Pretty People Suck!

Seriously, pretty skinny people suck.
They suck a lot.
Why this sudden hatred for the skinny and beautiful??
Because I just found out that pretty skinny people don't have to pay for anything.
ANYTHING!
Grrrr.......

A whole bunch of people from the gym just got back from Las Vegas. (Being in S. Ca, we're a hop skip and a jump away from Sin City.) Everyone was laughing, sharing pics, and bits and pieces of the debauchery. Tyrese is flirty and happy. (The weekend away did him a lot of good.) I was actually happy to hear every tidbit since it's distracting me from an otherwise boring workout. By now, I'm pretty much friends with everyone there, so they feel free to talk about their wild weekend.
As they are talking about their hotel room (suite at the **sorry, I removed the hotel name***) I'm pretty impressed when I hear the brief description. They tell me about the fabulous poolside cabana that they all shared. It sounded like a little slice of paradise, with full bar service. Next, they talked about the trendy club that they all visited, and the private room that that all shared. Everything sounded like the ultimate Vegas trip. (Mentally, I was making some quick calculations, just because I always wondered what it actually cost to live it up in Vegas, in style of course.) They continue to talk, and I see some pictures of the trip. Everyone looks fantastic while poolside. I can see that the "cabana" was actually a small outdoor vacation house that was probably bigger than my first apartment. In the pictures of the club, I see the private room that they were in, and noticed the trays of food and alcohol everywhere. (I assumed that it was catered) Seriously, the pics look like so much fun, I half expected to see Tara Reid in some of them.
I'm enjoying the stories and the laughs, when I hear an odd comment.
"Too bad Joe had to miss out on the free weekend."

Hummm.....maybe they all sat through some lame timeshare presentation??

I hear a few more strange things, and finally, I can't wait anymore. While we were doing the (stupid) bicycles, when I go in for the kill.

"So...did the gym pay for the vacation?" (because, seriously, who else would have sponsored a weekend in Vegas? I mean, other than Playboy, right?)
He laughs.
"No, why would I do that?"
"I dunno. Promoting the gym?"
"No, (snicker) I have more business than I can handle already. Nope, we went to promote the hotel."
Wha?
"Yeah, they hire us to go to the hotel, and lounge by the pool all day. We strut around, talking to everyone, and get friendly with the tourists. At night, we make the club look hot by having a good time."
"REALLY? I have never heard of such a thing."
"Yeah, we walk past everyone in line, because it makes them want to get in the club even more. They are more willing to pay the cover charge. The girls have to dress extra hot, to make all the guys in there want to meet them. We just hang around to make the place look like it's the place to be."
"What about all the drinks? You get those comp'd too?"
"Yeah, and the food. They try to make us look like celebrities or something. We'll get anything we ask for, as long as we have a good time and don't go overboard. We've been doing it for years."
"And no one pays for anything?"
"Nope."

I have a feeling that all the fat, married people are paying for this weekend, YKWIM?

An Experiment

I dove on the grenade for you guys.
I really did.
I decided to use my powers for good (for once) and figure out exactly how much exercise your body really, really needs.

Week one-this will be the control week. I will do everything EXACTLY like I'm supposed to. I measure and weigh out my food. I eat on time. I drink my water. I walk between an hour and two hours a day. I work out three times with Tyrese. I go to my weigh in, and I'm down 8 lbs.

Week two-I eat exactly what I'm suppose to eat, when I'm supposed to eat it. Again, I weigh my food. I drink my water. I work out with Tyrese three times. I only walk for 20-30 mins every other day. At weigh in, I'm down 5 lbs.

Week three- I go back to eating exactly how I'm supposed to. And workout like I'm suppose to. At weigh in, I'm down 8 lbs.

Week four- I'm OTR, so this week is useless.

So, while I'm killing myself by walking everyday, I really could just get by on walking every other day for less time.
Interesting.
You know what this mean, right?

You only have to walk for 20 mins every other day.




See? I gave you the magic recipe. (You know that you've been praying for it.)
Enjoy your walk.

Why I don't Twitter

If I twittered, this is what my life would look like:

• Fell off the wagon this weekend. Fell off, then it ran me over. Then, it backed up and ran me over again. I’m positive I have set a new record for calories consumed.
• I ate an entire family size bag of cheetos. Had to run out when noone was looking to replace the bag. Clerk at 7/11 recognized the cheese dust.
• Decided I wanted to walk on the treadmill, out of guilt. Got as far as putting on my shoes, before I saw something shiny that distracted me. I sat on the couch instead.
• Saw ex-boyfriend at the mall. Avoided him. Secretly laughed that he looks old and fat.
  Thought he was there with his daughter. Found out that it’s his new wife.
• Decided to get on treadmill after all. Walked barefoot, because I couldn't find my shoes.
• Forgot I told Mr. HB that we were going out for dinner. He waited to eat, I didn’t. (took kids to McDonalds) Had to have dinner again, in order not to hear it from Mr.HB.
• Bribed kids with ice cream in order to not to blow it.
• Ran out of soap while in the shower. Had to use foot scrub as body wash. I smell pepperminty.
• Accidentally grabbed fish instead of chicken for lunch. The lunchroom smells like an alley down by the docks. Coworkers are walking around saying, ”do you smell that?”
• Found out that I cannot eat a Fiberbar AND a double fiber muffin, all in the same day.Too much of a good thing.
• Doing leg lifts under neath my desk. I'm insane.
• Hungry. Considering eating Post It notes.
• Asked Tyrese if it’s possible for me to work out too much. I don’t want to be manly looking. He laughed harder than I have ever seen him laugh.
• Tyrese told me I smelled like his grandpa.
• Tempted to skip the treadmill tonight, after my workout. Tyrese is standing by the door of the gym. Thinking of going out the bathroom window. This will not end well.
• Got caught trying to open the window. Told him I just needed fresh air because I had too much fiber today. Saw him cringe.
• Snuck out the front door while he is talking to some girl. Realize I forgot my handbag. Head back in gym like a ninja.
• Walked on the treadmill.
• Got weird sweat stains underneath my boobs. Why are only my boobs sweating? I look like an idiot.
• Finally leave gym and fight traffic for 30 mins.
• Sit on couch for a long long time.

Running My Mouth

So, what's the biggest obstacle with keeping up with a work out regimen?

Boredom.

Seriously. If you could keep me from getting bored, I would march an hour a day on the treadmill. And, since I can't figure out how to surf online while walking the Battalion Death March, I have to find other ways to amuse myself. Most of the time, I have to rely on my wit and sarcasm. (they have served me well over the years, thankyouverymuch.) The only downfall of this, of course, is my big mouth.

So, one day, I'm marching away, when one of the regular muscle heads has made the mistake of working out his ginormous arms near me. I'm staring at the massive size of his arms, his back, and his head. He notices me noticing, and smiles. (By the way, his name is Frankie. Not Frank. Frankie. Did I mention that he was a grandfather? Grandpa Frankie could crush me with his bare hands.) So, we start with polite conversation. (well, as polite as I can be.) We start talking about this BIG muscle exhibit coming up, and how several people from the gym are entering the muscle contest. He says that afterwards, they are going out dancing. Somehow, the conversation turns to strip joints. (Here is where it gets ugly.) He's just talking, making conversation with me, and somehow in that time, I managed to climb on my high horse.
"Dude, strippers are dirty."
I'm not sure why I said that, because in all actuality, I really love strippers. (I think that they are doing humanity a service, and I applaud them for jumping on that grenade, so I don't have to) Plus, I think strippers are hella sexy. But, you know me, once I start running my mouth, I can't make myself stop. So, I'm huffing and puffing away, and don't realize that at this point, I'm pretty much just talking to myself.
"Yup, strippers are nasty."
"Serious daddy issues"
"STD magnets"
I'm sure that there was more, but I think my brain is currently trying to block out most of this, because it's trying to protect me from myself.
So, I fail to notice that the entire gym is listening to me, from the highest perch of my ivory tower.
No one is speaking.
And I'm still running my mouth.

I finish my walk, and hop off the machine.



Remember this moment, because this will come back and bite me right in the ass.

Flashback to Failed Diet- Small Plate Diet

After seeing a lot of different potion control plates, I decided that this was the thing for me. There are literally millions of options. From plates that are divided and color coded, to plate inserts that you place on your own dinner plate that explains portions sizes using cartoons.
(google portion control plates) But, seeing that I am as cheap as I am creative, I decided to just buy a child's divided plate.

Genius, huh?

Well, all it did was make me the Zen master of food Jenga.
The massive tower of balanced (but not well balanced) food was impressive. I held my breath as I slowly piled on each individual french fry, in order to keep my tower from crumbling.

Days on this diet: 1
Lbs lost: zero
Stains on the carpet: 3

Random Fat Embarrasing Moment- #444

So, I've started hanging out with some girls from my office. They are a few years younger than me, and mostly single, but they are a lot of fun to hang out with. We've been hanging out mostly on Friday nights. Our thing has been to hang out at the local dance club/bar. The five of us go to the same place, where we are treated like rock stars. We never have to wait in line, (I know, I know, I'm such a snob. But it sure does feel good to walk by everyone waiting in line, and get in without having to pay a cover charge! So, sue me.) and get comp'd drinks. We normally stay until the place closes at 2 am. (I try not to eat or drink anything while I'm there. I'm pretty good about it too.) Mostly, we just hang out, dance, flirt, and laugh. It's really a lot of fun. I'm the only married one, and I'm the most conservatively dressed too. (cute, but way less skin showing)

One night, we're at the bar, just cracking jokes and having a great time. One of my friends, (she's a former fattie too.) runs into her old high school crush. He can't stop staring at her, since she looks so different now. (like 80 lbs different) He takes her out to dance, and the rest of his posse join us at our spot at the bar. Everyone is talking, having a great time.

One of the guys, well....he's a little homely looking. He reminds me of that one guy from Superbad. (<----the guy in the middle) Anyways, I make my way over to him since no one else was talking to him. (plus, I'm married, right? Who cares if I talk to his homely looking guy, right?) I strike up a conversation with him, but he's just not that into talking to me. It's like pulling teeth, talking to this guy. Looking back now, I realize just how rude he was being to me, but at the time I was more concerned making sure no one ignored him. So, here I am, pestering him with questions, while the rest of our groups are drinking, dancing, and flirting. Finally, this guys says to me, "So, you drove them all here?"

"Yeah, I normally drive." (Since I was "older" I had the nicest car)

"Humm...I see. And you normally don't drink either??"

"Naw, I don't" I didn't tell him about the whole diet thing. I'm sure he would have been sooooo interested in that, right?

We sit there in silence.

"So, they only invite you because you're the designated driver?"

I felt all the color wash out of my face. I stared at him for a while. Was this guy telling me that these young pretty sexy girls were only my friend because I was a responsible driver? I was the token fat girl in this group? And, this homely guy was talking to me, because he felt sorry for me??

He walks away from me, at this point.

I think what he did was a mean thing to do to someone. (But, I guess I'm guilty of doing the same to him, right?)

This was the last time I went to a bar with my friends.

Dr. Chad

So, I ask around and find myself a chiropractor. It's not covered by my insurance, so it's all out of pocket. (lovely..) I make an appointment, and bring my checkbook.
I arrive to meet Dr. Chad. He's young and he's handsome. (of course, right?) Why couldn't I have the older grey haired doctor who smells like hummus?
*sigh*
Seriously Dr. Chad is young. I'm guessing that he is around 22 yrs old. (I'm actually SHOCKED to later find out that not only is he in his 30's, but also married and with....6 kids!) He's nice, and funny. He does a complete work up on me ($105) that include x-rays. He tells me that one of my leg bones is actually 1/4" shorter than the other, (great....I'm a freak) which actually adds extra pressure on my joints. I'm listening to his diagnosis, and notice that he does not mention my weight at all. I guess that we will just sit here nodding, ignoring the elephant in the room. (no pun intended) As we are talking, he looks down and sees my feet. (I'm barefoot) He exclaims, "Wow, your feet are bad!"

Lovely.

"I mean, do you have problems with your feet?"

Now, I really have never had any issues with my feet up until this point. Sure, they hurt. Sure they would sometimes be a little red in places. I never gave it a second thought. (I just figured that since I was so cheap, I was just buying cheap shoes.) Well, Dr. Chad tells me that he is also a podiatrist. (how lucky am I??) He goes on to tell me that while my feet aren't giving me problems now, as I age, I will probably have all kinds of problems. He sells me on getting some custom fitted orthotics, ($300) that I will have to wear inside my workout shoes.

In the end, he starts his adjustment on me. He pokes, pulls, and snaps me. It actually feels great. The grand finale was the full body adjustment. In order to do this, he places my arms in a strange position, moves my legs in the other direction, all while I lay on my back on his adjustment table. I think he's done, when HE CRAWLS ON TOP OF ME AND USES HIS OWN BODY WEIGHT TO APPLY PRESSURE TO MY BODY.

My body snaps into place, and feels good.

My mind, on the other hand, feels icky.

This young, handsome man just crawled all over my shocked body.

Icky, icky, icky.

The worst part, of course, was not the violation of space, but the anxiety I felt as he applied pressure down on me, squeezing out any pesky farts I may be hording. I lay there, shocked. How could something so good turn so bad? I get up, and head out.

The next time I go see him, (BTW, I see him several times a week for the first week to adjust my kink. Each visit costs me $75. After the first week, I see him weekly. Mr. Hummingbird is unaware of my appointments.) I will myself to tell him that I'm uncomfortable with the finale. He just shrugs, and does the adjustment without crawling all over me. It's not as effective, but I can live with it. Many, many sessions later, he forgets and starts to crawl all over me again. I interrupt his pouncing, and remind him that I'm not comfortable with that move. He nods and says, "oh, yeah, you're my patient with the space issues."

Nice.

When I get the orthotics, they are stiff and bulky. I'm suppose to wear them in my workout shoes. He starts to tell me that I should be wearing them all the time. Well, what am I suppose to do for work??
"Just buy another pair of slimmer ones. ($300) Then, hot glue gun them to the inside of some birkenstocks," he tells me.

Huh?

I don't have the heart to laugh at him for:
1. telling me to buy another pair.
2. saying the word "hotglue gun".
3. suggest that I wear birkenstocks to work.

I shrug, and wait for him to try to crawl all over me.

Soap is Deadly

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I hurt myself.

I hurt my back.....again. (feel sorry for me now.)

I'm almost (almost) embarrassed to tell you that I hurt my back while showering.

Yes, showering.

Lathering, to be precise. Apparently, I was reaching for that "hard to reach" place, and pulled my back out of whack. I crumbled to the floor, wet, soapy, and with a strange new tick. I avoided drowning, (See? All those years of swim lessons at the Y sure did pay off.) but managed to get an earful of water. I floundered on the floor for a while, before Mr. Hummingbird heard my pleas for help. (Later, I find out that he actually heard the "thud" but just ignored it since he just figured that I was doing something "weird".<----his words, not mine.)

He helps me up, dragging me to my bed. (he cops a feel while I'm down. Typical.) I lay there, whining. He gets me some leftover Vicodin, (if you're a cop, or are married to one, I wanna change my answer to "Tylenol") and leaves me to rest. Three hours later, I manage to get myself dressed. Two hours after that, I manage to get myself off the bed. I eat a small snack, take more "tylenol" and go back to bed. I'm hoping that the muscle will work itself out by the morning.

In the morning, I'm as stiff as pre-pubescent boy. I can't do anything. And I let everyone know exactly how I feel. I call my doctor, and make an appointment to see him later in the day. In the meantime, I alternate between putting heat on my back, and then putting ice on it. (I'm not sure which one is supposed to work, so I cover all my bases.) I slept the rest of the day away, up until my appointment.

I manage to get myself to my doctor's office. I do as I'm told, reaching, stretching, grunting. Dr. Asshat (remember him?) tells me that I JUST pulled a muscle, and will be fine in a few days. He gives me a handful of muscle relaxers and more pain killers. If it doesn't get better in a week, I'm supposed to return to see him. I call Tyrese, and give him the bad (good?) news. He asks me to call him back the next day, and give him an update. I return home, and make myself comfortable.


Sleep. Drool. Eat. Sleep.


This is my life for the next three days. I feel the exact same that I felt on the first day.
I'm sick of lying around.
I'm sick of daytime t.v.
I'm sick of smelling myself.


I decide to visit a chiropractor.

Hiatus Haiku

Where has the week gone?
Life was made complicated
No writing was done.

I know you're counting
To make sure I do this right
You should seek some help.

Life is now on track
Oh no, another promise
One I won't ignore

I ate chocolate
It has made my life happy
And yours will be too

Chocolate haikus
Could possibly save the world
I really believe

Anyone mentions
That these are not real haikus
Can just kiss my big....