Sarah Gone Wild

Archive for August, 2009

Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to calculate my total percentage of weight lost so far. Holy shit!

My percentage change is 19.22%!

Wowza.

That’s all.

I woke up in a really crappy mood. T and I were trying to decide if we could make this trip to Cancun work (it wasn’t as awesome as the deal we originally were going to get, but missed out on because my boss told me I couldn’t take vacation time…that got worked out, but the trip was already gone). We needed to get Tedders to the vet for shots and make sure Hope Rescues could board him for us, then I needed to get new swimwear (ha, at this time of year?) and we needed to pack. Then, I checked my bank account and everything came to a screeching halt. Hard to go on vacation when have no money…at least, have less than you thought you did. So that made that decision for us and I feel awful about it.

T really wanted to go, but I kinda put the nail in the coffin by overspending this month. I suck. I called him, crying, to tell him about it and he was so sweet. He said as long as we are together, he’s happy. I love him so much. I would have yelled at me. In my head, I’m still yelling at me. So I’ve been a real mess all day…have no money…didn’t bring lunch with me…work stuff is still insane and unorganized….blech. I just want this day to be done.

I love that I’ve lost so much weight, and am continuing to lose, but as my checking account clearly told me this morning, I can’t afford to get skinnier! I mean, I still will, but I’ll be wearing ill-fitting clothing for a while. I’ve had to buy all new stuff because I don’t fit in anything in my closet. It’s a good problem to have, but expensive.

I think exercising will help me feel better tonight. I started this process at the beginning of April this year at 218.5 pounds (I was at 217 at the official start, but 218.5 was my highest at-home weight). As of this morning, I weigh 176.5. That’s a 42-pound loss in just under 5 months. I was bulging out of size 16 pants, but now am down to size 12. I used to need XL tops, but now fit in most mediums. My rings are even too big. Looking back, I thought this would be so impossible. Every other time I’ve tried to do this it WAS impossible. This time was different. I had the help I needed, in the form of an antidepressant and in the form of a solid, positive support system. I couldn’t have come this far without all of you encouraging me and giving me tips.

I have to say, though. I will always be heavy in my mind. I don’t know if I’ll ever shed the fat girl mentality and the insecurity that comes with it. Some days, I feel pretty awesome about what I’ve accomplished and how I look, but many days, I look at what I still need to fix and yell at myself for not doing better. I know I’m doing this the healthy way, and it’s more likely to be a permanent loss because of that, but it’s so easy to fall back into that negative place…

Like I said, I’m in a mood. So here are some funny animal pictures from the interwebs.

My grandpa died Saturday. I got home late last night from Michigan, where he lived. It’s been a hard week, and my heart is absolutely breaking for my stepdad. Jim has been a father to me since he came into my life when I was 18 months old, and although I am very saddened by the loss of our Poppy, I’m even more grief-stricken by what that loss means to him. And the brutal reality check that someday, I’ll have to bury my parents…and I just don’t know if I’ll survive that. That, and this is the third grandparent I’ve lost in the past 16 months, and I don’t know that I can maintain the positivity I’ve worked to find over the last few months. I’m really depressed and weepy.  

Not that this really lessens the pain, but Poppy was 92. He lived a long, full life. And he was a stubborn old goat who was ready to go. He told Aunt Mary on Friday that he just couldn’t do it anymore, and he passed away Saturday afternoon. He was in a medically-induced coma, so he didn’t feel a thing. I am very grateful for that.

I learned a lot about him the last few days, some things new and some things just more details about what I already knew. He took over his father’s pharmacy in downtown Alma and worked there until 1970, when he retired and sold the business. It is now an office supply store – I got to visit it yesterday. He was a pharmacist in pre-computer times, when he crushed and mixed medicines by hand. He loved his mortar and pestle sets. We have one or two of those, and two old cashiers, in the basement at my mom’s house, and their kitched is decorated with old medicine bottles and pharmacy equipment. If someone had a sick child at 3 AM, they’d call the house and Poppy would get up and go open the store. He was a hard worker and instilled that work ethic into all of his kids.

He couldn’t sit still for very long, and rode his bike downtown every day. Everyone in town knew Poppy. As he got older, he would ride downtown in the afternoon, before some of the businesses were open (particularly the bank and Pizza Sam’s) and he’d make them open early for him. They did so with a smile (and probably a few eye rolls). He never met a person he couldn’t talk to, and he was friends with so many people. When he wasn’t able to ride a bike any longer, he got a motorized cart and continued his trips into town.

He bought a new car every year, and he had a Buick (his favorite auto maker) that he kept in Florida at their winter home (a trailer home in Alligator Park). We went to visit Nonnie and Poppy in Florida several Christmases, and we always got oranges and nuts in our stockings. I remember Mom freaking out when we’d want to walk around the park alone because she was worried about alligators – and I did see one once, but I was with Jim. When Nonnie died about 10 years ago, Poppy gave that Buick to Jim and he and Mom sold it to me. A 1985 Buick LeSabre Collector’s Edition with a navy blue vinyl top and baby blue body, complete with cruise control, tilt steering, interior wood trim, cassette player, velour power seats, power windows and locks and a specially-installed trunk pop button in the glove box. My first car. I loved it. I’ll try to dig up some pictures of it.

After I got the car, Poppy came to visit. The car just needed a tune-up, so we took it to the shop. Poppy insisted on coming with me. He was mad that I used cheap gas in the car (hey, I was in high school and Land Yacht got 14 MPG on a 24-gallon tank AND it was a V8 – I worked at freaking Walmart, people). So we take the car in and the mechanic comes out and says, “Did you know you still have the car’s original spark plugs?” Hahahaha. That was 1999. Poppy was absolutely impeccable when it came to the interior and exterior of the car, but since he never really owned one for more than a year and didn’t drive this one very often, he didn’t know much about regular maintenance. Even after that, he SWORE the problem was cheap gas…when the driver’s side door lock broke, we joked that it must have been that damn cheap gas.

He would get up early and then be napping with the remote in his hand by the time the rest of us got up…but if you tried to change the channel, he’d wake up and tell you he was watching that…and then proceed to flip channels until he dozed off again. Then he’d wake up and deny that he ever fell asleep. He loved cashews and back scratchers. When I was a pimply teen, he used to walk up and scratch my back really hard – usually over a zit or two…man, that used to hurt so bad. He had the goofiest smile – you couldn’t help but smile back.

He farted a lot. He’s always say, “Gotta get going somehow!” or “Better out than in!” He never had debt. He once sent Jim a birthday check with a note that instructed him to cash the check immediately so he could balance his checkbook. He and Nonnie had citrus trees on their patch of land in Florida, and every winter, we’d get a huge box of yummy oranges and grapefruits.

Best of all, he was a good father and raised Jim to be the same. The best legacy he left is the one I consider to be my real dad. I wish I’d gotten to see Poppy more often. I wish the last few years would have allowed me the time and money to vacation with the rest of my family and see him. I just hope he knows that I loved him and will miss him very much.

Now to explain the title of my post. Poppy refused to say goodbye. I’ve never heard him say that in my life. He always said “so long.”

So here’s to you, Poppy. This isn’t goodbye…it’s just so long.

Seriously, if I could sew, this would be my Halloween costume:

But no. I can’t sew and I’m not six.

Fucking assholes. [Note: I haven't actually spent an ounce of time looking for an adult cupcake costume, so it's very possible one exists. I'm at work, thus in the mood to bitch.]

Sidebar: As much as I enjoy discussing poo, I find it surprising that I have such a strong reaction to the word fart. I hate it. I hate the word, and although fart noises are funny, smells are not. I can’t type that word one more time. *Shudder*

I think my head might explode. To keep that from happening (or to make it happen faster), I think I need to do a rants and raves post. So here goes. Warning: Mindless bitching ahead.

• Rant: In the last 3 weeks, work has gotten insanely fucked up. We went from doing good work for a crazy but open-minded client to doing shit-ass, used-car-sales-type work for the same crazy but now totally close-minded client. I’m not good at math, but a 180 isn’t the appropriate measurement here because I wasn’t happy three weeks ago (but still doing some fun work here and there), and now I’m even more unhappy AND not allowed to do good work. That’s not opposite, so all you math geniuses, figure out what degree of turn my work life just took.
• Rave: I caved and finally spent $100 to get my very own (pink) Chi. I used it for the first time today and my hair feels so nice and looks pretty good given that I only spent about 7 minutes working on it and it was wet when I went to bed last night.
• Rant: Fuck you, Passport Services. Mr. T is trying to find an affordable out-of-country getaway for our anniversary, but since you SENT BACK my app with a request for fees that I DO NOT OWE, I now have to hope you receive my note and process my name change properly in enough time to get my passport back for the trip. You’re really fucking with my life. I am within my year to have my name changed for free. And fuck Mr. Clueless who put me on hold for more than a half hour last night, only to tell me he’s never heard of this situation happening before and I should just send a note back with my app and try again. Government agencies are SOOOOO helpful. This better work, asshats.
• Rave (with a bonus rant embedded): Someone annoymously left a wicked sweet gift on my desk this morning – Freakin’ Magical Unicorn Gum. Whomever left the gift helped ensure that no one died this morning when it came to my attention that my boss did not take notes during our 45-minute meeting last night where I listed out a million questions I needed the client to answer on their 8 AM call and I was expected to recall them all while they were on the phone with said client. The copy on the back of the box makes me cringe and smile at the same time (that’s some impressive facial contortionism, by the way): “OMG unicorns are so freakin’ magical! I love their beautiful manes and those crazy horns coming out of their heads. Chew this gum and you’ll totally poop sunshine just like them!!!!” And for the record, that means unicorns fart glitter, poop sunshine and barf rainbows. What now, Chuck Norris? What?
• Rant: I’m getting really sick of my jiggly belly. I work out like a fiend and I can tell I’m getting much stronger (and I can see a bit of definition in my abs, buried under my glorious flubber), but I’d really prefer to look like the fitness goddess I am beginning to feel like.
• Rave: Vanilla Ice + Math = my favorite tshirt ever (at least, for now). It makes today better. Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it.

• Rant: Why the hell isn’t there a Penny’s at the Galleria? I want to go there on lunch but can’t because the closest one is way too far away. Guess I’ll be visiting Old Navy.
• Rave: Shopping is fun again. Now that I don’t look like a water buffalo in everything I try on, I actually enjoy trying stuff on again. I got a tank this weekend that doesn’t look like much on the hanger, but it actually looks pretty fucking hot when I put it on (nice showcasing of the boobage) – and that’s the first time, maybe in my whole life, that I’ve ever said that.
• Rant: About the boobage. Come on, girls. You are the only attractive fat I have and I would REALLY like to keep you as you are. My ass can shrink, my legs can trim down, my hips and stomach can take a friggin’ hike, but you, darling mammaries, should stay where you are. No more shrinking. Seriously. I thought we were friends.
• Rave: H1N1, hell, I’ll even call you the swine flu for right now…thank you thank you thank you for infecting our client and getting me out of my trip to Georgia. Seven days of quarantine turns out to be good for all involved. No client swim party, no lecture on branding that means nothing because the client refuses to listen, no flying, no spending 3 days with my boss, no missing my husband, no high-fat lunches and dinners, no missed workouts…*sigh of relief*.
• Rant: Nathan, I swear to god if you ask me one more fucking question today, I’m going to rip your eyes out and shove them down your throat, and then rip your arms off and beat you to death with them (see, PQ? I can hang with the raging Italian!). And it’s not even lunchtime yet. You don’t ever, ever retain information – yes, you were given the assignment yesterday. Yes, you should have done it before you left. No, I can’t make the client do anything. So stop asking. I’m losing my ever loving mind over here, and not even the Freakin’ Magical Unicorn Gum is going to save you if you ask ONE MORE GOD FORSAKEN MOTHER FUCKING QUESTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Head blows up*

Is there such a thing as a sports bra for balls?

I mean, when a guy goes running, he doesn’t need a cup (well, usually). I know runner’s shorts have built in undies, but I would compare those to workout tanks with built in bras – never supportive enough. So what does a dude do with his junk when he’s a serious runner? You can’t just have that shit flopping around. Something could fall out, and I can’t imagine that’s a pleasant sensation.

So where do the balls go? How does a guy secure his frank and beans?

I drove past a scary-ripped dude running last night, but he was wearing those wee-bitty running shorts and I just couldn’t figure out where he stashed the goods. Mr. T was in the car and I asked him, but he didn’t know. We just figured those teeny, ridiculous-looking shorts weren’t enough to hide tighty whities.

Come on, people. Inquiring minds want to know.

That Jillian Michaels is a real bitch, but she knows what she’s doing.

Yeah, 6 push-ups isn’t much, but a few weeks ago, I could barely do one. So I’ll take it.

I did level 2 of the 30DS last night. Before volleyball. I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t, and then actually had a really good game, so it all worked out. I can really tell that the workouts are working for me, even though I still feel a bit puffy ’round the middle. I can hit harder and jump higher at games, and my reflexes are better.

Unfortunately, though, I think I’m getting shin splints in my right leg. Ick. It’s worse during the workout and right after, so I’ve been trying to ice it, but I don’t know what else to do. Guess I should start wearing shoes, huh? Boo, I much prefer working out barefooted.

But, DANG! Level two is a huge change from level one. I had read some reviews that said a lot of people found two easier than one, and let me just say that those people are insane. Or already have a lot of upper body strength. I can do the walking push-ups, but all those planks are killer. I better be buff as hell when I’m done with this – as long as level three doesn’t kill me first.

Or this week…

Meeting people and worrying about what they think of the things you say, instead of worrying about if they’re judging you based on your size.

[Cue "I Feel Pretty"]

And sometimes I need to remember I’m getting older and should therefore avoid many public places.

Case in point, the mall. On a Saturday. Afternoon. During back-to-school sales time. By myself.

I was on a quest for the perfect shirt to go with a new skirt I bought, and decided to stop by the mall on my way home from taking my family from the airport to my sister’s house. I only wanted to go in one store – JCPenny. I drove over to the store and randomly parked. Seemingly innocuous enough, yes? No. Not even close. Look it up – the word means harmless, and what ensued was anything but.

I walked from my car to the door, happily unaware of what I was about to walk into, still riding the high from fitting into a pencil skirt and not looking like a lumpy magical leopluridon (or nonmagical leopluridon for that matter) and being complimented by a gaggle of gays in the H&M dressing room. (Aside: if you are a gay man with good taste in fashion and are reading my blog, please let me know if you want to be my friend…I have gay envy and I need your help…I’ll be your Karen and you can be my Jack…Mr. T won’t mind if you grab my boobs a lot. That’s not a statement, Mr. T – that’s an order: YOU WILL NOT MIND IF GAY MEN GRAB MY BOOBAGE. Cue Jedi mind trick.)

Anyskittles, back to the scary story (Jacob on the beach style) (Mr. T, you’d know that was a Twilight reference if you’d just watch the movie with me once). I had no idea what I was approaching. I opened the first tinted door and, as I entered the vestibule, my high immediately started to fade. I could hear the screaming piles of procreation that were causing chaos on the other side of the next door.

Then I opened door #2 and almost wept with horror. Children were EVERYWHERE. Mother. Fucker. This is the goddamn children’s department! WHY WOULD YOU PUT AN ENTRANCE THERE AND NOT WARN PEOPLE??? I carefully dodged snotty screamers, hyper hooligans and unsupervised uterine kin and managed to maintain an ounce of sanity…but here’s where my plan went terribly wrong. I did not seek out the nearest top-floor exit through which to make my child-free escape…thus, after I found the perfect top, I had to re-navigate the sea of infantile madness to get back to my car. My ovaries were shriveled, quaking and trying to retreat by the time I reached the asylum of my No Doubt-blaring toaster.

Seriously. The children’s department is tricky even if you like kids and actually have some. If you accidentally enter through that door, you are going to deal with “Mommy, I want that! Mommy, can I have this? Mommy, why is that crazy lady running and screaming?” There needs to be a sign.

I’ll even write it for you. It should say: Warning! You are about to enter the 7th layer of hell. Proceed with caution.

So maybe that won’t fly, but really, what’s the harm in labeling entrances? If you are a department store, that means you have multiple DEPARTMENTS. You should tell people which one they are about to walk into so they can mentally prepare or proceed to the next set of doors. You can’t Choose Your Own Adventure if you don’t know what your basic options are!

And I hope you all enjoyed the extra dose of alliteration today. I’m especially proud of the unsupervised uterine kin. I plan on using that phrase much more often in the future. Maybe I’ll even go to Build-a-Bear and get a programmable sound chip, then record “Warning: Unsupervised Unterine Kin!” in my best “Danger, Will Robinson” voice.