Thursday, April 30, 2009

In Bad Taste

We were watching the nonstop news coverage over lunch in the Franklin College cafeteria. It had been a pretty solemn morning; I remember walking across campus with my friend Kelley, the sun bright white on the concrete steps as they spilled out between Old Main and Shirk Hall, stunned that something like this happened in the 3 hours I napped after returning from work at 6 am.

I wrote an essay a year earlier for my freshman composition class, in which I pondered our culture's lack of awareness. My generation and the generations that bookended it really had no desire, energy, or reason to follow current events. We were wound up in our worlds of needing, wanting and having. Everything came so easy for us. I said we needed a wake-up call, a tragedy, a pinion that would make us form opinions.

And it happened. We got our Pearl Harbor, our Vietnam, our Berlin Wall. We got 9/11.

I got over the initial shock after seeing other people, after talking about it, after seeing a few hours of smoking towers and speculation on TV. It was during lunch when I began to see this from a broader perspective. It didn't just stop time, stop our breaths, and stop our perception of the world as we knew it; it started a circus.

Jump back to 4:00 that morning, when I was alone working at the coffee shop, baking pastries and brewing coffee in the few hours before opening. On the radio was a local morning talk show, and the hosts discussed how Reese Witherspoon signed on for a sequel to Legally Blonde, how the Bush twins were out of control socialite party girls, and how George W. Bush was a spit-bubble-blowing, helmet-wearing, monkey-faced retard in general.

By noon, George W. Bush was a Capital L Leader, a gracious, conscientious, iconic dignitary who would bring us through this crisis with aplomb. That's how fast the national opinion changed.

And that's when I knew this situation would turn into a jingoistic porno.

Within the week, factories were pumping out American flags in plastic, polyester, muslin, magnets, lapel pins. Screenprinters designed t-shirts with crying eagles, "In Memoriam" in front of two smoking towers, Osama bin Laden with a bullethole in his forehead. People forwarded emails showing Afghanistan's weather forecast (which was nuclear or "hot as hell" as signified by the mushroom cloud over a cartoon sunburst with a surprised face and melting sunglasses), or emails with crying eagle .gifs, or bin Laden being sodomized, or GW Bush walking along a beach, one set of footprints in the sand behind him...

September 11th was the biggest marketing boon for tchotchke companies the world over. And people ate. it. up. A national tragedy, the deaths of thousands of people - including hundreds of firemen - was turned into the biggest "at least I got the t-shirt" joke in recent history.

Before any of this happened, however, I was having lunch with my friends and watching the news. Scrolling underneath the constant national coverage was the local news...the Jimmy Buffet concert in Indianapolis would be cancelled. No news yet if they will schedule a raincheck performance in light of the circumstances.

That's when I wondered how 9/11 would impact our precious pop culture. So I said, "Guess they should make plans for the next season of Survivor. Survivor: World Trade Center."

Yep. I made my first 9/11 joke on 9/11. And we laughed. We laughed that it's-so-fattening-but-I'll-have-two-anyway laugh. My future boyfriend was at the next table, and he laughed. That's when we met.

I guess you can say that was in bad taste, but considering how the events in pop culture did unfold: people kept ragged American flags on their car windows without retiring them respectfully; people wore their "patriotic" WTC shirts while doing light yard work; the sudden rise of the president from buffoon to Son of God; the racial profiling of M. Night Shyamalan...I think I made the most tasteful joke, if only because it was intentional.

Post-9/11 "patriotism" became a parody of the tragedy itself. Popular opinion has a way of doing that - without any help from my snarky, tasteless comment.

And again, I said it because I saw it coming.


Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped at a time when a LOT of girls were being kidnapped - or at least that's what the hot topic was at the time. Magazines were publishing all these horror stories about the recent kidnappings, with stories from survivors on how they got through their ordeals. Kidnapping pretty white girls was the Caylee Anthony or Swine Flu of its day. I'd like to point out that girls/boys are kidnapped all the time; so maybe this wasn't a "rash" of kidnappings so much as a spotlight on missing jailbait during a slow news month.

The joke isn't that Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped, raped and tortured by a madman and his wife just a few blocks away from her home for a year. The joke isn't that she was so brainwashed that she walked around her hometown in a veil without saying a word. The joke isn't the miracle that she was found and is back home with her family.

THE JOKE is that the media blitz surrounding this case was just as sick and voyeuristic as her ordeal. Am I wrong?

What happened to her was unconscionable. What's worse is that every ABCNNBCBS network morning show had to get the exclusive interview. As soon as she was home, they had to bring her back in the spotlight to describe the horror of her experience. But because she wouldn't talk about it, they did the next best thing: describe it right in front of her. Describe the findings of the police, show pictures of the "campsite" where she remained a sex slave. She sat with her parents as the reporters painted a shitty, Bob-Ross portrait from secondhand details and assumptions. That's the real tragedy - to see your singularly tragic story thru someone else's sadistic telescope, and in front of your Mormon parents who didn't want this for you. And the parents could only say, "We love hearing her harp music fill our home again."

"And we're just gonna paint a happylittlehouse right over here..."

MOREOVER, the public wanted to know more. In a way, when we read an article with her name in it, we were all hoping to share her experience. Our Special-Victims-United, Forensic Filin' public wanted to know more true crime details. How dare she choose to remain quiet about it?

And my comment was in bad taste?

You, anonymous commenter, certainly devoured a lot of details about her case. You subscribed to the manufactured, manicured, Katie-Couricked and Matt Lauered production of the very real drama of her experience. And you're on a high horse about my tasteless joke?

We two are very similar; it just seems our bad taste is manifested in different ways.

The main point is, my joke comes from the perspective of that not-so-rare breed of stupid, overdramatic emo girls who would kill to have that kind of press coverage. Who wants so much to have her lame existence sensationalized that she doesn't care what she has to go through, just as long as people see her as a hero, feel sorry for her, talk about her, talk to her. And you know those girls are out there.

That's the joke. Get it?

The girl who wants to kill herself just to get a two-page photo spread in the yearbook like that pretty, popular girl 2 grades ahead who shocked everyone by hanging herself in her basement last year. It would be even better if her class built a memorial rock garden for her, too.

The homely classmate who was on the same class trip to Aruba when Natalee Holloway was kidnapped. Only while pretty Miss Holloway was partying at a bar, uglybritches was in her hotel room lancing the watery blisters off her feet while her roommate with the short grandma perm wrote postcards to her parents (whom she'd see before the cards even got there) and snacked on 100 calorie packs of Teddy Grahams. That homely, blistered classmate that smelled of stale sweat? She's thinking what's the use? Even if I did get kidnapped, possibly raped, and abandoned, nobody outside of my immediate family would make a big deal out of it. I wouldn't get a Lifetime movie. I probably wouldn't even get picked up by a Dutch party boy...just some Mexican from the kitchen staff. He'd probably just finger me, tell me I'm gross and then I'd cry, get lost and drown. I never get a break...

JonBenet's pageant rival's bookish sister? Who's older? Whose parents didn't have enough money to put her in pageants when she was a kid, but nowtheyhaveallthemoneyintheworldforBrittany'sstylist,hairandmakeup,andGlamourShots? If IIIIIIIIIII was molested and murdered in my basement on Christmas, that would show them.

Girls are fucked up like that. You know it. Or you wouldn't know it if you had enough self-esteem to never look at things from that perspective. If so, lucky you.

A final note on Elizabeth Smart: I don't feel so bad for her. Yes, what she went through was beyond words, but you have to admit the girl turned lemons into lemonade. She's got a book deal, People Magazine "checks in" with her and her family every year on the anniversary of her kidnapping, she's making cash as a public speaker and and advisor to the government on publications for survivors and tools for law enforcement. And I bet she's pretty happy to have more people at her lame harp concerts than just her parents.

Remember that essay I mentioned way back at the beginning of this epic post? The one about my generation needing to get knocked off its block? Allow me this: Elizabeth Smart was raised a Mormon, with utopian beliefs that her purity, good acts and utter obeisance to God will bring her prosperity and happiness. (I think that's a load of shit, but that's another post.) If this hadn't happened to her, what would her mind look like? Would she have knowledge of the world as cutthroat and challenging as it really is, or would she just easily float through the manufactured mist of an adjunct culture? Is that so bad? Or was this an experience that reinforced her Mormon beliefs - outsiders know not the true way of the Lord and that is why we don't let them into our church now let's find you a husband? Either way, she's turned lemons into lemonade.

And you know what? Maybe I - the writer, not the character - am a little jealous. At least she's got a good network of people that can get her a date.

Me? I'm damaged goods, too, only I didn't get any press coverage or book deals out of it.

Such is the fount of dark humor. The spring of my discontent.

So there's that,


Monday, April 27, 2009

Sister-Wife Bound

In spite of my "Don't Let Go" flash of faith on Friday, I resumed monching all weekend long.  Popcorn, Haribo gummi bears, Jelly Bellies, and Tostitos Nacho Cheese were mainstays on the menu. 
And there was that pound of Hawaiian grilled chicken over cabbage with side of macaroni salad from Aloha Grill.
And the lemon meringue cupcake (filled with lemon curd and topped with light meringue) from Molly's Cupcakes next door.
I figure I can let those 3 days be my shameless PMS binge days.  I've resumed normal consumption and excercise, and I'm happy to be back on schedule.
Perhaps it's serendipitous that I won't get to weigh in tomorrow.  I'm going to Salt Lake City for the night to make sure this surgical education reception I've been planning goes off sans hitch.  I leave tomorrow morning and return Wednesday night.  I have a few hours on Wednesday to take in some sights.
Who knows?  Maybe I'll become some Mormon's Sister-Wife.  Maybe I'll get kidnapped by some crazybeard a la Elizabeth Smart. 
But things like that don't happen to girls like me.  One can dream...
So there's that,

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Don't Let Go

I'm having a little crisis - I made a big plate of nachos last night.

Cheese Sauce
Black Beans

And I feel so guilty. Now's the time of the month when I'm super hungry, and to my credit, a binge like this in the past would have set me over the edge. I'd have made some microwave popcorn to dip in the remaining cheese sauce. Then to end all that salt on a sweet note, I'd have gone straight to some ben and jerry's. I'd look for their fro-yo first, but if they didn't have any, I'd go full out butter pecan or half baked.

I often get songs in my head based on the situation at hand. I've been talking to a guy for the last few days, and the song in my head was I Got My Mind Set on You. Yesterday because the weather was warm, I had Summer Lovin' from Grease. Last night during my binge, it was En Vogue:

What's it gonna be?
Cuz I can't pretend, NO!

then some relationship stuff about being more than friends

Have the right to lose control
Don't let go.

So yeah, En Vogue spoke to me last night. I have the right to lose control.

But don't let go.

So there's that,


Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Justin posted a great story on his blog today about some of our best shenanigans. I'm copying some of it here, J, because I haven't shared any decent fun stories in some whiles.

Trying to sell me peaches
Justin Thompson

...It takes me back to my summer job throughout college where somehow I was lucky enough to land a gig in a flags & silk florals company in Milford, Ohio.

There were interesting characters at that joint. My grrlllzz, Shanti & Yvonne. The predatory sex starved grandmother who, one day, was dressed in a tiger print dress and walked by and said, “Justin…I’m not wearing any panties…” and then growled and drug her feline-fingernail down my cheek. It was awful, yet wonderul in that it was such a hilarious moment to live through. She did walk back by with her coffee and said, “Just kidding!” and snapper the elastic of her underwear through her dress. Yep, total class. This is the same woman who I think got in trouble because they put a suction-cupped dildo on her monitor and the box around it, before “Dick in the Box” was ever a music sensation.

That was also the job where my boss’ last name was Bosse and she loved Evanescence and didn’t have kids, but was like a modern-day Carol Brady, but if she never had kids. So sassy and spunky. Loved her.

Then there were a slew of other folks that worked there of various social degrees and palatability. People with hunches, fake limbs, grody teeth, et al.

One of my favorite characters was a woman who was quite literally a bit crazy. Just really weird, quiet, kept to herself. Imagine if Carrie hadn’t died and went to work in a call center. Yep, that’s this woman. Stringy long grey hair, glasses, horrible clothing with lots of shoulder pads. I sat back to back with her in a quad with two other ladies. One of the other gals from another quad had a beta fish and this woman loved it. When the other gal, we’ll call her Fancy cause she was, went on vacation, everyone was looking after the beta fish - but it died. ‘Carrie’ cried at her desk when she learned the fish had died. It’s a fucking 83 cent fish from Wal-Mart, which is like their hospice. I mean, the tiny plastic hummus containers they live in there is God’s fishy waiting room. So it was no shock that the fish died.

Well, because she was so devastated, the manager of the call center bought her a beta to call her own. The next day, bitch rolled up to her desk with about 4 bags from PetSmart. Big ass tank with filter, gravel, plants, toys, etc. And the worst part of it was, I would hear her constantly tapping the glass in a whispery, obnoxious voice, “Here fishy! Here fishy!”
Those were moments where I wanted to scream. But instead, I got my revenge for all the foul people I had to work with. I resorted to some old-school trickery with my pal Laura: prank-calling.

At the time Laura worked for DONA, which is something about birthing babies and is usually ran by a bunch of lezzers (Laura, clarify if I’m wrong, ha ha), and she had down time so we would be chatting back and forth at work and I’d hear certain folks hang up and tell her to call in and it was the goal to make the call the most uncomfortable, unproductive, aggravating and silly phone call that these people would ever live through.

Laura would call in and usually go, “Hello so & so, how are you? Good. How’s the weather? Great. Well, here it’s just spitting out, not doing much of one thing or another…” and she would keep talking about the dumbest things. Making pointless conversations, like an old woman who hasn’t spoken to a soul in weeks, with that kind of desperation in hearing another human voice. That was how she went into these calls. Perfect.

Sometimes she’d call and in the middle of her normal, “Well, can I get some catalogues or something…you said ya’ll have flowers too? Huh…uh huh….oh, wait, TELL ‘EM LARGE MARGE SENT YA!” (this comes from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, clip available here).

Honestly, it was so damn funny because I would tell her to call and not know what she was saying but I would hear the people on my end trying to work their way out of the call or answering these silly questions she was asking them. One woman, a victim of the prank above, walked over and leaned over the half-way on my cube and said, with a grimace, “I just got the weirdest phone call. Some woman called in and was talking and then screamed in my ear [at this point she lifts the post-it note that she had transcribed the message onto, as if it weren't memorable enough to last the 2 feet from her desk to mine; and reads in pure dead-pan voice] ‘Tell them ‘Large Marge’ sent ya?’ I mean, what’s that about? She hurt my ear.”

I’ve never bitten my tongue so hard in my life or had to swallow guttural laughter than so needed to be released.

And I can’t even do the moose mating call noise justice by describing it here, but one person thought it was a coworker calling to ask if they wanted to pick them up something for lunch and had a wreck. That’s how amazing this noise is that Laura can make.

Laura actually got to prank ‘Carrie’ at one point and just talked her ear off about having the wrong number, about how her new cell phone was confusing her, how she was trying to reach her friend Beth about the slaw for the church picnic but needed to use melons so as to avoid flaring up George’s colon polyps. I mean, this was the craziest conversation ever. After about 7 minutes on the phone, which is an eternity in the call center, she got of the phone and a co-worker goes, “What was that all about?” and ‘Carrie’ responds, “I’m not sure, but I think she was trying to sell me peaches.”

I had to walk the fuck away from my desk and out to my car in the parking lot to scream. Literally, scream.

Oh, the tears of laughter I cried at that job were amazing. Fun, fun, fun.

At my last job, Laura got a couple of pranks in on our dumb as shit receptionist via Betty Shively.

Some days I get the urge to prank the call center here.

There’s just something so dumb about doing it that makes it the most enjoyable way to waste away 8 hours of your day in a concrete box.


To be fair, DONA wasn't all lezzers, but it's easy to blur the line.

If I had to spell the dying moose noise, it would be this:


Just say a word ending in -ing, hold your tongue against your palate at the end of the word, and produce a high pitched yawp. Easy as that.

Oh...the Lord God made them all...

So there's that,


Why So Serious?

I've been thinking about my last post for a few days now. It just sounds really awful to say, "Fuck 'em, let them screw up."

Who am I to judge? I'm such a hypocrite.

If you've read anything here, you know that I've gone down my share of unhealthy weight loss paths in the past. I'm not just talking about the stuff that Mom put me on, I'm talking November 2007 when I went on a "doctor" supervised liquid diet. Or later that year when I went to shady nutrition clinic. I knew better, but I was desperate. I reached a point where I would do ANYTHING to just slice off this weight. These were foolish ways to relieve my worst burden; if I'm so smart, why did I think it would be so easy?

I've been on the losing team before - the good kind - and I was high on myself then, too. I can't think that just because I'm doing well now I won't fall back to old habits in the future; that's already happened to me in the worst way. I need to remain vigilant about my own body and not pick on people who are trying to do the same thing.

But I still worry about friends who subscribe dangerous weight loss tactics. That's what that feeling is - worry. It's not anger, but frustration that I can't call their shots.

So yeah, I'm not really an a-hole. I'm trying to be more positive.


On that note, guess who lost another 3 lbs this week? This one, right here! I'm down a total of 28 libbers. That leaves only 3.4 lbs left in my May 5 challenge, and I'm almost at my first goal weight! Skidoo!

I'm getting a new Chuck Palahniuk book to celebrate. Any fans of his out there with any suggestions?

So there's that,


Thursday, April 16, 2009

I don't want to be THAT guy, but...

You know that skinny friend who has to preface an appetizer or dessert order with, "Let's be bad..."?
Or the guy who lost a bunch of weight on Atkins and palpitates at the mere thought of a carb?
Or the chick who thinks five potato chips are a splurge? 
I worry that I'm headed down that path.  A few weeks ago I wrote about having a panic attack over pasta back in 2003.  I don't think I'm at that point yet, but I caught myself doing and saying some things in the past week that are so that guy.
During a discussion about the nastiness of Red Bull, my dad said that he preferred another energy drink called FOS.  He went into his recycling bin to produce the visual aide - a crinkled 16 oz. can.  I checked out the nutrition label, and not surprisingly, the two-serving can packed a total of 280 calories.  So I says to him, I says, "There are 280 calories in this thing!  There's no nutritional value to this drink!"
Dad:  "So?  What?  Well, it gives you energy..."
Me:  "But you could eat four eggs for the same number of calories.  You could have a sandwich."
Dad:  "Yeah, but then I'd feel nasty...after four eggs."
Me:  "That's not the point.  You could have something in your stomach, that takes time to digest, that makes you feel fuller longer."
Dad:  "Well, it's just for energy...I don't need to be full..."
It then went on with me saying if you need an energy drink, just get a sugar free Red Bull and choke it back.  That's what I do before my improv shows.  I hate the taste too, but so what?  I'd rather eat my calories than drink them.
I felt like such an A-hole.  Who am I?  Fucking Susan Powter?  He's a growed man, he can make his own decisions.  And while it was a lighthearted conversation and I didn't really chastise him, he could have been embarrassed.  Who knows?  Who gives an ess what I think?
I just know I don't want to be that person.  I don't want to lecture people on what goes into their mouths because I've been lectured all my life.  Stay tuned for the Bad Advice series of posts.
Conversely, I don't want to judge people that I perceive are extreme dieters.  Not because I feel sorry for them, but just because...fuck 'em.  They'll make their mistakes and come around, or they'll just keep living in fear of every bite they take.  They're big kids.  Fuck 'em.  I can't waste my time or energy worrying about people who act like fools.  I don't want them pushing their fads on me, so I shan't push mine on them. 
So there's that,


Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Poetic Spam

I had to share this:
My spam filter blocked one of many emails that alluded to the improvement of male stamina.  I counted the syllables, and this one is actually a pretty decent haiku.
Your little friend will grow
Like mushrooms after the rain
Bigger and bigger
Okay, I just checked it again, and the first line has 6 syllables.  But if you read "little" as "li'l" it works.  It's kind of a porny way.
So there's that,

Stayin' Alive at Twenty Five!

I went home for four days this weekend, and I was a bit worried at how I'd get through the trip On Plan.  When I'm home, it feels like there's got to be some event everyday that focuses on food - whether it's going out to restaurants with friends, making dinner with family, and extended family holidays. 
Luckily, I didn't have to eat at any restaurants this weekend.  Dubois County is home to many a fine Mexican restaurant, and let me tell you, Los Bravos is my undoing.  
I did, however, attend 4 major family gatherings:  our 2nd annual Good Friday tapas party with the Meyers, my niece's 3rd birthday party on Saturday, Easter lunch with my immediate family, and Easter dinner with the Meyers.  I had plenty of opportunity to go buckwild all weekend, and I was pretty sure that I did.
I didn't count points, but I tried to listen to my satiety levels and stick to lean-ish foods where possible.  I stuck to salads and bruschetta (with multiple spreads) on Friday night, and made exception for a small reuben, tiramisu, some French onion soup, and...chocolate covered bacon and chocolate covered potato chips.  The last two items were my idea after seeing them repeatedly on Food Network.  Sometimes I think that channel is broadcast live from hell - especially when I see Giada's flesh-eating teeth.
Exhibit A
I made small pieces of the bacon and chips, and you know?  The combination isn't half bad.  You can't eat it everyday, but bacon and chocolate?  Is good to try once in your lifetime. 
Saturday was pretty decent.  I had some sugar free Peeps, and made a tuna/egg salad at my sister's house.  Then we made a chicken tortilla bake, and I had a good deal of birthday cake.
Since I was cooking lunch on Saturday, I got to control a lot of the ingredients.  I made mustard-parsley roasted potatoes (I'll post the recipe later), asparagus, Caesar salad, macerated strawberries, and Dad grilled salmon and steak.  I also snuck some Easter candy from my niece's basket.  Manda?  You're welcome.
That evening I was with the Meyer clan again and ate on some ham, turkey, and way too much dirt pudding.  It was worth it.  I ate light on Monday, and arrived back in Chicago last night, too late for dinner.
Why am I sharing my food diary with all y'all?  Because it shocks the hell out of me.
I lost 3.6 lbs this week for a total loss of 25 POUNDS!  Woooooooooo!  I did okay!  They gave me a little 25 lb token and everything.  It's hanging on the end of my paperclip string.
I haven't forgotten my goal to lose 10 lbs in the next 3 weeks.  I'mma put the smack down and demolish those remaining 6.4 pounds.  Mark my words!
Count on more frequent posting, too.  I'm coming out of my writing funk.
So there's that,

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

More Things

It's worth noting that while I haven't lost, I've had some non-scale victories in the past 2 weeks.  I can fit into yet another pair of my toddler-aged pants.  I'm wearing them right now!  Wew!  I can set aside the black pants and merge colors and textures back into my wardrobe.  In the words of Barefoot Contessa, how bad can that be?
I've also been busting my ass at the gym and on the streets.  I'm headed home for four days this weekend, and I'm a bit worried about getting in some decent activity.  I might just have to live without it and keep on guard with my points.
Also, I think I deserve major snaps for not going apeshit over this old rich lady who keeps bringing her dog to DubDub.  She brings. Her. White. Cocker. Spaniel.  To each meeting and lets it wander around.  NOT COOL.  I have half a mind to bring in a big boa constrictor (and dress up like Britney in the Slave4U video), and be like, "Oh this?  This my boa.  I need it around my neck to keep me warm."  And when it wanders I'll say, "Don't mind her...she can't go anywhere without her mommy." 
Then I'll feed her a juicy rat and remind her to count her Points.
So there's that,

Miss Me

Hey Everybody - sorry for the delay in posting.  I've had a wonky two weeks.  Nothing bad, but I just haven't been feeling like myself, haven't been feeling very driven.
I skipped weigh-in last week because I was due for my p-rod, and my toddler pants were still fitting.  I weighed in today, and I'm still the same as I was 3 weeks ago.  I'm not upset or bothered by it.  I mean, at least I'm not 22 lbs heavier!  If anything, I'm pissed at myself for slacking off - not counting every point, purchasing little treats that I thought I could handle, munching on said treats, then pouring water on remaining treats and throwing them away.
Seriously.  I used to be able to keep a box of chocolate tea biscuits or thin cookies or biscotti in the high cabinet and take two months to finish them.  I could keep baked chips, too, and not down the whole bag.  Now it's all changed and they're calling to me.  They want me to idly devour them while I wash dishes or clean the apartment.  They want to sit on my lap while I catch up on Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
Sidebar:  I never EVER thought I would like BTVS, and I made fun of all my friends who did.  Then my pal Lyzz enticed me with her complete collection of DVDs.  I didn't have to pay to see the show or clog up my Netflix queue, so why not?  Let me tell ya, it's an unexpected delight.  I don't take it seriously, but it's campy out the ass and I do get into the romances and relationships.  When I finish one season, I immediately crave the next.  These are my confessions.
So I'm banning all snackysmores from my apartment until such time as I can get my monching under control.  I don't need you, treats!
This time around, I vowed not to set time limits on my progress.  But I've decided that in order to bust through this plateau, I need to focus on losing ten pounds within the next month.  I need to cut the crap, not give myself any freebs, and go back to calculated splurges that get me out of the house and not into my cabinets.
I vow to you that I will reach this goal on or before my Tuesday, May 5 weigh in.  So let it be written.  So let it be done!
So there's that,
PS - Thank you guys for reading and leaving your email addresses.  If I haven't written you yet, I'm on it.  If you ever want to write me outside of the blog, here's my email: