battling dehydration

I didn't start watching The Biggest Loser until the tail end of last season. And what I found out in watching the show is that, like adorable Mike, I cry over everything!

Okay, so he's not technically crying here, but you can see he's CLOSE!

For example, at the end of last season, I cried when Helen won. But not because I was happy for her (I was happy for her) but because she looked unhealthily skinny and it bothered me that the healthier body type Tara sported didn't win.

Hmmm . . . this picture doesn't really show the too skinny. But trust me. She was.

While Tara, on the other hand, looked healthy. And isn't healthy the quality we're looking for in losers? Yes, healthy is how I like my losers.

The new season started right out with the tugging of the heartstrings. For one thing, Daniel (who, up until this season's first weigh in, was the heaviest person in Biggest Loser history) was back from last season--he had been given a second chance. What a huge blessing! (Um, sorry, no pun intended . . . )

Daniel before and Daniel mid--not quite after because he's still working on it . . .

And they brought in Shay. Specifically to make me cry. Shay lost her inattentive mother to longtime heroin addiction. Maybe some of that played a role in Shay's weight issue? We need to get Sherlock Holmes on the case . . .

Anyhoo, Shay, as of this season's first weigh in, became The Biggest Loser's heaviest person ever. And it made her cry. And it made me cry--surprise! And then [*sniff* I can barely get through this *sniff sniff*] just so I would spill over into a giant puddle Daniel chose Shay to be his partner because if anyone understands what it means to be young and enormously overweight and have to face that and work back down and try to gain health that was always undermined in the first place and . . . *sniff* . . . I just have to stop there . . .

Hi, Shay. You go, girl!

I already resembled a used tissue by the time they let Abby tell her story. For those of you who don't know, Abby started rapidly gaining weight and not quite knowing what to do with her life two years ago in the aftermath of losing her husband, 5 year old daughter and 2 week old son all at once in a car accident. If you aren't tearing up just a little while reading this, then you might want to see a doctor. You're probably a robot.

Spunky, loving, been-to-hell-and-back Abby.

Where were we? Ah, yes. Sobbing.

Every week no matter what happens, no matter how much weight is lost or who prevails in the challenge of the week or who is voted to go home, I always cry. For two hours. Pretty much non stop. Good heavens, someone help me!

Case in point, last night the group visited Washington D.C. The week's challenge was to recruit as many folks as they could to do a public exercise class with Bob and Jillian. When Amanda was recognized by a huge group of girls on the street for being the contestant voted in at last season's finale? Yeah, a few tears spilled over . . .

And when Allen rounded up a bunch of firefighters, well, what can I say? Guys in uniform? Guys being part of a brotherhood no matter where in the country they're from? Guys helping out their fellow firefighter? Okay, fine, a few buckets of tears spilled over . . .

Later, during the public exercise class, when Bob lead (led?) the group of hundreds in some warm up squats? Oh, come on! Who doesn't break down and blubber at the sight of hundreds of people in the nation's capital doing squats?

I couldn't find a picture of Bob leading the squats. So just look at that body and imagine the muscles rippling and the sweat beading and . . . wait . . . what were we talking about?

And then? Later? After the emotional week and the emotional weigh in and the emotional speeches and the emotional voting and the EMOTIONS, when, after weeks of maneuvering and conniving and betraying people right and left to stay in the game, Crazy-Eyes-Tracey was voted out?



Meh.

Buh bye.

Why? Why do teenagers *insist* on disagreeing about things they cannot even know?

Youngest wants to start looking for a new guitar teacher as his last one retired. That's cool. I'm all for shelling out the money for music lessons.

"Sure," I agree. "Your playing is fantastic and I'd love to see you continue. Also, you need a coach to help you with your timing, you seem to have some difficulty staying on beat."

Okay. That's not really what I said. That's what a tactful mother would say. The kind and thoughtful words that left my mouth and went straight on to mangle Youngest's psyche were, "Sure, we can find another teacher. By the way, your rhythm sucks. You need to work on that."

"Your rhythm sucks." he adroitly replies. "Besides," he continues, because you know a teen can't let an insult go without trying to get the last word, "you don't know anything about music, you never played an instrument so who are you to judge?"

Good one. But his facts are woefully incorrect!

"Oh, yes I did play an instrument! I played saxophone in junior high! Which is why I know the fingerings for sax, clarinet and flute--they're all very similar. And that's also why whenever I eat red licorice I bite holes in it and play it like a recorder."

Youngest, who apparently has never witnessed my great talent, answered, " . . . >blink< . . . wha? I don't even know where to begin with that . . . "

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how Beautiful and Number One's friends all think you're the cool mom?"

"Yeah?"

"They're misled."

"I know."

signs that my focus is a leeeeetle bit off . . .

I was at my daughter's house on a Friday night so she could pin up a pair of jeans I needed to hem. Because I'm a midget. Practically.

But that's not the important part.

I had worn the jeans to her house because blah, blah, blah, nobody cares why.

After the brisk work of pinning my pants up, Beautiful went to the fridge for a bottle of water and asked me if I'd like anything to drink. A large bottle of Gatorade was in the fridge. Suddenly I had a hankering for Gatorade.

For the life of us, we could not get that bottle open. And that's a serious blow to my ego because I am a freakishly strong woman and I am always the one people ask to open lids. Dammit.

We gave up and I decided to just stop at a convenience store on the way home and buy some of my own. Then I realized I was wearing pants that were pinned up and could not be seen in public that way--and I had nothing to change into. Naturally.

Discussing this conundrum with my daughter, she offered that, since she lives in a bit of a sketchy neighborhood, I could just take my pants off and go into the store pantsless for my juice. "Nobody would even notice," she added.

What I should have been thinking was how dangerous it is for my daughter and her young family to live in such a shady neighborhood and whether we should offer to help them locate a home in better surroundings.

What I was actually thinking was, "No, I can't take my pants off and go into a store. I totally have the wrong underwear on for that."

Sweet Pea is already a whole year old!

How did that happen so quickly????

it's FLAN, g**dammit!

On some occasions, our differences make certain events challenging. Or, more to the point, for Hubby and me certain events can be a real bitch. Eating dinner out is one such event.

Hubby and I like different food and different restaurants. Hubby likes generous portions and a reasonable bill. I like fresh, local ingredients in small, non-chain establishments and I realize that there is a price tag attached to such an experience. With our family budget, my style of eating out doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I want to enjoy it.

We tried to compromise last night. We tried really hard . . .

Hubby wanted to go to an all-you-can-eat buffet that features prime rib *and*, because it was Tuesday, it was 2-for-1 night! That wasn't exactly what I was going for, but I also didn't feel like staying home and eating leftovers or cooking something myself, so I agreed to go. As luck would have it, there was a one hour wait--I was off the hook : )

Instead, we went to a smaller, sort of high-end establishment that features a lot of northwest specialties (read: salmon and clams.) Luckily for my sweet Mister, there was a 4-course-meal-for-$18 deal. Yeah. Four courses for $18? Didn't promise to be outstanding, but it also wasn't Azteca. It was an okay compromise for us both.

Hubby doesn't like fussy food. He could not care less about presentation. He wants to be full and happy. "What you're looking for is abnormally American serving sizes," I chide. "So? I'm an American, aren't I?" he rejoins. How can I argue with that?

I don't like fussy food just to pretend to be something I'm not, but I do appreciate eating something new or something we don't normally have at home.

The meal was okay. Not spectacular, but not awful. Early into the second course I asked hubby to table the complaining. He had one more gripe to air--which made us both laugh--and then he agreed to finish the meal without grousing over every little thing.

Oh, but that didn't stop him from embarrassing me!

He ordered the flank steak and when the waitress asked how he would like his meat cooked, he surprised me by saying, "Rare." Usually he likes medium-rare, but whatever.

When it came to the table, it was too undercooked for his taste and he sent it back, "to be microwaved a little." Yeah.

I asked him why he didn't just order it medium-rare to begin with. "Well, usually in these places," which is his semi-disparaging code for any restaurant that he deems fancy just for the purpose of raising the prices to the roof, "'medium-rare' ends up being well done and I didn't want that." Okay, darling, whatever you say.

He asked me if it would be PC to inquire what country the waitress was from. I didn't want him asking that because I was afraid it would come off as though he was complaining that she somehow didn't belong here. That's not what he meant at all, but I was worried that's how it would sound.

Naturally, he did not take my advice and asked her anyway. "I noticed your accent and I wondered where you're from," he pleasantly asked.

"Ethiopia," was the answer.

Hubby had thought Sudan, so really he wasn't too far off and I was impressed. Except that 'Ethiopia' conjures up images of skeletal, haunted looking women and children. It's probable that not *everybody* in Ethiopia is or was starving, but it strikes me that it must seem obscene to an Ethiopian to work in an American restaurant with our fat asses sitting on large chairs eating 4 courses and groaning as we walk away from the table . . .

And also I wonder whether she suffered genital mutilation when she was a girl . . .

These thoughts are not conducive to a happy dinner . . .

At the end of the meal, lovely miss Ethiopia brought us our dessert course. I ordered flan.

"I see you ordered a plate of phlegm," chirps my husband.

"Really? After 25 years you still think that's funny?" I ask, disgusted.

Taking a bite of my dessert, he exuberantly answers, "Yes!" and starts to laugh. And while laughing, manages to spit a booger sized piece of flan out of his mouth and onto my side of the table where it now, indeed, looks like phlegm.

I start to laugh. "See!" hubby happily notes, "you're laughing--you still think it's funny too!"

This is a typical evening out with my husband. I would say I need to be rescued by a knight on a brawny steed, but in the end, he would burp and fart and repeatedly make stupid jokes too. Because he'd be a guy. And let's face it, there's pretty much one model : )

In which

Country Mouse gives up

a reasonable facsimile of

a 'dream'

for the greater good.

Sort of.

Or,

What I Did This Summer.

I took a little detour this summer. I began going to school. I've been researching and considering and planning for a long time. And I made a decision.

A couple years ago I was committed to massage therapy school, but at the eleventh hour I had to take a sharp left turn and quickly come up with a job that offered benefits. I landed at the pharmacy. Which I like very much.

However . . .

Okay, so here's my ego talking. My job is entry level. Yes, there's a little more finesse in my position than there is in, say, flipping burgers. (Although, to be fair, almost any job has its challenges and a person is either equipped to handle those challenges or learns how. Or doesn't learn and sucks at his job. I do not suck.) I'm not above my job. But I am capable of more.

And, to be completely honest, I would like to have some sort of title or job description that sounds a little less assistanty and a little more--I'm just going to say it--important.

How's that for ego?

So. I did the research and started ticking off the handful of pre-reqs I needed to qualify for a two year program to become a:

(drum roll, please)

Diagnostic Ultrasound Technician!

Doesn't that sound all Technical and Important and Responsible and Respectable???

Also--ultrasound techs make decent money. And that is the true heart of the matter. My sweet hubby who has taken care of my financial needs for my entire adult life is not able to provide for us like he used to. His disability money is waning and I don't yet know when it will cease, but when it does, ladies and gentlemen, it will be up to me to take care of us.

So. This summer, in addition to working more hours than usual, helping my daughter plan and execute her wedding, babysitting the grand kids, and, of course, the day-to-day with my own family and home, I was, in my spare time, taking a math course [*cough* 4.0 *cough*]

And then I had to pause. And think. And what I was thinking was that the hours of class time, homework time and commute time add up to 20 hours per week--tacked onto the 24+ hours a week of my regular job. And that's just with one class. That's a lot of time away from my family.

My youngest is 14 and is just beginning his high school years. It felt fervently unfair to be planning my own course of 4 years of abandoning my family when this is the time, both educationally and emotionally, he needs me the most.

So. Short story long, I withdrew from the chemistry class I was set to begin this month. And, therefore, withdrew from my future plans.

I don't know what we're going to do in the future, but I do know things will work out. They always do. For now I'm going to be here. At home. Raising my son. With no regrets.

And I'm going to be at my job. Where I am an assistant. Entry level. Also with no regrets. I'm good at my job. And there is no shame at being good at one's job. Ever. No matter how entry level it is. (Well, maybe if one is a hitman or a drug dealer or a prostitute, then *maybe* there would be some shame in being good at one's job . . . )

Besides being home and teaching my last child and rocking the pharmacy flunky job, I'll also finish the giant stuffed octopus I'm making for my grand kids. And I'm going to design the craft room I am getting at long last! But I probably won't be learning Portuguese . . .

something's in the air

I feel like I've been through a very long creative drought. And suddenly, I want to read everything, and I want to cook everything, and I want to make, sew, create, repurpose, organize, clean EVERYTHING!!!

Which probably means I'm dying of some swift and terrible, and undiscovered, disease. Like John Travolta in that one movie. The one where he can predict earthquakes.

So if I don't post for awhile, it either means I died, or I'm learning Portuguese. Overnight.

I'll let you know how it goes . . .

A cake I made based (loosely) on Van Gogh's "Almond Blossoms."

Yeah. He'd be crushed to know he'd been this trivialized . . .

P.S. If I die, y'all will send armloads of sweet peas, right? RIGHT????