Save the rice for a meal, and don’t bother with the bubbles

8 Nov

I was always one of those little girls who dreamt of her wedding day.  When the “November Rain” video came out, I gushed over the bride’s dress.  I love watching wedding shows and looking through example photos of floral arrangements.  I know what colors I would choose, and who I would want to be in my bridal party.

And it’s recently come to my attention that these fantasies are just that … fantasies.  And I need to get the fuck over them.

I have a family member who got married over the weekend, and the hoopla and snide comments are what’ve finally brought me to that conclusion.  (Well, that and my mom’s constant worry about my dad retiring and having no income.  It seems that starting an IRA or savings of some sort was never on his to-do list.)  My parents didn’t fund my college education.  I’ll be paying that off until I’m in my mid-40s.  My mom has always been frugal.  She’s made countless remarks about how couples who live together before getting married don’t deserve a lavish celebration, or any celebration at all, really.  After all, if we wanted a party, we would have waited and done it right, instead of living in sin.  (This is the part where I start smacking myself in the forehead.)

Oh, and then there’s the huge argument we got into over the weekend about how I don’t want to be given away at my (never gonna happen) wedding, because I don’t believe I’m anyone’s property, but that’s a different blog entry entirely.

Long story short, it’s finally sunk in that I won’t ever have to make the difficult decision of going with jewel tones or a gothic deep red with black accents.  I won’t need to worry about finding the perfect dress in my size.  No one will be going through my Crate and Barrel registry trying to decide between the garlic press or the throw pillows.  I won’t have to save up for a honeymoon in Paris.

I finally realize all of that.  Now I just have to come to terms with it.

Oh, she totally went there

4 Nov

Today marked day two of a very heated discussion with a family member, all via Facebook, about politics and religion.

Whoa, did she say politics and religion? Yep, I did.  I did indeed seem to fall from the very tippy-top of the masochism tree, hitting every branch on the way down, because I just dove right into the pit of snakes screaming “Bite me!  Come on, you bunch of morons!  Harder!  Oh, yeah!”

I won’t post the entire conversation, because I’m sure it would result in a lot of comments that looked like this: tl;dr

Here’s the abridged version:

 

Her: Obama isn’t a godly man

Me: What the eff are you talking about?

Her: He funds terrorists!  He loves the terrorists!

Me: No, really… what the eff are you talking about?

Her: The Muslims!  He’s friends with them, and they hate America.

Me: Stop getting your news from chain e-mails written in comic sans with obnoxious GIFs.

Her: He’s making us pay for abortions!

Me: Didn’t you get one of those?

Her: Obama hates Jesus, Muslims hate America, those are the facts.

Me: Read a book.

Her: I did.  It said “Obama hates Jesus, Muslims hate America.”

The.  End.

 

Clearly there was more to it than that, but trust, the version I just gave you is far less migraine inducing.

When the whole ordeal was done (and signed with “see you at the holidays!  xoxo”), I made the huge mistake of asking Foster if I handled the situation with a modicum of grace and remained respectful.  This led us into an argument that we’ve had time and time again.  It’s this circular discussion where he says “Why do you care what they think?” and I say “I’m not quite sure, but I do” and he says “Well, you shouldn’t” and I say “No shit, but I do”.  So on and so forth.  Somehow it always comes back to him telling me that I am the problem.

Me.

The one who doesn’t believe that all Muslims are trained from birth to hate America.  (Direct quote from the family member.  Direct fucking quote.)  The one believes in educating yourself on a subject before making a judgment.  The one who believes in checking up on what you read in those damn chain e-mails before passing them along and spreading the ignorance.  Me, the one who tries (and sometimes fails) to not be an ignorant, bigoted ass.  It’s my fault.

Why?

Because I give a shit about my family being ignorant, bigoted asses.

On a totally unrelated note, this uber-liberal non-bigot has officially lost 10.5 pounds.  Does that mean I deserve a cookie?

And my life just gets busier…

2 Nov

First, an update on those deviant little brownies from earlier.  The rough score is brownies – 4, me – 1.  I ate four of those little bastards, but no matter how many times I walked past the container, there was one left.  One delicious, bite sized brownie, covered in frosting and topped with a single piece of candy corn.  And I kicked that little brownie’s ass.

In other words, I didn’t eat it.

And last time I checked, no one else had, either.  Me leaving the  ideal junk food on the counter for someone else is rare.  Me walking away when it’s clear that it’s mine, all mine?  Unheard of.  Which is why, despite the fact that I ate four of them, I figured I earned a point.

(Insert wacky ninja moves here.)

Today is November 1st.  (By the time I hit “publish”, it’ll be the 2nd.  But just go with it, okay?)  November, for dorky writer types like me, is also known as NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month.  The goal is to write 50,000 words before December.  Last year, I only made it to 15,000.  The year before that, I didn’t even make it through the planning stages.  I really want to do this.  But it takes so much motivation!  I’ve got a rough story idea in my head.  I’ve got pages and pages in a notebook of notes and outlines and plot points and various scribbles.  I’ve even got actors and actresses who I picture as I’m writing about my characters.  Now all I need is the time.  And a swift kick in the ass to make it happen.  Because writing involves a lot of thinking, unlike, say … watching The Vampire Diaries or The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (Can you believe those women?  I mean, seriously?).

So this month will be packed.  Packed with me trying not to lose my mind over various things and stay away from all of the holiday goodness.  I finished my first NaNo session tonight with 1,300 words.  Only 48,700 to go!

Danger! Danger!

1 Nov

There are tiny little brownie bites with frosting and candy corn on top in the kitchen.  The person who brought them in is evil.

That is all.

Trying to make this quick!

28 Oct

I’m on a mission to be in bed (and asleep!) by 1am.  I was originally shooting for midnight, but since it’s 12:21, that’s a fail.  I’ve had long days all week, including ridiculously short stints of sleep.  I’m exhausted! Oh, and I’m a diet failure.

Not entirely, but I promise you, it ain’t been perfect around here.  (Yes, my use of horrible grammar is supposed to be cute and quirky there.)  We went to a friend’s birthday dinner tonight, at a Mexican restaurant.  Wait, let me back up… I saw a display of Full Bars at the grocery store the other day and decided to give it a shot, despite the fact that the premise is ridiculous.  (You eat this bar, then you aren’t hungry anymore!  See!  It’s so novel!  I’m gonna be a millionaire!)  I had it before the dinner, and it didn’t work.  In fact, I might have eaten more than normal.  I tried to order something that I thought would be semi-healthy.  Chicken fajita enchiladas with “Spanish sauce”, which is basically just a spicy tomato sauce, rice, and charro beans.  I ate both of the enchiladas, which is something I haven’t been doing.  I went easy on the charro beans, because they seemed to be swimming in grease.  And I had 14 chips (oh yes, I counted) and 1/2 of a cupcake in honor of the birthday girl.  So really, not that bad. Not exactly a healthy dinner of salad and water, but whatever.

As I was eating, though, I looked around the table at all three of the thin girls who were there.  They all seemed to eat about a quarter (or maybe half) of their food.  That’s it.  Meanwhile, I’m over here cleaning my plate.  And while I did wonder if they weren’t hungry or filled up on chips and salsa before we got there, I also wondered if there was something wrong with me that I was hungry enough to eat both of my enchiladas.  And then I silently scolded myself for being such a glutton.  I can’t help but think that if I were skinny and scarfing down a plate of Mexican food, I wouldn’t feel so bad.  But as someone with a weight problem, I question myself and my habits, even when I’m making an effort to be “good”.  Sure, I can blame it on the pre-dinner tortilla chips and the numerous frozen margaritas they had, but I keep coming back to the part where the other three women took home almost their entire dinners in styrofoam to-go boxes and I didn’t because mine was all gone.

And I also wonder if they noticed, and if they judged me.  Or if I’m being completely ridiculous and might as well have just had a nightmare where I’m standing at the front of a meeting in my underwear, because that’s as likely as them judging me.

Maybe someday I’ll actually bother to ask…

(It’s 12:32, by the way.  I might just make it to bed by 1am!  I think I deserve a cookie for that.*)

(*Just kidding.)

Have I mentioned that I’m hungry?

26 Oct

Because I am.  I am one hungry bitch.  Most of the time, in fact.  But hey, I’m losing weight, so what’s a little hunger pain every now and then?

(By the way, if you didn’t get the sarcasm there, I can’t believe we’re friends.  Really.)

I keep thinking that eventually, that will go away.  Because it turns out that when people (who I always thought were completely ridiculous) say that your stomach shrinks, they might be right.  Who knew?

On the other hand, I feel like I’m constantly eating, even though it’s always something small.  A TLC cereal bar (2 points!), popcorn (2 points!), light mozzarella string cheese (1 point!), etc.  I have something every few hours, give or take.  I even managed to stay on track at Buzzfest, which is something of a miracle.  Oh, and it probably helped that I packed a backpack full of healthy snacks and wrote “DO NOT TOUCH” all over them.

I even managed to indulge in one brownie bite and a half of a chocolate chip cookie, without finishing off the package.  These are big things, people!  (No pun intended.)

Speaking of being a fatty, here’s something the naturally skinny amongst you should read.  Oh, what the hell … you should all read it.  It’s an article about a blog post on Marie Claire titled “Should Fatties Get a Room? (Even on TV?)”.  It’s a perfect example of what not to say to or about fat people.

Look, I get it.  I even have a habit of looking at certain people and thinking “How did that happen?”  I get annoyed with people for not putting in the effort I believe they’re capable of, or that I think I would be putting forth.  But since I’m not them, it’s completely unfair to place any real judgment there.

For example, a girl (shit, are we officially women?) I was friends with in high school posted to her Facebook a few days ago that she got confirmation that her boss was having an affair.  She went on to rant about his wife and child, ending the tirade with “I hope he gets fired!”  To which I responded with “Whoa there, lady.”  Ok, not really, but I wanted to.  I did try to explain that neither she nor I are in his marriage, therefore we don’t have the right to judge.  Also, his marriage and his job are two completely different things.

My eating and exercise habits (or lack thereof as of late) are not something I want to be judged on.  No one knows the reasons I’ve avoided the gym lately or why I’d still rather have a brownie bottom pie over a salad.  No one but me knows the discipline, motivation, and work that it takes to not fall off the deep end, straight into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.  And the same goes for the people around me.

Some people are naturally thin, and don’t understand the concept of willpower.  It’s a hard thing to explain to someone who could never begin to understand it.  I can imagine it’s like trying to describe the color yellow to a blind person.  You can try, but it’s never going to be exactly like feeling it yourself.

 

I won’t tolerate intolerance

20 Oct

Totally hypocritical title, isn’t it?  But it’s true.  I just can’t (or won’t) tolerate intolerance.  Well, intolerance plus a whole lot of other things.  I’ve been struggling lately with how to deal with people in my life with whom I have fundamental disagreements.  At first I thought I could just tell them to keep their opinions away from me, but then Foster pointed out that that’s the equivalent to homophobes saying “As long as I don’t see it, I don’t care what they do”.  It’s mildly asshole-ish to ask someone to hide who they are.  But what to do when you just can’t accept or deal with who someone is, or who they’ve become?  It’s something to ponder, and if anyone comes up with a good answer, I’d love to hear it.

Meanwhile, I feel like boo-boo.  (Boo-boo isn’t a good thing, in case you aren’t familiar with it.  It’s a technical term, ya know.)  Web MD says that I’ve either got a cold, strep, a foreign object stuck in my ear, or Cancer.  So glad they could narrow it down for me.  The plus side of feeling like boo-boo is that I don’t have much of an appetite.  Not only have I not gone over my WW points for the day, but I might even end up not using them all.  Which is a bummer, because those bad boys do not roll over.

I have, however, lost some weight.  And I purchased a scale.  It’s been hard to limit myself to weighing once a day, but I’m trying to not become someone who steps on it every time I see it.  I can still feel my double chin, though.  I’m thinking of naming her Debbie.  Like the snack cake lady. (I’d kill for one of those little cosmic brownies right about now…)