I was doing so well... updating my little blog every few days, going to the gym, exercising like a mad woman and eating right, then it all went to pot.
The day after my grandfather died I had a therapeutic cruller (admittedly shoved in my mouth so I didn't say something I'd regret to a melodramatic family member) and a Happy Meal on my way home in lieu of a healthy lunch. Monday and Tuesday weren't all that bad except I didn't really count Points like a good little WW'er.
The day of my grandfather's funeral was probably the height of bad eating -
Breakfast: WW Almond Granola Bar (good start)
Lunch: Chicken Marsala, baked potato, broccoli in cheese sauce (ok not bad)
1 Biscuit with butter
Side salad with Caesar dressing
3 Glasses of Wine and a Shot of Irish Mist (all before 1pm)
A piece of cheesecake
Dinner: Farfalle in rose sauce with chicken, mushrooms and spinach and a side of garlic bread
Mozzarella Sticks somewhere around 10:00 pm
Chips and salsa around midnight
So much alcohol I spent the night sleeping on the floor holding on for dear life
Yeah, I cope with food (and booze apparently), you got a problem with that? Needless to say the gym took a backseat with everything else that was going on, so imagine my surprise when I hopped up on the scale last Friday and was told I lost 2 pounds.
Oh well, I 'm getting back on track and that is what counts.
This week has been a rebuilding week. I went back to the gym on Monday and am trying to hit it hard. I'm not sleeping all that well to be honest - perhaps it's the fact that I've worked from home for the past two weeks, but I'm frankly exhausted. Tonight I had my session with my trainer with the plan of hitting it hard afterwards and just couldn't. I'm not saying that the 25 minutes of cardio pre-trainer and 30 minutes of weights aren't respectable, but my feeble attempt at running afterward was pathetic.
I'm not sure what the take away from all of this is. I know I can't save the world, and I know I need to not be so hard on myself. Two and a half years of therapy at $30 a week taught me that. Perhaps the lesson is shit happens, you put on your big girl panties, deal and move on.
Maybe that should be my new credo.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Deep Breath....
As you might imagine, this week has been a long one. Only now am I really processing everything, but considering my hyperactive tear ducts, I haven't cried as much as I would expect.
I was talking to my sister yesterday and I told her I felt the same way I did after watching Schindler's List. I had stayed as far away from that movie as I could for as long as possible, knowing myself and the fact that I once cried watching a McDonald's commercial. Perhaps I had built up an emotional callus, but it wasn't until the end of the movie that I cried, precisely because I hadn't cried while watching the horrors in that movie.
That's not to say that throughout the past few days I haven't shed a few tears.
I walked into my grandparents house last Saturday and was shocked at what I saw. I was greeted by what looked like a corpse who slightly resembled my grandfather, gasping for breath, my aunt having a nervous breakdown and my grandmother sitting in a chair with a blank smile on her face, clearly with no real clue as to what was happening. My sister, a hospice nurse by trade was taking control having set up a command center in the kitchen. She was doing her best to hold it together but was clearly holding on by a thread. My mother was going through the motions because her sister wasn't able to and I felt like I had no other choice but to put on my big girl panties and move on.
My aunt tried to talk to me - triggering some tears and I had to push her off. On some level I knew if I started to cry I would be useless. I also didn't want to face the fact that my grandfather was going to die and I couldn't go near him - the figure in that chair was not my grandfather. I was the errand girl for the day, getting lunch, sitting at the pharmacy waiting for palliative medication to ease Grandpop's transition, going home to pack bags for my mother and sister. I've always said I don't want to be around myself when I'm ill, and I really can't stand to see loved ones in pain.
I didn't want to remember my grandfather the way I last saw him - a bruise under his eye (the result of a broken cheekbone from a fall), his eyes tightly shut, mouth agape. I wanted to remember the robust man who loved to walk, coupons in his back pocket, up to the shopping center, proudly coming home with a bag full of merchandise that he paid next to nothing for, so what if he had no use for the stuff? I used to joke that I was afraid one day he'd come home with a pack of condoms and box of Tampax purely because they were on sale and he had a coupon.
I got the call shortly before 11:00 on Saturday night that he had passed peacefully. I shed a few tears, but oddly felt the need to share the news. I posted on Facebook, texted a few close friends. It's almost like I wanted this to be outside of myself, not my experience alone.
Even now, I'm not sure I've truly mourned, even though that's what I'm telling my family. On some level I'm expecting to hear his voice when I call, or see him sitting up in his chair, remote in hand ready to pass off to my niece on our Sunday visits.
There's a part of me that doesn't quite believe that my Grandpop won't be at my wedding (if that ever happens) and that he'll never meet my children. I'm jealous my sister has had that chance. I miss my Grandpop. I want to turn back time to when I was four or five and would wait on the sidewalk outside of their house, waiting to see him walking down the sidewalk coming him from work at GE. I want to argue with him about politics (especially Obama), about the stock market and unions. I want to give him a kiss again and tell him I love him.
I was talking to my sister yesterday and I told her I felt the same way I did after watching Schindler's List. I had stayed as far away from that movie as I could for as long as possible, knowing myself and the fact that I once cried watching a McDonald's commercial. Perhaps I had built up an emotional callus, but it wasn't until the end of the movie that I cried, precisely because I hadn't cried while watching the horrors in that movie.
That's not to say that throughout the past few days I haven't shed a few tears.
I walked into my grandparents house last Saturday and was shocked at what I saw. I was greeted by what looked like a corpse who slightly resembled my grandfather, gasping for breath, my aunt having a nervous breakdown and my grandmother sitting in a chair with a blank smile on her face, clearly with no real clue as to what was happening. My sister, a hospice nurse by trade was taking control having set up a command center in the kitchen. She was doing her best to hold it together but was clearly holding on by a thread. My mother was going through the motions because her sister wasn't able to and I felt like I had no other choice but to put on my big girl panties and move on.
My aunt tried to talk to me - triggering some tears and I had to push her off. On some level I knew if I started to cry I would be useless. I also didn't want to face the fact that my grandfather was going to die and I couldn't go near him - the figure in that chair was not my grandfather. I was the errand girl for the day, getting lunch, sitting at the pharmacy waiting for palliative medication to ease Grandpop's transition, going home to pack bags for my mother and sister. I've always said I don't want to be around myself when I'm ill, and I really can't stand to see loved ones in pain.
I didn't want to remember my grandfather the way I last saw him - a bruise under his eye (the result of a broken cheekbone from a fall), his eyes tightly shut, mouth agape. I wanted to remember the robust man who loved to walk, coupons in his back pocket, up to the shopping center, proudly coming home with a bag full of merchandise that he paid next to nothing for, so what if he had no use for the stuff? I used to joke that I was afraid one day he'd come home with a pack of condoms and box of Tampax purely because they were on sale and he had a coupon.
I got the call shortly before 11:00 on Saturday night that he had passed peacefully. I shed a few tears, but oddly felt the need to share the news. I posted on Facebook, texted a few close friends. It's almost like I wanted this to be outside of myself, not my experience alone.
Even now, I'm not sure I've truly mourned, even though that's what I'm telling my family. On some level I'm expecting to hear his voice when I call, or see him sitting up in his chair, remote in hand ready to pass off to my niece on our Sunday visits.
There's a part of me that doesn't quite believe that my Grandpop won't be at my wedding (if that ever happens) and that he'll never meet my children. I'm jealous my sister has had that chance. I miss my Grandpop. I want to turn back time to when I was four or five and would wait on the sidewalk outside of their house, waiting to see him walking down the sidewalk coming him from work at GE. I want to argue with him about politics (especially Obama), about the stock market and unions. I want to give him a kiss again and tell him I love him.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Grandpop
Throughout his 88 years on this earth, Martin Barrett had many titles. Son, Sailor, Husband, Father. My sister and I knew him as Grandpop.
He was the quintessential stubborn Irishman. My mother said that he was giving orders right up until the end. It was his way or the highway. But when it came to his grandchildren, anything went.
One of our favorite family stories was The Tale of the Red Mary Janes. My aunt got married in 1975, and a white dress with red trim was chosen for my then 3 year old sister to wear in her role as flower girl. Kelly decided that she had to have red patent leather Mary Janes to go with her dress. Well, if Kelly wanted red Mary Janes, then red Mary Janes she would have. Legend has it Grandpop went from store to store; shoe stores, department stores, boutiques, you name it, Marty Barrett went in search of the elusive red shoes for Kelly to wear. He was told it was impossible, but find them he did. Of course 3 year olds being as they are, those darn shoes almost never made their debut, Kelly having cold (albeit red patent leather) feet minutes before her trek down the aisle. At one point, Grandpop was going to have to march forward, the bride on one hand, the timid flower girl on the other. At the end of the day, Kelly was coaxed forward and all was well in the end.
But that was my grandfather. He would do anything for family. Whether it was buying my Barbies $21 hand sewn dresses – an obnoxious price now, let alone in 1984 - because they caught my eye, schlepping to Dunkin Donuts first thing on Sunday morning to make sure his great-granddaughter Tara had donuts with sprinkles on them or making sure his beloved Cass (nobody else could get away with calling her that) wanted for nothing.
I love you Grandpop. Rest in peace.
He was the quintessential stubborn Irishman. My mother said that he was giving orders right up until the end. It was his way or the highway. But when it came to his grandchildren, anything went.
One of our favorite family stories was The Tale of the Red Mary Janes. My aunt got married in 1975, and a white dress with red trim was chosen for my then 3 year old sister to wear in her role as flower girl. Kelly decided that she had to have red patent leather Mary Janes to go with her dress. Well, if Kelly wanted red Mary Janes, then red Mary Janes she would have. Legend has it Grandpop went from store to store; shoe stores, department stores, boutiques, you name it, Marty Barrett went in search of the elusive red shoes for Kelly to wear. He was told it was impossible, but find them he did. Of course 3 year olds being as they are, those darn shoes almost never made their debut, Kelly having cold (albeit red patent leather) feet minutes before her trek down the aisle. At one point, Grandpop was going to have to march forward, the bride on one hand, the timid flower girl on the other. At the end of the day, Kelly was coaxed forward and all was well in the end.
But that was my grandfather. He would do anything for family. Whether it was buying my Barbies $21 hand sewn dresses – an obnoxious price now, let alone in 1984 - because they caught my eye, schlepping to Dunkin Donuts first thing on Sunday morning to make sure his great-granddaughter Tara had donuts with sprinkles on them or making sure his beloved Cass (nobody else could get away with calling her that) wanted for nothing.
I love you Grandpop. Rest in peace.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Virtue Points
As most of you know, I've embarked on weight loss attempt 496.
I've gone back to my old stand by, Weight Watchers, and am hoping that the combination of old faithful with my newly acquired trainer and my friends and family, that this time will stick.
This week has been a rough one. Apparently Wednesday was National Junk Food Day (which I ignored) and as I sit here typing I am smelling the remaining french fries from my father's dinner. It is taking everything within me not to attack them. In fact, I'm tempted to interrupt this entry to desecrate them with my kryptonite, mustard and mayo.
In fact, hold on....
Thanks for waiting. That's better. Now the handful of french fries that have been sitting in styrofoam singing their siren song have been silenced, for as much as I love fried potatoes, I despise mustard and mayo more.
That brings me to my next point. Virtue Points.
For the uninitiated, in Weight Watchers, the current program is based on points. Based on your weight and situation in life (age, active job, nursing, etc) you get a certain number of points which convert to food. The way you calculate points is an algorithm based on calories, fat and fiber. You also get a "bank" of 35 points per week which you can take or leave, plus you get points for physical activity which you can use for more food if you choose. The key is finding the maximum number of points you can consume while still losing weight.
In a perfect world, one would get what I call "Virtue Points". I have resisted french fries tonight, therefore I would get, oh let's say 5 virtue points, which of course would translate into pounds lost. On Monday, I really wanted pizza. I didn't have it, so I should have lost weight, or gained virtue points, based on this.
Flawed logic, or genius? Maybe it's the Pinot talking (1.5 points for 4 ounces), but I think I'm onto something.
Weight Watchers (and God), I await your call.
I've gone back to my old stand by, Weight Watchers, and am hoping that the combination of old faithful with my newly acquired trainer and my friends and family, that this time will stick.
This week has been a rough one. Apparently Wednesday was National Junk Food Day (which I ignored) and as I sit here typing I am smelling the remaining french fries from my father's dinner. It is taking everything within me not to attack them. In fact, I'm tempted to interrupt this entry to desecrate them with my kryptonite, mustard and mayo.
In fact, hold on....
Thanks for waiting. That's better. Now the handful of french fries that have been sitting in styrofoam singing their siren song have been silenced, for as much as I love fried potatoes, I despise mustard and mayo more.
That brings me to my next point. Virtue Points.
For the uninitiated, in Weight Watchers, the current program is based on points. Based on your weight and situation in life (age, active job, nursing, etc) you get a certain number of points which convert to food. The way you calculate points is an algorithm based on calories, fat and fiber. You also get a "bank" of 35 points per week which you can take or leave, plus you get points for physical activity which you can use for more food if you choose. The key is finding the maximum number of points you can consume while still losing weight.
In a perfect world, one would get what I call "Virtue Points". I have resisted french fries tonight, therefore I would get, oh let's say 5 virtue points, which of course would translate into pounds lost. On Monday, I really wanted pizza. I didn't have it, so I should have lost weight, or gained virtue points, based on this.
Flawed logic, or genius? Maybe it's the Pinot talking (1.5 points for 4 ounces), but I think I'm onto something.
Weight Watchers (and God), I await your call.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Long(ish) Time, No Blog
Wow...I must be the most inconsistent blogger ever. I go weeks posting every couple of days, and the bam! Nothing.
Perhaps it's the mini-break from online rejection, I mean dating. Less amusing (to me) stories to tell born out of frustration. Or perhaps it's the new exercise regime. The brain cells I had allocated to blogging are now being eaten up by the lack of oxygen getting to my teeny, tiny brain.
As for the weight loss, I'm still on track. I'm in the midst of week three and I'm down 8.8 pounds (roughly 85 to go, but who's counting?). I'm making progress with the exercise. My first day back at the gym I clocked 20 minutes on the treadmill and a whopping 6 1/2 minutes on the stair master. I'm now up to 20 on the stair master and last night I managed 25 on the elliptical. I looked like a drowned rat by the time I was done, but it's progress and I'll take it.
The hardest part for me is the patience. I want to see results NOW. If I thought she'd go for it, I'd ask my doctor to put me in a medically induced coma so I could be fed nothing but Slim Fast through an IV. I'd pay off the nurses to work my muscles so they didn't atrophy and arrange to have a full body lift done before I woke up.
I think I've put way too much thought into this. To be fair, I wanted to do the same thing while I was growing my hair out so I didn't have to deal with the horrible in between stage. I avoid unpleasant things - it's just how I roll.
So, I guess I'm going to have to suffer through.
Thanks for the encouragement!
Perhaps it's the mini-break from online rejection, I mean dating. Less amusing (to me) stories to tell born out of frustration. Or perhaps it's the new exercise regime. The brain cells I had allocated to blogging are now being eaten up by the lack of oxygen getting to my teeny, tiny brain.
As for the weight loss, I'm still on track. I'm in the midst of week three and I'm down 8.8 pounds (roughly 85 to go, but who's counting?). I'm making progress with the exercise. My first day back at the gym I clocked 20 minutes on the treadmill and a whopping 6 1/2 minutes on the stair master. I'm now up to 20 on the stair master and last night I managed 25 on the elliptical. I looked like a drowned rat by the time I was done, but it's progress and I'll take it.
The hardest part for me is the patience. I want to see results NOW. If I thought she'd go for it, I'd ask my doctor to put me in a medically induced coma so I could be fed nothing but Slim Fast through an IV. I'd pay off the nurses to work my muscles so they didn't atrophy and arrange to have a full body lift done before I woke up.
I think I've put way too much thought into this. To be fair, I wanted to do the same thing while I was growing my hair out so I didn't have to deal with the horrible in between stage. I avoid unpleasant things - it's just how I roll.
So, I guess I'm going to have to suffer through.
Thanks for the encouragement!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Oops, I Did It Again
No, not that.
I sang karaoke, in public, again.
I went out with my friend R Saturday night, ostensibly to meet her friend S (Bachelor Number 3 for those of you keeping count). We didn't head out until later than planned and went to a bar I've only been to one other time instead of our planned trek into Philly.
Side Note: Bach No. 3 lives in Philly and because of the 4th of July events this past weekend, he was stuck in traffic and didn't make it to the burbs, so the meeting has been postponed.
We settled in at the bar and I realized it was karaoke night. R, who has a great voice and sings any chance she can (music or no) grabbed the books and was up at the mike before I knew it. I sucked down my first of two cranberry & vodkas and figured why the hell not.
I opened up the book and looked for a song I was pretty confident I knew the words to, and picked up a slip. R's girlfriend J glanced over and, warily, asked "Are you going to sing?". "Yep" I slurred.
Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I walked up to the table and dropped off my slip. After a shot of tequila and getting halfway through my second drink, I heard my name.
I marched up, grabbed the microphone, and massacred "Before He Cheats". No rotten food was thrown (the kitchen was closed), nobody booed (at least not that I could hear) and I survived. I was so off-key at various points I think I was singing a whole other song, but I had fun.
In other news, went to a BBQ at a neighbor's house tonight and was in the presence of BATS for the first time since last week. I did my best to ignore him without being a rude bitch, although I really wanted to be. I'm making peace with the whole thing. It's not his fault he's clueless, and if he's not into me, then that's his loss.
I'm also telling myself he looks like Mr. Potato Head.
Laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?
In Weight Watchers news, I'm down 7 pounds my first week. I have no idea why, although the fact I had eaten a full breakfast with 2 cups of coffee before my first weigh in may have stacked the deck, but I'm taking it. I made it to the gym four times last week and went today despite not wanting to, and I'm going to conquer the Stair Master if it's the last thing I do, even if it's one minute at a time.
Back to reality tomorrow.
Hope you all had a Happy 4th!
I sang karaoke, in public, again.
I went out with my friend R Saturday night, ostensibly to meet her friend S (Bachelor Number 3 for those of you keeping count). We didn't head out until later than planned and went to a bar I've only been to one other time instead of our planned trek into Philly.
Side Note: Bach No. 3 lives in Philly and because of the 4th of July events this past weekend, he was stuck in traffic and didn't make it to the burbs, so the meeting has been postponed.
We settled in at the bar and I realized it was karaoke night. R, who has a great voice and sings any chance she can (music or no) grabbed the books and was up at the mike before I knew it. I sucked down my first of two cranberry & vodkas and figured why the hell not.
I opened up the book and looked for a song I was pretty confident I knew the words to, and picked up a slip. R's girlfriend J glanced over and, warily, asked "Are you going to sing?". "Yep" I slurred.
Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I walked up to the table and dropped off my slip. After a shot of tequila and getting halfway through my second drink, I heard my name.
I marched up, grabbed the microphone, and massacred "Before He Cheats". No rotten food was thrown (the kitchen was closed), nobody booed (at least not that I could hear) and I survived. I was so off-key at various points I think I was singing a whole other song, but I had fun.
In other news, went to a BBQ at a neighbor's house tonight and was in the presence of BATS for the first time since last week. I did my best to ignore him without being a rude bitch, although I really wanted to be. I'm making peace with the whole thing. It's not his fault he's clueless, and if he's not into me, then that's his loss.
I'm also telling myself he looks like Mr. Potato Head.
Laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?
In Weight Watchers news, I'm down 7 pounds my first week. I have no idea why, although the fact I had eaten a full breakfast with 2 cups of coffee before my first weigh in may have stacked the deck, but I'm taking it. I made it to the gym four times last week and went today despite not wanting to, and I'm going to conquer the Stair Master if it's the last thing I do, even if it's one minute at a time.
Back to reality tomorrow.
Hope you all had a Happy 4th!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Torn
Perhaps I should call this It's Complicated, Part Two.
I thinking about putting myself back on the bench.
OK, OK, I hear what you're saying, I've only been back in the dating world for a few weeks and I'm already thinking about taking a break, WTF? I know, but hear me out.
I've been on Match.com and eHarmony and throwing myself at clueless neighbors, and clearly am not having much success. Yes, Rome wasn't built in a day, but there is a part of me that feels like maybe I'm not in the right place to go marching down this road.
My body confidence, while never good, is at a pretty low point, especially after going to WW last week and seeing the ugly truth. All I can focus on at this point is size of my considerable belly right now, and it's not cute.
I can also feel the noonday demon sneaking back up on me, and I know I need to get that in check.
But is that a good enough reason? I don't know.
I keep reminding myself that I'm not getting any younger, and if I want to have children (which I think I do),I'm not exactly playing with a great deal of time. Which brings me to the next issue...
Maybe I'm too judgemental, or too quick to dismiss, but I do know that I am wary, and a lot of the people I'm meeting online aren't screaming Mr. Right. What I don't want to do is settle because I feel like I'm up against the clock, and I feel like I'm doing that. I've also found myself stifling who I am in order to get a date from someone I've never met and who I'm not even sure about. Seriously, what the hell is that about?
So perhaps a bit of time to regroup is in order.
Just not for 10 years.
Something to sleep on.
I thinking about putting myself back on the bench.
OK, OK, I hear what you're saying, I've only been back in the dating world for a few weeks and I'm already thinking about taking a break, WTF? I know, but hear me out.
I've been on Match.com and eHarmony and throwing myself at clueless neighbors, and clearly am not having much success. Yes, Rome wasn't built in a day, but there is a part of me that feels like maybe I'm not in the right place to go marching down this road.
My body confidence, while never good, is at a pretty low point, especially after going to WW last week and seeing the ugly truth. All I can focus on at this point is size of my considerable belly right now, and it's not cute.
I can also feel the noonday demon sneaking back up on me, and I know I need to get that in check.
But is that a good enough reason? I don't know.
I keep reminding myself that I'm not getting any younger, and if I want to have children (which I think I do),I'm not exactly playing with a great deal of time. Which brings me to the next issue...
Maybe I'm too judgemental, or too quick to dismiss, but I do know that I am wary, and a lot of the people I'm meeting online aren't screaming Mr. Right. What I don't want to do is settle because I feel like I'm up against the clock, and I feel like I'm doing that. I've also found myself stifling who I am in order to get a date from someone I've never met and who I'm not even sure about. Seriously, what the hell is that about?
So perhaps a bit of time to regroup is in order.
Just not for 10 years.
Something to sleep on.
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