Dirt Therapy

OK so here's the story people. When I started this blog, my intention was to make it solely about my weight loss journey. Little did I know then that the Gods don't differentiate when it comes to journeys. "Hey....shes goin' on a journey, might as well be a heroes journey......why fuck around". Ask me if I had even the slightest clue that deciding to get healthy and change my habits would generate a chain reaction shit storm of events that would, for the most part, be a completely suck-tastic experience.......and I will tell you in no uncertain terms, and you may quote me,....."nuh uh"

Not a clue

After much discussion and several panic attacks, my journey has lead me down the path marked "Chapter 7 bankruptcy" Well..........isn't that nice. This is not someplace I'd ever thought I'd find myself. So what does this mean anyway? My first thought was that I seriously needed to get to work on the large scarlet "F" for "failure", to be worn forever across my ever sagging chest area. It needs to be in place for my trip to the island of shame. I cried a lot. Then I discovered the wonders of Dirt therapy.

There is very little in my life right now that has been as satisfying as being in my tiny back yard with the cold wind blowing my newly straightened hair in to the latest Medusa-do, with a little shovel, digging up the dandies from the damp, after the rain, dirt. They made a satisfying little "pop" as they released, and as they did, little pieces of clues began to drop in on my cluelessness.

OK...so the first clue was that I was kneeling in dog poop.....but after that came the realization that my sense of self worth and esteem is simply not allowed to come from my job. I love my job for the most part, but I can no longer allow my life to suck if I've had a crap-tacular day at work. The vet clinic is their dream, and they've made it happen. I cannot hitch my wagon to that dream and expect it to fulfill my own. That's some deep shit........and I think these pants seriously need to go in the trash now.

So what is my dream? I've only ever had one.......ever since I was old enough to brave the terrifying journey down to my grandfather's studio. All I have ever wanted to be is an artist. In and amongst all of this panic and failure and running in small circles with my arms flailing that is the result of being flung rather unceremoniously from my comfort zone, I've been getting portrait work.

OK.......message received......I'm supposed to goddamned paint.......I get it.......but was the dog poop thing really necessary?

The Gods are not without a sense of humor in this, my ridiculous life.

A tiny little almost insignificant weight gain

This week found me brave enough to hop on the scale and assess the damage caused by a slight stress-induced eating binge. You'll be happy to know that I refrained from buying a bag of funyuns. I remain terrified to pop a bag because I can easily picture myself lying in a doorway covered in powdery semi onion type flavored synthetic residue. Terribly sad but true. The damage is 5 pounds. I find at times like these that it is in my best interest to look at it as 5 pounds and NOT 20 sticks of butter. Remember....pounds if they come on......sticks of butter when they come off.

Since I have been unwilling to fall back on any of my old addictions, I've taken to just saying them out loud as if somehow by osmosis, I will become satisfied. "Vanilla ice cream slathered with chunky peanut butter" "fabulously crispy potato chips" "double cheeseburger with onion rings if you please" Amazingly enough it seems to help, although I think my co workers may be planning an intervention of some kind. HEY!!.....I'm just sayin'......... I'm not doin'

My downfall seems to be low fat string cheese and low fat chocolate parfait. (Mmmmmmm.....parfait) The slight problem here is that there is a rather unpleasant side effect to the whole cheese issue that was never a problem with Funyuns. I'm talking about a slight irregularity. Can I just tell you that the world can only rotate smoothly on it's axis if I am able to have a productive trip to the ladies. I'm trying to be delicate here people so shut the fuck up.

The good news is that I have discovered the trick to remedying this particular little "bind". Hilary provided me with the key when she refused to stop in to the book store because "whenever I go in to Border's, I have to poop" Hilary continued contemplating the connection between books and bowel movements and the possibility of airborne laxative sprays while my mind was abuzz with questions. Put to various friends and family members, I have found that there is indeed a palpable intestinal response to being surrounded by books and chai tea lattes.

So there you go ladies. All it takes is a trip to Border's and you'll be regular as clockwork. As for me. I'm off string cheese and am most likely to be found between now and Hilary's wedding, mumbling a steady stream of high fat food items. I've got 5 freakin' pounds to get back off.

I don't have to potty but my stack of books to be read is growing alarmingly high.

Mother of the Bride

So this past weekend, I accompanied Hilary to a bridal expo at the resort where her wedding is to be held. We looked at the room and had a little tasting of the food offerings. We got a feel for the venue and how things would most likely come about. Hilary was stressing. She worried about the "ugly" chairs and whether or not they should be covered for an extra $3.00 a piece. She found the food not up to her standard, and her forehead ( a tell tale beacon telegraphing her state of mind) remained fretfully puckered. She was overwhelmed.

It is at times like these that I feel most like apologizing for being her mother. I am a hopeless procrastinator with no sense of personal style and an even more pathetic sense of decor. I don't know what goes with what and I honestly couldn't possibly care any less. It's a chair....and as long as you can sit on it.......well........where exactly is the problem? What I'm trying to say here is that I'm no fucking help at all. If it were to be left to me, she'd be married in a lovely backyard and we'd have a nice barbecue and cook up some ribs and wings....pop a couple bottles of wine and swap embarrassing Hilary stories.

This is not the way with Mother of the brides on this planet. I know because I saw them at the expo. They were wearing designer separates, capri pants and sparkly tops, and matching shoes. They were walking around measuring doorways and windows and feverishly writing said measurements down in large 3 ring binders that held the blueprints to their daughter's wedding. No such overwhelmed look in their eyes, these women had every tiny detail under control like it was the job they were born to do. I felt like walking up to one of these ladies and asking what color underwear the waiters would be wearing on the big day. I'm sure any one of them could flip to the waiter/underwear/protocol section of their binder and tell me in no uncertain terms.

I could only stand and watch in awe and wonder if my daughter wishes she had a mother like that. One that could help her tackle that pesky waiter under garment problem. Instead she has a mother who caught her purse strap on a display easel and scrambled to catch and re set all the airborne parts. The room seemed to turn all attention to the woman who was wearing jeans and crocs and a name tag that said "mother of the Bride" as she did her best Lucy Ricardo with the display easel.

My future son-in-law broke the tension by announcing that everyone should stand back because "Nancy's wreckin' the joint"

.....and my daughter loves me anyway.

I'm really good with that.

Climbing Mount Altamont

So Hilary says that I need to re focus on my weight loss.... blog-wise. "That's what people really want to know about" I'm not really sure about that. I mean the reality is that I'm menopausal and hold water really effectively and have sweaty hot flashes and can loose and re-gain the same 6 pounds during the course of my cycle which may arrive anytime between now and Christmas. Does anyone really want to know that? Sometime in the last 3 months, my body has sagged to all new and un-holy depths. The good news is that my toenails are still growing "out". My best friend Vicki says that it's a little known fact that as you age, your toenails stop growing "out" and start growing "up".

What was I saying?

Hilary and I decided to walk the dogs yesterday. I arrived at her house to pick her up for our drive to the park. She suggested that we walk. I agreed, looking down at the main road, calculating in my "not what it used to be" brain, the distance required to make it to the park on foot. Hilary decided to pick a route most likely to kill me quickly and silently. She suggested Altamont. A name that will live in infamy. My mother used to sled fearlessly down that hill as a child, building speeds hardly thought possible with wood and rail. Knowing that Hilary was determined to push me to my limits, I began the preliminary ascent.

Reaching the ass end of Altamont from Hilary's house required a steep incline roughly equivalent to Everest's final step where the danger lies in scraping your forehead on the pavement as you make the vertical climb. I had brief moments in between attempting to breathe where I was able to contemplate the irony of struggling to reach the cemetery which happens to reside at the apex of Altamont. I made it to the top and had a quick little dance of joy in front of the gravestone of Rosa Belle Lidie. I made it!!!!I cheated slightly by letting Nickolai pull on the lead but I was taking any help I could get.

Hilary and I stood at the top looking down at the shady road bursting with spring blossoms and cool breezes and began our descent to the alley which led to the park. Now I could enjoy the rest of the walk.......my battle had been fought and won. "I'm really proud of you Mama" Hilary said as my lungs returned to normal capacity, "climbing back up will be the hard part" I turned to her and said that Hell would simply have to freeze over before I'd climb this fucker again.

We reached the park where upon we took two laps around with Hilary refusing any and all short cuts along the way. Nickolai dragged Hilary along as he chased after what can only be described as squirrel-a-palooza. Hilary dislocated a shoulder and Nickolai vomited and we headed home.........back up freakin' Altamont. I climbed and I huffed and I puffed and trudged up the beautiful lane from Hell until I again reached the grave site of Rosa Belle Lidie. I paused to catch my breath. No dance of joy this time. Too tired.

I looked down the steep ass end of Altamont that leads back to Hilary's house and wondered how I'd get down without busting my hopelessly clumsy ass. Scraping the back of my head on descent seemed not as worrisome a thought as tumbling head first down that hill as Nickolai joyfully bounded in front of my broken body dragging limply at the other end of the leash. I took it slow and prayed for traction. We made it home intact, and I did something I never would have without Hilary's encouragement. It felt really good, I have to admit.

So even though I can never remember where the car is parked or what entrance we came in at JC Penney's, and I have a tendency to yell in to cell phones, "Mom!!......just because you can't see them doesn't mean they can't hear you!!!!!", and if an extracted tooth is missing at the vet clinic it's most likely stuck to the underside of my forearm where it will ride undiscovered until finally disembarking in the patients record where I paused to record a dosage..........I'm still capable of reaching new heights......namely Altamont, without busting my ass.