From WW to WTF

My blog buddies, KatieO, Crabby McSlacker, and ThickChick have fabulous fitness/weight-loss/health blogs that I read daily and use as inspiration in my quest to lose weight. I soak up their advice and great ideas and funny stories, and even steal recipes and awesome workout playlists, and I use these things to my advantage. But I never pay them back, except for with the occasional witty comment. (if I do say so myself) So, while my blog is not based on fitness and weight-loss, I am going to attempt to return the favor with a health-related post of my own. Except that this post probably won’t be that helpful or inspiring. And I definitely don’t have any advice. And I can’t promise funny either, so don’t go getting your hopes up or anything. Basically, I’m just going to bitch a little bit and hope that you all understand. Then I will direct you to their real fitness blogs for something that is actually helpful and motivating.

For those who read fairly frequently, you know that I gained forty pounds last year. Yeah, four-OH! And this may be a big shocker, but I’m not happy about it at all. At over six feet tall, I have never been petite, and have always considered myself somewhat athletically built. I’ve always had hip and thigh meat, and my calves are a little bit on the manly side, all of this completely contrasting with my tiny, tiny nearly-A chest. The smallest I have ever been is a size ten, and that is when everyone told me I was “too skinny.” I am currently a size 16, but I am very happy with my body, and will even venture out in a bathing suit at a size 14. I’m built to be a larger girl, just not quite this large. One pants size away seems so close, but when you are very tall, it takes a lot of pounds to change your pants-size. That is why I never noticed that anything was amiss on the way up. The way back down is proving to be much more difficult, and I am definitely noticing.

My goal is to remove this forty pounds from my jeans and return it to from whence it came, in this case to the place where they make really good cheeseburgers. And beer. And wine. Since it is not actually possible to just drive around and drop off your unwanted pounds where you got them, at the local greasy spoon, the bar, or the ice cream aisle of the grocery store, I realized it was time to get real.

Five weeks ago, I joined Weight Watchers online. I did not join the in-person version of WW, because I do not like the meetings. I am not knocking them; I realize that for some people, the meetings are the most important part of the program and what makes it work; like AA for alcoholics. However, when I tried WW four years ago, just to lose ten pounds with a friend, I got sort of annoyed at the meetings. Everyone was talking about food. One woman asked “It says a half a cup of carrots is zero points, but what if I want to eat a whole cup of carrots? Is that still zero points?”

I was sitting there thinking (and biting my tongue to keep from saying) “Uh, lady? I’m pretty sure that overdosing on carrots is not the reason any of us are here”

I also didn’t like the weigh-ins at the meetings. Maybe I am weird in the fact that I don’t really like to be cheered on about my personal issues. When I ran a triathlon last year, I looked up as I was on the homestretch of the run to see three friends standing on the sidelines, friends whom I completely did not expect to be there, and I was ecstatic; it made my day and pushed me that much harder. But when a lady I don’t know said “Great job, Cara” (pronouncing my name wrong) and then tried to hug me after I showed a half a pound loss at a weigh-in, I just wasn’t down with that. It felt like such an invasion. I didn’t want to sit there in a group of people talking about my weight, and what I ate, and how much I exercised, which back then was very little. I didn’t want anyone to clap for me when I was down one pound. I didn’t want them to flash me a smile, which may have been genuine, but which I perceived to be a portrayal of fake joy at my trivial weight loss. Even when Mike makes a comment regarding my improvement, I feel the urge to ask him to please hold his compliments until the end, when I will feel as if I am deserving of them. Losing weight is a really private battle for me. Which is why I am babbling about it on my blog where I tend to air all of the other weird, personal shit I go through. The answer is yes, and the question is “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

The online version of Weight Watchers is pretty handy. You can track all of your “points” right on the computer with access to the vast database of food values. You can still have a drink or two if you want, and lightning does not strike you if you eat a Girl Scout Cookie. Plus, my favorite part is that you can log your workouts to earn additional points for more stuff to eat. It’s sort of like online banking. You know how much you have, and as you spend, your balance goes down, but you can also make deposits by going to the gym. I like the system, and I have done pretty well.

I was meticulous for the first three weeks until President’s Day weekend hit, and I found myself splurging for most of it. I didn’t track my points all weekend, in effect kind of taking a little break from the plan. It turned out ok, though. Tuesday morning, when I weighed in, I was down another two pounds for a total of a twelve-pound loss. Nice. Even with a little bad behavior, I still got the reward. Not so this time. This week, I was perfect all week, worked out four times, and even went skiing, which earns you some major points. This morning when I weighed in, I was up a pound. SERIOUSLY???

When I sadly logged in my increase into the system, it said something like this:


“Sometimes a gain is a normal part of the overall weight-loss process”

It was the virtual version of the lady at the meeting offering me a hug and a fake-ish smile, only this time, she was patting me on the back, saying “It’s ok, Car-uh, you’ll get ‘em next week”

I know, I know. I understand health and fitness, and I know that you sometimes have to gain to lose, but I am still a little bit pissed. I am a big eater, and I have been hungry fairly consistently for the past month, but losing five and then ten pounds made me forget about it. I don’t want to let this increase get me down. I do not want to throw in the towel. In fact, I have been really careful all day, but I also can’t help but think whenever I feel a tiny little hunger pang, that my scale went UP this week. UP! And here I am eating a cup of carrots.

KatieO and ThickChick always seem to be so positive with themselves if they happen to show an increase for the week, or if their jeans are a little snug. I am going to try to follow in their footsteps and keep on trucking. But still, the damn thing went UP! ARRRRRGGH!

In my annoyance, I will share with you some lessons I have learned on my weight-loss journey thus far:

Under no circumstances is it a good idea to save up all of your WW points for alcoholic beverages. After two drinks, you will be tipsy and starving, begging someone to drive-you-thru the nearest Wendy’s, whilst rocking back and forth and clutching dollar bills in your sweaty fists.

Being hungry is very similar to being PMS, or quitting smoking. You have the potential to get just a tiny bit snotty over insignificant things. They should make a t-shirt you can wear stating that you are slightly unstable and prone to lashing out due to being on a restrictive diet. This might really help with your co-workers and loved ones.

Weight-loss begins at the edges of your body and then works its way in. Just because your face and ankles are beginning to look super-slender, and your ring is loose, it does not mean that you will automatically fit into last year’s jeans.

When you try on last year’s jeans, and they still do not go over your ample hips, it is not ok to throw a tantrum. People think a pants-less thirty-something woman kicking, screaming and crying on the floor is just plain weird. At least that is what I’ve heard.

No male person will understand what you are going through. Men who try to explain the intricacies of weight-loss to you, including a paragraph on what works for them, should be incarcerated until you reach your goal weight. You do not need that kind of crap right now.

And finally. The number of pounds you need to lose in order to receive an appraising look and a “Hey, cutie!” from a fast-moving, 20-year old snowboarder wearing pants with flames on them is equal to however many I was down on Sunday. Seriously, if you are out there, kid, I would like to thank you for keeping me going on my quest. I am way too old for you, and taken, but damn I needed that!


Back to the weight-loss blogs, and more on this subject when I’m back into those jeans.

Bless You

I have mentioned before my uncanny ability to embarrass myself in just about every type of public situation (try here, and here, and here). This time, though, it totally wasn’t my fault.


After an uncharacteristically crazy Friday night, we left my car downtown and took a cab home. At the time it was a great idea, but then upon waking the next morning, we vaguely remembered the conversation we’d had with my friend the night before. Mike’s car was in the shop, so she said that she would come get us the next morning and take us back down to get my car. It was already 11:00 when we finally rolled out of bed, and she was on her way to get us. We hurriedly dressed in our Saturday morning best, each donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Mike in a ball cap, and me in a straggly ponytail and the biggest sunglasses I could find. Definitely not our finest hour. My friend picked us up and dropped us off downtown where we began walking the block to the parking garage where we had left my truck so many hours before. As we walked in front of Zaidy’s, a delicious Jewish deli on Market Street, we realized we were both ravenous and decided to go in for a sandwich before we picked up our wheels.

The hostess sat us in a booth right up front, and although I didn’t argue, I would have much preferred a back-corner table where I could hide my unwashed hair and the remnants of Friday night’s mascara. We ordered Diet Coke and coffee and lots of water and sandwiches and fresh-cut French fries.

Mike and I traded sandwich halves, as is our tradition, and ate our late breakfast while joking around about the prior night’s goings on. We waited patiently for the caffeine to take effect. About halfway through our meal, the hostess sat another couple in the booth directly next to ours. I was facing the man; Mike and the woman were back to back.

This couple did not look like they had spent Friday night drinking more than their livers were ever intended to process. In fact, they had probably played backgammon in front of the fire, maybe enjoyed one glass of wine, and then they had turned in early; that was the only explanation for how prim and proper they looked. They were here at Zaidy’s at 11:30 for their second meal of the day, not their first, and they had most definitely showered before leaving their house. The man’s shirt and jeans were both professionally pressed, with straight, crisp creases trailing the lengths of both his arms and legs. The woman was equally cleaned and starched, not a hair out of place in her puffy early-90’s-ish coif. They smelled of Old Spice and Chanel Number 5, and they looked convinced, after taking us in, that they had been seated next to a couple of vagrants. They were politely trying not to stare, but not completely succeeding.

After the couple placed their order, our server moved on to us, deftly picking up our dishes and dropping the check. This is when Mike got greedy. Because of our seating position directly at the front of the restaurant, Mike had a straight-line view into Zaidy’s famous pastry case. He was eyeing the apple strudel, and I agreed that I wouldn’t mind a couple of bites of the huge Snickerdoodle. We flagged down our waitress, and she went off to grab our pastries and adjust and run our check on my debit card. She brought back the card and receipt and a paper bag with the warm sweets inside.

Mike picked up the bag of pastries and stood, walked two steps to my side of the booth, and reached out to help me. I handed him my to-go box containing a half a sandwich, then asked him to hold my credit card and the receipt while I gathered up my purse and jacket. He was standing directly over me with his hands full as the waitress passed behind him. This is why, when he felt that familiar urge, he neither covered his mouth nor turned away. Just as I was standing up with my purse in hand, my boyfriend released world’s largest sneeze directly on to my face. My bangs flapped in the substantial breeze, my face was soaked, and the sunglasses perched on top of my head were covered in droplets of God-knows-what. I looked right up at him, incredulous, touching my face and head. “What the hell was that?” I screeched at him.

As Mike started to defend himself, I looked up to find Mr. Backgammon wiping his face, clearing it of the soda he spat upon seeing my boyfriend attack me with a germy WMD. His wife was completely turned around in her seat, staring at us, trying to figure out what had happened. The man, who had looked to me like the type who might have been completely offended and disgusted by what he had just witnessed, couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain it to her.

I dragged Mike out of the deli and we laughed all the way down the block and into the parking garage, our shrieks echoing off the walls.

One of these days we will learn how to behave in public. However, until we do, I’m really glad that we can spread joy to the people of Denver.


P.S. I hope that guy gets as much mileage out of this story as I plan to.

Valentines Schmalentines

Last year for Valentine’s Day, we vowed not to spend a bunch of money, instead deciding to get creative with each other’s gifts. Taking the creative part of it a little bit too literally, I had the great idea to paint Mike a picture. I asked my artist/graphic designer friends at work for their advice on what medium I should choose and then went to the craft store to purchase my booty. Working in acrylics on canvas, my goal was to create an inspired abstract of Mike’s beautiful red hair. Like my height, Mike's red hair is his defining physical feature, and because it is such a part of who he is, I wanted to capture it through the magic of art.

In my mind, the painting was going to turn out beautifully. I pictured swirls of copper and bronze emulating his curls and blending perfectly on the page. It would be a work of art that we would treasure for years to come and hang on the wall in our house, proudly displaying my talents for everyone to see. I neglected to think ahead though, and if I had I would have realized that I have absolutely no idea in hell how to paint. It is way, way harder than it looks. I guess I thought that I could Bob-Ross it and come up with a very presentable, although not necessarily completely amazing piece of artwork in approximately thirty minutes. Not even close. What I created was a mess.

In my defense, after mixing several different times, I got the color almost exactly right. And to defend myself again, it did sort of look like his hair. It just didn’t accomplish the effect that I thought it would, which was to actually resemble art. I guess you have to be an actual artist to make that happen.

Mike, on the other hand, did not give me a messy attempt at art as a Valentine’s gift. Instead, he had cleverly asked my friend from work to sneak him into the office the night before Valentines Day. He left a little scavenger hunt in the various crevices of my desk; hiding a bunch of tiny little gifts, each with a sweet note, all tucked in and around my workspace. All day long I was surprised by a new lip gloss, or candy, or scented lotion each time I opened a drawer or moved a file. I had such an amazing day constantly finding these little surprises, and then I had to go home and give him my crappy canvas.

I was almost too embarrassed to even give the painting to Mike, but it was Valentine’s Day, and since I had put my artwork off until the last minute, I had nothing else to give. So I stared at my feet while handing it over. I presented him with my ugly orange painting and a card as a sign of my unending love. I felt like an idiot.

Of course, Mike is too nice of a guy to let me know that I had bombed on the gift. He was so sweet about the picture, staring at it and mentioning how I had captured the undertones just right, and that the size was perfect. Then, he looked up from the picture and our eyes met. We both cracked up. We laughed for several minutes, then I showed him the orange paint that I had gotten on the wall as a result of using my dresser as an easel. It wouldn’t come off. We laughed our asses off over that, too. As per usual, my gift came in the form of unintentional comedy, something I excel at.

As of right now, my famous Valentine’s Day Massacre painting is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall in the basement. We can’t throw it away; I mean, it could be worth some serious cash some day if I get famous, or if that type of “art” ever comes into style. However, as it stands right now, we sure as hell aren’t hanging it up anywhere.

While we both had a good time with those gifts last year, I think we’ve realized that neither of us are really the Valentine’s Day type. I am a total romantic, and so it always seems like cheating to me to take every ounce of spontaneity out of a gift by giving it on a designated day. Mike does pretty well for himself, too, remembering spontaneous flowers on occasion and presenting me with surprise gifts fairly frequently, so I definitely don’t need to force him into it once a year

I got him a wallet this year. A really cool one from my favorite store ever, The New York Public Library Gift Shop (if you haven’t been, go to libraryshop.org right now!). I gave it to him last week so that he wouldn't have to keep carrying his driver's license and credit cards around wrapped in a rubber band. When I handed it to him, I said "Oh yeah, this is kinda for Valentine's Day, too" I’m pretty sure he was totally swept off of his feet by that one.

Yesterday, my old personal trainer from my gym called me. He had helped me rehab my knee last year, and had worked out with Mike a couple of times as well. He wanted us to come in for a free measurement and to let him give us his sales pitch on the new couples training they are doing at 24Hour Fitness. He gave me his open appointments, and I said we could make it Thursday at 8.

“Hey, Cara”, he said, “Thursday is Valentine’s Day, are you sure you guys want to come in that night?”

I thought about it. We didn't have any plans for Thursday, so I said " Oh sure. That's fine"

We are so unromantic.

I always swore that when I settled down with someone, it would be a man who swept me off my feet on a daily basis. Someone who made me swoon with lyrical poetry, a man who would shower me with gifts and compliments and put me on a pedestal. I wasn’t going to settle for anything less. Then I met Mike. He had only a brother growing up, and then went to an engineering college where girls were extremely few and far between. While he has always been sweet, he took on a fairly large romantic learning curve when it came to me. I had to explain a lot about how to romance a girl to him, but I was surprised when my having to explain didn’t really take the thrill out of it for me. I still have to beg him to not throw his boxers on the bathroom floor every single morning, and to please at least pretend to acknowledge that I am speaking when there is a soccer game on. Oh, and there has definitely never been any lyrical poetry that I can recall unless you count when he makes up raps in the shower and shouts them out to me while I am curling my hair. He is not a born romantic, but it never felt like settling. In fact, just picturing him reading actual poetry to me kind of makes me cringe a little. It just wouldn’t work with us.

I think I misjudged the whole romantic thing just a little too much as a younger person. Now, in the thick of life, that stuff just seems so unrealistic and kind of stupid. I am more swept off of my feet when we stand at the top of a mountain, staring down at what we have just accomplished together than I could ever be standing alone on a figurative pedestal. I think we pretty much have it figured out.

So, tomorrow night, Mike and I are going to go on our very unromantic Valentine’s Day date to the gym. We will wear ugly clothes, and we won’t smell nice at the end, but I guarantee that we will have a blast. Then we will come home and probably snuggle up and watch a little soccer before bed. Maybe, if we get around to it, we will finally hang up my ugly painting.

Put Another Dime In The Jukebox, Baby

There are very few inanimate objects that I really care much about. I’ve had a few things that I’ve really liked a lot, but for the most part, I am not that attached to ‘stuff’.

In college, I bought my first car with my own money, a teal green, hail-damaged Chevy Cavalier for $4500, “The Cav”. I drove it for 8 years, and then donated it to the Salvation Army when it was time to grow up and drive something that was perhaps not, uh, teal. I cried when I gave it away, not because I would miss the car per se, but because of the memories that I had of every event it had taken me to throughout my twenties.

I have a few books that I treasure, but could probably live without.

Initially, after my mom died, I selfishly hoarded everything of hers, afraid to let go. Eventually though, as I healed, I found the few items that meant the most, the spice cabinet she always cooked from, her journals, my great grandmother’s china, and got rid of the excess that I didn’t need.

While things matter in everyday life, I know that I would be OK in a fire or other disaster as long as I had Mike and my dog and my cat. In the end, material things just aren’t that important. Except one thing. One thing that isn’t even mine.

Unlike any other kids we knew, when my sisters and I were young, we had a real live jukebox at my dad’s house. My dad had randomly come into it in his youth and had the wherewithal to hang on to it. My sisters and I were the lucky beneficiaries. Now, this wasn’t one of those pretty jukeboxes that you might see at a diner with the rainbow-colored lights arching over the bright, shiny, spherical window. This was simply a machine to play music. It was big and heavy and awkward and boxy with sharp corners and squeaky parts. While the chrome could take on a nice shine, you would never look at it and say, “Wow, what a beautiful jukebox!” In fact, most people looked at it, sitting stoically in its spot of honor in the family room, and said “What is that?” Still, no one else had one, and that made us feel cool.

If you looked in the window of our jukebox, there were about ten “rows” of about ten slots each. Each slot held a one-by-three inch piece of paper, A-side song written at the top, B-side song on the bottom, artist in the middle. Each little paper coincided with a 45 RPM record hidden deep down in the guts of the machine that you could miraculously bring to the needle by selecting the right combination of buttons. The buttons resembled small, pink piano keys, half with letters and half with numbers. At one point in its long life, the number one key on the jukebox had come off and been replaced with an extra seven key; it was an imperfection that seemed to make it perfect for our family. After you made your selection and pressed the keys, they would hold down for a moment making a sound like a drumroll, then they would pop back up with satisfying bing. The wheel full of records would begin turning noisily until it came to your selection, and then a metal arm would grab the the record and squeakily bring it to its home on the turntable. If you were about six or seven years old, you were the perfect height to peer through the glass and watch all of this occur. It was better than cartoons.

My dad generously gave us each our own row, and we could put whatever songs we wanted on it. We were allowed to pick from his collection of thousands of 45s, or we could go to Sound Warehouse down the street and spend our allowance on the newest songs that the 80's had to offer. He gave each of our rows catchy alliterative names, Amy’s Anthems, Cara’s Classics, etc. so that our taste in music was prominently on display for any friends or guests. Amy’s Anthems usually consisted of songs in the Twisted Sister and Quiet Riot genre, while mine tended to be her more mellow castoffs from the pre-rocker years, The Go-Gos and Rick Springfield. For years, we would hear a song in public and say something like” Oh, I love this song, I want it for my row” and anyone outside of our immediate family would think we were very odd.

You had to be twelve to turn on the jukebox. It was a house rule because the knob was fragile and in a precarious spot, and my little sister and I had managed to knock it off enough times to have the rule instated. It was decided that twelve was the magical age that brought with it the maturity and responsibility required to operate the switch.

Many times I would venture down to my older sister’s bedroom to see if she would come up and turn it on for me so that I could listen to music while I colored. Being careful to avoid eye contact with Gene Simmons and his tongue seeming to protrude from her wall, I would tap quietly on her door. “Uh, Amy? Uh, hi, I was just wondering if you could maybe---”

“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” she would scream, completely aghast that I had dared to interrupt her in the middle of her very important work writing down song lyrics in a pink notebook.

She would narrow her eyes at me, sigh, and then turn her attention back to her boombox, pressing the rewind button for the eighty-seventh time. I would trudge back upstairs. The fun would have to wait. And man, was it fun. Even Amy would get into it sometimes, and we would all take turns playing songs for each other, singing into brushes and spoons, dancing like there was nary a care in the world.

Because of the jukebox, I learned to love every kind of music. I loved the old stuff from the 40’s and 50’s that my dad would play from his row, and I loved watching the green apple spin around while simultaneously experiencing a tiny bit of the sixties through the Beatles. I rocked out to jazz with my dad, fell in love with Stevie Wonder at a very early age, and thought Frank Sinatra was the best before my friends even knew who he was. While my friends were obsessed with Michael Jackson, I was listening to Motown. On top of the old, I saved up for the new ones too. To this day, I know every 80’s and early 90’s one-hit-wonder, not to mention every word to Islands in the Stream by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. We wailed Purple Rain until we were hoarse, clutching the edge of the jukebox for support. I actually have Runaway by Slade in my iPod rotation right now; not many people remember that one, but we played it until it broke in half.

Anytime I hear an old song on the radio, Satisfaction, Hey Jude, Sir Duke, New York New York, in my mind I am instantly barefoot in my dad’s family room, singing and dancing and being a kid, watching my dad and sisters do the same. I think that is why people love music. It’s pure nostalgia in five minute increments.

Amy has the jukebox now. My dad gave it to her because she is the oldest and apparently being the oldest allows you to steal your sisters’ memories from right beneath them. (In his defense, he has already given me box upon box of valuable sports memorabilia that I treasure. He would want you to know that he is very fair.) My dad said that he was going to will the jukebox to Amy when he died, but then he and my step-mom decided that they didn’t want to move that frickin thing around anymore, so Amy got it about four years ago. It is in her beautiful finished basement in a place of honor.

Whenever I go over there, we break out the wine and play all of the old one hit wonders on the jukebox. We sit on the floor in front of it for hours at a time, tipsy on wine and memories, singing at the top of our lungs into empty-bottle microphones to Paper Lace and Mungo Jerry and other random groups that no one else has ever heard of. These are old-people songs that make us feel young, songs that got us through bad times and created good times. It seems like we can never get enough of it. But eventually, we get tired, and the music starts to die down, and the wine is gone, and everyone else is asleep. Time to pack it in for the night. Then, Jesse’s Girl comes on and we scream like hyenas and start all over again. I feel like I might love that machine, even in all of its inanimateness. The noises it makes, the feel of its keys beneath my fingertips, the faint smells of WD40 and vinyl, the music that floats out of the tinny speakers. Some things can take you back to a time you never want to forget. That's pure nostalgia.