Archive for the ‘Fat Camp’ Category

Letters to Mahself

Dear Lazy McSlotherson:

You can too find time to exercise. You get home at 4:30 every day and are done supper by 6:30. That leaves 3-4 hours free to get your butt walking up that hill, shaking your hiney to your favourite tunes on your FakePod (except for those damned High School Musical songs that the kids put on there months ago and you haven’t removed….and AAAK! Chicago is still there too. It’s hard for me to say I’m sorry). You really DON’T need to spend every evening watching reruns of The Office on the DVR. Michael’s cooked foot will be there forever and you already know which bear is the best bear.

Exercise! Your fat ass will thank you for it.

Love,
Naggy McNaggerson

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Dear Scaredy McFraiderson:

Quit thinking negatively about your upcoming schooling. Don’t you see that questioning your willpower and work ethic is only going to end in failure? So it’s going to take 5-7 years of hard work to get this done. Don’t you see that the lost sleep and lack of personal time is going to pay off big time?

Think of the fantastic career you’re going to have. A career that you chose! You’ll only be in your early forties when you’re done. Imagine, you’ll have all those years to work your way up. To challenge yourself. And don’t say this outloud to anyone, but think of the MONEY! Maybe you could buy a pair of designer shoes (that you’d have to hide the real cost from Cheap Bastard your loving husband, but you’ll be an accountant. You can massage the numbers). Maybe your kids won’t have to worry about university. Maybe you can retire at 55!

You CAN find the time to study. You WILL succeed. Designer shoes!

Love,
Peppy McRahRahson

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Dear Bloggy McBlogerson:

Step away from the keyboard and get yee ass to the bathroom. You have to pee.

Love,
Bladdery McFullerson

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You Decide

Am I PMS’ing or simply sinking deeper into mental illness?

I stopped at the drugstore after work to buy shampoo and ended up with two packages of “fun sized” chocolate bars in my basket.  To avoid snarky comments from Richard and also so I wouldn’t have to share with him, I put the chocolate bars in my black re-usable lunch bag and left the shampoo in the plastic bag with the 100 Calorie Pack Cheetos.  The Cheetos say, “see, I’m sticking to my diet plan!”  I snuck the chocolate into the house and the bag is currently hung in the….get this….the cleaning supplies closet.

Richard is leaving to do a couple hour’s worth of errands soon and I can hardly wait for him to get his ass out the door.  I want my chocolate!  Also, I’m a little afraid for his life if he sticks around me tonight.  I’m cranky and there are knives in the house.  Oy!

The kids are at MIL’s house for the week (thank you, thank you MIL!  You couldn’t have picked a better week) and I am tucking in to watch the second half of Season 3 of the Office.  Just me and mah chocolate.

Do you hide food?  Why?  Leave me a comment and I will eat a mini Mars or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in your honour.

Day 30 – Post #2

12:59 p.m. 

Someone here at work commented today on the rather large pants I’m wearing.  They are pretty big.  I can pull the pantlegs away from my thighs a good 5-6 inches.  Trouble is, I’m not sure if they’re too big because I’ve lost weight or if I’ve been wearing this same pair since the early ninties, when they were highly stylish.

…can’t touch this.

6+4+7+3=@#$%&*!!!

Hello.

It is Thursday.

Today I ate chicken noodle soup for lunch. And multi-grain rice crackers.

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Sheeeeiiittttt! It is only day two of NaBloPoMo and already I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. How am I gonna produce a post a day? I’m just not that inspired. My life = boring. What to write about. What to write about.

HOW ABOUT MY WEIGHT LOSS?

Or, being honest here, my un-weight loss. I just really, REALLY, depressed myself by counting the weeks I’ve been attending Weight Watchers. Tonight is week 38. And I haven’t even broken the 20 pound mark yet. I have been thisclose some weeks. And this

close other weeks. It is frustrating me to the point that 20 is now my least favourite number. 20, I hate you more than 13. I hate you more than 85 (number of pounds I need to lose). I hate you more than 30 (number of days I have to blog in a row…and could I please whine about this fact more?).

Two weeks ago, I was a mere 0.2lbs away from my 20. So last week I tried to do everything right. I ate well, I counted my points, I journalled, I worked out…and I gained another pound. I actually cried all the way home. I blubbered and sniffled all the way through the drive-thru, where I purchased enough fast-food to double myself in size. I cried along with Spandeau Ballet (so truuuue, funny how it seems, I’ll always be fat, I’ll never live the skinny dream…) on the radio, until I pulled into my driveway and weeped all the way to the front door. Where I was met with two shining faces, waiting eagerly as they always do, to enquire, “how much did you lose this week Mom?”

ugh

Some say it’s easier to lose weight if you do it with a friend or relative, but I’m beginning to think they didn’t mean me, the Green-Eyed-Jealous-Bitchy-Monster. I joined WW with my Mom and Sister-in-Law. In fact, I practically had to drag my Mom to her first meeting. She insisted she couldn’t stick to a “another” diet regimen, she’d been on enough diets in her life to know they didn’t work and she just didn’t have the energy to try. Guess what? Out of the three of us, she’s lost the most weight. She’s done the regular exercise, she’s kept up her food journal, she’s gone without treats. She’ll probably hit the 45 mark tonight. For the first time in my 34 years, she has a waist! And my SIL, Debbie, she’s lost over 40 pounds herself. She looks fabulous and just recently put on a pair of jeans two sizes smaller that she hasn’t worn in five years.

And me? All I can think of is how I hate being so behind them. They’re both over the 40 mark and I can’t even break the 20. I’m feeling like a loser. Not a weight loser, a regular joe-blow loser. The next 65 pounds just seem so daunting. I mean, if I can’t even lose 20lbs how the hell do I expect to ever reach 30 or 40 or 80?

Right now I’m of the mind that if I ever actually get over the 20 pound hump I don’t want any acknowledgement for it. The WW leader usually gives you a gold star for every five pounds you lose and then makes a big deal about it by announcing it in the meeting. I’m going to request that she doesn’t do that. It needs to be skipped. Because when she asks me that question, “so how is the program working for you?” a lot of bad swears will flow out of my mouth, accompanied by black smoke and flying insects. Also a fullscale WWF-like wrestling match could ensue, complete with some bashing of those uncomfortable hotel meeting room folding chairs over people’s heads. There may even be mention of where she can actually stick that gold star…

…like right up 20’s ass!

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Just goin’ through a stage

I was listening to the news this morning in the car (I listen to JACK…send me my thousand bucks) and the DJ’s banter led into this issue:

Schools ban tag, soccer, touch football, DODGE BALL

I guess this is rather old news, since a Google search led me to articles from as far back as 2002. This one is from June of this year. So after my typical *eyeroll* “they ban everything these days” *eyeroll* “stupid PC crowd/include everybody/no child left behind/no child should kick a ball” *eyeroll*…after all that I got to thinking about…

JUST HOW MUCH I SORELY HATED DODGE BALL AS A CHILD ! ! !

(and also 100 more exclamation points for emphasis)

I hated that stupid, ridiculous game with the heat of a thousand suns. With the taste of a million brussel sprouts. With the sound of a billion scraping nails on a blackboard. Hated. Dodge. Ball.

I would always try to get out of a game any way possible. If I couldn’t feign illness or injury, I would literally jump in front of the first person I saw weilding the ball willing them to throw it at my body (please God not the head…please let them throw it below the waist! Why! Oh why? Why the head?) Sometimes, if my taunting and ridiculing and standing right in their immediate air space didn’t work and they threw it at someone else instead, I would fall to the floor anyways. “Oh! You got me! I! Am! Hit! Good one Giant Bobby! You are the King of Dodge Ball! Thee King!” And if I was really lucky I could fake a Dodge Ball injury sometime during the first game and not have to play anymore.

“Oh my eye! Lord have mercy, my good eye! Now I only have one left! What will my Mother say when she sees this? Surely my parents will sue! I am going to go and sit on the stage and rest my injury. Maybe I will be able to see straight by the time gym is over, then we can avoid all legal action.”

(Remember the stages they had in the school gyms? They were usually closed in by some type of sliding doors, but there was still that shelf sticking out into the gym that you could hoist yourself up on? Yeah, that was MY spot. My resting spot. Also, if your gym had a dividing curtain that came out of the wall, you could hide in the space behind the curtain. Dodge Ball avoidance was my specialty.)

If we’re being entirely truthful here though, I hated all things gym. Running, jumping, sit ups, gymnastics, running, volleyball, baseball, anything-ball, climbing, tag, running, square dancing, listening to the teacher, hanging from a rope, running…HATED.

If anyone had the most excuses for getting out of gym it was me. I don’t feel good, I have Malaria, my dog died and I’m sad, my leg hurts, I have a hangnail, my butt is stuck to this here stage, I love the stage, doctors have done studies and discovered that sitting on the stage is the best form of exercise and also MY EYE!

Then of course, by the time I got to Junior High School I discovered the words that could get me out of any-gym-class-at-any-time-no-matter-what-amen…

I’M GETTING MY PERIOD

Worked like a charm every single time. And if it was a male gym teacher all you had to do was breathe the thought of woman troubles their way and they practically clamped their hands over their ears and shouted, “LA, LA, LA, LA, LA I can’t hear you! You’re excused from gym for the next 10 years…

…go over there and sit on the stage!”

Things That Don’t Relate – A Play In Three Parts

Act I – Changing of the Guard:  I’ve been changing the template around here more than my underwear.   WordPress won’t let you mess with the html in the templates like Blogger does, so I have to deal with the standard template choices…of which there are ten.  Wooooo, ten choices.  My brain runneth over with the choosing.

First I went with the moon one, which I loved but the comments were at the top of the post…and who’s gonna scroll back to the top of the post to leave a comment?   

Secondly, I chose the grass theme which was simple, pure, botanical.  Perfect!  Just like me!  When people describe me they always think grassy.  Or, erhm…gassy.  Well, like grass I do need frequent haircuts and there’s lots of weeds in my life.  Grass was perfect, but the words were so itsy-bitsy that my readers were getting their prescription glasses updated at an alarming rate.  Even people with 20/20 vision were needing coke bottle lenses to read here.  And what was that all about with you guys sending me your optical bills?  Yes, I do have vision coverage…for MY family!

So I had to let the grass go.

Moving on to the pretty navy and red flowers.  Gorgeous!  But unlike myself, thin.  Like pressed against the left margin rail thin.  And the complaints flooded in. 

(One comment can so be a flood)

So I’m trying out this template.  I call it Mom-Goth.  It suits my mood lately, especially in reference to things happening with our housing situation.  I won’t detail it here, but two words:  NOT GOOD.  To match my template I changed my foundation colour to white and layed on the eyeliner extra thick.  I look badass.

Act II – What a Waist:  After dropping Andie off at Guides last night, Adam and I were having a race back to the car.  I lost.

Because my jeans fell down.

Thankfully I was wearing a long sweater and the jeans stopped at the top of my thighs, but it made further racing impossible because the crotch of my pants was restricting my knees. I don’t think anyone else noticed, but Adam was laughing his butt off. “You looked like a cartoon Mom!”

I’ve never been so happy to be laughed at. Cause he was totally talking about Jessica Rabbit right?

…soon I will fit into these and my look will be complete.

Act III – Gimme a Sign: