Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder...

So it's been a month and A) I haven't been carted away by the police, B) I've retained some water along with a measure of sanity, C) this blogging thing has proven to be a therapeutic outlet for my grey cells and D) I seem to have a lost a wee iota of blobness.  Not much, not exactly noticeable to the naked eye, but there's somethin' goin' on.  I'm allowing a soupcon of a smile to play on my lips, but I'm still staring up the sides of Mt. Babe-osa and damn, it's high!  But I've started and I'm not ready to beat it back to the chalet just yet...

There has been a tangential project while I've been on this trek (I alluded to it a couple o' posts ago) and that is the wonderful world of dating sites.  And by "wonderful" I mean "ego-crushing", "self-questioning" and "soul-stomping".  Not weep worthy, to be sure, but jeez...

OK, here's what one site does for you in your search for twoo wuv: after an exhaustive questionaire asking one's feelings regarding everything from "perfect date" to "boxers vs briefs", it then matches you up with likely victims...er...candidates.  It would appear that my ideal mates are probably in their 60's-70's, fond of walks (notice how it doesn't say "long" walks), and are seeking a companion for their twilight years.  Oh, and I'm not to be shocked by the ventilator.  The mere fact that me as the perfect partner might also have the same attributes as a poodle kinda makes me edgy.  But I am toilet-trained.  Take that, Trixie Foo Foo!!

Now don't think I didn't scroll through the boys myself and tried to make contact with 'em.  I sent out short messages along the lines of "Nice profile, nice smile, check out my profile and let me know if you're interested and if not, good luck and all the best."  Responses varied from the exhaustive "Nope." to "Wow, you're really smart, what a charming profile shot, you're the funnest profile I've read! Good luck!!"

Good luck?  You've just taken the time to email me back, essentially saying that I was a terrific gal but NO? What did I miss here?  Oh, maybe they were being nice, letting me down easy.  In the most abrupt way possible.  I had several responses that paraphrased the above, too.  "You intrigue me", "I've a thing for mischievious smiles", "You've made my day" and then BLAMMO "Hope you find that special someone."  I hope they find anthrax...(shallow? Mean? A drought of this magnitude requires harsh words...)

The best was one guy - kinda looked like Gordon Ramsay.  We exchanged a message (pre-written by the site) and then I asked for his detailed list of "Must haves/Can't stands" (this is a formal questionaire).  On his, he couldn't stand overweight people and needed someone who was "attractive by today's standards".  Seeing as I am overweight and the poster-girl for "Lovelies of the 1890's", I sent him a message saying that, because of his preference, we shouldn't continue. So I closed the match.  Fair I thought.  Then I got a request from him to re-open the match.  Wow, I thought, maybe he's willing to overlook my poundage and non-super model face.  So I re-opened and sent him a message that I had done so.  He then closed the match.  I got virtually dumped.  He couldn't stand the thought of some blob possibly denying him and therefore dumped me.  And got his penis back, no doubt...(ok, that was mean.  Mea culpa.  But it felt good to write it.)

Alrighty, undaunted by the douche baggery of it all, I joined another site.  For half an hour.  No sooner had I posted but boom, boom, boom, messages came flying back at me like an artillery bombardment.  "Hey sexy", "Nice mouth" and "Mmm, I want me some of that" dirtied up my monitor.  One of them actually sounded like a reasonable person so I checked their profile.  OK, when did the header "Interests" suddenly include things like "Oral", "Threesomes" and "Spanking good times"?? Whatever happened to "Hockey" and "Fine Dining"?  "Carpentry" fercrissakes?? This wasn't even in the "Intimate (read: Between the sheets) Encounters" section!! I removed my profile, removed my clothes and took a shower.  Ewwwwww....

Then I took one more shot on another site.  Now this one could be labelled the "I'm gonna be honest with you" site because almost every message back to my request for a "hook-up" , came back with that preamble.  "I'm gonna be honest (IGBH), you seem nice and all but you look like my ex", "IGBH, I don't like overweight women", "IGBH, I want a woman with high cheekbones" and la creme de la creme "IGBH, I want a woman I can be proud of."

BARTENDER!!

Another service this site offerered was, by virtue of your profile, they could determine the chemistry that would likely result between you and another member.  They would grade it on a percentile.  And so I looked up who on the site would at least fall into the 85%+ group.  I swear to the Omnipotent, one guy's profile shot was him taking his picture in the bathroom at his black eye.  Swollen shut a la Rocky Balboa.  His one interest: Stuff.  Another bring-home-to mom-eriffic chap listed his interests as 1)cars, 2)race-cars and 3)imported cars.  His perfect date night: Let's get wasted and see where it goes.  If it "goes" in a car after, we can "go" to the police station. Dreamy.

MAKE IT A DOUBLE!!

And constant with all 3 sites: who said one's site name, handle as 'twere, should end in "'r" as in "Lov'r", "Gambl'r" or "Hugg'r"? A moment of silence for the neglected "e". *sniff*

*sigh* Yes, yes, I know, these are people that don't even know me and I shouldn't take their doucheness to heart (such a flexible word: Douche).  I would have thought that my profile posts would've enabled them to see past the shell and into the pearl.  Alas, no.  And to be perfectly honest, there were some pictures of fellas that were less than agreeable to mine eyes, and yes I skimmed over them without even looking at their profile.  I'm not standing on some lofty windswept pedestal.  Hmmm, maybe I'll go back and re-join once I get me a helping of humble pie. 

Which will taste delicious when coupled with a Drambuie. 

So I'm going to focus on one thing at a time - I'll take care of the bod and let the heart go by the wayside for a little while longer.  But when Valentine's Day hits, lock up your sons!  And Grandpa, bring your ventilator, you're gonna need it!!

LiliLaLarge

Hitler flunked art school

Balance.  Perspective. 

Those two words have haunted me this week. Though they have been ever present, they remained aloof and ellusive. Psyche-teasers, if you will.  Everything this week presented a challenge and, for reasons I can't fully fathom, I lost my balance and sense of perspective. Objects in the mirror were faaaaaar closer than they actually were. To whit:

There was not one criticism, large or small, constructive or not, that didn't cut me off at the knees. I'm a grown-up and can take it as well as I can dish it out, but everything to my ears sounded like I had a contracted a bad case of yernotgoodenufitis. This was mirrored in both my personal and professional life and the stereo effect was deafening. I felt pressure building up in my brain, in my heart...and *snap*

I have a violent temper. It takes a while to get stoked, but once the button has been pushed, the Hulk-effect is in full sail. I recognized this from an early age and have worked very hard to contain it. Most people who know me, and I mean really know me, may not have ever seen it. But it is huge, so keeping it "together" or in reality squashed, results in an even greater fury. And this makes me so upset I can barely speak. So I did the next best thing to exploding - I punched a wall with the heel of my hand and now it really hurts. The wall remains unscathed. Stupid wall...The alternative would've have meant screaming in Sailorese with kicking and more punching. Fairly similar to a 6 year old whose mother won't buy them the latest/greatest. 

Did I get it out of my system? Well, if I could remember what "it" was, I could probably tell you. I can say it was 1 of a thousand hits I felt I took this week. That's how I felt. And if video replay was an available app for the human experience, I'd bet dollars to donuts that I wouldn't be able to identify the culprit.  Because now that I'm feeling a bit more BALANCED...with a better sense of PERSPECTIVE, I can safely assume that it was something that under different stars would have flowed off me with nary a glance. Water, meet duck back.  

My personal life is important, terribly important to speak truly and rather obviously, but I cannot sustain 24 hour surveillance as to how I'm feeling. It's unrealistic. Many self-help books recommend "checking in" with your "heart center" to monitor how you are experiencing your...um...experience.  I'd lose my freaking mind.  And probably not get very much done.

Hmmm, how am I feeling?
This sucks! 
And how am I feeling now?
It's still sucking!

My professional life isn't the most important thing to me. It's up there, no doubt, but most? To the exclusion of all else? No. I really enjoy what I do, but there are some moments of sheer drudgery.  Every occupation possesses this trait. The CEO of a major company has worked long and hard to get where she/he is at, but are you gonna tell me they looooooove the shareholder's meeting with Mrs. Pleasedieski who wants to know where each nickel of her investment is being used? Do you honestly think that every rockstar chef has a climactic "event" in their pants every time they dice carrots? I wager that every vet adores animals but they'd sell their children into slavery if they didn't have to stare up the business end of a pekinese ever again.

I need my job to pay my rent, keep me productive and to make me feel like I'm actually making a difference on this planet. I've got to keep my personal life if order to make the whole journey worth it. One cannot outweigh the other...well, maybe personal sneaks in a few extra pounds. I kinda like me and my peeps. But I must keep it in perspective. Just weigh things at their true value.  Is this worth losing my marbles, screws and other assorted hardware?  That's the question I have to ask myself when these crisis occur.

The road to babeness includes not only checking up on your thighs and underarm jiggle -  howze your brain doing?  Anything make you sad today?  Anything make you happy? When you stand on the scales, weigh the other stuff too. Remember, take a look at the whole picture and see if there is balance and perspective in your portrait.  Otherwise, you'll wind up like Hitler.

(WTF??ed.)
Why, I thought you'd never ask!

Before Uncle Adolf took out his massacre machine of a mind out for a spin, he went to art school because he truly believed he had the soul of an artist. The young Hitler drew and painted and pasteled his heart out, envious of the other students whom the muse had singled out for her favours. At the end of it all, he got a failing grade.  It seems he had an acute problem with balance and perspective.  And he never cracked that nut.

LiliLaLarge

PS-This post is dedicated to DF.  Thank you.
PPS-There is a perceptible sag in the ass of my jeans. Not my ass, the jeans' ass. yay!

Puttin' the "dis" in "discipline"

Snacking for Haiti.  I'm burning in hell...fire up the hibachi, boys!

We had a bake sale at work and all the proceeds will be going to help our devasted brothers and sisters currently living in hell.  I don't know the final figure, but I'm sure we did quite well.

And I helped.  Alot.

*sigh* One step forward, a Billy Cyrus "Achy-Breaky" line dance worth of steps back.  You know what my Waterloo is?  Anything dessert-like that ends in "ies": brownies, pecan sandies, cookies, candies, creme caramelies (That's not a word. ed.  It is in my world...)

But I was doing it for a good cause!  But, but...yeah, I coulda just forked over the dough and have done with it, but seriously you know how I feel about cup-cakes and if you don't it goes like this: a cake, in a cup, too small for sharing.  What's not to love?

Ah, but I was a good blob - I walked home from work and broke a sweat.  Got the workout togs on and walked s'more, and now I'm in the process of catching my breath.  And I hated every minute of it.  Sometimes when I work out, I get to that good spot when the heat is on, I'm pumpin' away and it feels gooooooood.  But this was a punishment workout.  Not the same vibe-age at all.  Every stride up the hill, I had this wee little voice saying,"That'll learn ya."  It reminded me of a documentary I watched the other day. 

During the Black Plague in the 1300's (just stick with me here), a group of fellas in Germany, poor monks mostly, had decided that this horrible sickness was due to God being angry - something God frequently was during the Middle Ages by all accounts.  In order to atone for their sins, and whatever else God may have had issue with, they decided to mimic Christ's punishing walk on the Via Delorosa on his way to Calvary.  And soooo....

They carried large wooden crosses and whipped themselves to bloody, pulpy messes.  And as Christ died for all of our sins, according to well-known and oft misinterpreted texts, so they would take on all the suffering of western Europe so God would lift the horrible plague.  So there they would go, from town to town, whippin' and bleedin' and pleadin' to God.  I swear, it was like a tour (big classic rock DJ voice) "Live for 2 weeks only, straight from the pits of Dusseldorf, on a mission to make you..FEEL...BAD and SAVE...YOUR...SOOOOOOOULS!!...The FLAGELLANTS!"

So rather than praying with their brethren, administering to the sick in their final agonizing hours, or any number of acts of comfort they could have done, they instead beat the bejeebus outta themselves. They'd beat themselves into a frenzy, proclaiming their guilt over and over again with there insane eyes raised to heaven.  Or merely clouds.  And to no avail.  The plague literally ate a third of the total population of Europe in the following year and a half.

So where am I going with this?  Guilt. Guilt is a powerful feeling and super-sucks as a motivator.  It's a cheat.  You are not doing the right thing for the right reason, you are doing it for the wrong reason and that, in a way, is a lie.  Lying to yourself.  "I will dispel all the bad, all my gluttony, in an orgy of workouts and physical punishment."  The bad has not been dispelled - the cookies aren't at fault (blameless cookies...good name for a band.  Beats the hell outta The Flagellants...no pun intended...).  No, the fault lies in me thinking "One won't hurt".  And it doesn't.  It's the 9 following that will ultimately "hurt".  And so, while stuffing my face, I think, "I'll work out later" and that gives me carte blanche to gourge, and then I feel guilty for doing so, and WHEEEE!! You must be this high to ride this ride.  Around and around and around...

Yes, I got the workout in, yay me, discipline thy name is Lili.

Blech.

The head space was all wrong and don't kid yourself-this journey requires some clean and open head space.  If you miss a workout because you are sick, don't kill yourself over it.  You're sick, fercryinoutloud!  Be easy on yourself, but be honest.  I wasn't honest and so the discipline of today was kinda sham.  And it got in the way of actually enjoying the exertion.  Crap. No fun.  But, like everything else I've encountered, I learn something from it. 

Do this because it does, ultimately, feel good.  And it does get better.  Don't beat yourself up-look at the bigger picture. You.  And you're working to one day be the smaller picture.  And at least you're working.  And this job has the best benefits ever.

LiliLaLarge

Your cheatin' carb...

My bum hurts.  Metaphorically speaking.

I fell off the carb wagon this weekend, but my Sealy-Postupedic of a butt cushioned the fall. Hooray. Let's look at the sirens that lured me with their evil wares:

When: Friday morning
What: raspberry scone
Where: cafe
Why: It's the beginnning of my long weekend!
Was it the right thing to do: I was celebrating the thought of doing as I pleased on a well deserved break. 
Was it worth it:  Yes.

When: Friday mid-afternoon
What: slice of pizza
Where: cinema
Why: the scone didn't really have anything in it to keep me going so I was famished.  Figured a slice had all the major food groups included so it would fill me up.
Was it the right thing to do: Within ten minutes of injesting it, I felt as though I was going to hurl. Too much salt in the processed cheese/meat-like products, too much sugar in the gummy dough. Pizza, why have you forsaken me??
Was it worth it: GAK! No.

When: Saturday morning
What: peameal bacon sandwich
Where: market
Why: after the pizza, I decided not to eat for the rest of the day (with brains like this, who needs looks?), so woke up about to chew my own arm. The pull of the piggy was too much for me, so I succumbed. 
Was it the right thing to do: what the hell, has someone dumped a bag of salt on the city of Toronto??  Didn't even bother with the roll it came in. I'd only be heartbroken.
Was it worth it: Terribly disappointed. 'Twas not the bacon of my youth.

When: Sunday morning
What: apple turnover
Where: cafe
Why: Sunday is only every 7 days...
Was it the right thing to do: I felt horrible and defeated by my lapses and tossed in the towel for the weekend. Made me ill enough to be better tomorrow, however.
Was it worth it: as my mood has fluctuated with the spikes of sugar and the accompanying low, I've learned a valuable lesson -

Eating the right stuff makes me, and sustains, a  happier individdle.

It's science and chemicals, children.  The sugary numminess appeases the craving, only to leave you wanting more shortly thereafter. And when you don't get it, your mood shifts. And swings. The longing for more sugar is akin to Stoker's novel - your blood craves the sugar. And the only way to get back to that wonderful place where all is tickety-boo is to have more. And you do. A vicious cycle with one gear and no brakes. 

I've been healthy and balanced all month long, I eat a couple of seemingly innocent bits that everyone else eats, fercrissakes, and I pay for it by crashing quite hard. Ick. Poo. Lesson learned.

So back to the market I went and stocked up on fruit.  The fruit that is going into my yogourt tomorrow morning.  The bursting bluberries and succulent strawberries will outlast anything a danish can do.  My furry kiwi friends will take the afternoon shift. 

And we begin again...

LiliLaLarge

PS-My backside also hurts because the walking regime has begun.  There is a hill on my street that will be my nemesis for the coming months. Sir Edmund Hillary had a Sherpa.  I have an Ipod.

GOOOOOOOOAL!!!

So if you were paying attention, the last post shoulda hit you right between the eyes - Lili La Large needs some lovin'.

To be brutally honest, my desire for babe-ness is, along with health considerations, a nod to the indisputable fact that my perpetual and almost pathological singleness has become...well...perpetual and pathological.

I've taken responsibility for my body and I'm doing what it takes, in a rational and informed way, to get back to the babe I was. However, I neither have this goal emblazoned on a t-shirt nor tatooed on my forehead, so what men see is just me. Or they don't see me at all.

And it ain't right. T'ain't fair, neither. 

I'm not going to bore you with the litany of lovliness that is me. Mostly 'cuz there isn't one. And it's not to a point of desperation (boys can smell desperation.  That and grilled meat from 15K away. Don't ask me how...).  It's really because I'm having a good time on this planet and gosh darnnit, it would just be the bee's knees to share it with a co-conspirator, as many of you have, no doubt, discovered. I'm not asking for the Holy Grail or the last Zhu Zhu on the shelf. Can it really be this hard? 

I work in an industry that is estrogen-heavy. Not that I don't love my sistah's, and there are a few fellas in the office, but we're talking a ratio of 1-10-ish (me and math again...oi veh). I work looooong hours and going to a bar to cruise is, as I've stated in an earlier post, nigh on becoming "that" girl at the bar, waiting to pounce on anything that carries the faintest whiff of testosterone; very popular and very barred. And so, what have I done, actively done to alter this situation? Why, I read some men's magazines, of course, to get the skinny on fat girls and dating.

Fat girls are kryptonite.

And here's a kicker - I'm too fat to be attractive, but not fat ENOUGH to be a fetish. Wow. I'll now buy that condo between a rock and a hard place. What's odd too is that (and I'm not the first person to point this out) on TV, you see fat guys and babes all the time! Grrrrrrr...You never the reverse. Double standard grrrrrrrr......Fine, fine, whatevs...Sheesh.

*sigh* I look at me sometimes and think, really? Am I that repugnant?  Then I think, c'mon, I don't look that bad...do I? What's so frigging wrong with me?? I'll walk away from the mirror and come back to it, give it and me a good hard stare and think, no. I don't look that bad. It can be made better. That's all. My hips will still be the same, my butt equally so, just on a smaller scale. No, I am not repulsive. There is nothing wrong with me. Deep breath...

I'm not going to go on the "oh, but I have a great personality" rant here for the simple reason that I'm talking about what people see. It's about the perceptions honed and marketed in the pages of those magazines. Oh, and in those articles (I'm talking Pulitzer prize winners like Maxim here), the general perception is that fat girls have *gasp* issues.  They have no confidence, they're lazy, they have baggage, etc.  And so, the Hot 100 feature gorgeous gals that are, natually, skinny. But some are scary. No really, Dr. Mengele scary. But they are perceived as disciplined and working hard to maintain their sexiness. The budgetary discipline derived from not buying, hence eating, any food and the work it takes to bend over a toilet every few hours. But thank God they're not fat!  Whew! Nope, no issues there. A baggage free zone. Yikes...

I'm not saying all guys read this crap and buy it outright.  Hell no!  But when you have "Sexy" "Hot" "You Want This" flashed like so many Christmas lights next to those images, what's a person to do?  And women's magazines show the same images with the same flashing lights. And we buy. And we're fucked.

So here I am. I'm working my way to babeness (and skwidgy, cuddly babeness, not the clackety-clack of bone hitting bone), but no one seeing me on the street knows that. So I have to suck it up for the nonce and wait for that first completely spontaneous smile aimed in my direction. Or hit the dating sites.

(tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock)

AAAAAARRRRRGGGG, I can't wait for the smile!!! Dating sites it is!

And oh my goodness, and what have I found there...?

LiliLaLarge

Sex and the Single Blob

There is none.  Carry on with your day.

Giddy up!

I'm not a great reader of self-help books. Call me biased (You're biased. ed.), but whenever I see the authors on talk shows, they really have a cookie cutter look about them. The women have impossibly kempt hair. The men use too much spray tan. And they all go to the same cosmetic orthodontist - not so much a mouthful of teeth but looking as though someone had surgically implanted a white picket fence on their gum line. And strange, whatever magic pill/philosophy/claptrap they yammer on about, be it getting out of debt, having a successful marriage, wearing the right clothes when, how to be happy, etc., they mostly all seem to have the same preamble:

"I used to be fat."

The implication is, to my mind, that being fat is the common denominator of failure with regards to debt, marriage woes, no sense of colour coordination, attaining true and lasting happiness and the rest. And it hints of ignorance as well. "Fat people must be dumb. They can't count calories, how can they possibly balance a cheque-book?"  "Fat people have a high risk of divorce because they repulse their mate. If they'd only lose weight it would spark it up again!" "This year, the look is tight. Fat people will be ugly and therefore not advance in the social strata."  You get the idea.

And so, these gurus go about fixing their woe of choice and they discover something amazing: wouldn't you know it, it was the weight that was holding them back all along!  They weren't irresponsible with money, their ass was too big! They didn't get promoted because of their shoddy work, it was their chaffing thighs that did them in!  Oh glory, halleluia, Nirvana was attained and now they can take their place amongst the financially sound, well dressed, happily married happy people!  And you can too!  Purchase the book/video/audio cassette/magic change purse, and you can join them in the rarified air of the blessed!  And you will be happy!

Fuck. That.

I'm not saying that everything in my life is bon-bons and puppies in baskets, but I've just spent the last 24 hours or so in a soaringly good mood.  I'm a fat gal that paid all her bills yesterday, got thanked by her superiors for doing a great job, expertly applied a new shade of lipstick, and got a hug.  I ate my healthy homemade lunch, went for a power walk after work, and have a long weekend to do whatever I choose.  And I am fat - with less than spectacular hair, skin of an indistinct pallor and teeth that are mine.  And I woke up giddy!

With every depressed phase I go through, I've been through enough that I know that it too shall pass and I will once again enjoy the kinda day I've had.  It's that faith thing again, but it's also allowing oneself to look at one thing, any thing, that brings a smile to your face and try to have that feeling touch on the spaces in your heart or soul that need a little brightening.  I'm telling you, that one seemingly miniscule particle of "YAY!" can be contagious. It can spread.  And it makes things so much easier.

Misery pushes people away from you.  A wee bit o' glee pulls 'em right in.  And you gotta have people with you for this journey, our journey here and now, because it's hard to stay focused and convinced and, well, happy with it all sometimes.  Frustration, anger, negative Nellies that crawl out of the woodwork, these things have to be held at bay, and if they do breach the barricades, your peeps can help you stem the tide.

And babies, seriously, sometimes you just gotta fake it. Here's what I do on those ick days; I force a smile onto this face and look in the mirror while I'm doing it.  I look like an idiot.  And then I giggle...

The gateway to giddy.

LiliLaLarge

Push me/Pull me

We all like a challenge.  That's what we say: on our resumes, to each other...I love a challenge!

 Really?

OK, straight up, I abhor challenges.  Can't you just accept me as this, can't you accept my thoughts as they are? Nope, want to see how you react to a challenge.

Fine. You wanna see?  OK, that's what I'm bringing...

The above is the conversation that I have with myself on a daily basis.  Everyday is a challenge.  Getting up is easy, what happens afterwards is the hard part.

I get up and I do yoga.  I haven't found my "zen" point, I haven't found the point wherein I feel at peace and all that good stuff.  I do it as a discipline for now.  Maybe one day I can feel the breath in my elbows, but for now, I'm just doing it for the "cod liver oil" effect: it's good for me.  And it's a fucking challenge.

I push myself to manifest the positions, I push myself to waken my body to poses that my thighs wish to go on strike over...push.

My work life is a non-ending challenge.  Despite the fact that I can complete the tasks given me, it is always a challenge to live up to the (sometimes) crazy, unwarranted demands of my superiors.  Push.

Moving forward, driving forward...this requires resilience and a stubborn belief that I can do it.  Another semi-push-up...push.  Another document checked and re-checked...push.

But where is the pull back?  When does it come back to me?

I was out this evening with DF (dear friend, for the newbies) and he is in a push me/pull me situation.  He is pushing himself (a challenge) into a new relationship. He'll go as far as working his heart and brain, but if it's wrong and it hurts, he will end  the challenge.  He knows the difference between a twinge and a throbbing pain.  And so he is all about pulling himself back to him, back to his own needs and wants.  And this is good.

Push yourself into a bit of ache, but when it starts to hurt, like "oh my god, what's the number for nine one one", stop. Pull it back to you. We should challenge out bodies, but let's be reasonable.  You cannot go from moribund to Usain Bolt in a day.  Yeah, the hot chickies on the video are doing 18 reps, but if you can only do 8, fuckit  it's better than the zero you do on the couch.  My math is sketchy, but I'm guessing you've just done 8 times more than zero.

Pull it back to you.  You are allowed, and indeed encouraged to go back to you.  You are the only one looking at you in the mirrow at the end of the day.  It's not selfish - hell, ask your friends and if they say things like, "You always think of the needs of others" or " You are always there for me", it's gotta make you wonder; when was the last time you were there for yourself? Just you, and your wants and your needs. 

You want slimmer thighs?  Challenge them for yourself.  You want to keep up with your kids? Move yourself.  You, my friend, you can get all grrrrrrr and clench your fists and say, straight to your face, "Bring it!"  We are sometimes our worst enemies.  For the next little while, be your best friend and demand nothing but what you can optimally give. 

It's just you. You won't beat yourself up after recess.

LiliLaLarge

Snacky-whacks

Is it any wonder we're a nation confused when it comes to food and dieting?!  Three square meals a day, they said. Whoops, change that. Six smaller meals, they tossed in. But wait! Don't forget snacks!  After all, we have to make sure our tum never gets to a point where it might make BAD CHOICES.  For the love of all that is good and holy, I was always told, in every conceivable diet book/mag on the market, that snacking was a BAD CHOICE.  But now snacking seems to be the only thing keeping a potentially mountainous person of lard at bay. And yup, I'm confused and flummoxed. Confoxed and flummused. Snacks, as I understand them, is a different food group and it exists for a different reason than feeding our bodies.  Allow me to elaborate...

Snacks. When I was a kid, a snack meant one thing: a cookie.  Kindergarten snack time meant a chocolate chip cookie and an apple. Not the most healthful of snacks, the apple notwithstanding, but my mom along with many other moms didn't consider this. It's a snack, fercrissakes, a treat!  More importantly, it was an enforced treat, that's why it had its own "time" just like "lunch time" and "dinner time". It was the perfect mixture of both natural and industrial sugars which would keep us just jittery and awake enough to ensure a glowing academic career. Once we learned how to spell our names.

Snack time was also a reward. A reward of food? you may gasp in horror. Hell yeah!  Bravo, you didn't wet your pants when you couldn't remember the letter after "R", have a snack.  Well done, you didn't bite Suzy Glockenspiel, you deserve a snack.  My brave little soldier didn't throw up on the gym teacher during dodgeball, this snack's for you.  People on diets are always told to reward themselves with other things: clothes or a mani-pedi. What do they really want? A snack.  A proper, hardly-good-for-you snack.

Back in the Middle-class-Ages, moms would even make snacks for when you got home!  Could anything be more wonderful, after a day of addition, subtraction, and *shudder* sharing, than a cupcake?  A cake...IN A CUP!!  Little person sized and too small for sharing!  It makes me weep just to think of it.  My mom's love for us was in every multicoloured sprinkle on the frosting.  This stuff didn't come in boxes or squeezeable plastic tubes; she made these from scratch.  The time she put into them, into these snacks, was her way of making sure we knew she was thinking about us. She was a busy lady and tired after a long day, but the cookies or cupcakes or muffins reminded us that we were in her thoughts.  Always.

I'm, therefore, fond of snacks. The proper kind. Not the kind currently using the name of "snack" when in fact, it is a ploy to weasel in more of the stuff we should be eating in the first place. A carrot stick, even the little baby ones made to look like some sort of veggie-candy, is not a snack.  It is a vegetable that we need as fuel. We need it's vitamins and nutrients. "Have some yogourt with nuts mixed in". Again, unsnack. We need calcium, protein, and even the nut oils as a wee bit of fat. This is stuff we need. It's not a snack. It's a sneak.  A snack is, by definition, something we don't need.

It is something we WANT!!

It should be made of fabulous, outrageous, should have laws against it yumminess dwelling in every bite.  Now here is the kicker about dieting and snacking - just like when we were kids, it should be a reward only and it should be the very best, and made with love.  We may think we deserve a reward everyday (Hey, I didn't shed someone's blood today!  I deserve a snack!). Wait until you are really proud of something.  Wait until you've accomplished something - it doesn't have to be big.  Just use some sense; you are trying to lose some weight after all.

Go for the highest quality chocolate, the perfectly constructed tiramisu, the sublimely soft souffle au citron.  And just a bit. Now we have to share. You'll want to because you're proud of whatever it is you've done and hell, who wouldn't want to crow over it over a $14 piece of cheesecake? 

And this good stuff is made by people who love what they do.  They take the time to assemble all the best bits for the perfect oatmeal cookie. Hershey Kisses are made in a factory. Ditto Doritos. Historically loveless places. Bakeries, and even butcher shops with their dried sausages (a favouite snack o' mine) are peopled with people who love what they do and want you to love it too. Oblige them. Sparingly. You'll appreciate your snack even more. 

So by all means, enjoy your celery and peanut butter sneak.  And when you can finally zip up those jeans, have a snack.  Because really...

You should love you, too.

LiliLaLarge

Fear and Bloating

Ow, ow, OOOOOOOWWW!

GodDAMmit, that hurts.  How in blazes is this supposed to be good for me again?

I'm speaking of a particular yoga pose: the plough.  Essentially, you're on your back with your patootie high in the air and your feet behind your head.  I used to be able to do this at the drop of a hat - both solo and accompanied (man, did it come in handy...hee-hee).  But now that I've revisited it, I don't recall being this blasted uncomfortable.

No. 1 - My larynx is being crushed by my own boobs.  What the hell did I ever do to them??  Spent a small fortune on lingerie (and kids, it's far more fun to pronounce that word with a hard "g"), massaged creams into 'em, all sorts of treats...and what do they do?  Flop over and try to strangle me.  Thanks a lot.

No. 2 - Did I lose a vertabra somewhere?  My back is really rebelling against the stretch here and I think it has to do with all the sitting.  Somewhere down my spinal cord, two back bones got so smushed together that they are now one, or merely refuse to let go of each other.  Touching, but I want to leave this world with the exact same number of bones owed to me.  Greedy?  Really?

No. 3 - I'm tensing because I'm worried I'm going to damage something, namely me.  I'm scared to hurt  bad, or yikes! seriously injure myself.

This is something I'm discovering during all my excercises - I'm worried that if I twist something, it won't untwist.  If I tear something, the tearing won't heal.  My knees are calling "foul" whenever I go for a walk.  I'm wearng the right shoes and all that good stuff, but I'm not a spring chicken.  A late-summer hen of the non-laying variety is more apt.

When I was in theatre school (and dinosaurs roamed the earth), we would spend almost 80% of class time on the floor.  During rehearsals, you'd sit to wait your turn, and you'd invariably be stretching to make sure your body was warmed up...at all times!  Movement class, improv, some voice classes, all of these did away with desks and we'd loll about. We'd lie on each other, massages were given and received with nary a request either way.  Our bodies could, and would, do anything.

I did a production of "Romeo and Juliet" wherein I played 3 characters, maybe more I forget, but I remember rehearsals being marathon fitness classes. Running around, dancing, we'd be on stage all the time.  Every now and then, we'd actually say something from the script but it was an incredibly physical show and my body went along for the ride.  I think I lost 30 lbs in the month and half of rehearsals and performance.  (BTW, it was an all-female R&J, with only Romeo being cast gender-correct.  All the women PMS-ed at the same time.  Poor bastard, I wonder if he ever recovered...)

And of course, the gold standard of flexibilty was the splits.  No problemo.  I could go in a forward split, move my body towards the floor and have my legs fan out back and behind me.  Yup, I believe my popularity took an unprecedented spike at that juncture...

Now I'm scared of a groin pull.  Or, worse, a tear.  I'm willing to accept that in order to succeed I'm going to have to push myself, challenge my body again, but if something goes awry, my body won't snap back.  Ah age, what fun are you!

This won't deter me, of course.  It can't.  I must really start paying attention to form and do my excercises right.  And not throw myself with gay abandon into every new move.  Slow and steady wins the race, and keeps my ass outta hospital. 

If only because the food's horrible...

LiliLaLarge

PS-So, did anyone buy Michael Pollan's "Food Rules"?  I did and it's a treasure.  A $14.99 Cdn treasure.  He's my new imaginary boyfriend, so play nice!

Is this a daquiri I see before me?

Before you get the idea that my...ahem...grandeur is as a result of "so many plates, so little time", allow me to disabuse you of that notion.

I'm a binge drinker.

Ooooh, how I love that first sip of beer, and all 7,032 subsequent sips. And look!  I have people all around me, socializating and nattering away about the important and not so important news of the day. Wheeee!  Let's have another round! Oh, I'm sorry that your boss is a cretinous beastie, tell me all about it. Barkeep! I'll have...oh I dunno...a Guinness and oh! a double Jameson's with that and my friend here will have another.  Hi Krista!  I loooove that skirt, where did you...?  OK, yeah, great, I'll have another. Sweet Jesus, did you see that?  Here comes the highlight reel.  I'm sorry? Sure, maybe one more...

(3 hours later)

But, but, no, like, no seriously, I'm a really ni-ni-nish pershon and so are YOU! No, no, ok, like, oh my god, are you, like, KIDDING ME!  Ok,ok, listen, LISTEN, LISTEN to me!! You and, like, him are like, fuck...
(*crash*).  I'm ok! I'm ok! No, seriously, I'm totally fine. I'm so...where did my drink go?

Yeah, you can just imagine the pretty, huh? And if I'm really lucky, if all the stars are aligned just so, I'll even start to cry.  Over just about anything.

"But that was my favourite lipstick!" (sniff)
"I'm so useless I'll probably get fired." (gulp)
"Why aren't you holding my hand?" (WAAAAAH!!)

Once upon a time, in the halycon days of youth, I would get to a certain point and stop.  In mid beverage if necessary.  I worked in bars for years and never, EVER, wanted to be THAT woman at the bar that starts off ok and then rapidly descends into a female version of Jabba the Hutt.  And I held out for the longest time and remained a civilized drinker, decorum intact. And then my firewall came down a couple of years ago and WHAM, bring me Han Solo and the Wookie.

Do I drink because I'm depressed? No, not that I'm aware of.  I suppose if we all sat around and thought, and I mean really thought of all the stuff we could be depressed about we'd all be basket cases. But no, I don't think myself a depressed person. Do I drink  to loosen me up, to help with the unburdening of the days travails?  Hmmm, that's interesting...I'd hafta say yes, that there has been the thought of "Oh dear Christ, I so need a drink" round about 4 o'clock when a particularly heinous day is just about over but...not...quite.  I've thought it, but frankly rarely do I follow through (there is only one bar I go to in my neighborhood and nobody speaks to me there, which brings me to....)

If I happen to go to a bar with a friend, or back to my old watering hole in my old neighborhood, then it is drinking time. I'm having a good time and I'm around people and I don't want it to end and I will stay until, by law, I can't. Because I drink to give myself a break from being alone. No, no, don't suddenly go all "Awww!" on me. I am by myself, certainly not by choice, but I'm comfortable with me and don't get attacked too often by the lonelies. But when I do, a-drinking I will go. And that, as a method to go out  and meet the world, doesn't work anymore. Case to be made whether it actually ever did in the first place.

Along with trying to live a physically more healthy life, one has to come to grips with the fact that it is a psychological excercise as well. And emotional. And it stands to reason that, along with junk food, there must be junk thoughts.  "She really needs for me to be here for her, so I'll stay and have one more drink to help her out." That's a justification I've used for getting royally ripped. "He's staying longer so I'll stay too and maybe he'll notice me." Oh yeah, he notices me alright; I'm the drunk broad who can barely keep her eyes open.

Alcohol makes me introverted. Not in a quiet-as-a-church-mouse way (trust me, that ain't gonna happen), but I get so wrapped up in my booze addled thoughts that I get confused and really lose focus on who I'm with or why I'm there. And that's when the emotional garbage starts spilling out - miniscule snippets of a feeling, a dust-bunny of angst can get blown waaaaaay outta proportion 'cuz I'm hammered and the internal editor we all possess has gone home to the wife and kids.  And I made it a point to get to that point.  Nope, that my friends must be the definition of  "junk thoughts".

So, what does this amount to?  What I want to try and do is make sure that a drink is an accessory, not the full outfit. I'll try not to fill my calendar with dates like "Drinkin' Night"  I'm going to try to meet the world in different ways - go to lectures and galleries and the like. And just hang. My body will thank me for it. My brain and its still functioning cells will thank me for it. And maybe my heart and soul will too. 

Though I was looking forward to Han Solo...

LiliLaLarge

Hurry up and weight

Today at work, we had a lunch meeting whereby a supplier came in to pitch their goods.  And they brought lunch.  Those bastards...

They set up the piles of evil in our boardroom - 2 massive platters of assorted sandwiches and a fashionably rectangular plate of dessert cake things.  There may have been salad and fruit, who knows...

We have these meetings every now and then and it's nice that lunch is supplied, but when a girl has been soooo good for a mere 1-1/2 weeks, she's weak.  Really weak.  Like "oh my god, it's focaccia" weak.  And a funny thing happens when you start cutting back on the carbs; you can smell them.  All of a sudden, your olfactory nerves go into hyper-drive and you can sniff the yeast, inhale the sugar and herbs and salts.  And those smells act as conductors for other smells - cheese and roast beef, pastrami and arugula, temptation and sin.  The visual impact is enormous as well.  Fresh and colourful, the olive oil still providing a glisten to the purely ornamental leafy greens housed between marble rye.  Ever really look at marble rye?  It's trippy.

These meetings last an hour and it's rude to munch while someone is talking so, without even a thought, I ploughed through 2 full sandwiches.  It may not sound like much, but each half was the size of my hand and piled at least 2 inches high.  Deliciousness was registered for a mere second as I shoveled the Devil's deli into my maw.  Good, good, good, more, more, more.  And then I was done.  The meeting started at 12:05.  I wiped my mouth at 12:12.

What had I done??  I looked around the table at my colleagues and they were still taking dainty bites of their sandwiches (one per person. Grrrrr..) Then I looked down at my empty plate and carried my eyes down to my tummy.  All the goodies I had just consumed would soon be reaching their destination and would take up residence in my flotation device of a stomach.  And they would start calling their friends, "Hey fettuccine!  She's ready for us, man.  Gather up the boys and bring some beer.  Part-ay!"

I felt crappy and miserable.  The pitch meeting over (they looked like nice people. A PowerPoint presentation.  Something about telephones...), I went back to my desk and dwelled on the lunch meeting all freakin' day.  And I'm still dwelling on it now.  Ok, lesson, lesson, what do I do here on out?  Aw gee, I so know this...

Conscious eating!  Slow, chew-it-for-godssakes eating.  Your brain needs a little bit of time to register that it's tasty (and enjoy that bit. Some higher power put thought into that tomato) and that there is actually food going into you and the slower and more mindful you are, the more receptive you'll be to your brain saying, "OK, you've had enough.  Put the fork down, Tiny."

You know how I've been having lunch away from the chair?  Well, I've been having it in our lunchroom (I thought it was an area built large enough for the coffee line-up...hey, there's a table and chairs and everything!).  I go there to eat, no distractions, and I actually take time.  I'm joined by some of the gang, we talk between bites and *POW*, it takes me 35 minutes to eat a salad.  And I hear my brain saying, "Damn that was good!" and "Yow, I'm stuffed!"  All those scientists and nutritionists were right.  Who woulda thunk?

I just gotta slow down and think.  And be mindful.  And to help me on my way, I'm going to bring along Michael Pollan. The author of "In Defence of Food" and "Omnivore's Dilemma" has just come out with a slim volume entitled "Food Rules-Tips for Eating Healthily".  I love this guy - he doesn't speak from a gastro-pulpit.  He's tall and kinda looks like Michael Caine - if Mr.Caine was bald. To my mind, he is one sexy beast 'cuz he's smart.  And he makes nutritional advice make sense.  For instance - if it comes through your car window, it's not food. Sounds reasonable to me.  Here he is talking with George Stephanopolous:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/14/michael-pollans-food-rule_n_423393.html

I'm buying it.

That's right, I'm gonna get me a present for being bad.  And why?  Because I'm being kind to myself and there's no better way to take care of me than to arm myself from future pitch meetings.

LiliLaLarge

None

Haiti is happening. Support the relief agency of your choice with your cash or time.  If you know someone, or know someone who knows someone who's on the ground there, reach out to them.  Hug the people you love.  Remember - we are not guaranteed the next 5 min.

The middle kingdom

This will be brief.

I can still see my toes.

Read an article today whereby, after some serious mathematical calculations (ah, me and numbers again.  The love affair continues...), it has been determined that, for my 5'6" frame, I am obese and in serious risk of dropping dead within...oh, I dunno...a day or so.

Hmmm...I don't see myself as obese.  I see myself as fat, to be sure, no illusions there, but obese?  Well, I guess if the World Health Organization sez so...

I've pictures in my head of what "obese" looks like - the mom in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape",  the contestants on that heinous reality show "More to Love" (so wrong on so many levels...How can I feel empathy and a burning desire to acquire the license to carry a fire arm all at the same time?!), and the entire audience of Springer.  Am I them?

I see women of a certain size walking around in outfits that surely to God must be halting the flow of oxygen to their brains, or at the very least impairing their eye sight.  Muffin-tops?  Spare tires?  Bakeries squished into jeans and the winter tire set of a semi encased in a tube top!  Do they own mirrors?  Friends? Who told them that looked alright?  And is that what I look like?

Angry women on talk shows yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs, "That's right!  I'm sexy!  Look at my fine ass (I'd love to, ma'am, but you're blocking the sun)!  Uh-huh, you wanna get you some of this! You skinny-ass bitches just jealous! Don't hate! Don't hate!" (I don't hate you, so please give me my eardrums back.)  Is this what people think I'm like because I'm fat?

I've looked at obese people in many ways, sometimes with understanding and a charitable thought (genetics, may be going through a rough patch, etc.), and with a OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS???  So I can't help but wonder if people, strangers, look at me the same way.

And now that I really think about it, do I give a flying f*ck?

I'm stretching and coiling and squatting and lunging and doing just about every contortion this body can accomplish and if they don't see it, who cares?  I'm eating better and trying to drink more water, which I hate with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.  I'm trying to maintain a positive attitude and if all of that is not encased in a size 2, and people give me a look or ignore me altogether (the stunning irony of being big - I'm the largest target and yet some people don't see me) does it really matter?  Hmmmmm...wait for it...uh...NO IT DOES NOT!! 

I do not look healthy, but do I look good?  Yes, yes I think I do.  And I'm going to get healthier which will make me look even better and if I'm already starting with looking good then...you guessed it - the next step is BABE!!!

But that's later.  Right now, I must focus on my middle.  The vast region, this waist-land, my domain, that is my middle.  And if that expanse gets whittled away I can assure that this monarch will be more than happy to part with it.  And I invite you all to lose some of your realms as well.  We rule over ourselves and must accept this responsibility.  Look at it this way - just consider it: Noblesse oblige.

LiliLaLarge

PS-I feel I must iterate something here - for all my bombast, it is disturbing to me that I'm clinically obese.  I do not take this lightly.  And nor should you.  Please, if you have any doubts or wish to know your BMI (body mass index) just for kicks or bragging rights,  please go online to:

 http://www.exrx.net/Calculators/BMI.html

And if you don't like what you see, set up an appointment with your doctor.  That's what I'm going to do.  Despite looking horrible in those gowns...

Rise and Whine!

There is a percentage of the population that hates me and people like me.  Not because of how we look or how we dress.  Not because of how we think or what we say.  But we carry with us a blemish so despised by some that if looks could kill, me and my ilk would be six feet under.  And it is simply because we are...

Morning People!!!!

I am a out of bed bounder, a singin' in the shower while brushin' my teeth kinda gal.  Always have been: an early memory is me sitting in our living room as a child, the whole house still asleep, the sun rising over the rooftops and splashing onto the floor while I fiddled with the stereo to "make it go" - which I am sure were the words my siblings uttered to my parents while pointing at me.  "For heaven's sake", I thought. "It's 5:30 in the morning, half the day is already gone!!  What's the matter with these people? Slackers."

Yup, it was like that all through school, into adulthood, and to this day.  Regardless of how late I stay up, my eyelids will flicker with the sun.  I would make the lousiest vampire ever.

And you know what makes morning extra-extra special?  BREAKFAST!!

I am in love with breakfast.  If breakfast were a man, I would do whatever he wanted and would pay for any accessories needed with my own money (are you following me with this? I don't need a laser pointer, do I?  Good.).  Breakfast is eggs and toast, ham and croissants, fruit and cheese, not all at the same time but why not?  Nobody else is awake, says the morning person.  I'm alone!  Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

I am a firm believer that your breakfast fires you up for the day: no fuel, no fire.  And never more so than when you are trying to lose weight.  You're already cutting and counting calories, why deprive yourself of an entire meal?  I don't trust people that skip breakfast, anyway.  They are the ones most likely to mooch snacks from you during the day or may steal your sandwich from the office fridge. Some folks don't like a lot of food in the morning - that's just fine, but baby get a little somethin' in ya or you will be no fun for the rest of the folks you have to deal with.  I'm getting used to yogourt, fruit and green tea to start the day.  It's fresh, wakes my mouth up and it's good for your insides as your stomach gets busy with digesting.

That's work week breakfast.  Weekend breakfast is a totally different kettle of fish, or a different bagel of lox. Which, by the way, is a perfect weekend breakfast - bagel, lox, onion, capers, cream cheese, coffee and you are ready to go-go-go for hours!  If a whole bagel is too much, split it with your sweet baboo (this may lead to all sorts of things that require go-go-go. I don't need the pointer, do I?).  Energy, people. Food groups, my friends. You gotta mix 'em up and have a bit of everything. Real babes eat all of 'em 'cuz they need the juice to move their bodies about and keep the heart pumping.  And real babes eat real food.

Blobs eat crap. They buy food-like substances in boxes, bags or cans large enough to contain all the ingredients. If an ingredient sounds like the final word at a spelling bee and the astonishing 8 year old, who spelled a 14 letter word because he recalled the Estonian root, can't spell it, don't eat it.  Blobs do their grocery shopping at convenience stores.  Babes lounge in the produce section.  Wonder Bread is manna to the blob.  A babe will eat, sparingly, of the seed-packed loaf she bought at a bakery.  And she may have it with real cheese, not "an edible oil product" which to my mind is probably Vaseline with food colouring added (now in Jack o' Lantern orange!), hardened into a square and then wrapped in plastic.  Why wrap?? It's not like this crap can go bad.  It's not food!!

I like having breakfast at farmers' markets in the morning.  I go to one that has wonderful fair trade coffee brewing, roasted on the spot - I saunter around and pick up a roll or a muffin and it smells soooo good and warm (no, "warm" isn't a smell, it's the feeling you get when you get a snootfull of homey yum).  Sellers and buyers are all a bit sleepy or tousle-headed, but there is energy both in the air and waiting in baskets to be taken home. There's usually a lot of munchkins, wee kiddies, running around being nuisances and adorable.  These are morning kids. I like them. They are fascinated by the food they see at the market because it's the real thing. They look at some of it quizzically-why is it dirty and lumpy and that strange colour? I've seen kids play with the stuff, having never seen a purple carrot for instance - but it appeals to their Crayola coloured imaginations.  I like that too.  If you can, go to a market for breakfast, that's how to start the day right.

Now mornings for me also mean a little stretchy yoga-ness and work-outy stuff.  I must be honest with you, I haven't arrived at the "Oh I just LOOOOOVE working out when I wake up!"  And frankly it's cutting into my breakfast time.  I could graze over breakfast for a good hour before even thinking of work.  Now, it's down to only 1/2 an hour.  T'isn't fair, but I will share my breakfast time with workout time.

Just not on weekends...

LiliLaLarge

Faith Value

Sundays.  Love 'em.  The good lord said it was a day of rest and who am I to argue with a deity? Saturday blew big furry chunks as I dwelt on the events of the last week and decided that it was, by all definitions, a bad week.  In fact, blogging was my only respite throughout and offered me a great deal of solace. I could not, however, get "it" up yesterday (and had no one beside me saying, "It's ok honey, you're just stressed.")So I woke up this morning, put on a happy face and tried to keep this mantra looping in my brain, "This week will be better, this week will be better..."

Because, I have faith.

Faith is, according to the Oxford, "complete trust or confidence" as well as "firm belief without logical proof".  I can speak to both these definitions.

In what do I have complete trust or confidence?  Well, my family for one, and my friends for another.  This faith is based purely on logical proof.  I'm not going to go into molecular detail (40+ years of molecules is a heck of a lot), but I have faith that my family will always support me and be there for me when I need them.  They have in the past and, as far as I know, have no reason to discontinue this excellent mode of carrying on.  More power to them.

Ditto my friends, my posse.  Weeks and months can go by without touching base, but if I need to make that 3am phone call, it will be picked up.  A cab will be called, taken, and my doorbell will ring with my "life-preserver" dressed in questionable jammies.  Of this I have no doubt.  And I would do the same for any one of them.  And there ya go; logic.

Now then, what about "firm belief without logical proof"?  Know what I have faith in?  I swear, I still think, despite all indicators proving otherwise, that people are instrinsically good.  And nice, too, if you give 'em a chance.  Now logically speaking, that simply can't be the case but damn if I haven't encountered the contrary.  F'rinstance,  I'm polite and patient with customer service cats and I get treated really well, and the problem I had gets solved. I've been thanked for being nice. Thanked!  Like it's a chore or something!  Sure, I'll mutter under my breath as some dough-head lets a door slam in my face without holding it for me, but his head is so far up his ass that you gotta feel sorry for the mo' fo'.  The view can't be pleasant. 

There is no logical proof that love exists, but you're damn right I have faith in it. The proof I've seen may not be logical, but it's all the proof my heart requires.  Quick story - dad was super late coming home one night and my mom was beside herself with worry.  She called the office, called his friends, and stopped short of calling the hospitals in case...I saw so many emotions cross her face that night - panic mostly, but also the fear buried in the unspoken questions: what will happen to us?  What will happen to me if he's not here?  She begun to wring her hands.  I never saw anyone do that before.  It was the motion of someone totally at sea.  I had just begun to reach for the phone to make some dire calls, when in he walked.  I was so relieved I  don't remember much, not even the reason why he was so late,  but I do remember my mom yelling very briefly, and then launching herself into my dad's arms.  And she held on for dear life. 

That's why I have faith love exists.

I have faith that I will be on the receiving end of that same kind of love because I've seen it and felt it directed at me.  A face lighting up when I walk in, the communication of the eyes over other people's heads, waking up in the morning with their mouth still open in a kiss on my shoulder.  There is no logical proof that this will ever happen again, and yet I have faith that it will.  God/the cosmos/the spark of life - they are kind, again, if you give 'em a chance.

They've given me the chance to try and revert to the babe I was and I have faith in myself embarking on this journey.  Heaven knows, I haven't any logical proof to back this up, but man I gotta believe that I have the strength to carry this through.  Hard?  Hell yes, it's going to be hard.  Bear in mind, I'm a card carrying member of SA (Sloths Anonymous) so this kind of required discipline will not be a cake walk...mmm....a walk with cake.  Where was I?   Oh yeah, how in tarnation am I going to sustain the belief, the faith in myself? I'll do it by being kind to myself, by being patient...and by holding on to this idea for dear life for my life is dear to me.  As far as I know for certain, I've only got the one.

So, what about you, huh?  Struggling with the "faith in yourself" theme I got going on here?  Well ok, tell ya what; I'm more than happy to share some of my faith with you.  I don't know you from a hole in the wall (by the way, who the hell does?), but because we may be doing this blob to babe thing together I'm gonna reckon you're not all that different from me in that respect.  So here, have a little faith in yourself.  Sometimes, it's so small it's hard to keep a hold of, but tuck it somewhere where you won't lose it.  Little by little, it should grow.  Just be kind and patient and hold on for dear life.

LiliLaLarge

PS-Ah, I know what will help.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lu3VTngm1F0&feature=fvst
George Michael! Faith! Shaking his money-maker in a pair of Levis! I b'lieve, Lord Jesus, I b'lieve!!

PPS-Come to think of it, he may know a few holes in the wall...Like you weren't thinking it!!!

To the last full measure

Off come the gloves...and out comes (shudder) the tape.
It wouldn't be full disclosure if I didn't give you my starting point. Sooooo, not being in possession of a scale, I will therefore reveal my measurements.  Ready?  OK. Here we go...and by the way, I'm discovering this as I write.

48 (still breathing), 42 (gasp!), 55 (*thud*)

We interupt this blog while the authoress regains consciousness  - ed.

WTF!!!! Clearly consciousness has been regained.  You've been warned. - ed.

These aren't measurements, they're lottery numbers! 

OK,ok, ok...it is now time to affix blame.  Messrs. Guinness, Labatt, Keith, stand forward!  I see you Mr. Coors, cowering in the back - the only thing light about your product is the weight of my wallet after an evening in your effervescent embrace.  Damn you all!  Damn you all to hell!! You are all in league with "The Chair"! 

And what about you, Father Time!  I used to be able to spend hours in the company of the rabble mentioned above and would have no consequences visited upon me.  But nooooo, now that I've breached the 40-and-up wall, it would seem that you've abandoned me...NO! Quite the opposite! You have rather found me and have now heaped upon me the pounds you've been hoarding up all these years.  How could you?  Didn't I welcome you with open arms every January 1st?  Didn't I count the minutes until my birthday to once again celebrate another year together?  Christ almighty, it was our anniversary, you bastard!!  This is the thanks I get???

Let's see, who else, who else...AHA!  Clothing retailers, I say unto you, "You suck!!"  You and your vanity sizing, making me believe that, oh why yes, of course that's a size 10, the label says so.  Lies! All lies!  You played with numbers and letters until I wound up with closet full of clothes from sized 10-18, M-XL, and they all fit! How in the name of Calvin Klein is that possible??

And finally - the wheatgrowers of North America.  You and the bakers.  In cahoots!  A cabal of carbs!  Hoodwinking the lot of us with your seedy breads and seedier ethics.  "You need fibre," you said.  "You can't live without whole grains," you said. And I lived...For you!  It was all for you because you wanted to wrap me in your loaves and coil me in your pastas.  Not content with that, you joined forces with the dairy board 'cuz what made you irrestible was the butter and oils and cheeses that accompanied you on the quest for my soul...or waist, take your pick.

*sigh*

Oh, I suppose we've all had our good times too...you've clothed me in beautiful garments that made me feel attractive and sexy, we've gathered with friends over dinners and picnics, snacks and tea-time, and you've heard all my secrets as I poured out my heart in intimate tete a tetes, while you poured out elixirs into my waiting glass.  I don't suppose I can lay the blame entirely at your collective doors.  Mea culpa.

I can't block you all out of my life, but I'm going to see some of you less often.  My boisterous brewers, you may have to wait longer between dances.  To the bagels, brioches, babkas and buns, it is not bye-bye, but 'til we meet again.  Father Time?  You're a stubborn old coot and ain't gonna stop knockin' at my door so I gotta accept you (fercrissakes, get a shave, huh?).  And rest easy folks, I will continue to wear clothes.  Because after all...

Have you seen my measurements?

LiliLaLarge

Taking the good with the flab...

"Women aren't supposed to sweat, burp, fart or sh*t.  If we didn't bitch, we'd explode."
                                                                                                            Roseane Barr

Let me set the mood for you: I'm shovelling salad down my throat as it is the first meal all day since breakfast, and on itunes radio I'm listening to Whisperings:Solo piano.  Familiar with this station? Well, every tune usually starts in a major key (happy!), heads off into minor (sad!), gets really into a groove as it gets all disonant (confused!) and climaxes back into major (bliss!).  The tunes have titles like "Footprints on the Rainbow", "Unicorn in May" or "Memory of Her Hair Pin".  Very heartfelt, simply aching with longing...makes Zamfir sound like death-metal.  And why, you may ask, am I listening to this ear-pap?  Because I have had a bad day.

Before y'all start thinking, based on my previous posts, that all is lollipops and bunnies and the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la...it ain't.  OK, occassionally it comes quite close...more often than not, all things considered. Believe you me, though, I'm subject to the buffets and blows of this existence just as much as the next girl.  I'm also prone to mood swings.  And we're talking amusement park sized mood swings (you must be this high to ride this ride). I can normally snap myself out of things, but today was just one of those days where I had to look up to see down. 

It started off just fine - yoga (dizziness is slowly abating. And I've found a lovely spot on the wall to focus on), a series of weights and lunges, a really nice breakfast followed by my commute which was painless.  The first few hours of work were equally un-icky.  And then...

Kapow!! Piles of poo which had hitherto been teetering on the edge of the cliff finally collapsed.  In short, the work began mounting at a frightening speed.  Phonecalls, emails, faxes, questions. Everything now, NOW, NOW!!!  I hunkered down and called, emailed back, filed, photocopied, answered, and spun in circles for the rest of the afternoon. Where did I put it?  How did that happen?  Who turned this off??  And all the while, I committed a fatal mental/emotional error.

I felt myself a victim.

A tiny, irritating Nancy Kerrigan-esque voice in my head whined, "Why is this happening to meeee? Whyyyyyyy?" The workload wasn't merely inconvenient, it was an attack.  A very personal attack.  I was treading water and going down quick.  But there was something rather odd that I can't completely explain, but in this circumstance of perceived victimhood, there was a wee bit of ego involved as well.  That is to say, at no time, did I ask for help.  And so I morphed from victim to martyr.

"That's alright. I'll sit here and take it.  I am the oppressed and so I accept my just desserts."

Yeah, I would have slapped me, too.

And I did...metaphorically (no use my co-workers thinking I'm crazy).  I essentially bitched myself out.  Had to tell myself to stop! Breathe! And don't you dare eat those cookies!!  Breathe. Focus. Inhale again. Step away from the goddam cookies!  And get some help.

I did. And I felt better.  And worked better.  

We, all of us, need help from time to time.  Be a grown-up, it's ok to admit you're not the fountain of all knowledge nor can one handle every bump in the road.  Just resign yourself to the fact that we aren't perfect creatures and a stumble can be averted if we just reach out and grab someone to halt the fall.  Read that article by a nutritionist, buy that excercise video with the fun instructor, ask your grocer if they can start carrying organic food. People like to help. They do!  Trust me on this one.  People like to feel good.  That's why they do this sh*t, become doctors and such.  And when someone helps you, they feel good and goddammit, dontcha feel good and dontcha feel like you can help someone, too? 'cuz we learn by watchin' each other. And by watching out for each other.  You're sorta watching out for me on this blog-I've read comments and emails and I know you're there to help me.  And this is my way of maybe helping you too.  Give you a laugh when sometimes there aren't enough laughs to go around.  And that sucks. Large.  But hey, I'm trying to help...

Hmmm...I'm not feeling so cranky anymore.  I've just taken the bitch-wind outta my own sail...as t'were.

*sigh* So I survived today, and if I can get through tomorrow without a prison sentence or a CSI episode based on "actual events (mine! I wonder who'll play me...?), I will be treating myself on Saturday to Avatar in IMAX, dinner at a new bistro and skating down at our Harbourfront.  There is a live dj that spins while we do.  I intend to get down with my bad self.  Hopefully, I'll get back up again...

LiliLaLarge  

A babe in the foods...

Can someone have too much of a good thing?

As a new year dawns with the promise of joy, peace, love and higher taxes, I am in a reflective mood.  I'm thinking of all the wonderful dishes that have passed through my lips to an appreciative tummy.  And I'm lucky in many respects, but none more so than I've managed to surround, and even live, with people who were/are great cooks.

My mom - raised in a small-ish city that was within short distance of farmland, she was raised on simple but wholesome yumminess.  Back in those days, everything was "organic" and nobody could really afford anything beyond 100 miles. Food tasted like it was meant to - hell it tasted, period.  No injections of steroids or flavourings, everything growing at the speed it should, eating the stuff God had deemed right and good.  Free range?  People had chickens in their kitchens!  Can't get freer than that!

She brought her appreciation of food and her abundant culinary skills to her family once she married.  TV chefs came along - The Galloping Gourmet.  Julia (of course).  Madame Jehane Benoit - her cookbook a fixture in many a household.  These folks introduced my mom to the world and she, in turn, ate it up. 

Along with the staples, we had cabbage rolls, chop suey, mannicotti, curries, Coquilles St. Jacques, Jambalaya, schnitzel...the National Geographic showed up on our plates and away we'd go!  We weren't wealthy, so everything on our plate had to be eaten, no "I'm not gonna eat that" at that table.  And I bless my mom's strictness because I now have a palate open to all, enemy of none.  'cept kidneys.  There is a line...

Mom's kitchen however was her sanctum sanctorum.  We were allowed to lick spoons and dunk fingers into simmering sauces, but get under her feet and help? Never in a million years.  She had to cook for a family of six and along with all the other household chores there simply wasn't enough time for personalized tutorials.  Do I resent her this?  Maybe a bit, but any resentment went flying out the window when I moved out of my parents home and into my boyfriend's apartment.

My Thai/Japanese boyfriend.  And glorianna, he could cook!! Thai stuff!! Japanese goodies!! Sticky rice, green curry, mangoes in a salad of all things!  Jasmine scented rice...eroticism in every snowy white kernel.  His mom, the Japanese half of the equation, was a stellar cook and until you have had homemade suki-yaki, you have had a pale semblance of a life (that is not judgement. Besides, it's never too late!)  Ah, those were good times...

Then he ran off with some Hungarian broad.  Ask me what I think of goulash...

Next came the myriad of roommates, wonderful cooks all and I, their willing vessel.  My best friend seemed to put vodka in everything (sauces, chicken, she may have slipped some into muffins), and I love her to this day.  She introduced me to a supper of fruit, bread, wonderful cheese and splendid wine.  Her then boyfriend, now husband, would have us over for oysters and Scrabble.  This, my friends, was living!

I had a couple of veggie roomies too, but did that bring a groan to my lips? Hell no!! Chickpeas 8 million ways, each spicier than the last.  Tofu and all its crazed Franken-dishes were delish.  I never met a lentil I didn't like.  And just plain, old fashioned vegetables - roasted and glazed and souped up.  Don't knock the vegetarians in your life - their culinary imaginations can exceed ours in many ways.

And they all let me in their kitchens. And there I learned how to cook...a bit.

I cook for myself now.  A trying task at times (I used a ruler to make absolutely sure the dough had rolled out to EXACTLY 1-1/2 inches once. Is there a cure for this kind of madness...?) I even offer to share my dishes with friends.  And they share with me.  And we ask questions of each other and learn and make more food.  DF introduced me to the Food Network and, much like my mom many moons ago, I watch and learn.  He's bought me cookbooks, I've borrowed his, I've bought my own. I've watched him do insane-seeming things like bread starter and terrines and we've eaten at restaurants that serve sweetbreads (you will never hear Homer Simpson say, "Mmmm, thalmus gland..."). He's encouraged me to experiment and even attempt dishes without a recipe!  Occassionally the results resemble surgery gone horribly, tragically wrong.

Sometimes, there is magic in the pot.

LiliLaLarge

PS - Oh, to answer the question asked at the beginning of this blog, yes, I have had too much of a good thing.  I'm just gonna cut back is all...

Fat.So?

Me: The pain from my workout of 2 days ago finally manifested itself.  Could barely walk as my quads felt like blocks of cement.  But I gritted my teeth and did a workout anyway. I kept on going to the "If you find this too hard..." section.  Here's a goal - a real pushup by my birthday (you don't need to know when that is. There will be an all points alert.  And perhaps an ad in the paper).  Maintained a healthy diet today that included 1 itty-bitty, barely there glass of wine. Red.  Brewed last week.  Not only had legs but arms and a tail.  Serves me right for being in an establishment where their idea of a wine list is a post-it note.

The world around me: So, according to an article in the press, there is a website called BeautifulPeople.com that has just purged its membership of over 500 Canadians and 5,000 folks worldwide because...they gained weight over the holidays, thereby altering their official designation of "hottie" to that of "fattie".  Wind, or rather photos, of their trangressions came to the attention of the poobahs and they, in turn, shunned them. Yea, even other members turned them out into the night, crying after them,"Avaunt and quit our sight! Thou hast sinned in our eyes!  Take thou thy fatted calves and darken not our doorstep!" Or they merely said "Ew.." and told them to hit the dusty trail.  By email!  "You're fat. Come back when we can bear to look at you."

The broo ha ha that ensued on the "Comments" board of said article was quite somethin'.  There was the hue and cry of "That's so unfair!" and "How dare they?!" coupled with opposite reactions of "Well, they deserved it" and "The site is called BeautifulPeople, not BeautifulFatsos. D'uh!"

Know what I think?

When you join a club, understand and, more importantly, agree to the rules, woe to you should you break the rules and be caught out.  And they were caught with their hands in the cookie jar.  Literally. End of story. Bye-bye and don't let the door hit your (expanding) ass on the way out.

I can't, simply CANNOT wait for an ex-member to cry foul.  I can hear it now:

(whimpers)But it was just that one time!  Grandma Mamie won't be with us forever (sniffs) and I just had to have her Triple Chocolate, 7 Layer Dumplin' and Sausage Cake!  I might never have it again!  I'm still me!  I'm still beautiful! Aren't I?  AREN'T I??" (collapses in sobs)

No dear, you're not. 

In the rules of your club, the rules you bought into, you're not.  The rules of your club say that a fatty can never, ever, be beautiful.

I wouldn't be let into your club. I'm fat. So?

I got my own club of beautiful people.

In my club, I am beautiful.  My eyes sparkle as I sit across from a friend talking over coffee.  My smile beams and my voice peals with laughter when I watch little kids and their pets in the park.  My face glows when I'm surrounded by the people I love.  

It's not easy to maintain - but my club always gives me a second chance, or a third, or a fourth. I mean, I've been having a bad-hair life, but the people in my club aren't looking at that. I try not be ugly - mean, cruel, insensitive.  So long as I don't break those rules, I am a beautiful person. 

So I truly hope that the ex-BeautifulPeople.com-ers find a club like mine, and become actual beautiful people.  And in my club, you're allowed a cookie.

LiliLaLarge

PS-If I've compelled any of you to start humming Christina Aguillera's "I am Beautiful", I truly apologize.  That wasn't my intent.  Quick, think of something else!  The theme from the Jetson's!  NOW!!!
 

The Chair

My cell alarm rings.

Haven't heard its dulcet tones in 11 days over Christmas holidays.  I have it programmed to some generic techno-tune that the phone company believes the "kids" will relate and be "hip" to.  Dear Bell, its effectiveness as an alarm is based solely on the fact that folks would rather stick a flaming hot poker in their ear than listen to it.  Just sayin'....

Yoga!

Breathe and stretch and breathe and stretch and head between your knees 'cuz you're gonna fall down!

Dizzy.  I get dizzy from yoga.  From breathing.  This does not bode well.  According to my yoga magazine, I should be able to do this sequence of moves at least 5 times.  Dear Editor, did you mean 5 times in a row, or can I spread it out throughout the week?  Just askin'....

I used to be so flexible, so bend-y.  Now...well, I can say with complete honesty I have mastered 2 yoga positions: standing up (Mountain Pose!) and lying down (Corpse Pose! I'm not making that up...)

Virtue-breakfast and a streetcar later, and I'm back at work.

The first day back to work from holidays is always challenging: did I leave any loose threads before leaving?  Do I owe some work to anyone?  Why are there 300 emails in my inbox?  What do I do here again?

As I hung up my coat at reception, I turned and saw that every box of chocolate, cookies, cakes and candies we had received as holiday gifts from clients were still there.  We send our clients poinsettas.  They send us Satan's-Grab-Bag-o-Sugar.  In fact, the whole office is crawling with candy canes, marshmallow-fluff stuffed biscuits, layered cake things, Hershey's Kisses (how many varieties do they now have???), and a host of other chocolates of dubious parentage and questionable taste (is that soap?), but mother of Christ it's chocolate!!!

I turned to my cubicle for relief, knowing it to be bare of such temptations, and there it was...

The chair.

The chair that had accepted my ass into its polyester hands and claimed me as its own.  The chair with its wheels that propelled me hither and yon, not requiring me to actually get up and move.  The chair that, when I finally rose from it, had an air of one betrayed ("How could you? You've left me nothing but your butt print. After all I've done!" "I'm sorry! I'll be back. Promise!") And I did come back.  And I have come back.  But things have changed...

After having the one-two punch of the Everest of Goodies plus the Rear-perambulator, I resolved to a) not touch any of the Yuletide yumminess and b) have my lunch away from my desk and at another table...and another chair! One with no wheels, that requires me to move about! I will sit and talk with my co-workers rather than surf at my desk, my buttocks held firmly in the grasp of the chair. 

And I did. And it was good. And I was deaf to the chair's seeming indignation (I swear it moved itself away from me when I returned from lunch).

I finished my day, got off one stop early from my streetcar, and am now home to a dinner of super-sized salad.  I'll have to return tomorrow to my chair but I hope that one day we'll come to an understanding. And the chair will one day realize: I just wasn't into it.

LiliLaLarge

Food, sweat and fears...

Sundays - lattes and baked goods and crossword puzzles.  Movies in the afternoon, a roast of animal and things made of spuds, finally curling up with a good book and a good brandy...ahhhh. Sundays...

Did you catch that at no time in the above idyllic scenario did I mention any form of activity? Apart from moving from location to location, not a whole lot happening by way of getting the blood flowing.  

But not this Sunday.  Oh no, up I got, got dressed and hoofed it over to the local grocery store and bought the makings of a reasonable, I'm-so-virtuous breakfast.  Fruit, yoguort, eggs (eggs are good for you.  Not 8 at one sitting, but one or 2 in an omelette is just fine.  Protein, children, get your protein!) Back home I marched, even broke a sweat doing so.  Got in, unloaded my booty and...what's that on the kitchen table?

My DF (dear friend - you'll hear about him alot) had made biscotti, threw some in a bag and had given them to me 2 days ago (night of the beer-wall).  Mmmmm, biscotti and coffee for breaky...ok, no eggs, I'll have the biscotti and fruit and yoguort.  Not ideal but it's Sunday...

So let's put away the eggs.  I opened the fridge.  And then I heard it:

Remember me, Lili?  I've been waiting for you...

A ramekin of pork rillettes was luring me with it's siren call of piggy-deliciousness.  Familiar with this gastronomic marvel?  Seasoned, shredded pork, sitting in its own fat, left to chill in the fridge so the lard provides a protective barrier.  But nothing, no thin layer of fat is gonna get between me and the rillette.  We were meant for each other.  I almost proposed...

Biscotti, fat pork and coffee.  That's it kids - the secret to happiness.  Breakfast of champions.

ARRRRRGH!!!

Alright, alright, no need to panic.  Today is also a workout day.  Over the holidays I purchased a box of workout goodies care of the good people at Women's Health magazine.  Stability ball, resistance tubing, another weighted hand-held ball and jump rope.  An excerise plan/poster as well, online support...a wealth of stuff that promises to get me on the path to babe-dom.  It also says my middle will be bikini ready in 6 weeks.  It may be bikini ready, people ready?  Not so much....

And so I did my first proper workout in months. Was sweating within minutes.  My face hot and tomato red, which totally clashes with my kick-ass outfit. Didn't die, completed everything. I now wish to set fire to the box and its contents. 

Nobody looks good in a squat.  Doing crunches on the ball - every time you raise your head, you see the expanse of belly and I couldn't help but liken it to the Russian steppe.  Jump rope?? Are you kidding me??? My knees were crying for mercy. I'm gonna need them one of these days (which reminds me, I keep threatening to tell you of my dating life. Too soon...)

I don't hurt now, but I knoooooow tomorrow morning I will be a mass of cramp and sore. 

And something tripped in my head.  I was sitting here, in my workout clothes still, and frankly not feeling discouraged, but scared.  What if I don't find the right balance of diet and excercise?  What if I try and try and nothing happens?  What if I give up again as I've done so many times before and never achieve the babe-ness but remain ever-blob?  And (horrors!) what will you think of me???

I showered, had some lemon water, and gave myself a good mental shaking.
"Lili, just shut up and do it.  If one thing doesn't work, try another.  You're not the first one, you won't be the last, but guaranteed you will fail if you defeat yourself.  Remember why you are blogging - to show an average woman embarking on an average journey and sharing each success, failure and foible along the way. To give, and maybe even get.  No one judges.  If they can identify, that is enough."

Blogger, heal thyself.

LiliLaLarge

PS-Mother Nature is intent on bitch-slapping us with a howling mad day.  Blustery and snowy, but I'm going for a walk.  People can admire my boots. I give and I give....