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!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
A Tail of Two Dogs
Ok, so I lied about not having a new post tonight.
As some of you know, I have two dogs. A 9 year old male Lab, Bogey, and a 4 year old (I think) female Beagle, Candy (she was a stripper in her past life. Or an Interventionist. I’m not quite sure, but I didn’t have the heart to rename her Bridget, as I had originally intended). I love them both, and they couldn’t be more different.
Obedience
My lab, while in many ways is the canine Beth (i.e. the consummate people pleaser), in one way he is a stubborn mother. He doesn’t come when called unless there is some other enticement. When I put him outside, I have to hawk him. On more than one occasion, he has taken off for greener pastures (literally, my next door neighbor doesn’t have a dog, so his lawn is oh so green, unlike mine with yellow pee patches dotted throughout). When I call him, bellowing “BOGEY!” he typically doesn’t respond, or looks around like “Bogey? Who?” Not until I make it clear that some food product is in my hand does he even begin to act like he knows who I am.
That said, inside, it’s another story. My beagle won’t give me the time of day. Seriously, I’ve asked. She can’t tell time. The only person she will come to when called is my father, and that’s usually because he has Cheetos. When I do call her, Mr. Hearing Impaired Bogey himself comes trotting over. I think it’s because he gets sick of hearing me say “Candy…come here girl. Candy. Candy!” over and over again.
Food
Oh they both love their kibble (grain free Sweet Potato and Fish. What kind of fish? Damned if I know). Bogey had a slightly more discerning nose, despite the fact that I have seen him lick his feet, then where his balls used to be, then his feet again then try to give me a kiss. Candy literally will eat cat poo (sorry!).
I thought this was a sensory thing until one night last week when I spilled a container of brown rice. Bogey was in the room and saw it, went over and licked up a bit of it, then turned away, clearly disinterested. Candy on the other hand lapped every last kernel up, like fat girl on a diet only allowed 1 ounce (wait, that would be me). Bogey looked from Candy to me as if to say “What? She was a stray. What’s your excuse for eating that crap?”
Tonight while preparing my lunch they both sat in front of me, breathless with anticipation. I tossed a few pieces of Romaine lettuce to them. Bogey ate part of a leaf, again turning away. Candy ate every morsel on the floor. Then I tossed a piece of broccoli on the floor. Candy snatched the lone piece, ran under the dining room table and trotted back moments later with a floret on her nose. Bogey gave me the same disgusted look I never thought possible from a lab. I can’t say I wasn’t warned when it came to beagles.
Walking
Bogey loves to walk. He pulls me along as if there was a pot of gold at the end of our path, only pausing to pee every few minutes. For example, I took him on a short walk last week to see my dad at the office, less than a half a mile away from the house. By the time we got there my arm hurt from pulling him back, and I counted no less than four pauses to pee. Can dogs have an enlarged prostate?
As for Candy, she’s not so big on the walking, kind of like me when I’m not feeling the exercise thing. I’ll put the leash on her and oh yeah, she’ll go outside, but unless she sees a big juicy steak, she will plant herself in one spot and look at me with distain.
Night Time
I’ll admit, my motivation for getting another, smaller, dog was for nighttime. No, nothing strange, but while fostering my friend’s dog, a dachshund, I got used to the furry little foot warmer. Bogey will happily share my bed…well, sharing isn’t really the word. He takes up ¾ of my queen sized mattress, so he more like let’s me cling to the edge of it, so he has been relegated to the floor. Candy took quite a bit of coaxing to even sleep in my bedroom, forget sleeping in the bed. When I pick her up and put her next to me, she does what I call the “1950’s Housewife” routine. She will lay, stock still, paws in the air, looking at me as if to say “are we done cuddling now?”. As soon as I turn away she hops off of the bed and into her doggie bed on the floor.
I could go on, as any dog owner could, but I think I’ve demonstrated my two very different pups. And you know what? I wouldn’t trade either one of them in, with all of their personality tics, for the world.
As some of you know, I have two dogs. A 9 year old male Lab, Bogey, and a 4 year old (I think) female Beagle, Candy (she was a stripper in her past life. Or an Interventionist. I’m not quite sure, but I didn’t have the heart to rename her Bridget, as I had originally intended). I love them both, and they couldn’t be more different.
Obedience
My lab, while in many ways is the canine Beth (i.e. the consummate people pleaser), in one way he is a stubborn mother. He doesn’t come when called unless there is some other enticement. When I put him outside, I have to hawk him. On more than one occasion, he has taken off for greener pastures (literally, my next door neighbor doesn’t have a dog, so his lawn is oh so green, unlike mine with yellow pee patches dotted throughout). When I call him, bellowing “BOGEY!” he typically doesn’t respond, or looks around like “Bogey? Who?” Not until I make it clear that some food product is in my hand does he even begin to act like he knows who I am.
That said, inside, it’s another story. My beagle won’t give me the time of day. Seriously, I’ve asked. She can’t tell time. The only person she will come to when called is my father, and that’s usually because he has Cheetos. When I do call her, Mr. Hearing Impaired Bogey himself comes trotting over. I think it’s because he gets sick of hearing me say “Candy…come here girl. Candy. Candy!” over and over again.
Food
Oh they both love their kibble (grain free Sweet Potato and Fish. What kind of fish? Damned if I know). Bogey had a slightly more discerning nose, despite the fact that I have seen him lick his feet, then where his balls used to be, then his feet again then try to give me a kiss. Candy literally will eat cat poo (sorry!).
I thought this was a sensory thing until one night last week when I spilled a container of brown rice. Bogey was in the room and saw it, went over and licked up a bit of it, then turned away, clearly disinterested. Candy on the other hand lapped every last kernel up, like fat girl on a diet only allowed 1 ounce (wait, that would be me). Bogey looked from Candy to me as if to say “What? She was a stray. What’s your excuse for eating that crap?”
Tonight while preparing my lunch they both sat in front of me, breathless with anticipation. I tossed a few pieces of Romaine lettuce to them. Bogey ate part of a leaf, again turning away. Candy ate every morsel on the floor. Then I tossed a piece of broccoli on the floor. Candy snatched the lone piece, ran under the dining room table and trotted back moments later with a floret on her nose. Bogey gave me the same disgusted look I never thought possible from a lab. I can’t say I wasn’t warned when it came to beagles.
Walking
Bogey loves to walk. He pulls me along as if there was a pot of gold at the end of our path, only pausing to pee every few minutes. For example, I took him on a short walk last week to see my dad at the office, less than a half a mile away from the house. By the time we got there my arm hurt from pulling him back, and I counted no less than four pauses to pee. Can dogs have an enlarged prostate?
As for Candy, she’s not so big on the walking, kind of like me when I’m not feeling the exercise thing. I’ll put the leash on her and oh yeah, she’ll go outside, but unless she sees a big juicy steak, she will plant herself in one spot and look at me with distain.
Night Time
I’ll admit, my motivation for getting another, smaller, dog was for nighttime. No, nothing strange, but while fostering my friend’s dog, a dachshund, I got used to the furry little foot warmer. Bogey will happily share my bed…well, sharing isn’t really the word. He takes up ¾ of my queen sized mattress, so he more like let’s me cling to the edge of it, so he has been relegated to the floor. Candy took quite a bit of coaxing to even sleep in my bedroom, forget sleeping in the bed. When I pick her up and put her next to me, she does what I call the “1950’s Housewife” routine. She will lay, stock still, paws in the air, looking at me as if to say “are we done cuddling now?”. As soon as I turn away she hops off of the bed and into her doggie bed on the floor.
I could go on, as any dog owner could, but I think I’ve demonstrated my two very different pups. And you know what? I wouldn’t trade either one of them in, with all of their personality tics, for the world.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Feeling Conflicted
Michael Vick, scumbag of the universe, cancelled on Oprah this week.
Supposedly, he cancelled because owners of the dogs he tortured (abused isn’t a strong enough word for what he did) wanted equal time. His reps said it was due to personal reasons.
Whatever.
Frankly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I feel icky about this POS getting time on a show like Oprah. I honestly thought she was classier than that. After all, this is a woman who changed the tenor of her show after skinheads had a brawl on her show. These skinheads, whose opinions are abhorrent to me, never caused the death of living, breathing beings to my knowledge. Perhaps they wished harm on those they hated, but, again and this is only to my knowledge, never electrocuted, drowned or forced defenseless beings to fight to the death. To think that she would give this POS air time, and for him would believe it would be a love fest, is shocking to me.
Yes, I did say that I thought it was refreshing when he admitted a few months ago that he wouldn’t have given up his dog fighting ring if he hadn’t been caught. I got some abuse for this, and perhaps now is the time for me to clarify. I don’t admire him (I really don’t want to type his name again). I was merely commenting on the fact that he didn’t trot out some B.S. line about always feeling conflicted, or blame another person, or the people around him for what he did. I was merely commenting on the fact that he admitted that what he did was wrong, and it took an intervention to get him to stop. Perhaps this is the line of a good P.R. person, but I stand by my original opinion.
Another point, and my father and I have had some words over this, POS has lamented the fact that the terms of his parole prevent him from owning another dog, and his daughter desperately wants one. My father feels that POS should be allowed the privilege (and as the owner of two dogs, trust me, it is a privilege despite the occasional trials and tribulations) of having a dog, as that pet would be the most looked after and pampered of canines.
I think his daughter should take this as a sign that she should petition for emancipation, no matter what her age is, if she wants a dog that badly.
Getting back to my original point, being conflicted about POS cancelling on Oprah, there is a part of me that is disappointed about him cancelling. I’d like to see him come face to face with at least one of his victims. It goes unsaid that I’d like to see said victim gnaw off his hand, but also for that victim’s person tell POS how his actions have affected them. I’d like for him to be confronted with the reality, the reality that he victimized a creature that didn’t have a voice, one that needed and will continue to need constant care and attention. One that may never fully heal from the torture endured.
For many fans of the Philadelphia Eagles, the ultimate redemption story would be for POS to bring home the Lombardi trophy, and Philly does love a good redemption story. I’d just like to see POS traded for someone who deserves to wear the jersey, and deserves to be the person of a loving dog, who will always feel safe, and will never have to experience what the victims of Bad Newz Kennels went through in their last days and hours. For that person, I’d ditch work for the parade down Broad Street.
And bring my rescue dogs without fear or need to explain.
Supposedly, he cancelled because owners of the dogs he tortured (abused isn’t a strong enough word for what he did) wanted equal time. His reps said it was due to personal reasons.
Whatever.
Frankly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I feel icky about this POS getting time on a show like Oprah. I honestly thought she was classier than that. After all, this is a woman who changed the tenor of her show after skinheads had a brawl on her show. These skinheads, whose opinions are abhorrent to me, never caused the death of living, breathing beings to my knowledge. Perhaps they wished harm on those they hated, but, again and this is only to my knowledge, never electrocuted, drowned or forced defenseless beings to fight to the death. To think that she would give this POS air time, and for him would believe it would be a love fest, is shocking to me.
Yes, I did say that I thought it was refreshing when he admitted a few months ago that he wouldn’t have given up his dog fighting ring if he hadn’t been caught. I got some abuse for this, and perhaps now is the time for me to clarify. I don’t admire him (I really don’t want to type his name again). I was merely commenting on the fact that he didn’t trot out some B.S. line about always feeling conflicted, or blame another person, or the people around him for what he did. I was merely commenting on the fact that he admitted that what he did was wrong, and it took an intervention to get him to stop. Perhaps this is the line of a good P.R. person, but I stand by my original opinion.
Another point, and my father and I have had some words over this, POS has lamented the fact that the terms of his parole prevent him from owning another dog, and his daughter desperately wants one. My father feels that POS should be allowed the privilege (and as the owner of two dogs, trust me, it is a privilege despite the occasional trials and tribulations) of having a dog, as that pet would be the most looked after and pampered of canines.
I think his daughter should take this as a sign that she should petition for emancipation, no matter what her age is, if she wants a dog that badly.
Getting back to my original point, being conflicted about POS cancelling on Oprah, there is a part of me that is disappointed about him cancelling. I’d like to see him come face to face with at least one of his victims. It goes unsaid that I’d like to see said victim gnaw off his hand, but also for that victim’s person tell POS how his actions have affected them. I’d like for him to be confronted with the reality, the reality that he victimized a creature that didn’t have a voice, one that needed and will continue to need constant care and attention. One that may never fully heal from the torture endured.
For many fans of the Philadelphia Eagles, the ultimate redemption story would be for POS to bring home the Lombardi trophy, and Philly does love a good redemption story. I’d just like to see POS traded for someone who deserves to wear the jersey, and deserves to be the person of a loving dog, who will always feel safe, and will never have to experience what the victims of Bad Newz Kennels went through in their last days and hours. For that person, I’d ditch work for the parade down Broad Street.
And bring my rescue dogs without fear or need to explain.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
General Musings
I don't have a specific topic I want to ramble about...haven't had a specific one (at least one that has come to me when I have my computer in front of me and it's not 2:00 am) for a while, so hence the lack of an update.
So, I'm going to go with it, and provide a general update in the life of moi. I'm actually going to treat this like a meeting minutes, so please forgive the "official" type headings. At least I'm not breaking out the bullet points.
Weight Loss
Still going strong on this point, and trying to avoid being my own worst enemy. To wit: have had a blockbuster past few weeks at WW, so much so that I'm not sure what the deal is. That said, last night my trainer sprung measurements on me. Side note here: my trainer is somewhere around 70 and has a crappy memory. I have to regularly remind him that I'm on WW, I run and that I'm training for a half marathon. Each time I tell him this, he reacts like it's news. Now I know that I'm not his only client, but he works part time, and the last time he measured me, he told me that was a record for him, so I'd like to think that something I say would stick with him. But I digress...
I had scheduled measurements (which BTW, I have to pay for, don't get me started) for 2/21, a day I have scheduled to take off from work. My plan was to go to the gym from a doctor's appointment I have scheduled that morning and face my date with the tape measure. Last night, after doing a 20 minute warm up on the stair master, I went over to the trainer's desk. He told me his 6:00 had cancelled, and he wanted to do measurements then and there. I sputtered.
My natural tendency is to dehydrate before I get on any type of scale, and I certainly wouldn't have done the StairMaster since I can practically feel my thighs plumping up from the exertion. He insisted. My results, while good probably by anybody else's standards, left me feeling deflated. For one thing, the scale at the gym had me weighing 3 lbs above my WW weight the week before, and somehow, despite losing everywhere else, my neck (huh?) grew by 1/4 inch. I wound up losing 17.5 inches and 21 lbs since November, and that includes Thanksgiving and the Christmas/New Years holidays, but I was disappointed. Crazy, right? Clearly I still have a long way to go with body acceptance and realistic expectations.
Food
I still look to food as my comfort. I'd like to say that when I'm upset my first instinct is to go for a run, or beat up a punching bag, but no, I want food. Last Saturday was a pretty upsetting day for me, for reasons I won't go into here. I spent the better part of the day crying if I'm honest. By the time I went to bed, I looked like I had collagen injected all over and a bad case of pink eye. My main instinct, after bursting into tears, was to eat. I took myself to lunch, ate a slice of pizza and at least half of a large order of fries (I'm being generous). I went to D&D and got a breakfast sandwich as the second part of my coping mechanism. It was low fat, supposedly low cal (I guess compared to my beloved bacon, egg & cheese) and tasted like crap. I actually tossed it after two bites. Fortunately, I caught myself and stopped. I cried some more, made some tea, and went to bed. I still wanted to stuff the feelings away, but I went with them, despite how miserable I felt.
Running
Still going strong here. I'm resolved to get up early in the morning, when I can, and get my daily runs over with before the day starts. This is good for me on two parts...one, I'm done for the day, and can do what I need to do after work rather than on the weekend, and two, I can wear my three to four inch high heels without worrying about my feet or calves aching while I'm trying to exercise. Ahh...vanity.
I'm making progress on the distance. I managed 5 miles last Friday and this past Sunday, and am hoping to do 5.5 tomorrow and/or this weekend. It sucks while I'm doing it, and I'm thankful for my DVR, but I feel a real sense of accomplishment once I'm done. I'm optimistic that I can get to 9 miles by the spring and do a 10k (roughly 6 miles) as a training exercise.
My New Body
My brain is still catching up to my body. A few weeks ago, I was at the supermarket, and being the good eavesdropper that I am overheard two people in line mention the gym I go to as a "meat/meet market". I chimed in that I go there, and one of the women said "you don't need to worry about the gym, you're skinny". I turned around to see if there was somebody standing behind me. I looked her dead in the eye I told her "Ma'am, this time last year, I weighed 230 lbs". She and the cashier, who went to my high school, both went slack jawed. The cashier went over to tell her colleague who came over to say she hadn't recognized me (she had waited on me many times before and was a customer of mine when I worked retail). My head was spinning.
The next day, at the request of some friends, I posted a few current pictures. I hadn't even combed my hair, had no makeup on, and was wearing my "booty shorts" (tight running shorts) and a throw away t-shirt that I wear when I run at home. The response was overwhelming. One person messaged me for tips. A few people told me I inspire them to exercise. It's a little much if I'm honest. I feel like Charles Barkley when I say this, but I'm no role model. Of course I'm flattered, but I don't feel like I'm doing anything exceptional. But hey, if somebody wants to start exercising or eating healthy because of me, who am I to discourage them and not cheer them along?
Life
Things in general are good here. As I alluded to, I experienced a bit of a loss recently, which I'm not ready to delve into, but I'm coping with it and moving on. Thankfully, I still have a job, and my family is healthy. Finances could better, but who can't say that?
So, that's it...the last two weeks in nutshell. Hopefully something more profound will come to me, and not just when I'm trying to go back to sleep after my pup has woken me up in the middle of the night! Until then...
So, I'm going to go with it, and provide a general update in the life of moi. I'm actually going to treat this like a meeting minutes, so please forgive the "official" type headings. At least I'm not breaking out the bullet points.
Weight Loss
Still going strong on this point, and trying to avoid being my own worst enemy. To wit: have had a blockbuster past few weeks at WW, so much so that I'm not sure what the deal is. That said, last night my trainer sprung measurements on me. Side note here: my trainer is somewhere around 70 and has a crappy memory. I have to regularly remind him that I'm on WW, I run and that I'm training for a half marathon. Each time I tell him this, he reacts like it's news. Now I know that I'm not his only client, but he works part time, and the last time he measured me, he told me that was a record for him, so I'd like to think that something I say would stick with him. But I digress...
I had scheduled measurements (which BTW, I have to pay for, don't get me started) for 2/21, a day I have scheduled to take off from work. My plan was to go to the gym from a doctor's appointment I have scheduled that morning and face my date with the tape measure. Last night, after doing a 20 minute warm up on the stair master, I went over to the trainer's desk. He told me his 6:00 had cancelled, and he wanted to do measurements then and there. I sputtered.
My natural tendency is to dehydrate before I get on any type of scale, and I certainly wouldn't have done the StairMaster since I can practically feel my thighs plumping up from the exertion. He insisted. My results, while good probably by anybody else's standards, left me feeling deflated. For one thing, the scale at the gym had me weighing 3 lbs above my WW weight the week before, and somehow, despite losing everywhere else, my neck (huh?) grew by 1/4 inch. I wound up losing 17.5 inches and 21 lbs since November, and that includes Thanksgiving and the Christmas/New Years holidays, but I was disappointed. Crazy, right? Clearly I still have a long way to go with body acceptance and realistic expectations.
Food
I still look to food as my comfort. I'd like to say that when I'm upset my first instinct is to go for a run, or beat up a punching bag, but no, I want food. Last Saturday was a pretty upsetting day for me, for reasons I won't go into here. I spent the better part of the day crying if I'm honest. By the time I went to bed, I looked like I had collagen injected all over and a bad case of pink eye. My main instinct, after bursting into tears, was to eat. I took myself to lunch, ate a slice of pizza and at least half of a large order of fries (I'm being generous). I went to D&D and got a breakfast sandwich as the second part of my coping mechanism. It was low fat, supposedly low cal (I guess compared to my beloved bacon, egg & cheese) and tasted like crap. I actually tossed it after two bites. Fortunately, I caught myself and stopped. I cried some more, made some tea, and went to bed. I still wanted to stuff the feelings away, but I went with them, despite how miserable I felt.
Running
Still going strong here. I'm resolved to get up early in the morning, when I can, and get my daily runs over with before the day starts. This is good for me on two parts...one, I'm done for the day, and can do what I need to do after work rather than on the weekend, and two, I can wear my three to four inch high heels without worrying about my feet or calves aching while I'm trying to exercise. Ahh...vanity.
I'm making progress on the distance. I managed 5 miles last Friday and this past Sunday, and am hoping to do 5.5 tomorrow and/or this weekend. It sucks while I'm doing it, and I'm thankful for my DVR, but I feel a real sense of accomplishment once I'm done. I'm optimistic that I can get to 9 miles by the spring and do a 10k (roughly 6 miles) as a training exercise.
My New Body
My brain is still catching up to my body. A few weeks ago, I was at the supermarket, and being the good eavesdropper that I am overheard two people in line mention the gym I go to as a "meat/meet market". I chimed in that I go there, and one of the women said "you don't need to worry about the gym, you're skinny". I turned around to see if there was somebody standing behind me. I looked her dead in the eye I told her "Ma'am, this time last year, I weighed 230 lbs". She and the cashier, who went to my high school, both went slack jawed. The cashier went over to tell her colleague who came over to say she hadn't recognized me (she had waited on me many times before and was a customer of mine when I worked retail). My head was spinning.
The next day, at the request of some friends, I posted a few current pictures. I hadn't even combed my hair, had no makeup on, and was wearing my "booty shorts" (tight running shorts) and a throw away t-shirt that I wear when I run at home. The response was overwhelming. One person messaged me for tips. A few people told me I inspire them to exercise. It's a little much if I'm honest. I feel like Charles Barkley when I say this, but I'm no role model. Of course I'm flattered, but I don't feel like I'm doing anything exceptional. But hey, if somebody wants to start exercising or eating healthy because of me, who am I to discourage them and not cheer them along?
Life
Things in general are good here. As I alluded to, I experienced a bit of a loss recently, which I'm not ready to delve into, but I'm coping with it and moving on. Thankfully, I still have a job, and my family is healthy. Finances could better, but who can't say that?
So, that's it...the last two weeks in nutshell. Hopefully something more profound will come to me, and not just when I'm trying to go back to sleep after my pup has woken me up in the middle of the night! Until then...
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