For me

I make light of a lot of things, mostly because if you can't laugh at yourself who can you laugh at?
Also, much like the Bennets, I love to laugh.

Let me show off: From left, Mrs. Blossom Bennet, Misses Jane, Catherine "Kitty", Mary, Elizabeth and Lydia Bennet.

But sometimes my laughter is just a coping mechanism for my open-mouth-insert-thumb-and-curl-into-the-fetal-position moments.
Mostly this happens when I start to feel like a chameleon; that no matter what I do nobody sees me and I'll end up fading into the background.
I'm not a drama queen. At least, I hope I'm not a drama queen. I don't enjoy being in situations where everything is not copacetic, though I'd be an idiot if I didn't appreciate some amount of flair.
I guess that makes me a Drama Duchess.

Wow. Apparently I'm in a Kiera Knightly mood tonight.

Today I yammered nonstop about something that isn't important. It was just something to talk about; something to give me a solid connection to real people. Because if I don't, there isn't any reason for anyone to pay attention to me.
And yes, I understand how childish and dramatic that is.
I do me all by myself, and I do it well, but sometimes it gets lonely.
"One is the loneliest number" and all that.
I know this sounds very "Woe is Me" and, as my mother would say, "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I think I'll go eat worms."
Except I don't really want to eat any worms today.
Instead what I'd like to do is apologize to those two people I bugged the most today: Jen and Kelly.
I'm sorry that I yammered on about crap today.
I'm an interesting person five days of the week. Today was not one of them.

•••

In other news, I hopped on the elliptical at the gym today that was positioned right near a mirror, so not only was my inner Narcissus fed but I also noticed that my beautiful ass is looking prettier than it did two weeks ago. 

Throughout this weight loss process I refuse to step on a scale, mostly because I'm afraid of the number. But knowing a number doesn't help motivate me to lose weight, it only stresses me out when I plan my meals.

So this go-round I'm doing something different and refuse to step on a scale. I'm measuring my weight loss in pant size.

So far, so good. I have no idea what I weighed to begin with, but I do know that my favorite pair of jeans now need the assistance of a belt to stay in place. 

I also know that Fritz is still here, and if you're down on your luck and need some good fortune in the form of a belly rub, I do accept PayPal.

"Bad dates"

You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc when Sallah slaps the poisoned date out of Indy's hand and says, "Bad dates."?

That poor monkey.

This scene is similar to picking a wedding date; if you get the wrong one, or if both players aren't aware of what's going on you can get a bad date, and from there a tidal wave of horrible things will flush out the happiness of planning and executing your wedding.

Run little dude, run!

At least, that's what I understand from my sister. 

If you've never planned a wedding before, know this: you can't do anything without a date.

And you can't pick a date for a wedding in another state without discussing all of your options (and ideas) with your fiance.
I understand this, and I know my sister and her soon-to-be husband will have their date picked by tomorrow, but I just can't wait!
Having a date means that the planning will begin in earnest, and instead of talking about dresses and flowers and DJs and tuxes and center pieces with my sister, I can actually help her make the selections that will give her the perfect wedding.
Now, she and I do NOT have the same taste, so this will be a challenge for me but I'm ready for it.

She created her Save the Dates last week, and all except for filling in the actual date, they're ready to mail, which is a huge step for her. In fact, they're so cute she put them up for bid on Etsy.com, and you can view them here. Since no one in my family reads this blog, I feel quite alright posting the link.

She's super creative, my little sister.

Food + beer + buffalo wings + football = love

They say that baseball is the national past time, but it's arguable that if you don't watch the Superbowl, somehow you're less of an American.

Not only is it a tradition in my house to spend the day cooking finger food, discussing politics and watching the 8-hour pregame, but also for us to divide so half of us cheer on one team and half the other. Unless the Cowboys are playing, in which case we all deck out in silver and blue and swish our pompoms.

We love the Cowboys, but I can't stand Romo the Homo.

So on this most honorable day, we huddle up around the coffee table, laden with fried and baked goodies and do our best to yell and hollar at the screen as though the refs and players can hear us.

Spicy Buffalo wings, a la Pete.

My homemade spinach and artichoke dip.

The main dish: slow cooked pulled pork sandwiches.

We laugh at the commercials (my favorite is easily the Budweiser Tiny Dancer commercial), we do our best to predict the next play, and we don't care who's playing; we're watching.

But it's halftime and we all take turns running to the bathroom and I'm up in 2.

Kill, kill, kill

I am not obese. I'm not at a risk for any health issues and I don't have to shop at special stores to buy the clothes I want to wear. I'm that girl who gets death glares from the people who would "kill to be" my size.

My problem is that I know that.

So, like today, when my lunch just plain doesn't satisfy me, I walk down the stairs to the pizza parlor below  my office (I know, bummer right?) and add a giant slice of 'roni to my caloric intake.



Mmmm.... 'Roni goodness.

 And while I know I'm not faced with a "lose weight or die" option, this is very often my downfall.

I don't need to lose weight, but I should. Diabetes is prevelant in my family, and I have problems digesting just about everything. My energy level has dropped drastically in the last year and my intestines are encased in this spare tire that probably hinders their ability to function at the primo level.

I joined my gym and started this blog with the determination to get rid of my flab and my unhealthy habits, but there's this part of me that just sits back some days and says, "Why? So I enjoy food, so what? It's not like it's killing me."

And then there are the days when I get up and go to the gym, with visions of a slim, willowy me walking down the aisle ahead of my sister and being proud of the work I did to get there.

This is my second problem.

My expectations of this gym-going and weight loss are that at the end of it all, I'll transform into this Bond girl and have my outer shell perfectly reflect the willowy and graceful woman that lives inside of me.



Vesper I am not.

 Which is completely unrealistic. Enter the "Why?" attitude and all of a sudden I don't even feel the need to go to the gym.
And even though I don't need to, I should.  Because if I keep eating pizza when I feel like it and not working the excess off, someday very soon that will reverse, and I'll be listening to the doctor tell me to lose weight or die.

I have good reasons for wanting to lose this weight, and even though they're aren't life-threatening they are important to me, and I need to work on remembering that. Because nobody's going to push me out the door and say "Go work off that pizza." I have to be the one to say it, and I have to be the one to mean it.

Holy hell. Challenge No. 2 is a lot harder than it sounds.

Solid excuse No. 2: lack of vitamin D

Today marks three days in a row that I did not go to the gym, but obviously I don't feel all that bad about it.
My excuse?
Lack of vitamin D with a side of Seasonal Affective Disorder and a bat-crazy grandmother.

Shit, I forgot what I.... What did I forget?

My grandmother is half Italian, and I not only inherited their beautiful olive skin tone, but I also inherited their uncanny ability to turn into Powder without year-round tanning availability.

Not Sean Patrick Flanery's greatest achievement.

So my trip to Mamby-Pamby Land is half due to a serious lack of sunlight and half due to way too much stress at home. For most people, that would mean delaying getting home any way possible, possibly by spending umpteen hours at the gym. But my dad is on duty all day long with my grandmother, and by the time my 45-minute workout is up, my conscience won't let me stay any longer, because it knows he needs a break.
So even though we're supposed to get 8 inches of snow tomorrow, I'll be hauling my ass off to the gym after work and calling dibs on one of the ellipticals.

Dammit John Hammond! (And holy crap Tim! You were in 'The Social Network'?!?)

The difficult part won't be tomorrow, but Wednesday, when we're supposed to get anywhere from 12-20 inches. I'll be the girl in her pajamas working from home while 'Lord of the Rings' is playing in the background. And probably eating Macaroni & Cheese for lunch.

M-m-m good!