My buddy Mike got a little fed up with Farmville... he posted this letter to Farmville on his Facebook and now I'm pretty sure he's sleeping on the couch.
Dear FarmVille
by Michael E. on Monday, August 30, 2010 at 8:30am
Since you've been spending the majority of my wife's time with her, I thought maybe it would be cool if you would come over and share some of the duties that normally fall to her husband. Maybe bring home a paycheck or two, cut the grass, take out the garbage, do the dishes.....something maybe (surprise me). Oh yeah, her birthday is coming up but I guess you already knew that. I can't really suggest what she may like as I'm not sure I know anymore. Oh wait a minute...she likes "you!" Maybe you can find a way to let her farm in her sleep so she doesn't miss any quality time with your freakin imaginary asparagus or your stupid beehives that she had to become friends with countless random teenagers and sex offenders with fake profiles in order to build (she doesn't even like bees!) I personally will be getting her a prescription for Ambian which I will be secretly mashing up into her dinner so that she might fall asleep before midnight instead of you keeping her up until 3:30am and letting her fall asleep with her face in the keyboard trying to get one last magical baby blanket to make a nursery for all of the "poor little orphaned platypuses" or whatever random sob story you throw at her to keep her clicking on weeds and bear poop. I considered having an intervention until I realized you were having the same sick affair with all of her friends and family members. So you win again Mr. Farmville! Maybe you could cut some of us "ex"-husbands a break and add some fucking seasons into your little tryst so that we might get to know our wives again for a mere 3 month period during the Winter months? Know that I am learning how to program so that I can hack into your programming and add natural disasters into the mix but I am sure that you will parlay that into something where she can click on hurricanes and flood waters some God awful amount of times to earn some ridiculous limited edition duck pond. So I guess, bottom line Farmville, you win. You have proved to be the better man. Go fuck yourself! Please extend my thanks to your friends HappyPets, FrontierVille, HappyAquarium, HappyIsland, ZooWorld, BackyardMonsters, and PetVille.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Oh Boy, Oh Burger (A Review)
The Cherry Cricket doesn't seem like much from the outside. Located in chic Cherry Creek, this place isn't flashy, it's not particularly classy. If you're looking for a little black dress and suit kind of place, move on. However the long line on a Friday night should be a clue: this place has something.
What the Cherry Cricket has is burgers. The menu is simple, almost disappointing if you don't know what you're about to consume. Customizable, delicious beef burgery goodness. I had mine with blue cheese crumbles and bacon. Bill took his with smoked, bacon and barbecue sauce (and the rest of mine, of course). Of course, you can get all the required side deliciousness: baskets of fries, rings, frings but they also have a surprisingly extensive list of beers.
Dress is casual and the prices are low, especially for the area. If you go on a weekend, be prepared to wait for a table. I doubt, after 65 years they need many more endorsements, but if so, they've got mine.
2641 East 2nd Ave
Denver, CO 80206
(In Cherry Creek North)
303-322-7666
Open everyday 11AM -2AM
Happy Hour 4:30 - 6:00PM and 10PM - Midnight
What the Cherry Cricket has is burgers. The menu is simple, almost disappointing if you don't know what you're about to consume. Customizable, delicious beef burgery goodness. I had mine with blue cheese crumbles and bacon. Bill took his with smoked, bacon and barbecue sauce (and the rest of mine, of course). Of course, you can get all the required side deliciousness: baskets of fries, rings, frings but they also have a surprisingly extensive list of beers.
Dress is casual and the prices are low, especially for the area. If you go on a weekend, be prepared to wait for a table. I doubt, after 65 years they need many more endorsements, but if so, they've got mine.
2641 East 2nd Ave
Denver, CO 80206
(In Cherry Creek North)
303-322-7666
Open everyday 11AM -2AM
Happy Hour 4:30 - 6:00PM and 10PM - Midnight
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Happy Father's Day, whether you like it or not
My dad and I have a rocky relationship. He's a Jehovah's Witness, an organization I left nearly 20 years ago. I have made choices he cannot approve and sometimes doesn't understand. At times, we've gone months or weeks without talking.
My dad has hurt me more than almost anyone ever could. I am positive I've done the same to him and yet, we work through it. We find our way to a battered but nonetheless welcome peace. Sometimes I reach out, sometimes he does, but we always find our way back to each other.
Several years ago I was at a point where I wondered if my dad loved me anymore, whether he regretted my existence. At the time, my parents were in the process of moving from Laramie, Wyoming to Rochester, Washington. Even though our relationship was in shards at the time, as my parents prepared to move, I felt like a person about to be orphaned. My issues with my dad made the process excruciating. How could I ever hope we'd fix this if I couldn't go to him, take his hand and talk?
You know what it's like when people live in one spot more than 20 years; stuff builds up. Crap builds up but also stuff. Almost like the Oregon Trail days, on their journey to the West, my parents were dumping items they loved but could live without at the edge of the trail. Furniture, books, pictures, hideous old clothes all went by the wayside.
Apparently, most of the items my parents didn't need, they believed I truly did. Almost every week, I'd get a call asking me to come pick up a box or two. Sometimes the items were my own possessions; items from my past, sometimes possessions of my parents which they thought I needed or wanted. Sometimes they were right and sometimes they were wrong. Thanks Dad, but I really don't need a 20yr old home humidifier that doesn't work. Let me know if you find someone who does need that, I need to have a serious conversation with that person.
Each kid has a story of betrayal by his or her parents. The bike you begged for on your birthday but didn't get. The piano recital they couldn't get to because they had to work. We collect them, moon over them, sometimes using them as excuses for crappy behavior in our adult lives, even though they're really not. One of my parent's little betrayals had been that I'd believed, right or wrong, that they'd lost my baby book. My brother had one but not me. Oh boy did I use THAT little gem during hard drinking binges.
One afternoon, we went to pick up a box of items my parents took out of my room. My scrapbook from H.S., a trunk full of Barbie clothes, the letter I earned for band, various other items were piled in to the box but at the bottom was another, smaller white box. The kind books usually come in. Its lid would hardly stay on for the number of items stuffed into it. Papers, letters, cards, heralding and celebrating my birth, a handwritten sign that my dad's coworkers must have put up on a door somewhere with the details of my birth. Finally, amazingly, a baby book. Mine. You may need tissues for this next part, I know I will. I opened the cover and got the shock of my life.
Most of the time it's the mommy who fills out the baby book but not for me. My father filled out mine. The dad I fought with for twenty-some years had filled in every single page, every milestone, ever anecdote of that journal. Every entry burst with pride, every word filled with love. Practically every single day of my first year was there, written in his horrible handwriting, accounted with the same care and diligence he brings to everything. I cried for hours. I'm crying now.
No matter what happened after, no matter how we let each other down, I will always know how much I mean to him. It's all there, written in ink, for me to see.
Because he's a J.W., I can't call him to say Happy Father's day. Can't send a card, can't take him to a ballgame or golfing, can't have a picnic. But today I still want to say 'Thank you, Dad.' For everything.
My dad has hurt me more than almost anyone ever could. I am positive I've done the same to him and yet, we work through it. We find our way to a battered but nonetheless welcome peace. Sometimes I reach out, sometimes he does, but we always find our way back to each other.
Several years ago I was at a point where I wondered if my dad loved me anymore, whether he regretted my existence. At the time, my parents were in the process of moving from Laramie, Wyoming to Rochester, Washington. Even though our relationship was in shards at the time, as my parents prepared to move, I felt like a person about to be orphaned. My issues with my dad made the process excruciating. How could I ever hope we'd fix this if I couldn't go to him, take his hand and talk?
You know what it's like when people live in one spot more than 20 years; stuff builds up. Crap builds up but also stuff. Almost like the Oregon Trail days, on their journey to the West, my parents were dumping items they loved but could live without at the edge of the trail. Furniture, books, pictures, hideous old clothes all went by the wayside.
Apparently, most of the items my parents didn't need, they believed I truly did. Almost every week, I'd get a call asking me to come pick up a box or two. Sometimes the items were my own possessions; items from my past, sometimes possessions of my parents which they thought I needed or wanted. Sometimes they were right and sometimes they were wrong. Thanks Dad, but I really don't need a 20yr old home humidifier that doesn't work. Let me know if you find someone who does need that, I need to have a serious conversation with that person.
Each kid has a story of betrayal by his or her parents. The bike you begged for on your birthday but didn't get. The piano recital they couldn't get to because they had to work. We collect them, moon over them, sometimes using them as excuses for crappy behavior in our adult lives, even though they're really not. One of my parent's little betrayals had been that I'd believed, right or wrong, that they'd lost my baby book. My brother had one but not me. Oh boy did I use THAT little gem during hard drinking binges.
One afternoon, we went to pick up a box of items my parents took out of my room. My scrapbook from H.S., a trunk full of Barbie clothes, the letter I earned for band, various other items were piled in to the box but at the bottom was another, smaller white box. The kind books usually come in. Its lid would hardly stay on for the number of items stuffed into it. Papers, letters, cards, heralding and celebrating my birth, a handwritten sign that my dad's coworkers must have put up on a door somewhere with the details of my birth. Finally, amazingly, a baby book. Mine. You may need tissues for this next part, I know I will. I opened the cover and got the shock of my life.
Most of the time it's the mommy who fills out the baby book but not for me. My father filled out mine. The dad I fought with for twenty-some years had filled in every single page, every milestone, ever anecdote of that journal. Every entry burst with pride, every word filled with love. Practically every single day of my first year was there, written in his horrible handwriting, accounted with the same care and diligence he brings to everything. I cried for hours. I'm crying now.
No matter what happened after, no matter how we let each other down, I will always know how much I mean to him. It's all there, written in ink, for me to see.
Because he's a J.W., I can't call him to say Happy Father's day. Can't send a card, can't take him to a ballgame or golfing, can't have a picnic. But today I still want to say 'Thank you, Dad.' For everything.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A Life Worth Living
My grandfather died a week ago.
All things considered, it was very peaceful. All things considered, I am incredibly lucky. For those reasons, and because it's how I process death, I haven't cried very much since it happened. I start grieving long before my loved one actually passes and by the time it happens, I'm well into a numb/dry spell. I spend days and weeks telling everyone in ear shot my little memories, our special 'nobody else cares' traditions so I'm talked out and often cried out when the day itself comes.
I have cried a little but for other reasons, other hurts. Much less involved with my grandfather and more involved with old wounds and tough memories, the kinds of things that come up when you spend time with close relatives. Since he died, I've spent a lot of time thinking about and remembering little things. saying goodbye quietly and gently.
Two weeks ago, I went to see him.
I sat at on PopPop's bed and picked up his hand. Wish #1 fulfilled: touching him one more time. He was incredibly frail but didn't mind that I sat close. He woke for a few minutes and greeted my brother and I. Wish #2: he knew us and was glad to see us.
Alex brought beautiful little Lorelei, my niece. Wish #3: PopPop met all of his great-grandchildren. The contrast between the two people was striking, bringing the reason for our trip into sharp clarity. A life beginning with joyful noise and one ending with respectful quiet. His voice was a whisper, Lorelei's is usually a delighted squeal.
Though the trip was brief and for me, very sad, it was also incredibly fulfilling. Time was precious so we didn't waste it. Sure, we had downtime; hours of talk and quiet with my parents, my brother, sister in law, aunt and uncle but that time was time well spent. These people knew him and respected him, loved him just as much as I did. To spend a few hours, better, a few days bonding with them was a balm to my heart and a reassurance that wonderful new things can come from the end of wonderful old things.
Throughout the trip, and even through profound grief, I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude. To my parents for arranging the trip, to my grandfather, aunt and uncle for facilitating it, to my brother and his family for accompanying me on the journey. To the universe for setting the situation up so perfectly, at exactly the right moment. It might not have shown outwardly, but even as my heart broke, it was comforted by the kindness of near-strangers, by the touch of someone I deeply loved and the chance to be near him one last time. Few times in life is a person fortunate enough to get the sort of closure I did. Rarely is anyone lucky enough to actually get there in time or to say what they're really feeling. I carried that gratitude home with me and it's propelled me through the last few weeks, will probably drive my life for a long time after.
There were many wonderful, comforting moments during the trip. I was able to say things to him that I needed him to know. He told me what I knew but needed to hear. The climax came just before we left that first day. That was when I was able to find exactly the right words.
Thank you for saving my life.
I'd hoped for a kind response, an acknowledgement. Instead, I got his best, last gift.
You're welcome. It was a life worth saving.
All things considered, it was very peaceful. All things considered, I am incredibly lucky. For those reasons, and because it's how I process death, I haven't cried very much since it happened. I start grieving long before my loved one actually passes and by the time it happens, I'm well into a numb/dry spell. I spend days and weeks telling everyone in ear shot my little memories, our special 'nobody else cares' traditions so I'm talked out and often cried out when the day itself comes.
I have cried a little but for other reasons, other hurts. Much less involved with my grandfather and more involved with old wounds and tough memories, the kinds of things that come up when you spend time with close relatives. Since he died, I've spent a lot of time thinking about and remembering little things. saying goodbye quietly and gently.
Two weeks ago, I went to see him.
I sat at on PopPop's bed and picked up his hand. Wish #1 fulfilled: touching him one more time. He was incredibly frail but didn't mind that I sat close. He woke for a few minutes and greeted my brother and I. Wish #2: he knew us and was glad to see us.
Alex brought beautiful little Lorelei, my niece. Wish #3: PopPop met all of his great-grandchildren. The contrast between the two people was striking, bringing the reason for our trip into sharp clarity. A life beginning with joyful noise and one ending with respectful quiet. His voice was a whisper, Lorelei's is usually a delighted squeal.
Though the trip was brief and for me, very sad, it was also incredibly fulfilling. Time was precious so we didn't waste it. Sure, we had downtime; hours of talk and quiet with my parents, my brother, sister in law, aunt and uncle but that time was time well spent. These people knew him and respected him, loved him just as much as I did. To spend a few hours, better, a few days bonding with them was a balm to my heart and a reassurance that wonderful new things can come from the end of wonderful old things.
Throughout the trip, and even through profound grief, I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude. To my parents for arranging the trip, to my grandfather, aunt and uncle for facilitating it, to my brother and his family for accompanying me on the journey. To the universe for setting the situation up so perfectly, at exactly the right moment. It might not have shown outwardly, but even as my heart broke, it was comforted by the kindness of near-strangers, by the touch of someone I deeply loved and the chance to be near him one last time. Few times in life is a person fortunate enough to get the sort of closure I did. Rarely is anyone lucky enough to actually get there in time or to say what they're really feeling. I carried that gratitude home with me and it's propelled me through the last few weeks, will probably drive my life for a long time after.
There were many wonderful, comforting moments during the trip. I was able to say things to him that I needed him to know. He told me what I knew but needed to hear. The climax came just before we left that first day. That was when I was able to find exactly the right words.
Thank you for saving my life.
I'd hoped for a kind response, an acknowledgement. Instead, I got his best, last gift.
You're welcome. It was a life worth saving.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Why do I have to be THAT kind of writer?
I am the sunny optimist. I complain that literature has to be sad. I get into great debates with literature teachers about the reason WHY great literature has to be so sad.
I think I finally understand. I don't write when I'm happy or content. When I'm happy, giggly, goofy or silly, it's hard for me to write. I want to be enjoying the moment, not clacking away at my keyboard and my loved ones want me to be enjoying the moment with them, not clacking away at the keyboard.
The other downside to writing in that mood is that unless the occasion is momentous, happy giggly goofy silly writing is, well, boring.
Now I understand. Pain makes me write. When I'm tired of crying, or when I cannot yet cry, writing forces the emotions out. It lets me see them, lets me tell others what I mean in a way I generally cannot with my voice.
Now that I know it, one thing concerns me. Does this mean I have to start being miserable?
I think I finally understand. I don't write when I'm happy or content. When I'm happy, giggly, goofy or silly, it's hard for me to write. I want to be enjoying the moment, not clacking away at my keyboard and my loved ones want me to be enjoying the moment with them, not clacking away at the keyboard.
The other downside to writing in that mood is that unless the occasion is momentous, happy giggly goofy silly writing is, well, boring.
Now I understand. Pain makes me write. When I'm tired of crying, or when I cannot yet cry, writing forces the emotions out. It lets me see them, lets me tell others what I mean in a way I generally cannot with my voice.
Now that I know it, one thing concerns me. Does this mean I have to start being miserable?
Holding His Hand
When I was five, I flew all by myself to Cincinnati to be with my grandparents for Spring Break. It was one of the most magical weeks of my childhood. That time, one on one with my grandparents was a wonderful fanciful treat. I stayed in a room decorated just for me, we visited the zoo, I had my hair done at my grandmother's salon, they showered me with gifts and showed me off to friends. Every night, during cocktail hour, they let me use their foyer as a kind of stage where I performed selections from Annie and Fiddler on the Roof with great enthusiasm. If they were anything but enthralled, I never knew. I must have come back spoiled rotten, my poor parents.
When I was six, I wanted to play the flute. More than anything. My cousins, older beautiful, sophisticated fourth and fifth graders that they were, both played an instrument and I wanted to be just like them. My grandparents paid for the rental. My hands were tiny; too small to make the first crucial reach of the flute's keys. I wouldn't figure out breath support for another four years and got light headed every time I touched the thing. I quit.
When I was seven, I wanted to play the piano. My parents had purchased an antique full upright and I'd been tinkering on it, plunking out commercial jingles and Rogers and Hammerstein melodies by ear. I wanted lessons. My grandparents offered to pay the month or two they figured I would stick to it. I took private lessons until I was seventeen. They ended up paying for five years of private voice lessons too.
When I was 11, I got braces. I have a mouth like a bowling alley. Tiny, narrow jaw; great big horse teeth. I had two oral surgeries, countless extractions but after years of pain and inconvenience, I had a beautiful smile, financed by my grandparents.
When I was 19, I became a single mother. My first husband had walked out seven months earlier. My daughter and I had nothing. My grandparents were part of the network of people making sure she had a good start. Thanks to them, she had tiny pink sleepers, a lovely cozy cradle, a carseat, a swing.
When I was 31, Cowboy had been hospitalized and out of work a month. My cupboards were bare. I went to sleep one night knowing I had no means of feeding my children the next week. My grandfather's 5:00AM phone call woke me. He was worried for us and was sending grocery money.
I said goodbye to my grandmother the next spring. Actually, I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. I was too blocked to write and by the time I had the courage, she'd lost the ability to understand. I spoke at her wake and in a cracking voice, talked for all of her grandchildren about her propensity for fulfilling wishes and rewarding hard work. I still think of her and thank her in my dreams.
When I was 35, I introduced my children and husband to my grandfather. I looked forward to that moment for months and fussed about it almost as long. This man, opinionated and sometimes dysfunctional as he is, has been so many things to me and I owe him so much. I couldn't wait for my family to meet him and him to meet them. I wanted him to see what bright, intelligent children they are and to know that he influenced the way I raise them. To hear him say I was doing well was like the blessing of heaven.
When I was 36, I needed a surgery to save my life. Giving me the money as a gift would have been inappropriate. I needed to demonstrate I had the strength to walk the path I was setting. It was a very big investment; one I needed to make in myself. My grandfather offered to pay half only if I came up with the other half on my own. I wanted it and I found a way. My grandfather helped me save my life.
They are moving my grandfather to Hospice this week. At 96 the man who used to walk or swim at least two miles a day can no longer walk across a room. I wish I could carry him. The man who attended weekly concerts and treasured lively conversation has been devastated at the loss of his hearing; even the best hearing aid a poor substitute. I wish he could hear through my ears. His eyesight is fading, I wish he could see through mine. These are the quality of life issues, there are others, much more serious that are shortening his time. If I could give him more time in comfort, I would. Since I can't, I can only offer compassion and hope I get there in time to say goodbye.
I owe him so much that 'thank you' seems lame. There's so much I want to say that every thing I start seems insipid. He and Grandma talked about holding my hand when I was a baby. I guess, I'll start by holding his hand and hope the words come. If I can't tell him how I feel, at least I can say goodbye the same way I said hello.
When I was six, I wanted to play the flute. More than anything. My cousins, older beautiful, sophisticated fourth and fifth graders that they were, both played an instrument and I wanted to be just like them. My grandparents paid for the rental. My hands were tiny; too small to make the first crucial reach of the flute's keys. I wouldn't figure out breath support for another four years and got light headed every time I touched the thing. I quit.
When I was seven, I wanted to play the piano. My parents had purchased an antique full upright and I'd been tinkering on it, plunking out commercial jingles and Rogers and Hammerstein melodies by ear. I wanted lessons. My grandparents offered to pay the month or two they figured I would stick to it. I took private lessons until I was seventeen. They ended up paying for five years of private voice lessons too.
When I was 11, I got braces. I have a mouth like a bowling alley. Tiny, narrow jaw; great big horse teeth. I had two oral surgeries, countless extractions but after years of pain and inconvenience, I had a beautiful smile, financed by my grandparents.
When I was 19, I became a single mother. My first husband had walked out seven months earlier. My daughter and I had nothing. My grandparents were part of the network of people making sure she had a good start. Thanks to them, she had tiny pink sleepers, a lovely cozy cradle, a carseat, a swing.
When I was 31, Cowboy had been hospitalized and out of work a month. My cupboards were bare. I went to sleep one night knowing I had no means of feeding my children the next week. My grandfather's 5:00AM phone call woke me. He was worried for us and was sending grocery money.
I said goodbye to my grandmother the next spring. Actually, I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. I was too blocked to write and by the time I had the courage, she'd lost the ability to understand. I spoke at her wake and in a cracking voice, talked for all of her grandchildren about her propensity for fulfilling wishes and rewarding hard work. I still think of her and thank her in my dreams.
When I was 35, I introduced my children and husband to my grandfather. I looked forward to that moment for months and fussed about it almost as long. This man, opinionated and sometimes dysfunctional as he is, has been so many things to me and I owe him so much. I couldn't wait for my family to meet him and him to meet them. I wanted him to see what bright, intelligent children they are and to know that he influenced the way I raise them. To hear him say I was doing well was like the blessing of heaven.
When I was 36, I needed a surgery to save my life. Giving me the money as a gift would have been inappropriate. I needed to demonstrate I had the strength to walk the path I was setting. It was a very big investment; one I needed to make in myself. My grandfather offered to pay half only if I came up with the other half on my own. I wanted it and I found a way. My grandfather helped me save my life.
They are moving my grandfather to Hospice this week. At 96 the man who used to walk or swim at least two miles a day can no longer walk across a room. I wish I could carry him. The man who attended weekly concerts and treasured lively conversation has been devastated at the loss of his hearing; even the best hearing aid a poor substitute. I wish he could hear through my ears. His eyesight is fading, I wish he could see through mine. These are the quality of life issues, there are others, much more serious that are shortening his time. If I could give him more time in comfort, I would. Since I can't, I can only offer compassion and hope I get there in time to say goodbye.
I owe him so much that 'thank you' seems lame. There's so much I want to say that every thing I start seems insipid. He and Grandma talked about holding my hand when I was a baby. I guess, I'll start by holding his hand and hope the words come. If I can't tell him how I feel, at least I can say goodbye the same way I said hello.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Resolutions? Bah! The Leaves are Changing
It's January 6Th. I'm guessing, and you're probably hoping that this is THE LAST New Year's Resolution Blog entry you'll read this year. I procrastinate, plus, I was really busy. Honest. The highlights from Christmas and New Years:
It was a joy for to see my brother, sister in law and tiny niece. BONUS! They took a gas stove that had been taking up space in our garage for almost five years. Win win. Oh and the bad weather only made a 6 hour drive down into a two day drive home for them (sorry, guys).
Christmas Dinner at the in laws was relaxed and stress free, for the most part. Lowlight: my daughter and Sargent David nearly skunked me at Cribbage. Hiighlight, watching Sargent David give Mistress Shanna a field sobriety test in their own kitchen while we all offered support and suggestions. Family bonding moment.
Cowboy and I attended a White Trash New Year's Bash where we won a prize for best couple's costume. Not particularly sure if that's a compliment.You be the judge:
I had to work New Year's Day but the highlight included getting to say "I know something you don't know! I am not left-handed, er, well actually, I sort of am!" while playing ping pong during a system issue. Yep, that's right, I am an ambidextrous ping pong paddler. HA!
This year, instead of resolving not to sin (or maybe too sin? now that sounds like fun), I am looking at my life in terms of trees. Some trees lose their leaves and start new ones from time to time, other trees-- evergreens, keep their 'leaves' all year.
There are habits I picked up and personality traits I treasure. These are my evergreens:
It was a joy for to see my brother, sister in law and tiny niece. BONUS! They took a gas stove that had been taking up space in our garage for almost five years. Win win. Oh and the bad weather only made a 6 hour drive down into a two day drive home for them (sorry, guys).
Christmas Dinner at the in laws was relaxed and stress free, for the most part. Lowlight: my daughter and Sargent David nearly skunked me at Cribbage. Hiighlight, watching Sargent David give Mistress Shanna a field sobriety test in their own kitchen while we all offered support and suggestions. Family bonding moment.
Cowboy and I attended a White Trash New Year's Bash where we won a prize for best couple's costume. Not particularly sure if that's a compliment.You be the judge:
I had to work New Year's Day but the highlight included getting to say "I know something you don't know! I am not left-handed, er, well actually, I sort of am!" while playing ping pong during a system issue. Yep, that's right, I am an ambidextrous ping pong paddler. HA!This year, instead of resolving not to sin (or maybe too sin? now that sounds like fun), I am looking at my life in terms of trees. Some trees lose their leaves and start new ones from time to time, other trees-- evergreens, keep their 'leaves' all year.
There are habits I picked up and personality traits I treasure. These are my evergreens:
- Placing a high priority on my nutrition and personal needs. I know how I got where I did, what it took to get back to where I am and what it takes to stay here.
- Making time for the kids even when life gets busy
- My love of learning. Anything. Anytime.
- Date nights and downtime with Cowboy so we remember why we like each other
- Willingness to teach others what I know for their development and my future delegation benefit
Habits I want to develop, I will think of as new leaves(examples):
- Blogging more often and with more quality
- Leaving work at work
- Taking breaks and lunches at work
Finally, there are some leaves and branches I may want to prune:
- My sedentary lifestyle is the one remaining habit of obesity that I haven't done enough to change. I want to move more to live more.
- Newly acquired and hopefully short lived smoking habit. Nasty disgusting habit, it can go, thanks
My inability to let go. I want to let go of not being able to let go? Tough one. That might take a few
Here's to growth for those things I need, endurance for those things I want to keep and letting go of those I don't.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Bucka's Cocoa Log
I've been talking about it for years. Wondrous, just sweet enough miracle out of my grandmother's kitchen. Maybe it was the way my mom and aunt sighed in reverence when it was presented, but Bucka's cocoa log has always seemed like pinnacle Christmas treat in my rather eccentric head. I searched every speciality bakery in Denver looking for its like, with delicious result but never quite finding its equal. Mom repeatedly told me making it isn't that hard, I could do it. I finally decided to make it the attempt. With help. I did my best to recruit my coworker Julia-- wondrous expert armature baker that she is. Julia had family obligations (two days before Christmas? imagine that!) so I was on my own.
As you know, my dad faxed me a copy of the recipe card which my grandmother clearly typed in a manual. Grandma, who we called Bucka for reasons nobody remembers left a whole box of incredible recipes from a time when nobody cared about carbs and the A1c didn't exist. Kinda hope nothing critical is lost under that particularly large black splotch on the second page.
As I shopped for the supplies yesterday, I kept hoping maybe Bucka's good spirit would stand at my shoulder as I mixed, whisked and folded, encouraging me. More likely, her real spirit would stand at my shoulder telling me "you know what's the matter with YOU?" That was really more her style. Let's face it, the lady didn't really get pleasant until her dementia was so bad she couldn't remember who we were. But.. I digress.
Yesterday, after the three lasagnas were put bed, I ran out of excuses and knuckled down.
Separate eggs? Ooooh dear. I use Egg Beaters, for Pete's sake. After one failure, I managed to separate all five. Beat whites into stiff peaks? I live in Colorado, high altitude and stiff egg whites don't mix. The only stiff peaks here have ski runs on them (oh STOP, get your minds out of the gutter!). I bravely pressed on. Kitchen Aid on high and whaddya know? Peaks are stiff!
Wait, what? Grease a pan, press wax paper into it and grease the wax paper? This seems excessive. Surely Pam will do, right? My 'this seems like enough' cooking/baking attitude kicked in.
Soon, I had a beautiful beige bowl of fluffy stuff ready to spread on the wax paper. Popped into the oven, fifteen nervous minutes and two phone calls to my mom and.....!
Fail.
The directions said to turn the cake out onto a towel sprinkled with powdered sugar. 1) The cake wasn't fully cooked (as I should have noticed from the absence of browned edges) and 2) I tried to actually turn the unsupported pan over, like a jackass. A gooey chocolaty mess slid, sort of 'glopped' out onto the towel. Cheryl declared it a delicious gooey mess but you can't spread fudge frosting on a gooey... oh whatever! I started over.
More separating, peaking and folding. Beautiful beigy fluffiness ready for the pan. The properly prepared pan. I took no chances: GREASE, not Pam! After more consultation with mom, I cut a piece of cardboard, covered it with a towel, sprinkled that with powered sugar annnnnd! Successful flipping! Nervous but successful rolling followed, whipping the cream, more rolling and finally...
Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting
Personally, if there were no other foods but this stuff, that'd be ok. Amanda says that instead of a wedding cake, she wants a cake made entirely of Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting. Three tiers, please. It's orgasmic, seriously. If you're sitting on your couch eating Betty Crocker frosting from the tub, shame on you. Not because you're eating frosting, because you're eating crap frosting. This is a ridiculously easy recipe; I'm embarrassed to have used packaged frosting up to now. For the size of cake, it spreads a little thin so just to be careful (and to account for the mysterious disappearance of at least half the first batch, possibly related to all the fingers being sucked in my household), I made two batches.
I'm a great cook, but my presentation generally needs a little something (read as, my food is often ugly but delightful). I knew -- I hope-- that you'd want a picture anyway so.. TADAH! my rather messy but INCREDIBLY delicious Bucka's Cocoa Log
As you know, my dad faxed me a copy of the recipe card which my grandmother clearly typed in a manual. Grandma, who we called Bucka for reasons nobody remembers left a whole box of incredible recipes from a time when nobody cared about carbs and the A1c didn't exist. Kinda hope nothing critical is lost under that particularly large black splotch on the second page.
As I shopped for the supplies yesterday, I kept hoping maybe Bucka's good spirit would stand at my shoulder as I mixed, whisked and folded, encouraging me. More likely, her real spirit would stand at my shoulder telling me "you know what's the matter with YOU?" That was really more her style. Let's face it, the lady didn't really get pleasant until her dementia was so bad she couldn't remember who we were. But.. I digress.
Yesterday, after the three lasagnas were put bed, I ran out of excuses and knuckled down.
Separate eggs? Ooooh dear. I use Egg Beaters, for Pete's sake. After one failure, I managed to separate all five. Beat whites into stiff peaks? I live in Colorado, high altitude and stiff egg whites don't mix. The only stiff peaks here have ski runs on them (oh STOP, get your minds out of the gutter!). I bravely pressed on. Kitchen Aid on high and whaddya know? Peaks are stiff!
Wait, what? Grease a pan, press wax paper into it and grease the wax paper? This seems excessive. Surely Pam will do, right? My 'this seems like enough' cooking/baking attitude kicked in.
Soon, I had a beautiful beige bowl of fluffy stuff ready to spread on the wax paper. Popped into the oven, fifteen nervous minutes and two phone calls to my mom and.....!
Fail.
The directions said to turn the cake out onto a towel sprinkled with powdered sugar. 1) The cake wasn't fully cooked (as I should have noticed from the absence of browned edges) and 2) I tried to actually turn the unsupported pan over, like a jackass. A gooey chocolaty mess slid, sort of 'glopped' out onto the towel. Cheryl declared it a delicious gooey mess but you can't spread fudge frosting on a gooey... oh whatever! I started over.
More separating, peaking and folding. Beautiful beigy fluffiness ready for the pan. The properly prepared pan. I took no chances: GREASE, not Pam! After more consultation with mom, I cut a piece of cardboard, covered it with a towel, sprinkled that with powered sugar annnnnd! Successful flipping! Nervous but successful rolling followed, whipping the cream, more rolling and finally...
Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting
Personally, if there were no other foods but this stuff, that'd be ok. Amanda says that instead of a wedding cake, she wants a cake made entirely of Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting. Three tiers, please. It's orgasmic, seriously. If you're sitting on your couch eating Betty Crocker frosting from the tub, shame on you. Not because you're eating frosting, because you're eating crap frosting. This is a ridiculously easy recipe; I'm embarrassed to have used packaged frosting up to now. For the size of cake, it spreads a little thin so just to be careful (and to account for the mysterious disappearance of at least half the first batch, possibly related to all the fingers being sucked in my household), I made two batches.
I'm a great cook, but my presentation generally needs a little something (read as, my food is often ugly but delightful). I knew -- I hope-- that you'd want a picture anyway so.. TADAH! my rather messy but INCREDIBLY delicious Bucka's Cocoa Log
You know you want the recipe. What follows is as near a Bucka-to-English translation as I can manage. There are some things that don't come across easily. For instance, the recipe calls for a 'moderate' oven. No idea what the hell that means. Also, the word 'carefully'' is used A LOT when actually combining the cake ingredients so... yeah. Be careful.
Merry Christmas!
Bucka's Cocoa Log (Bunche Noel, Yule Log, Damn Awesome cake)
Cake:
- 5 eggs, separated
- 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
- 2 tablespoons cocoa
- 3 tablespoons cake floor
- 1 teaspoon real vanilla
- 1 cup heavy whipping cream
Pre-heat 'moderate' oven to 375F. Grease a 10"x15" jelly roll pan. Line pan with wax paper, grease the wax. DO THIS, do not use Pam.
Mix sifted cocoa, flour and 1/4 cup sugar into a small bowl. Set aside.
In a small bowl, beat egg yolks until they are thick and lemon colored. Add vanilla and 1/4 cup sugar gradually. In a mixer bowl, using the whisk attachment, beat egg whites to stiff peaks. Beat one cup of sugar into egg white mixture. Fold egg yolk mixture carefully into white. Fold sifted cocoa, flour and sugar mixture gradually in with the other ingredients.
Spread cake mixture into jelly roll pan. Bake at 375 for 15 minutes or until the edges brown very lightly. (Christy's note: avoid the urge to check on the cake, even closing the oven door can cause this thing to fall)
Cut a piece of cardboard slightly larger than the jelly roll pan. Cover with a large tea towel. Sprinkle tea towel with powdered sugar.
Once the cake is out of the over, loosen the edges, then place towel covered cardboard sugar-side down on top of the pan, gently turn over. Cut off crisp edges, then roll cake up with the towel. Allow it to cool at least 30 - 45 minutes rolled up inside the towel.
While cake is cooling, in a chilled bowl, whisk whipped cream until frothy and make the frosting.
Fudge Butter cream Frosting
- 2 cups confectioner's sugar
- 1/3 cup cocoa
- 1/4 cup butter, softened
- dash of salt
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 4 tablespoons light cream (you can use whipping cream from the cake ingredients if you like)
Cream softened butter and 1 cup sifted confectioner's sugar thoroughly. Sift remaining cup sugar, cocoa and dash of salt together. Work these ingredients into creamed mixture alternating with cream and vanilla. If frosting is too stiff to spread, you may add a small amount of cream.
Unroll cooled cake and gently spread cake with whipped cream. Lightly re roll and chill for 30 minutes. Transfer cooled cake to your platter, spread with fudge frosting. For authentic 'log look' it's best not to smooth the frosting. Tool marks are a good thing. If desired, garnish with chocolate candies, maraschino cherries or mint leaves. Keep well chilled and covered.
Serves 8
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Barney is Part of My Christmas Culture
We're all molded by our experiences and shaped by our environments. I'm not different. My parents became Jehovah's Witnesses when I was about eight and my brother was five. We stopped celebrating all the normal American holidays. We didn't just put the practices on hold, our house was purged of any items involved with Christmas, Easter, Halloween, etc.
Christmas mornings with my family are wonderful. We usually spend them with my husband's parents and his sister's family. In a beautifully decorated home, we share gifts, laughs and participate in their grand and not so grand traditions. I am very grateful to be included in their celebration.
Through no fault of Cowboy's family, I often feel like an outsider. Like an orphan invited out of kindness but never fully belonging. Though I cook and bake for the season and I know it's appreciated, I have often felt that I didn't really add anything to the festivities. There often seemed to be something held back, some parts that we all knew I couldn't fully appreciate because I wouldn't get it.
This year has been different. I've stopped moping. I gave myself a mental and spiritual smack to the back of the head. My family--Cowboy and my children and I-- have our own very rich, rather unique traditions. I realized I short-change us when I discount the little things we do. We don't make a big (expensive!) pilgrimage to Rockefeller Plaza. We fill our Netflix list with Christmas movies and watch them as a family. This year I had the privilege of introducing my 15 yr old son to Clark Griswold in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.
I've learned that very few people stick to a set traditional plan each and every year. The Gilmore Girls taught me that rigidly adhering to such a schedule can rob some of the joy and spontaneity from the holidays. Some years I bake dozens of types of cookies and candy. Some, I simply bake thousands of one type. Nobody ever complains when you hand them a cookie.
I finally understand that it doesn't matter how much or how little money a family has, the point is the time you spend, the laughs you share and the love you feel. The year I volunteered full time in a food-bank, working 40 hour weeks leading up to Christmas taught me that you don't have to speak the same language to be comrades. You don't have to worship the same way to help others.
I've learned that what's important to your family is what matters, not some grandiose idea someone constructed of what the holiday ought to be. If it's important to your children to watch the Barney Christmas special (even when they're 18 years old), then that's your tradition. It has as much value as anybody's stately procession to Midnight Mass.
As I've mentioned a couple times (to everyone who will listen, shouting on the street corner, bugging people on Face book, Tweeting ad nauseum), my brother Alex, sister in law Deena and niece Lorelai are coming for Christmas. I'm serving a completely non-traditional Christmas Eve meal of smoked ribs and lasagna. I have no set plans for the evening or the morning that follows; it's our first Christmas together in 29 years. Over planning might spoil it all. I intend to hug them, love them and enjoy every minute our families spend together.
I grew up. I started celebrating again. Every time we did something that seemed silly but turned out great, we added a thread to the fabric that makes up our family's traditions and culture. It's a fabric we've woven ourselves. The lives we've made from it fit just right.
Christmas mornings with my family are wonderful. We usually spend them with my husband's parents and his sister's family. In a beautifully decorated home, we share gifts, laughs and participate in their grand and not so grand traditions. I am very grateful to be included in their celebration.
Through no fault of Cowboy's family, I often feel like an outsider. Like an orphan invited out of kindness but never fully belonging. Though I cook and bake for the season and I know it's appreciated, I have often felt that I didn't really add anything to the festivities. There often seemed to be something held back, some parts that we all knew I couldn't fully appreciate because I wouldn't get it.
This year has been different. I've stopped moping. I gave myself a mental and spiritual smack to the back of the head. My family--Cowboy and my children and I-- have our own very rich, rather unique traditions. I realized I short-change us when I discount the little things we do. We don't make a big (expensive!) pilgrimage to Rockefeller Plaza. We fill our Netflix list with Christmas movies and watch them as a family. This year I had the privilege of introducing my 15 yr old son to Clark Griswold in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.
I've learned that very few people stick to a set traditional plan each and every year. The Gilmore Girls taught me that rigidly adhering to such a schedule can rob some of the joy and spontaneity from the holidays. Some years I bake dozens of types of cookies and candy. Some, I simply bake thousands of one type. Nobody ever complains when you hand them a cookie.
I finally understand that it doesn't matter how much or how little money a family has, the point is the time you spend, the laughs you share and the love you feel. The year I volunteered full time in a food-bank, working 40 hour weeks leading up to Christmas taught me that you don't have to speak the same language to be comrades. You don't have to worship the same way to help others.
I've learned that what's important to your family is what matters, not some grandiose idea someone constructed of what the holiday ought to be. If it's important to your children to watch the Barney Christmas special (even when they're 18 years old), then that's your tradition. It has as much value as anybody's stately procession to Midnight Mass.
As I've mentioned a couple times (to everyone who will listen, shouting on the street corner, bugging people on Face book, Tweeting ad nauseum), my brother Alex, sister in law Deena and niece Lorelai are coming for Christmas. I'm serving a completely non-traditional Christmas Eve meal of smoked ribs and lasagna. I have no set plans for the evening or the morning that follows; it's our first Christmas together in 29 years. Over planning might spoil it all. I intend to hug them, love them and enjoy every minute our families spend together.
I grew up. I started celebrating again. Every time we did something that seemed silly but turned out great, we added a thread to the fabric that makes up our family's traditions and culture. It's a fabric we've woven ourselves. The lives we've made from it fit just right.
Happiness Is... (and some stuff that drives me crazy)
Lots of things make me happy but some things also drive me crazy. I think this calls for two bullet pointed lists, don't you?
First: Things that make me crazy:
- It drives me crazy when I wake up at 5:48AM on the first day of my vacation. Retro was happy about it, though. It was all his fault anyway; he pushed me off the bed. How does an 18lb dog take up an entire king sized bed?
- It drives me crazy that I cannot shut down my work-brain while on said vacation (and use that energy to think up great blog topics).
- It drives me crazy when my children ask me if they can do things they aren't supposed to do at moments when I'm distracted. They then blink those big innocent blue eyes which I mistakenly gave to them in my genetic material and protest 'but you SAID I could, Mama!' Sneaky sneaky little children.
- It drives me crazy that my To Do list never diminishes (I also love this, look for it later)
- It drives me crazy when I am completely unable to think of good blog topics which causes me post bullet pointed lists instead (and the occasional Princess Bride reference) just to keep you reading
- It drives me crazy when three hapless circus folk kidnap me while I'm out on my ride and drag me to the Gildor Frontier, OH and when my fiance tries to murder me on our wedding night. (see? You're still reading, aren't you?)
- It drives me crazy when I procrastinate. I should work on that. Later.
Whew! I feel better.
Things that make me happy:
- Bullet points in blog posts
- Fuzzy (any shade) pink heart print pajamas
- The crew at MY Starbucks who know exactly how much to put in my Shot in the Dark with lots of room
- Wearing my pink heart-print fuzzy pajamas into Starbucks with my Cowboy. We've started making a run together before he leaves for work on my days off (the days I actually take off). Oh and the fact that they don't even blink when I do this
- Inside Jokes that aren't that inside
- Being an important part of an organization at work and a family at home
- A To Do list that never diminishes
- Deadlines (I do not stay focused without them)
- Sometimes ignoring my deadlines
- Sweaters
- Singing Christmas carols unnecessarily loud in my car
- Great sex!
- Gilmore Girls Season 4
- My grandmother's recipe for Cocoa Log (Bunche Noel for you, Julia!). My parents faxed me a copy of the recipe which looks very much like it was typed on a manual type writer. It makes me think that my grandmother may have typed it up. Even though it's a faxed copy, it makes me feel a little closer to her and this time of year, that's a good thing.
- The thought of my brother and his family coming for Christmas, maybe the start of a new Christmas tradition?
- The thought of the lasagna AND smoked ribs we're serving for Christmas Eve dinner (which I will be eating with my brother and his family)
- Listening to my children describe their favorite Christmas rituals, none of which involve spending money.
- Cheryl wiggling on the couch next to me even though I've asked her to stop about five times. This also drives me crazy. There's one sure-fire way to fix it.
I must go.. she needs to be tickled. A lot.
Writer's Mountain
There will be no blog post this morning because the only thing I can think about to write is my inability to write. Annoyingly unoriginal.
Look for a list of things making me happy soon.
Look for a list of things making me happy soon.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Christmas Newsletter
I am a schlub.
Seriously, not only do I not send Christmas cards, there's no freakin' way I have the energy to write and to send a Christmas Newsletter. But I do have to say, these newsletters make me feel even more schlubby than usual. Not only do I not send Christmas cards, I also didn't design and create my daughter's prom dresses, Cowboy didn't run a marathon and none of my children graduated from the MIT/Harvard/Yale/Stanford Prepartory school two years early as the valedictorian.
Sometimes the evil snarky part of me wishes for the newsletters with the truth of things like, the reason hubby had the time to train for a marathon is that he's been out of work for year. The aftermath of the child pushed to graduate early with honors is a self centered, ulcer ridden ego maniac and $1,450,000 in school loans. Those custom designed and created prom dresses cost 5x as much as any ever purchased at Macy's.
I was going to write the 'real' Christmas newsletter and thought myself very clever until I realized that's been blogged to death. Call me unoriginal. Then I thought of writing Christmas Newsletters for various famous movies, mostly John Hughes films. Also unoriginal. Newsletters from my pets? Yawn. Argh.
I give. Here it is. The McClurg Family Newsletter, good and not so good.
(standard opening)
It's been a busy year here in the McClurg household!
This year Amanda's teeth paid for us to go to Las Vegas tax free. Flexible Spending reimbursement, yay! Cowboy and I had a wonderful time with my friend Aimee and her boyfriend. We'd give you details but some of them are too risque even for the Internet!
I went through four complete wardrobes, spending probably 20% of our income as I whipped through several sizes. I have extra skin enough to donate for 10,000 grafts OR go as a "flying squirrel" to Halloween next year without buying a costume. I have also embarked on a new project at work which is unpaid and unsung. Actually, it's sort of sung. I'd been doing the job illicitly for a year. Now at least I can call myself 'legit.' But I won't call myself 'legit' because my children use that word with annoying inaccuracy. "I do not think it means what you think it means.' Like all things career driven, if I do this unpaid job for a year, I may be able to apply for the paid position for real.
We now have three children in high school, which is almost unimaginably expensive. On the upside: nobody's gotten killed, pregnant or arrested, which doesn't seem like such a big deal until you turn on the evening news.
This spring, Cowboy won a competition naming him Go Automotive Network's top Technician in Colorado. He's looking forward to competing again early next year and hopes to compete in Go's first-ever National event. Never fear, we found a use for the 50" LCD TV prize, even though we had purchased it's twin a month before. We all knew he was a superstar. Finally, some recognition for it!
Cheryl had two most boring (awesome) Parent Teacher conferences ever because she's a stellar second grader ever. Also a plus, we found out that she isn't hard of hearing. We'd been afraid that she might have hearing problems because at home she yells. A lot. Turns out she uses a perfectly normal, acceptable voice at school. She yells at home because our house is loud. Period.
Patrick was voted Class President for the third year in a row. Though he doesn't think his classmates like him, I have a feeling the votes indicate otherwise. The votes also confirm what I've known for years; this kid has charisma.
My brother, his wife and my darling niece are coming to share Christmas with us. Their arrival on Thursday will herald the first time he and I have celebrated Christmas together in 29 years. You read that absolutely right. To mark this momentous occasion, if I am brave enough (am I brave enough?) I plan to recreate my grandmother's famous Yule Log. I'm terrified. I don't follow baking directions. I follow the "that looks like enough" school of cooking. 'Nuff said.
To sum up: this year was filled with joy, fear, tears, hugs, giggles, private jokes, cuddles, fights, folly and triumph. Can't wait to do it all again.
Seriously, not only do I not send Christmas cards, there's no freakin' way I have the energy to write and to send a Christmas Newsletter. But I do have to say, these newsletters make me feel even more schlubby than usual. Not only do I not send Christmas cards, I also didn't design and create my daughter's prom dresses, Cowboy didn't run a marathon and none of my children graduated from the MIT/Harvard/Yale/Stanford Prepartory school two years early as the valedictorian.
Sometimes the evil snarky part of me wishes for the newsletters with the truth of things like, the reason hubby had the time to train for a marathon is that he's been out of work for year. The aftermath of the child pushed to graduate early with honors is a self centered, ulcer ridden ego maniac and $1,450,000 in school loans. Those custom designed and created prom dresses cost 5x as much as any ever purchased at Macy's.
I was going to write the 'real' Christmas newsletter and thought myself very clever until I realized that's been blogged to death. Call me unoriginal. Then I thought of writing Christmas Newsletters for various famous movies, mostly John Hughes films. Also unoriginal. Newsletters from my pets? Yawn. Argh.
I give. Here it is. The McClurg Family Newsletter, good and not so good.
(standard opening)
It's been a busy year here in the McClurg household!
This year Amanda's teeth paid for us to go to Las Vegas tax free. Flexible Spending reimbursement, yay! Cowboy and I had a wonderful time with my friend Aimee and her boyfriend. We'd give you details but some of them are too risque even for the Internet!
I went through four complete wardrobes, spending probably 20% of our income as I whipped through several sizes. I have extra skin enough to donate for 10,000 grafts OR go as a "flying squirrel" to Halloween next year without buying a costume. I have also embarked on a new project at work which is unpaid and unsung. Actually, it's sort of sung. I'd been doing the job illicitly for a year. Now at least I can call myself 'legit.' But I won't call myself 'legit' because my children use that word with annoying inaccuracy. "I do not think it means what you think it means.' Like all things career driven, if I do this unpaid job for a year, I may be able to apply for the paid position for real.
We now have three children in high school, which is almost unimaginably expensive. On the upside: nobody's gotten killed, pregnant or arrested, which doesn't seem like such a big deal until you turn on the evening news.
This spring, Cowboy won a competition naming him Go Automotive Network's top Technician in Colorado. He's looking forward to competing again early next year and hopes to compete in Go's first-ever National event. Never fear, we found a use for the 50" LCD TV prize, even though we had purchased it's twin a month before. We all knew he was a superstar. Finally, some recognition for it!
Cheryl had two most boring (awesome) Parent Teacher conferences ever because she's a stellar second grader ever. Also a plus, we found out that she isn't hard of hearing. We'd been afraid that she might have hearing problems because at home she yells. A lot. Turns out she uses a perfectly normal, acceptable voice at school. She yells at home because our house is loud. Period.
Patrick was voted Class President for the third year in a row. Though he doesn't think his classmates like him, I have a feeling the votes indicate otherwise. The votes also confirm what I've known for years; this kid has charisma.
My brother, his wife and my darling niece are coming to share Christmas with us. Their arrival on Thursday will herald the first time he and I have celebrated Christmas together in 29 years. You read that absolutely right. To mark this momentous occasion, if I am brave enough (am I brave enough?) I plan to recreate my grandmother's famous Yule Log. I'm terrified. I don't follow baking directions. I follow the "that looks like enough" school of cooking. 'Nuff said.
To sum up: this year was filled with joy, fear, tears, hugs, giggles, private jokes, cuddles, fights, folly and triumph. Can't wait to do it all again.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Of Accountability and Weight Loss
One of the things that happens when you lose a lot of weight fast is that people think you are 1) judging them, their weight or their eating habits, 2) a great weight loss coach or 3) stuck on yourself.
I've lost 100lbs in a year. A hundred. Pounds. That's a lot of weight, really fast. People notice.
I can't do much about number three. When you look better, you feel better so you carry yourself with a little more pride and you dress better. Actually, I was more stuck on myself when I was fat: I was the hottest fat chick in the room, damnit. Anymore, I kinda feel like just a so-so medium sized chick. If people won't try talking to me to see whether or not I'm a snot, sadly, I can't help change the perception.
The first two are a different thing entirely. People I barely know feel that they have to justify what they're eating for lunch just because I happen to stop by their table to say hello. It's none of my business and I'm really not judging. Who am I to do so?
I'm not a great weight loss coach either. What I am is someone who is going through something big and who has made lots of mistakes on the way to AND from. I might have some perspective for you but serious people need serious help. Doctors, therapists and Weight Watchers are probably better bets for coaching than me. Even so, there are several people who IM me at work, email or ask for my phone number.
I had a long conversation yesterday with a lady about what she's doing to try to lose weight. She wants it very much and on the surface, she claims to be 'trying' to make good choices. Unfortunately, everything in her life is someone elses fault. She ate pizza because that's what the kids wanted, her husband forced her to have McDonald's at the mall food court with him. She couldn't say no to the donuts her boss brought to work because that would have been rude, so she had three.
THIS POOR WOMAN!!! She must live in a gulag. Her children must keep her imprisoned in a cage with a small slash in the door just tall enough to permit a slice of pizza to be shoved through. Her only recreation was a trip to the mall with Warden Husband, shackled to his side with no choice but to eat what he's eating. Even worse, when she shows up here to work, her supervisor pries open her jaws, using a medieval torture device and shoves in DONUTS!
Let's come back to reality here: this is a suburban middle class working woman, very much like me. She lives in a suburban neighborhood very much like mine, with lots of access to good restaurants and health food and grocery stores, even some specialty markets. While her family might choose to eat those things, there's no good reason she could not find something more appropriate to her weight loss goals to eat herself.
I don't know her very well, so I tempered my response, but bottom line, tough love answer: this isn't everybody elses fault. You are not fat because people forced you to eat the wrong things. You, like me, have access to and the ability to obtain healthy, appropriate food choices.
Does that mean I might have to cook 2 dinners sometimes? Yes (but that is why you teach your children to cook).
Does it mean I can no longer purchase junk food? It means I no longer purchase junk food that I like. I purchase crap I hate but other people like all the time. I don't eat crap I hate, so it works.
Does it mean I might have to buy special food, just for me? Yes. Think of it as spoiling yourself; go for things you've always wanted to try but never had the courage before.
Does it mean that I eat things that don't taste good? NEVER! I do not eat things I don't like. Period. If you are going to eat small portions and things that are good for you, make them the best tasting small portions of healthy foods you can find.
Does it mean I might have to say no to things I like? Yes, but how much do you want this? As long as you want smaller pant sizes more than you want french fries, you can do it. As long as you want to be free of diabetes more than you want that piece of cake, you can do it.
Some days the french fries are more important and some days you want chocolate cake more than anything else in the world. Those days are not the end. On those days, that's what you want. If that's what you want, eat it. Eat it and then move on. As my friend Janice Taylor says "All is forgiven; move on." As long as your overall goal doesn't change, you can have those days and still remember what you really and truly want. You can still have what you truly want because you will still work for it.
My weight loss has never ever been easy and I don't have all the answers. I lost 1/3 my body weight on Phen Phen and put 2/3 back on. I drank a Slim Fast Shake for Breakfast, another for Lunch and EVERYTYHING IN THE FRIDGE for afternoon snack.
My weight got so out of hand and my resulting health problems so bad, that surgery was the best option for me. However, after a long time and a lot of therapy, I know that the things that led up to it were driven much more by my choices than by unseen forces shoving food down my gullet. I spent years in denial, thinking I could hide under food: hide from men, hide from tough choices, hide from food that doesn't taste as good as french fries.
As long as I continued to hide and deny, to blame everybody and everything but my own actions, then my weight continued to go up. Even before surgery, the day I took charge and took responsibility was the day I knew I was in control. A figurative weight was lifted from me: my shackles fell off, the bars to my cage flew open. Knowing that this is my choice is liberating: nobody can force me to do anything. I am in control of my destiny, I can set my own goals.
Surgery is helping me attain my goal. Helping. My weight was so high that I felt it was the best option to rapidly change myself. However, surgery is only a tool, surgery can't make good choices for me. At the end of the day, I. Am. Doing. This.
Most of us do not live in a gulag, most of us have access to a plethora of food choices. Before any of us can take the step and lose the weight permanently, we have to decide that we are making the choice. I am. Myself. Making this choice. For Me.
If you are thinking about losing weight, if you are already trying to make lifestyle changes, you must hear this. Therapists will say it, Weight Watchers will say it and if you ask me, I'm going to say it too. We all know what we're talking about. Weight loss begins and ends with you. Only you can make the right choices for you. If you fail, you are the only one to blame, true. Don't think about failing. Do not allow yourself that intention.
Intend to succeed and you will. Think about this instead: WHEN you succeed, when you take responsibility and you are accountable, YOU get all the credit.
I've lost 100lbs in a year. A hundred. Pounds. That's a lot of weight, really fast. People notice.
I can't do much about number three. When you look better, you feel better so you carry yourself with a little more pride and you dress better. Actually, I was more stuck on myself when I was fat: I was the hottest fat chick in the room, damnit. Anymore, I kinda feel like just a so-so medium sized chick. If people won't try talking to me to see whether or not I'm a snot, sadly, I can't help change the perception.
The first two are a different thing entirely. People I barely know feel that they have to justify what they're eating for lunch just because I happen to stop by their table to say hello. It's none of my business and I'm really not judging. Who am I to do so?
I'm not a great weight loss coach either. What I am is someone who is going through something big and who has made lots of mistakes on the way to AND from. I might have some perspective for you but serious people need serious help. Doctors, therapists and Weight Watchers are probably better bets for coaching than me. Even so, there are several people who IM me at work, email or ask for my phone number.
I had a long conversation yesterday with a lady about what she's doing to try to lose weight. She wants it very much and on the surface, she claims to be 'trying' to make good choices. Unfortunately, everything in her life is someone elses fault. She ate pizza because that's what the kids wanted, her husband forced her to have McDonald's at the mall food court with him. She couldn't say no to the donuts her boss brought to work because that would have been rude, so she had three.
THIS POOR WOMAN!!! She must live in a gulag. Her children must keep her imprisoned in a cage with a small slash in the door just tall enough to permit a slice of pizza to be shoved through. Her only recreation was a trip to the mall with Warden Husband, shackled to his side with no choice but to eat what he's eating. Even worse, when she shows up here to work, her supervisor pries open her jaws, using a medieval torture device and shoves in DONUTS!
Let's come back to reality here: this is a suburban middle class working woman, very much like me. She lives in a suburban neighborhood very much like mine, with lots of access to good restaurants and health food and grocery stores, even some specialty markets. While her family might choose to eat those things, there's no good reason she could not find something more appropriate to her weight loss goals to eat herself.
I don't know her very well, so I tempered my response, but bottom line, tough love answer: this isn't everybody elses fault. You are not fat because people forced you to eat the wrong things. You, like me, have access to and the ability to obtain healthy, appropriate food choices.
Does that mean I might have to cook 2 dinners sometimes? Yes (but that is why you teach your children to cook).
Does it mean I can no longer purchase junk food? It means I no longer purchase junk food that I like. I purchase crap I hate but other people like all the time. I don't eat crap I hate, so it works.
Does it mean I might have to buy special food, just for me? Yes. Think of it as spoiling yourself; go for things you've always wanted to try but never had the courage before.
Does it mean that I eat things that don't taste good? NEVER! I do not eat things I don't like. Period. If you are going to eat small portions and things that are good for you, make them the best tasting small portions of healthy foods you can find.
Does it mean I might have to say no to things I like? Yes, but how much do you want this? As long as you want smaller pant sizes more than you want french fries, you can do it. As long as you want to be free of diabetes more than you want that piece of cake, you can do it.
Some days the french fries are more important and some days you want chocolate cake more than anything else in the world. Those days are not the end. On those days, that's what you want. If that's what you want, eat it. Eat it and then move on. As my friend Janice Taylor says "All is forgiven; move on." As long as your overall goal doesn't change, you can have those days and still remember what you really and truly want. You can still have what you truly want because you will still work for it.
My weight loss has never ever been easy and I don't have all the answers. I lost 1/3 my body weight on Phen Phen and put 2/3 back on. I drank a Slim Fast Shake for Breakfast, another for Lunch and EVERYTYHING IN THE FRIDGE for afternoon snack.
My weight got so out of hand and my resulting health problems so bad, that surgery was the best option for me. However, after a long time and a lot of therapy, I know that the things that led up to it were driven much more by my choices than by unseen forces shoving food down my gullet. I spent years in denial, thinking I could hide under food: hide from men, hide from tough choices, hide from food that doesn't taste as good as french fries.
As long as I continued to hide and deny, to blame everybody and everything but my own actions, then my weight continued to go up. Even before surgery, the day I took charge and took responsibility was the day I knew I was in control. A figurative weight was lifted from me: my shackles fell off, the bars to my cage flew open. Knowing that this is my choice is liberating: nobody can force me to do anything. I am in control of my destiny, I can set my own goals.
Surgery is helping me attain my goal. Helping. My weight was so high that I felt it was the best option to rapidly change myself. However, surgery is only a tool, surgery can't make good choices for me. At the end of the day, I. Am. Doing. This.
Most of us do not live in a gulag, most of us have access to a plethora of food choices. Before any of us can take the step and lose the weight permanently, we have to decide that we are making the choice. I am. Myself. Making this choice. For Me.
If you are thinking about losing weight, if you are already trying to make lifestyle changes, you must hear this. Therapists will say it, Weight Watchers will say it and if you ask me, I'm going to say it too. We all know what we're talking about. Weight loss begins and ends with you. Only you can make the right choices for you. If you fail, you are the only one to blame, true. Don't think about failing. Do not allow yourself that intention.
Intend to succeed and you will. Think about this instead: WHEN you succeed, when you take responsibility and you are accountable, YOU get all the credit.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Happy Thoughts Bullet Points
Little.. and big things that make me happy:
- A new president
- My weight loss; I've lost 97lbs from my lifetime high of 307.
- Renewed romance with my Cowboy
- Energy for fun activities with my Cowboy
- My kids
- My dogs
- Sushi
- New Year's Day sales
- Lego Batman
- Buying something 5 sizes smaller than last year
- Friends. Plural.
- A social life!
- Used CDs and paperback books on Half.Com
- Flannel sheets and a super fuzzy warm blanket
- Smudge Pots by Stila: eyeliner that stays put. Forever
- Flannel Jammies (though I've almost caused an electrical storm simply rolling over under the sheets)
- Cherry Pomegranate Crystal Light
- New surround sound/dvd/stereo system with an iPod dock
- A totally cool Mini to carpool in
- A totally awesome carpool buddy (owner of the Mini)
- Coworkers I actually like
- My job (most of the time)
- Sexy underwear (leading to)
- Really great sex
- Pink nail polish
- Freshly brewed coffee
- Sleeping in
- Staying up late
- Firefly on DVD
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Happiness is..
see Obama pictures
Things making me happy today.
- Grocery shopping without needing to use an electric cart or oxygen
- Guiltless Pasta-Free Lasagna recipe I created for dinner that turned out totally YUM!
- Looking at 1/2 cup of said Lasagna, thinking it won't be enough. Twenty minutes (and 20 bites later) being completely satisfied with just that much
- Seasons 1 - 6 of X Files on DVD
- Seasons 1 - 3 of Angel on DVD
- Peanut butter toast (and being satisfied with only half a slice)
- More energy, wait, I mentioned that, sort of, but it gets another mention
- Teen aged children who talk to me and who sometimes listen when I talk to them
- A happy healthy hubby
- Great naps
- Great sex
- My new Sprint Wireless Internet card that came the day after I ordered it and is almost as fast as cable or a corporate LAN
- The kind of relationship with my mom where we can really REALLY talk
- A visit from Cara last week that's still making me feel good this week
- Really great emails and phone calls from friends and coworkers
- Meeting a 'old friend' face to face for the first time and finding that we click just as well in person as we did in cyberland
- Being who I am today.
- Being where I am today.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Updates
I tweaked a few things on the blog: updating my picture and my iPod Top 25. Interesting how much your music taste changes in the course of a year. Only two songs are still on the list from the first time I posted it.
It Was the Best of Times... It Was the Worst of Times..
Back to school.
I am enjoying my last two weeks recovery at home in peace and quiet. Beginning at 6:15 and ending at 7:30AM, my children trickle out the door, headed to their institutions of learning. I drag covers off, I push breakfast, I brush hair, I approve, or disapprove outfits, I ponder the meaning of 'rhetorical reasoning,' with confused teenagers. During the day, I can nap, I can talk on the phone, I can eat without exclamations of "ew!" or "can I have some?"
The downside: we've shelled out over $1,000 in the last two weeks. First, of course, is the published school supplies list, then shoes, clothes, etc. School supply list: it sounds so simple.. don't be fooled! Each year there must be at least one item on the published school supplies list that is next to impossible to find. In print it will seem so simple, listed as "red felt tip fine point marker, blood red only." Once you're on the hunt though, you realize this item might actually exist only the imagination of the teacher. To obtain this item you may be forced to drive 100 miles, trade a kidney or meet a dark stranger in an even darker alley. This is nothing compared to what happens next.
You've obtained that final, mythical pen or composition notebook. You've lovingly packed each backpack with exactly what each supply list detailed. You've purchased enough Kleenex, band aids and hand sanitizer to open your own hospital in a 3rd world country. You sleep the sleep of one content that she has accomplished the impossible; properly equipping five children, 1st grade to high school with all they need for school. One short day later, your peace is shattered.
One by one, your children walk through the door from their first day of school with looks of consternation and suspiciously 'listish' looking pieces of paper clutched in their hands. It is the 'secret/surprise' school supplies list, the one that teachers save until AFTER you've already purchased $500 in supplies the teachers said they needed! This list details exactly how much money you wasted as item after item you lovingly pursued and purchased is chucked in a box because "the teacher wants us to have a different one, Mom. I have to have it by tomorrow, Mom. Or else."
I swear, it's a conspiracy!
The secret school supplies list can ONLY be released after you've spent every penny you have on the things the school and teacher originally said they needed. The secret school supplies list MUST be purchased no later than the 2nd day of school or your innocent children will be locked in a dungeon and flogged with last year's moldy textbooks. The secret school supplies list contains items even MORE expensive and exotic than the published school supplies list. You and every other parent in your district wander, dazed, confused and downtrodden down the same aisles and byways you thought not to see for another year. You sell a kidney to obtain the graphing calculator, mortgage your home for those particular markers. Bloodied and bruised, you return home with the items which are taken off to school without a further comment. At last though, it's done. No more notes come home demanding obscure and outrageously expensive items never before necessary in any school setting.
You're done hunting, done spending...
Until Homecoming.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Big Show...and now?
July 22nd!! Can I say my rebirth day? I think I can, in some ways. I actually slept the night before the surgery. We stayed up until 11 to get me one last protein drink and 32oz of water since my surgery wasn't scheduled until 3:15. They wanted me at the hospital by 1:15.
- 11:00AM the nurse and asked if we could head in sooner; Dr Chae was ahead of schedule! I was ready to go right that second but she told us to leave at 11:30. Would have worked out great if I hadn't forgotten my photo ID and insurance only to remember it about 10 minutes away from the house. Survived Homer-on-Bart style strangling from Cowboy as we turned around to get it. Amanda accompanied us; she and Cowboy would go to Family Night while I was in surgery.
- 12:00PM check in to the hospital, weigh in; liquid diet has sucked 5 pounds off my in three days. Heck with surgery, maybe I'll just.....nah..never mind.
- 12:20 inform surgical prep nurse that I am a 'very difficult stick,' she scoffs, as do they all.
- 12:35 surgical prep nurse apologizes to me and admits that yes, I am actually a very difficult stick. I have three pokes for one IV line. Not so bad; my all time record was 14 for 2 lines.
- 1:00PM Cowboy and Amanda come to sit with me a few minutes; Dr Chae stops by and is very efficient confident and business like. He promises to call Cowboy personally as soon as I'm out of surgery. Anethesiologist stops by, same drill.
- 1:30PM I'm wheeled into the operating room where the technicians, anesthesiologist and I begin discussing Masterpiece theater...
- 4:30PM Dr Chae phones Cowboy to say I am in the recovery room and doing just fine. I'm fading in and out but recal the recovery room nurses being gentle and kind, especially when the press that blessed PCA unit into my hand to administer the blessed blessed morphine.
- 6:00PM Cowboy and Amanda come to my room to give me love and congratulate me but I'm still in and out and feel like I'm smothering; they turn up my oxgen. I think my sister in law tries to call but I can't talk to anyone; the nurse takes the phone off the hook.
I spent four days in the hospital, learning to manage my pain, trying to clear my lungs with that stupid repirizer. The staff were wonderful and attentive; just tough enough to keep me from being lazy but kind enough to let me rest when I needed.
Accomplishments:
- Standing up and walking just a bit the same night as the surgery
- Touring around the nurses' desk everyday,
- Taking a shower, going to the bathroom without help and not throwing up once.
Sugar Free Jello tasted disgustingly sweet; I live on 2 tablespoons of broth 3 times a day but I wasn't hungry so it wasn't hard.
Cowboy brought me home from the hospital July 26th, driving as if I was made of spun glass (good because every bump kills me). He was up four times with me that night; I don't think he slept at all the first three days I was home.
I came home on oxygen because my resting pulse ox was barely acceptable and the minute I got up to move it plunged into "so not acceptable' numbers. I have a big machine that generates oxygen out of the atmosphere for home time and a portable machine with a back up tank for when I leave the house.
Amanda took on the role of dietician, nurse, CNA, hair washer and baby sitter. She now makes a mean protein shake and can figure up the calories and protein consumption for one day in less than 10 minutes. All the kids pitch in to help where they can; as the oldest, she's been absolutely priceless.
- I make short journeys to the corner or down the street and back twice a day.
- I have an external drain removed one week post op, the doc thinks I've lost at least three pounds since the surgery, tells me to take it easy but I don't have use oxygen when I'm just sitting now.
- I think I'm losing between one half and 2 pounds per day right now. I know this sounds dangerous but after the procedure I've just had; it's normal. I take between 200 and 400 calories only on any given day.
My body is not hungry. Everything is swollen and the nerve endings in the new pouch are damaged; I can't feel hunger. However, I can think hunger. At first, thoughts of cheeseburgers, chicken or french fries just flit through my conciousness like weird dreams. The second I concentrate on them, my stomach burbles and I realize what a bad idea they would be. These thoughts are more frequent now, though, and a bit harder to deal with. I ran errands with Cowboy today (yay, out of the house for 2 hours, no breaks, in and out of the car and walking around) but had to flat refuse to go inside the pizza place to wait for his calzone with him. The idea was torture.
I would not say I am in mourning; I know I will have these things again, in small amounts. I would say though, that three weeks on liquids has gotten a bit old and the old noggin would really like some solid food to gnaw on. Good thing I only have a week to go before I go to soft foods; I'm planning chicken stew for the first night. Mmmmmm!
The Pre-Show and Red Carpet
I told you I'd try to come back but didn't make any promises. But am I glad I didn't; as you can see, never made it back. Here's what's gone down since we talked:
- The week of July 13-19 contained three post op appointments and various sticks, pricks, prods and pokes. No issues though; I was cleared for surgery.
- July 19 started on a clear liquid diet. Clear liquids means Sugar Free Jello, Crystal Light, SF Popsicles as much broth as you can drink (ask Dave Barry about broth and it's many attributes) and clear protein drinks or shots. Yep. That's it.
- July 19th also happened to be the day of the company 'picnic' at the zoo. I put picnic in quotation marks because the company did not provide any actual FOOD for the occasion so I don't think it counts as a real picnic. No food at the zoo was OK in one aspect; no temptation. Bad in another; disappointed (and whiney) fam. Me? I'd prepared; I had two Isopure clear protein drinks and one protein 'bullet' (27grams of protein in 3.1oz of cough syrupy liquid). We arrived at 10:30AM. By 1:00PM the fam started eyeing my vittles. Figured it was time to go.
- July 20th Cowboy and I drove to Wheatland to retrieve my oldest child; it's an all day trip basically. I prepared my little cooler of acceptable goodies. I'll say this: the clear protein drinks taste a little weird but they are very filling. If you are honest with yourself and can get past the 'head hunger' they'll keep you satisfied. They won't keep you from the urge to strangle your husband and oldest child as they chow down on Wendy's double cheeseburgers and large fries while the smell nearly kills you. Ok, I know they had to eat but it would have been great if they could have chosen that day to eat, oh, I don't know, fried scorpion or something.
- July 21st was my last full day of work and I'm glad I went. I let the team know I wasn't shirking and my team in return, gave me tons of love and support. Clear liquids beginning to wear but then by midnight, I can't have ANYTHING so clear liquids should seem like a feast, huh? Yep.
- July 22nd.... the day, I wonder if I'll even be able to sleep.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
I Have a Date...Wait, What?!?!?
see more dog pictures
I had what was to be the first pre-surgery meeting with my Weight Management Specialist this week, post class. I was feeling less than successful too; Bill had a bad 'head' weekend last week, which resulted in being stuck in the house with a man with mixed mania/depressive episodes (think.... trampoline without any fun...boing..boing...boing). We were broke, so I wasn't able to stock up on 'OK for me' snacks for this time. The result was a lot of snacking and a couple pounds sneaking back. I hadn't quite finished flogging myself by the time I got to the group meeting.
We were expecting only our WMS to be present for the weigh in and check up on our progress. This meeting is a crucial step in the process to getting a date. We had to have 2 days' menu prepared for each of the three stages after surgery. We also had to have a good plan for fighting dehydration; the number one biggest cause of hospitalization and complication after surgery.
Mike, our WMS was there but Shannon, the program coordinator, was present as well. They told us they were splitting up the class because it was so large. Half of us went with Shannon, half stayed with Mike.
It turns out that I was in a group who had been determined as ready for surgery NOW and, against normal procedure, Shannon was ready to schedule us that day. She had cancellations and needed to fill them asap. I am so grateful to the other people in my group; they very graciously let me have the date I have.
Just so you're all aware, there's a higher power, there's a magic at work here. Repeatedly in my meditations, as I thought about, intended for my surgery to happen on the best possible day... one date appeared in my head. Hovering in my thoughts of the 'best possible' as far back as May; this date... is THE DATE she just so happened to have available.
July 22nd. *waits for it... first you'll say GREAT....then a couple seconds later you'll get a look on your face and say 'wait, what?!?!?! That soon?' I know this because that's what EVERYBODY who hears it does. Everybody except Bill but he doesn't count because he's insane anyway.
Yes, that soon. The Tuesday after next. I have 18 gozillian things to get done between now and then.
I feel pretty good about where I am in preparation where work is concerned: my FMLA and short term disability paperwork is done, my leave time is arranged and I have begun preparing my team to take over for me while I'm gone.
Home is another matter all together.
I woke up at 5:30AM today with the realization of just how much food is in this house that I'll have to get the kids to eat or something. It's stuff I buy for me now that I won't be able to eat for a few months (fresh fruit, fresh veggies, some low fat cheese etc). They'll be thrilled; they're always trying to sneak away with it anyway, which is maddening since most of the time they have something way better (and bad for you) available instead. I go on clear liquids for surgery prep next Saturday and won't get back to even 'mushy' foods for at least a month.
I wanted to bring someone in to do a top-to-bottom house-cleaning but now I think I won't be able to afford (or schedule) it beforehand. Guess we'll all be scrubbadubbing up until the date. Amanda is visiting her father in Gillette (and having a great time, I hear) but she'll need to be retrieved before the date. The original pick up date had to be rescheduled because now my pre-op appointment is on that day.
I need to pick up a bunch of tiny dishes and tupperware type items. The best way to make sure you don't overeat is to serve yourself the right size portions in the right size containers. Besides, it saves a LOT of wasted food when all you eat is a half (or less sometimes). We were waiting until we had a date to get them. Now we have the date but not the time we expected to prepare.
Finally, I have tried not to treat this time as a Feast of Defiance; eating everything I know I won't be able to have for a long time. I will someday be able to have those things again, in very very small doses, but I will have them. On the other hand, I have planned a treat or two into every week including a lot of these things. With the date so close, though... Well.. you tell me:
Do you think I can get Pizza, Wings, Cheesecake, Ice Cream, Death by Chocolate, Fried Rice, Sesame Chicken, Bagels with lox (and a TON of cream cheese), Cheese Fondue, Chimichanga and Corndogs into one week and still meet my 30 Weight Watchers points per day goal? Yeah. I didn't think so either. Oh well. I did plan a donut into Friday, and it was great!
It's SO SOON!! I'd stay to chat but, like I said, 18 gozillian things to do. I gotta go. BTW, I just found a new purpose for my photoblog. D'uh, what'dyou think?
I'll try to get time to blog before The Date but can't make promises. Wish me luck, please!
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