Friday, January 30, 2009

Diet's going great! Thanks for asking : )

Dieting is a bitch. I hate it. But it's going very well for me, nonetheless.

Know what I'm really angry about though? I let so much weight sneak back on over the last 5 or 6 months. It just makes me sick that all the success I'm having right now doesn't really count because I'm not quite back to where I was last summer.

D'oh! Stupid food that I love! And stupid utter lack of discipline and will power!

This is what my current diet looks like to my beloved family:



A view of my counter top:


Please, excuse the lack of proper punctuation on the banana . . .

But I do not withhold my affection for my family, even in my zeal, as evidenced by the backside of the 'BACK OFF BUCKY' banana:


This one's a bit difficult to read:

The tender message whispers, "Hands off, you little bastards!"

A look at my freezer door:

And the refrigerator greeting:

The pineapple is perfectly readable, but the label on the cottage cheese?:

"Selfish Mama's" but they don't even need to read it, they've been down this road with me before--they know!

heh heh--if you can find a better way to keep two boys out of the special milk, let me know ; )

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

worst lunch date *evah*

Baby Lily and I met my dear friend Tracy today for lunch. Tracy and I are both on diets. She's doing Weight Watchers (completely balanced, logical and healthy) while I'm doing The Crazy-Ass Diet (freaking insane!)

Of today's 4 meals, I decided the chicken meal would be the easiest to eat at a restaurant. And by "chicken meal" I mean it was to consist of chicken and only chicken. No veggies, no fruit or dairy or grains of any kind. Just chicken.

The restaurant we chose is an upscale little bistro (well, upscale for my neighborhood. Translation: customers are expected to wear pants.) I checked out the menu on-line before going to be sure I could order chicken. I could, but the only chicken on the menu was fried chicken. Fried chicken? At a healthy, all-natural, mostly organic little bistro? Yeah, okay.

The plate they brought me was embarrassingly huge (especially compared to Tracy's respectable little plate of endive salad . . .) and consisted not only of 4 pieces of fried chicken, but also cole slaw and garlic fries--both of which I ignored and planned to take home to my family.

I thought I'd probably just eat the chicken breast and that would be enough. I'm pretty sure that particular delusion was the result of malnutrition.

After removing the breaded skin from the breast I realized there was about a tablespoon and a half of meat. Like a ravenous animal, I devoured the skinless remains of the other 3 pieces--all 1 ounce of it . . .

And then I sat there. Still hungry. Beyond hungry. I tried really hard to listen to Tracy tell me how her two lovely daughters are doing in college, but what I was thinking was "where can I get more chicken on the way home? Should I stop at Albertson's and get a big juicy breast? Because God knows I do love a big juicy breast! But I have the baby with me and it's a pain getting the car seat out and carrying it all over the place just for a piece of chicken. What about driving through Burger King? Nah--not nearly enough bang for my buck. Albertson's it is! Hmmm, I probably should have been paying attention to Tracy because she just asked me a question . . . "

Coming out of the store, I barely got Lily buckled into the car before I was trying to tear into the precious meat. It was super hot and was scalding my fingers but I didn't care, I'm sure I was about to have a seizure. Some horrible rap song about objectifying and degrading women started playing on the radio--and I'm pretty certain it was doing serious damage to Lily's psyche--but my hands were too sticky and greasy to change the station. Plus, it would have meant using my hand for something other than shoving food into my pie hole and that was not a sacrifice I was willing to make. Sorry, Lily, but GRAMMY IS STARVING!!!!!!!!

One breast wasn't enough. Wish I'd gotten two. The good news is that I think I lost 13 pounds today : )

Sunday, January 25, 2009

my grandbabies

Umm, so yeah. I've pretty much been reduced to posting pictures of the grandkids and little else. Luckily, they're really, really cute : )

I love this photo of Gabe and Lily. They both look so happy--which is not a true representation of what was going on while I tried to snap a few frames.

Gabe adores Lily. He always refers to her as "my baby." He never calls her Lily or even the baby. Always "my baby."

One evening while babysitting, I thought I'd try, for the eleventy millionth time, to get a nice picture of both kids together. Gabe usually loves to have his picture taken, but on that evening he was more interested in watching Wall-E. "My baby's hurting my tummy," he protested. She wasn't hurting him, her head was in the way of his movie viewing.

In the meantime, Lily shows signs of becoming quite the little diva! We were all concerned that Gabe would be the one to show typical sibling jealousy. He never has. Lily, on the other hand, squawks and tells us all what-for if we're paying too much attention to her big brother. It's adorable now . . . but 13 years from now?

The night before she was born, I had a dream that Lily turned out to be not at all like her mother (thoughtful, insightful, unselfish) but instead was just like me. My dreams are never prophetic. Except maybe this one time : )







Thursday, January 8, 2009

watching Lily grow

Lily is a little over 3 months now and has grown out of the newborn infant stage--she's even finally grown out of her newborn clothes! She holds her head up, she laughs and she's working very hard on sitting up skills. Every single thing she does is precious to me : )



sharing a laugh with mama

Tasty hand!
And look--she's also showing off her tiny, sweet toes--awww!





Here she is sitting on Grandpa's lap.

Grandpa *loves* to kiss the hand of the princess : )

Precious, I tell you.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

lost in translation

Youngest and I were coming out of a grocery store a week ago when a man approached us. He was holding a laminated card that said something along the lines of "I'm deaf. Give cash."

I don't know what exactly the money was for. Was it to increase education among the general public about the daily-life hurdles deaf folks face? Was it a donation to help fund a job training resource center for the hearing impaired? Was it just for him because he doesn't have regular employment? I have no clue. But who's going to be the asshole who doesn't give money to a deaf guy in a parking lot? Of course I handed over a bill.

He then gave me a small green leaflet with line drawings of 20 or so common American Sign Language signs. He also made some sign to me which I assumed meant "thank you."

Youngest glanced over the leaflet. "Hey mom," he started, "I found that sign he made to you. It doesn't mean thank you."

"Oh? What does it mean?"

"It means 'Sucka!' "

I wanted to "sign" something special to Youngest. But didn't. Cause I'm a good mom that way : )

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Stephen King is a better writer than I am.

Ha! How's that for a revelation?

Here's what I mean to say: Did you ever have a hobby or even a passion--something that you do well at, something that you take some pride in--only to experience someone else's genius and feel completely humbled and maybe like a poser?

I have fun writing. Always have. Since I was very young girl.

And sometimes I allow myself to believe I'm an okay writer. Once in college (and by "college" I'm referring to the local community college that wasn't much more than super high school) at the end of a term my English prof wrote a note on my final essay that read: "You were my best writer this quarter."

She didn't make that comment the following quarter, however . . .

Even so, I've enjoyed trotting out my little day-to-day life compositions and getting some positive feedback here on my blog. It's a fantastic outlet for me and there are some days when I'm really happy with something I've written. Some days I even let myself feel a sense of, hmmm, accomplishment maybe?

That sense is threadbare at best.

I've never read any Stephen King before but recently picked up "Duma Key" and from the beginning it was clear to me that King is an unmatchable craftsman.

Halfway through the book: "Each morning I walked on the beach with my pouch slung over my shoulder, prospecting for shells and any other interesting litter that might have washed up. I found a great many beer and soda cans (most worn as smooth and white as amnesia), a few prophylactics, a child's plastic raygun, and one bikini bottom."

"Most worn as smooth and white as amnesia." Who imagines that analogy? Not me. Not if given a thousand years to think it over. And the most frustrating thing about that line? It's parenthetical. An afterthought.

That's just showing off.

Yeah, I know the literati probably doesn't consider King any sort of serious heavyweight. But his skill blows me away just the same. Makes me want to break my pencils : )

Thank goodness the blogosphere leaves a place for amateurs!

Friday, January 2, 2009

wishing you a very happy!

New Year's Eve has never really been much of a big deal for me.

Actually, I take that back. When I was a little kid my parents usually had a big party. I loved that atmosphere. I loved the bottles of booze and mixers lined up on the counter top next to the chrome, penguin-bedecked ice bucket. Just thinking about Mom and Dad's soiree brings back the taste of ham and cream cheese pinwheels. I loved Mom and Dad's parties.

I guess my lackluster New Year's celebrations began in my adult life. At first because we had the responsibility of young children. Later because Hubby was usually in Alaska this time of year. Most recently because our first invitation every year is for a party that I don't enjoy and Hubby always accepts the invitation before remembering that it's really not much fun for me.

I usually make some excuse and stay home. And I always think it's really no big deal because that kind of celebration isn't important to me anyway.

But not this year. This year our friends from Alaska invited us to the local casino. Some of their kids joined us. Some of our kids joined us. And we met up with a whole bunch of other friends. We had a fantastic time.

Before we left the house I was thinking to myself that there was no such drunk as so drunk that I would actually dance in public. Famous last words, much?

Beautiful bought me a shot of something tasty. I've never done a shot before but I was game. That, plus 2-1/2 other drinks (would have been 3 others except that I managed to spill half of one down my pant leg . . . ) caused the dance floor to magically appear beneath my feet. I vividly remember a lot of smiling goofily at my sweet hubby and laughing and having a wonderful time together. I sure hope that's the way he remembers it.

Arriving home at nearly 4 in the morning, I suddenly had an itch to e-mail my NonSon to wish him a happy new year. Because drunk e-mailing (like drunk dialing, blogging and texting) is always a good idea, right?

Here, in part, is my brilliance:

subject: but oh wait! shoot dang . . .

body: What I *meant* to say was nopthing about dancing or drinking like a fish or talking about myself in the thri8d person.

What i meant to say was that my new year's resolution (which I don't believe in making anyway : ) had something to do with not being all u8ncontrollably crazy (WTH is up with the 8s appearing all over the place?????) But then I reflected for a moment and realized that a hormonal woman in her 40's has no control over that. So I'll just be the way I am. And you, and peop[le like you, will put up with me because you love me : )

peace out . . .

And there's my point. That's why we celebrate our birthdays and Valentine's Day and Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve. We do it to remember to take time out to revel in being with the people we love. We're celebrating relationships and the invisible silk threads that bind us all together. We're also celebrating, in the words of my friend Cindy, "waking up breathing." Amen to that, sister!

And on that preachy, didactic note: Happy 2009!

Peace out.


two of the young merrymakers