An afterthought

Today marks the day of the WCM and I celebrating 18 years of not killing one another. It hasn't all been bliss, but it hasn't completely sucked either.

So "yay marriage" and all that.

Water, water, everywhere...

... and nary a drop to drink!

The water is shut off in my house to enable some lovely burly workmen to rip out the radiators. I must now shuffle off elsewhere to work, as I have to pee and cannot flush! Eeep!

All Intestine, All the Time!

Wow, this seems to have turned into a bit of a weight loss surgery chronicle recently, hasn't it? I promise I'll get off of this subject soon - it's just been weighing on my mind these last couple of weeks (no pun intended, I promise) since my surgery anniversary.

I went to a party today with a bunch of people who have all had the DS (Duodenal Switch) or are going to have it. There was one woman there who was only two weeks out of surgery, and one man who is having his DS this Wednesday. Boy, what a good time we had! We talked, ate, laughed, and took pictures of each other in our bathing suits. Yeah, it's for a contest on one of the weight loss surgery support boards I participate on. I think it was good for all the pre-ops there to see what you can accomplish, because you're not hiding much in a bathing suit.

It was fun, even with the bathing suits.

Ellie and I are cool again

So Ellie, or as she likes to be called "Ms. Roosevelt," and I are cool again.

It seems that the WCM was trying to be cute and said the opposite of what he meant - do you get that? Sometimes I don't quite understand the man, and I've been his Significant Other for nigh on 20 years. But, you know, when you're all dressed up and someone says something like "Well, don't you just look awful today! You should've made an effort!" and you see they're smiling? You kind of know that's a compliment, right?

Well, the WCM hasn't quite mastered this kind of compliment, so it came out wrong. That's his story, anyway, and he's sticking to it.

And after a nice long swim, a glass of merlot, and a fabulous steak dinner prepared by both me and my brother-in-law (he did the steak and potatoes, I did the Caesar and Caprese salads), everything seems just about 100 percent better.

I still have the odd insecure day, every now and then. Even though there are tiny, tiny pants in my closet that fit me, I will never quite leave the 300-pound woman behind. She's still with me, she still thinks in my head, and sometimes, she whispers her neuroses in my ear. I wish she'd have left me some of her self-confidence and a bit more of her sass, because I could have used those earlier.

To anyone who ever thought Weight Loss Surgery was easy, well, it's not, really. It comes with its own set of mental challenges and emotional hurdles. Today, I stumbled over one of them. I expect I'll have a few more stumbles in the future before I can run around with my head high. But I'll get there.

Eleanor Roosevelt can fucking kiss my ass!

You know how Eleanor Roosevelt said that "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent?" Well, I've had me an Eleanor kind of day so far.

First thing this morning, right? I was getting dressed and the WCM pops out with "gained a little weight back, chubby?" I'm all "What the fuck? Did I?" so I ran off to the scale and hopped on. No, goddammit, I hadn't. As it happens, I'm on the low end of my normal range. So I spent a couple of naked minutes in front of the mirror checking for stray lumps and bulges. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself, but let me tell you: the tone for the day was set.

So next, I head downstairs and scavenge some ice for a protein shake, since my fridge has been out of commission and I have no eggs. Plus, I'd started feeling fat. Yeah, rationally, I'm not - lumpy, yes; fat, no - the WCM's needling had actually affected me more than I wanted to let on. While I'm at the computer drinking a shake that tastes like Strawberry Monkey Butt (don't ask me - you don't want to know) my fridge arrives. I IM a friend and we start "talking" about this and that. I wanted to get his opinion on my relative fatness, as he'd seen me recently, when he started raving about a current popular actress. Well, shit.

Now, normally, that wouldn't have bothered me at all, seeing as I look nothing like said actress and actually like her a lot myself. However, my self-confidence had taken a bit of a beating already, and now I was hearing all about another woman's hotness. "OK. FINE. I GET IT. SO NOT HOT." is playing in my brain and I just had to go. I couldn't even sign off with my customary cute bye-bye.

Feeling more than a bit peevish and out-of-sorts from having my two favorite men indirectly (and unintentionally, I'm sure, on my friend's part) slap me down, I spent part of the afternoon looking for a plastic surgeon who can remove this extra skin I've got and possibly make my breasts look normal. A word of advice? If you're ever trying to feel better about yourself, DO NOT DO THIS.

Now, my brother-in-law has invited us for dinner and a swim in his pool. I hauled out my bathing suits from last year - the first time I'd comfortably worn a bathing suit in years, mind you - and find that they're all just a bit baggy now. After I slid into my favorite one, I took a good long look in the mirror. My ass is gone, my tits are saggy, my stomach looks like a can of freshly-opened Pillsbury biscuit dough* and I wonder why nobody finds me sexy?!

So now I'm going to haul my sorry wrinkly ass over to the pool and try to hold my shit together. Hopefully I can blame my bloodshot eyes on the chlorine.

Not a US Geography Whiz...

In 3m 19s

Click here to Play

Thanks to "Might I Add..." for this one. I am not a geography whiz, as the last state I named was New Jersey - a state I seem to be in very frequently. Also? Colorado? I forgot all about it. And Mississippi, a state that's very easy to spell, was very hard to remember.

Give it a whirl, why don't you?

Aw, crap...

I just found out that my wonderful magnificent neighbor, a man who has been like a parent to the WCM and me and a grandfather to Miss Peanut, has cancer. It's in his prostate and kidneys, and has even spread to bone and lymph nodes.

I love this man and his wife - they're truly kind, generous, warm-hearted, funny people. To think that we might lose one of them, that one of them might lose the other, is heartbreaking.

There's hope that they might arrest the spread, but there's no hope for a cure or remission. I have to go get a tissue now, because my heart is leaking out my eyes. So sad.

Birthday imps...

So it's my birthday today - 38, to be exact, and I've had a wonderful day of it. The WCM is on his way home now to take me out to dinner. I've chosen a very expensive, but exquisitely delicious, steakhouse to go to, all because they have Bearnaise. I love that sauce... but I digress. I was telling you about my birthday.

I woke up late, skipped exercise class - because it's my birthday, dammit! - and received online b-day wishes from one of my closest friends. After taming my mane - I went to bed with wet hair last night and was rocking a sweet faux-hawk this morning, I took myself off to Starbuck's for an indulgent breakfast drink. I hit the nail salon next, and got a mani/pedi, and felt completely spoiled.

Lunch was yummy - a turkey artichoke panini from Panera with a caesar side salad. Strangely enough, I had enough room to finish the whole meal - that's rare. It was packed in Panera, though, and I had snagged a little 2-person table. I don't know what imp suggested it, but I invited a perfect stranger to sit and eat with me. She was a very nice lady named Sue, and we had a great chat about everything and nothing. I wished her a good day and she wished me a happy birthday, as I continued my shopping.

I hit Goodwill - or "The Clothing of the Dead" as my friend Shari calls it, looking for a denim jacket. Normally, I don't find much at Goodwill, but Oh Holy Shit, did I make the find of the century today. Now, I have to tell you about my Favorite Pants Ever. I found these great cargo pants at Ann Taylor Loft about 40 pounds ago, and bought them in a size 10, because I didn't think I'd ever get any smaller than that. "Psyche!" said the Weight Loss Fairy! And I had to give those pants away. Imagine my surprise when I found those very same pants - not the same pair, mind you, because that wouldn't have been very fun - in a different color and a smaller size today at the Goodwill! I ran into the changing room, gave them the quick once-over, and tried them on. They fit! Score! And they're a size 2. Double score! Are you ready for the slam-dunk? They were $3.50!!!!! Thank you Birthday Gods! And the Weight Loss Fairy!

But the imp was not to be silenced. Oh no. That freakin' imp got me into big-time trouble in the next store I entered. See, up by the Goodwill there's a little "adult" store called the Birds 'n' Bees. I've been curious, and since my anniversary's coming up (18 years with the WCM, oy!), I figured I could probably pick up a little something for that occasion. Well, I went in and looked around, trying valiantly not to blush and totally failing. I was also trying to ignore the guy trailing me around the store, but I eventually shook him. Ew. I found a little something in black that I thought might work, but had to try it on, and got the sales guy to open the dressing room for me. Yes, sales guy. Unlocking the door, he asked "A little surprise for the hubby or boyfriend?" Well, that goddamn imp twisted my tongue and when I opened my mouth, it said "both."

I don't know what possessed me - other than the imp - but I knew I was in for it after I got out of there. (The outfit worked, by the way.)

Sure enough, the sales guy hit on me. Now, answer me this: if I had both a husband and a boyfriend, do you really think I'd have enough time and energy to juggle another man into there? Um, no. I had to decline his most thoughtful offers. I guess I won't be shopping there in the future...

The birthday fairy took me to a Spa for a facial next, where my fantastic facialist spent nearly two hours going over my skin with this unguent and that potion. She massaged my face, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, legs, feet, and scalp. I glow, people, with total relaxation and satisfaction.

I'm now going to step into the shower and sluice myself with other potions and lotions. Bring on the bearnaise, people, and put a candle on my steak. I'm doing my birthday in style!!

Brussels sprouts are still icky

Whether you roast them, boil them, steam them, or fry them, Brussels sprouts remain icky. Even when paired with Bacon, nature's perfect food, they are icky. I cannot countenance the sprout. Ick.

I'm off to find better vegetable recipes. If you have a favorite, please feel free to suggest it, as I am spent.

Mon frigo est mort!

My fridge died!

My behemoth refrigerator has finally given up the ghost after fourteen years of exemplary service - its coolant is slowly traveling south. It certainly owes us nothing, and will surely be headed to the Great Towers of Chilldom in the sky. It does, however, leave us with a lot of things that need to be thrown away, consumed, frozen downstairs, or cooked.

It should come as no surprise to anyone that knows me that we have a large-ish standing freezer in the basement. I am a Cancerian woman, meaning, in a nutshell, that food is love to me. If I have fed you, then you can reasonably assume that I love you in one form or another. Have I ever brought you cookies? I love you. Have I had you over for a meal? I love you. Have I ever drizzled chocolate sauce all over your naked flesh and slowly licked it off? ahem. sorry. But you can be assured that if that ever happened, that I would certainly love you. The WCM is a Taurean man, meaning, simply, that he thinks with his stomach. As long as his gustatorial demands are satisfied, he's quite a happy camper. He gets cranky if I don't feed him regularly. Luckily, I love to cook and nourish those I love. In this area, we work quite harmoniously together.

So, tonight, the WCM and I cooked. He grilled some bratwurst while I roasted some brussels sprouts (yes! another vegetable! and a formerly reviled one, at that!) and fried a whole pound of bacon. The recipe for the brussels sprouts only calls for 4 rashers of bacon, but, c'mon! It's bacon! I can't really refrigerate it again, so I might as well cook it. It'll keep just fine on the counter until I'm hungry again in 3 hours and pounce on it like a ravenous she-wolf.

After dinner, we're going to go purchase a new fridge. Hope it's big enough to hold all the love we need.

RIP George Carlin

One of the funniest men I've ever encountered.

Rest in Peace, George.

Seven Hundred and Thirty Days

It's been two years since my Duodenal Switch.

That's two years of taking vitamins, eating protein, changing outwardly, looking inward, and negotiating social interactions heretofore unknown to me. That's seven hundred and thirty days of following rules, accepting and giving support to others, and celebrating milestones - losing 100 pounds, seeing a "one" as the first number on the scale (instead of a "two" or even - for a short while - a "three"), buying clothing from the same stores as my stylish friends - and even having to buy smaller sizes than them, and going from a size 24 to a size 4.

More important milestones were realized along the way - not having to take a handful of medications for depression, hypertension, and edema, not having to sleep connected to a CPAP machine so I wouldn't stop breathing during the night, not suffering from joint and foot pain with every step I took.

Some will say that I took the easy way out. I won't dispute them. This has been the easiest 146 pounds I've ever lost. But I'll tell you what wasn't easy: the morning of surgery.

I remember wearing two huge hospital gowns, as only one wouldn't have fit. I had to walk from room to room, signing this form or that, having a nervous IV tech put a port in my hand, climbing up on the scale for the last time so the anesthesiologist could do his math. I remember waiting patiently until the moment my name was called to walk to the Operating Room.

A very nice young man was walking with me, ushering me through the Recovery Room - as yet empty, as I was one of the first surgeries of the day - and through a set of double doors. As those doors swung shut, the temperature dropped a good 10 degrees. The hallway was long and gray, and we turned left at the end and walked about 10 yards to one of the operating rooms. I remember thinking that it wasn't too late - I could turn back - but quickly realizing that if I walked out, I'd still be fat and dying the next day.

As the door to the OR opened, I saw the surgical team prepping the room, counting all the shiny sharp implements, buzzing around a huge table swathed in white. One of the nurses helped me off with my gowns, and, naked, I climbed up onto that table and lay on my back while another nurse draped a sheet over my prone form. My arms were fastened on supports perpendicular to my body, and my IV connected. The anesthesiologist asked if I wanted to go out now or wait for the surgeon. Shaking with barely repressed fear, I asked to wait.

My surgeon, a quiet man, walked into the room, looked at my face, and gave me the first smile I'd ever seen from him. He held my hand, told me I'd be fine, and God help me, I believed him. Feeling calm, surrendering my everything to the universe, I put my trust and my life into this man's hands.

He didn't let me down.

On that date, seven hundred and thirty days ago, I faced the hardest decision I've ever made - live or die.

I feel like the life I have now is my reward.

A unique name...

So the WCM came home with a toy for Miss Peanut - a stuffed Triceratops. I mean, what would you expect from a fossil hunter? A fairy princess?

Being Miss Peanut, she's not going to let one of her "babies" go without a name, and she sat on the sofa intently staring the Triceratops in the eye, trying to get a fix on its personality. Also not being one for internal monologue, she runs through the list of names out loud, so that the WCM and I can get the full impact of her choice.

"Hmm, 'Bella?' No. That's not right. 'Buttercup?' No, that's not it either. Hmmmm."

The WCM and I exchange quizzical glances, as nearly all of Miss Peanut's babies are named "Buttercup." (Don't ask me - I have no idea why) A few seconds later we hear "I've got it!! Your name is 'Horny!'"

The WCM and I are still recovering from the bouts of giggles that overtook us that night.

Bitch, bitch, bitch!

So the WCM comes home and proceeds to not notice the clean house. Whatever. Then, he tries to dirty it up, earning himself a shitstorm of protest from me. Following his shower - because he was a tad, er, fragrant from his travels - he installed himself in his chair, parked his laptop on his lap, and commandeered the remote control. Oh yes, and he inquired about dinner and its incipient state of readiness. Business as usual.

And he wonders why I'm a complete bitch sometimes...

I scaled the heights of bitchdom later that night when I told him I'd rather not sleep with him, and quite liked having the bed all to myself. (Listen, pervs, I wasn't using the euphemism here, although that seems to be applying recently, as well) I told him he could keep to his own half, thank you very much. Well, the shock and awe that greeted that statement was quite the sight to behold, as this is really a first in my near 20-year relationship with the WCM. Frankly, I think it's good for him, and long overdue. This might be the bitch speaking, but I think he takes me too much for granted. I'd really like to see him try to exist comfortably without me. I don't think it can be done.

Tonight, he's taking us out for dinner. If he grovels enough, perhaps I'll allow him to snuggle later. If not, an "accidental" thigh to the goolies ought to put things in perspective for him.

I don't ask for much. Recently, though, I've begun thinking that I've never asked for enough, and that's starting to show.

Patchwork

So called because this is full of little bits and pieces today, composed of nothing major, really.

Relaxation just doesn't seem possible for me when the WCM isn't at home. I think it's my strong oppositional streak that just doesn't let me settle down when there's nobody around to rebel against. I've been cleaning - still! - and I just started working on next year's syllabus for my most advanced class. School just ended on Friday, true, but my department head put the pressure on me by telling me that he'd like me to take IB French 4 the year after next. I feel like I have to get MYP French 2 down to a science before I can let it go, and I'll only have one more year to do that. The nice thing is that my department head has that kind of confidence in me. The other nice thing is that I have loads of materials and education with which to do it. So, I'll sacrifice part of my summer. It's not that good for me to sit still much, anyway.

All of that means that I'll have loads of time to work on my new computer. Apropos of nothing one day last month, the WCM announced that for my birthday and our anniversary, he was buying me a new computer. I hadn't asked for one, nor even made a disparaging comment (out loud) about the old one that I was using, so it caught me completely off-guard. Apparently, the WCM had needed to use mine briefly while his was updating something-or-other, and was distressed and frustrated by how slooooooooow it was. So he bought me a new one. Nice, huh? The bastard ordered it in PINK, though. Can I tell you, pink is at the bottom of my list of least favorite colors, just above kumquat orange? Oh well. It's a lovely new Dell, with Windows Vista - a new system for me to learn - and it's quite spiffy, albeit PINK as a freshly smacked ass.

Speaking of smacked asses, the ER staff at a certain New Jersey hospital which shall remain nameless (largely because I don't know its name...) sent a friend of mine home without realizing she had a twisted bowel. Thank God for her surgeon who went in and fixed it! Poor thing is now recuperating from both that and the gallbladder removal which precipitated it. I hope she feels better soon!!

And following that feeling better soon, I have a feeling that I shall be feeling quite good on June 19th, which is the 2-year anniversary of my Duodenal Switch surgery. I don't know what exactly I'll be doing to commemorate it, but it'll probably involve beef. I love beef. I can't get enough of it these days! I have a Pot Roast in the crock pot for dinner tonight, and I'm fixing Warm Red Cabbage with Bacon and Crumbled Goat Cheese along with Roasted Cauliflower with balsamic drizzle as the sides. That cabbage with goat cheese is sooooo tasty, I just want to stand over the pan with a spoon and eat it all up. The only difference between the recipe above and the way I make it is that I use balsamic vinegar. It deepens the lush purple of the cabbage and gives it just enough of a sweet tang to set off the mustiness of the goat cheese. I'm salivating... I can't wait for the WCM to get home so we can eat dinner.

Oh yeah, the WCM is coming home tonight, bringing with him the petrified remains of ancient crustaceans (trilobites, most likely). I just hope he doesn't track gravel all through my nice clean house. And, I hope he remembers to stop at the Krispy Kreme, as I told him not to even think of setting foot in my house without 2 dozen Original Glazed donuts from Krispy Kreme. I'm a hard woman, me. They freeze well, those glazed donuts do, and once you pop 'em in the microwave for 20 seconds, they're practically fresh-off-the-conveyor-belt good again. Two dozen ought to last me about 2 months, give or take. I cried fresh hot tears when the Krispy Kreme packed up and left my city.

Well, chickens, I've goofed off enough for one afternoon. It's time for me to get back to my travails. Have a good one!

For my fellow educators

From Friday, for you. Have a great summer!

***

I just got in to school, sauntered in as usual, carrying my coffee & breakfast. The trip up the three flights of stairs went a little quicker than usual this morning as there were no students to impede my progress. The hallway was dark, as the lights are off in most of the other classrooms - for certain, I am the only teacher here in "my" hallway. I put my key in this lock for the last time just a few minutes ago, and turned the handle to enter this empty classroom.

No posters or colorful artwork greet me today. There are no signs, other than the typical debris, that there were children here just a week ago. The desks, once carefully arranged, are jostled and askew from moving all of my materials. Surfaces, once crowded, are now clear. My imprint is already fading on this room as surely as it will be made on another in three months' time. It is now a blank cell, ready to accept another's presence. Yet, as it happens every time I move, even though the physical artifacts are gone, the memories I have made in this room are indelible.

As you pack up your room and pack away your presence, take a quiet moment to reflect on the many great and wonderful things you've accomplished in that room. Remember the amazing minds you influenced, molded, and taught. The walls you inhabit are but transitory things, as words written in sand. The memories you make within them will remain in the minds and hearts of others as graven in stone.

Weekend Edition

It's been a quiet weekend at Peevish Place, much to my dismay. Miss Peanut went to her Nana's house on Thursday night and has been gone all weekend. The WCM left for a fossil-hunting expedition early on Friday morning, and won't return for some time. Friday was my last day of work for the school year. It made me feel quite maudlin, as there's all sorts of change in my professional life - good ones, to be sure, but changes bring about beginnings and endings, all of which are usually marked with high-running emotions. I spent Friday morning at work, went to a luncheon with my colleagues, and then came home and started cleaning my house.

I don't know what brought about this house-cleaning spree, other than I knew that since nobody else was around, nobody would be messing up my housework 5 minutes after I'd finished it. Plus, whenever I do housework with other people in the house, I develop Martyr Syndrome - "I don't know why I'm the only one working while everyone else is sitting on their ass!" It's unattractive... but at least I recognize that, right? I accomplished a hell of a lot on Friday, pausing to attend a retirement party for a dear friend. I went to bed with high hopes for Saturday, as I'd made some really fun plans.

Saturday, unfortunately,unfurled with a crashing low. I won't go into my plans for the day, but I will say that I had been looking forward to Saturday with unduly intense anticipation. I found that those plans weren't going to come to fruition on Saturday morning and spent a good hour in bed, whining, moping, crying, and generally cursing the universe. I was crushed - totally, entirely, desperately crushed. It caused an actual physical ache that I can still feel in the pit of my belly.

So I spent the day running errands, doing more housecleaning (my house is SO clean now! You'd hardly know I had a "dirt problem!"), and trying to keep my mind occupied so I didn't dwell on my disappointment. And do you know what happened? I got a great phone call.

See, my friend Bobbinchick had made a pie - an honest-to-goodness, homemade, just picked the damned strawberries herself PIE. And she called me to come help her eat it. Can I just tell you how much I loved that? That the person she thought to come help her eat pie was me? I loved that. Hearing that I was all on my own, she also invited me to dinner. How great was that?!

Having three very ripe avocadoes in my fruit bowl and a bunch of cilantro in the fridge, I made a bowl of guacamole, grabbed a bag of tortilla chips, and set off down the road to Bobbinchick's house. A delicious dinner, fun conversation, beautiful energetic children, and GORGEOUS strawberry pie later, I came home to a calm, clean, cool house, and was able to finally relax for the day. One extremely sexy vampire romance novel later, and I was tucked into my fresh bed, ready for sleep.

It was a pretty good day, all things considered.

Nom nom nom!!

Ok, so, I've been a fan of the frozen Margarita for some years now. They are delicious in their citrusy splendor, accenting the tang of tequila with a rim of salt. Personally, I prefer mine sin sal, but your mileage may vary, as it is said on the interwebz.

A friend of mine went out and bought herself a slushie machine. I, also a lover of slushies, followed suit and ordered one of my own. I've been waiting a week since being notified that it had been shipped. Finally, today, it arrived.



This is what I enjoyed this afternoon. Granted, it's a Sugar-free Blue Raspberry slushie in a margarita "glass" (quotations cuz it be plastic...), but it was all delicious and good. Right now, I have the real thing. All I have are 3 little words:

Nom. Nom. Nom.