I have been AWOL for over two weeks now. Holiday craziness and an urgent wisdom-teeth-removal adventure followed by a three-day Percoset-induced state of stupidity have kept me from my blog. (Count yourselves lucky that I did not attempt to write any stories under the influence of painkillers...those things make me so loopy.) However, I am back on the very last day of the year to discuss a subject about which I’m sure many other bloggers are certainly typing their little hearts out at this very moment. That’s right. New Year’s Resolutions.
I think the reason that I feel comfortable spilling my guts on this subject is because, last year, I actually kept a resolution. I vowed on January 1, 2007 that I would, at some point during the year, quit smoking, and I did it. I stuck to it for the first time ever, and honestly, can’t even imagine how I ever engaged in that nasty habit to start with. I feel really good about that. So, one down. On a different note, I was also supposed to lose 40 pounds last year. I was desperate to get back to my svelte age-23 weight, but alas, since realized that I am no longer 23; I am 31. While I did lose a quite a few pounds this past year, I also gained a couple here and there, resulting in a net weight loss of approximately 3 pounds for the year. Uh, yeah. Not so impressive. But wait!! I competed in my first-ever triathlon in August, finishing nowhere even remotely close to first, but actually finishing, and doing so without a trip to the Emergency Room to boot. One small step for me towards my goal.
This year, I am taking a different outlook. My past resolutions have always been about improvements in my health and in my looks. I am still resolving to lose weight this year, because it’s tradition; I resolve to lose weight every year. However, this year, I am resolving to improve my inside more than my outside. I need a new attitude and a new way to engage in and react to the world around me. I need to calm the hell down, not get so stressed, and really take time to enjoy my play and excel in my work. I resolve to think before I speak and to avoid getting angry unless it is absolutely warranted. I resolve to take the proverbial time to smell the roses. I resolve to, as Henry James would put it, be kind. Included within each of these resolutions is the resolve to exercise regularly and to write more because those are things that make me feel happy and fulfilled and useful. That’s it. Basically, I am resolving to give myself a psychological lobotomy. No big deal, right? We shall see.
There will be more stories to come this week, much more typical of my usual blogging than today’s post, but I figured I better put something up here before I lose momentum.
Some housekeeping items:
Happy 70th Birthday to my Dad today. He is an amazing man and my sisters and I are very, very lucky to have him as our dad.
…and many more, Dad!!
Also, sadly, this looks like the end of an era, if an era was indeed a period of time equivalent to approximately four months. After doing some brief internet research, it turns out that my very-not-so-creative blog name is taken. Oh, and copyrighted. Nice. I initially just threw a name on there and started my blog because a friend told me that all writers should have a blog, and so I suddenly felt very left out. I, being very similar to my father as far as technology is concerned, was unfamiliar with blogging until that point and did not realize that it was actually a really big thing. Now that I am addicted and love my blog and my fellow bloggers, I have come to realize that this is a real thing where real people and real writers express themselves as individuals and as a community and it is not cool to, as some of my favorite co-workers would say, bite someone’s steez. In other (real) words, I must change the name of my blog in order to avoid stealing from someone and breaking a law. Capisce? So, ok, I now have no name for my blog..... This blog shall heretofore remain nameless until I can think of something which will accurately capture what I do here. What do I do here? Well, I ask myself that all the time. This is the best explanation: I am a writer who is trying to get over the untimely loss of her mother whilst still attempting to crack people up with silly everyday stories. What do you call that? Oh crap. I feel a brainstorming session coming on.
Anyway, more to follow, and a Happy 2008 to everyone I love, and everyone out there in blog-world. I have a feeling it is going to be a great year!!
Now, I am finally going to go catch up on all of my fave blogs, this time with a slightly clearer head.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Solitary Woman
Ahhhhhhhh, the single life.
Well, not really, but Mike is on a business trip this week, so I am pretending for a few days. Whoa, don’t go getting any ideas there; I’m not going to go out on dates or to a bar to pick up a suitable temporary boyfriend-replacement or anything. In fact, I’m not sure that I even remember how to do that. I am, however, going to revel in my aloneness.
Monday night I watched television for two straight hours. I held the remote loosely in my hand knowing that no one would stroll into the room and sneakily snatch it from my grip under the guise of a fake hug. I did not flip channels 9.4 million times during commercials; I watched every single one of them because I work in marketing, and I like commercials, and I want to watch them, dammit. I engrossed myself in the episodes of The Girls Next Door that I had Tivoed, and even cried when one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends talked about her brother being overseas in Iraq. No one laughed at me, no one commented that one of the girls is hotter than another, no one mentioned the fact that I, an intelligent, feminist career-woman, was shedding actual tears over a show about the Playboy Mansion.
I didn’t cook dinner, but instead ate leftovers out of a big bowl with a big spoon and shared with the dog. I picked through the new candy I bought to put out for Christmas. Some of the flavors were really good; some were not so good. I tasted all of the different kinds and spat the not-so-good ones into a napkin.
I closed the blinds and sang show tunes at the top of my lungs in the living room, incorporating my own choreography. Normally when I start singing, Mike immediately turns the stereo on, as if my breaking out into song is simply a desperate cry to hear music, instead of an expression of my feelings. It’s not as if I’m a horrible singer; I’m positive I would advance to the Hollywood portion of American Idol*, especially if Simon Cowell had seen Monday night's performance. However, Mike doesn’t seem to appreciate the rare talent that exists right there under the same roof. My dog likes my singing and even follows me around when I really get going; his favorite song is Gershwin’s Someone to Watch Over Me. Mike is missing out.
It started to get a little late, so I decided to try on outfits for a while. Then I went on MySpace and looked at the profiles of everyone I went to high school with while I sipped one of Mike’s good, dark beers stolen from the back of the fridge. I wore my rattiest sweatshirt and my comfy pants that Mike has deemed the “unsexiest” item of clothing I own. I blared Joni Mitchell and Brandi Carlile and Alanis Morisette on iTunes, and dedicated the songs to “all of my listeners out there enjoying a little 'me-time' tonight.”
I had a full-on conversation with my dog about how pretty the tree looked with all of the decorations, and how much snow he thought we were going to get overnight, and what he wanted for Christmas. Then I let him get into the bed with me. We had been up way past our bedtimes.
I woke up the next morning all stretched out, a proverbial X across our bed, hoarding pillows and blankets. I was so comfortable and well rested. And, ok, maybe just a tiny bit lonely.
Last night, I ate Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. The kind with the day-glo orange powdered cheese. Mike is a foodie, capable of creating amazing gourmet meals, and so am I, but I also appreciate my childhood comfort foods. Mike does not. I think his parents must have started feeding him caviar and Duck Confit while he was still in the high-chair because he has never understood how I can eat “that stuff.” I, on the other hand, love the simplicity of a kiddie-meal. Give me some chicken fingers or reconstituted cheese-sauce a couple of times a year, and I am happy as a clam. A fried clam.
I watched two chick flicks in a row last night. I painted my toenails, plucked my eyebrows, and polished some of my jewelry. I drank another one of those dark beers.
Tonight, I am planning to read for four straight hours without someone asking me if I have seen his volleyball shorts anywhere. But first, I have to shovel the snow. I also have to lug the huge recycling bin down the front steps and out into the street and take the trash out through the dark garage into the dark alley. This morning, I had to scrape the ice off of my own car, something Mike always sweetly does without being asked.
Wait a second, now I am sort of starting to miss him.
See? I do miss Mike when he’s gone, but then I remember that he will be home in a couple of days, so I go back to basking in the joy of unaccompaniament. Until I have to go down into the dark, scary basement and turn off a light that I don’t even remember turning on. That’s just spooky.
I lived alone for five years before I met Mike. Before that, I was raised by a single mother in a house full of girls. My sisters and I learned to do it all, the boy-chores and the girl-chores, and the spooky stuff, at very early ages. I have fixed my own plumbing, changed oil and several tires, taken tons of garbage out, lifted furniture, and removed many difficult lids in my lifetime. I am very capable of these things, and I loved every single minute of my single days, but there are certain things that a girl, even a strong-woman type of a girl, can get used to a man taking care of. I can still do it all myself, but I kind of just don’t want to anymore. Mike does such a good job at those things (with some minimal nagging), and on top of it, I really just like hanging around him. Who knew that would ever happen to me?
I never used to picture myself settling down. I always just assumed that I would be a little bit of a loner for my whole life, spending time with my great friends, but then going home by myself. Eventually, when I became a famous and wealthy author, I would adopt a child or two and spend my time on charity missions like Angelina Jolie pre-Brad-Pitt. My parents were divorced when I was so young that the single parent lifestyle always made so much sense to me, and was even sort of appealing. Now, though, my outlook has shifted a little bit. I am starting to understand what my girlfriends were pining for all of those years.
I think it took me finding a guy like Mike, my polar opposite who will always have a million things going on, a social butterfly with a crazy calendar. I contrast him with my desire to be alone with myself on a weekly basis, on the couch with a book, singing show tunes with gusto, or running solo, iPod-filled miles on the treadmill. He with his twelve team sports to play, his million friends calling on the phone, and his uncanny ability to get the dog riled up right before bed. I, a little more guarded about whom I spend my time with, a little more content to pass up a crazy night on the town, and a little more annoyed with a happy dog dropping a wet, slimy tennis ball next to my sleeping face at three in the morning. Mike is so anal about certain things, and way too lax about others, and I am his exact contradiction, not properly abiding by the rules of his inanely organized cabinets and drawers, but then going crazy over a pile of boxers on the floor in the bathroom. Oh yeah, we also crack each other up to the point that our cheeks hurt.
In lieu of all of my solitary intentions, I got a crush a few years back that I haven’t been able to make myself get over. I got sucked in. I got stripped of my strong-single-girl crown. I got sold, but I have no buyer’s remorse. I found the guy I was supposed to find, and he found me, and we get each other. It’s a Gershwin song come true, right here in Denver, Colorado, and it is just all so friggin sappy that I don’t even know what to do with myself.
Actually, the ball and chain isn’t back for a couple more days; I’m sure I can figure something out.
*I know that I am too old to try out for American Idol. No one needs to remind me.
Well, not really, but Mike is on a business trip this week, so I am pretending for a few days. Whoa, don’t go getting any ideas there; I’m not going to go out on dates or to a bar to pick up a suitable temporary boyfriend-replacement or anything. In fact, I’m not sure that I even remember how to do that. I am, however, going to revel in my aloneness.
Monday night I watched television for two straight hours. I held the remote loosely in my hand knowing that no one would stroll into the room and sneakily snatch it from my grip under the guise of a fake hug. I did not flip channels 9.4 million times during commercials; I watched every single one of them because I work in marketing, and I like commercials, and I want to watch them, dammit. I engrossed myself in the episodes of The Girls Next Door that I had Tivoed, and even cried when one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends talked about her brother being overseas in Iraq. No one laughed at me, no one commented that one of the girls is hotter than another, no one mentioned the fact that I, an intelligent, feminist career-woman, was shedding actual tears over a show about the Playboy Mansion.
I didn’t cook dinner, but instead ate leftovers out of a big bowl with a big spoon and shared with the dog. I picked through the new candy I bought to put out for Christmas. Some of the flavors were really good; some were not so good. I tasted all of the different kinds and spat the not-so-good ones into a napkin.
I closed the blinds and sang show tunes at the top of my lungs in the living room, incorporating my own choreography. Normally when I start singing, Mike immediately turns the stereo on, as if my breaking out into song is simply a desperate cry to hear music, instead of an expression of my feelings. It’s not as if I’m a horrible singer; I’m positive I would advance to the Hollywood portion of American Idol*, especially if Simon Cowell had seen Monday night's performance. However, Mike doesn’t seem to appreciate the rare talent that exists right there under the same roof. My dog likes my singing and even follows me around when I really get going; his favorite song is Gershwin’s Someone to Watch Over Me. Mike is missing out.
It started to get a little late, so I decided to try on outfits for a while. Then I went on MySpace and looked at the profiles of everyone I went to high school with while I sipped one of Mike’s good, dark beers stolen from the back of the fridge. I wore my rattiest sweatshirt and my comfy pants that Mike has deemed the “unsexiest” item of clothing I own. I blared Joni Mitchell and Brandi Carlile and Alanis Morisette on iTunes, and dedicated the songs to “all of my listeners out there enjoying a little 'me-time' tonight.”
I had a full-on conversation with my dog about how pretty the tree looked with all of the decorations, and how much snow he thought we were going to get overnight, and what he wanted for Christmas. Then I let him get into the bed with me. We had been up way past our bedtimes.
I woke up the next morning all stretched out, a proverbial X across our bed, hoarding pillows and blankets. I was so comfortable and well rested. And, ok, maybe just a tiny bit lonely.
Last night, I ate Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. The kind with the day-glo orange powdered cheese. Mike is a foodie, capable of creating amazing gourmet meals, and so am I, but I also appreciate my childhood comfort foods. Mike does not. I think his parents must have started feeding him caviar and Duck Confit while he was still in the high-chair because he has never understood how I can eat “that stuff.” I, on the other hand, love the simplicity of a kiddie-meal. Give me some chicken fingers or reconstituted cheese-sauce a couple of times a year, and I am happy as a clam. A fried clam.
I watched two chick flicks in a row last night. I painted my toenails, plucked my eyebrows, and polished some of my jewelry. I drank another one of those dark beers.
Tonight, I am planning to read for four straight hours without someone asking me if I have seen his volleyball shorts anywhere. But first, I have to shovel the snow. I also have to lug the huge recycling bin down the front steps and out into the street and take the trash out through the dark garage into the dark alley. This morning, I had to scrape the ice off of my own car, something Mike always sweetly does without being asked.
Wait a second, now I am sort of starting to miss him.
See? I do miss Mike when he’s gone, but then I remember that he will be home in a couple of days, so I go back to basking in the joy of unaccompaniament. Until I have to go down into the dark, scary basement and turn off a light that I don’t even remember turning on. That’s just spooky.
I lived alone for five years before I met Mike. Before that, I was raised by a single mother in a house full of girls. My sisters and I learned to do it all, the boy-chores and the girl-chores, and the spooky stuff, at very early ages. I have fixed my own plumbing, changed oil and several tires, taken tons of garbage out, lifted furniture, and removed many difficult lids in my lifetime. I am very capable of these things, and I loved every single minute of my single days, but there are certain things that a girl, even a strong-woman type of a girl, can get used to a man taking care of. I can still do it all myself, but I kind of just don’t want to anymore. Mike does such a good job at those things (with some minimal nagging), and on top of it, I really just like hanging around him. Who knew that would ever happen to me?
I never used to picture myself settling down. I always just assumed that I would be a little bit of a loner for my whole life, spending time with my great friends, but then going home by myself. Eventually, when I became a famous and wealthy author, I would adopt a child or two and spend my time on charity missions like Angelina Jolie pre-Brad-Pitt. My parents were divorced when I was so young that the single parent lifestyle always made so much sense to me, and was even sort of appealing. Now, though, my outlook has shifted a little bit. I am starting to understand what my girlfriends were pining for all of those years.
I think it took me finding a guy like Mike, my polar opposite who will always have a million things going on, a social butterfly with a crazy calendar. I contrast him with my desire to be alone with myself on a weekly basis, on the couch with a book, singing show tunes with gusto, or running solo, iPod-filled miles on the treadmill. He with his twelve team sports to play, his million friends calling on the phone, and his uncanny ability to get the dog riled up right before bed. I, a little more guarded about whom I spend my time with, a little more content to pass up a crazy night on the town, and a little more annoyed with a happy dog dropping a wet, slimy tennis ball next to my sleeping face at three in the morning. Mike is so anal about certain things, and way too lax about others, and I am his exact contradiction, not properly abiding by the rules of his inanely organized cabinets and drawers, but then going crazy over a pile of boxers on the floor in the bathroom. Oh yeah, we also crack each other up to the point that our cheeks hurt.
In lieu of all of my solitary intentions, I got a crush a few years back that I haven’t been able to make myself get over. I got sucked in. I got stripped of my strong-single-girl crown. I got sold, but I have no buyer’s remorse. I found the guy I was supposed to find, and he found me, and we get each other. It’s a Gershwin song come true, right here in Denver, Colorado, and it is just all so friggin sappy that I don’t even know what to do with myself.
Actually, the ball and chain isn’t back for a couple more days; I’m sure I can figure something out.
*I know that I am too old to try out for American Idol. No one needs to remind me.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Thank You, Henry James
For those few months, I fell into a damaging pattern of taking everything personally, and reacting to situations in ways that would never have occurred to me before. Yelling and freaking out when I got cut off in traffic, ranting and raving to whomever would listen about work issues that were really not a huge deal, subconsciously doing things to get a rise out of people who loved me so that they would get angry, too. Not good. While I was being angry, I was also withdrawing from all of my friends, meanwhile keeping myself very busy by gaining 40 pounds. (Can you say ‘Emotional Eater’?) Then, when my clothes wouldn’t fit, and when I would look fat in pictures, guess what? That’s right. I would get really effing Angry. Something had to give.
I’m not sure what exactly it was, maybe just a normal part of the healing process, but about a month ago, the Angry just started to go away. Halloween night, after I embarrassed myself in front of the mayor, I was reading Real Simple Magazine. One page in every issue of their magazine is always a beautiful nature photograph with a deep quote next to it that is intended to make you reflect on life. Sometimes I think the quotes are a little cheesy, but this one stopped me in my tracks. It was a photo of a tiny, fluffy baby bird sitting in the palm of a man’s large hand. The quote was:
Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.
-Henry James
It really struck a chord with me. The old Cara would have cut it out and posted it on the fridge, dutifully using these words to live by as a small inspiration each day. Angry Cara, who was sitting there reading that magazine, was inclined to roll her eyes and flip the page, idly continuing the search for holiday shopping tips and Thanksgiving cooking ideas. But, something in the quote made the old Cara start to wake up a little. I stared at the page. I read it over and over and over again. I unexpectedly felt tears on my cheeks. I cut it out and posted it on the fridge.
It occurred to me that I had not been being very kind to anyone in a long time. Sure, I was always nice to servers at restaurants, and the checker at the grocery store. I bought Girl Scout cookies when the kids came to the door, and I always waved and said hi to my neighbors. My heart wasn’t in it, though. I used to be a really nice person, and I meant it; it came from somewhere inside of me, and it was definitely put there by my mother. There is a very real difference between being kind and just being polite; I was still going through the motions of being a good person because we are all supposed to, but inside, I really wasn’t giving a crap. On top of it, I was abusing my relationship with my boyfriend, ignoring friends’ phone calls and invitations, and apparently being sort of a bitch at the office. The only living thing I’d really connected with in months was my dog. For some reason I felt like he was the only one who could possibly understand me, an animal with no real ability to truly understand. How irrational is that?
I tried to explain to Mike a few months back that I was waking up every single morning with an uncontrollable urge to throw baseballs as hard as I could through big glass-paned windows. I craved the release and the noise and the force of it all; I would actually spend time picturing it and trying to capture in my mind what it would really feel like. What I have since learned is that the feeling, that fist in my gut, and my heart and my brain that wouldn’t unclench, it has a name, and that name is rage. I have always been such a comedic, even-keeled person that I didn’t even know what the feeling was. I thought I had just developed some weird baseball/window fetish, but there was actual rage inside of me. Mike tried to understand, and he always did a good job of helping me to feel better, but I am sure he was questioning my sanity. I was questioning my sanity, too.
The morning after I read the Henry James quote, I woke up with a different feeling. I woke up thinking: Yes, I am still sad, and I will probably always be a little sad, but today, I am not angry. I will be angry again in the future, but it will not control me, and today, the most important thing is to be kind.
*******
Today, I was walking out to get into my car and make the commute to the office. As I strolled to the driver’s side door of my little SUV, I noticed black plastic and bolts, and broken glass scattered all over the street. I looked at my car and realized that, as it was parked on the street overnight, someone had driven by and clipped my mirror, completely torn it off, a total side-mirror-ectomy. I let out a groan, and picked up the pieces and went inside to get Mike who was still shaving. He came out and took a look at it, assessed the damage in his ever-so-analytical engineer way, and said “Well, I’ll price them today and fix it over the weekend.”
I sighed and even stomped my boot once, “Arrrrggh. This sucks!”
Then I kissed Mike and said goodbye and got behind the wheel. As I was getting ready to pull out into the street, my eyes instinctively went to where the mirror would have been, had it not just been reduced to a tangle of wires and broken plastic protruding from the side of my car. I laughed at it. It looked so ridiculous, and here I was still trying to use it to check behind me. It occurred to me that I was not really Angry about this unfortunate little event; I was just annoyed. Annoyed I can deal with. Annoyed feels healthy and normal. Annoyed does not feel like baseballs crashing through glass.
I do not know why certain things happen in life. I try to believe that things happen for specific reasons, but sometimes it seems that an event will take place and there is absolutely no semblance of a reason attached. It will always be one of those things that humans will never be able to understand. I do not know the reason for my mom dying when she was so young and when I still needed her so much, but I definitely know why some idiot knocked the mirror off of my car. It was simply to show me that the old Cara is back. That is worth way more than the $69.99 for part number 22095 at AutoZone.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Sweet November
I didn’t want to jinx it by writing about it before, but now that November is over, I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate myself and my fabulous boyfriend on our first-ever dry month. That’s right, for thirty straight days, all of November, neither of us consumed even a sip of alcohol. It isn't as if we have ever been really hardcore drinkers, but we are quite social, and while in Europe, we ended up imbibing on Italian wine or Irish beer and whiskey almost everyday for 14 straight days. Then, upon our return, we were going out and catching up with the friends we’d missed while being gone for two weeks and drinking even more. A couple of beers here, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner there, a couple of crazy Friday nights here and there.
I was starting to wonder if my good time was actually dependent on drinking. Plus, let’s face it, I am definitely not in my twenties anymore, and the extra calories from the alcohol alone, not to mention the foods I decide to eat when my inhibitions are slightly lowered, are enough to turn me off of it while I am in the midst of trying to lose a substantial amount of weight. I also just wanted to see, or even to make sure, that I could do it. We did do it; here’s how it went down.
Week One was easy enough because there wasn’t too much going on. I did notice that I had a couple of actual cravings for a drink. I’m not sure if the cravings were physical or psychological, but either way, it made me feel kind of bad about myself. Things at work were a little stressful, and I would come home in a bad mood. Normally, I would think nothing of having a big glass of wine as I transitioned from being Angry-Work-Cara to becoming Nice-At-Home-Cara, but since I couldn’t have it, I became slightly obsessed (this is also the reason I am world’s worst dieter.) Maybe I was actually transitioning into Boozehound-Cara without realizing it. This was not the way I wanted to live my life. On the positive side, it was easy to make any cravings disappear by doing something physical. I would take my dog for a run, and then come home and drink tea and Crystal Light, and that seemed to do the trick. This was also the first week since I quit smoking that I didn’t even think about a cigarette. Was it just me, or was I actually becoming a healthy person?
The second Saturday of the month was a friend’s birthday party. We met the group for “drinks and dinner” at a local bar that is known for having the best burgers in Denver. Mike and I showed up to hang out for a couple of hours, had a small burger and a couple of Diet Cokes each and, surprisingly, a really good time. After dinner, the group was headed to a club, but we declined. We were home warm in our bed by 10 o’clock. The next morning, without having to force myself, I got up early and went for a run with my dog.
We went to a hockey game that Sunday night with a group from Mike’s work. This is where it gets interesting because Mike actually works for one of the biggest breweries in the country, and so free or extremely cheap beer is basically a staple in our lives, not to mention the source of the bread-winning income. (I’m not sure why, but writers do not get paid as much as analytical math-geniuses…it just isn’t fair.) Anyway, for his work event we had the luxury suite and the beer was free, a reward for Mike’s team performing well on a big project. Luckily, the water and soda were free, too. I had three bottles of water, a Diet Pepsi (surprisingly, there is no Diet Coke at the Pepsi Center) and, in between the twelve trips to the bathroom, I also managed to eat my weight (also known as a very large amount) in items selected from the junk food spread laid out before us. I ate a bratwurst, and then I ate nachos, and then I munched stolen handfuls from a huge basket of caramel corn until I felt like I was going to projectile vomit. I never felt like I was missing out by not drinking with everyone else, but then again, I made up for it by morphing into a huge hog in front of Mike’s co-workers. So much for the calorie deficit.
During the week, we had it down to a science. We made dinner together every night, never really thought too much about drinking, and went along our merry way. At least we wouldn’t have thought much about it if I hadn’t kept babbling about how well we were doing, and how sometimes I wanted a glass of wine, and how, wow, didn’t a beer sound good. Mike finally asked me why I insisted on continually talking about it, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure; I just felt like discussing it all the time. Mike on the other hand was planning to just power through it without talking about it, kind of an “out-of-mind, out-of-mind” mentality. For him, the first rule of the dry month was: don’t talk about the dry month. This is one of the main differences between Mike and I, I mean besides the fact that we have completely opposite personalities and ways of thinking. I needed to talk about it; I needed to bond with him over our shared goal. I was using it as a conversation cornerstone, while he was just going on with his life. I was driving him absolutely crazy. If he’d been allowed, I would have driven him to drink.
Week Three started with me weighing in at eight pounds less than I did on the first of the month. Eight!!! It also started with our Warren Miller extravaganza night (read about it in Ladies Room-ology 101). Everyone at our table was enjoying the five-liter jugs of wine they serve at Buca di Beppo. That’s right, they bring you wine in huge gallon-plus bottles which, unless you lift weights fairly frequently, are just about impossible to pour into your glass. I think that night was the hardest for Mike because his two best friends from college were there. This is also the night that I learned that people who are slightly intoxicated are much more hilarious and not nearly as annoying when I am slightly intoxicated, too. This was a valuable lesson, because it also made me wonder if I become slightly annoying and not very funny when I have had a few drinks. In my mind, a couple of cocktails makes the opposite happen, I become the life of the party and people begin falling in love with me left and right. By not drinking, I learned that, in my mind, I am wrong.
I’m sure you are beginning to see the pattern here. We went to all the usual events that we would normally go to for all of November, and we ordered drinks like Diet Coke and club soda, even getting wild once and having a round of Arnold Palmers. We were good, and it paid off. I lost weight, never thought about smoking, and actually felt like being active, instead of the usual where I am active, but I bitch about it the entire time. Plus, I never once felt like crap when I woke up in the morning. What an epiphany. My drinking habits are officially changed for life.
“Ummm, hello, Cara? This is adulthood calling, and I have arrived.”
The night of November 30th, Mike and I went to meet our friends at Happy Hour League. (umm, yes, we are sort of on a drinking team, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds) We drank water the whole time and caught up with everyone right up until we started to not completely like them anymore. Then we went home. The next day would bring the Santa Pub Crawl, a charity event that we attend every year. I would have drinks that night, but I would drink them armed with my new knowledge:
I do not need to drink to have a good time;
I am a grownup who does not have to give into peer pressure;
I am in charge of everything I put into my body; and
Anything that makes me lose eight pounds in three weeks is not only something I will try again, but it very well may become my new religion. Cheers.
I was starting to wonder if my good time was actually dependent on drinking. Plus, let’s face it, I am definitely not in my twenties anymore, and the extra calories from the alcohol alone, not to mention the foods I decide to eat when my inhibitions are slightly lowered, are enough to turn me off of it while I am in the midst of trying to lose a substantial amount of weight. I also just wanted to see, or even to make sure, that I could do it. We did do it; here’s how it went down.
Week One was easy enough because there wasn’t too much going on. I did notice that I had a couple of actual cravings for a drink. I’m not sure if the cravings were physical or psychological, but either way, it made me feel kind of bad about myself. Things at work were a little stressful, and I would come home in a bad mood. Normally, I would think nothing of having a big glass of wine as I transitioned from being Angry-Work-Cara to becoming Nice-At-Home-Cara, but since I couldn’t have it, I became slightly obsessed (this is also the reason I am world’s worst dieter.) Maybe I was actually transitioning into Boozehound-Cara without realizing it. This was not the way I wanted to live my life. On the positive side, it was easy to make any cravings disappear by doing something physical. I would take my dog for a run, and then come home and drink tea and Crystal Light, and that seemed to do the trick. This was also the first week since I quit smoking that I didn’t even think about a cigarette. Was it just me, or was I actually becoming a healthy person?
The second Saturday of the month was a friend’s birthday party. We met the group for “drinks and dinner” at a local bar that is known for having the best burgers in Denver. Mike and I showed up to hang out for a couple of hours, had a small burger and a couple of Diet Cokes each and, surprisingly, a really good time. After dinner, the group was headed to a club, but we declined. We were home warm in our bed by 10 o’clock. The next morning, without having to force myself, I got up early and went for a run with my dog.
We went to a hockey game that Sunday night with a group from Mike’s work. This is where it gets interesting because Mike actually works for one of the biggest breweries in the country, and so free or extremely cheap beer is basically a staple in our lives, not to mention the source of the bread-winning income. (I’m not sure why, but writers do not get paid as much as analytical math-geniuses…it just isn’t fair.) Anyway, for his work event we had the luxury suite and the beer was free, a reward for Mike’s team performing well on a big project. Luckily, the water and soda were free, too. I had three bottles of water, a Diet Pepsi (surprisingly, there is no Diet Coke at the Pepsi Center) and, in between the twelve trips to the bathroom, I also managed to eat my weight (also known as a very large amount) in items selected from the junk food spread laid out before us. I ate a bratwurst, and then I ate nachos, and then I munched stolen handfuls from a huge basket of caramel corn until I felt like I was going to projectile vomit. I never felt like I was missing out by not drinking with everyone else, but then again, I made up for it by morphing into a huge hog in front of Mike’s co-workers. So much for the calorie deficit.
During the week, we had it down to a science. We made dinner together every night, never really thought too much about drinking, and went along our merry way. At least we wouldn’t have thought much about it if I hadn’t kept babbling about how well we were doing, and how sometimes I wanted a glass of wine, and how, wow, didn’t a beer sound good. Mike finally asked me why I insisted on continually talking about it, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure; I just felt like discussing it all the time. Mike on the other hand was planning to just power through it without talking about it, kind of an “out-of-mind, out-of-mind” mentality. For him, the first rule of the dry month was: don’t talk about the dry month. This is one of the main differences between Mike and I, I mean besides the fact that we have completely opposite personalities and ways of thinking. I needed to talk about it; I needed to bond with him over our shared goal. I was using it as a conversation cornerstone, while he was just going on with his life. I was driving him absolutely crazy. If he’d been allowed, I would have driven him to drink.
Week Three started with me weighing in at eight pounds less than I did on the first of the month. Eight!!! It also started with our Warren Miller extravaganza night (read about it in Ladies Room-ology 101). Everyone at our table was enjoying the five-liter jugs of wine they serve at Buca di Beppo. That’s right, they bring you wine in huge gallon-plus bottles which, unless you lift weights fairly frequently, are just about impossible to pour into your glass. I think that night was the hardest for Mike because his two best friends from college were there. This is also the night that I learned that people who are slightly intoxicated are much more hilarious and not nearly as annoying when I am slightly intoxicated, too. This was a valuable lesson, because it also made me wonder if I become slightly annoying and not very funny when I have had a few drinks. In my mind, a couple of cocktails makes the opposite happen, I become the life of the party and people begin falling in love with me left and right. By not drinking, I learned that, in my mind, I am wrong.
I’m sure you are beginning to see the pattern here. We went to all the usual events that we would normally go to for all of November, and we ordered drinks like Diet Coke and club soda, even getting wild once and having a round of Arnold Palmers. We were good, and it paid off. I lost weight, never thought about smoking, and actually felt like being active, instead of the usual where I am active, but I bitch about it the entire time. Plus, I never once felt like crap when I woke up in the morning. What an epiphany. My drinking habits are officially changed for life.
“Ummm, hello, Cara? This is adulthood calling, and I have arrived.”
The night of November 30th, Mike and I went to meet our friends at Happy Hour League. (umm, yes, we are sort of on a drinking team, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds) We drank water the whole time and caught up with everyone right up until we started to not completely like them anymore. Then we went home. The next day would bring the Santa Pub Crawl, a charity event that we attend every year. I would have drinks that night, but I would drink them armed with my new knowledge:
I do not need to drink to have a good time;
I am a grownup who does not have to give into peer pressure;
I am in charge of everything I put into my body; and
Anything that makes me lose eight pounds in three weeks is not only something I will try again, but it very well may become my new religion. Cheers.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Ugly Duckling and His Fearless Leader
When I met my dog, Blue, at a rescue four years ago, he was about the ugliest little excuse for a puppy I had ever seen. I had no idea what breeds were mixed up inside of him, and he had a runny nose and two different colored eyes. One of his ears flopped over while one stood at attention, his tail looked like a droopy, grey feather duster dragging on the ground behind him, and his coat was at least six different colors at once. When I saw him, he was sleeping in the middle of a large pile of puppies. As I crouched down to get a better look at all of the slumbering miniature dogs, he opened one eye, it was brown, and then he opened his other eye, this one the palest blue, and he stared right at me through the bars of the pen. Slowly he stretched, trod clumsily over his sleeping brothers and sisters, and waddled over to me with his crazy tail in a slow wag, sweeping dirt back and forth on the floor of the enclosure. He was cute because he was a baby, but that was about the only thing he had going for him. He licked my fingers, and I scratched his homely little head then kept walking around to find the puppy who would become my faithful companion.
As I wandered around, taking in the other much more regal and beautiful puppies, it occurred to me that the unsightly little dog I saw first would probably get the snub from everyone who walked by him. Who would want to bring home a puppy that looked like a Star Wars character? What would happen to him if no one adopted him? I cursed my conscience as I made my way back to his pen. As soon as he saw me, he determinedly crawled over the other puppies again, stepping on ears and tails as he made his way, and came right back up to me, not breaking eye contact for a second. He nudged his nose under my hand, forcing me to pet him and stealthily closing the sale. I waved the rescue volunteer over and said, “I’ll take this guy”
The volunteer eyed me, but she did not ask me if I was sure. I think she had been in the business long enough to know a sucker when she saw one and to know that this puppy’s chances at a good life just improved greatly. She picked him up and handed him to me, and we bonded. This was going to be my best friend for the next ten to twelve years, I had better get used to looking at him.
In what is a rare, small dose of good karma in my life, Blue turned out to be a beautiful dog. His other ear straightened up, his tail started to take on a curl that made it look like a fancy plume in a pirate’s hat, and his two different colored eyes, which were just plain strange on a puppy, are actually quite striking on a large dog. We cannot go for a walk without someone commenting on how gorgeous he is. Upon hearing this, Blue will turn around and look at me with a very slight hint of “ I told you so” in his eyes. We owe each other for many things.
In addition to being a looker, Blue is also a really good dog. I worked hard to train him when he was a puppy, and that, along with the fact that he caught on really quickly, paid off. I used elements of the Monks of New Skete training method, which involves never using any negative physical contact, becoming your dog's 'pack leader', and never punishing your dog for something which you do not catch him directly in the act of doing. It was all about positive reinforcement. Blue has not had an accident in the house since he was ten weeks old, and he quit chewing anything that didn’t belong to him by 6 months. He sits, lies down, and stays on command. He comes when he is called (unless there is a squirrel involved) and he walks right next to me when he is off the leash (this was Mike’s training, not mine…credit where it’s due and all). Blue climbs mountains with us, camps like a pro, plays well with other dogs for the most part, and is well-behaved at my dad’s house on holidays. He has his quirks, but overall, he is a great dog, and I love him as if he were my own baby.
Blue and I lived a very peaceful existence for two full years, and then along came the second love-of-my-life.
Mike has always been great with Blue. They play together like little kids, and because of the way they roughhouse and wrestle around, Mike has become Blue’s alpha-male. So, awesome for me, my boyfriend loves my dog, and not-so-awesome for me, I no longer have my (sellout) dog’s undivided attention and respect. The little ugly baby I rescued, now turns to Mike for guidance and play. When I get home from work, Blue wags his tail and licks my hand, and then wanders off to find the cat. When Mike comes home, my dog can barely contain his excitement. Blue hears his car pull up, runs for the door, wags his entire backside, and pants like he just might not make it. I am the food-provider and the cuddler; Mike is Blue’s dad, pack leader, and best friend. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
Because of Mike’s paternal role in Blue’s life, and now that we are all living together, it is only logical that he should have some part in the raising of the dog. Taking his alpha-male status at face value, and even keeping the chest-beating to a minimum, Mike has decided to work on some of Blue’s little quirks, the ones that, over the years, I have just accepted.
One of Blue’s said quirks is his innate ability to sense that there is food within his reach on the counter, and that there is no one around to stop him from stealing it. He has stolen a number of things from the counter while I have been gone. He once pulled an entire pan of lasagna down and ate all of it, approximately three pounds of Italian goodness, leaving the empty pan on the sofa looking as if it had just come out of the dishwasher. Other than a slightly distended belly, and skipping his dinner that night, the feast didn’t even faze my dog.
While somewhat irritating, I think that this is pretty normal dog behavior, and since I am aware of the problem, I have tried to modify my own behavior. I try to never leave anything within his reach, and, in turn, he has nothing to steal, plus my kitchen is much cleaner. But of course, whenever the human element is present, there is always room for error.
Friday night we were in a hurry. We had a busy weekend ahead of us, and we still needed to put up the Christmas tree. I was going to make chili on Saturday, so I pulled some frozen hamburger out of the freezer to defrost. I normally would have put it on top of the refrigerator, but I was doing too many things at once and forgot. So there it was, a pound and a half of frozen hamburger just sitting there for the taking. Insult to injury, Mike, who was also in a hurry because I was ordering him to be in a hurry, left a package of tortillas on the counter. We were already a couple of miles down the road to meet our friends when it hit me. “I left the hamburger on the counter. Crap.”
“Do you really think he’ll steal frozen hamburger? I mean since it’s frozen, he might not even be interested in it, right?,” Mike asked, not even remembering that he had left the tortillas out, too.
“Maybe not,” I rationalized right along with him “it should be ok.”
I knew that this was a complete farce and that Blue would indeed steal the hamburger, but we were already late, and I so I talked myself out of going back.
Two hours later, when we got home, Blue had, of course handily disposed of the hamburger and the tortillas, the empty packages strewn across the floor of the guest bedroom, evidence of the crime that had taken place. Time of hamburger death, between the hours of 7 and 9 pm. The guestroom is where Blue always takes his stolen treasures. I think that, because we don’t go in there that often, he thinks that the trash leftover from his little foray into thievery will go unnoticed.
I pictured Blue sprawled out on the floor in the guest room making little burritos with the tortillas and frozen meat, a dog- friendly version of the Food Network. He would say to his audience of Collies and Schnauzers, "Now you can defrost yours at home, but I prefer it frozen, fresh off the counter." I smiled at my mental movie, while Mike looked frustrated. “Aren’t you even going to yell at him?” he asked, incredulous.
I explained for the twelfth time that the training method I’d chosen to use with Blue instructed using angry words with your dog only if you catch him in the actual act of whatever horrible deed he may decide to commit. Dogs don’t have the cognitive ability to remember that the crime they committed an hour ago is the cause of the punishment they are receiving now; it wasn’t fair to punish him when we didn’t catch him misbehaving.
Mike was not really satisfied with this explanation because he knows, like I do, that Blue is fully aware when he has done something wrong. When we came home, he wagged his tail tentatively, but didn’t move from his perch on the back of the couch (another quirk). When I walked into the kitchen and saw the missing meat, I went straight to the guestroom to look for evidence. Blue took this opportunity to run right past me and out through his dog door. He hung out in the yard for a few minutes until he was sure that our lack of cognitive ability would prevent us from remembering that he was the prime suspect, and then he put just his head and front legs inside through the door and stood like that for a minute or two to make sure the coast was clear. Although I couldn’t see it, I’m sure his tail was wagging to and fro outside the house. He was toying with us.
The next day, as we were driving down the highway to a friend’s birthday party, Mike put his foot down; he does not like to be toyed with. “We really need to do something about Blue stealing food from the counter”, he said with authority.
I asked him what exactly he was proposing. I love my dog, but I am definitely open for good training possibilities, especially since Blue is usually pretty receptive. Besides, Mike is all “Dog Whisperer” now that he is Blue’s chosen one; maybe he had a plan. Mike began to wax intellectual about the finer points of dog rearing when a picture suddenly came into my head. Remember that Public Service Announcement from the 80’s about marijuana? I think everyone knows it. The dad in the commercial catches his son smoking pot and is yelling at him, “Where did you learn how to do this??!! WHERE???” And the kid is kind of cowering away from him, and then he gets brave for a second and says “I learned it by watching you, Dad. I learned it by watching YOU!!”
It was all very dramatic.
It occurred to me that Mike was just like this hypocritical, pot-smoking dad, except for that he doesn’t smoke pot, and he has a dog instead of a stoned teenager, and he is also thankfully minus that 70’s-porn-style mustache. But basically, the concept was the same. Mike had the audacity to be upset about Blue stealing food from the counter, when it is an activity that he himself engages in on a daily basis. I pictured Mike coming home from work while I’m making dinner and stealing from whatever pan or bowl I am using while I swat violently at his hand. He does this every single night. When we are on our way out the door to go to dinner, he will suddenly decide that he is too hungry to wait and he will go get a snack, even while I am yelling at him that we are on our way to an actual restaurant where they will give him some food (this is how the tortillas ended up on the counter in the first place.) If we make cookies, Mike has his fingers in the raw dough constantly even though I beg him to stop. When the recipe says it yields three dozen, I know that, at my house, it yields two. I have hidden things I don’t want him to eat in the very back of the freezer or pantry many times. He finds all of these items within mere minutes, a human dog, sniffing out frozen hamburger. Sadly, the Monks of New Skete training method does not work on him. I catch Mike in the act of stealing all the time, and I try the loud handclap and firm command that they recommend, but it just doesn’t work, even with his highly developed reasoning and language cognition skills.
So I have decided not to pursue any corrective actions where Blue’s counter clearing behavior is involved. I am going to put Mike in charge of that part of raising our dog. If my genius plan works, and if reverse psychology is still effective, they should both be cured any day now. Now where did I put those cookies?
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