Little Pleasures

After spending a very cozy weekend at home alone, I came up with some
little pleasures that I get out of this time of year:

• The Cold Mist from the Lake in the Morning. When I wake up on a weekend morning and it's foggy and dark outside, there's nothing more I like to do than snuggle up on the couch with some coffee and a good book. On weekdays like today, I get a lovely spritz on my way to the bus.
  
• Fresh-Brewed Coffee. I made several cups of it over the weekend, much to the detriment of my nerves. I bought Trader Joe's Wintry Blend - the melange of spices including nutmeg, clove and peppercorns can be a bit overpowering, but blended with Safari Blend, it's magnificent. Oh, and if you don't have a coffee press, you need one. It takes up less space on the counter, and it makes the coffee ritual much more enjoyable.
  
• The Mist from an Orange Skin as It's Peeled. If I could arrange the perfect Christmas card photo, it would be of me effortlessly peeling a bright orange laughing at someone off to the sides, while the orange mist is captured. It's the best smell & feeling.
  
• The Smell of Coffee and Oranges. This smell really reminds me of my dad on Christmas morning. He would open the windows in the dining room to cool down the house, brew some coffee, and pick through the leftover Christmas Eve buffet, which invariably included oranges. He would also make baby reuben sandwiches out of the leftover cocktail rye. Everyone would be asleep us, and together we would talk, watch the bird feeder and listen to the music we got for Christmas.
  
• The Smell of Exhaust on a Cold Winter Morning. This makes me think of Manda and I getting into Dad's truck in the morning dark to head over to Gram's before school. Manda and I would crawl back to sleep under Gram's electric blanket, and Dad would read the paper and drink coffee while Gram cooked breakfast and offered to put together egg sandwiches for his lunch, which he would always reluctantly accept.
  
• Cold Sheets on Cold Feet. I love warming up the sheets with my body heat, even if I'm cold. I used to run barefoot in snow before bedtime, just to get colder!
  
• Wet Winter Wool. There's something about the smell and appearance of snow melting on a wool coat that makes me feel all oozy. I think of the way my Mom's twill dress coat smelled after coming home at night from work or parties or weddings, when she used to go out. A mix of powdery perfume, hairspray, smoke and cold air mingled with her own original scent to make it one of the most comforting perfumes of my memory.
  
• Holiday Lights. I've already put my tree up because I can't wait to see them. I noticed this morning that the trees on Michigan Avenue are delicately lit, too. One of my favorite Chicago memory is coming here for Thanksgiving when I was a kid and going downtown to Bloomingdales. As we drove down Lake Shore and Michigan Ave, I felt so rich to be moving along next to an unrolling view of white lighted trees in the snow.

So there's that,

Laura

Top 5 Most Uncomfortable

In no particular order:

1. Making Bathroom Smalltalk. At work or play, I hate running into people I don't really know very well in the public restroom. There's always awkward shuffling around the sink and towel area, forced small talk about "how it's going" or "[mad/glad/ambivalent] it's [day of the week]." If I'm in the stall and I hear someone come in, I will wait until they do their business, wash and leave before I get out (that is, if I don't estimate that I can finish before them). If someone's in a stall when I enter, then I will hurry hurry hurry to bolt myself in before they come out. If I'm on my way to the restroom and I see that someone else is too, I will turn around or walk by and make like I have to go somewhere else. I hate that fucking smalltalk.
2. Making Elevator Smalltalk. Same reasons apply for this cramped space. I pray every day that I get on the elevator by myself. If I'm waiting for the elevator and somebody else walks up, I'll either take the stairs or pretend to have forgotten something at my desk. This often happens when I'm leaving work and end up walking to the elevator with a coworker in close pursuit. If I don't know the person that well, I'm outta there. I ain't ridin' down 25 floors trying to think of ways to discuss the awesomeness of the end of the day. And that's not to mention the possibility of picking up more people on the 24th-18th floors, before the elevator runs express.
3. Spending the Night at Your Friend's House and Witnessing Them Get Chewed Out by Their Parents. You don't know who's side to be on - your friend who knows you make your Barbies have rough sex, or your friend's mom/dad who believes you to be a saintly example of childhood innocence and perfection.
4. Holes in the Inside-Thigh of Your Pantyhose. If I step out in a skirt and hose for work, this little bitch of an annoyance always blights me by the day's end. I feel cute, slim and sexy in hose - my legs are deceptively smoothed and even-toned - I am a goddess in fresh hose. But when my thigh fat busts through the sausage casings by lunch time, I'm begging to take them off by 2 pm. The ripped nylon look might work for fetishists, but when it chokes the herniated fat bulging through, I'll have to wear Desitin all week to heal it. To leave work without them on would be like some awful walk of shame - my skirt wouldn't look right, my legs would be stubbled, and I'd have that general look of being violated between my legs. And a note to Just My Size: Make taller 4x hose. Not all fat people are short, and I'm pretty sure the reason they rip is because the crotch hits about 6 inches below my actual crevasse. Fuck you.
5. Being the Mama Spoon to Someone You Don't Care About. On a recent VeryBad date, this guy wanted to spoon, noting specifically in a baby voice, "But I wanna be the baby spoon!" Fuck you.

So there's that,

Laura

Nuts, Whip and a Cherry.

Every time I go out to lunch or dinner by myself, I always think people are going to judge me if I'm not eating a salad. I went to Corner Bakery yesterday and got some Chicken Carbonara - a rare treat - and as I huddled over my plate and my book, I kept waiting for someone to openly stare at me.

I'll stop here because I have to explain how I "wait for people" to do stuff. For example, if I leave my purse at the table to refill my drink 5 ft or more away, I keep my eye on it, while rehearsing this phrase in my mind - "Hey! Get your damn hands off that!" - just in case someone tries something. Or if I'm on the bus or in any kind of crowded situation, I'm ready to shout, "Get you're fucking hands off me," should anybody cross that line.

• I was once felt up by a boozy sweaty homeless man on the bus, and I didn't have the guts to say it; instead, I moved shamefully and shakily to the back of the bus until my stop. I looked like the crazy person! And unfortunately the other time I hesitated to use this phrase was last year when this cute rich guy offered me a ride home (just around the block) after he saw that I was struggling with packages on the street. When he went in for the boobs in mid-drive, I was too surprised to speak for a minute. And no one would have heard me.

Now I speak up and decline rides from strangers. And I mentally rehearse my vocal aggression - I haven't used it yet and thank God for that.

Anyway...when I was busy gorging on cream sauce, I kept one eye alert, just waiting for some physically fit douchebag or trim bitch to offer me an eye of disgust. If I happened to see one, I'd say something. "You got a problem?" "Can I help you?" "I'm sorry, am I eating your food?" To which they would respond by jerking their eyes away from me (like any normal person), or saying something like, "you're disgusting. I couldn't help noticing your choice of food, and I think it's the source of all your problems. Fat bitch." Or something along those lines. Then I would get vocal and argue with them, maybe tell the guy I'm not interested in attracting frat guy date rapists, or just cry because I started it. But that's me - I'll judge myself before giving others the satisfaction. And I'll call the others date rapists.

OR - I imagine that a physically fit man will pound his fists on my table, startling me and spilling my Diet Coke with lemon, and yell, "You're disgusting! What are you doing to yourself?! You're what's wrong with America! God, you freak, eat a salad." Then he spits on me or kicks the legs of my chair out from under me, or flips the hot pasta onto my lap.

I think of this every time I go out to eat, which is often. Much of my time is spent divided between comprehending the words in whatever book I'm reading, trying to look inconspicuous in the back of the place, and keeping my eye out for some jerk staring me down.

I don't really need the jerk to make me feel bad. That guy who I imagine pounding on the table is only doing what I do to myself with every bite. I'm disgusting. Why am I doing this to myself? I'm what's wrong with America. God, I'm a freak. I should eat a salad. Oh well, I can always chug laxatives.

Then afterward I duck into Baskin Robbins for a small strawberry sundae to eat at my desk because, fuck him.

So there's that,

Laura

American Girls

I got an email today from my cousin Michelle, who shares similar attitudes and experiences with me regarding weight. This is the response I sent her regarding how pressure from family can lead to direct defiance.

I know exactly what you're talking about. My big weight loss started with I lived in BFE Montana for 3 months and got a 60 lb leg up on the school year, then it was easy to lose 40 more. I didn't have to worry about others, just myself, and that helped a lot. Now, I just fall prey to all the good food available in Chicago. Growing up, eating out was always a treat and a rarity. Now it's not so rare for me to make it a treat on a daily basis. The same thing happened to me when I started driving. Mom never let sweets or sugar cereal in the house, let alone let me have a birthday cake for all of my teen years, so what did I do when I could get out on my own? I bought boxes of Cookie Crisp, Fruit Rollups and stowed some Werther's Originals in my car ashtray.

You know how the American Girl brand is really popular with little girls these days? There's a store near my office, and all these families walk in and out of it constantly; it's the place everyone wants to be when they travel to the city. When I was a kid, I used to read all the American Girl books. I sent away for a catalog when they started making the doll sets, and I would daydream about getting a Samantha or a Kirsten doll. I would lie across my bed and calculate just how much it would cost to get what I wanted from the magazine, and I hoped that I would have enough money for it. I would show Mom some of my dogeared pages, and she would say how pretty they were, and would relate with Samantha, the girl from the Victorian Era, because she admired that time period the most. I guess I wanted her to want the dolls, too, so that she would cave in and get them for me. But she always promised that if I lost weight, she would get me just what I wanted out of the catalog, within reason. I never did lose the weight when I was a kid, so I never got a doll. Now every time I look at that stuff, I think about that deal. Some days, I think that I'd probably still get one of those dolls just to finally have one - because I can afford it, not because I need it. But it would be undoubtedly difficult to explain to a gentleman caller why I have a Samantha doll on display in my apartment.

Same thing goes with clothes. She always promised that if I lost weight, she would take me on a $1000 shopping spree. This often manifested itself in my having to wear ragged clothes to school; though I was promised a shopping spree, I would still have to wait to get new clothes until I lost weight. She didn't want to invest in something that wouldn't fit me after my metamorphosis. My dread of PE class pretty much centered on having to hide the holes in the crotches & thighs of my jeans and leggings. Now what I don't spend on food I spend on clothes. Or as I say, when I'm not eating, I'm shopping. This year, I've gone to Lane Bryant once, if not twice or three times each month to get new clothes. I work in defiance of what I was always denied.

And I know about the doctor thing. I went to a doctor when I first moved here, who suggested I spend more time in the sun to enhance my mood. Good gravy. My new doctor is really cool. I cried every time I would visit him and talk about weight, and he only talks about it when I bring it up. He readily prescribed anti-depressants because I was clearly a basketcase in general. I used to not believe in them, but man, Michelle, I haven't cried since last December. And that includes during breakups, sappy TV and TLC miracle shows. I stopped biting my nails, too.

So there's that,

Laura

Hamsteak.

Am I crazy to think on day three that I can tell a difference? I feel like I fit better in my office chair and my stomach's not poking out as much. I looked in the bathroom mirror for awhile, and I think my face even looks slimmer.

Whatev. If it's just positive thinking, I'll take it!

Other things:

I'm afraid my breath is gonna stink from all this protein. Wasn't that one of the pitfalls of the Atkins diet?

This is gross, but my poop is already rock hard. I'm a girl who prides herself on a high-fiber BM, but since I'm not getting the fibe, I'm not getting the goods on the throne. I seriously thought I was going to tear a fissure during my ritual quittin-time-countdown poop sesh.

My farts smell like my grandma's farts. Yeah, elderly have distinct fart smells; it's almost always likened in my mind to filet-o-fish. Maybe they eat a lot of protein - definitely a lot of eggs. And no, I don't make a practice of smelling my grandma's farts, but old people can't really control their farting. They practically fall out. Anyway, I smell my dutch ovens and I think of Grandma Kavanaugh's bathroom.

She has a big white booster potty seat.

She also turns 90 this month - Happy Birthday Millie!

So there's that,

Laura

Day Three

Good Morning,

I checked my email early yesterday morning to find that my neighborhood Curves was going to be closed all day. Great. Just on the day that I wanted to start working out again.

I left the gym clothes at home, promising myself to get in some walking or other good cardio in place of my workout - a promise I intended to keep, for once.

My first day at work with the liquid diet was not without its challenges. First, I had to pack a double batch of hummus to submit to the office dip competition that applied to last month. That meant I had to go to Trader Joe's later in the morning to pick up pita chips and veggies. While I usually eat my hummus by the fistful, and spend money at Trader Joe's by the Hamiltons, I had to abstain. And I did.

But then the dip competition began. I had to set my dip up by 1:30 pm, and being in the presence of all the other creamy concoctions nearly brought me to my knees. Buffalo Chicken Dip. Baked Potato Dip. Asiago Dip. Chocolate Chip Dip. C'MON! Why did this have to come today? I promised my coworker Lyzz that I would try her hummus to "check out the competition," and I did, consuming only one teaspoon of dip on a small pita chip. No other dips got my blessing, and I left for "lunch."

Because I couldn't be in a place like our office cafeteria where the smells of reheated meals would send me into craving fits, I decided to take my book and my shake to a local hotel lobby to snuggle in a comfy chair and read for my allotted 45 minutes. My friend Justin commented that doing so makes it look like I'm having an illicit affair. I can handle that, the naughty mystique. And who knows, I might meet a swarthy businessman.

I went home and decided to rest for a couple of minutes in front of the tv. I started watching Food Network, my default channel, and Rachael Ray was making a Meximeal. I kept thinking, "yeah, I could go for black beans. Yeah, I could go for corn tortillas..." I was on dangerous grounds. After 5 minutes of this torture, I flipped on the Playstation for a rousing game of Dance Dance Revolution - purchased purely for its cardio workout. I played for an hour and a half, until my muscles started cramping. This was very good.

The doctor told me if I was ever famished (and I should never be starving, he said), I could eat some hardboiled eggs or a small piece of chicken. I didn't have either handy, so I ate a pouch of tuna mixed with some diced cornichons and dijon mustard. It was a treat.

Then I started feeling like a junkie. By this time it was only 7:30, and I was aching for a food fix. I kept flipping between Family Guy and Food Network, which was hosting The Secret Life of Bagels. C'MON! Little thoughts kept creeping into my head like, "Wednesday is Office Bagel Day. I can probably get away with a blueberry bagel and some light cream cheese. Ooooh, those look so good. I can get away with a crispy chewy treat." It was then I decided that Food Network had to be off-limits in my home.

To avoid further cravings, I tucked myself into bed and fell asleep to the sounds of Family Guy around 8:30 pm.

I'm young, single and disease-free. This is how I spend my nights. Momma needs a hobby.

So there's that,

Laura

SeeMeFeelMeTouchMeHealMe.

Welcome Back!

The last time I wrote in this blog, I was gung-ho about a 3-month weight-loss challenge started by my fat sketch comedy group. I had officially started my diet in January, and by June I had lost 20 lbs. I was pretty ticked off at the rate of my weight loss; in years past, I would usually lose 5 lbs per week. In all fairness, however, I was working in catering at the time, with a good deal of enabling brought on by coworkers...and I'm pretty weak-willed.

I stopped going to Weight Watchers around Labor Day, continuing my old "Tomorrow is Another Day" diet philosophy: If I crashed my diet one day, I would promise to start again the next day; if it was a Wednesday, though, I would promise to start again the following Monday. The bad thing was, I would use the next few days to eat every kind of food I would have to spare myself - fried goods, pastas, and ethnic cuisine from all my favorite Chicago restaurants. Every weekend found me in this cycle.

Well, I'm fed up now - literally. I gained back all the weight I lost at the beginning of the year. I stopped going out. I would get involved with men, and when things went sour or fizzled, I would eat more and more. I don't think I have any friends left in the city anymore; I just didn't keep up with people, and I got overprotective of myself and thus highly sensitized to any form of judgment on another's part - real or imaginary. I suck.

I want to rebuild. I want to ignore myself when I question if it's too late for that.

I'm well-versed in all forms of diet quackery, so I know better than to give into miracle cures. However, I have chosen to do something drastic; at least, it's the most drastic thing next to bariatric surgery, which I've seriously considered.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a weight loss clinic to go over my options. When I researched the place, I liked that they offered options such as nutrition plans, prescription drugs, and the more restrictive meal replacement therapy. I thought I'd go to see if they can give me a good grocery list and some appetite suppressants. I wasn't really prepared for what happened.

I was weighed in on one of those fancy scales that also measures BMI, fat free mass, fat mass, etc. They have one of these scales at my Curves, and they are a great tool for measuring progress. However, at this point I hadn't been to Curves for close to 2 months, promising I would continue to go once I was settled in my new job. Same old Laura.

My BMI this time around was an astounding 54%. More than half of me is fat. Pure fat. What's shocking was that it wasn't very shocking to me. WTF? How could I just sit there in my greasy walk-of-shame hair (late night with a new beau) and too-tight hoodie and take that? A review of my BMI:

2004: 39 (First BMI measurement, taken after losing 100 lbs)
2005: 40
2006: 45
2007: 49 (January)

How could I do this to myself? I had yet to meet the doctor at this clinic, so here are my first thoughts of what he told me:

Dr: You have an addiction to food.
Me: I'm an expert dieter. I lost 1--
Dr: You are severely obese.
Me: I've been on Weight Watchers since 2001.
Dr: People of your size need to lose weight quickly to get you in a healthy BMI range. I will put you on a liquid diet to begin.
Me: But aren't there other methods?
Dr: You have a problem. We must break you of your addiction.
Me: Okay. I like a good salad every now and then, can I eat salads, too.
Dr: No, you will ruin the effect. Pure protein, pure liquid. You will lose a ton of weight.

To be honest, I felt very rushed, and pretty pissed off. This guy sits in a bare office with just a bottle of powdered beverage on his desk and my case file, and he doesn't even discuss with me my past successes in dieting or how I feel about making healthy food. His breath smells like Turkish coffee and he keeps repeating in his Eastern dialect, "You will lose a ton of weight." I ask how people normally deal with such a huge change - going from solid foods to liquid - and he brushes me off by saying there is no big difference. Umm? I can't get a word in edgewise, I can't fight my case. I can only feel like crap. I shake his hand and smile, not planning to return when I book a second appointment (so I can have time to think about it).

And think I did. I got defensive because I am addicted to food. I eat meals that a normal person could spread out over a week, and it only takes me 10 - 20 minutes. When I order delivery or take out, I get two entrees because I can't decide, then I eat them both (and appetizer) in one sitting without even thinking about it.

I think the turning point came on Halloween night, when I blew off a fundraising party for my friend's sketch group to stay home with my Thai Aroma takeout. In the course of the evening, I watched a TLC documentary titled I Eat 33,000 Calories a Day. I listened to these 1,000 pound people talk about food, and I kept repeating to myself over and over: I can easily be just like these people someday soon.

I went back to that doctor on Saturday. I began my all liquid diet on Sunday. I guess you just reach a point where you have to stop kidding yourself and commit to something.

I don't have the energy to fight myself anymore.

So there's that,

Laura