This past week has been a rough one. I admit it for the record…I’ve slipped into some bad habits, not just with eating, but with binge and purge in the past week or so.
It stops now
I’ve been freaking out a bit about being at goal, and it has to stop. What good has this freaking out done for me? I’ve been questioning everything. From the amount of exercise – it too much (probably), not enough (maybe) or just right (perhaps) to the amount of food I eat, and how I react when it all doesn’t go to plan (not well if it involves what I’ve done more than once and I’ll spare you the gory details).
Over the past two days I’ve been eating a record amount food (for me since I’ve been back on WW at least), and I’ve purged more often than I’d care to admit in the past week. On the surface, I look the same, at least I think I do. My jeans still fit, I’m not bursting any seams. So the time to rein things in is now.
I hold myself to high standards, higher than I should, and when I don’t meet them, my first instinct is to throw in the towel. That isn’t an option this time. It’s time for me to grow up, accept that I’m not perfect, and start over again. I need to regroup, and get back the focus that has helped me be successful. I need to take my own advice – forgive yourself, and move on. I need to stop holding myself to standards I wouldn't expect of anyone else.
So here I am, admitting what I’ve done. I’ve binged and I’ve purged , and it’s time for me to accept that I’ve made mistakes and move on from them. I forgive myself, and I am going to strive not to repeat the mistakes that I’ve made. I can't put the genie back in the bottle, and I can't take back the decisions I've made.
I am going to see the results of my binges on the scale on Friday, how can I not? But I need to accept it, and move on from it, and live the life I am meant to live without punishing myself and my body.
Breakfast is going to be a healthy one, my workout will be a good and solid one, and lunch and dinner will follow suit. No gorging on bread, no secretly eating excess food, and no doing things that I shouldn't if I were to derail and go off plan.
I'm still me on the inside if I'm five pounds heavier, or five pounds lighter. That doesn't change. I need to change how I react when I hit a bump along the way, by not abusing my body by purging, or by gaining 90 pounds. I need to confront what is bothering me head on, and not dive into a pile of food to stuff it down.
Right now what is bothering is the pressure I'm putting on myself. The pressure to be perfect - to be under goal, to maintain. So here is my message to me: Well guess what Beth, you're not perfect. You're never going to be. The best you can do is try, and sometimes that means failure, but that doesn't mean throwing in the towel. If you gain five pounds, you'll lose it. Gaining five more accomplishes nothing except being ten pounds heavier. You don't expect anybody else to be perfect. Why do you expect it from yourself? Nobody else does.
So you've messed up tonight. You're going to make a cup of tea and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. Do your best. Signed, Beth
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Double Secret Probation – Lifted
A note about the following: this is pretty raw (at least for me) and may confuse or even offend some people. This is something that I haven’t gone about pressing “post” lightly. What I’m writing about has torn my family apart. I reached out to my mother and my sister for their feedback and blessing. My sister’s comments are posted at the bottom, my mother has been asking me almost daily when I am going to post it. I’ve written this for me, and nobody else. As I state below, this is my truth as I see it. I no longer purge physically, but needed to “purge” this emotionally. If you choose to read this, thank you for listening and understanding.
Points to anybody who IDs the movie that comes from.
After a few weeks, I’ve decided to lift the veil of secrecy I’ve had on the blog. In order to explain the reason for lifting, I guess I need to explain the reason for the veil in the first place.
As some of you may know, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s about two years ago, and my grandfather, her primary caregiver, passed away in August. My grandfather was a stubborn man, in some ways a benefit, in others, a true deficit. He resisted help literally until his dying moment, and denied his pending death and what that meant until the bitter end. At the end, with his kidneys having shut down and the rest of his body following suit, my sister had to call in numerous favors, and risk her job, to get him into hospice in the last hours of his life. He, without discussing his wishes with anybody else in the family, decided my mother’s sister (who has chronic pain and takes multiple narcotics) would care for my grandmother.
A word about my mother’s sister and this is airing some very dirty laundry which I no longer feel the need to hide. Mom’s sister (who I now refer to as my ex-aunt) was always a somewhat flaky individual. She was married to a similarly flawed man, who was flawed before he was shot in the line of duty as a police officer. The injuries and the long term results didn’t help the fact that he came from a family with violence and addiction issues, the fact that he had a bullet fragment lodged in his body and the pain that came with it, in addition to the alcohol my ex-aunt readily gave him, had some bad results. One of which was the majorly inappropriate things he said and did around (and to) me. I won’t go to the next step and say I was molested, because the man was partially paralyzed, but the way it made me feel as an insecure 17 year old wasn’t too far off the mark.
I told my sister, who promptly told my mother, after one particularly inappropriate Thanksgiving, and she handled it like a pro. Mom said I’d never see or talk to him again, and I never did. My ex-aunt left him a few months after, and for a time, he was the devil incarnate. She had nothing but bad things to say about the person she helped to create, and was indignant when told she needed to get a job. She flitted about, getting fired/laid off, and it was always someone else’s fault. She treated my grandfather like her personal groundskeeper, so I guess it was small wonder what he expected of her as he realized he was dying.
Once my ex-aunt’s ex-husband passed way, he was suddenly a saint. She had nothing but positive things to say to him, and when my sister or I either left the room, snorked in disgust, or in one case with my sister actually called her/him out, it was dismissed.
I bring this up to show that the ill will I feel now isn’t exactly misplaced, and my questioning of her judgment has some basis.
Anyhow, the day after my grandfather died, a social worker from the hospice came out, to help us work through next steps with regard to my grandmother’s care. My mother’s sister flipped out, raging at all of us in the room. She told us that she “promised daddy” that she would take care of my grandmother and accused us of not caring about her (my ex-aunt) and that my grandparents were the only ones who cared. We, as gently as we could, told her we did in fact care, and worried about her pain management and what she had to do to get through each day.
We pointed out that she was clearly overwhelmed, and wasn’t able to follow the directions set out by the visiting nurse who cared for my grandfather. We told her we knew she was smoking in a house with an oxygen tank, forget the fact that my grandparents, adamantly against smoking never wanted her to smoke in the house. It was pointed out that we not only knew, but witnessed her sitting on the porch, feet away from the tanks, puffing away. Our intention we told her, was that we thought it would be good for my grandmother to be in a nursing home, where she would get skilled care, and perhaps make some progress , as much as an Alzheimer’s patient can and that my mother’s sister could go about healing herself, emotionally and physically, and resume her life, including getting a job.
My mother’s sister dug in her heels, moving into my grandparent’s house and started freely spending my grandparent’s money. She went about essentially erasing any evidence that my grandfather lived there, disposing of his arm chair, setting up her own lair where he once sat with an ash tray, lighter and pack of cigarettes displayed in the house. Drawing a salary for caring for my grandmother, making purchases that I don’t understand how someone who hasn’t been employed for quite some time could afford to make and blocking any attempts we (mom, sis and I) made to help care for my grandmother, implying that the help we were offering was the wrong kind, in the wrong amount, and just plain wrong.
About six weeks ago, things came to a head, thanks to my old friend Facebook. I’m not sure who made the realization that my mother’s sister was on there, but we had one or two mutual friends who are relatives. My mother’s sister didn’t attempt to friend any of us, I actually blocked her, getting a sense that I didn’t want her to be my friend, let alone my aunt. One day, my ex-aunt messaged my mother on Facebook, instead of emailing, texting, or heaven forbid, calling, angry that we hadn’t visited on what would have been my grandfather’s birthday. My mother didn’t reply. Then she saw that my ex-aunt was badmouthing the three of us to another relative, on Facebook.
That was the last straw.
Mom emailed her, telling her that (a) she could feel free not to publicly air family issues on Facebook and (b) that seeing as my grandfather was dead, she wasn’t sure why she needed to visit the house on that particular day.
To say the message didn’t go over well is an understatement. She sent a nonsensical rant to my mother, bringing up things long past, accusing my mother of financial mismanagement of all things, implying my sister hastened my grandfather’s death and taking a slew of other paranoid, cheap shots going way back. At that point, I took my little blog private, because I know my ex-aunt found it once, and I wasn’t sure if she’d find it again. At the time, I wanted privacy, and I didn’t want her to have any insight into my life. Now, I don’t care.
I’m sure if she were to see this she, WW III would break out. But this is my truth, these are the facts as I see them, and I think I’m entitled. I’ve done a lot of work on my outside this year, and I need to do work on the inside now. That means no more toxic people, even if they are relatives.
If you’re still with me, 3 pages in MS Word as I type this, I hope you understand and don’t judge. Every family has its quirks, and I’m sure you think me insane for airing dirty laundry. I just no longer feel the need to hide. If people ask about my family these days, particularly my grandmother, I don’t know how to answer. My access has been cut off, almost by mutual decision on the part of her caretaker. If I want a relationship with my grandmother, that means I have to have a relationship with a person who takes narcotic painkillers and has treated my mother poorly over the years.
That makes me sad, but the reality is that my grandmother died the day we received the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. What remains now is a shell of the woman who used to have tea parties with me (juice for me, coffee for her, lots of cookies for both of us), called me her Betty Doll and always told me I looked like I had lost weight even when I had gained a few pounds. Now when I see her I walk in the door announcing myself and my relationship to her – “Hi Grandmom, it’s Beth”. I’m sure she makes the connection that I’m her granddaughter, but nothing else.
I miss her, and I miss the way things used to be, but there is no sense living in the past. I need to move forward now, and fix what I can.
I reached out to my mother and sister for their thoughts this. My sister offered the following: Can I add a couple of things? Grandmom and Grandpop used to cook for her and clean too. They paid bills for her, even that $2,000 tax bill right before grandpop died. K**** spent more time with P***'s niece and nephew than she ever did with us, even after the divorce. She flew to Texas to see R***, but she couldn't drive here after mom had surgery. She drove T*** home from the grandpop's hospital hopped up on her pain pills and sedatives. Her behavior has always been erratic, selfish hateful and mean. She never thanked me for the whole hospice thing. She never acknowledged how hard it was for me to pull it all together so fast or how hard it was for me to do post-mortem care on my own grandfather. I had nightmares about the whole thing for weeks. She was angry because the other nurse and I destroyed the morphine and the ativan instead of giving it to her. She was angry with me because of the social worker. She was angry with me because she couldn't bully me the way she did everyone else. She is jealous of mom and has always done petty and nasty things to her. I want to stress this: this isn't from mom bad mouthing her. This is from what I observed with my own two eyes, from the time I was 2. Mom stayed loyal one hell of a lot longer than most people would. K**** tried to get mom alone so she could bully her. She knew I was on to her. She isn't a flake--she is erratic and evil.
Grandmom and grandpop created her. In the end, they chose K**** over mom and even us. You reap what you sow. I'm proud of mom for stopping the cycle, as painful as it is. She did better for us and we'll do better for T***. One more thought: she made my mother cry
Points to anybody who IDs the movie that comes from.
After a few weeks, I’ve decided to lift the veil of secrecy I’ve had on the blog. In order to explain the reason for lifting, I guess I need to explain the reason for the veil in the first place.
As some of you may know, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s about two years ago, and my grandfather, her primary caregiver, passed away in August. My grandfather was a stubborn man, in some ways a benefit, in others, a true deficit. He resisted help literally until his dying moment, and denied his pending death and what that meant until the bitter end. At the end, with his kidneys having shut down and the rest of his body following suit, my sister had to call in numerous favors, and risk her job, to get him into hospice in the last hours of his life. He, without discussing his wishes with anybody else in the family, decided my mother’s sister (who has chronic pain and takes multiple narcotics) would care for my grandmother.
A word about my mother’s sister and this is airing some very dirty laundry which I no longer feel the need to hide. Mom’s sister (who I now refer to as my ex-aunt) was always a somewhat flaky individual. She was married to a similarly flawed man, who was flawed before he was shot in the line of duty as a police officer. The injuries and the long term results didn’t help the fact that he came from a family with violence and addiction issues, the fact that he had a bullet fragment lodged in his body and the pain that came with it, in addition to the alcohol my ex-aunt readily gave him, had some bad results. One of which was the majorly inappropriate things he said and did around (and to) me. I won’t go to the next step and say I was molested, because the man was partially paralyzed, but the way it made me feel as an insecure 17 year old wasn’t too far off the mark.
I told my sister, who promptly told my mother, after one particularly inappropriate Thanksgiving, and she handled it like a pro. Mom said I’d never see or talk to him again, and I never did. My ex-aunt left him a few months after, and for a time, he was the devil incarnate. She had nothing but bad things to say about the person she helped to create, and was indignant when told she needed to get a job. She flitted about, getting fired/laid off, and it was always someone else’s fault. She treated my grandfather like her personal groundskeeper, so I guess it was small wonder what he expected of her as he realized he was dying.
Once my ex-aunt’s ex-husband passed way, he was suddenly a saint. She had nothing but positive things to say to him, and when my sister or I either left the room, snorked in disgust, or in one case with my sister actually called her/him out, it was dismissed.
I bring this up to show that the ill will I feel now isn’t exactly misplaced, and my questioning of her judgment has some basis.
Anyhow, the day after my grandfather died, a social worker from the hospice came out, to help us work through next steps with regard to my grandmother’s care. My mother’s sister flipped out, raging at all of us in the room. She told us that she “promised daddy” that she would take care of my grandmother and accused us of not caring about her (my ex-aunt) and that my grandparents were the only ones who cared. We, as gently as we could, told her we did in fact care, and worried about her pain management and what she had to do to get through each day.
We pointed out that she was clearly overwhelmed, and wasn’t able to follow the directions set out by the visiting nurse who cared for my grandfather. We told her we knew she was smoking in a house with an oxygen tank, forget the fact that my grandparents, adamantly against smoking never wanted her to smoke in the house. It was pointed out that we not only knew, but witnessed her sitting on the porch, feet away from the tanks, puffing away. Our intention we told her, was that we thought it would be good for my grandmother to be in a nursing home, where she would get skilled care, and perhaps make some progress , as much as an Alzheimer’s patient can and that my mother’s sister could go about healing herself, emotionally and physically, and resume her life, including getting a job.
My mother’s sister dug in her heels, moving into my grandparent’s house and started freely spending my grandparent’s money. She went about essentially erasing any evidence that my grandfather lived there, disposing of his arm chair, setting up her own lair where he once sat with an ash tray, lighter and pack of cigarettes displayed in the house. Drawing a salary for caring for my grandmother, making purchases that I don’t understand how someone who hasn’t been employed for quite some time could afford to make and blocking any attempts we (mom, sis and I) made to help care for my grandmother, implying that the help we were offering was the wrong kind, in the wrong amount, and just plain wrong.
About six weeks ago, things came to a head, thanks to my old friend Facebook. I’m not sure who made the realization that my mother’s sister was on there, but we had one or two mutual friends who are relatives. My mother’s sister didn’t attempt to friend any of us, I actually blocked her, getting a sense that I didn’t want her to be my friend, let alone my aunt. One day, my ex-aunt messaged my mother on Facebook, instead of emailing, texting, or heaven forbid, calling, angry that we hadn’t visited on what would have been my grandfather’s birthday. My mother didn’t reply. Then she saw that my ex-aunt was badmouthing the three of us to another relative, on Facebook.
That was the last straw.
Mom emailed her, telling her that (a) she could feel free not to publicly air family issues on Facebook and (b) that seeing as my grandfather was dead, she wasn’t sure why she needed to visit the house on that particular day.
To say the message didn’t go over well is an understatement. She sent a nonsensical rant to my mother, bringing up things long past, accusing my mother of financial mismanagement of all things, implying my sister hastened my grandfather’s death and taking a slew of other paranoid, cheap shots going way back. At that point, I took my little blog private, because I know my ex-aunt found it once, and I wasn’t sure if she’d find it again. At the time, I wanted privacy, and I didn’t want her to have any insight into my life. Now, I don’t care.
I’m sure if she were to see this she, WW III would break out. But this is my truth, these are the facts as I see them, and I think I’m entitled. I’ve done a lot of work on my outside this year, and I need to do work on the inside now. That means no more toxic people, even if they are relatives.
If you’re still with me, 3 pages in MS Word as I type this, I hope you understand and don’t judge. Every family has its quirks, and I’m sure you think me insane for airing dirty laundry. I just no longer feel the need to hide. If people ask about my family these days, particularly my grandmother, I don’t know how to answer. My access has been cut off, almost by mutual decision on the part of her caretaker. If I want a relationship with my grandmother, that means I have to have a relationship with a person who takes narcotic painkillers and has treated my mother poorly over the years.
That makes me sad, but the reality is that my grandmother died the day we received the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. What remains now is a shell of the woman who used to have tea parties with me (juice for me, coffee for her, lots of cookies for both of us), called me her Betty Doll and always told me I looked like I had lost weight even when I had gained a few pounds. Now when I see her I walk in the door announcing myself and my relationship to her – “Hi Grandmom, it’s Beth”. I’m sure she makes the connection that I’m her granddaughter, but nothing else.
I miss her, and I miss the way things used to be, but there is no sense living in the past. I need to move forward now, and fix what I can.
I reached out to my mother and sister for their thoughts this. My sister offered the following: Can I add a couple of things? Grandmom and Grandpop used to cook for her and clean too. They paid bills for her, even that $2,000 tax bill right before grandpop died. K**** spent more time with P***'s niece and nephew than she ever did with us, even after the divorce. She flew to Texas to see R***, but she couldn't drive here after mom had surgery. She drove T*** home from the grandpop's hospital hopped up on her pain pills and sedatives. Her behavior has always been erratic, selfish hateful and mean. She never thanked me for the whole hospice thing. She never acknowledged how hard it was for me to pull it all together so fast or how hard it was for me to do post-mortem care on my own grandfather. I had nightmares about the whole thing for weeks. She was angry because the other nurse and I destroyed the morphine and the ativan instead of giving it to her. She was angry with me because of the social worker. She was angry with me because she couldn't bully me the way she did everyone else. She is jealous of mom and has always done petty and nasty things to her. I want to stress this: this isn't from mom bad mouthing her. This is from what I observed with my own two eyes, from the time I was 2. Mom stayed loyal one hell of a lot longer than most people would. K**** tried to get mom alone so she could bully her. She knew I was on to her. She isn't a flake--she is erratic and evil.
Grandmom and grandpop created her. In the end, they chose K**** over mom and even us. You reap what you sow. I'm proud of mom for stopping the cycle, as painful as it is. She did better for us and we'll do better for T***. One more thought: she made my mother cry
Friday, April 8, 2011
Goal!
Today is the day I’ve been waiting for – I got to goal weight (actually a little under) at Weight Watchers. Last week was satisfying as well – last week marked the date I was once again “Lifetime in Good Standing” and didn’t have to pay the weekly meeting fee, but today is really the day that marked a victory for me. Not Mission Accomplished, that actually will never happen, but getting to just under goal weight is a victory.
Why will it never be Mission Accomplished? Well, honestly I’ve never been able to sustain weight loss for more than six months. People who have known me for a long time know that I’ve done this before, but I’ve lost the plot and have found myself back at the beginning, and discovering that the finish line was further out than before. I can’t let that happen this time. Mission Accomplished means I’ve died at 105 years old weighing less than 143 pounds. Mission Accomplished can be on my tombstone.
I have no idea how I am going to do this.
I have a “contract” on a site called StickK, where you set a goal, parameters and ramifications. For me, I chose stay at or below 143 pounds (the weight which makes me Lifetime in Good Standing) by this time next year. I must weigh in weekly and at or below 143. If I skip a weigh in, or come in at, say, 143.2, I pay $5 which will be donated to a charity not of my choosing. My father, who frankly is one of my biggest doubters, although I don’t believe he recognizes this, is the referee. I have him in this role more so I can prove to him that this time will be different.
It will be different because it has to be.
It was too hard this time. I’m 36, getting close to menopause (closer than I was at 21) and losing is more difficult. My skin is saggier. My muscles know the drill and are less reluctant to obey.
I tried to do it differently this time. I have a wider support system. I’ve invested a great deal of cold, hard cash that I don’t have to invest. I’ve tried to be more forgiving of myself. I’ve not always been successful, but I’m proud of the fact that I’ve taken breaks and gotten back on track. In the past I’ve just thrown in the towel. Five years ago, I never could have taken a two week break from WW and exercise and just gotten back into the routine before it got out of control. Five years ago I would have said “Fuck it, pass the cheese fries”. I’ve had two instances of binge and purge. The first time I went into the aforementioned two week spiral. The second time I woke up my mother and told her. I went to WW anyway and dealt with the resulting gain from water retention and food I didn’t expel.
Keep me honest here friends. Help me stay on track. Tell me how I can support you and your goals. You have all supported me, I want to pay it forward.
Just don’t ask me to support you by joining you in a competitive eating contest, ok?
Why will it never be Mission Accomplished? Well, honestly I’ve never been able to sustain weight loss for more than six months. People who have known me for a long time know that I’ve done this before, but I’ve lost the plot and have found myself back at the beginning, and discovering that the finish line was further out than before. I can’t let that happen this time. Mission Accomplished means I’ve died at 105 years old weighing less than 143 pounds. Mission Accomplished can be on my tombstone.
I have no idea how I am going to do this.
I have a “contract” on a site called StickK, where you set a goal, parameters and ramifications. For me, I chose stay at or below 143 pounds (the weight which makes me Lifetime in Good Standing) by this time next year. I must weigh in weekly and at or below 143. If I skip a weigh in, or come in at, say, 143.2, I pay $5 which will be donated to a charity not of my choosing. My father, who frankly is one of my biggest doubters, although I don’t believe he recognizes this, is the referee. I have him in this role more so I can prove to him that this time will be different.
It will be different because it has to be.
It was too hard this time. I’m 36, getting close to menopause (closer than I was at 21) and losing is more difficult. My skin is saggier. My muscles know the drill and are less reluctant to obey.
I tried to do it differently this time. I have a wider support system. I’ve invested a great deal of cold, hard cash that I don’t have to invest. I’ve tried to be more forgiving of myself. I’ve not always been successful, but I’m proud of the fact that I’ve taken breaks and gotten back on track. In the past I’ve just thrown in the towel. Five years ago, I never could have taken a two week break from WW and exercise and just gotten back into the routine before it got out of control. Five years ago I would have said “Fuck it, pass the cheese fries”. I’ve had two instances of binge and purge. The first time I went into the aforementioned two week spiral. The second time I woke up my mother and told her. I went to WW anyway and dealt with the resulting gain from water retention and food I didn’t expel.
Keep me honest here friends. Help me stay on track. Tell me how I can support you and your goals. You have all supported me, I want to pay it forward.
Just don’t ask me to support you by joining you in a competitive eating contest, ok?
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
SVH
Another true confession time here. Hopefully some of you will relate.
5’6”. Blonde. Aquamarine eyes. Size 6 figures. Drove a red Fiat. Identical twins. California. More dances in a year than I went to in my entire school career, junior and high schools combined.
For those of you of a certain age, those bon mots mean only one thing: Sweet Valley High and the Wakefield Twins.
They set an impossible standard for us children of the 80’s. How couldn’t they? Elizabeth, with TBT (Trusty Boyfriend Todd) and her sister, Jessica with her ever revolving cast of boyfriends, but steady (and fabulous) bestie Lila. Their high jinks, at least subconsciously, had me thinking there was something wrong with me once I made it to 18 (although I had, in fact, moved onto more adult authors well before high school), since I had made it to maturity without ever having been: in a coma, kidnapped, in a small plane crash, date raped (or almost), had a boyfriend who played both basketball and football (imagine! He plays for both teams!), been drunk after one shot of vodka, had my kitchen decimated by an earthquake (admittedly difficult living in Pennsylvania) or recruited by cult. All before I turned 17 (let alone 18). Oh, and I never had a fabulously wealthy boyfriend (named Bruce of all things) that had a vanity plated Porsche – 1bruce1.
The cheesy, nostalgic part of me (who writes this blog) was ecstatic when I heard a sequel of sorts was coming out, revising the twins at the age of 27. The premise: Elizabeth, the “good” twin hastily relocating to NYC after some sort of betrayal by Jessica, the ubiquitous “bad” twin and Bruce, the driver of 1bruce1, at the time a vain playboy, now Elizabeth’s bestie, not Enid (her brunette, frizzy haired friend). Oh, and in SVH canon, with the exception of Lila, all brunettes were dull and rather unfortunate. Anybody else wonder why I’m obsessed with hair color? Ok. Good. Glad we’re all clear on that point.
I’m ashamed to admit I cleared my reading queue (i.e. not starting up another book on my Kindle or lengthy magazine) in the day or two before its release date.
Today was the day, and as I type this, I’m frankly disappointed.
I managed to read it on my lunch hour.
Yep, you read it right. My lunch HOUR. When I was 11 or 12 and reading the SVH books for the first time, they were quick reads at best. But hell, I read Mommie Dearest and Interview with A Vampire when I was 10 or so (much to my mother’s chagrin, even if though she did brag one day that an employee at the DMV was engrossed in an SVH novel when she went to get her license renewed, long after I outgrew the series), but I thought the creator, Francine Pascal, would have had enough respect for her seemingly (hopefully?) now adult readers to have made it more substantive than a short story in Cosmo (which, full disclosure, I stopped reading a few years ago. If I haven’t tried the Reverse Cowboy by now, odds are my hips are too bad to try anytime in the near future).
Yeah, it was nice reading a story with familiar characters, even if some of them swore more and drank more dirty martinis than I remembered from my youth. But I’m fairly certain I could have written a more mature novel with a little more character development after several bottles of wine.
Oh well, I guess you can’t go home again. Here’s hoping Diablo Cody (the writer/director of Juno) comes up with a decent screenplay!
5’6”. Blonde. Aquamarine eyes. Size 6 figures. Drove a red Fiat. Identical twins. California. More dances in a year than I went to in my entire school career, junior and high schools combined.
For those of you of a certain age, those bon mots mean only one thing: Sweet Valley High and the Wakefield Twins.
They set an impossible standard for us children of the 80’s. How couldn’t they? Elizabeth, with TBT (Trusty Boyfriend Todd) and her sister, Jessica with her ever revolving cast of boyfriends, but steady (and fabulous) bestie Lila. Their high jinks, at least subconsciously, had me thinking there was something wrong with me once I made it to 18 (although I had, in fact, moved onto more adult authors well before high school), since I had made it to maturity without ever having been: in a coma, kidnapped, in a small plane crash, date raped (or almost), had a boyfriend who played both basketball and football (imagine! He plays for both teams!), been drunk after one shot of vodka, had my kitchen decimated by an earthquake (admittedly difficult living in Pennsylvania) or recruited by cult. All before I turned 17 (let alone 18). Oh, and I never had a fabulously wealthy boyfriend (named Bruce of all things) that had a vanity plated Porsche – 1bruce1.
The cheesy, nostalgic part of me (who writes this blog) was ecstatic when I heard a sequel of sorts was coming out, revising the twins at the age of 27. The premise: Elizabeth, the “good” twin hastily relocating to NYC after some sort of betrayal by Jessica, the ubiquitous “bad” twin and Bruce, the driver of 1bruce1, at the time a vain playboy, now Elizabeth’s bestie, not Enid (her brunette, frizzy haired friend). Oh, and in SVH canon, with the exception of Lila, all brunettes were dull and rather unfortunate. Anybody else wonder why I’m obsessed with hair color? Ok. Good. Glad we’re all clear on that point.
I’m ashamed to admit I cleared my reading queue (i.e. not starting up another book on my Kindle or lengthy magazine) in the day or two before its release date.
Today was the day, and as I type this, I’m frankly disappointed.
I managed to read it on my lunch hour.
Yep, you read it right. My lunch HOUR. When I was 11 or 12 and reading the SVH books for the first time, they were quick reads at best. But hell, I read Mommie Dearest and Interview with A Vampire when I was 10 or so (much to my mother’s chagrin, even if though she did brag one day that an employee at the DMV was engrossed in an SVH novel when she went to get her license renewed, long after I outgrew the series), but I thought the creator, Francine Pascal, would have had enough respect for her seemingly (hopefully?) now adult readers to have made it more substantive than a short story in Cosmo (which, full disclosure, I stopped reading a few years ago. If I haven’t tried the Reverse Cowboy by now, odds are my hips are too bad to try anytime in the near future).
Yeah, it was nice reading a story with familiar characters, even if some of them swore more and drank more dirty martinis than I remembered from my youth. But I’m fairly certain I could have written a more mature novel with a little more character development after several bottles of wine.
Oh well, I guess you can’t go home again. Here’s hoping Diablo Cody (the writer/director of Juno) comes up with a decent screenplay!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
My Quest – Continued (with a script!)
I’d like to take the preamble to my blog to reiterate to my friends and family that they should submit me as a candidate for TLC’s show, What Not To Wear. I won’t get mad, in fact, the only tears that will be shed will be tears of joy. I’ll act the part if that’s what they want, but I will be ecstatic inside.
The groundwork having been laid, as I sit here watching an episode, I’d like to make it a bit easier for the crew of WNTW but laying out the script for my episode.
Voiceover: Meet Beth, a 36 year old single Operations Analyst (and please don’t ask what that actually means because her family doesn’t know) who lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She recently lost over 80 pounds and wears generally tragic clothing. In this episode, we’ll help her ditch her discount store wardrobe, $5 sweatpants and sweatshirts and embrace her inner high-end fashionista.
Secret Camera Footage
Me: I think this is functional (wiping sweat from my face and smoothing my hair down while talking to the crew at the supermarket). I just came from the gym and really, why should I dress up? I’m just going there to sweat, so why should I make an effort (while gesturing to my $5 bike shorts and oversized t-shirt). My work style? It’s functional (queue footage of me teetering around on heels and in oversized pants)
In my bedroom – my friends, Jen and Ashia
Jen: Seriously, look at this shit (bleep!). It’s polyester. And this shirt? Cute and it works, but she stole it from her mother (who rocks a v-neck and is totally fashionable) but no 36 year old should be stealing her mother’s clothing.
Ashia: And these shoes? Payless! PAYLESS people. If you’re going to kill an animal for fashion, at least make it for Manolo Blahnik.
Intervention
Voiceover: We’re here in Blue Bell (or East Norriton or wherever) with a $5,000 What Not To Wear credit card and a fashion intervention for this 30 something’s wardrobe.
Me: (doing something interesting and official, I’m sure) Blah, blah, blah. Blah blah blah blah.
Stacey: Stop. Just stop right now. Beth, I’m Stacey
Clinton: And I’m Clinton
Both: And we’re from TLC’s What Not To Wear
Clinton: Beth we’re hear because your family is sick of your work wardrobe of cheap synthetics and weekend wear of gym clothes…
Beth: (cutting Clinton off): THANK GOD YOU’RE FINALLY HERE!
END. SCENE.
I’ve done the legwork people. I’m even wearing my “best” dog hair covered seat pants so you can get plenty of shots. Now it’s your turn.
The groundwork having been laid, as I sit here watching an episode, I’d like to make it a bit easier for the crew of WNTW but laying out the script for my episode.
Voiceover: Meet Beth, a 36 year old single Operations Analyst (and please don’t ask what that actually means because her family doesn’t know) who lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She recently lost over 80 pounds and wears generally tragic clothing. In this episode, we’ll help her ditch her discount store wardrobe, $5 sweatpants and sweatshirts and embrace her inner high-end fashionista.
Secret Camera Footage
Me: I think this is functional (wiping sweat from my face and smoothing my hair down while talking to the crew at the supermarket). I just came from the gym and really, why should I dress up? I’m just going there to sweat, so why should I make an effort (while gesturing to my $5 bike shorts and oversized t-shirt). My work style? It’s functional (queue footage of me teetering around on heels and in oversized pants)
In my bedroom – my friends, Jen and Ashia
Jen: Seriously, look at this shit (bleep!). It’s polyester. And this shirt? Cute and it works, but she stole it from her mother (who rocks a v-neck and is totally fashionable) but no 36 year old should be stealing her mother’s clothing.
Ashia: And these shoes? Payless! PAYLESS people. If you’re going to kill an animal for fashion, at least make it for Manolo Blahnik.
Intervention
Voiceover: We’re here in Blue Bell (or East Norriton or wherever) with a $5,000 What Not To Wear credit card and a fashion intervention for this 30 something’s wardrobe.
Me: (doing something interesting and official, I’m sure) Blah, blah, blah. Blah blah blah blah.
Stacey: Stop. Just stop right now. Beth, I’m Stacey
Clinton: And I’m Clinton
Both: And we’re from TLC’s What Not To Wear
Clinton: Beth we’re hear because your family is sick of your work wardrobe of cheap synthetics and weekend wear of gym clothes…
Beth: (cutting Clinton off): THANK GOD YOU’RE FINALLY HERE!
END. SCENE.
I’ve done the legwork people. I’m even wearing my “best” dog hair covered seat pants so you can get plenty of shots. Now it’s your turn.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I went for the big snip yesterday – no, not that one. I have the wrong parts for THAT big snip, but I did cut off most of my hair.
As I was perusing pictures, looking for one of me with my “old” pixie cut, it occurred to me that most of the people in my life, aside from a few friends and family, have only known me with my veil of long hair. I was in the midst of growing it out when I joined Facebook about 2 and a half years ago and most of my recent pictures are either of the awkward growing out stage or of the end product.
I was amused at the reactions I got when I floated the prospect of a haircut out on Facebook. There were a lot of “No!”’s and a few “Go for it”s. My new stylist, who I love, but have only been going to since October, was cautious but enthusiastic. The end product is a bit longer than I envisioned, but as my stylist pointed out, you can also cut off more, but gluing it back on is a bit difficult.
I understand the reactions. Many women have their entire identities wrapped up in what grows out of their noggins. I’m not one of them. I’m always slightly annoyed when I watch What Not To Wear and the week’s subject balks at the suggested changes to hair style and color. I for one would jump at the chance to have someone who normally charges upwards of $500 for a haircut and is known and respected in their field to give me an unbiased suggestion as to what would look best on me. As I’ve told many a stylist, and friend, it’s only hair, and that I can count on one hand the number of times that I’ve cried over a haircut, the last time being when I was 20 (the tears were mostly over frustration trying to style a new cut without the right tools, not that I didn’t like it).
I know I’m not normal for my gender, but my attitude is if you can’t have fun with your hair, then really, what’s the point?
I’ve justified lopping off the product of three years of bad hair by saying it will make my workouts easier – more specifically the post workout routine easier. Anybody can throw their hair up in a ponytail, but only a glutton for punishment gets up early to workout, then wash, blow dry straight and then flat iron hair that has multiple cowlicks and sections of curly hair. A part of me was sick of seeing the hair falling out when I washed it – both from the natural hair cycle and from weight loss, another part of me got sick getting it caught in the straps of my purse and yet another part of me got sick of getting up at the crack of dawn to do the above routine. My reasons for having longer hair were more than cosmetic though.
True story – a few months ago I was at the supermarket, and saw a guy I had a blind date with. He was aggressive and a little letchy – he suggested, in a roundabout way, that we have a “sleepover” the night I met him. Sensibly, I demurred, but he didn’t get the hint, alternately calling, texting and messaging me through the dating website we met through. I was at the market one Friday and saw him. I did a supermodel/Pantene worthy flip of my hair and hid half of my face when I saw him to avoid detection.
Being totally honest, the whole reason why I grew my hair out in the first place was because of my weight. I felt like my then signature pixie was out of place on my increasingly obese frame. I often mock models with their little bodies and disproportionately large heads, and I found myself feeling like the opposite – big body, little head. I wanted the hair to balance it out….to hide behind. Now that I’m smaller, and being more active, longer hair is a massive pain in the ass truth be told. I have to make sure my gym bag always has a hair band and rubber bands. A few weeks ago I forgot a rubber band when going to spinning class. I was focused more on maneuvering my hair off of my neck and out of my face for the class rather than on the quality of my workout. After 60 minutes of this I wound up throwing my neck out. The other night, I had a weight training session and forgot a hair band. Oh yeah, doing pushups was a blast with my hair in my face, not to mention having to get up the next morning to wash the sweat out of my mop (and all that entailed).
I had started kicking around a chop around the time I started back at the gym, but didn’t feel confident until now. I gave myself excuses – I’ve invested a ton of money in product and accessories (side note: anybody interested in used InStyler? $25 OBO), guys like girls with longer hair, I spent three years growing it out.
At the end of the day, I decided to own my look and shed my veil, my comfort blanket. This is me…I have short hair, and I can sleep later than you in the morning and still look pulled together. Let’s rock this.
As I was perusing pictures, looking for one of me with my “old” pixie cut, it occurred to me that most of the people in my life, aside from a few friends and family, have only known me with my veil of long hair. I was in the midst of growing it out when I joined Facebook about 2 and a half years ago and most of my recent pictures are either of the awkward growing out stage or of the end product.
I was amused at the reactions I got when I floated the prospect of a haircut out on Facebook. There were a lot of “No!”’s and a few “Go for it”s. My new stylist, who I love, but have only been going to since October, was cautious but enthusiastic. The end product is a bit longer than I envisioned, but as my stylist pointed out, you can also cut off more, but gluing it back on is a bit difficult.
I understand the reactions. Many women have their entire identities wrapped up in what grows out of their noggins. I’m not one of them. I’m always slightly annoyed when I watch What Not To Wear and the week’s subject balks at the suggested changes to hair style and color. I for one would jump at the chance to have someone who normally charges upwards of $500 for a haircut and is known and respected in their field to give me an unbiased suggestion as to what would look best on me. As I’ve told many a stylist, and friend, it’s only hair, and that I can count on one hand the number of times that I’ve cried over a haircut, the last time being when I was 20 (the tears were mostly over frustration trying to style a new cut without the right tools, not that I didn’t like it).
I know I’m not normal for my gender, but my attitude is if you can’t have fun with your hair, then really, what’s the point?
I’ve justified lopping off the product of three years of bad hair by saying it will make my workouts easier – more specifically the post workout routine easier. Anybody can throw their hair up in a ponytail, but only a glutton for punishment gets up early to workout, then wash, blow dry straight and then flat iron hair that has multiple cowlicks and sections of curly hair. A part of me was sick of seeing the hair falling out when I washed it – both from the natural hair cycle and from weight loss, another part of me got sick getting it caught in the straps of my purse and yet another part of me got sick of getting up at the crack of dawn to do the above routine. My reasons for having longer hair were more than cosmetic though.
True story – a few months ago I was at the supermarket, and saw a guy I had a blind date with. He was aggressive and a little letchy – he suggested, in a roundabout way, that we have a “sleepover” the night I met him. Sensibly, I demurred, but he didn’t get the hint, alternately calling, texting and messaging me through the dating website we met through. I was at the market one Friday and saw him. I did a supermodel/Pantene worthy flip of my hair and hid half of my face when I saw him to avoid detection.
Being totally honest, the whole reason why I grew my hair out in the first place was because of my weight. I felt like my then signature pixie was out of place on my increasingly obese frame. I often mock models with their little bodies and disproportionately large heads, and I found myself feeling like the opposite – big body, little head. I wanted the hair to balance it out….to hide behind. Now that I’m smaller, and being more active, longer hair is a massive pain in the ass truth be told. I have to make sure my gym bag always has a hair band and rubber bands. A few weeks ago I forgot a rubber band when going to spinning class. I was focused more on maneuvering my hair off of my neck and out of my face for the class rather than on the quality of my workout. After 60 minutes of this I wound up throwing my neck out. The other night, I had a weight training session and forgot a hair band. Oh yeah, doing pushups was a blast with my hair in my face, not to mention having to get up the next morning to wash the sweat out of my mop (and all that entailed).
I had started kicking around a chop around the time I started back at the gym, but didn’t feel confident until now. I gave myself excuses – I’ve invested a ton of money in product and accessories (side note: anybody interested in used InStyler? $25 OBO), guys like girls with longer hair, I spent three years growing it out.
At the end of the day, I decided to own my look and shed my veil, my comfort blanket. This is me…I have short hair, and I can sleep later than you in the morning and still look pulled together. Let’s rock this.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Dirty Secret
Despite the fact that I relentlessly Facebook and blog about it, and seem to be constantly engaged in some form of it, I hate exercising.
I actually question the sanity of people that say they love exercise.
Whether it’s running, spinning, hitting the Stairmaster, lifting weights or going for a brisk (yet endless) walk, the only thing I like about working out is the end result and the fact that it’s done for the day.
From the sore muscles, black toe nails (still! I may never be ready for flip flop/sandal season at this rate. Chanel Vamp here I come), icky hair and/or smeared makeup, there is very little I enjoy about the workouts I do.
Last night I experienced a rarity, the runner’s high. I pressed the snooze button at 5:00 am (actually, I hit another combination of buttons and changed the time of my alarm from 5:00 to 6:00 (with that kind of dexterity at 5:00 am, I probably could have managed a run), and still didn’t get up until 6:45) and wound up in two positions I dislike – having to wear “sensible heels” to work, and needing to rush home and get on the treadmill so I could exercise, eat dinner at a reasonable hour and get something resembling a good night’s sleep. I would up leaving work later than I had planned, and despite a valiant effort, wound up getting caught in traffic. I didn’t make it home until later than I wanted, but still wound up getting in a 5 mile run.
I had a false start – due to an accumulation of dog hair on one of the wheels of my treadmill, it travelled across the linoleum floor during the first five minutes of my run, making me stop, clean up and reposition. After that, something kicked in and I sailed through the next 40 minutes. If it wasn’t for my parents and a pending DVR’d episode of Survivor, two hungry dogs and if I’m truthful a hungry me, I might have been able to get in 6, or even a record 7. It was the kind of run I dream about, the only part missing was me having a long blonde ponytail bouncing from my head, firmer abs and a tighter butt, and I could have done without the copious amount of sweat dripping from my puny brown ponytail and smeary raccoon eyes. But I’ll take it.
Honestly the only reason I ran last night was because of what I now know is a malfunctioning bathroom scale, which had me believing I had gained 3 pounds because of last Saturday’s crusty bread/peanut butter binge/extravaganza. I wanted to be able to walk into WW this morning knowing I had done all that I could. I weighed myself this morning and found I weighed slightly more than I did last Friday (yeah, I weigh myself twice a day, I know and expect my nighttime weight to be higher than my weight in the morning, but I still can’t break the habit). I expected my weigh in this morning to show a gain, or at best a stay the same, not the 1.8 pound loss I actually had. I would have chalked up the WW scale as wrong, but I also went to the doctor and found the scale there was in sync with WW. Of course the answer is for me to go to WW or the doctor at 6:45 am and 9:30 pm, drop trou and hop on the scale at one of the two locations on a daily basis. Somehow I think I’ll have an issue convincing either that this is a good idea.
Or I could just get a new scale.
Anyhow, getting back to fitness….I managed to get my workout done for today, and didn’t experience a repeat of last night’s “high”. I got in a 1 hour, 3.75 mile walk while multitasking on conference calls and replying to emails, and also managed a 3.3 mile, 33 minute run with a break here or there (one for repositioning, one because I wanted a break at the 25 minute point, and the last because I had to reply to an IM from a colleague, and while I can walk and type, I can’t run and type). I’m again in love with exercise because I am done for this day, and thinking of what I am going to do (or do to get out of it) tomorrow.
I actually question the sanity of people that say they love exercise.
Whether it’s running, spinning, hitting the Stairmaster, lifting weights or going for a brisk (yet endless) walk, the only thing I like about working out is the end result and the fact that it’s done for the day.
From the sore muscles, black toe nails (still! I may never be ready for flip flop/sandal season at this rate. Chanel Vamp here I come), icky hair and/or smeared makeup, there is very little I enjoy about the workouts I do.
Last night I experienced a rarity, the runner’s high. I pressed the snooze button at 5:00 am (actually, I hit another combination of buttons and changed the time of my alarm from 5:00 to 6:00 (with that kind of dexterity at 5:00 am, I probably could have managed a run), and still didn’t get up until 6:45) and wound up in two positions I dislike – having to wear “sensible heels” to work, and needing to rush home and get on the treadmill so I could exercise, eat dinner at a reasonable hour and get something resembling a good night’s sleep. I would up leaving work later than I had planned, and despite a valiant effort, wound up getting caught in traffic. I didn’t make it home until later than I wanted, but still wound up getting in a 5 mile run.
I had a false start – due to an accumulation of dog hair on one of the wheels of my treadmill, it travelled across the linoleum floor during the first five minutes of my run, making me stop, clean up and reposition. After that, something kicked in and I sailed through the next 40 minutes. If it wasn’t for my parents and a pending DVR’d episode of Survivor, two hungry dogs and if I’m truthful a hungry me, I might have been able to get in 6, or even a record 7. It was the kind of run I dream about, the only part missing was me having a long blonde ponytail bouncing from my head, firmer abs and a tighter butt, and I could have done without the copious amount of sweat dripping from my puny brown ponytail and smeary raccoon eyes. But I’ll take it.
Honestly the only reason I ran last night was because of what I now know is a malfunctioning bathroom scale, which had me believing I had gained 3 pounds because of last Saturday’s crusty bread/peanut butter binge/extravaganza. I wanted to be able to walk into WW this morning knowing I had done all that I could. I weighed myself this morning and found I weighed slightly more than I did last Friday (yeah, I weigh myself twice a day, I know and expect my nighttime weight to be higher than my weight in the morning, but I still can’t break the habit). I expected my weigh in this morning to show a gain, or at best a stay the same, not the 1.8 pound loss I actually had. I would have chalked up the WW scale as wrong, but I also went to the doctor and found the scale there was in sync with WW. Of course the answer is for me to go to WW or the doctor at 6:45 am and 9:30 pm, drop trou and hop on the scale at one of the two locations on a daily basis. Somehow I think I’ll have an issue convincing either that this is a good idea.
Or I could just get a new scale.
Anyhow, getting back to fitness….I managed to get my workout done for today, and didn’t experience a repeat of last night’s “high”. I got in a 1 hour, 3.75 mile walk while multitasking on conference calls and replying to emails, and also managed a 3.3 mile, 33 minute run with a break here or there (one for repositioning, one because I wanted a break at the 25 minute point, and the last because I had to reply to an IM from a colleague, and while I can walk and type, I can’t run and type). I’m again in love with exercise because I am done for this day, and thinking of what I am going to do (or do to get out of it) tomorrow.
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