I need to be a loser again . . .

At my heaviest, I weighed over 400 lbs.  I don't know how much over, because I stopped weighing.  Judging by the rate of loss when I first started taking it off, I'd say I was around 425.  I felt like hell.  All the time.  My back, which was mangled in a car accident back in 1993 (back when I was a skinny girl), was a constant source of pain and worry.  I had sleep apnea.  My blood sugar was starting to be a real problem.

Over the course of a year-and-a-half, I lost 180 lbs.  I felt great!  I was still fat, but I felt amazing!  I could walk for hours (though the plantar fasciitis would give me grief the next day)!  I used a program called My Fitness Pal to log calories and exercise, and I was religious about it.  Very dedicated!  My blood pressure was amazing, my resting pulse 60, my A1c down to 5.4. 

And then I just stopped.  I don't know what's happened.  I have spent the past seven months just eating.  Is it because of the surgery, the stress, the fearing it was cancer?  The relief of it just threw me into a celebratory pig-out that I don't know how to climb out of?  I don't know.  I do know that, for months, I kept being "good" but kept not losing--I plateaued and, no matter what I did (add calories, subtract calories, increase exercise, decrease exercise, etc.), I just couldn't lose.  Three plus months of 1250 calories a day, and no loss.  I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that being healthy was the reward, regardless of the number on the scale, but that's not true--the number on the scale mattered, because when you're holding yourself down to that few calories a day, that number is your only tangible reward. 

It's not just me--yeah, I've gained almost 50 lbs, but my husband's gained a good 30 lbs, too, and he's never been "big."  We're just eating everything we want.  Ice cream with Chambord and black raspberries, gourmet cheeses, jalapeno poppers, and peanut butter!  Constant peanut butter!  See, I used to have one Clif Builders Bar (chocolate mint) a day--I would actually break it in half and have half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Then it became two bars a day, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  Then it was two for breakfast, and two for lunch.  Understand, these bars have 270 calories a pop.  In an effort to break that one, I switched to yogurts.  I started with light yogurts, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  But then I developed a taste for the Greek yogurts--Chobani Cherry, to be precise.  That's almost twice the calories of the light.  And then I wanted two.  And then?  Granola on top.  And suddenly my low-cal bar replacement was worse than the bars.  So I cut that out, too, and it was replaced by an overwhelming urge for peanut butter.  I would just slather it on bread and eat four pieces.  Yes, it's low cal, low carb bread, but still.  And I'm left wondering--is the urge for peanut butter (which I went YEARS without eating) a way for my body to make up for the protein I'm not getting from bars and yogurt anymore?

I don't know.  But I'm sinking myself, and it's devastating.

I did come across a blog today, a very nice lady who's lost a good bit of weight and talks of going back to daily logging/journaling to keep track of her weight if she should begin to gain again.  I know she's right--I have to start daily logging again, even if I'm screwing up.  Because then it's there, in black and white, and I can't deny or pretend.  And from there, maybe I can get this turned around.

But I'm scared. Terrified. I don't want to be contemplating wheelchairs again. I don't want to be unwilling to go to movies because my ass is too big for the theater chairs. I can't do that again. Please!

About 25 lbs shy of my heaviest, on the upswing

Obligatory duck-face, about 170 lbs down

About 180 down

Four More Years!

Oh, my heart!  Waiting for hours, watching as the tide seemed to be against our President!  Being so sure that Tim Kaine wasn't going to make it!  We took an hour's break to watch an episode of Deadwood, and when we came back, George Allen was conceding to Tim!  What happened?

WE happened!

Prince William County/NOVA really came through for Mr. Kaine (and for our President!).  I can't begin to describe how incredibly exciting that is for me--after years in Utah, where, let's face it, my vote in national races was nothing more than a way of earning my "bitching rights," suddenly my vote MEANS something.  It is influential, it counts.  It's amazing, it's heady. 

The lines here in Northern Virginia were so long they wound up having to extend voting past 11 pm.  When we went out to get our celebratory/sadness foods (we didn't know which it would be), the line at the local polling place was even longer than it had been at 6 am (an hour-and-a-half), 3 pm (closer to two hours), and 6 pm (around three hours).  Amazing.  I am so proud to live here, so amazed by the turnout.

Oh, and the food?  Well, let's just say I was up sick for most of the night--too many Popeye's fries, a Whopper with cheese, and wowser brownies with Ghirardelli chocolate chips (but we forgot the walnuts!).  That was enough to have my gut in total rebellion all night.  Well, all morning--didn't even go to bed until almost four.  And that wasn't ALL the food!  I was too full to eat any jalapeno poppers or chocolate satin (Satan, lol) pie.  Guess we'll have those tonight!

I am not overjoyed by the results of this election.  See, we still have the same obstructionist, petty house to deal with--the same guys who made it their lives' work to impede in any way they could.  My hope is that, since there's now no vow to "make Obama a one-term president," perhaps they'll hang up that hateful crap and do something constructive for Americans instead of serving their corporate bosses and acting on their mean, racist agenda.  Hopefully, their spitefulness won't lead them to intentionally trigger those idiotic budget cuts.  Just because we got our President and retained our Senate doesn't mean that the idiocy of the past two years won't continue.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried.

Yes, that was very political of me.  I've had to swallow four years of their "impede at every opportunity, then blame the President for not making progress" garbage.  The racist innuendo, the flat-out lies.  I'm tired, and I don't want to listen to that garbage anymore.

Speaking of garbage, I have, for the past year-plus, been hiding my posts from a large number (over 150) of my Facebook "friends" in order to shield their delicate sensibilities from my political speech.  I have also refrained from arguing with anyone whose wall posts (posts to THEIR wall) come across my news feed.  It just seems right to me that my wall is for me, your wall is for you.  This was a one-way street, as people were happy to jump in and argue with me on my wall.  Well, last night, I broke my self-imposed limitation--some dimwitted asshat had posted a picture of our President in black face with watermelon and fried chicken, with the White House in the background and some awful, racially stereotypical words along the bottom.  I lost it--I called him a racist and I dropped him.  It felt good.

Really good.

So good, that the nasty woman (a mutual friend) who commented with something about our "future being much DARKER now" is also off my friends list.  And that felt so good that I realize it's time to be done.  Done with the selectively hiding things from this person or that so they don't get offended.  You know what, all my Facebook "friends" know I'm an atheist, but they don't hesitate to smear my news feed with their religion.  They know I'm very liberal, but they spray their wing-nutty, teabag crap all over my news feed.  And I LET them, without challenge or argument, because it's their wall, they get to do that.  But dammit, so do *I*.  So I think it's time to do some major housecleaning.  Knock, oh, 150+ people off my friends list. 

I think it's going to feel incredible.

My sister called last night, after Ohio was projected, but before Virginia was called.  She made some crack about how Virginia had sold out the President, and I was so afraid that was, in fact, the case.  But we didn't.  No, as the numbers came in through the night, it became clear that WE gave our President the great state of Virginia.  Yeah.  We BUILT that!

Totally off topic, I tore out the tomatoes today and unhooked the hoses.  Yeah, a little late after the hard freeze, but no harm done.  It's almost winter.  I hope we get some real snow this year. 

Welcome to America!

Seriously, I'm not being a smart-ass.  Yes, I'm concerned about republican robo-calls telling voters that the aftermath of Sandy has made it necessary for republicans to vote today, while democrats vote TOMORROW (Wednesday, November 7th).  Yes, I'm worried about mailings telling Obama supporters that the voting day has been changed or that telephone voting is now occurring.  Yes, I'm worried about Romney's family buying into voting machine companies and polling places experiencing "difficulties" in Virginia.  But I'm also proud--proud that I could stand in line for an hour-and-a-half this morning and exercise my right to vote without anyone taking a stick to me or tossing grenades at the polling station. 

We spent the hour-and-a-half (which began at 6 am!) talking with a very nice woman who is originally from NYC, but has been in Virginia for years (though new to Prince William County).  I did see one gentleman being turned away for not being listed in the system--or at least the poll worker asked him to step aside, have a seat, and they would try to sort things out for him.  I try to imagine just how upsetting that would be, especially in a place like Virginia, which is absolutely a deciding factor in this election.

My vote matters here.  Despite Romney's/the right's attempts to silence me, fact is, in Virginia, my vote could mean something big.  It's a heady feeling. 

More as the election day unfolds, I'm sure.  I voted.  You vote.  Do it.  Seriously.  If you live in a state so deeply red (or blue) that you don't feel your vote counts, vote anyway.  Earn your bitching rights. 

Vote.

What Better Time for Mount Vernon?

The niece came out on Thursday night (niece-in-law, actually, but she and her husband have been together practically half their lives), she had business in DC but flew out a day early to spend some time with us.  We're mega-low on money, but we haven't seen family in over a year, and we couldn't just sit at home and stare at each other.  We thought about going to the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, where she's never been and had expressed interest in, but then she mentioned that she was already planning on going with coworkers the next day.  So it seemed silly to take her there, even though she said that would be fine.  I knew she'd never been to Mt. Vernon (I knew because I'd asked), but I was iffy on the cost (fifteen bucks per person, sixty bucks for the load of us).  Tommy and I talked, and decided that, dammit, we were going to take her because . . . well, because.

I went online to check the hours and, surprise, surprise, it's HOME-SCHOOLER day!  Knocked 23 bucks off the bill, which was great.  Plus, our beautiful niece treated us to breakfast at the little diner we've become enamored of, so the day wasn't so disastrous, though, even if it had been, it would have been worth it to have a good day with her. 

Learned some cool things at Mt. Vernon, bought a pretty little Christmas ornament (marked down to $6.99!).  Sadly, that purchase inspired me to hit the White House gift shop site when I got home and order two more ornaments, which were NOT marked down.  Goodness. 

I know it's a 2009 ornament, but I fell in love with the look (and it's the year our President was inaugurated)!

The hiking about Mt. Vernon was a bit tough on me (we did the full walk-about, down to the shores of the Potomac, around to the tomb and slave quarters, and then up through the forest trail).  About 3 1/2 hours of walking, and the plantar fasciitis and back pain were, at times, troubling.  Not the fasciitis so much at the time--that was later, after it'd had a chance to seize up.  The grounds were amazing, the heirloom sheep and cows wonderful (and sweet--I love petting sheep, go figure), and the company marvelous.  We were the last ones through on the mansion tour, which gave us time to dawdle and really enjoy. 

It was a sad night last night, though.  Disappointing.  Not going to go into it much, other than to say that sometimes it's a real eye-opener, hearing what people consider wrenching or devastating.  To have suffering a lifetime of being ostracized, tortured, outcast, rejected, loudly and cruelly publicly ridiculed, and terrified of social situations from dating to just walking through a grocery store because of how people react to how your body looks compared with not having cool clothes?  As someone whose mom used to sew our clothes from patterns, the results having uneven legs, uneven hems, and crooked zippers set into hideously garish floral fabrics, I've suffered both bad fashion and being condemned by society for how my body looks.  Believe me, the fashion grief doesn't even begin to compare.  On the one hand, I'm relieved--if that's the worst someone's suffered on the social devastation front, that's wonderful!  On the other hand, if that's the only comparison to be made, there's no common frame of reference in this at all.  It's not a huge deal, but it is a bit hurtful to think that what I've gone through is being compared to the pain of having a cheap wardrobe. 

Here are some pictures from Mount Vernon.  I'm glad we went when we did--it got super cold today!

Red Devon heirloom cowses

The Mansion

Washington Family tomb

Is it funny? Or just mean?

Today, a post came across my Facebook newsfeed.  It was, in my opinion, a mean thing--a picture of a woman sunbathing, and a large dog lifting leg over her, just seconds away from pissing.  I didn't think it was funny.  I thought it was awful.  Mean.  All I could think was, "Wow--you had a choice between shouting 'Yo!  Look out!' and picking up your camera to snap a picture."  To me, that's a no-brainer--you warn the person. 

Well, I've just been 'voted down" by both son and hubby.  Apparently, I am completely clueless on this subject.  See, I think that taking a picture of someone in the throes of bad fortune and holding it up for public ridicule is crap--I think it's the lowest brow, lowest rent excuse for humor out there.  I think it's mean-spirited.  I think that, when someone suffers misfortune, you reach out and lend a hand rather than snap a picture and post it on social media for a laugh.  Apparently I'm wrong. Apparently that's what passes for high wit these days.  I guess I hope that, should something crappy happen to me, someone will put down the camera and put out their hand. 

I feel sad about this.  I guess because, when you see something you consider that low class and that cruel, you naturally expect the people you love to see it as you do.  It's sad when they don't.  It's not a huge deal, obviously, but it does make me feel a bit down.  I guess that, being overweight for so many years, I've developed a beefy sort of empathy for other people held up to ridicule.  You know, the whole "People of Walmart" thing.  My heart breaks for people who are photographed without their knowledge for the purpose of public ridicule.  I guess maybe I need to toughen up. 

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Hours of Psychotherapy

Spotted this bundle o' crazy at Mount Vernon yesterday.  There was a trailer attached, too, but it was literally too much crazy to fit in one photo. I don't usually go too political on here, but this was just too precious to pass up. 

Crazy

The tail end of Crazy

And, finally:

Crazy, en suite

Don't Drink the Water in Farmington

I'm a tipper.  I can, quite literally, count on ONE hand the number of times I haven't left a good tip after dining in a restaurant (or getting my hair done, or whatever other tip-give-y-type situations).  For every one of those times, I know exactly why I didn't, and it usually involved a long talk with the manager about particularly rude service.  I can thank my parents, but not in the way you might think. My Dad?  Left a hell of an impression on me when I was just eight or nine years old.  We'd gone to dine at a restaurant in Ogden, Utah called "Diamond Lil's."  The management had tacked a mandatory 10% gratuity onto all bills.  My father was incensed--he felt this took the choice to tip out of his hands, forced him to reward service whether it was good or not.  The resulting explosion was epic, and the end result was, of course, that my Dad didn't have to leave a tip.  And he didn't.  He held that up as a great example of defending his rights and not allowing himself to be manipulated by whatever-whomever . . . you get the point.  What I remember thinking?

Poor waitress.  I remember being sad because the young woman had been very nice, had done a great job, and I thought she was super-pretty.  That mattered when I was young.

My Mom, on the other hand, was a spectacular tipper.  She tipped 20% long before 20% was the fashion.  She was generous, funny, and very eager to be seen as some sort of great benefactor, the epitome of giving . . . unless ANYTHING went wrong.  Anything!  Chef screws up?  Tip suffers.  Folks at the next table bring a baby who scream?  Tip suffers.  Waitress is working a whole section herself during rush and the food takes longer than a few minutes?  Tip's GONE.  I can't count the number of times I've had to take her to task (or just leave the tip myself) because one little thing hasn't gone exactly according to her plan. 

There have been others.  An ex-brother-in-law (and a late one, for that matter) who didn't "believe" in tipping (like it's some sort of leap of faith or something), a FORMER friend who used to steal tips from tables (and worked in a tip-earning position!), etc.  So many have influenced my "tippiness," and not one by being a positive role model. 

People who work in traditional tip-earning positions (servers, if you will) are exempt from minimum wage laws.  That means that the waiter or waitress you maybe just stiffed served you for perhaps two-three dollars an hour.  No shit.  When I used to work as a barmaid, I made $2.05 an hour, when the minimum wage was well over five dollars.  Minimum cash wage for tip earners in some states is still just barely over two dollars an hour.  So when you don't tip, you HURT these people.  Believe me, when I used to tend bar, a slow night or a bar full of snotty frat boys who thought tipping was something they only had to do if the server was female and would let them grope would leave me earning maybe twenty bucks for an eight hour shift. 

Don't be an asshole.  I'm not saying that you must always tip, no matter what.  I'm saying don't refuse to tip for some dipshit reason when, in reality, you're just stingy.  Don't refuse to tip a SERVER because a CHEF or a PREP COOK made a mistake.  Take a look around, have a heart--is that poor person working 10 tables by him or herself?  Could YOU do that?  Be kind.  It always seems that the same folks who are crap tippers are those who oppose social welfare programs.  Hey, folks?  Look at her--she's been on her feet hauling trays and cleaning tables for seven hours so she can feed her kids, make her rent, and pay her taxes.  She is doing exactly what you say she should be doing.  So for goodness' sake, tip her.