White Collar Woes

For many, many months I’ve been on an absolute tear at work. Overwhelmed and feeling like I can’t keep up, running from meeting to meeting. Then this week – BLAM. Nothing. My projects haven’t gone away, it’s just summer.

It happens every year: people take vacations, meetings get more difficult to schedule when juggling everyone’s calendar, and thus progress… grinds… to… a… halt.

That’s where I am right now. Don’t get me wrong, for the first day or two I positively gloried in the vast calm. I caught up on all my lagging tasks, spent some time organizing, and actually looked at the internet for a couple of minutes.

I’m done now. I don’t care what kind of crazy Amanda Bynes is selling or who the IRS is listening in on (hint: it’s all of us, and no it doesn’t matter, and if you think this is something new I’ve got a star I can sell you. It comes with a certificate and everything!). I don’t care if Kanye’s new baby Kimye was timed to drop with his new album and it does not matter one iota to me where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. Although I am kind of annoyed that the FBI has spent something like $15 million of taxpayer money looking for a corpse. COME ON.

See, I told you I caught up on the internet. It’s time to get productive again.

At least until it’s time for ME to go on vacation.

Extreme Loser, Week 1

I promise, this won’t become a regular thing. I will not bore you with pictures of all the lame food I am <not> eating.

Just this one time – and maybe occasionally to mark milestones – I’m going to overshare. Shoot me. You want under-sharing and delicacy? You’ve come to the wrong place, pal.

Monday marked my first full week on my crazy no carb, no sugar, no fruit, no alcohol diet (I failed slightly on that last part. It’s going to happen if I want to remain sane). I went to stock up on my food and get my first official weigh-in and counseling session. I could tell I had lost a couple of pounds, but did not expect the extreme weight loss they advertise in the first two weeks because I had cut back my calories pretty drastically prior to starting Medifast.

Ah, the joy of low expectations! I lost SEVEN pounds. <phew> That is exactly the sort of motivation I needed to keep me going and to not gaze lovingly at every pizza commercial on television.

Here’s the thing: it’s been pretty easy and I haven’t been hungry in the slightest. The biggest part of any diet or fitness plan is to be prepared when temptation strikes. My biggest problem is having food at the ready for that occasion… given my well-known disdain for the grocery store and cooking. With this plan, I have five small prepared “meals” I eat throughout the day which travel easily, so I keep a few in my purse. Then I have one “Lean & Green” meal I prepare myself, something with a large serving of good protein (not fried chicken) and three servings of vegetables. <— See that last sentence there? Three servings of vegetables. My mom’s jaw just hit the floor.

I do not like vegetables, so this will continue to be my biggest challenge. Ceasar salads (sans anything other than the Romaine lettuce to make it a Ceasar), the occasional green bean or asparagus stalk, and homemade San Marzano Tomato Gravy (calling it spaghetti sauce is a tease since it will never touch a noodle) have been and will continue to be my go-to, and so far so good.

The funny thing about being “on a diet” or following a strict fitness plan is the amount of brain power it consumes. You have to think about food ALL THE TIME when you are dieting. This seems counterintuitive, but when your mind is elsewhere – focusing on a work project or juggling all the mayhem of life you suddenly realize, “Hello, I’m starving. Crap. Time to ____ (order a pizza, hit the drive thru, eat that half gallon of ice cream in the freezer)!”

Making healthy decisions is just that – decision-making. It requires thought and not just reaction.

This was me five years ago. This is at my ideal “GOAL” weight:

Five years younger, five-ish pounds lighter

Yes, I’m five years older, but I still own that dress and I WILL wear it again because it is awesome. So, seven pounds down, many more to go.

Yowzers.

Hug Me Hold Me!

Gabe is in a mommy phase. It’s a little foreign to me because he’s always been an equal-opportunity lover and terror, he’s never experienced an ounce of stranger-danger, and will go anywhere excitedly without so much as a “See Ya!”

Now, however, it’s “Hug me and hold me!” and “I want mommy!” or “We do not NEED to go to Mimi’s to-day. I will go to work wif YOU, mommy. Then we will go to Target and get a Ninja Turtles playset.” <I have no idea what a Ninja Turtles playset is or why I need to get it.>

If we arrive at the gym in the afternoon before the the after-work rush to find the playroom empty, I have to stay with him until “More kids come to play wif me,” even though he knows and loves the girl on staff and she is sweet as pie to him.

This morning he woke up before 6AM and wanted to “Cud-dool on the couch. Lay here wif me.”

Still futilely hoping to get him (and me) back to sleep I asked, “Why did you wake up so early? Did you have a bad dream? Do you feel okay?”

“No, I just missed you.”

SHIT.

Eventually I was able to shower and get dressed, but could not leave for work. ”Hold me Hug Me! Hold me and hug me!” I acquiesced. What else can a mommy do? We cuddled for a while.

“You have moon eyes when you smile” I said.

“What’s moon eyes?”  he asked.

“You have pretty eyes.”

He emphatically responded, “I don’t have pretty eyes.”

“Okay then you have handsome eyes.”

“I don’t!” even more emphatically.

“Okay, then what do you have?” I asked him gently.

“I have MY eyes.”

Yet another futile attempt to argue with a 3-year old

“You’re right. You DO have your eyes, they’re special and nobody else has eyes exactly like you. You have GABE eyes.”

“Okay. You can go to work now.”

ed. note:  Why oh why did I not have the creativity to turn this stuff into Conversations With My 2-Year Old or something like that? I’d have MILLIONS of views in a week… sigh.

Babies and Ruffles and Girly Stuff, Oh My!

This coming weekend I, along with my girlfriends Blakeley and Lesley, are hosting a baby shower at my house. This in and of itself would not be noteworthy except WE ARE HOSTING A BABY SHOWER AT MY HOUSE. With guests I do not know, and space I do not have, and decorations, people! Decorations.

Decor I can handle. It’s the -ations that intimidates me.

Fortunately, Lesley, in all her Marthable glory, is going full tilt on poofy things and cupcake toppers leaving Blakeley and I to menu plan which, for a 3 o’clock in the afternoon shower is easy: Prosecco. Cupcakes. Done.

This leaves me with only Part 2 of my crisis: People at my house. Lots of people. In my tiny house. Therefore the decision was made early on to make this an outdoor affair. It’s June, the temperature is still tolerable, and thankfully the Asian Tiger Mosquitoes haven’t made their hellish descent on Baltimore. If it happens between now and Saturday, I’ll just tell Jackie they’re her shower favors. She is Asian for crying out loud.

You know me, nothing like a deadline to force a home overhaul – or in this case actually paying the teensiest bit of attention to my landscape which has been sorely ignored all spring.

Cue this:

Mulch.

I know. Sexy shot, right? Nothing gets the blood boiling faster than a truckload of fresh, stinky mulch. Mulch, plants, major patio cleaning, and this new used grill courtesy of Nana:

That is my one alcoholic beverage of the week, solely to prevent me from stabbing certain members – er, all – of my household. Don’t judge me. Those 64 calories are necessary to our continued existence.

Between my severely restricted caloric intake and two full days of hard work, my whole body is aching today. But darn if my yard doesn’t look pleasant. And my stars, if Sir Picks His Own Outfit wasn’t downright helpful.

Captain Stubborn and the Clown Brigade. I WILL shovel “Mosch” in my winter hat.

Now if I could only get the standing water in the back to dry out before saturday. #homeownerproblems

The “F-dash-dash-dash” Word

I have a migraine. It’s fading now, thankfully, but today has been rough. I sent an email to work saying I would be in a bit late and went back to sleep.

A little while later, Gabe came running into the bedroom crying. “Your Ring! Your Ring! It’s down the hole! Get it!” I tried to calm him down and explain exactly what he meant.

That’s exactly what he meant. “Come in the baf-room wif me. Come get it! It’s in the hole, see?” There it was. Along with a hair brush, my facial cream, a tube of toothpaste, and my contact case littering the sink basin was Nana’s Grandmother’s engagement ring, firmly lodged well down the sink drain. “I’m sorry mommy! It was ah ack-sident.” More hysterical crying.

There it was. I saw it. The FEAR. For the first time I saw the fear of getting in trouble in my child. And it crushed me.

I picked him up and hugged him, “Buddy, it’s no big deal. Daddy can fix it. See? He can open up that pipe right there and get it out.”

“Daddy can fix it? Wif tools? I can help him, right? I’m sorry!”

“Yes, Daddy can fix it. And hey, thank you so much for telling me right away. You did good. But from now on, let’s not drop things in the sink, okay? ESPECIALLY Mommy’s rings.”

“Just big fings.” TODDLER LOGIC.

I replied, “Well to be honest, we really shouldn’t be throwing anything in the sink, but you did a great job telling me right away. You aren’t in trouble. Don’t be upset anymore.”

“Okay. I’ll just frow big fings.”

That fear… Look, I know it is my job as a parent to provide structure, guidance, and discipline; and believe me, I’ve been dishing it out lately. But that face, when he knew he did a bad thing… I don’t want my kid to be scared of me. I just want him to listen to me and know that I’m in charge and looking out for his best interests. How does a parent do that?

It’s a balancing it, isn’t it? One that we will mess up all the time. All I could think of when I saw his face was “Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie!

That’s right. All my parenting know-how comes direct from A Christmas Story.

Revitalization

On Sunday Evening, the Bellevederes played in Patterson Park, one of Baltimore’s large public parks. We played on a small stage located at the bottom of a hill, atop of which sits the Pagoda, one of the city’s iconic landmarks.

Shamelessly stolen from Jason Butcher

When I moved to Fells Point in 1998, Patterson Park and the Pagoda looked nothing like the shot above. It was rarely mowed, the Pagoda was in sad disrepair, and junkies and hookers were more likely to be seen than toddlers and picnics. One would most certainly not bring their family to the park for a picnic and a concert.

That was a long time ago. Patterson Park has benefitted from the expanding gentrification and revitalization of East Baltimore, including Canton, Upper Fells Point – which was where I bought my first home, Butcher’s Hill, Highlandtown, and Greektown. Civic organizations like the Friends of Patterson Park were created to raise money and awareness. The city, under then Mayor O’Malley’s direction, started getting its act together (about the city’s gorgeous parks that were being left to languish, not much else, let’s be honest, this is Baltimore) and Patterson Park along with the even more gorgeous Druid Hill Park, Leakin Park, and other recreation facilities in the city started getting some love.

This was not without controversy. Combatting drugs, gangs, and crime. THAT’s where the money should be spent, so the theory went.

But I think time has proved that theory wrong. Sometimes combatting drugs and crime can happen with citizen involvement, reclaiming a formerly unsafe space with a critical mass. Say what you will about gentrification, but fifteen years ago this photo would not be possible.

Shamelessly stolen from Sean Beier

Fifteen years ago, our children could not have run free on the hillside below the pagoda in a crowd of thousands, they could not have danced with wild abandon without a fear in the world.

Future Belles’ First Band Meeting

My future hippie, making boxes

That is an urban success story. At one point during our performance, I looked behind me at the Key Bridge and the Chesapeake Bay in the distance. Then I looked in front of me at the unexpectedly large crowd and the gorgeous Pagoda lit up on top of the hill, people filling its balconies and I said a silent blessing and a thank you.

Sometimes we do get stuff right.

Extreme Loser

You know I’ve spent the last year and a half working out fairly regularly. I’ve grown so much stronger and have defined muscle tone. I can do push-ups and mountain climbers with the best of them.

I’ve also gained ten pounds.

And a double chin.

It’s frustrating. All those hours at the gym, working out with AJ, feet pounding the ground. Metabolism is an evil jerk. In my late twenties a good month of running could whip me right into shape. In my late thirties… nada.

It’s time for drastic action. Enter this.

This is not very delicious.

For the next six months I will be forswearing all grains, sugars, dairy, alcohol, and fruit - HA! Like I ever eat fruit. I will eat one meal like the one above every day and five additional prepared meals prescribed by a certified dietician.

It’s extreme. It’s embarrassing that it has to be this way, but I’m not ready to be a schlumpy mommy. I want to  consider myself “hot” at least one more time in my life. Hot… what a loaded term.

Your first question is probably, “What diet are you doing?” I’m doing Medifast. And not the Medifast where I order a bunch of food online and try to navigate through it myself, I am doing weekly in-person meetings with a counselor where I will be weighed, measured, and sent home with food. A few people I told have responded with, “But that’s for really overweight people isn’t it?” It’s for anyone and hey, I need to lose a lot to reach my ideal weight based on my body composition, which, interestingly enough, was only one pound less than I told my counselor my goal weight was.

I’m not trying to be a skinny minnie, I know my body and where I feel the healthiest, it will never weigh 110 pounds. Hell, my boobs almost weigh that much. But I want to be healthy, I want to feel good, I want my pants to fit.

Next question: “Isn’t it really expensive?” Yup. Fortunately, my health insurance paid for part of the counseling fees, and the weekly food cost is actually less than what I would normally spend on food for myself per week, especially when I consider all the Indian food takeout and lunches I buy and that go directly to my ass.  And let’s not even begin to figure out how much I’m going to save on WINE. <as a single tear runs down my cheek>

Many of you know that diabetes runs in my family; my grandfather had it and my mom has Type I – her body produces NO insulin. I had Gestational Diabetes, which puts me at a much higher risk for Type II Diabetes later in life. I see how my mom struggles with it (although she won’t quit smoking which only makes it worse AHEM). I know what a hassle it is to constantly monitor your blood sugar levels.

I do not want to go to there.

Why am I sharing this here if I consider it embarrassing? Because it’s about accountability, and putting myself out here helps me be more accountable. This nutrition plan is going to be a big part of my life for the next six months, it’s going to take a lot of work and a lot of saying no to dinners with friends and birthday cakes and happy hours. But it’s a hardship I am ready to take on.

Just don’t eat any ice cream cones in front of me….

It’s More Like a Boulder

Oh hey. Hello. How are you? Long time no type.

Look, I don’t know what’s happened. I think it’s called Writer’s Block? It’s not as though I don’t have anything to write about; I lay in bed at night drafting posts but when it comes to putting the proverbial pen to paper, well, I got nuthin’. And I don’t want to put crap out there… well crappier than usual.

Here’s hoping it’s a temporary bump in the bloggy road. Here’s hoping all these thoughts swirling around in my brain find their way to my fingertips.

In the meantime, 1978 Donna Summer called and she wants her look back.

Dancing Queen

Oh, and got Diet Coke? My toddler will steal it.

“Hey, that’s MY diet coke!”

Cheers!

Real Work

Yesterday morning I had an early meeting in Rockville. You know, Rockville, outside DC, in the morning, with traffic. Basically HELL. My boss, another coworker and I needed to leave the office by 7:15 at the latest.

My alarm had gone off and I was about to get out of bed when Gabe started crying out in his sleep (Yes he’s still there. Yes it sucks. I don’t know what to do), babbling at first then yelling “Get it off! Get. Off!” and grabbing at his head. I figured it was a nightmare and rolled over to comfort him.

“Get it off! Get. My. Hair. Off!” At this point he was awake and I asked, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Get My Hair Off!”

We both sat up. He stopped crying. Was it a bad dream? Was I somehow laying on his hair? No idea. He says yes to both questions. Regardless, we were all awake.

You’re playing it backwards, Ding Dong

I got up, got dressed to leave, and headed downstairs. At this point I was on a race against the clock. Then I heard it – thump! step step step step! bonk bonk bonk! Little feet getting out of bed and coming down the stairs.

“Hold me mommy!”

“Buddy I have to leave.”

Hold me! Hug me! Sit here wif me!”

“I’m late, just one quick hug.” <<hug>> “Okay, I’ll see you tonight!”

“No! Sit here and hug me!” as he clings like a monkey and covers me with kisses.

A few more seconds of hugs. “That’s good now. I have to go to work.”

“THIS is your work! Right here! Hugs!”

How could I argue with such sound logic?

I was late. I didn’t care.

Persuasive

Shame. It Works.

Since publicly outing myself as a slacker last week, I recommitted to getting in regular workout more days often than I do not, workload be damned. I’ve made it to the gym, gone running on NCR trail with the dog, and even made a new workout buddy.

I noticed a co-worker frequently leaving around the same time in the afternoon wearing workout clothes. One afternoon we started talking and she mentioned she was looking for a new gym. My gym is on her way home, so she came with me to check it out. She was sold, and now we are going to use each other as motivation to get our lazy butts in gear. Between Gabe guilt tripping me to go to the Kid’s Club so he can “… invite girls to my party in the playhouse. We’re going to make chicken breasts and hot dogs,” (This boy is going to be dangerous) and Jacintha pushing me, I HAVE NO EXCUSE.

No Excuses. I’m thinking about tattooing that on my ass, as in There is no excuse for my butt to be this big, but then again if it was on my butt I couldn’t see it, could I? Maybe it needs to go on my forehead. The classic jobstopper.

After talking with Jacintha and Ryan, I am also trying a new approach for a while, upping my cardio to 45 minutes a day and doing lighter weights. I’m plenty strong, and I’ve got traps like a linebacker – now I need to focus on being longer and leaner. So even if I’m not running a nine minute mile, or a ten minute mile, I need to run five times longer than that. Stop focusing on speed, and just make it happen, no matter how slow I am.

More public shame as motivation.

By the way, THAT’S why people post status updates and tweets about going to the gym, judgemental non-gymgoers with naturally high metabolism and facestalkers. Guilt and shame are powerful motivators, y’all.