I said I was going to spend more time on this blog. I lied. I've been spending more time on this blog instead.
I don't intend to get rich (in fact I'll be happy to break even) in this endeavor, but it's sure been fun putting the site together. Fun, too, making stuff to add to the inventory.
Of course, it would be more fun if I had more time to devote to it. Between work, trying to spend quality time with the boys, trying to maintain a 5x per week (at least) gym schedule, trying to make my own breakfasts and lunches every night, trying to get this site up and running--I barely have time to brush my own damn teeth.
And today the toddler's been puking. Grrreat.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Soups to You
Last night, I made Lentil Soup with Garam Masala.
I didn't have chili powder, so I used paprika. I also didn't have any cloves, but I think cloves are gross unless we're talking about sweet pickles, which we are not, so I wasn't upset. And my lentils were green, not red, so the soup, which was a lovely deep red when I put it into the blender, turned a horrific pukey pea green when I took it out.
The taste? Pretty darned fabulous. But it gave me heartburn.
Now I either want to try another squash soup, or pumpkin soup, or maybe even some sort of sweet potato soup. Maybe I should just make a potato leek soup, since we have a shitload of potatoes and a couple of leeks and they should be used before they get bad.
I'm home with the older kid today. I'm off work, he's off school. It's alternately snowy and sunny outside, but it's like, negative 60 degrees. So we won't be going anywhere. We've already had a couple of visitors--very nice guy from Major Home Retailer #2 (whose quote was almost double Major Home Retailer #1's) and Independent Contractor, whose quote was about $250 under MHR#1. Except he says we can't do the job until it's at least 40 degrees out, because it has to be at least that for the caulk to cure properly. At this rate, we won't see 40 degrees until July. But I guess that prevents any impulse buys. I'm not opposed to letting that money sit in the bank as long as possible. Although I'd really like to get the damn windows in post haste.
One of the cats is at the vet for his bi-annual dental cleaning. As expected, they called me relatively soon after he was under anesthesia to tell me he needs at least 3 teeth pulled to the tune of $260. When I finished laughing, I told them "yeah, I don't think we'll be doing that today. Let's just go ahead with the cleaning and go from there." I wouldn't even pay $260 to have three of my OWN teeth pulled at this point, much less my cat. Yes, I love my pets. Yes, I feel like they're family. But to be honest, if one of my children needed a $260 dental procedure, I'd be getting a second and possibly third opinion before laying down that kind of cash. And let's be honest--if the cat were having obvious problems related to his bad teeth, I'd suck it up and put out the money. But he obviously isn't having trouble eating, he doesn't appear to be in any kind of distress, and as long as I can avoid letting him eat damn near $300, I'm going to.
Speaking of things that cost me more money than they're worth (so far), HaveItHandmade.com went live today. :) I'm happy about this, yet scared that my expectations will be far, far exceeded and the site will take off like gangbusters and I'll suddenly find myself with orders I can't stay up late enough into the night to fill.
I didn't have chili powder, so I used paprika. I also didn't have any cloves, but I think cloves are gross unless we're talking about sweet pickles, which we are not, so I wasn't upset. And my lentils were green, not red, so the soup, which was a lovely deep red when I put it into the blender, turned a horrific pukey pea green when I took it out.
The taste? Pretty darned fabulous. But it gave me heartburn.
Now I either want to try another squash soup, or pumpkin soup, or maybe even some sort of sweet potato soup. Maybe I should just make a potato leek soup, since we have a shitload of potatoes and a couple of leeks and they should be used before they get bad.
I'm home with the older kid today. I'm off work, he's off school. It's alternately snowy and sunny outside, but it's like, negative 60 degrees. So we won't be going anywhere. We've already had a couple of visitors--very nice guy from Major Home Retailer #2 (whose quote was almost double Major Home Retailer #1's) and Independent Contractor, whose quote was about $250 under MHR#1. Except he says we can't do the job until it's at least 40 degrees out, because it has to be at least that for the caulk to cure properly. At this rate, we won't see 40 degrees until July. But I guess that prevents any impulse buys. I'm not opposed to letting that money sit in the bank as long as possible. Although I'd really like to get the damn windows in post haste.
One of the cats is at the vet for his bi-annual dental cleaning. As expected, they called me relatively soon after he was under anesthesia to tell me he needs at least 3 teeth pulled to the tune of $260. When I finished laughing, I told them "yeah, I don't think we'll be doing that today. Let's just go ahead with the cleaning and go from there." I wouldn't even pay $260 to have three of my OWN teeth pulled at this point, much less my cat. Yes, I love my pets. Yes, I feel like they're family. But to be honest, if one of my children needed a $260 dental procedure, I'd be getting a second and possibly third opinion before laying down that kind of cash. And let's be honest--if the cat were having obvious problems related to his bad teeth, I'd suck it up and put out the money. But he obviously isn't having trouble eating, he doesn't appear to be in any kind of distress, and as long as I can avoid letting him eat damn near $300, I'm going to.
Speaking of things that cost me more money than they're worth (so far), HaveItHandmade.com went live today. :) I'm happy about this, yet scared that my expectations will be far, far exceeded and the site will take off like gangbusters and I'll suddenly find myself with orders I can't stay up late enough into the night to fill.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Goals
The shareholder in charge of my department at work is very into "goals." I don't know if he went to some Tony Robbins seminar at some point or what, but every time you talk to him, he asks you what your goals are.
Anyone who's ever held a corporate job has had to endure some torturous seminar or meeting or training wherein you learned how to set, work toward, and achieve goals. This is old school for an old broad like yours truly. So, that said, here are my goals:
1. Lose 12 pounds by mid-May (we'll call this "Operation 115 By 5/15")
2. Get my hobby website live and operational and at least break even on my costs
3. Get a grip on my seasonal depression.
Now, we take each goal and break it down into smaller, more easily attainable goals:
1. Lose 12 pounds by mid-May (Operation 115 By 5/15)
Anyone who's ever held a corporate job has had to endure some torturous seminar or meeting or training wherein you learned how to set, work toward, and achieve goals. This is old school for an old broad like yours truly. So, that said, here are my goals:
1. Lose 12 pounds by mid-May (we'll call this "Operation 115 By 5/15")
2. Get my hobby website live and operational and at least break even on my costs
3. Get a grip on my seasonal depression.
Now, we take each goal and break it down into smaller, more easily attainable goals:
1. Lose 12 pounds by mid-May (Operation 115 By 5/15)
- Limit daily calorie intake to 1300 calories
- Stick to my regular gym schedule - MFSu Cardio 40 minutes, TThSa Cardio 20 minutes, weights 30 minutes
- Take my vitamins daily
- make some shit and get it ready to post
- have Ben work out the technical kinks
- "go live"
- eat better, exercise more, and take vitamins
- remember to take Tylenol PM every night so I sleep
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Hopefully we can make it through without any actual bleeding. But the toddler is wearing on everyone's last nerve, so that may be an ambitious goal.
Last night, around 5:00, I decided I'd had about enough of the screaming. And I had an idea. So I put on my shoes and told Ben, "I think I'm going to go to the gym now."
He looked at me like I'd just announced my intention to run for governor. "What? Now? Really? Aren't we going to eat dinner? What about him?"
I glanced at the toddler to which he was pointing. "He just ate a piece of baloney and half a container of cottage cheese. I think he's good for now. You might give him another snack if he wants one, but I was thinking maybe we could eat a later dinner tonight. You know, that it might be nice to actually eat dinner rather than shovel bites of food in our mouths in between tending to the needs of children. Have an actual conversation instead of listening to children blabber on about nothing or make smartass comments about how our food sucks or just scream and throw their food on the floor."
"You have a point," he said. And off I went.
I suffered through my 40 minutes of treadmill torture, and I made it. Yaaaaay. But it was hard, probably because I've done nothing in a week. But I did it. Not long after I got home, the toddler was off to the tub, and finally, blissfully, thankfully, off to bed.
I'd been obsessing over pumpkin soup since I got a bowl from the Hen House Market salad bar on Friday. It was AWESOME. And I felt I could easily recreate it, seeing as how I own a $400 blender and could puree a cat if I really wanted to.
Alas, there is a pumpkin shortage, and I'm not paying almost 5 bucks for a can of "organic" pumpkin. So I bought a $2 butternut squash instead. Before I left for the gym, I cut it in half, scooped out the guts, put it cut-side down in a Pyrex 9x13 dish, and stuck it in the oven at 350 for 45 minutes. I instructed Ben to just turn off the oven when the timer went off and I would deal with it when I got home. By the time I set about making dinner, the pan was still warm but the squash was nicely cooked and cool enough to work with.
I got out my stock pot and heated up about a tablespoon of canola oil. I sauteed a small yellow onion (chopped), added a little (okay, a lot) cayenne pepper, some thyme, a little cumin, a little ginger. I wanted to add a little sage but I couldn't find it because our "spice cabinet" is an abomination and I can't ever find shit in it. (I found the sage this morning.)
When the onion was nice and soft, I added about 4 tablespoons of diced garlic, half a stick of unsalted butter, and a little more ginger and cayenne. I attempted to scoop the squash out of its peel, but the peel was so soft, most of it ended up going in, too. I cooked that a few minutes, then added roughly 3 cans of chicken broth and let that simmer for a while.
While it was simmering, I put together a kick-ass pizza. We had a thin-crust Boboli in the freezer that worked swimmingly with the topping I put together--5 slices of bacon, cooked til crispy, then crumbled and set aside; one leek sauteed in a tiny bit of the bacon fat; a handful of arugula and a larger handful of spinach, added to the leeks to wilt; about 1/2 cup of light ricotta cheese and maybe a 1/4 cup of feta; add the bacon and mix the whole mess together, spread on the crust, sprinkle with parmesan, and bake for a few minutes.
While the pizza was in the oven, I pureed the soup in the $400 Blender and gave it a taste.
It was fucking delicious. And the pizza? Even better.
We sat at our dining room table, even used the dimmer switch on the light, and listened to some music. We drank beer, slurped soup, ate gourmet pizza. No one screamed, no one asked for a drink as soon as we sat down, no one need more, no one threw their food on the floor or on the cats.
It was bliss.
We've resolved to do this again. Like, every Saturday night that we're down one kid (because the older one goes to bed slightly later). It wasn't as good as dinner out--it was better. Because we didn't have to wait for some dumb server, we didn't have to listen to annoying other people, we didn't have the spectre of "think of all the money you're wasting" looming over us and spoiling our mojo. And I could sit there in my gym clothes all gross and it didn't matter.
But the real high point of the evening was I did it--I created a delicious dinner, cooking by guess and by golly, like I used to years ago. I showed those New Yorkers that I may not have their fancy gadgets or their awesome grocery stores or unlimited disposable income or a nanny, but I still have a tiny kitchen and can use it to create fantastic dishes all by myself.
Because I'm just that awesome.
Last night, around 5:00, I decided I'd had about enough of the screaming. And I had an idea. So I put on my shoes and told Ben, "I think I'm going to go to the gym now."
He looked at me like I'd just announced my intention to run for governor. "What? Now? Really? Aren't we going to eat dinner? What about him?"
I glanced at the toddler to which he was pointing. "He just ate a piece of baloney and half a container of cottage cheese. I think he's good for now. You might give him another snack if he wants one, but I was thinking maybe we could eat a later dinner tonight. You know, that it might be nice to actually eat dinner rather than shovel bites of food in our mouths in between tending to the needs of children. Have an actual conversation instead of listening to children blabber on about nothing or make smartass comments about how our food sucks or just scream and throw their food on the floor."
"You have a point," he said. And off I went.
I suffered through my 40 minutes of treadmill torture, and I made it. Yaaaaay. But it was hard, probably because I've done nothing in a week. But I did it. Not long after I got home, the toddler was off to the tub, and finally, blissfully, thankfully, off to bed.
I'd been obsessing over pumpkin soup since I got a bowl from the Hen House Market salad bar on Friday. It was AWESOME. And I felt I could easily recreate it, seeing as how I own a $400 blender and could puree a cat if I really wanted to.
Alas, there is a pumpkin shortage, and I'm not paying almost 5 bucks for a can of "organic" pumpkin. So I bought a $2 butternut squash instead. Before I left for the gym, I cut it in half, scooped out the guts, put it cut-side down in a Pyrex 9x13 dish, and stuck it in the oven at 350 for 45 minutes. I instructed Ben to just turn off the oven when the timer went off and I would deal with it when I got home. By the time I set about making dinner, the pan was still warm but the squash was nicely cooked and cool enough to work with.
I got out my stock pot and heated up about a tablespoon of canola oil. I sauteed a small yellow onion (chopped), added a little (okay, a lot) cayenne pepper, some thyme, a little cumin, a little ginger. I wanted to add a little sage but I couldn't find it because our "spice cabinet" is an abomination and I can't ever find shit in it. (I found the sage this morning.)
When the onion was nice and soft, I added about 4 tablespoons of diced garlic, half a stick of unsalted butter, and a little more ginger and cayenne. I attempted to scoop the squash out of its peel, but the peel was so soft, most of it ended up going in, too. I cooked that a few minutes, then added roughly 3 cans of chicken broth and let that simmer for a while.
While it was simmering, I put together a kick-ass pizza. We had a thin-crust Boboli in the freezer that worked swimmingly with the topping I put together--5 slices of bacon, cooked til crispy, then crumbled and set aside; one leek sauteed in a tiny bit of the bacon fat; a handful of arugula and a larger handful of spinach, added to the leeks to wilt; about 1/2 cup of light ricotta cheese and maybe a 1/4 cup of feta; add the bacon and mix the whole mess together, spread on the crust, sprinkle with parmesan, and bake for a few minutes.
While the pizza was in the oven, I pureed the soup in the $400 Blender and gave it a taste.
It was fucking delicious. And the pizza? Even better.
We sat at our dining room table, even used the dimmer switch on the light, and listened to some music. We drank beer, slurped soup, ate gourmet pizza. No one screamed, no one asked for a drink as soon as we sat down, no one need more, no one threw their food on the floor or on the cats.
It was bliss.
We've resolved to do this again. Like, every Saturday night that we're down one kid (because the older one goes to bed slightly later). It wasn't as good as dinner out--it was better. Because we didn't have to wait for some dumb server, we didn't have to listen to annoying other people, we didn't have the spectre of "think of all the money you're wasting" looming over us and spoiling our mojo. And I could sit there in my gym clothes all gross and it didn't matter.
But the real high point of the evening was I did it--I created a delicious dinner, cooking by guess and by golly, like I used to years ago. I showed those New Yorkers that I may not have their fancy gadgets or their awesome grocery stores or unlimited disposable income or a nanny, but I still have a tiny kitchen and can use it to create fantastic dishes all by myself.
Because I'm just that awesome.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
A Window of Opportunity
We had some dudes come over this morning from a Major Home Improvement Retailer to give us the skinny on replacing our shitty windows. Our house was built in the 50s, and I'm reasonably certain no window has been upgraded since then. Of course our delightful MHIR salesperson drew up a quote with their "recommended" window brand, which comes with the top-of-the-line quality windows and a 20 year warranty to boot. That's all good, but I'm not planning to die in this house, and if we happen to sell in less than 20 years, I'm not really interested in giving our buyers my window warranty and getting little to nothing back on that particular investment. So I had him re-do the paperwork with the standard, subpar, shitty windows, because at this point, we could tape plastic Target bags over holes in the walls and be better off. The end figures were a lot better than I'd originally anticipated, but still about five times what we can reasonably afford. We've decided to go ahead and replace at least the windows in the three bedrooms (one child's window won't open; the other's won't close), figuring that's where we lose most of our heat and therefore, cash. And at least now we know what it will likely cost to replace the windows in the rest of the house, and next year's tax refund is earmarked for that purpose.
I'm still nervous about handing over that kind of cash given our financial situation at the moment. We're surviving--but barely. Our situation is such that in the event of an unexpected major expense, we would be up shit creek sans paddle. We're not able to make much of a dent in our credit card debt, either. I had hoped to have all of that out of the way by the end of this year, but considering I'm spending about twice as much on gas just to get to and from this fantastic new job of mine, it's not going to happen.
And I feel guilty about it all. I feel like I put us in this position because I'm too big of a baby to suck it up and take one for the team. Yes, my last job was dehumanizing, demoralizing and made me want to kill myself on a regular basis--but at least we were starting to make headway at the salary it paid. I'm definitely happier in my current position, but the cash situation is stressing me out to the point I have to wonder...was it worth it?
Ben had an interview at one of his former employer's competitors last week. The prognosis is positive that they will at least call him back for a second interview. He's hoping an offer for a substantially higher salary is a possibility. I certainly hope so. But just like I don't plan our budget around the child support payments that may or may not be made, I can't count chickens that are yet to hatch and feel good about it.
I'm still nervous about handing over that kind of cash given our financial situation at the moment. We're surviving--but barely. Our situation is such that in the event of an unexpected major expense, we would be up shit creek sans paddle. We're not able to make much of a dent in our credit card debt, either. I had hoped to have all of that out of the way by the end of this year, but considering I'm spending about twice as much on gas just to get to and from this fantastic new job of mine, it's not going to happen.
And I feel guilty about it all. I feel like I put us in this position because I'm too big of a baby to suck it up and take one for the team. Yes, my last job was dehumanizing, demoralizing and made me want to kill myself on a regular basis--but at least we were starting to make headway at the salary it paid. I'm definitely happier in my current position, but the cash situation is stressing me out to the point I have to wonder...was it worth it?
Ben had an interview at one of his former employer's competitors last week. The prognosis is positive that they will at least call him back for a second interview. He's hoping an offer for a substantially higher salary is a possibility. I certainly hope so. But just like I don't plan our budget around the child support payments that may or may not be made, I can't count chickens that are yet to hatch and feel good about it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
I Don't Like You, Either.
Don't take it personally. I don't like anyone today.
I woke up this morning at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm clock went off. At 5:27 a.m., my husband got up to pee. I stayed in bed and contemplated how much I hate the sound of him peeing. About how much it irritates the shit out of me the way he's obsessed with the toilet in our bathroom, and will stand next to it for no fewer than five minutes every time he flushes it rather than just FIXING IT and being done with it. About how everything he's done for the past week has made me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, cartoon-style.
It's not him. It's me.
Correction--it's not me, either. It's February.
February!
I don't like myself, either. Last night, the toddler did what non-talkers do instead of saying "no thank you, mother, I don't particularly desire to be held at this moment"--meaning he clawed me in the face and put a nice scratch on my upper lip. It doesn't look like the scratch of a non-talking toddler, it looks like herpes. And I have a healing zit mere centimeters from that spot, so it really looks like herpes. And I need a haircut. And I'm pasty. And dry. And I feel fat as hell. I made it through the workday without sugar, but then I came home and had a Tootsie Pop (thanks, Bob) and 170 calories' worth of Dove bar.
I don't like my kids. We have no babysitters, period, so our opportunities to coexist as adults with any interest in one another are rare and far between. I was thinking tonight what a cold, lonely, "you're on your own" sort of world parenting is in this society of ours, and how if we could just get one evening a week alone without our children, our outlook on the world (and certainly each other) might improve exponentially. I thought about how relaxed and calm our lives would be if we didn't have children--we'd probably both hit the gym on our way home from work, then come home refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to hit the shower, come out clean, and spend a quiet evening cooking up a fabulous dinner together, which we would eat leisurely either in front of the tv (adult programming, not Nick Jr.) or in a dimly-lit dining room. Or in bed. Whatever. You know, like we used to do, when the older child was at his biological father's house and before we decided to spawn one of our own. And so clear was this image of the perfect evening, so simple, so brilliant, in my head, I damn near wept over it.
Then I walked in the house and saw the toddler, butt in the air, attempting to pick up his binky from the floor using only his mouth. And then I remembered how damned sweet and precious and cute he is, and his older brother too. And then I felt guilty. And descended further into my downward spiral of self-loathing.
I found a new food blog today. I'd be in love if not for the fact this blogger also lives in NYC, also doesn't appear to have a full (or part) time job aside from blogging, and has ample time to create some of the most delicious looking things I've seen this side of Dean and Deluca. What the hell? I thought people in NYC lived in tiny little shitheap apartments with $5000 a month rent and kitchens the size of the one in Barbie's townhouse. Apparently they all have better kitchens than even mine, have more gadgets than I will ever own (this one has her own cherry pitter), and have more free time and disposable income than I will ever have, ever ever ever. She probably has a nanny, too.
Bitch.
Oh, February, you suck so bad. When will you end (don't anyone say "16 days" or I'll take you hostage, swear to God) and release me from your frozen grasp? When will you allow my eyes to see daylight once again? Every year I swear I won't make it through another winter, and every year, I do...but it keeps getting harder.
I woke up this morning at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm clock went off. At 5:27 a.m., my husband got up to pee. I stayed in bed and contemplated how much I hate the sound of him peeing. About how much it irritates the shit out of me the way he's obsessed with the toilet in our bathroom, and will stand next to it for no fewer than five minutes every time he flushes it rather than just FIXING IT and being done with it. About how everything he's done for the past week has made me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, cartoon-style.
It's not him. It's me.
Correction--it's not me, either. It's February.
February!
I don't like myself, either. Last night, the toddler did what non-talkers do instead of saying "no thank you, mother, I don't particularly desire to be held at this moment"--meaning he clawed me in the face and put a nice scratch on my upper lip. It doesn't look like the scratch of a non-talking toddler, it looks like herpes. And I have a healing zit mere centimeters from that spot, so it really looks like herpes. And I need a haircut. And I'm pasty. And dry. And I feel fat as hell. I made it through the workday without sugar, but then I came home and had a Tootsie Pop (thanks, Bob) and 170 calories' worth of Dove bar.
I don't like my kids. We have no babysitters, period, so our opportunities to coexist as adults with any interest in one another are rare and far between. I was thinking tonight what a cold, lonely, "you're on your own" sort of world parenting is in this society of ours, and how if we could just get one evening a week alone without our children, our outlook on the world (and certainly each other) might improve exponentially. I thought about how relaxed and calm our lives would be if we didn't have children--we'd probably both hit the gym on our way home from work, then come home refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to hit the shower, come out clean, and spend a quiet evening cooking up a fabulous dinner together, which we would eat leisurely either in front of the tv (adult programming, not Nick Jr.) or in a dimly-lit dining room. Or in bed. Whatever. You know, like we used to do, when the older child was at his biological father's house and before we decided to spawn one of our own. And so clear was this image of the perfect evening, so simple, so brilliant, in my head, I damn near wept over it.
Then I walked in the house and saw the toddler, butt in the air, attempting to pick up his binky from the floor using only his mouth. And then I remembered how damned sweet and precious and cute he is, and his older brother too. And then I felt guilty. And descended further into my downward spiral of self-loathing.
I found a new food blog today. I'd be in love if not for the fact this blogger also lives in NYC, also doesn't appear to have a full (or part) time job aside from blogging, and has ample time to create some of the most delicious looking things I've seen this side of Dean and Deluca. What the hell? I thought people in NYC lived in tiny little shitheap apartments with $5000 a month rent and kitchens the size of the one in Barbie's townhouse. Apparently they all have better kitchens than even mine, have more gadgets than I will ever own (this one has her own cherry pitter), and have more free time and disposable income than I will ever have, ever ever ever. She probably has a nanny, too.
Bitch.
Oh, February, you suck so bad. When will you end (don't anyone say "16 days" or I'll take you hostage, swear to God) and release me from your frozen grasp? When will you allow my eyes to see daylight once again? Every year I swear I won't make it through another winter, and every year, I do...but it keeps getting harder.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Sad, Sad State of Affairs
There is a reason why February is only 28 days long. They try to sneak that 29th day in there, but they're only brave enough to do so every 4 years. The reason is simple--if February were any longer, we would all fucking kill each other by the time it was over.
February is, by far, the most horrible of the 12 months. It's cold. It's dark. It's gray. It snows every fucking day. You get slapped in the face the first week with a reminder there's still SIX WEEKS left of this winter drudgery (and then they insult your intelligence by expecting you to believe it's the fault of some Rodent Of Unusual Size). Your kids are off school for Presidents' Day, which is possibly the dumbest "holiday" ever conceived of--yet you are still expected to go to work because real businesses don't close for Presidents' Day. You could, of course, take a vacation day, because who doesn't want to take a vacation day on a Monday in the middle of February? Or maybe you're one of the lucky ones (like me) who work in the banking industry or some government-related job and you're off that day--congratulations, you get to spend the day stuck in the house with your kids! Yaaaaay!
Don't even get me started on Valentine's Day.
Actually, VD (as I prefer to call it) is the one bright spot in this wretched, wretched month. Because my husband and I agreed not to sweat it during our first year together, so the pressure's off. I buy a few cheap packages of valentines for my kids to pass out at school, a bag of Tootsie Pops for the older one to pass out with his, a couple of 3-4 piece candy hearts and a card for each kid, everyone's happy and I'm out 5, 6 bucks tops. And everywhere you go, there is candy. Candy in hearts. Candy in the shape of flowers. Candy in the shape of body parts. Not just candy--CHOCOLATE. Your beacon of light in the fog-shrouded evening that is February.
Yeah, I haven't been to the gym all week. I went on a post-dinner binge tonight that included a few rice cakes, some hard-boiled eggs and a toaster strudel (for starters). I'm pretty sure the last 10 pounds I wanted to finally get rid of is now the last 15 (possibly 17). I haven't been to the gym since Sunday.
Nobody loves me, everyone hates me, I guess I'll go out and eat worms.
As soon as I can find a shovel strong enough to dig them out of the frozen earth.
February is, by far, the most horrible of the 12 months. It's cold. It's dark. It's gray. It snows every fucking day. You get slapped in the face the first week with a reminder there's still SIX WEEKS left of this winter drudgery (and then they insult your intelligence by expecting you to believe it's the fault of some Rodent Of Unusual Size). Your kids are off school for Presidents' Day, which is possibly the dumbest "holiday" ever conceived of--yet you are still expected to go to work because real businesses don't close for Presidents' Day. You could, of course, take a vacation day, because who doesn't want to take a vacation day on a Monday in the middle of February? Or maybe you're one of the lucky ones (like me) who work in the banking industry or some government-related job and you're off that day--congratulations, you get to spend the day stuck in the house with your kids! Yaaaaay!
Don't even get me started on Valentine's Day.
Actually, VD (as I prefer to call it) is the one bright spot in this wretched, wretched month. Because my husband and I agreed not to sweat it during our first year together, so the pressure's off. I buy a few cheap packages of valentines for my kids to pass out at school, a bag of Tootsie Pops for the older one to pass out with his, a couple of 3-4 piece candy hearts and a card for each kid, everyone's happy and I'm out 5, 6 bucks tops. And everywhere you go, there is candy. Candy in hearts. Candy in the shape of flowers. Candy in the shape of body parts. Not just candy--CHOCOLATE. Your beacon of light in the fog-shrouded evening that is February.
Yeah, I haven't been to the gym all week. I went on a post-dinner binge tonight that included a few rice cakes, some hard-boiled eggs and a toaster strudel (for starters). I'm pretty sure the last 10 pounds I wanted to finally get rid of is now the last 15 (possibly 17). I haven't been to the gym since Sunday.
Nobody loves me, everyone hates me, I guess I'll go out and eat worms.
As soon as I can find a shovel strong enough to dig them out of the frozen earth.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Mostly Shitty with a Chance of Suck
That pretty much describes our weather. No, we don't have 8 feet of drifting snow on the ground like our compadres on the east coast--but to be fair, it's not like they all live in a climate where that's unheard of. If Florida got 8 feet of snow, I'd feel sorry for them. Well, not really, because they NEVER get 8 feet of snow or any snow for that matter, so on the ridiculous chance of an Act of God wherein they got 8 feet of snow, it'd be pbbbbbbttt on them. But east coast? Nah. Don't feel sorry for them.
Especially not since we have ice. Ice, ice, baby. And just as it wasn't good on the charts, it's not good on the streets, either. And since the temperatures are barely supposed to climb out of the teens until Wednesday, tomorrow isn't looking so great, either.
So I was really good eating-wise all day until I had a Snack Attack around 2:30 and went to the machine. I stuck in my dollar and selected Sun Chips. Reasonable. Except my package got stuck on the little metal corkscrew thingy and I wasn't about to let A DOLLAR go down the tubes. So I stuck another dollar in and got two bags of Sun Chips. I told myself I was going to save the other pack, but I knew damn good and well that bag wouldn't make it to see 3:30.
And I was right.
Then I came home and ate not one but TWO helpings of cheese ravioli with peas and bacon for dinner. Did I mention the chips and pineapple salsa my husband and I munched on while we were cooking said pasta?
And it's cold and shitty enough outside that I don't want to leave the house again. As much as I really do want to go to the gym, it's painfully cold out. The kind of cold that makes you fold in two as soon as it hits you. That, coupled with the icy roads...yeah. Call it a day.
Maybe I should just resign myself to a Bad Eating Day and spend the evening on the sofa, under Super Blanket, eating crap and candy. Except I don't think we have any chocolate. Except my husband could always make me a malt.
Mmmmm...malt.
Especially not since we have ice. Ice, ice, baby. And just as it wasn't good on the charts, it's not good on the streets, either. And since the temperatures are barely supposed to climb out of the teens until Wednesday, tomorrow isn't looking so great, either.
So I was really good eating-wise all day until I had a Snack Attack around 2:30 and went to the machine. I stuck in my dollar and selected Sun Chips. Reasonable. Except my package got stuck on the little metal corkscrew thingy and I wasn't about to let A DOLLAR go down the tubes. So I stuck another dollar in and got two bags of Sun Chips. I told myself I was going to save the other pack, but I knew damn good and well that bag wouldn't make it to see 3:30.
And I was right.
Then I came home and ate not one but TWO helpings of cheese ravioli with peas and bacon for dinner. Did I mention the chips and pineapple salsa my husband and I munched on while we were cooking said pasta?
And it's cold and shitty enough outside that I don't want to leave the house again. As much as I really do want to go to the gym, it's painfully cold out. The kind of cold that makes you fold in two as soon as it hits you. That, coupled with the icy roads...yeah. Call it a day.
Maybe I should just resign myself to a Bad Eating Day and spend the evening on the sofa, under Super Blanket, eating crap and candy. Except I don't think we have any chocolate. Except my husband could always make me a malt.
Mmmmm...malt.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Right Direction
Here is today's "Weight Log" from my account at Calorie Count:
Notice the line goes down. As it rightfully should, given I have busted my own balls all week.
Here's to continuing the trend.
Notice the line goes down. As it rightfully should, given I have busted my own balls all week.Here's to continuing the trend.
Super Sunday
Yeah, I couldn't care less about the Stupid Big Game or the commercials or whatever. Although I'm sure I'll be forced to endure it because I do, after all, live with a dude. So that said, I am looking forward to the commercials. As much as they're paying for them, they oughta be good.
More of that fluffy white shit in the forecast for today. My morning tomorrow is going to suck. Dare I say I'm getting used to it? At least I have a Fivebucks gift card with $16 left to spend, so I can spend that hour-plus in my car with good coffee. It's the little things, you know.
I'm going to go to Target today to spend some more Money I Don't Have. We've got a dude coming out next Saturday to give us an estimate on new windows. I think I'm going to have him break it down to a room-by-room cost. Hey, we're paying $30 for the damn estimate, it's going to be worth my money. At best it looks like we will end up replacing just the windows in the bedrooms this year, but that will be a worthwhile investment for sure. It will be delightful to be able to actually open (and close) our bedroom windows and have fresh air coming in (instead of bugs).
I'm also going to the gym today. It's a straight cardio day. I just hope I can make it a whole 50 minutes.
More of that fluffy white shit in the forecast for today. My morning tomorrow is going to suck. Dare I say I'm getting used to it? At least I have a Fivebucks gift card with $16 left to spend, so I can spend that hour-plus in my car with good coffee. It's the little things, you know.
I'm going to go to Target today to spend some more Money I Don't Have. We've got a dude coming out next Saturday to give us an estimate on new windows. I think I'm going to have him break it down to a room-by-room cost. Hey, we're paying $30 for the damn estimate, it's going to be worth my money. At best it looks like we will end up replacing just the windows in the bedrooms this year, but that will be a worthwhile investment for sure. It will be delightful to be able to actually open (and close) our bedroom windows and have fresh air coming in (instead of bugs).
I'm also going to the gym today. It's a straight cardio day. I just hope I can make it a whole 50 minutes.
Friday, February 5, 2010
3 Piggy Opera
Monday evening, I was going through Bob's school bag (and the 9 million pieces of paper the school district insists on sending home even though very few students live in homes without Internet access) when I came across the event calendar for February. I was checking for any news on a talent show (it appears this may be the first year without one) when I noticed an entry for Thursday 2/4 - "2nd Grade Performance - 3 Piggy Opera - 6:30pm."
Say what?
"Bob, is this '3 Piggy Opera' something you're supposed to go to school for?"
(Incoherent mumbling)
Mm-hmm. "I'll email your teacher tomorrow to find out for sure."
Sure enough, a notice had been sent home some time ago, but Bob's mysteriously never made it to our house. The second notice, stapled to his planner by his teacher, came home on Tuesday. Indeed, the 2nd Graders were to be at the school by 6:15 on Thursday to present their program, which they've apparently been working on for the past six weeks.
Bob seemed entirely not thrilled. References to the "stupid pig opera" were made, but no reason for this disdain were offered. Finally, Thursday morning, he admitted to Ben he was "a little nervous."
At first it seemed ludicrous. Bob has always been an extrovert and never known a stranger. Bob has never passed up an opportunity to act ridiculous for a laugh. Bob was in the talent show last year, for pete's sake.
That said, Bob's extrovert behavior seemed to take place during his manic periods, and over the past year, he's been increasingly self-conscious around people he doesn't know. And even though he was in the talent show, I was on stage with him, and even then, he seemed to freeze up more than I'd expected.
We went out for pizza prior to the show, and he was happy and chatty and ate like, well, a pig. When we got to school, he advised me I was to go find a seat while he went to his classroom. I watched him walk down the hall, confident, without any obvious apprehension.
Then I watched as he filed onto the stage with the rest of his class. His eyes scanned the room, and then he seemed to physically shrink a good three inches. Maybe four.
Holy crap--my kid has stage fright.
Still, he made it through, and he certainly wasn't the only kid who looked like he'd rather be at the dentist. Afterward, he was almost giddy with relief at having the whole business behind him. On the way home, he told me the reason he doesn't like to smile on stage is because "I feel stupid."
Today, I got the results from his gifted program testing in the mail. He tested in the 98th to 99th percentile in all but one area, where he tested average. The notice stated the tester felt his actual result would have been higher but he was hampered by either anxiety or just a simple lack of knowledge because of his age. But the part that really threw me--his math scores place him at the 3rd grade, 7th month level. A full year and then some ahead of where he actually is.
If he didn't look just like me, I'd swear he was an alien.
Say what?
"Bob, is this '3 Piggy Opera' something you're supposed to go to school for?"
(Incoherent mumbling)
Mm-hmm. "I'll email your teacher tomorrow to find out for sure."
Sure enough, a notice had been sent home some time ago, but Bob's mysteriously never made it to our house. The second notice, stapled to his planner by his teacher, came home on Tuesday. Indeed, the 2nd Graders were to be at the school by 6:15 on Thursday to present their program, which they've apparently been working on for the past six weeks.
Bob seemed entirely not thrilled. References to the "stupid pig opera" were made, but no reason for this disdain were offered. Finally, Thursday morning, he admitted to Ben he was "a little nervous."
At first it seemed ludicrous. Bob has always been an extrovert and never known a stranger. Bob has never passed up an opportunity to act ridiculous for a laugh. Bob was in the talent show last year, for pete's sake.
That said, Bob's extrovert behavior seemed to take place during his manic periods, and over the past year, he's been increasingly self-conscious around people he doesn't know. And even though he was in the talent show, I was on stage with him, and even then, he seemed to freeze up more than I'd expected.
We went out for pizza prior to the show, and he was happy and chatty and ate like, well, a pig. When we got to school, he advised me I was to go find a seat while he went to his classroom. I watched him walk down the hall, confident, without any obvious apprehension.
Then I watched as he filed onto the stage with the rest of his class. His eyes scanned the room, and then he seemed to physically shrink a good three inches. Maybe four.
Holy crap--my kid has stage fright.
Still, he made it through, and he certainly wasn't the only kid who looked like he'd rather be at the dentist. Afterward, he was almost giddy with relief at having the whole business behind him. On the way home, he told me the reason he doesn't like to smile on stage is because "I feel stupid."
Today, I got the results from his gifted program testing in the mail. He tested in the 98th to 99th percentile in all but one area, where he tested average. The notice stated the tester felt his actual result would have been higher but he was hampered by either anxiety or just a simple lack of knowledge because of his age. But the part that really threw me--his math scores place him at the 3rd grade, 7th month level. A full year and then some ahead of where he actually is.
If he didn't look just like me, I'd swear he was an alien.
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