Apparently, Biggest Loser isn't the only thing I'm not fluffy enough for!

Good morning!

Pardon the dangling preposition in the title, but somehow saying, "For which I'm not fluffy enough" seemed a little too formal, given the topic of discussion today.

The sandwich that changed
my life...

Most of you know I was in a car accident two months ago, and since that car accident I've been on a very strict schedule of Physical Therapy, Doctors' appointments, daily headaches and dizzy spells.  Well my doctor finally decided to read my physical therapists' notes two weeks ago, and now we can add MRI and Neuro surgeon to the list of medical professionals profiting from my love of McDonald's McChicken sandwiches.  (which I have not had since the accident, BTW.)

So Wednesday was my MRI.  For those of you not familiar which this process, Medical Resonance Imaging is where they shove the affected area of your body into a large tube which is, I'm told, loaded with magnets and they they take images of the affected area, tiny bit by tiny bit, sort of in layers.  That way, if there's even the tiniest bit of your brain, or your neck, or whatever that's damaged, it will show up on the images.

Not so bad, right?  Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Well let's back up.  Two weeks ago I went to a completely...utterly...and ridiculously pointless office visit with my doctor.  This is the guy who forgets what meds he's prescribed me for my hands, and always seems surprised when he reads my chart.  "Oh, why are you taking Meloxicam?"

Dude, you prescribed it for me..and renew the prescription every other month.

Anyway, after a PT session, the therapist wrote another strongly worded email to Dr. Duh, as I will now call him, telling him, again, that I needed an MRI, that there was something really wrong with my neck.  So his nurse, Nurse Also Duh, told me that we'd be doing an MRI at my next appointment.  At least, I'm pretty sure that's what she said.

No, in reality, he wanted to see if I really NEEDED an MRI.  Or something.  But first, he wanted to be sure I was good an riled so the night of my appointment he made sure he was running more than an hour behind.  We finally get into the room, and I'm already cranky, and he yanks on my head a little and they weigh me...why...why...WHY?  And he says, "Yeah, you should get an MRI."

Doctor Duh...thank you for wasting two hours of my life.

The he says, "And here's a number for a nuero surgeon.  Call him, get on his radar."

That's what he said, "Get on his radar."

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

Well I'm a dutiful soldier, so I called the Neuro guy...and left a message.  Then I scheduled and MRI, for which Dr. Duh had not sent a note for preauthorization to my insurance company as he said he would.  Which mean another phone call to Nurse Also Duh.  All of this from the Culver's parking lot during my 54 minute lunch.  (You now, because Lumbergh won't let me make personal calls during the day and doctors and lawyers don't answer their phones after 4:30 Pm.

A week went by, and no call from the nuero guy.  So I called Nurse also Duh and said, "So what does, 'get on the rader' mean?"

"Oh, you're supposed to make an appointment with him.  Dr. Duh called in a referral."

Clear, concise English.  What a concept.

So, like you're gonna, you know,
like fill out paperwork.

So I call nuero guy again, and this time his Valley Girl picks up the phone.  (For those of you who don't know what a Valley Girl is, look it up.)  Turns out Dr. Duh DID NOT call in a referral, so I have to spend 27 minutes of my 54 minute lunch going over everything with Valley Girl.  But I have an appointment.  All that's left is doing the MRI.

So Wednesday after work I don every piece of clothing I own that doesn't involve metal, right down to the jog bra.  (I've been wearing them more often lately, funny how comfortable you can be when you really don't care how your boobs are positioned.)  Hubby drove me to the hospital, three blocks away. 

I should mention, I'm slightly claustrophobic.  This was something I brought up with Dr. Duh. This was something I brought up with the scheduler. This was something I brought up with the skinny nurse who walked me into the room with the tube.  Someone mentioned sedation...

Skinny Nurse gave me earplugs and the soft ear muffs...very sexy...and she explained the test.  I lay back on the sliding table.  Not bad, there was a picture of mountains and rivers on the ceiling.  Then she handed me a squeeze thingy and said, "If you need anything squeeze this."  Then the table started sliding into the tube.

The minute my hands brushed the side and top of the tube I was able to answer the question, "How claustrophobic are you?"

The answer:  "I AM SUPER CLAUSTROPHOBIC!"

I think I broke the squeezy thing.  I kept saying, "no, no, no I need out of this right now!"


They got me out and suddenly there was this lovely gentleman, we'll call him Gary, standing there.  He had the look and sound of a younger James Earl Jones.  Maybe not, but in my head he did.  He and skinny nurse talked about doing the test a different day, maybe a day when Dr. DUH actually prescribed something for me that wouldn't make me feel like an Edgar Allen Poe character while in the tube.

Then I thought I about all the appointments depending on the results of this test.  I thought about the lawyers and the doctors and the nurses who all needed this information and what a pain in the butt it would be if they had to wait.  And how they could make my life even more jumbled and less my own than they all already have.

I stuck the earplugs back in my ears and said, "Do this quickly."

If you haven't had an MRI, this might be hard to imagine, but it's sort of like being stuck head first in a tiny garbage can while the cast of STOMP is beating the can on the outside, to the tunes of the soundtrack from everything loud, violent video game ever.  There's cold air blowing on your head all the time, I think that's supposed to help the claustrophobia, but it just made my eyebrows itch, which I couldn't scratch because my arms were pretty much pinned to my sides which made the claustrophobia WORSE.

Every so often where would be a break in the buzzing, banging, whirring, pounding sounds and then Gary would say, "how are you doing?"

I wanted to be a smart aleck, but I also wanted out as soon as possible.  So instead of saying, "How do you think I'm doing you sadist in scrubs?  I'm living a nightmare and every movie I've ever seen about being buried alive is running through my head."   I said, "Fine."

I started to wonder why I had so MANY movies about being buried alive in my mental repertoire.  Seriously, it's shocking how many movies I've seen where being buried alive is the central theme.  And it's shocking just how fast all those scenes flicked in my head like they were on a film loop.

I would have rescued Sarah from the
evil tube.

At one point I knew I was starting to feel a bit less creeped out when Gary said, "How ya doin?"  And I said, "Any chance we could get some Rick Springfield music pumped in here instead of all the banging?"

"Who?"

Oh sure...I get the one middle aged guy on the planet who doesn't know who Rick Springfield is.  (Meanwhile, a Facebook friend of mine reports she got to have Rick's music playing while she had her MRI.  Clearly, my medical system is sub par.)

Finally, the table slides out of the tube.  Gary is there and he helps me sit up.  "We3'd better be done,"  I say, "I'm not going back in there."

"No, I'm giving you a break.  We have 15 more minutes.  You were squirming too much."

Sarah...I am your
radiologist.

At this point I'm about in tears.  Skinny Nurse comes in and she says, "How did you do?"

"I don't know, I have 15 more minutes."

"What?  No, you're done...right?"

"No, Gary says I was moving too much, I have to go back in."

Skinny nurse glares at Gary who says, "Uh, I was KIDDING."

Dude, you don't know who Rick Springfield is AND you're joking with me about putting me back in that high tech coffin?  Strike one and two.

I will give Gary this...he came out later and talked to me about the test and about how he is also claustrophobic.  I then asked about the open sided MRI machines I'd seen before.  He told me there aren't many of them around, and really those are only for extreme cases, and the pictures never come out as good. 

What I heard was, "Sarah, you're not fluffy enough for an open sided MRI."

Yes Conda, I can hear you laughing at me.

Oh great...so I'm too skinny to be on Biggest Loser and I'm too skinny to be put in a tube that doesn't resemble a gigantic tampon holder...of DEATH.

So there's that.

And now we wait.  We wait for someone other than Dr. Duh to read the tests.  We wait for Valley Girl's boss to see me.  And we wait.

I hate waiting...

The Road to Rickets: WK 1 Where Voodoo and PMS meet.

Good evening!

For those of you new to this blog, and for those of you who haven't been paying attention, I'll catch you up:

Last Saturday I paid a visit to my mother's 300 pound chiropractor/yoga instructor/nutritionist who informed me that I, the fat girl, needed to avoid all sugar, including, and especially:  FRUIT.   She also informed me that my thyroid was unhappy that I worked at a computer.  She of course has a necklace that wards off the evil (her words not mine) rays of computers and cell phones, but she didn't think to offer me one.

So, no candy, no cookies, no cake, and no fruit for me. And no magic necklace to ward off the evil rays and make my thyroid happy.

Something else you should know, if you don't:

Several years ago I was diagnosed with PMDD, which is basically a very high powered form of PMS.  Simply put, 2-3 days a month I am driven completely, utterly, and murderously insane by someone's voice.  It's always a specific person, like the Evil Bossman.  (He who blamed me for the fact that oil was $100 barrel because I, the fat girl, wanted to turn on the AC when the office reached 80 degrees.)  More recently it was Elsie's, and now, it is Noelle C's.

Note his collar.  His thyroid was probably
unhappy with him, too.

During these couple days, I take some medication (well, medication and CHOCOLATE), but I cannot tolerate the very sound of that specific voice.  (I think Edgar Allen Poe may have had...or probably more likely knew...someone with PMDD when he wrote "The Tell Tale Heart.")

I'm sharing that shocking tidbit with you to explain why I've not been terribly active online this past week:

I've been trying very, very hard not to kill anyone while I make it through this week of no sugar and no fruit and a major, completely unexpected, attack of my "pre days."

It has been less than easy.

IT hasn't been much easier when I try to explain to my family members why, the week after Easter, when candy is 70% off and I've bought a truckload of it, I cannot eat it.  It' hasn't been easy, spring time in Wisconsin, when the new spring and summer fruits suddenly show up, beautiful and ripe, and all I ache for is a raspberry or a strawberry, or a freakin' glass of ORANGE JUICE.

So tonight, wracked with guilt, a sense of failure, and quite possibly the worst cramps of my life, I saved my family from any anguished scenes of insanity, and I ate four mini Butter finger Eggs.

An egg a day will keep
the crazies away.

And I had a glass of orange juice.

And it was goooooooooooood!

I see Dr. Maime a week from next Saturday.  i was supposed to see her next week Thursday, but her assistant Flick couldn't seem to get his head wrapped around her schedule.  Was she in Florida this week?  Next week?  He just couldn't be sure.  And neither could she...until last night when he called to see if I wanted to see her tonight.

Uh, no, see Flick, even if I wasn't wrapped around a heating pad...I had other plans.  You'd think someone who calls them self and assistant would have someone who calls them self a doctor's schedule better in hand.

Before I see Dr. Maime again, I'm checking in with an actual MD, and gent I've never met before. Most of you recall, my former internal med doc, the one I think looks like Dudley Moore, said that the crippling pain in my hands was because I was old and I had to live with it.  Yeah, so I'm very done with him.

This new guy has NO IDEA the level of crazy that's going to hit him next week Wednesday.

I should probably eat another Butter finger egg before I meet him.

CONDA UPDATE:

While I have been slowly, very slowly, losing a pound here and there, it is clear that Conda is crushing me in the weight loss department. So yes, it is harder to lose weight on your own than it is when focused on nothing but weight loss 24/7. 

 However, in the department of people who don't hate you, I'm, pretty sure I'm winning.  Out of the blue, someone I work with announced, "I love Biggest Loser, but I HATE Conda."

Food for thought:  Those of you who watched Buddy and Mark walk out in protest...do you think Conda orchestrated the drama just to get everyone thinking the rules of the game where unfair so that everyone would walk...except for her and her brother Jeremy?  Because I totally do.  She's been behind every minute of game play, drama, and shenanigans since this game started and I believe that she looked at the final five and realized she wasn't going to beat at least the two guys.  So she waited until something got leaked about returning players and she worked her magic.

It sort of backfired...because Kim didn't walk and Kim is one of the two guaranteed in the finals.  GO KIM!

So I can eat all the corn chips I want, but an apple is RIGHT OUT?

Good morning!

Let me start by saying I am NOT mocking people with food allergies in this post.  I know a lot of people who have legitimate food allergies, and I respect them.

What I am mocking in this post, ultimately, are those who don the name "Doctor" and then spout some wildly weird stuff at you, and part us from our money by putting fancy words to very simple truths.

Oh, and I'm mocking my mother.


My mother, who has been rail thin her entire life, but has been battling my father's weight for almost as long, decided one day to visit her chiropractor.  (I'm not mocking chiropractic care.  When I have 30 minutes every other day and $30 every other day for ten weeks, I go to a chiropractor myself.)  While there, her chiropractor...and woman I'll call Dr. MAMIE, because 1) it rhymes with her real name and 2)  It's annoying to me when doctors who don't work with children insist you call them Dr. First Name.

so she went to her chiropractor, and I may never know how it came about, but she emerged from that appointment with fist full of brown glass bottles bearing hand written names of their contents, and a whole new attitude about food and why my father and I need to avoid it.

Since I'm 44 and live in my own house, I tend to not listen to her, but after months of gentle reminding  (nagging)  she offered to pay for my own very trip to this Dr. Maime who was going to put a vial of corn on my belly button and cure not only my fat, but also my arthritis.

I'm not making this up, this is what she told me.

(At least the Soggy Bottom Boys got $10 to sing into a can.)

So like I said, after several months of gentle reminding, (nagging)  I called Dr. Maime's office and spoke to Flick  (not his real name, but close enough) who set up an appointment for 8 AM today, Saturday. 

8 Am.  And Flick said, "BE EARLY."

So I filled out the paperwork, which didn't seem at all interested in my diet, and showed up at 7:45.  Flick took my paperwork, and directed me to a room.  Where I then sat for 25 minutes.

Making Dr. Maime ten minutes late.

We are not off to a good start.

The other thing I noticed about this nutrition guru, the woman who was currently charging my parents heaven knows what for treatment and for those glass bottle of voodoo, is this:

SHE'S FAT!

Yes, take dietary advice from him.

She's not just fluffy.  No, my friends, this woman could be my partner on Biggest Loser.  She's MY BEFORE PICTURE.

Now you all know I have long beat the drum of equality for fluffy girls.  But there are just some jobs a fluffy girl may not be best suited for.  Like a woman shouldn't do those movie voice overs for disaster movie trailers, a fluffy girl should not be billing people's insurance for her dietary expertise. 

So after talking to her for several minutes, she says,
"So do you want chiropractic care, or RT?"

I'm not sure what RT is, so I said, "My mother told me you were going to put a can of corn on my belly button and cure my arthritis."

Rather than correcting me for being wrong she said, "Oh, well we are in the wrong room."

Chalk one up to Flick for not listening to me on the phone.

We get to her room and she talks about food and nutrients and how bad the American diet is.

She and I would be a great poster to prove that point.

Then she holds up a rubber band and lubes it up with aloe. She invites me to hoist my shirt and bra while she puts on this "heart monitor."

Then she makes me like completely flat, completely still on a table. Then she makes me stand completely still. She then reads a computer screen (There's a clothes pin on my shirt attached to the computer...it's not touching the rubber band around my boobs, so I'm not exactly sure how my readings to in to the computer.) She then tells me that I'm blocked and switched and my body has no reserves in case I need to move quickly.

Well, I don't know what the first two things mean, but as for the part about no reserves for moving quickly...DUH!  I'm old and I'm fat and I have lousy hands and feet.  I'm not going anywhere quickly.

So then she removes the rubber band and has me lie on the table.  No crossed legs, no touching myself in anyway because she's going to touch me all over and she doesn't want my body confused.

Um....my body might not be confused, but I'm starting to wonder if I should be looking for a hidden camera because it's starting to feel like one of those movies...you know....

She then tells me I have to hold my left arm straight up.  Keep holding it that way and she's  going to apply pressure, not a lot, but a little and I'm supposed to match her pressure.

Well I do, except it's starting to dawn on me that she's working the algebra problem backwards.  She's already pretty sure what she's going to tell me, now she needs to perform a couple magic tricks to prove I need her treatment.  First, let's get the fat girl to hold her arm up in the air while she's already uncomfortable lying flat out and let's see how much pressure we can use until her arm falls down. 



"Well," says she, "You're definitely blocked, but you can be successfully tested this way.  So that's good. Now we need to see how you're switched and what organs are involved."

I came in because my hands hurt.

Then she gets a couple little jars.  I can't see them, because I 'm supposed to have my eyes closed.  She puts them on my stomach and does the arm test.  By this time my left arm is very sore and very tired, so I'm pretty much proving her point simply because I'm uncomfortable and tired.  She's touching me in sort of a soft creepy way, not like a medical doctor who would actually, you know, try and put pressure on an organ to see if it's inflamed or something, no she's more just pointing to them and pushing on my arm.

She has me press my right pinky to my thumb for a good part of the test.  Not sure what that has to do with it, but it hurt and I informed her of that.  She poked my zipper  (why, I don't know) and said, "I know.  We're almost done."

Uh, if a nutritionist is fumbling around your jeans zipper I'm thinking you ARE DONE.

She then says, like she's a genius, "Do you work near a computer?"

"You know I do.  We talked about that."

"Oh well your thyroid doesn't like that."

"My thyroid is going to have to get over it."

"Yes, well, I do have a necklace I wear to protect me from the harmful rays of computers, cell phones, all those waves in the air.   I forgot to wear it today."

You also forget to tell me if and where I can get such a magical necklace

Turns out, I have a sensitivity to mercury and cadmium.  Now I don't know a human person who DOESN'T have a sensitivity to mercury.  And apparently, those three fillings I have in my teeth are part of the reason I'm fat and have arthritis.

Finally, it was over.  And, after all that, she was very gleeful in her diagnosis.

"You need to stay away from all sugars."

Well, this isn't a body built by carrots.

"No cookies, no candy, no cake."

Why...so you can have it all?  (Sorry, that was mean...still, she's the one telling me what I need to do to lose weight.)

"And no fruit."

Uh...what?

"No fruit.  No fruit juices, no fruit."

"Wait,"  says I, "So it's not corn, it's not gluten.  It's sugar."

"No problem with corn at this point."

Right, until she tells my mother who will probably tell her to tell me I have a problem with corn.

"You can have honey, but no other sugars, especially not fruit."

So you heard it hear first America....and other countries.   I can eat all the Cheetos I want.   But a bowl of raspberries will keep me fat forever.

Darn it...I really want a raspberry!

I'm not taking child rearing tips from
Kate Gosslein either.

So, basically, you want me to take your garbage home?

Happy Friday!

I love Fridays.  Friday is an Elsie free day at work.  Everyone smiles a bit more.  Everyone is more relaxed.  Biggest good thing:  The office doesn't smell like fish.

This week the recycling issue at the office came to a head, mostly because no one, not even Elsie, could ignore the gigantic bag of soup cans, tuna cans, cottage cheese containers, yogurt containers, and...well, you get the idea..and all of this was shoved under the kitchen sink.

Her rolling cooler in the kitchen.  Sorry about the angle.  You'll
Also note the empty soda bottle, the open drawers, and the
napkins on the floor.  This is how she leaves an area
customers can see.

Several weeks ago, Elsie and I had a conversation about recyling.  I recycle at home, a lot.  Anything I use at the office I take home and put in my recycle bin, since there is no such bin at the office.

This is what she leaves every night.  Yes,
that's a tuna can.

Not Elsie.  Elsie lets the cans sit in the sink until NBM can no longer stand the mess and then she throws them out.  I suggested she do like I did, take them home and deal with her recycling there.

"Oh no," says she, "I have way too much junk at home, I'm not putting more junk in my car and bringing it home."

Let's remember, we're talking about recycling items here.

So I let it go.  Now, for the last couple  weeks, she's been stashing her soup cans and whatnot in a brown paper bag under the sink.  (We just got rid of the fruit flies...seriously....)  This week, she decided to "clean."  (Read here, she didn't feel like doing her actual job, so she made some busy work for herself by tidying up the mess she creates.)  What she did was pull the garbage out from under the kitchen sink  (70% hers) and the recylcing bag  (100% hers.)  She then went to NBM and had this conversation with him:

the infamous George Foreman grill, exiled to the top
of my file cabinets.

Forget that I spend a lot of my day working with the filing
cabinets.  I have to work around...this.

"Will you take the recycling home with you and put it in your bins?  I have had some construction done at my house and the stupid contractors buried my bins in my garage and I can't find them."

(The construction in question is remodeling that she's having done in the taxpayer's dime thanks to some fairly lax regulations.  I can't afford to put pipes in my house that don't spew sewer once every four months, but she gets a whole new kitchen, thanks to the taxpayers of her home county.  Oh, and she's suing the contractors because they made a mess in her kitchen.  First ponder the irony of that.  Then ponder this:  she told me "If I'd been paying for this job, i wouldn't be paying for it.  But since it's county money...I guess they just wanted the bottom dollar and didn't care how good the group was at cleaning up."

Yes, your tax dollar at work.)

Anyway, NBM of COURSE turned her down.  And apparently it was a day when she was talking me not and not to PM because her next stop was at my desk, "So can you take the recycling home and put it in your bins?"

"No," says I, "see, I recycle a lot and my bins are full because I take all my containers, cans, bottles, whatever home with me.  I'm not taking your stuff home."

She was actually miffed that I didn't say yes.

The brown bag is recycling.
And yes, that's one of my file cabinets.

So she did what any green minded person would do:  She plopped that bag next to the garbage.  No, she didn't walk the 22 steps to the dumpster to put everything in the dumpster.  Instead, she dropped the stinky, fishy mess next to one of my file cabinets.  There, she was certain, fairies would find it and take it to....where ever, it didn't matter.

I don't have pictures of Elsie, but I am sharing with you some other shots I've taken around the office.  Enjoy!

CONDA UPDATE!
okay, so this time around Conda had 18 days to lose 13 pounds.  She lost 14, if memory serves.  I gave myself 9 days, half.  Half of 14 is 7, so in 9 days I had to lose 3.5 pounds.  I lost just over one.  Conda wins this round.

Sarah entertains the cool guy and a Conda crushing update.

Good evening!

I believe I've mentioned that when I am driving, I am a rock star.  The only place I sing, really sing, is in the car.  (Those of you who have heard me in choir...well, yeah, that's my church singing.)  In  the car I am Pat Benatar, Mary (from Peter, Paul, and Mary) and Cyndi Lauper.  Sorry, Barry Manilow, in my car I am Music, and I write the songs.

Of course my favorite stuff to sing is Rick Springfield.  Call it kismet if you will, but his songs are generally in a good key for me.  In fact, I typically sing better with male singers than with women.  I just don't have a great high range.  (who am I kidding...I dont have  a range.)

This...except me, and in a car.

Today, However, I had my Night Ranger Greatest Hits in, and "Don't Tell me You Love me" was playing.  IF you know that song and your blood doesn't race just a tiny bit when you hear it, you may want to see a doctor, because you are probably dead.  It is the most awesome driving song.  Which is what I was doing.  Driving.  Until I came to a really, really, REALLY long stop light.  Then I was not driving.  Then I was Kelly Keagy, lead singer and DRUMMER for Night Ranger.  (And oh yeah, I was wearing my thumb braces which, from a distance, look like fingerless gloves.  Very 80's chic.

So I was drumming and singing and jamming there in my front seat when I caught a glimpse in my rear view mirror.  Cool dude, shades and all, sitting above me in a white SUV gas sucking world ending suburban assault vehicle was smoothing his $100 hair cut and laughing....at me.

Go ahead...laugh.  Your botoxed, siliconed girlfriend can't sing Night Ranger and you
KNOW you wish she could.

Now there was a time when a cool looking well coifed dude guy could, with a simple smirk, crush my hopes and dreams and make me feel stupid.  But you know what?  I'm over 40, I'm overweight and I have teens.  What little is left of my hopes and dreams can't be moved because it's my foundation.  So cool dude laughing at me can suck it.  I was having fun at a stop light.

Hey, Conda...WINNING?  NOT!

Now, for a Conda Crushing update.  Last week I weighed myself and in a fit of complete insanity I said I would lose half the weight Conda did on Biggest Loser.

Well, in two weighs I've lost 5 pounds.  In two weighs in, thanks to Conda's inability to be near anyone who doesn't lie down and worship her, Conda lost 8 pounds  (she gained two this week.)  So, if my math is right, I lost more than half her weight and she can also suck it because I am CRUSHING HER.

Finally, today is Fat Tuesday, the last day before Lent.  I'm Lutheran, so we don't really HAVE to give up anything for Lent, but I have over the years because it's been a good way to jumpstart good habits and to focus on what Lent, Holy Week, and Easter are all about.

So this year, since I've all but given up meat, and since I haven't eaten a Cheeto in months, I've decided to really make my self suffer.  For the next six weeks, I will give up eating at restaurants for lunch.  It's a really bad habit I got into a couple months ago when Hubby got a different job and I started driving myself to work.  The pleasure is two fold because while I don't eat meat on these outings, I typically do get fries.  Also, elsie does not follow me to the eateries. 

I tried it today.  Elsie has no respect for the concept of my lunch hour because, unlike her, I cannot shut my office door.  Because I don't have an office door.  So while I was trying to get some peace in the conference room where I'm forced to eat, unlike everyone else in my office, she kept shouting work questions, and coughing and gagging and talking to me.

This is going to be a long six weeks.

KRAM and Conda: I must crush you

Good evening!

Just in from a workout at Gold's.  Got to chat with KRAM a bit, which was nice, until I realized he was taking a moment to preach to me.

Here's how this went:

Me:  I lost three pounds this week.

KRAM:  Good job.  (A bit grudgingly since he's convinced, I think that I can't seriously lose weight until I commit to coming to Gold's seven days a week.)

KRAM:  Did you see the Grammys the other night?

ME:  Yep.

KRAM:  What did you think of it?"

ME:  Uh...I love Adele.

KRAM:  Yeah, she's good.  I was amazed to see she's just 23.  She looks thirty five.

ME:  Well, sometimes a little fluffy will add some years.

As Homer Simpson would say:  D'OH!

I fell into his trap.  Sneaky, Sneaky KRAM.  And this is where I knew he was preaching to me.

KRAM:  So, how old do you want to look?

ME:  (wondering just how old I look...)  Well, I liked 32.  32 was a good age for me.  (It was also twelve years ago.)

KRAM:  Well, I'm turning 30 this year and I want to stay looking 24, 25.

It's at this point I realize that I can, and will crush KRAM.  It will take time.  I can, because I'm a girl, lotion, cover, pat, color, blow dry, and self tan a few years away.  Plus...if I do get into shape, I've got that.  I can only go up from where i am.

KRAM, on the other hand, is pretty much at the peak of his physical game.  His baby is a baby...and the bald thing he's got going on works for him.  But the years are going to pile up.  And that baby is going to get older and demand more of his time, and suddenly he'll, one day, he'll go through the drive through just like everyone else and he'll find himself counting a quicker than normal stroll to the restroom as a jog. 

In this battle of wills...time is on my side.  (Love you KRAM...LOL!)


So I'll continue to work out, eat less crap, find a good foundation make up, remove unwanted hair and color unwanted colored hair...and I will look better.  And then, when he least expects it, I  (with significant help from Father Time)  will (try to)  CRUSH HIM!

Yeah, team green.  Green like jealous which is what you'll be, of me...if anyone tells you.
And if, you care.  And if I actually succeed.

On to Conda.  For those of you who watch "Biggest Loser" you are familiar with Conda the contestant's constant whining, bullying, and over all nastiness.  The woman enrages me.  She's all mouth.  Those of us who are all mouth, in a nice way, get tired of people who all mouth in a nasty way.  

Lest you ladies think I'm mean to
KRAM...picture a white Dolvet.
Yeah, I've got some work to do before
can crush him!  LOL!

Anyway, After losing 3 pounds this week  (I'd like to be 21 pounds down by the end of April) I thought, "I wonder if I could beat Conda in a weight loss challenge."

Now, Conda's got a lot going to for her.  1)  She's on the ranch.  I have a sit down, chained to the desk job.  2)  She's got Dolvett.  I've got a few stolen moments here and there with KRAM or Dee, or whomever else will take pity on me at Gold's.  3)  She's on the ranch where the food it top notch and healthy.  I work just off 124th street where  there's every sort of fast, greasy, oh so wonderful food places beckoning to me with their bright lights and their dollar menus.

But I have two things Conda does not have.

1)  I'm in a writing mode and when I'm writing, when I'm really writing, I'm not eating.  I drink coffee, tea, and wine, but I have no time for food.  I'm typing too fast and I hate sticky keys.

2)  I have rage.  I have rage that a very unpleasant woman like that gets the opportunity to be on the ranch when there are millions of very nice, lovely ladies who could do with the chance and simply cannot take time out of their lives  (I know KRAM, like most trainers, finds this impossible to believe, but there is such a thing as not enough hours in the day.)

So I'm starting today.  I lost 3 pounds this week.  I'm going to be realistic here, and say, if I can lose half the weight each week that she loses, then I will officially CRUSH HER.

And if I don't:  What, you think I'm afraid of making a fool of myself?

Oh, so this ISN'T the tie that binds us together?

I have cramps.

I don't just have cramps.  I have cramps that would drop a charging elephant.  I have cramps that make it impossible to sit up, stand up, walk, or tie my shoes without moaning.  Basically, I'm a zombie...only instead of brains, I'm looking for the perfect pain med that will relieve cramps.

Did I miss work?

Of course not.  I'm a woman, and as such, I suffer every month the searing pain that feels like everything inside me is being tied into knots and then set on fire while drunken monkeys do the hustle up and down my back, and I do so without missing work.

When I gave birth to a daughter, I knew I had brought into the world another with whom I could commiserate about cramps.  I knew that the day would come that she, too, would beg for not one, but TWO heating pads.  We would shop for dark sweat pants together and think of ways we could lie down all day without missing work or school.

Just give me two fingers of Midol with a Pamparin chaser and I'll be fine.

And so it came to  pass a couple years ago that Peaches joined the ranks of cramp sufferers and our bond, not as mother and daughter, but as women who are handicapped in the gender wars...handicapped by their own monthly clock.  And believe me, when the clock strikes midnight, Cinderella is high tailing it back to her comfy couch, hot tea, and romantic comedy movies.

Peaches and I truly have a bond...and each month it's renewed as we ignore the men in the house who warn us to not sleep on the heating pad while it's on, or who don't bring us the MIDOL FAST ENOUGH.  I believed she and I were truly on the same plane.

Until today.

Today, I have cramps.  I've kept it to myself...mostly because I work with men, and I'm not about to discuss cramps at work...and certainly NOT with Elsie W.  (By the way...have you VOTED YET?)  So I waited until I was taking Peaches to cheer practice before I confessed my agony.

"My ovaries are throbbing."  (I have always had a flair for the humorous.)  I thought that this new way of saying "I HAVE CRAMPS."  Would be appreciated by Peaches.

I thought wrong.

She looked at me, horror frozen on her face like those weird "pudding faces" you see in TV commercials.  Then she said, "Why would you say something like that?"

Hey, I thought it was funny.  Why do I say 90% of anything I say?  Because I think it's funny.

Peaches, however, did not think this was funny.

"What, you have a problem with that?"

"No.  But why...why would you say something like that?"

Friends, there was no one else in the car.  No one else nearby.  I've said stuff WAY worse than that..."Okay, fine,"  I said, "I thought it would be more colorful than saying, 'I have cramps' for the tenth time."

"well, stop being colorful."  She got out of the car.  "And good luck with your cramps."

Yeah, good luck with my cramps.  Guess who is going to use up all the GOOD Midol and NOT buy any more.  Good luck with that!

I need to go lie down now, eat some toast, and watch Biggest Loser.  Does that count as a workout?  Someone go ask KRAM.  I can't right now.

I have cramps.

I might be putting too much reality into my reality TV viewing.

Good afternoon!

Okay, I'm not saying I get wrapped up in reality TV...but the last couple of weeks have been the best and the worst of times for me.


I was very happy for the sisters who won Amazing Race.

I was disappointed that Philip didn't announce is sanity to the jury and therefore beat Boston Rob on Survivor.  (Oh, and I'm super proud of my cousin, Andrea, who finished 5th against a lot of odds.)

I'm furious with America for voting out James on American Idol.  Seriously...you voted out JAMES?



I'm not that thrilled with the results of Dancing with the Stars.

I'm okay with Olivia winning Biggest Loser, but I was really cheering for Irene.

Basically, I've decided that any show that allows America to vote is going to get screwed up because Americans have proved they don't vote the right way.  Which is to say, they don't vote the way I do...


Just to be clear...I have never voted for a reality show contestant ever.  I vote in every election.  I agonize over the results of reality TV shows...not so much with the elections.  Do we see a problem here?

I go so far as to say things like, "If Boston Rob wins Survivor, I'm NEVER WATCHING THAT SHOW AGAIN."  Yeah, we all know I'll be back.  What else am I going to do with my evenings?  Talk to my kids?  HA!


Reality TV is way too real for me.  I've religiously watched almost every finale offered, my excuse for so much couch time is that the weather here resembles a dog that's been swimming in a river:  Wet, cold, and unpleasant smelling.  But the truth is even if it was 70 and sunny, I would still be glued to my TV because it's so VITAL THAT I WATCH THE FINALE!

Sure, I could save myself hours if I just read the results online.  But there's something about the pageantry, the excitement, the fact that it's LIVE that draws me in.  I've invested a lot of time in these reality contestants...the finale is the payoff and I care very much about the results.

Not enough to vote for them of course...

I'd like to say that I'm taking the summer off.  But "The Voice" is a new favorite, and there's always "America's Got Talent."  I MUST see just how much TALENT America has.  And I must see how the voting goes.  And then I must complain for WEEKS about that voting, though I don't take part in the process.

If politics involved candidates doing a Viennese waltz, or standing on a pole for five hours, maybe more people would vote for political candidates.  I would probably stop voting then, but I would care a whole lot more!

Maybe if Ryan Seacrest moderated debates, more people would vote for political elections?

And now I must go.  I've got a lot to do before American Idol comes on!

REQUESTED REPOST! Quite possibly the MOST hilarious thing Hubby has ever said.

Good afternoon all!

Those of you who know me personally probably also know my Hubby.  He's tried very, very hard to stay out of this blog.  Today, officially, he's failed.

Hubby and I have a standing joke.  He says I married him becuase he made me laugh.  I said I married him for his money.  He says "Then I had you fooled, didn't I?"  And we laugh and laugh and laugh.  And pay some bills, ignore a few others, and laugh some more.

Yep, I married a comedian.  I married a guy who is ALWAYS "on."  His specialty is puns.  Seriously, I've been known to tell a funny story a time or two  (really?)  but my Hubby is always on the prowl for a good...bad...pun.  For the record, I'm not a huge fan of puns.  He also does impressions.  His "Reverand Jim" from the old TV show "Taxi" is so good, it creeps me out a little.

Most of all, he and I both see the ridiculousness of the world in which we live.  The local news is simply 30 minutes of the two of us jeering the TV for everything from the actual headlines to the news reporters themselves.  (For the record, I've writting and entire world in my head around Susan Kim and Vince Vittranno on WTMJ Channel 4's morning news.)

Hubby and perform without a laugh track and the goal is to get a good zinger in that the other doesn't realize is funny until minutes later.  The longer it takes to "get the joke" the more successful we figure we are.

Ya know, most couples just go ahead and have sex or eat a pizza or something.

Anyway, last night, during "Biggest Loser"  Hubby uttered quite possibly the most hilarious thing I've ever heard him say.

If you watched the show last night, you know that the Red Team, coached by the personal trainer I call "Pretty Boy Brett" was down to one member, my favorite contestant, Courtney.  Much was made during the 90 minutes leading up to the weigh in, and then the 15 minutes of the weigh in because OF COURSE they weighed Courtney in last, about the pressure she was under to lose weight so that she could stay and Brett could keep his job.  They mentioned this over and over again.

So OF COURSE Courtney lost the weigh in.  Of course she did.  There were many tears and all the trainers yelled about how it "Wasn't fair" and "This isn't right!)

Oh come on! I'm too pretty to be fired!

Made me sort of wonder if this was the first time the trainers had actually paid attention.  I mean, were they just recently made aware of the fact that the person who loses the lowest percentage of total weight goes home.  This is what, season 97?  Why is this such a surprise?  Granted, Courtney's story is compelling and who doesn't cheer for the young girl who had to lose over 100 pounds to get on the show?  But the fact remains...she didn't lose enough weight this week to stay on the show.

After the weeping and wailing from the trainers was over, someone...someone who obviously hadn't been paying attention, asked this question:

So what happens to Brett?

Allison Sweeny, who might just be my favorite TV personality ever, is the host of the show.  She's had her own weight loss battles, so she's the perfect pick for "Biggest Loser."  Allison has been a bit tougher this season than in the past.  Makes me wonder just how stupid the contestants really are, if they can get on Allison's nerves.  Anyway, Allison says, "Well, Brett doesn't have a team to coach anymore, so he also has to go."

CUE MORE WEEPING AND WAILING.

Now, I'm a romantic.  I believe that reality television is real.  I believe there's no script and that real people are just that...real.  But after hearing the whole, "If Courtney goes, Brett loses a job" storyline for 90 minutes, I found the level of surprise and anguish displayed to be a little...overplayed.

My Hubby, however, was more on the ball than I.  When someone again asked, "What will Brett do?"  hubby uttered these words:

"Service Jillian."

Friends, I nearly snorted popcorn through my nose.  And of course it was a delayed reaction because he delivered the two words with such a flat tone, I first thought he was asking me to share the popcorn.

"Service Jillian."

I could write a hundred blogs and not hit anything quite that funny.  And so, having glimpsed comedic perfection, I'll just leave you all with that very...interesting image in your head.

My pants aren't any looser, but my skin is...does that count?

Hello my friends!

So my twelve week body challenge at Gold's gym is over as of Saturday.  My final numbers aren't as impressive as I'd quite hoped back in January when Dee and I swore we were going to win the big honkin' cash prize.  (Okay, Dee might just win...she's lost so much weight she looks like a completely different person, and I'm sooooooo proud of her...and jealous.  But mostly proud...and a little jealous.  Okay, I'm way jealous because she's been really sucessful, but I'm mostly proud.  Really.  I am.  Honest.)

I also have to give a shout out the to the trainers at Gold's.  There's been a little misunderstanding about how I feel about the trainers and about Gold's in general.  So I'll clear it all up by saying this:  The support I get from the folks that work at Gold's could NOT BE BETTER.  I have my emotional ups and downs, like everyone, but KRAM has been pretty awesome at not taking my general whiny crap.  If I actually paid for acutal sessions, he'd probably beat me over the head with something, but I'm sure I would deserve it.  And I have to say, since I'm one of those folks who only consults a personal trainer when the session is free, I am so pleased at the amount of attention I've been given by the trainers.  I adore KRAM  (can't wait 'til his wife has her baby so that he understands what I'm talking about when I say my time is not my own.)  and Dixie and Kira  (Not their real names of course) have been literally cheerleaders through this process.  While I haven't met all the trainers at the Gold's in Waukesha, I get the feeling, just in my contact with these three, that N.B. M., the gent who manages the place, has a talent for finding excellent trainers.

Too much?

Well every word is true.  If it weren't, this blog would not be nearly as much fun to read.  Then it would just be fiction and hey, you can get your fiction anyplace.  Here you get my real life in blazing color.  Or whatever.

Back to my weight loss.

So I'm not super thin yet, still, I'm happy that things are moving in the positive direction.  I lost 6 pounds, most of them in the last 10 days, which brings my total weight loss since 11-1-10 to the big 20 pounds.  I've also managed to firm up my fat enough that I'm a total of 14 inches smaller.

Where those 14 inches went, I'm not sure.  The biggest thing, people tell me, is that I should notice my clothes fitting better.  I'll be honest.  I don't.  But that's not anyone's fault really.  Maybe I'm just not that observant.  Or maybe Hubby's been switching out my normal clothes for skinnier versions so that I keep thinking I'm fat and I stop eating the ice cream during "Biggest Loser" and then he can have some. 

What I have noticed, is that my skin is looser.  This is something women of a certain age start to fear when talking about weight loss.  So you lose the weight, but your skin is no longer as springy as it used to be and then you're stuck with a lot of skin that just hangs on you like a very weird, sort of ugly sweatshirt. 

I actually had a conversation the other day with someone who decided it was just better to be fat.  Oh wait...I think I may have said that.  Let's NOT share that with anyone at Gold's...okay?

You know what I'm talking about.  You get to a certain age where you realize that if you truly do lose that pesky 90 pounds you've spent the last 10 years building up, your skin might not read the memo. Then what?  Then you're one of those people who goes on Discovery Health  (Oh, wait, there isn't a Discovery Health Channel anymore because Oprah took it over. Thanks Oprah.  Thanks a ton.)  or The Learning Channel and get one of those full body lifts where they just carve chunks of loose skin off of you like some weird Captain Ahab/Moby Dick nightmare.  And then they make a fake belly button for you because the skin you're using as belly skin now is actually from you ankles, and I haven't met a person yet who has belly buttons on their ankles.

I don't love my belly button, but it is one of the few body parts I'm not that interested in replacing.

Oh yeah...you think you have a hard time finding jeans that fit?  How about jeans with the "excess skin" pocket?

So I noticed the other day, as I was drying my hands at Gold's, that the skin on my hands and arms is definitely looser than it was 12 weeks ago.  See, Gold's doesn't believe in paper towel.  A lot of public bathrooms have gone through the air drier/paper towel/nasty cloth ring thing that never gets changed argument when it comes to folks drying their hands after using the facilities.  I know there's a section of the population that might go for optino 4, no hand washing at all, which is why it's a good thing the country isn't run by 8 year old boys. 

At Gold's they've gone with the hand drier.  But, because it's Gold's, we're not dealing with any sissy half power electric drier that will blow for ten seconds and you wind up drying your hands on your pants anyway.  Oh no, Gold's has a hand drier that will, under the right circumstances, send a light weight person into orbit.

Since I am not a light weight person yet, I have to be satisfied with the fact that the powerful hand drier at Gold's ripples my skin sort of like those beach pictures where the sand is the shade of a lovely tan and has measured ripples where the tide has left its mark.  Yes, that's what I think of when I'm drying my hands at Gold's.

AT first I thought it was funny...now I'm just scared.  How long until I'm able to star as the skin dress in "Silence of the Lambs II:  How to Make a Dress of Your Own Skin?"  Honestly, if my arm skin, and my hand skin, both of which are still pretty firm becuase I do pay attention from time to time and put lotion on them, are rippling like that, what's going to happen when my weight loss reaches the less elastic skin of, say, my butt?

I haven't had the courage to hoist my hamhocks up under the hand drier to see if I get the same ripple effect on my fanny as I do on my hands. I haven't done this mostly because just picturing how awkward that would be makes me laugh out loud.    You know, the type of laughing you do when someone you already don't like too much falls down into a pile of snow?  There's no injury, so a deep down belly laugh is okay.

Well, I'm on this planet to make people laugh...I'm just not sure I'm ready to be that funny yet!

Is this really something we need to spend time contemplating?

Good morning my friends!

I'm in the midst of a really busy week in my real life, so I do apologize for not being around much.  I promise you, the quality of this blog will increase after this next weekend!

Last night I was watching "The Biggest Loser."  I love that show.  It's inspirational to see really heavy people work hard and lose weight while picking up eating and cooking tips along the way.  There's a bit of game play, especially this season, but for the most part it's about the steps a larger person must take to lose weight and get healthy.  I love Allison, the hostess, who has been on TV her entire life in the soap "Days of our Lives."  She went through a weight loss nightmare of her own when she was younger.  It was very public, and very harsh, so I know every time she opens her mouth, she's been in almost the same place the contestants have been.  Plus, she gets to be the DEVIL on the show.  She's sort of the ring master when it comes to challenges and weigh ins.  Last night she said, "This isn't a prison, you get to leave whenever you want to."


Yep, I love the show.  I especially enjoy watching the show while snacking, generally on something buttery or chocolate filled.

Last night the contestants were separated into four teams from their previous two. This is important I guess because not everyone got the trainer they wanted or the teammate they wanted or the color t-shirt they wanted.  (Personally, I would look like DEATH if I had to wear the green T-shirts.  It's a really strong shade of green.)  They have two new trainers this season, Kara and...I think he's called Brett.  (Frankly, I just call him "the pretty trainer.")

For those of you not familiar with the show, the two trainers for the last however many seasons have been Bob and Jillian.  Jillian is a tough drill sergeant sort of person, all business, tough as nails.  She could possibly kill someone if given the chance.  Bob is a bit gentler, using a bit more humor and a lighter touch.  Brett and Kara are far more...existential.

Which is a disturbing direction the show has been taking of late.  Suddenly, the trainers are also psychologists.  I realize that being fat is far more complicated than just a person eating a lot and not moving.  I have a ton of reasons why I gained weight and I use all of them as excuses when I'm trolling for a snack at 10 PM.

But last night, the analysis of the contestants made me laugh so hard I almost blew Vernor's through my nose.  (And if you are familiar with Vernor's ginger ale, you know that blowing it through your nose is very painful.)

Brett, the pretty trainer, had his three team mates go to a quiet place by themselves, and stare out at the mountains in the distance and contemplate on what brought them there.

Basically, Brett, the pretty trainer, had given them the equivalent of a TIME OUT.  (Go to your space and be quiet for a period of time that is appropriate for someone your age.)

The visual of this unintentionally hilarious.

First of all, they weren't by themselves.  The team mates stood about four feet from each other, looking away from each other.  Second, how much contemplation did it take to realize you are on The Biggest Loser because you are FAT?  They don't put skinny people who eat healthy balanced diets on the show.  They put big fat gigantors who subsist on a diet of pizza and chips on the show.  How did you get to this place?  You ate your body weight in crap and got fat!

Which brings me to the point of today's blog.  I'm a heavy person, so I'm pretty sure I can say this.  If you are fat, there might be underlying reasons why you eat, but here's the real deal:

YOU ARE FAT BECAUSE YOU EAT TOO MUCH AND YOU DON'T PRY YOUR BUTT OFF THE COUCH.

If I were a trainer on "the Biggest Loser,"  I would spend a lot less time contemplating and a lot more time working out.    As a fat person I will be really honest with you.  It's not a secret why I'm heavy.  I know, you know it, KRAM at Gold's Gym not only knows it, but he gives me all manner of grief about it.  I'm heavy, like most people are heavy, because we shove endless waves of food down our pie holes and because exercise hurts.  I'm currently losing weight because I'm shoving smaller waves of food down my pie hole and exercise doesn't hurt quite as much as it did a month ago.

The Good: Bob, The Bad, Allison, who plays the DEVIL on Biggest Loser just to mess with the contestants, and the ONE WHO WOULD FLOG YOU WITH YOUR OWN ARM if she were allowed, Jillian

There are the strangest moments in "The Biggest Loser"   It's these odd, scripted moments between a trainer, usually Jillian, which is why it feels so odd because having her be quiet and, you know, NICE, is weird, and a contestant. This is when the contestant opens up about why they are fat.  Then Jillian gives advice like, "You are worthy.  You have to feel that."   or "You can't get well until you get real about yourself." 

I haven't brought this up much with the trainers at Gold's, mostly because they are generally working with people who are serious enough about fitness to pay them for their services.  Me, I just do the drive by training, like, "Hey, how ya doin'?  I'm great....should I be running at a 5 mph speed or faster?  OK, thanks!"   "Hey, I've been on the elliptical for 6 minutes and I can't feel my elbows anymore...should I take a break maybe?"  

Anyway, I haven't brought it up much, but I will say with my few meetings with KRAM, I'm thinking that real life trainers aren't all that interested in the issues you bring to the table.  I'm guessing that the following points would elicit the following answers from pretty much any trainer at Gold's.

1) Self esteem?  Yeah, you know what's going to give you huge self esteem?  GET YOUR BUTT MOVING!

2)  Issues?  You know when you're not focused on your issues?  WHEN YOUR BUTT IS MOVING SO FAST AND SO HARD THAT YOU CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT THE PAIN IN YOUR BUTT.

3)  Don't feel worthy of some blessing you've received?  GET YOUR BUTT IN GEAR AND DO SOMETHING THAT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL WORTHY!

4)  Why can't you control your late night eating?  BECAUSE YOU AREN'T MOVING YOUR BUTT ENOUGH DURING THE DAY!

At least, that's what I would say, if I were a trainer...you know, on the Biggest Loser or something.

By the way, as for my own weight loss journey  (and are we tired of THAT phrase now?)  I've reached a special number.  I lost five pounds after giving up the anti inflammatory meds for my hands.  They weren't doing much for me except making me retain a lot of water.  I'm down five pounds, I'm two pounds away from a 20 pounds weight loss mark since November 1, and my BMI went down 8 points in the last two weeks.  My body fat percentage is still gross, but it's UNDER 45% for the first time in a long time.  (And it dropped something like 5 points in the last two weeks.)  I've managed to run almost three minutes in a row, missing it by only  a few seconds.  I know I kid, but if it weren't for Gold's, and the constant nagging...I mean, encouragement, of the people there, I would not have this progress.  Also, I would not have this blog, because what's more funny than reading about my less than graceful attempts at physical fitness.  (Which reminds me...I keep running into a very beautiful, young, fit lady from our church at Gold's.  I have to share that with you in a later post.)

I'm not where I want to be, but I'm in better shape than where I was!

Planning is key to a good workout routine.

Good afternoon!

I was on the phone last night with "Dee"  my friend and exercise partner.  Now, when I say exercise partner I mean that this summer we were going to walk together once a week every week.

And we did!

For three weeks.

Then it was the weather, or the heat, or the kids, or something at church, or...and I'll be totally honest here, we just flat out didn't feel like it.  Okay, even more honest, I didn't feel like it.

Well, there was that one time we got together, but we drove, and we met at Starbucks so I don't think that counts as exercise.

Since Dee is the thinner of the two of us, it is my fault we haven't gotten together like we should.  I'll take the heat for it. I should have been down 20 of the 70 pounds I need to lose before Rick Springfield makes his way to Southeastern Wisconsin again.   Not the case...bad Sarah!

Well, since my gym is having this MASSIVE GIGANTIC SALE on memberships Dee is going to join.  (As will my family, but honestly, do I want to be working out with the KIDS?  Not!)  So we're meeting tonight after I get done stretching out the cheerleaders at their practice.  (Somehow, someone decided I was qualified to teach young girls how to stretch...insert your hysterical laughter here.)



Anyway, I was on the phone last night with Dee, who wanted a little more info on the gym before she gets there...most importantly what the trainer, Ryan, looked like. 

"Is he cute?"

Okay, Peaches and The Man  (My new name for the hubby) were sitting right there.  How does a married woman describe a cute guy to another woman while in earshot of her daughter and her husband?

The good news is that Ryan is not my type.  First of all, he looks too much like Steve the Crumb Blowing Trainer that destroyed any desire I have for working with a trainer.  Second of all, he's young and blond.  I like my men like I like my coffee...hot, dark, and maybe not so fresh...(insert your grossed out noises here.)  So for me, to explain to Dee that Ryan was hardly my type was easy.  "I didn't notice."  (Only a partial lie.  OF COURSE I noticed his muscles, the way his shirt fit, his tan...I just didn't notice his face...)

Dee inserted her hysterical laughter.  Once she regained her composure, we had to discuss an even more important topic:  Was our new plan to work out going to interfere with the upcoming "Biggest Loser" season?  (Because, you know, that's when we watch the show, drink wine, and eat chocolate.  We can't have exercise getting the the way of THAT!) 

Well, we decided that once the season started, we would work out BEFORE the show and then repair to one of our own homes to partake of wine and chocolate.

I love it when a plan comes together like it should.

Anyway, the gym membership sale is ridiculous, and if you'd like to join on my membership, and you live in the Waukesha, WI area, drop me a message, we'll get it worked out.  No enrollment fee, and you won't pay more than $25 a month.  All for the pleasure of torturing yourself a couple times a week....month....whatever!