Blacklisted

My Topix name has been banned. If I post under EEE it shows up as ****. The same holds true when my imaginary friends refer to me in their posts. ****. F ing filter.

It all came out of an unpleasant incident involving a nasty little cockscab who made threats against my obnoxiously adorable little friend Trix. And yes, I know I like to preach “don’t feed the trolls” but I get all indignant when someone picks on my friends – even a snobby little twerp like Trix! (You know I love you, Trix! ;P )

The whole EEE thing was kind of silly to begin with. Not to disappoint anyone but it really doesn’t refer to much of anything. It is not my initials and I do not think of myself as an “Ever Elegant Enchantress” *snort*! (Sorry, Ange)

I’m not famous or anything, but a number of people – in addition to my little group of imaginary friends – “know” me on Topix and I don’t WANT to change my name.

So yesterday I posted as Tripoli for a while. But I don’t like it. EEE is easier to find when I go looking for responses to my posts. So I’m gonna go back to putting spaces in (E E E) and see if I can wait out this stoopid filter. But something Trix said leads me to believe that this may be permanent. Unless someone comes in and removes my name from “The List” I think I’m stuck.

I was more annoyed to be given profanity warnings just for posting my name.

F ing batsards.

Oh well. I’m not the sort of person to dwell on stuff I can’t change. Especially something as ultimately inconsequential as this. So I’ll just make do, adapt, and move on.

Happy weekend, everyone!

-E

Don’t Look Down

Oy!

My poor sainted mother!

So, following the loose screw issue she had a second foot surgery. The doctors gave her more lovely medicine and though she was having some pain in her foot, it wasn’t unbearable.

What was unbearable was the severe abdominal pain.

I got a phone call Tuesday afternoon.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Hi, EEE. Now, I don’t want you to worry…*

*This is the second time in recent months my mother has used this particular phrase.

Note to parents, children, loved-ones everywhere: there is no better way to ensure that someone is going to worry than by telling them not to. It’s like saying “Don’t look down.”

Turns out my poor mother has been having ever worsening abdominal pain ever since her first surgery. As someone who suffered fairly stoically through 35 years of debilitating periods, when my mother said her stomach hurt, she meant it.

My father called her doctor who admitted her to the hospital overnight for observation and then tests.

The most annoying part of all of this, though, is the manner in which the follow-up phone call was handled.

Jo: Have you talked to Dad?
Me: Hello to you, too.
Jo: Hi. Did Dad call you?
Me: No. What’s going on?
Jo: Figures. He called Dave.
(Buh? Dave? The incredible disappearing man? The one who won’t return your phone calls unless you owe him money? I don’t think he even HAS my phone number. What was Dad thinking?)
Me: That makes no sense.
Jo: I know.
Me: So…?
Jo: They know what’s wrong with Mom.
Me: And…? What is it?
Jo: Well you know that they made her do a CT scan this morning and then…. Blah blah blah…. (Jo loves to draw out a story before finally coming to the point…)

Long story short: Her CT scan revealed nothing, so the doctors did an Upper-GI scope and found that my poor mother has stomach ulcers!!! Three of them!

On the one hand: how horrible! On the other: thank goodness it’s something definitive and treatable!

I spoke to Mom a few minutes ago and she’s home and while she’s in some discomfort, she’s feeling pretty good. She’s not terribly happy about having to drink the Ultra-Chalky-Super-Pasty-Max-Peptic-Antacid, but her tummy feels better.

I love you, Mom! Feel better soon and make sure Dad takes good care of you!!!

Happy Now?

This one's just for you, Terri.

Happy now?

Sorry. I've just been kind of busy and lazy and uninspired lately.

Yippee!

Ding Dong the Plateau is DEAD!

I lost a pound!

OK, so it’s only one punky little pound, (and yes, yes, Rational, I know the scale doesn’t matter, now shut up and take off your shirt!) but I’d gotten so used to that F ing scale refusing to budge that I’d nearly given up all hope!

So I’ll take that pound, thank you very much!

Almost all of my other stats have improved too. Overall, I’ve lost 7 pounds since my last eval in June (16 since I started in Feb). I’ve lost 2 more inches on my waist and an inch each on my thighs and hips. (Interestingly, the girls have stayed the same)

I’ve improved my bicep strength by 5 pounds, I’ve improved my sit and reach by 3 inches, my BMI has gone down another 2 points and in the biggest change of all: my VO2 Max (my cardio health) has improved by 10 points. Ten! (All that time in Zone 4 wasn’t for nothing, I guess!)

And my overall “Body Age” has dropped 6 years, bringing it almost down to my actual age. My body is still “older” than it should be but least it’s in the 30s now! I’ll take it!

The only “bad” thing is that I haven’t gained any muscle. I’m stronger (30 pushups, thank you very much!) but I’ve lost almost a pound of muscle. I’m guessing I can blame Zone 4 for that? Garth?

Anyway… I’m happy! I’ll probably celebrate with a big ole bowl of pasta for lunch! Hehehe! I’ve been craving carbonara ever since a certain sexy devil put it in my head – you know who you are!

:D

Happy Friday, everyone!!!

In a New York Minute

In a New York Minute; Everything can change
-The Eagles

Seven years ago today, in a New York minute, everything changed. Our world was rocked on its axis. Our marvelous, brash American confidence was shaken to its core.

I don’t want to get political here, but I’ve noticed in the years since the September 11 attacks that people have reacted in a variety of ways. Some have become selfless missionaries for true world peace while others have used the fallout of the attacks to further their own selfish agendas.

Our emotions have run the gamut from outrage to despair, from hatred to sorrow, from terror to pride. I know people who are so overcome with anger and hatred that they cannot be in the same room with anyone of the Muslim faith. I know people so entrenched in fear that they vow to never fly again.

I understand all of these reactions. They each make sense to me, even if I do not share them.

My reaction to that terrible day can be summed up in one word: Defiance.

I defy anyone to make me cower.

I defy anyone to make me hate.

I defy anyone to make me give up one iota of my rights as an American citizen, for whatever reason.

I defy anyone to make me judge an entire population by the actions of a tiny, hate-filled group.

I defy anyone to make me less than I am.

I am lucky. I was supposed to fly on September 11. But just before 9am, as I was preparing to leave work to head to the airport, we heard the awful news. I wasn’t going anywhere near the East Coast, but I could easily have become trapped somewhere for a week or more. Several friends of mine were stuck in various cities, forced to pay outrageous prices at hotels who thought the “American way” meant gouging their customers in a time of National crisis.

I was among the first to fly again after the attacks. I flew to a vendor meeting on September 18, one week to the day after that brutal day. My mother begged me not to go. My boss told me I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to.

But I’d be DAMNED if I’d let a group of hate-filled crusaders bent on using fear as a weapon to destroy my confidence and pride in out great nation.

I will always remember September 11, but I will never forget who I am.

Huh?

I went to the gym this morning. Nothing unusual there, I do that almost every day. But today I had a small problem – I couldn’t unlock my locker when I was done.

The lockers at my gym are nice. There’re big, which is great for winter coats and stuff. And you don’t need a key or a padlock. They’re set up like hotel safes. There’s a keypad. To lock it you enter in any 4-digit code and then to unlock it you enter in the same code.

I always use the same code. And I try to use the same locker – or one near it.

This morning I knew I used locker #34. But when I tapped in my code after my workout, it didn’t open.

Huh.

So I thought, maybe someone else had typed in one digit before I got to it, so I tried various combinations of my code.

No joy.

Finally, feeling really stoopid, I went to the front desk and asked for the master key. I met the chief custodian at my locker and she was about to use the master key on it when one of the other custodians came rushing over.

“Oh! That’s mine!” she said and typed out her code and opened the locker. And, Yep, her stuff was inside.

I felt even more stoopid and checked in the lockers around #34 – all of which were unlocked.

All empty.

Huh.

Then, the second custodian reached into #34, and pulled my jacket out from under hers.

HUH????

Obviously, I had forgotten to lock my locker. I do that sometimes. It’s really early when I get there and my brain cells don’t get moving until I’ve been on the treadmill for a few minutes.

It’s no big deal. None of the people at my gym seem shifty (yes, I know I’m naïve…!) And besides, the only thing in there was my cheap workout jacket and my house key – which only works on the inner door and wouldn’t do a thief any good unless s/he had the outer door key or the building code.

So anyway, I obviously forgot to lock it and then the second custodian came and put her stuff in with mine and locked it. The head custodian frowned at her and told her not to do it again. I just smiled, thanked them both and left with my jacket.

But seriously. WTFuck? There are about 200 lockers in that locker room and there couldn’t have been more than 30 women on the exercise floor this morning. This chick couldn’t pick ANOTHER locker? One that didn’t have someone else’s stuff in it?

I don’t know. Maybe she thought she was “protecting” my stuff. Or maybe she didn’t notice my jacket – it IS kind of small and black. But…????

Anyway… It’s been one of those mornings.

When I got home, I noticed that one of the light-bulbs over the bathroom sink had died and I had to replace it with one of those new, ugly, energy-efficient ones because I didn’t have time to search for a prettier, old-style type. Then the shower started to not drain properly and I discovered that I’m out of Drano.

Sigh…

And then later – I am so not kidding!!!! – as I was rushing to leave my apartment, the F ing hem fell out of the right leg of my pants. Come ON!!! No way did I have time to fix it, so I had to do a quick change.

And now I’m on the El and my left sock is a quitter. I just can’t catch a break.

At least I didn’t decide to cut my hair this morning…

I hope everyone is having a better day than I am!!!

Anger Management

I don’t get angry easily. I get annoyed or frustrated or exasperated fairly easily, but rarely do I get ANGRY. And when I do, it’s usually because something has happened which has hurt me.

My parents have vastly different anger profiles.

With my mom it’s the slow burn. She’s eternally patient and will put up with a hell of a lot before she snaps, but when she does… get out your flak jackets, ‘cause it’s gonna get messy! And her memory is long. The woman knows how to hold a grudge.

Dad is the opposite. He’s got a flash temper – almost anything will set him off. And he’s got the patience of a two year old. His temper will go off about a dozen times a day, but once he’s yelled at who/what ever is annoying him, he’s back to his usual fun, funny self. No grudges, no recriminations.

It’s obvious to me which of my siblings takes after which parent. Dave is totally my mom (they’re both the oldest sib and they’re both introverts) and Jo is Dad to a T (both the youngest and both extroverts) I try not to spend too much time alone with Dad & Jo when they get together: fireworks are inevitable – and not the fun kind!

And then there’s me. Like my mom, it takes a lot to get me REALLY angry, but like my dad I don’t have a lot of patience and once I AM mad, I’m more than happy to let people know.

Luckily I don’t get really angry often. But if something bugs me, I say so. And I’m less tolerant of things that I used to let slide – like my dad making fun of elements of my life that he doesn’t understand (“Staying home alone on a Friday night?? What’s WRONG with you? Get a man! Get a life!” – “Back off, Dad. I have a life. Just because you’d find it boring doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it!”

And of course, though he continues to not understand my introversion (most extroverts will never really get us!) he respects the fact that I’ll give it right back to him.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that I got really mad a couple weeks ago. I forced myself to not spew all over everyone, but it wasn’t easy. Instead, I cried in vexation on the train ride home while I wrote that person a long, rambling, vitriolic letter. And then I didn’t send it. The next day I sent a much calmer, more rational letter that I thought expressed my feelings better than the previous rant had.

I’ve haven’t heard back from this person. I’m hoping that they can appreciate that my anger at their actions has little bearing on how much I value their friendship.

If you’re reading this, I’d like to hear from you.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

-E

The Poor Mommy!

My mother had foot surgery last week. She had three hammer-toes on her left foot that have been getting worse over the years and recently they had become quite painful. The poor Mommy!

(Funny side story – when we were in California in June, my mother stubbed her toe on the coffee table in our room and broke her big toe on her OTHER foot – the poor Mommy!)

Anyway, she had surgery last week – basically the doctor had to break each of her toes and then insert a screw to ensure that as they heal they heal straight. Obviously, this is very painful, so she’s been on Vicadin, which in turns upsets her tummy. The poor Mommy!

She went in for a checkup the other day and it turns out that she has a screw loose (I’ve suspected this for years) and now has to keep her weight off her foot completely. She was using a walking cast (like Nova’s Robo-foot) but the doctor got her some crutches. Ugh! Crutches suck. The poor Mommy!

So my dad was talking to my Uncle Pete yesterday and it turns out that because of some issues of his own, Uncle Pete owns a walker that he’s not currently using. My dad drove over and got it and my mother much prefers it to the crutches.

So do I. I think it’s kind of hilarious that my young, ornery mother is using a walker! Hahaha! Obviously, I don’t wish her pain (more Vicadin, STAT!) but the visual is just priceless.

Me: Dad, you have to get a video of Mom using the walker
Dad: What?
Me: You have to video Mom and her walker!
Dad: No.
Me: Come on! Please!!!!
Dad: No.
Me: Please?? It can be my birthday present!
Dad: Oh, all right.
Me: You’re just saying that to shut me up. You’re not really going to do it.
Dad: That’s right. Bye, we love you!
Me: But…!


I guess I’ll just have to use my imagination!

I love you, Mom and I hope you’re better soon!!!

Psst, Jo! Go over to Mom and Dad’s and video Mom with the walker!

New Theory

I’ve been really stumped by this ongoing plateau. What’s worse: Sharon’s been stumped too.

So stumped that she actually went to her supervisor (the perkiest woman on the planet) to have a consultation about me.

New theory: I’m working out TOO HARD.

I still don’t understand this completely. I always thought that if your Calories Burned was greater than your Calories Ingested, you’d lose weight. Apparently not.

The theory is that I have been spending too much time exercising in Zones 4 & 5 and not enough time in Zone 3. I’ve been working out like an athlete (What?! Hahaha!) – training my body to build cardio endurance rather than to lose weight. Instead of taking energy from my stored fat, my body is taking it from somewhere else (but I’m not sure where…?)

This theory was precipitated by the fact that my father bought me an early birthday present: a heart-rate monitor. I wear it when I’m working out and it tells me exactly what my heart-rate is the whole time, not just when I grab those annoying sensors.

Sharon was sooooo excited when I showed it to her.

Sharon: This is great! Now we can tailor your workouts, set your zones, and really see what you’re doing. AND we can do a sub-max test!
Me: Sub-max test? That doesn’t sound fun.
Sharon: It isn’t.

Oh dear… I knew it would be bad if Sharon admitted it wasn’t fun. This is the woman who will routinely show me a piece of equipment like the Gauntlet and say, “You’re going to like this!”

As it turned out, the sub-max test wasn’t as bad as I thought and I can run faster than I thought I could – for a short burst, anyway.

Anyway, this week Sharon asked me to cut back on my workouts – not the frequency or the duration, but the intensity. And I’m surprised to say that I’m getting a little BORED. And I kind of miss that kind of hollow, heavy-breathing feeling you get when you really get your heart-rate up.

Me??? Bored because I’m not exercising hard enough????

WTFuck???

Dorkiness Beyond Borders

Sometimes my dorkiness is too much even for my closest friends.

Several months ago I sent out an email, trying to rally support for a trip to the United Center to see the Spice Girls’ reunion tour. Come on! How fun would THAT be!!

Not one of my friends took me up on that idea. Nor did most of the nation and the tour quickly fizzled into nothing.

Not that I’m some crazy Spice Girls fan or anything. I remember their one song and I thought their movie was campy, silly fun, but I’ve never bought any of their stuff. Wanting to see them in concert was never about musical appreciation or anything like that. It was about the experience of attending a Spice Girls concert. It would have been fascinating!

And then recently, I sent out an email trying to get my friends to go see the new musical “Dirty Dancing” with me.

Most of my friends just ignored the suggestion entirely. I have to assume the email got lost in cyberspace… But I did get a few responses.

They ranged from polite:
“I’m sorry, but I never really cared for that movie. Maybe your parents would like to go the next time they’re in town?”

To perplexed:
“Um….? No.”

To mildly snarky:
“That’s all you, babe.”

To outright snarky:
“Did someone steal your meds???”

Sigh.

I never said I was cool.

Now, who wants to go see the Back Street Boys at Ravinia this weekend????

Have a great holiday, everyone!!!!

-E

And the Plateau goes on...

Happy now, Garth???

So… yet again I have lost no weight this week.

I’m beginning to become seriously discouraged by this plateau bullshit. I’m working out. I’m eating well. I mix up my workouts.

Sharon has suggested I see a nutritionist. Not so much to tell me what I should be eating – I KNOW what I should be eating and I’m doing it. But there’s some sort of metabolism test that will measure exactly how many calories I’m burning while resting.

Sigh.

And I need to see my doctor. I have nothing against seeing my doctor. I think that everyone should do preventive care. But it’s time for the dreaded mammogram and that scares the shit out of me. But I should probably have a course of blood work done to rule out thyroid or hormonal issues.

Haha!

I think that every overweight woman in America has this secret hope that all of her weight issues are due to a thyroid problem and once you start popping a pill a day, the weight will magically melt off!

Haha!

Also, I saw a great episode of Dr. Who where people took this little pill and lost 1 pound a night – but the fat wasn’t just melting away – it was turning into little 1 pound critters to repopulate some other planet. Kinda gross.

Anyway. Here’s hoping for a thyroid issue because I’m otherwise at a complete LOSS.

Cheshire Moon

Every day we’re inching just a bit further from the Solstice. Every day the days get just a bit shorter and the nights just a bit longer – inching closer to the Equinox and perfect balance. And we’ll sit in that perfect balance for one brief day and then it will shift and the northern hemisphere will belong to night.

Right now the days are still longer than the nights, but night is gaining.

Every morning my walk to the gym is just a bit deeper, the sky just a bit darker.

Today I saw the moon smiling at me from the east, hovering above the horizon, a wicked, pearly slash of a smile like Carroll’s cat, waiting, biding his time, and planning wicked things.

Cool!