I finish the English cozy currently on my nightstand.

Italicise the books you LOVE.

Reprint this list so we can try and track down these people who’ve read number 6 and force real books upon them. (Miz Shoes added that last bit but it made me laugh so it stays in. I'll do a whole 'nother meme on stealing other people's blog stuff later.)

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling. That's right; I'm the one.
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - J D Salinger
19. The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (See 33.)
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones’ Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73.The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens. Enjoyed it, but loved what Mr. Magoo did with the role of Scrooge in the film version.
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom Seriously. Never.
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo