On the evils of HFCS

I saw a commercial the other day, produced by a pro-farming lobby firm about high fructose corn syrup.  It features a guy and a girl, on a blanket, in a park, sharing a picnic.  The girl pulls out a Popsicle, and offers the guy a bite.  He declines.  She then offers him two bites, and he responds by saying, "I thought you loved me."  

"I do." she says.  

"Then why are you trying to give me something that is full of high fructose corn syrup?" he asks, all plaintive.  

"What's wrong with corn syrup?" she asks.  

He flounders around for an explanation, and she gives him a rapid fire litany of facts about HFCS, that it has the same number of calories as sugar or honey, it isn't bad for you, everything in moderation, blah blah.

If you hadn't known before that second that the commercial was produced by some corn conglomerate, you did at that point. *eye roll*  But they are kind enough to put the words on the screen at the bottom, at the end of the commercial.  

Sure, HFCS probably does have the same number of calories as honey or sugar.  And if HFCS was the ONLY sweetener in that Popsicle, it wouldn't be as bad.  But the problem is that there is sugar, HFCS, fructose, and sucrose in a whole lot of sweet treats.  You're getting sugar on top of sugar, and would you like more sugar with your sugar?  Plus, HFCS has been refined ad nauseum, and is a pretty far removed thing from the cornfields of Iowa and Oh-hia-ia.  

What is making us fat, America?  Soda, processed sugars, fast food, gargantuan portion sizes.  Guess what is in the average can of soda produced and bottled here in the US?  HFCS.  And sugar.  And at least one or two other sweeteners.  

Guess how I lost a whole lot of that 43 pounds?  I didn't eat anything that had HFCS in it.  I read labels, obsessively.  I put it back on the shelf in the supermarket if HFCS was in it, I asked for ingredient lists at my favorite restaurants, I searched foodie websites to see what has lots of corn syrup.

Granted, I did a whole lot of other things, too.  Worked my tail off (literally!) in the gym.  Controlled my portions.  Removed a lot of the processed, prepackaged stuff from my kitchen and my life.  Focused on fresh veggies and fruits, not fruit juices and canned gunk full of salt.  Avoided fast food as much as possible.  Denied myself desserts and didn't take every. single. opportunity. presented to indulge my sweet tooth.

Is HFCS dangerous?  I dunno.  I do know that as a conscious consumer, I can (and do) choose to not eat it.  But don't tell me that it is as good for you as honey is.  I know better.  You do, too.

Gain

I had been avoiding my bathroom scale. Tossing dirty clothes and towels on top of it to cover it up, so I'd forget it was there. Except that didn't work; whenever I got up to use the potty in the middle of the night, the glass disc where you stand would be glinting out from under all the dirty clothes in the light of the night-light. "I'm still heeeeeeerreee!" it would whisper to me at 2 AM. "I know you're avoiding meeee!"

For good reason, too. I have gotten out of the habit of daily gym, run on the treadmill, stretch, do crunches, do push-ups (getting rid of that flabby upper arm was priority #1, and push-ups are the only way I know to do it), do some yoga, and then move on with my day. Out of that habit for a handful of reasons, absolutely not one of them a 'good' reason, they're all excuses.

In the dark part of the winter, when the snow and the cold and the dark began to seriously wear on me, there just wasn't much point to my depressed mind, in getting out of bed. Then starting the Lexapro in addition to the Wellbutrin, in an effort to pull me out of one of the darkest periods of my life *ever,* the Lex made me tired. Really, really, really tired. I took the Lex for two months, during which time it seems to have managed to completely change my internal clock/diurnal rhythms to no longer an early morning person.

No, I did not consult with my doc or the shrink about discontinuing the Lex. The simple fact is that it was too expensive to add to my med regimen, and since it was making me sleep more and be even more reluctant to get out of bed, it seemed to me the better part of wisdom to give it up. I'm doing all right without it. I think that's mostly because the days are longer and the weather is better, not because I no longer need it. I'd be trying to fool both you and myself should I claim otherwise.

So not a single one of those is a good reason for being out of the habit of working out. Let's call a spade a spade, then, and call it what it really is: laziness, and my usual self-defeatist principals working against something good happening. The fact that I can recognize this for what it is, though, shows that therapy = progress.

When I did finally bite the bullet, and step on the scale (first thing in the morning, after using the restroom, not a single bite to eat beforehand, and not wearing a stitch of clothing) I thought I was prepared for it to show a higher number. The clothes that had been loose are fitting fine or in some cases are snug, so I knew I'd gained some weight. 5-6 pounds, I thought, no big.

Yeah.

The number on the scale was nearly 10 pounds more than what it had been. Eeep. Eeeeeeeeeeppppp!!!!

Then I was angry. I've worked too damn hard to get healthy and thin, and I refuse to gain all of that weight back. I've come too far, and I am NOT going backwards. Hell, I refuse to gain an ounce of it back, so obviously, the scale is wrong. Uh-huh. What was that we used to say in the early 90s? Not!!!

I've allowed some of my old eating habits to creep back, too. A conversation with my mother reminded me that we share an addiction that can be as lethal, as deadly, as any narcotic: food. I have replaced my processed sugar addiction with more natural sweeteners, which are fine in moderation, but there are other temptations. There is no longer granular (white) sugar in my house. When I'm craving a bad 'sweet' fix, I take a swig of apple cider, or make a cup of herbal tea with a generous spoonful of a spectacular find: Really Raw Honey. (yum! I could write a whole post about that stuff, but I shall admirably restrain myself. Buy some, do!)

But there are other food addictions in that bunch: carbs, carbs, carbs, bread rice and pasta are all large weaknesses of mine. We've been eating out more than is smart, and I've allowed myself to mostly eat exactly what I want at restaurants, instead of being a pain in the ass to wait staff and specifying exactly how something should be prepared for me. That started on our vacation in Florida, where I allowed myself to eat a whole lot of a south Florida/Caribbean regional specialty: conch fritters. Deep fried conch fritters. Plus the temptation of trying all sorts of things unavailable here in Oh-hi-ia: Caffe Cubano (an espresso-esque coffee with PURE CANE SUGAR, the liquid from a stalk of sugarcane, added served hot and super-sweet, woooo what a a caffeine fix!) and all sorts of other Cuban foods, along with booze, booze, booze! We were on vacation, why not?

Well, because then your clothes don't fit, dumbass!

Getting back into the habit of the gym has been tough. I managed to make it two times last week. Today being Tuesday and all, I wish I could say I'd been there two times THIS week, but I made it this morning, so that's one. My work schedule has been interfering with my Pilates classes, which is very annoying. I made it to a Pilates class a week or so ago, and OUCH! I've lost a whole lot of strength and muscle tone that I had from Pilates. I won't make it to both classes this week either, which is frustrating.

I wish I could pinpoint when exactly I quit the daily gym routine, because then I'd be able to figure out how much weight I'd gained each month. Which is a silly thing to obsess about, anyway....I didn't put on 10 pounds in one month, there is nothing seriously wrong with me that could contribute to the weight gain, this is laziness and sloppiness and nothing else.

But remind me of that tomorrow morning at 5, will you, please? Because I still can't figure out a way to be dragging my ass out of bed at a normal time. (Yeah, 5 AM was normal for me, until very recently.) I find that unless I get to the gym when I first get out of bed, and preferably when they open their doors, I'm unlikely to go at all. The place is so darned busy any other time of the day that it irritates the hell out of me. I pay them almost $600 a year for a membership; I don't think they should allow so many people to join that there are no parking spaces available. Ugh, that's a rant for another day. And another excuse: I don't want to go because it is too busy, whaaaaa.

Multiple alarms haven't worked; having coffee brewed and waiting when I would get out of bed has also not worked; my clothes fitting tighter hasn't been motivation either. And yes, I have tried heading to bed earlier, too. I'm sleeping (knock on wood) with no sleeping pills right now, not over the counter, not prescription, nothing, so curtailing the sleepy pills isn't a suggestion either. I'm not sleeping well, waking at least once every hour, but I'm hoping that evens out and that I only need to use the Ambien when my anxiety levels are particularly high. Sleeping, for the moment, isn't the problem; waking is.

Questions, comments, suggestions?

Nothing

That's the sum total of what fits me in my closet right now: nothing.

(Don't hate me for bitching about this, it truly is a pain in the ass.)

A few months ago, a good friend who is a fashonista took some time to go shopping with me, finding clothes in a new size that fit, since all of my clothing was too big. I didn't want to buy a closet full of new clothes in that size, because, as I knew then, I wasn't done losing weight, and I don't need to do another purge of hundreds of dollars worth of clothes, or spend hundreds of dollars to have things altered when those things became too large. Either way, altering or buying new, kind of a money-losing proposition. Having things altered is ex-spen-sive! Annoyingly so. I spent nearly $200 on alterations last time around, and some of it still didn't fit the way I thought it ought to. Yeah, I should have taken it back and made them fix it, but basically I don't like face-to-face confrontation, so I let it go. {Editor's note: "You're a wuss!"}

I've lost about another 6 pounds since that shopping expedition, and now I'm between sizes. Everything purchased on that trip last fall is too big. Skirts and dresses that actually DO fit aren't suitable for winter wear---have I mentioned lately that it is fucking freezing outside?--and so I can't wear those things either. The next smaller size stuff is a bit tight. Not so much that it can't be zipped, just enough so that you don't want to wear it for an 8-10 hour workday, because it is uncomfortable after 4 hours or so. And then there's a jacket and tank top that in my mind I should be able to wear now that are still much too small to put on. Grrr.

What's a broke girl to do? The only thing I can think of: head to the thrift stores. I've had excellent luck in the past at some of them, but we're talking hours and hours of searching racks, and then washing or dry-cleaning the hell out of it when you get it home, because thrift stores all smell the same, and I don't want other people's dead skin cells in my clothes.

OK, now that I've completely grossed myself out, time to go shopping!

Rediscover

My father collects clothes. So much clothing does he own that he has a closet of his own, plus the entirety of a guest room closet and the storage area in their basement also has a rack full of clothes that are his alone.

DH collects movies. At last count, more than 250 films of every genre reside on shelves in our media room. Most on DVD, but some on VHS too. Although opposites attract, and we are opposite in many, many ways (politically, socially...I could go on) but we share some OCD tendencies, and there is an Excel spreadsheet list stored on his laptop and on mine that lists all of the movies. One worksheet has them listed alphabetically by title. The second worksheet lists them by genre.

For me, it is neither clothes nor movies, but music. When I was razzing my father a few weeks ago about the amount of clothing he owns, he took it stoically for a few minutes; then he asked how much music I own. Guilty as charged. The only proper answer to that question is LOTS.

I will listen to almost anything; from hip-hop to opera, alt-country, trip-hop, dance hall, pop, classic rock, folk, bluegrass. About the only thing I don't really like is country, but that's not a hard and fast rule.

I use iTunes to digitally store my music. When I got my new computer, I divided the hard drive, portioning off a section to dedicate to music storage. I keep increasing that section, because it keeps getting too close to being full.

I subscribe to a handful of free podcasts on iTunes, and one that I listen to faithfully is DJ Steveboy's Podrunner. I've written about Steve Boyette before; I discovered him on iTunes by searching for music to run to. Using words like awesome, amazingly talented, and unbelievable don't come close to doing justice to describing him. Subscribing to the podcast on iTunes means that whenever he uploads a new one, I get it automatically whenever I log in to iTunes. And he does these things weekly.

Some of the mixes I like more than others, of course. House and dance hall stuff can be annoying if it isn't your thing. But I have yet to find one that I don't like at all. He categorizes them based on number of beats per minute (bpm) which range from 130 to 170. I tend to use the slower end of the spectrum for my runs, as I'm not a world-class marathoner, but using the high speed ones sometimes kicks up my workout a bit.

I couldn't work out without music. I've been known to leave the gym if I don't have at least headphones with me; most of the cardio machines have headphone jacks so that you can watch TV, and without at least that, I just can't face more than about 3 minutes of cardio. I have forgotten the iPod from time to time, and as long as I can listen to something that is all right, but of course I'd rather have my own music.

I owe DJ Steve a debt of extreme gratitude. (Ooo, he blogs, too.) Without several of his more recent mixes, among them "Radiant Dark," "Beat Cathedral," and "Step Sequencer," I wouldn't have been able to get back in to the groove of running. I skipped about 2 weeks total of the gym as I've settled into the new job, 3 days here, 2 days there. Not going a few times makes it easier to not go at all. But then those numbers on the scale creep up, and I can't stay away from it, no matter how hard it is to drag my ass out of bed to get to the gym in the mornings.

I've claimed throughout this process that I don't like working out. And I don't, really. I don't like to sweat. I don't like being too hot. I don't like my clothes sticking to me when I'm done. I don't like that I think *I* sweat more profusely than other people. I used to say of running, when I was a teenager, "The only good thing about running is when you stop." But I don't really feel that way anymore.

When my time on the elliptical was winding down today, I felt so exhilarated, so energized, that I couldn't believe my time was up. I've been so cautious about running, with the shin splints causing me so much pain. I don't like not being able to run, but neither do I like the idea of stress fractures if I'm not careful. But since I didn't feel "done" today when my time was up on the elliptical, I ran a few times around the track, to the "Beat Cathedral" mix, feeling so strong.

It is so very hard for me to put into words how much 'feeling strong' signifies major change for me. I didn't use to be. Strong, that is. Running a few blocks to catch a bus in NYC would have had me gasping for air like a fish out of water. Carrying baskets of laundry up the stairs in our old apartment building had me heaving and panting. No longer.

In fact, I'm actually considering signing up for several upcoming 5 and 10 K races. I must be out of my mind.

Att banta

When I was learning to speak Swedish, various things confused me as a non-native speaker. It made me appreciate how incredibly difficult learning English must be. I can never remember which is which, but homophones, homographs...you know, words that sound alike but are spelled different, or are spelled the same but pronounced different...how confusing that must be for someone to try to figure out. Then there are words that mean the same or similar things, like red and crimson. I can't remember what those are called. Homonyms, maybe?

One of the things that I love about English is its richness of vocabulary, the fact that there are hundreds upon thousands of words, the many descriptors available for your use, for free!

Yes, I admit it. I'm a grammar geek. I love all this stuff. No apologies for it either.

Swedish has these little quirks too. The words for ugly and drunk are both ful, but I can barely hear the difference between the two. (Context...so important!) In order to avoid having to say ugly, I would use the word horrible, so that I didn't mispronounce it. Again. Then there are the words for ice cream, glass (like in a window) and glasses (for vision correction), which all sound like the English word glass, but they're spelled differently. I think. I can speak it much, much better than I can read and write it.

Words that had similar meanings threw me from time to time as well. To diet in Swedish is att diet; but then there's this other word, banta, that seems to mean the same thing. My host father explained it to me like this; diet was the word you would use for what you were doing when you were trying to lose weight, but to banta was to just hold back. As best I can figure, banta-ing is somewhere in between leaving something on the plate so you don't feel gorged and starving yourself. Kidding!! OK, so not starving yourself, but not eating all that you want to, either.

Recently, I've officially reached a big number in my weight loss quest. 40. I am 40 pounds lighter than I was a year ago at this time. I had been at a plateau with the losing weight since about May or June. It seems after the death of my Auntie H in October that the scale has been showing smaller numbers, finally, and very slowly. We're talking initial changes in ounces. I've finally invested in a decent scale at home instead of relying on the gym's. I have no earthly idea what to attribute this resumption of weight loss to; I haven't changed anything that I've been doing for the last year in the last few weeks. It is a huge relief to see those numbers going down again.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and yes, even atheist-leaning agnostics celebrate Thanksgiving with their families. My Auntie G cooks twice a year; Thanksgiving and Christmas. It is an event not to be missed. Her stuffing? To die for. Better than your granny's or your mother's, I promise. Since I only have the opportunity to eat it twice a year, I tend to overload my plate with it.

Thanksgiving is a carb festival, isn't it? At least, it is for my family. In addition to the stuffing, which is bread-based, there's mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, corn...all starch-y, not good to overindulge in. Plus this is the Slovak side of the family, so noodles and butter with gravy are also on the table. Like haluski, without the cabbage. Don't ask why we do this, I couldn't explain it to you if my life depended on it. But trust me, it is good. Gooooood!

When people ask me how I've lost the weight, my answer is always the same: "The really, really hard way." Sweating my ass off (quite literally, hahahaha) at the gym, cutting my portion sizes, paying lots more attention to food labels, both for the nutritional value and for the actual ingredients, trying not to eat pre-packaged food, staying away from fried anything. Banta-ing, essentially.

I did not take the opportunity to overindulge yesterday. My attitude about food and relationship with food have changed so much in the past year. It isn't that I no longer derive pleasure from good food, it is that I don't need quite so much of it to be satisfied. One of my cousins, for hours after dinner, moaned about how overstuffed she felt, and I couldn't help but think to myself, "Why the hell did you eat that much, then? No one was forcing you to."

Did I eat the stuffing? You bet. Wouldn't miss it for the world. But there were more carrots from the veggie tray than there was stuffing on my plate. I even ate a little bit of the noodles. I passed on the mashed potatoes. If I eat those these days, it is going to be my own recipe that includes sour cream, cream cheese, garlic, and butter. But was my plate so full yesterday that I had to make a separate trip for a roll? Nope. Didn't eat one of those, either. The fat content and other icky preservatives that are in them aren't worth the taste to me anymore. (They were those rolls that come in the can, that you shape into little quarter-moons.)

Overall, I think my relationship with food and my attitude about it are so much more healthy now than they've ever been. Even when I was a size-0-wearing skinny little bit of a thing. I think about the word banta often. I ask myself all the time; Do you really need that much of that? I turn things over and check out the label, and if it has corn syrup (evil, evil, evil) or tHBQ (dude, two words...PETROLEUM DERIVATIVE!!!) in it, I put it back on the shelf. There's some magic number of fat grams that I won't go over on a single serving of anything. I don't really know exactly what that number is, but impulse buying of a candy bar isn't something that I do much these days. Not worth the calories and fat, and if I'm going to eat chocolate, it is going to be chocolate that has a list of ingredients that I can actually pronounce.

I don't suppose that I can go around answering the question "How'd ya lose the weight?" by saying "I banta-ed," and not just because the Swe-Eng nonsensical word won't make sense to people. I've changed my philosophy, my daily routine, my grocery-shopping habits, my cholesterol levels, my blood sugar, my number of asthma attacks, everything, to get where I am. Much easier to say 'the really, really hard way.' But my favorite upside of it all? Not the fact that I'm stronger and healthier, not the fact that my asthma is under control. Nope. As vain and shallow as it is, my favorite benefit is that in addition to the laundry list I've made of changes, I've changed my dress size, too.

Its a bitch to get old, man.

But it is always better than the alternative.

I went to see my physical therapist, physical, as opposed to my shrink...don't ask about my shoulder injury that he works on. It makes me feel older to complain about my aches and pains. As I was walking in the door of the office, I was thinking about something that would make a great blog post. I didn't write it down, and consequently, I've forgotten what the heck it was about.

Since I can't remember that, I'm going to indulge in my vanity instead and tell you how fabulous I'm looking these days.

I had my hair cut and colored over the weekend. This super-super-super short style I'm wearing needs cut often. More than about 3 weeks and it is too long. My hairdresser (love, love, love, love him) put streaks of 3 colors in my hair; a blonde, and two reds. One very red, nearly punk, and the other darker, more of my mother's natural hair color, an auburn. Depending on which direction I style my hair, the punk streaks either show or don't, which is a good thing now that I'm working. Conservative and businesslike for work, punk and loud when I'm not.

Then I went shopping for new clothes; I'm broke as a joke, but didn't have a full week's worth of work clothes since I shit-canned all the stuff that doesn't fit me. Now I've got a more than a week's worth of beautiful clothes thanks to the assistance of my friend K (couldn't have done it without ya, babe!) and most of it? Is a size 10. Considering that my most comfortable suit a year ago was an 18, I'm pretty damn happy about that. Ten! Ten!! Yes, I still have about 25-27 pounds to go, and yes, I'm still working my ass off on it, but I look better than I have since my early 20s. I'm older, more confident, and more fabulous too.

Still highly medicated for depression, though. And not interested for even a second in tapering the anti-depressants right now. I still don't want to need to take them for the rest of my life, and the sooner I can get off them, the better, but they're working right now and I'm feeling better than I have in about a year. I know that part of feeling better is because I'm back to work; my shrink told me that I could not allow my self-worth to be tied up in what I do for a living. I'm still working on that one.

Also still working through the grief of my Aunt passing away. One day at a time on that one.

I'm very cautiously optimistic about feeling better. Once upon a time, when DH and I had just moved in to our current house, the non-profit job was going very well, I remember telling a friend that everything was going swimmingly but yet I had this sense of impending doom. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wrote about it. Is it my Catholic upbringing that makes me wait for the other shoe to drop? Superstition? I don't know. But I'd rather feel that than as if I was living in a black hole.

Reformulated

There's a commercial running on television these days for a popular multi-vitamin which touts its reformulation. As most commercials are, this one is annoying. Relevant, today, though because I'm thinking about the changes, reformulation if you will, of myself.

I've been doing Yoga weekly since October of 2006. At first, I could barely do half the poses and I'd wake up a day or so later hurting in places I didn't even think had muscles. (Silly me, there isn't much of the human body that does not have muscular structure.) It has gotten easier over the intervening months, but there are still some things that I simply can not do.

One of those things is a balancing pose that I don't know the name of. The first time I saw my Saturday morning Yoga instructor do it, I laughed. As IF! I thought. No way I could do THAT! We defeat ourselves sometimes, don't we? If you think you can't, you're probably right. My instructor continued to do the pose weekly for a few months, and after several weeks, she came to me as the class was holding the pose and asked me quietly why I couldn't do it.

"I'm afraid," I responded honestly. "I think I'm going to fall headfirst into the concrete floor."

"You won't," she encouraged gently. "Give it a shot."

So I did, but I was too heavy, then, to support myself. You get into this particular pose by standing with your legs about 2 feet wider than hip distance apart, feet parallel. Bend at the waist, and place your hands on the floor. Bend your knees. Squat down until your knees are resting against your elbows. Lean forward, and balance your weight on your hands, with the legs still against the elbows, feet off of the floor. All your weight is in your hands, and the pressure of the entire body rests in the wrists. Ouch, right? Eyah.

Eventually, she stopped doing it as part of the routine on Saturday mornings, and I forgot about it. Then I started taking the Core Yoga class that my gym offers during the day on Thursdays, which when I'm employed I could never do. The instructor for this class is less flexible than my Saturday teacher, but she's stronger. Core Yoga means that the poses focus on the core of the body, the abs, the glutes, the chest, the back. So there's a whole lot of Plank pose, Downward Dog, poses that are tough. We hold them for longer than in the Intermediate Yoga class. I leave there drenched and usually shaking.

Today, I didn't even realize where she was heading when she began giving instruction to get into this pose, so I simply followed her directions and at the very last second I realized where this was going. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought. And I DID IT!!! It was all I could do not to yell, "Look! LOOK!! I'm doing it!!" (very not kosher in a quiet Yoga class) I was not able to hold the pose as long as the instructor did, but as we say in Swedish, skit samma. That's akin to saying 'it's all good,' just not very polite.

I've been discouraged by the exercise program because the weight loss has stalled. In this age of instant gratification, we all expect results overnight. I'm no different, I think that after nearly a year of working out six days a week I ought to be about 50 pounds lighter, not 30-some. My brother-in-law lost 90 pounds in a year. How come I haven't? Grrr, it frustrates the hell out of me. I've permanently altered my eating habits. I'm eating more healthy than I have in my entire adult life. I drink tons of water every day. And I have not lost any weight at all since about June. URGH!

I'm so much stronger than I was this time last year. My asthma is so much less bothersome. My flexibility is astonishing; if I could show you the bendy, twisty things I can do, you'd be jaw-on-the-ground amazed. That's all great, but what I want is to be a size 4. Yes, yes, I know that's unrealistic and stupid, but it is the truth.

I am not able to see the results when I look in the mirror, because we are all our own worst critics. Very recently I've noticed some changes to my waistline, it had become more nipped-in, for lack of a better term, I've got more of that curvy shape. This is due to the sit ups I do every day, 100 facing forward, 100 lying on my left side and 100 lying on my right side. I can tell that the oblique crunches are making a difference. A slow difference, VERY slow, but at least I can finally see it.

Now if I could just get some magic elves to alter the clothes that I want to keep from falling off of me, that would be great. Where's that damn gnome? You know, the one who drinks the last beer, eats the last cookie, drinks the protein shakes I make for myself, makes a mess and then disappears? Put that petite batard to work doing some sewing. Don't look at me like that; I know one lives in your house too.


Listening to: Sarah McLachlan, "Trust" from the Touch album. Woot for strong women!

Ugh.

Once upon a time, I had terrible heartburn. In my early twenties, I had daily heartburn so bad that I took 2 prescriptions for it, even had a gastroenterologist (that's a tummy doctor) that I visited on a regular basis. I had 2 stomach procedures done, where they were trying to determine if I had stomach cancer or an ulcer or any other reason that I might be having such awful heartburn. Nothing, and I mean NO THING helped, really, when it was bad. The prescriptions eased the pain a bit, but every single thing I ate or drank gave me heartburn.

Then I quit working for the bank, and wonder of wonders, it got better. Enough so that I quit taking the prescriptions. Hm, it just might have been stress after all that was causing the heartburn. Well, that, and the nearly 70 extra pounds of weight I was carrying around.

I figured out when I was seeing the tummy doctor that certain things ARE in fact triggers for me, will give me heartburn, so I avoid those things. Too many red onions; immediate pain. Eating even one small bite of a bell pepper, be it red, yellow, orange, green, or purple, raw or cooked in any fashion at all, even just added to a sauce or a stew gives me heartburn for about 2 days. I like both of those things, but I avoid them like the plague. So too must I avoid a few types of cheap red wine, because those will also make me ill.

The other day when I was complaining about pain in my delts, it ended up being heartburn. And I've got it again today. Bad, really bad. Bad enough that moving my upper body around is painful. I've tried to describe the sensation of bad heartburn to people who don't suffer from it before. About the best I can do is this. Imagine that you've got a huge sack of air pressing upwards and outwards from your diaphragm to your chin. And then someone lights it on fire. Pleasant, yeah? No, not so much.

I would have thought that being 30 pounds lighter would mean that I'm done with heartburn forever, or at least unless I eat something that's going to make me ill. Ugh.

And then THIS is depressing beyond belief. I was wondering what I should be shooting for as my goal weight, because even though I'd like to be about 120 pounds I think that's pretty unrealistic, and possibly unhealthy, and I wondered what the BMI calculators would say. Turns out to have a "healthy" BMI, I need to weigh between 115 and 154 pounds, meaning that I've got between another 15 and 50-some pounds left to lose. I'm doubtful in the extreme that I'll be satisfied with the way I look with just another 15 pounds gone. I don't want to look anorexic, you understand, which I think I would at 115 pounds, but I'd like to look hot. Sigh. Underneath this tough-as-nails feminist exterior is a little girl who still just wants to be "pretty."

Ugh.

Think I'll go back to bed.

Size ain't nothin' but a number- - - and it is a dumb and irrelevant number, at that.

While there has been quite a bit happening politically that interests me, I've been more in the mood to mostly write personal posts this week. This post will be no exception. But hello, Congress, passing a 100 billion (yep, that's billion with a B) piece of legislation to fund the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Um, Uncle Sam? Where is this money going to come from? Oh, that's right. My tax dollars. Sigh. With such a stellar example from the government, is it any wonder that the average Joe has thousands of dollars in personal credit card debt? Rhetorical questions all. Back to the point of this post.

Last weekend, DH and I popped in to Target after our Sunday morning out-to-breakfast ritual. He loves to cruise through a handful of stores after taking a peek at the Sunday ads (just about the only worthwhile part of our local paper). Personally, I prefer to lounge around and read, or do a few small projects around the house, or do nothing at all on Sundays, but every now and then I tag along with him.

He went off in the direction of whatever he wanted to look at from the ad, and I wandered into the clothing section. I vastly prefer Target to, say, Wal-Mart. The ranting and raving about Wally's will have to wait for another day, but let's just say that I had to study quite a lot about them in business school (my University degree is in business, FYI) and their business practices SUCK! {end rant}

I am pretty fond of Isaac Mizrahi and Target's Merona brand, and the Mossimo line. But I haven't purchased any clothing for myself since around this time last year, when K drug me out looking for something to wear to a work event she had to go to. I don't like looking at my rolls in the mirror, and am disgusted at the size I need to purchase to fit myself. Or, rather, I had been up until Sunday.

Almost nothing in my closet fits me right now. Almost everything is so large that it either needs taken in at the waist or it just billows out around me, making me look pregnant or like I'm a little girl dressing up out of mommy's closet. I can't believe that I'm bitching about this when it is an obvious good sign of progress, but, I'm still annoyed that I haven't lost all the weight that I want to lose. I realize this isn't too rational, but y'know, I'm not entirely sane. Nothing fits, it is all too big, and it irritates the crap out of me. Especially when getting dressed for work in the morning, I'm trying on an average of 3 different outfits every day, attempting to find ANYTHING that fits to wear to work.

Some perverse instinct made me keep a very few of my business suits in smaller sizes when I gained weight, so there are about 2 suits that fit. Both of them wool and heavily lined. Not exactly springtime wear, eh? Since I work in a very professional environment, I can't just wear the sweats and other comfy stuff that does fit, I actually do need clothes that fit to wear to work.

I haven't wanted to go out and buy an all-new wardrobe because I have no intentions of staying this size. And because it would be expensive. My stated goal is to lose about another 30-40 pounds, making the weight loss a grand total of about 70 pounds. That's where I ought to be according to the info on the height/weight charts, but that doesn't really matter to me. My reason for that weight is that's where I felt pretty comfortable, and with the muscle definition I should have by that time, I'll be looking darn fabu. (Ego? Me? Naaaaah.)

But I found a bunch of things in Target that I liked on the clearance racks and I picked up a few things to try on, disappearing into the dressing room for about a half hour. (DH searched the entire store for me during this time, even going out to the car to see if I was waiting there. Which kind of cracks me up.)

I had chosen things in a smaller size than I've worn in years, a 10. Just an idle, and hopeful, guess. Three brands, Merona, Issac, and Mossimo, and don't you know that the 10 in Issac's stuff fit, the Merona did not, and the Mossimo skirt did, but the pants did not. W.T.F.? Why aren't there standards ACROSS THE INDUSTRY for clothing sizes? There are for the guys....a pair of men's trousers that are 32x32 from Levi's are going to be the EXACT SAME SIZE as a pair of trousers from Brooks Brothers.

Ladies, why on EARTH do we put up with this? Think about the collected time that you've WASTED in dressing rooms over the years, agonized that the size {{whatever}} you picked up off the rack didn't fit. Or guessing, when trying on something made by a clothing line that you've never heard of, what size might fit, and having to go back and try 3 or 4 more of whatever it is on to find your size. What a pain!

I'm going to make an attempt to stop giving a damn about that number on the tag. If it fits, wear it. If it doesn't, who cares. But wouldn't it be nice to have some standardization, so that a 10 is a 10 is a 10? I'm just sayin'.

HEY! CLOTHING MANUFACTURERS! I'M TALKING TO YOU! HOW ABOUT MAKING STUFF THAT FITS REAL WOMEN, WHO HAVE HIPS AND THIGHS, WHO AREN'T THE OLSEN TWINS AND STILL WANT TO LOOK GOOD? OH, AND WHAT ABOUT MAKING THINGS THAT ACTUALLY HAVE AN ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF WHAT SIZE IT IS ON THE TAG? WOULD IT KILL YA?

By the way, I ended up buying a black & white sheath dress, a black suit jacket, and a pair of black trousers. With tax, a grand total of about $47. As I said, some of the stuff I took back to try on didn't fit, so I grabbed a larger size of the trousers off the rack on the way home, and ended up having to go back to exchange them, because the pair two sizes larger was huge. When I exchanged the trousers, I picked up a black and white skirt too, ($14) so I ended up with 3 outfits for less than $100. Not bad. Not bad at all.

New Experiences are GOOD for you. Yeah.

I started a new exercise class today. BOSU stands for Both Sides Utlilized and isn't new, having been developed in 1999. But here in the midst of cornfields and lowlands of the Appalachians, it is new to us. Picture a balance ball, cut in half and mounted on a solid plastic base. You stand on it, and do aerobics.

My gym began hyping it at the end of last year, promising to bring intro classes for free. Some of the classes that they offer cost about $20, at least the interesting ones cost. Things that I have no interest in, like Step, are free. Of course. So the offer of a free new class was pretty tempting and I signed up.

I had the first class today. It was awful, horrible, and I hated it. I think that I have a decent sense of balance, and I know that I'm pretty damn flexible, but this was miserable. I do not have good balance on the ball.

The instructor suggested trying first with no shoes, that you might have better balance in socks. True. So I offed my shoes and gave it a shot. My feet almost immediately cramped up, much like getting a charley horse in your leg. I gave it about 15 minutes, hopping off the ball and stretching from time to time, and that didn't work, so I put my shoes back on, and tied them tightly. That was better.

I despise aerobics, I always have. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, signing up for this. I have THREE left feet, can't hold tempo, and have no idea what half of the exercises that the instructor calls out are. V-Step, side lunges? Clueless. So I have to watch the instructor for two or three cycles of the moves and then catch up. I'm always the only freaking one in the goddam class doing that, no matter what the class. And then I can't keep up, getting exhausted before they're done with whatever sequence they're working their way through, wheezing...and I feel like the only idiot in the room who is so out of shape.

I know that's not the case, I wasn't (for once) the fattest person in the room. When I got on the scale after the class, I'm actually down four more pounds than the last time I stepped on the scale. Yay! I've lost about 1/3 of the total weight that I'd like to. And I am in better shape, my cardiovascular system is fantastic. The asthma monster should be completely out of control at this time of year and its good, really. My breathing is fantastic, and my legs, in my adorable pink high heeled sandals, look spectacular. I'm not obese and never have been, but things like this class make me feel like I weigh 300 lbs.

I stayed for the whole class, despite wanting badly to just walk out. The other exercise classes I've been doing for the past 6 months, Yoga and Pilate's, are things that I really liked from the very first class. I dunno if I'll continue to take this class, because it really wasn't fun. And since I don't like to sweat, or do ANY of this stuff to begin with, why should I continue to do it if I think it sucks?

On the other hand, I'm about the MOST stubborn person that I know, and I hate to 'give up' on anything, anything at all. Will I go back next week? Probably. In fact, a woman who was in this class that is also in my Yoga class suggested that I give the Sunday BOSU class a shot, that with a different instructor and repeated exposure, it gets easier.

I'm sure it does, but if it was awful the first time, won't I think it is just as awful the next time? With so many options out there for exercise, shouldn't I stick to things that are fun?

When we're talking about trying new foods, I'm always down for that. New places to travel, yep, sign me up. New exercise classes? Eeaych, not so much.

Sakta mina steg

Or, in English:

Slow my steps

Every now and then I just can't resist slipping a little Swedish into the mix. Sorry. I was listening to Swedish pop on my iPod and I'm having trouble getting back into the English groove.

I know I was complaining just a few short days ago about how my exercise program isn't working as well as I'd like, and that's still true, but I noticed a few things today that thrill me to my fingertips.

I take an early morning Yoga class on Saturdays. In the depths of winter, it is really difficult to get to that class...it is still dark outside, bitterly cold, and forsaking the warmth of my bed is hard. As spring continues to unfold, it gets easier, in part because it is light outside, and in part because it isn't as frosty outside. I've been doing this class for between 6 and 7 months, it is intermediate Yoga. Some of the stuff we do is hard, some less so. I find Yoga very soothing, usually. Every now and then, if I've been out on Friday night before the class, it is awful.

My instructor is a serene woman, mother of four. Her kids range in age from 8 months to 10 years. I have no idea how she stays so calm all the time. I've never seen her in a snit, or on edge. Which makes me slightly suspicious that she's one of those "terminally happy" people, you know the type. The ones that need a good bop in the head. But maybe she just really loves teaching Yoga.

Today she led us through a series of moves, from downward-facing dog, into plank, to upward dog, table, to cat-back, lather, rinse, repeat. We went through this cycle half a dozen times, and I was breathing at her instruction. I have never been able to hold the plank pose for very long, it hurts my lower back. Today, not a problem. Not a hitch. No wimping out and dropping the pose to its modification, which puts your knees on the floor.

Sometimes, if I can drag my ass out of bed, I do my cardio on the treadmill before Yoga. Most of the time, though, I end up doing it after. I left Yoga today feeling strong and positive, but I really wanted to go back to bed. Part of this whole exercise thing is pushing myself to do more, a little bit of beating myself up over having gotten as overweight as I was. Part of it also is when I joined the Y, and informed DH that I intended to go every weekday when the gym opened up at 05.30, he said, "That will NEVER last." So I'm thumbing my nose at him a bit. Don't get me wrong, he's really supportive. On days when I can't drag myself out of bed, or don't feel well, he's always really sweetly concerned. But the fact that I do go six days a week in no way means that I really like it, or am enjoying myself whilst at the gym. I hate almost every stinking minute of it. I'm not having a good time, this isn't fun, it isn't a party at 05.30 every morning.

I worked my way up to 11 minutes of running on the treadmill today, and ran in much longer bursts than I usually do. Normally I do 3 minutes running, twice, and then four minutes to get to my ten, taking walking breaks in between. Today I did six minutes and five. With significant breaks walking at a slower speed. And it felt wonderful. For the first time in weeks, no pain. No muscle spasms, no aching calves or tibia muscles. In fact, it was almost easy. At the beginning of each running episode, I wanted to bump the speed of the treadmill up, because it was too easy. I know from experience that I tire quickly, and if I had given in to that impulse to sprint, I wouldn't have been able to do what I did. And by the end of the second bit of running, I was gasping, sweat pouring down my face, dripping off my nose. Hardly a pretty picture. I bring a small towel with me every day to mop at my face, and it was drenched by the time I was done.

I was reading on someone else's blog about people who lip sync to the music they're listening to at the gym, and how funny they sometimes look. I do that! It is less rude, I think, than doing what I want to do, which is sing at full volume. When I'm running and listening to something appropriate for the running, like "Dig" by Incubus, I mouth the words along with the music to force myself to not watch the timer on the treadmill, because if I watch the timer, all I can think about is when I can stop.

Running along today with Brandon Boyd's voice echoing in my ears, the iPod so loud that I couldn't hear anything else, urging myself to not clock-watch at least until the song was over, I felt such a swell of pride, because I knew even before the song was halfway done, that I'd managed to run for longer than I have in so many years. I hesitate to say, "I felt great!" because I haven't felt good, let alone great for a very long time. I'm going to post something next week about that, something I've been working on writing for a few weeks, and I don't want to get into all the details of that right now. But I felt pretty damn good when the program on the treadmill had run its 40 minute course. While stretching, I was thinking about going back for some more running, when the remix of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" popped up on the iPod. Which, really, WTH? I haven't ever wanted to run.


Slow steps, but progress. I like that. Finally!

Running Down A Dream

Before I get to my usual Tuesday Brain Dump, I need to point your attention to this piece on NPR, heartbreaking in its simplicity, about the shootings yesterday at Virginia Tech. Audio isn't available as I am writing this post, but will be later today. Judith Miller says so eloquently what I struggle to put into words. Give it a listen.





I'm thinking today about running, and the 'runner's high'

I'm still only able to run for 10 minutes out of the 35 that I'm on the treadmill. Some days are easier than others. I don't know why. My routine varies only by a small amount each day; get up, get dressed, go to the gym, come home, shower, get dressed for work, work, drive home, dinner, write, bed. Tuesdays and Thursdays there's an exercise class in between dinner and writing. That's about it. I drink a ton of water each day. I'm watching my portions and eating healthy. So why is it that some days are super easy and some so incredibly tough? I wish I understood.

I have been a runner for a very long time, but taken very long breaks in between times when I run and times when I don't. I was on the track team in junior high school, 7th grade? Or was it 8th? Too long ago to remember now. The junior high school in my hometown was on a tree-lined street, which has about 10 century houses on it, and in fact the original portion of the school is a historic building as well, was at one time a private college. A very, very, very small one. At the end of the school's street is a forest preserve, 243 acres of wild lands. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, and for conditioning for track, they'd have us run from the school, to the preserve, around the loop trail in the preserve, and back up to school. Then we'd have practice. I'm not really sure of the distance. Maybe 3 total miles, maybe less. It was tough, I'd get to the practice field dead tired, panting, and in no mood to do time trials or sprints. I hated it, but kept pushing myself because I wanted desperately to fit in somewhere, and since one of my closest friends at the time was a track star, I thought that this might be my niche. It wasn't.

I'm not a good runner, or a fast one. They stuck me with running the 400, and I never won. I did it for only one season of track, I remember saying frequently at the time that "The only GOOD thing about running is when you stop." I never felt that endorphin high that everyone talked about.

In the spring of the year I lived in Sweden, my best friend and I looked at ourselves and realized we'd gained some weight over the winter. Which is really ridiculous, she was 5'7" and weighed maybe 140 and I was 5'2" and didn't weigh over 100, but I was 17 and she was 19 and we thought we were 'fat'. We embarked on a very ambitious journey, swimming 2 kilometers in the community pool after school on Mondays and Wednesdays, and running between 2 and 5 kilometers on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays and Saturdays we drank. Sundays we recovered.

We made a list, that I still have, of things we agreed to not eat. Nothing fried. No more stopping for something to eat on the way home from the clubs on Saturday nights. The town's cafe/bakery made these donut sort of things called munkar, which were square, filled with a wonderful apple/sugar/cinnamon blend, and I agreed to stop buying them when I got out of school every afternoon. No ice cream.

We did get into better shape, but what I remember most is coming to the back door of my host family's house, panting, opening the door and calling out to my host-mum, Snalla, kan vi har lite vatern? (Please, can we get some water?) We weren't allowed into the house without taking off shoes, and we'd stretch in the backyard before going inside. The route that we ran took us though farm country, and I had to really work to get the mud off of those running shoes. I still hated it, and I remember mamman asking me why we didn't just walk if we hated it so much. I would tell her how we'd look so cute in our bathing suits during the coming summer and she would roll her eyes at me. She ought to have smacked me one, considering what I weighed and my body image at the time. Not that it would have smacked some sense into me, but still, I wince when thinking about how I used to whine about being fat at 17. Someone really should have given me a beat-down.

Through most of my college years, I lifted weights, but did very little cardio, and my weight gain really escalated after I got married. Sure, I walked in our old neighborhood from time to time. I exercised never, though. I joined a series of gyms, but never really got off the couch. The thing that's different this time around is that I now recognize and understand that the working out has to be part of my life every day for the rest of my life, that once I've gotten to the goal, I can't just stop doing whatever finally works to get the rest of the weight off. I might be able to do 3 days a week at the gym instead of 6, but it has to be a part of who I am and what I do for the rest of the time I'm on this earth.

And I finally get that runner's high. Each day, when I manage to get to the ten full minutes running, I feel like raising my hands over my head and cheering. I want to jump up and down and shout "LOOK!! I did it! Ten minutes!!! GO ME!" I restrain the impulse, but it is there.

I'm still having trouble with cramping in the tibia muscles, and it hurts when I stop running. Which is a complete 180 degree turn from where I was, that it was good to stop. I have been trying for about a week to get up over ten minutes (woot! 11 whole minutes!!) but I can't quite get there. It will come, I know. Patience has NEVER been my strong suit.

What I love about running is that it is now very meditative for me. I can't focus on anything else but breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. I can't think about anything else, and considering the craziness that is going on in my life right now, a blank slate, a clear head, is a wonderful thing. It doesn't last for but a few minutes after I get off the treadmill, but it is nice to experience while it does last.

I was out of bed at 4 this morning, giving up the battle to sleep even a few minutes longer after watching the clock from 3:17 AM on. Can't sleep, can't focus, don't want to do anything, endless circles of the same thoughts chasing around and around in my head. I was at Dr. Hottie's office last week, and he encouraged me to continue to use the Ambien to get the sleep I need. Muscle repair and your body's regeneration happens in stage 4 sleep, and I'm not getting even a minute of that. Dreams occur during REM sleep, stage two. I have very little of those, either. The sleeping pill gives me exceedingly weird, disjointed dreams, but also about 5 hours of sleep as opposed to the three or so I get without help.

So I'm continuing to chase after that elusive fitness goal, and a good night's sleep. But looking in the mirror this morning, I can finally see some muscle definition in my shoulders, and when I turn around and look at my back, there are two fewer rolls of fat. Twenty-two pounds lighter, and that's all the difference I can see. Guess my self-image still needs some work.

Finally, I'm jumping on a bandwagon that I've just discovered. Searching for new music to run to on iTunes the other day, I found Podrunner, produced by LA's DJ Steveboy. Once upon a time, dance hall and trip-hop was all I listened to. And then I figured out that it can get pretty damn annoying. But I'm in love with the mixes that Steveboy produces. I'm gooving to Paintshaker, which was featured the week that Podrunner had its four MILLIONTH download. So yeah, I'm behind the times a wee bit. I haven't subscribed to the podcast yet because I'm running out of space on my iPod, a project for the coming weekend is to delete everything that I haven't listened to since uploading most of my music library in January.

I hope your Tuesday doesn't suck out loud.

Alterations and Altercations

There will actually not be any disagreements in this post, I just liked the alliteration.

MotherMe posted a muffin recipe the other day, and upon reading it, my first thought was YUM! And my second thought was a wistful, (sigh), I haven't baked anything in forever, due to my self-imposed weight loss program. I love to bake. But cookies, muffins, cakes and quick breads are not the stuff that weight-loss dreams are made of, so I've been abstaining from doing much in the kitchen besides making dinner. Dinner is usually boneless, skinless chicken, or grilled fish. And yes, that can be rather dull, but the idea of becoming a Type 2 diabetic is terrifying enough that I've been highly motivated to stick to the program of gym, every single day, and eating right, making big changes that must be lifelong changes if I am to avoid the traps that my genes have set for me of obesity, diabetes, knee replacement, heart disease and osteoporosis.

Yet again, however, I'm wandering off topic. Boy, I'm good at that.

Back to the muffins. These appealed to me because they have both carrots and zucchini in them, and I have a tough time getting all of the servings of veggies that I need each day.

Here's the recipe as MotherMe posted it.

• 2 cups unbleached, unbromated white all-purpose flour
• 1/4 cup whole-wheat flour
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 T ground cinnamon
• 2 t baking soda
• 1/2 t salt
• 1 20-oz can crushed pineapple, drained well
• 2 cups grated carrot (approx 6 medium)
• 1 smallish zucchini, grated (approx 1/2 to 1 cup)
• 3/4 cup raisins
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
• 3 large eggs
• 1 cup canola or vegetable oil
• 1 tsp vanilla

Butter or grease 18 muffin cups, or line with paper liners. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Mix dry ingredients thoroughly together in a large bowl. Add pineapple, vegetables, raisins, and nuts and stir well. It will look a lot more like a pasta salad than a muffin mix, but trust me on this.

In another bowl, beat the eggs well and stir in the oil and vanilla. Add to the vegetables and fruit and mix well. Forget that stuff about mixing muffins until “just combined”. It doesn’t apply when you’re making muffins out of cole slaw.

Spoon the slaw batter into the muffin tins or papers. They won’t rise a whole lot, so fill them fairly full.

Bake approximately 30-35 minutes until a knife or toothpick poked into the center comes out without any goo on it. Let the muffins cool on a wire rack for at least 10 minutes before eating. Pineapple chunks will be very hot.

Here are the changes that I made....

• 1 cup unbleached, unbromated flour
• 1-1/4 cups whole wheat flour
• 1 cup turbinado sugar
• 3/4 cup unsweetened apple sauce and 1/4 cup olive oil
• 1 cup zucchini
• golden raisins (because regular raisins are icky.)
• I omitted the salt. I almost always do in baking recipes. You get enough salt from other sources...ahem. Let me get off my soapbox.
  
• I omitted the vanilla. Not because I intended to, but because I forgot about it until filling the muffin tins.

Now since I haven't tasted MotherMe's version, I don't know if my alterations made a significant difference in the texture of the finished product, but I'm guessing that it might make the muffins a bit more coarse-textured with more whole wheat flour. But it gives them a higher whole grain content, too, which means fewer simple carbs.

Turbinado sugar is just a fancy way of referring to what is sold commercially as "Sugar in the Raw" and I have a bunch of it from the health food store, so I used it instead of white sugar. It is less 'processed' than white sugar. Again, this may make a slight difference in the final texture, but the benefits, IMO, outweigh those minor consequences.

My prep time was reduced as well, because I purchased matchstick carrots instead of grating my own. I'm pressed for time in general this weekend, so while I the grocery store I took the opportunity to purchase chopped nuts and shredded carrots, making this one of the easiest quick bread recipes I've ever thrown together.

The taste? Delicious. I couldn't resist them straight out of the oven, being wildly curious about how cole slaw turns into yummy muffins, so yes, I ignored the caution that the pineapple chunks are hot and burned my lip. Worth it, though. They're good cold, too, I've been munching a second one as I've written this post. The cinnamon is a nice touch, the nuts an unexpected crunch here and there, and the carrots are not so cooked as to be mushy and gross. (I despise cooked carrots.) These are nearly ideal breakfast food if you ask me, a nice veggie addition to my usual 2 hard-cooked eggs-and-a-banana breakfast.

Further experimentation will probably be in reducing the amount of sugar, as that's important to me. I also might try adding a scoop of soy protein or wheat germ to see what happens.

I'm pressed for time this weekend because somehow, the family gathering for Easter dinner is at my house. I'm not sure how the only pagan heathen in the family ended up hosting the most important Christian celebration on the calendar, but that's life for you sometimes. So I've been busy cleaning and cooking, and will probably not have a second to spare to be on the computer tomorrow at all. Let's not talk about how traumatic I think the withdrawal will be, OK?

Listening to: The washing machine. As it spins endlessly, sounding like a small jet is going to take off from my kitchen.

Bento Box Madness

I bought a bento box like this one on eBay about a week or so ago. It arrived yesterday. I first read about bento boxes on WellFed, when someone, I don't remember who, wrote an article about her Mr. Bento and how it was helping her post-gastric surgery weight loss program. I subsequently developed a minor obsession over bento boxes. (See, I do get obsessive about things other than hot young TV actors. Really.) I read everything I could point my mouse to about them, discovering the Flickr community dedicated to all things Mr. Bento, several great blogs about bento, and then, the hallelujah chorus rang out in my head when I decided to check eBay for a bento box of my own. I had decided that I didn't want a Mr. Bento; I wanted something cute.

And is it ever cute! There's a cute little fork that goes with the set, cute matching chopsticks, with their accompanying case, a little strap to keep the boxes tied together, and a bag to carry it all in. Cute, cute, cute!

DH puts up with me buying things from eBay because I have not yet purchased a car, a house, or major furniture. Some dolls, some books, some yarn, y'know, harmless stuff. He watched me open all the pieces and parts of my new bento box last night with growing incredulity. "What IS that?" He asked, rolling his eyes at yet another needless acquisition.

"A Japanese lunch-box," I responded gleefully. "Isn't it CUTE?"

"How could you possibly fit enough into that for a whole lunch?" He wondered, noting that it is six inches wide, 3.15 inches across, and when all 3 pieces are stacked one on top of the other, no taller than about 4.5 inches. The whole thing fits into a bag no bigger than a 20 ounce bottle of water.

Plenty of room, I assured him. See, two compartments for food! So much fun! He rolled his eyes again and asked how long until dinner was ready. So I made something kind of bento inspired for dinner and brought it with me today for my yummy lunch. The fish dish was inspired by the Fast Fish cookbook and the quiona salad recipe is adapted from Well Fed.

Parchment Wrapped Fish with Quiona Salad

Fish
2 large SQUARE pieces of parchment paper
2 fillets any mild, white fish...I use Basa
2 T soy sauce
1 t your favorite hot sauce (I use Sirachi here)
1 T brown sugar
1/4 c lime juice
Zest of 1 lime
Juice of 2 limes
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 c chopped fresh cilantro
1/4 c olive oil

Oven 400F

Combine soy, hot sauce, sugar, juice, zest and garlic. Slowly drizzle oil in, as if you were making a vinaigrette. Marinate the fish in this mixture 15 minutes in the fridge, turning once.

Lie one square of parchment on a flat work surface. Place the fish diagonal across the parchment, and bring up the bottom point of the square. Fold in the left and right sides, then flip the packet over, tucking the top corner into the space left at the bottom. You're making a small envelope full of fishy goodness. Bake on a tinfoil lined cookie sheet in the oven 15 minutes. Cut packets open and slide fish onto plates. Serve hot.

While the fish marinates and bakes, make the quiona salad.

1 c quiona
2 cups water
zest of 1 lime
juice of 2 limes
2 T sesame oil
1/4 c olive oil
1/4 c cilantro, chopped fine
Grape tomatoes...about 1/2 cup
2-3 ribs celery, chopped fine
1 seedless cucumber, peeled, seeded, cut into fourths and diced

Follow package directions for quiona. It is a grain just like rice, it simply bears close watching. When it is done, spread onto another tinfoil lined cookie sheet to speed the cooling process. In a large bowl, combine the zest and the juice, and whisk oils in. Add cilantro, and vegetables, allowing them to soak in the dressing. When the quiona has cooled, add it to salad, toss, and add more olive oil if desired. Serve cold.

Dinner was wonderful, and I didn't eat all of my piece of fish intentionally, saving it for today's lunch. It fit beautifully into the bottom tray of my dragonfly bento, and I filled the top with quiona salad. That left a bit of room in the bottom container, so I added a mini muffin liner and filled it with about a tablespoon of blanched, slivered almonds. I closed both containers, fitted the strap around them, and put it in its cute little bag in my fridge. Brought it with me to work, and had a wonderful lunch. The bento box is microwave safe, but not dishwasher safe, which is the only downfall as far as I am concerned.

Definitely enough food, too. Yum!

Terrified.

So yes, I went to see the doctor today. After listening to me list my various complaints (which are well documented here) about my lack of weight loss, he asked me, "Have you ever been tested for PCOS?" Now, I know that PCOS stands for Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, and I know that it is related to infertility, but beyond that, I don't know anything about it. We talked family history for a while, and he asked if anyone in the family has PCOS. Not that I'm aware of. One of the things that I like about this particular doctor, (besides the fact that he's easy on the eyes and I genuinely like the guy) is that when you are in one of his exam rooms, you have his complete attention, for however long it takes to solve the problem that you've come to see him for. I never feel that he's in a hurry to get to his next patient. He answers as many questions as I want to ask, he is polite, but is also blunt when that's needed. I told him that I think perhaps the problem with the lack of weight loss is the diabetes that runs in my family might be rearing its ugly head, or that I might have a thyroid problem. He thinks that I might have PCOS. He agreed to run blood work to test for diabetes and thyroid trouble, and run cholesterol levels as I asked, but he's also going to check hormone levels in an attempt to check for PCOS.

This evening, as I sat down to work on the book, I googled PCOS, just out of idle curiosity. There's a government website that lists symptoms, and there's Web MD. When I read through the symptoms, I have a lot of them. I'm certainly not going to list the ones I have here, that is way, waaayy, waaaaaayyyy TMI. Suffice to say that looking at the symptoms has frightened me.

There is no cure for PCOS, and very little treatment. Control your weight (hello, I'm trying), eat healthy, exercise. Meds include The Pill (which I am off of right now), diabetes medication, fertility drugs. Untreated, it can cause infertility, diabetes, and heart trouble.

Am I being a drama queen? Most likely. Without the family history, and the typical facial features of most women with PCOS, I probably don't have it, but I'm still frightened. I won't have the blood work results back until probably Tuesday next week, so obsessing over it isn't going to do me a damn bit of good.







Course that won't stop me.

Hate to admit it...

but Dad was right. Remember a few weeks ago when I said that I love telling people 'I told you so'? I do, but I hate to admit when someone else is right. When I was a kid, and not feeling so hot, and trying to stay home from school, he would tell me that if I would get up and get moving, I would feel better. I never believed him, ever. I usually got my way, staying home, not paying much attention to him.

However, this morning, I got up and was feeling totally shitty, I think last night's dinner just didn't sit well. I got out of bed and went to the gym, thinking the whole way there that I might toss my cookies. I did my 40 minutes of the interval program on the elliptical, 5 minutes of cool-down, my usual stretching routine, and left the gym feeling....better. Not great, you understand, but better.

I'm down ten pounds since I started working out six days a week, at least 30 minutes a day. While I am thrilled that I managed to not gain any weight over the holidays, that 10 pounds has not made a bit of difference in the way my clothes fit, nor am I sleeping better. My asthma is much improved, progress, but I feel like I should be down about 15 pounds or more. So I've scheduled an appointment with Dr. Hottie to have blood work done, to see if I am diabetic or I have thyroid problems, because I don't know any other reason why the weight isn't coming off. So frustrating!

OMFG!

Yes, it is Monday. Here's the list of things not going right today.

1. I had a flat tire on my car. The ever-so-helpful fella at the tire place informed me that it looks like someone put a knife to the tire's sidewall, so that's something to worry about, who dislikes me that much?
2. The 'puter at work wasn't working right.
3. An overdrawn bank account
4. work is still sucking.
5. I somehow managed to hurt my back while decorating my house for the holiday over the weekend. I have never in my life had back trouble, and now that I'm working out 6 days a week it decides that now's the time?

WTF, dude? Hope the rest of the week is better.

The United States of Jesus-Land

Well, really. What did I expect? I am working out at the YMCA, after all. The Young Men's Christian Association, for those not in the know. And what does that get me? Well, for one, it means that I don't have to look at people working out in hotpants and or super-small muscle t's, which is a good thing, but it also means that when I sign up for one-on-one time with a personal trainer the person is likely to be an evangelical, seeing as they work at the YMCA. And when I say "people" working out in hotpants, I mean you super-skinny 17 year olds who whine about being fat when you weigh less than 100 pounds.

Yes, ladies and gents, I had my session with my new trainer yesterday, and she's a lovely woman (who has 5 kids ranging in age from kindergarten to 21, yikes, that's gotta be with the crazy-making) and she told me that God loves me and that I am worth it. "I am an agnostic", I told her, with a perfectly straight face. She actually visibly twitched. Which is really funny in a very mean-spirited way, and reminds me all over again that I am indeed living in the midst of the USJ, the United States of Jeeeeeesus Land.

Friend J reminds me all the time that the freedom of religion that the US Constitution grants us is not freedom FROM religion. True, true. But I dislike having YOUR religion shoved down MY throat at every opportunity. If this woman twitched when I told her about my agnostic leanings, d'ya think her head would explode if I told her about my activism for abortion rights? I suppose all that begs the question that if I feel this way, why am I using the YMCA's facilities to tone up my fat ass? Honestly, because it is the nicest, newest, cleanest and best-run facility in my suburban hell. The locker rooms don't stink, there is a very nice sauna (which is VERY important to me), the cardio and weightlifting equipment is new, well-maintained, and the group exercise classes offered run the gamut from simple aerobics to Tai-Chi and Pilates. My other options are small facilities without nice saunas, Curves (shudder), or meat-markets where you can't spend 5 minutes on a treadmill without leisure-suit Larry coming on to you. One local gym actually has a bar in the gym. Not a juice bar, a real booze and do-you-come-here-often kind of bar. Nice. So yes, I continue to use the YMCA and then complain about the Christian contingent in the YMCA. I know, I know.


The trainer and I spent some time talking about my frustration about the fact that I've lost six fucking pounds since I started working out 6 days a week. She suggested some changes that I am going to implement, and she and I used all the resistance machines and figured out proper weight settings for me for each of them. What I wanted from the session was to have a program designed for me to follow that is going to get me some results, and hopefully that's what I got. She suggested upping my daily cardio from 30 to 45 minutes, gradually, and upping the resistance on the elliptical machine that I've been using. She also told me that the other cardio machines in the cardio studio don't bite, and that I should change up my regimen all the time to continue to get results. So I have to stop avoiding the steppers and try the rowing machines. I didn't this morning, but I will. I did up the time I did cardio to 35 minutes, so that's a start. She suggested a schedule for working each muscle group that I plan to follow, and showed me the right way to fill out the forms for tracking your progress. All that is good. She also claims that the weight will begin to fall, that I need to stick with it and I will see results. At the moment, I'm feeling like that is utter bullshit, but I am not going to walk away from it now. I'm at a crossroads when it comes to my health. I can give up, and be an overweight American for the rest of my life and in all likelihood be an insulin-dependent diabetic within the next 3 years, or I can get off my ass and get moving, be the sexy skinny thing I used to be. I was so inspired by watching my Swedish friends run the NYC marathon, and I want to be THAT girl again, the one that people whisper, "she's sooo pretty" when I come into a room, and that does not happen at my current weight. So I'm up off my ass and moving.

The religion thing really bugs me because I want to have freedom FROM religion, and living where I do, that's just not possible. I think about trying to explain the religion/politics connection to someone from another planet, and come up empty every time. The separation of church and state is a fantastic idea, but in reality, religion and politics are so tied together that there is no separating them here in the US. I want to make some broad sweeping statement here that all conservatives are religious nuts, but that simply isn't true. And some liberals have deep faith. The fact that organized religion permeates nearly every facet of our Judeo-Christian society is something that is simply inescapable. Annoying, but inescapable.

On to something else. I saw the most beautiful sunrise this morning. I tried so hard to look at that and let my spirit soar, but I've had tears in my eyes most of the day. The sister that's moving to St. Louis leaves tomorrow, and I'm both angry and sad about it. Angry because that is easier than being sad. Stupid, I know, but there it is. I'm having trouble breathing again, and this time it has nothing to do with my asthma. I'd rather feel nothing at all than feel this unruly sea of emotions that run the gamut from really pissed off to hysterical sobbing. Not that I think that's really a solution, but it is a thought.

No, I'm not a drug addict. Really.

I wish that I could post every single day, but it is just beyond my abilities to log into blogger every day and write something. My working life, which we never discuss here, is full of problems and very busy, so when I go home at the end of the day I don't want to log on to the computer. Add to that fact that the 'puters are doing some strange things in my house. One shuts itself off, mid-surf, for no discernible reason. Another is far too S-L-O-W. And the laptop, which can be used all through the house due to our wonderful wireless, freezes when the fan comes on and you have to turn it off and start allll over. I'm not allowed to use the "new" laptop, due to my tendency to install Firefox on any computer that I plan to use for Internet access. So I haven't been posting daily.

What I really want to talk about today is the progress that I'm making (or rather the lack thereof) with my sleep troubles, my weight loss, and the black hole of despair that I am threatening to fall into when my youngest sister moves away in a week, leaving me alone of my siblings here in Oh-hi-ia. One sister lives in Brooklyn, and the moving one is going to St. Louis. I'm not happy about it, to say the least. I'm happy FOR them, because they're both happy, but miserable for my own self, not because they live in big, bad cities and I don't (well, okay, that is part of it) but mostly because it is hard to have dinner with someone or blow off an afternoon's work to sit in a cafe with your sister when she lives more than 500 miles away.

They've both lived far, far away before; one in California for about a year, and the other has previously lived in NYC, also for about a year. It sucked. Big, hairy goat balls it sucked. I was still working for the big ol' bank, hating every moment of my job, living in a really crappy apartment, and the only bright spot in my life was my DH, who is great about telling me to just go visit them and stop bitching about it. His support is something I couldn't do without.

Anyway, I felt like I was falling into an giant pit that summer, that the world was randomly opening up and swallowing me whole for days at a time. Or that I was drowning, only periodically able to surface to gasp for breath. Yeah, my sisters and I are close. I don't think that either of them reads my blog, so I am not too worried about embarrassing either of them. When they live nearby, we do our grocery shopping together, we have dinner often, we sit in cafes and discuss all sorts of celebrity gossip, a favorite pastime. When they live far away, I talk to them only periodically, in far too short conversations that mostly revolve around who is going to come visit whom.


I'm trying really really hard to not focus on that, and instead focus on getting to the gym, hanging with my Martini Girls, write some fiction, and getting the things done that need done before Christmas. Let's not talk about that, it will make me feel all neurotic again, no, the presents aren't purchased, aren't wrapped, the house isn't decorated, (inside OR out) the baking isn't done, plans for New Year's Eve are not finalized.....arrrgh.

I've been going to the gym every single weekday, getting there when they open the doors at 05.30 in the morning, and spending at least 35 minutes doing cardio. I try to get some weightlifting in after that, but as I need to be at my office by 07.30 most days, that limits somewhat the things that I can do. I've been going to the gym every single week day for more than a month...somewhere, perhaps more like 6 weeks, and getting more exercise than I have in years and years and YEARS, and I've lost a grand total of 6 pounds. Yeah. Six lousy pounds. Man, that's really annoying. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I drink a TON of water every day, I'm working really hard to improve my eating habits, and trying to get the sleep that my body needs, and guess what? I've lost six fucking pounds. I've scheduled a session with a personal trainer at my gym next week to see if she can help me to design a program that is going to get me some results, but I only have plans of spending time with a trainer about once every six months. It is expensive. But I'm hopeful that she will be able to give me some insights.

In my 20s, I worked out with a male trainer, who was baaaaaaad news. Not because he was not good at what he did, but because he was hot and I was very tempted. He was married, and I got engaged not long after we started working out together, so both of us were not available, but I think he would have ignored his marriage vows in a second. Fortunately, I never let him know that I thought he was really cute. I ran into him about 2 years after I was married, in a grocery store, and he was with a woman who wasn't his wife. I stopped and said hello, and he told me in excruciating detail all about his divorce proceedings, which were in the middle stages. Yeah, I so knew that was gonna happen, he was such a flirt. I am really happy to have been assigned a female trainer by the gym this time.

Then the drugs part. I've been taking the Ambien almost every night, and getting about 6 solid hours of sleep. Rarely is that an uninterrupted six hours. Last night it was, but only because I didn't climb into bed much before 11 pm, which is really really late for me. I didn't take the Ambien with me over Thanksgiving weekend, when we visited Rocky Gap for the holiday, and I managed to sleep without it, but it wasn't "good" sleep. I do chalk that up to the fact that they assigned us a queen sized bed and we're used to a massive king more than the fact that I was trying to sleep without the drugs. I'm really worried about developing a dependency on the sleeping pills, but not worried enough to not take them on the nights when I have to work the next day. When I don't take them, I end up worrying all night long about things that I can't really fix or change at work.

I'm also a bit worried about all the meds Dr. Hottie prescribed for my asthma. I usually remember to take the Singulair pill every day, but using the Advair inhaler four times a day seems excessive to me and is difficult for me to remember to do. I don't know why. And while my attacks are down, way down, I credit the pill more than the inhaler with that success, because I am more consistent with the pill. One thing that all allergy meds have in common is the runny nose side effect. I despise that, but am willing to put up with it if it means fewer asthma attacks.

Mostly I'm not crazy about having 4 prescriptions to manage at 31 years old. While I have yet to use the rescue inhaler he prescribed for me, the fact remains that I have 3 scripts for allergy/asthma, and one for sleeping. It makes me sad that I need a pill to sleep. Last night, I read until shortly before 11 pm and wasn't sleepy at all until the meds kicked in. I wonder when I would have fallen asleep without help? What, short of quitting my job, and curling up in the fetal position, do I need to do to get back to a "normal" schedule?

What do you do to get a good nights' sleep?

Went to see the doctor man

I had an appointment with Dr. Hottie on Thursday. My asthma has been out of control this month (mostly due to the changing seasons, allergies, et cetera) and I have not taken any prescription or over the counter meds for asthma for about 5 years, so I thought it was time to run the tests again and see if I ought to be managing the disease better. Dr. Hottie had me do a test where you take a deeeeep breath, and exhale as forcefully as you can into a tube. You do that 3 times, and the test has some very silly sounding name, like spynomiter, but I don't remember what it is really called. The results show that yes, I still have asthma (what a surprise!) and he listened to my breathing through a stethoscope for a long while, and said that it wasn't all that bad yesterday.

"Of course, I'm not wheezing", I told him. "I just spent an hour and a half sitting on my ass in your waiting room. Let me run up and down a flight of stairs or 3, or spend 20 minutes on your treadmill, or you light up a cigarette, and then listen to me breathe." He agreed that I might have a point. Plus, the time spent in the gym each morning results in a pretty debilitating asthma attack on the drive home. My asthma manifests itself in a deep, hacking, I-smoke-three-packs-a-day sounding cough. I can exhale all I want, but I can't take a breath. And only after I'm done coughing do I wheeze. Heavy artificial fragrances, from perfume to air freshner can set it off. And while cigarette smoke is bad, cigar smoke is much worse in terms of starting an attack. I quit smoking probably about a year before I was diagnosed with asthma.

Speaking of smoking, and off topic for a second, Ohio has an "issue" on the ballot this November to ban smoking in all public places, from bars to laundromats. Actually, there are two ballot inititives; Issue 4 is from the tobacco lobbyists, and will not really ban smoking in bars and restaurants because it is full of the loopholes and exceptions you would expect of the typical lobbyist written bill. Issue 5 is the smoking ban, and I'm urging everyone in this reddest of the red states to vote YES on Issue 5. Link to full text of all 5 Issues here, but you'll need Adobe to read it.

Anyway, back to the doctor's visit. He prescribed 3 meds for the allergy/asthma problem; Advair, which I am to take daily, Sigulair, which I am to also take daily, and will treat both the asthma and the allergies, and Xopenex, which is a new rescue inhaler. I have not had a rescue inhaler for a really long time, because I really dislike the side effect of a racing heart.

He also prescribed Ambien, as I asked, for my sleeping trouble. But he gave me a sample of Rozorem too, with the instructions to try the Rozorem first. I did, on Friday night and the jury's still out. I was reading Augusten Burrough's memoir, Dry, and between one breath and the next, literally, I felt the drug take hold. A dizzying sensation, and immediate hyper-drowsiness. (if that's even a word). But I finished the book before going to sleep at 11pm, and I was up at 3 (wow, 4 hours uninterupted) and again at 4.30, and again at 5. I didn't go to the gym, as I had gone twice on Thursday, and had a really tough time getting moving, getting started on Friday morning. Friday night I took it again, with pretty similar results. Quick falling asleep (bonus), and quick falling back asleep after I wake in the middle of the night. (Also a bonus). But it does not stop me from waking multiple times, and makes me feel groggy in the morning which is not the result I'm looking for. So I filled the Ambien prescription, and took that last night. Around 7 pm, which is in fact too early. 7 pm + 8 hours equals 3 am. I did fall right asleep, was up at around 9, midnight, and then 3, but managed to fall back asleep each time, even being jolted out of a sound sleep by the alarm at 5.30, which meant I was late for the gym.

On the upside: more sleep, definately. And with the Ambien, my butt's not dragging, I don't feel all groggy. On the downside: still searching for the elusive, perhaps mythical 8 hours of uninterupted sleep.

Soundtrack: Jewel Kilcher had a song on her first album about "Let's go back to sleep"