Retail Therapy

Or... not so much.

Today, Mom and I took the boys to one of our semi-local malls.

Back in the day I'd have said "to the mall" or "to [insert name of mall here]." Because back in the day there was one local mall (we now have two) and other malls were far enough away (i.e., more than 15 minutes) to merit a name mention.

Now? Two local, like I said, and several others under an hour's drive. Welcome to growth central, AKA central Florida.

Anyway, we went to one of the semi-local ones which was new a mere 15 years ago and which has also just had a face lift. Our primary purpose? To burn some Saturday hours. Our secondary purpose?

To purchase a bedding set for the eight-year-old. Sigh.

Remember the child back in the Walmart/SpongeBob post? The one who didn't care what kind of bedding he had?

Uh-huh. Those of you with kids older than mine knew what would happen. He finally wanted to pick out his own comforter and sheets.

We ended up at Sears (not Macy's -- I'm crazy, not stupid).

Thankfully, he ignored the delightful Sponge Bob display.

Unfortunately, he spied the Pirates of the Caribbean display.

Ouch.

So now my eight-year-old is the proud possessor of a Pirates comforter, bedsheet set, and decorative pillow (with glow-in-the-dark appliques!).

Need I mention there are a couple of skulls in all this happiness?

Yeah.

So anyway... one kid, Sponge Bob Central.

The other? Skulls.

On the plus side, at least we have an "at sea" theme going. Eyeroll.

(Amanda wanders off, clutching her head, and hopes she'll shake this new practice of referring to herself in the third person in short order...)

My Speeding Non-Ticket

Babs just posted about how she got out of a speeding ticket, and I was inspired to share my story.

The one ticket I ever got out of was just off I-10 in Florida. I was driving back to Tallahassee from visiting my little brother in Gainesville.

Well, at that time I-10 was 60 MPH. I'd just taken the exit and was on US 90.

Which was 50 MPH.

I had no cruise control, and it appeared that gravity was weighing a bit heavily on my gas pedal, so I was still going 60.

The nice FHP guy in the median just stuck his hand out of his patrol car, pointed at me, and waved me to the side of the road, where I very politely and panickedly waited while he put on his lights, did a U-turn, and pulled in behind me.

I was hyperventillating pretty well by the time he got to my window.

"License and registration?"

As I handed them to him, I just burst into speech:

"Officer, I swear I wasn't speeding. My foot was."

He stood there for a moment, stunned. Then he choked and laughed.

"I take it this means you'd prefer a written warning?"

"Sir, I would adore a written warning."

So he went back to his car and ran my information. When he came back to my car he handed me my warning and told me to raise my right hand.

"I want you to repeat after me:

I swear I will never again speed in the State of Florida.

And if I feel the need for speed, I will go up somewhere in Georgia and do it."

I did what I was told. As he walked back to his car he was still shaking his head bemusedly.

Poor guy. I think that was the first time he'd had someone blame her foot for breaking the law.

Aging

I just had to take off my glasses to read fine print.

This is likely a bad thing.

Ouch. I have this strong suspicion I'm getting old.

The fact that my sciatica moved from my right leg to my left today only further confirms this hypothesis.

Stupid Site Stats

Not only can I not log in to Technorati (they have yet to respond to my request for my password), but now Sitemeter, which has remembered me as long as I've had the code on my site, has forgotten I exist. It's even forgotten my codename exists.

ARRRGGHHH! And I was 18 people away from 3,000 hits since I installed Sitemeter.

I am so far beyond annoyed right now. I wanna know what's up with Sitemeter. I want to know why I can't get my password from Technorati.

And I want to know why I am not permitted to register at TTLB. STILL.

Dammit.

Edited to add:

Okay, Sitemeter was apparently down (and still is to my knowledge), but is at least recognizing that I exist rather than trying to tell me I don't.

TTLB now lets me log on, but refuses to recognize my blog (even when I type in the URL correctly -- something about an error on line 85)

and Technorati still won't send me my damn password.

Yet Another Book Quote

This one courtesy of Paperback Writer's Plague of Memory:

... I saw ChoVa waiting at the landing pad, her head bound with a thick bandage.

PyrsVar walked between me and Reever, and scowled when he saw the Hsktskt physician. "She does not look pleased."

"You shot her in the head and killed her ruler, " I reminded him. "She is entitled to be displeased."

Reever and TssVar went to speak with the Akade's personal guard. ChoVa ignored [PyrsVar] as she greeted us.

"I was able to obtain several partial cadavers from the Hanar's Palace," she told me, glaring briefly at PrysVar. "We must begin the autopsies immediately."

"I have a sample of what is causing the plague." I took the container of bone dust from my case and passed it to her. "It is a form of natural hallucinogen that stirs primal memory in your species. The plague is not viral or bacterial. It is drug-induced."

"If this is so, why did this substance not show up on our scans?" she demanded.

"That we will determine once we test PyrsVar," I said, gesturing to the war master. "He was exposed to a large amount of dust only a few hours ago."

"Excellent." ChoVa bared her teeth. "Will you kill him before I being dissecting him, or will you allow me that small pleasure?"

Maggie whistled. "Oooh, she's still a little pissed off."

PyrsVar's dark brows elevated. "I only shot you in the head. I could have killed you easily. You should be grateful to me."

ChoVa made an ugly sound.

"PyrsVar? Shut up." I turned to the Hsktskt female. "We need him alive and responsive so that we can test neutralizing agents."

"I will not mutilate him," ChoVa said. "Badly."

"You can try." He showed her his own pointed teeth.

Snerk, snerk, and again I sayeth snerk.

S.L. Viehl, aka Lynn Viehl is a gifted author and I enjoy her work immensely. If you're interested, check out her blog and you can find her backlist. In addition, in her sidebar she has a list of freebies you can access, including a novel-length spy/supernatural thriller I love called Night of the Chameleon.

For her mass market published novels, I strongly recommed starting with Stardoc, from which series this excerpt is taken.

Chantix Day 6

Well, here we are, day 6. My husband and I have been taking two pills per day starting Tuesday, and continuing through yesterday and today.

Tuesday and yesterday I was pretty sure I was going to fall asleep at my desk. But today, I felt normal which I guess means I'm adjusting to it again.

I only itch when I think about it. Or when I think about scabies (thanks to AD... heh).

Typing that line made the inner part of my right eyelid itch. See?

Grumblemutter.

Anyway, I'm noticing much less urge to smoke, which is definitely a plus.

I'm also waking up at about 4:00 a.m., and sleep fitfully until my blasted alarm clock goes off at 5:15 or whatever unholy hour I have it set for.

But beyond that? It's all good.

Except for the itching, which I'm now feeling on both sides of my neck, about three inches behind and down from my ears.

And on my left knee.

Curse you, easily suggestible mind!!!!

Blog Rating Notice

Ladies and Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that a terrible thing has happened to this blog.

This blog has slipped in its ratings.

Yes, dear readers, this blog has slipped to a PG-13 rating.

That simply will. not. do.

So, in light of this (and the obvious fact that I haven't discussed poop within recent memory, nor have I ever mentioned condoms), I give you the following three "post-ettes" in an attempt to raise this blog to its former glorious R rating:

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Cat Poop
Our cats are notoriously finicky creatures. If the litter boxes have not been scooped for, say, thirty minutes, they start clearing their throats and glaring at us prior to entering.

Now Daniel will continue to enter the litter boxes even up until they're scooped (twice daily -- it's frequent with three cats). Granted, he gives a long-suffering glare at whatever two-legged creature happens to be nearby, but he goes in the box, attempts to cover what he's done -- and at 12-15 pounds he isn't that successful despite the size of the box -- emerges, and proceeds to ignore his servants for at least fifteen minutes.

Patrick displays his disgust only when he's sick to his little gastro-intestinal tract, which leads him to doing such interesting things as going to the human bathroom to poo on the floor beside the human commode.

Now if only we could teach that boy to get on the commode, we might have something worth pursuing.

Emily, though? When her Precious Princess Poopy Palace is not scooped to her satisfaction?

Carpet.

Preferably in one of the kids' rooms.

Because she likes to hear them squeal.

Preschool Poop
Upon returning from dinner at my parents' house one night, I was apparently not moving quickly enough toward the front door.

My utter slackitude resulted in the following monologue from my younger son, who was waiting for me with his big brother at the door while I lugged in several tons of groceries:

"Oh GWEAT!

I dust poopded in my undoopayunts.!

I ated too much and it dust pushded it wight aout!"

(yes, he really does talk like this, and we have to fight the urge to mimic him... hee)

He had likely tried to pass gas (one of his hobbies) and got an unexpected result. I told him it was okay, it was an accident, etc. He got into the bathroom and got cleaned up. All was well.

Until I made this post, that is. Me blogging about this is yet another one of those things which will doubtless be revisited in my now-four-year-old's future therapy sessions.

Condoms
I know this comes as a shock to most of you, but my husband and I occasionally like to indulge in a bit of maritally sanctioned intimacy, also known as nuptial nookie.

Well, to accomplish this without changing our 1:1 kid-to-adult ratio, we use condoms (long story... short of sterilization or an IUD, both of which I'm considering -- the former for him, the latter for me -- it's all we've got).

Since I get to do most of the shopping, I'm usually responsible for procurement.

Unfortunately, I do most of my shopping with the kids, which leads to some hasty choices at times, especially if I wish to avoid the eight-year-old trumpeting, "What's a condom, Mama?"

So yeah, good times.

Anyway, the last time Himself and I decided we'd be killing off a few more rubber trees, he asked me, "Do we have any?"

"Sure honey, on the bookshelf by your side of the bed."

He looked, picked up the packets, and raised one eyebrow at me.

"Spiral ribbed or mint tingle????"

I shrugged.

"That's what happens when your wife buys the Party Pack."
-----------------------

Must post and re-check the ratings... a moment, if you will...



Ah yes. Much better. We're BA-ACK!

Just a Quickie

If you don't have the ability to discern which pedal makes the nice little car go vroom vroom? You don't deserve a driver's license.

You also better not be anywhere near in front of me on the way home. I dealt with enough of you bastards on my way to work and at lunch.

(Vertical! On! The! Right!)

Thank you.

Amanda and Angel, Live and in Color!

Okay, to clarify, for me it's not so much color except my lipstick, which looks REALLY freaking dark.

Angel has posted that video she had her daughter shoot of us at the HP7 release back a few weeks ago. So if anyone's curious enough to see what we look like in action (and to hear my not so dulcet tones), please click here.

Angel's voice is awesome, and although she grips about her chin on the video, I must point out that I didn't notice it.

I did, however, once again notice that I scratched my face and was extremely obviously chewing gum.

Well, they don't let us smoke in the bookstore. Something about poisoning the other patrons. Sheesh. Darn those bookstores anyway, looking out for the health of the majority of their customers!

So, gum it was for me.

Just regular gum though, not Nicorette. First, I wasn't actively quitting smoking yet, so I didn't have much lying around, and second, I just didn't need the nicotine enough to stick one of those lovely little cardboard pieces of gum into my mouth (I tend to chew the "old style" Nicorette).

Okay, enough babbling. Click on over to Angel's.

Strong beverages should be avoided at this time.

Corporate Interest

Looks like the folks at Publix are interested in my thoughts about baggers:

(double-click on the image to enlarge)

On the off chance there are any other visitors from the Publix corporate offices, please also see my thoughts about deli workers who sneak black olives into pre-made wraps.

Thanks for coming by, y'all! Always happy to offer feedback.

Chantix Day Three

Well, here we are at day three of the Chantix. Tomorrow is the first day we'll be taking two pills.

I can say that the Chantix so far is making me a bit tired, but no moreso than a Benadryl would. We'll see how an increased dosage will affect me.

Yesterday I was itching a bit, but I think it could be psychosomatic because I'm just so worried I'll get Stan's reaction to the medication and have to go back to the Nicorette. Arrrgh! I really prefer my Extra bubblegum, thankyouverymuch.

The Benadryl really didn't touch the itching (I took two), so I'm figuring that means I was making myself itch. That conclusion has been borne out by the fact that if I think of itching (like, oh say, while typing this post), I start itching.

At work I didn't notice any itching unless I thought of it.

Or maybe I thought of it because I was itching.

Oish.

Well, anyway, we'll see how it goes tomorrow with both .5 mg pills!

Comment Responses (and a bonus rant inspired by AYC)

Okay, yeah, it's kind of a cheat to use a response to comments as an entire blog post itself, but this got so long in the little comment boxy thingie that it was just silly to keep trying to type in there.

Anyway, on to the responses!

Dr. A, man, I hear ya there on the Diet Coke. I was really low on it by the time yesterday night rolled around, so today I bought two twelve-packs in two different places, just to be sure I was adequately supplied.

Those will last until Wednesday. Because I'm working and will be drinking the office's Diet Coke during business hours.

Angel, I'm working on the vasectomy thing. At this rate it looks like I'm going to have to go somewhere and make him the appointment myself, which I understand is difficult what with HIPAA and everything.

Like I said, if I get pregnant again it will be a case of immaculate conception and I will make an absolute killing in the tabloids.

Awesome Mom, I have that eye-poking-out urge over the SpongeBob bedroom going on for sure. Plus I think I'm developing hives.

The elder son, who didn't care what was on his bed? Now wants to get a new comforter and sheets for his room. If he chooses SpongeBob too (he is also a fan) I'll be blogging from the psych inpatient ward.

Scott, it was indeed both a fun and crazy Sunday. And hee! on the Problem Child room. You know, in the second Problem Child, my old orchestra director and his chamber group were the quartet in the wedding scene.

Yes, that is my one claim to vicarious fame.

As for kiddie bedding in stressful medical situations, well, I took my pillow to the hospital when I had my first son and had my old Raggedy Ann and Andy pillowcase on it, so I'm totally with you there.

The jury is still out on the sponge wall. We shall see. It isn't too complicated, so it could happen. When he hates it in a few years, he can help us paint over it.

AYC, three isn't so bad? What's one more?

:faints:

Woman, you do understand that at three children, we adults would be freaking outnumbered in this house? And that's only the beginning. The younger son is trying figure out how to spell to put a sign on his room keeping his elder brother out (because his mean mommy won't help him spell it), and the elder brother already has a sign on his door (because he wrote it himself without any assistance from me) saying,

"No little brother.

Unless I send him to get something.

Then he can come in."

Now, ma'am, picture these two little dears sharing a room.

I'll give you a moment for that to sink in.

Now picture them alone with their new sibling, a frazzled daddy, and a mommy who's practicing crocheting with a blunted plastic hook on the eighth floor of our local hospital.

Yes, that would be the previously-mentioned psych ward.

Ain't happenin', sister.

(But thanks for giving me a good rant to sign off on!)

WalMart and SpongeBob

No deep introspection today, folks. Just me, my Chantix, my bubble gum, my Diet Coke (they will have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers), and life in general.

This morning we made a run to WalMart. Now usually it takes an act of Congress (or my lunch with my parents) to pry me out of the house before noon on a Sunday. But for various reasons, most of which are totally under my control, my younger son's bedroom was never officially "decorated," and we finally remedied that today.

Back when we bought this house we were at one kid, and one kid only. Then one day (I think Bloody Marys were involved) we both agreed that if we were going to have another child, we should really get started on it sometime soon as Himself didn't want to be seventy years old watching his own kid graduating from high school.

Well, the birthday of the younger child puts him firmly at sixty-three when that child will finally graduate, so he's safe there unless I get knocked up at forty.*

But on the day of our closing, neither of us knew I was about eleven days pregnant. Neither of us knew that God had been actively listening when we said "We really should get started on it soon," and took us at our word (or failing that, He was pretty sure we'd change our minds if swift action wasn't taken).

When we were driving home from signing our lives away for the next thirty years (I think by now we own the pantry outright), I realized that I was technically "due" that day and nothing had happened.

It wasn't only that, though, as I'm notoriously all over the map as far as my periods are concerned. It was also the fact that I'd been napping and had developed an aversion to both coffee and Cool Ranch Doritos, which for me are pretty sure signs of gestation. Also, there was the weird development that while most of my body measurements were going down (I was in week three or four of the Body-for-LIFE program), my waist measurement was increasing slightly.

Eeewwww.

So I put the then-only child to bed, and hurried off to buy a home pregnancy test.

I came home and did the whole pee-on-a-stick thing, then sat and watched the results window.

Two lines.

Huh.

I walked out of the bathroom, found my husband, and handed him the test. His brilliant response?

"There are two lines. And?"

"Yes, there are two lines."

"Ohhhh... two lines. Uhm, are we happy about this?"

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know in the morning. In the meantime, I think we'd better scratch that idea about having a guest bedroom."

They're not kidding when they say "Man plans, God laughs."

Anyway, the next morning I'd had time to absorb what this new pregnancy meant and was more fully with the program.

"Honey?"

"What?"

"We're happy about this."

"Okay."

So we moved from our apartment into the house in a few weeks when morning sickness was finally in full swing, which made me so much less helpful than I would have liked to have been. We got the extra-utero child's room fixed up for him with a big boy bed and matching sheets and comforter.

He didn't care what was on his bed, so I picked out something semi-normal looking.

The crib went into the "guest" room, along with various boxes that contained nothing vital enough to unpack (but of course vital enough to move) and a full size bed my husband had in storage. I made that one up with some other sheets and comforter that I chose. So for about eight months we had a guest room/ nursery/ storage room.

Time passed, the second son was born, the boxes were eventually unpacked, and for a couple of years he couldn't have cared less about what was in his bedroom. However, eventually he wanted a "big boy" bed. So we moved the full bed and the crib out and got him a little twin bed like his big brother's.

I had good intentions about getting him a comforter and some such stuff, but my grandmother had just died and we had tons of sheets and other things from her house. He fell in love with a set of butterfly print sheets (very old, very soft, very orange -- the child has an interesting sense of style), and things just kind of remained that way for the next couple of years.

But last weekend as we were doing the weekly dredging of his room to be sure he still had a carpet, he mentioned he might like a bedspread other than his SpongeBob throw blanket. So that's how I ended up at WalMart this morning, relieved that we were finally not going to see SpongeBob plastered over the top of his bed anymore.

We walked down the bedding aisle and he saw it. The Holy Grail of bedspreads.

(Y'all know where this is going, of course.)

Yes, it's got SpongeBob on it. So does his new set of sheets and both pillowcases.

And then there's the little fold-out SpongeBob table and chair set we got to complete the look, because, well, we must have somewhere to do all our artwork, I guess.

Oh, and to write the sign he's affixed to the door of his bedroom which says "No cats. Only kids allowed." He wanted to add "No big brothers," but I told him that would be a bit tacky.

Emily can't read, though, and scoots through his door anytime she can manage it, much to his eternal consernation.

His SpongeBob throw blanket is now carefully arranged on his floor as a rug.

He has also informed me that we need to paint one of his walls to look like a sponge. I told my husband, who just clutched his head between his hands.

It's SpongeBob-ariffic. I kind of wince when I walk by, but he's such a happy prideful little guy about it that I end up smiling even though an interior design desecration induced migraine is trying to beat my eyes out with a ballpeen hammer.

So anyway, that was my day. Happy four-year-old, pained-but-amused husband, and an eight-year-old who still doesn't care what sheets or bedspread are on his bed, but who is now the proud owner of a purple beanbag chair.

It's all minor, but sometimes life is just good. Even with WalMart and SpongeBob.

*God, please don't take this as a challenge. I will swear off sex before I have another child, and if you're that determined I should lose what little is left of my mind and become the mother of three, I'm gonna make a killing in the tabloids.

Weight and Body Issues (and other stuff, because I'm ADD-ish like that)

Well, I told Scott I'd address this in another post, so here I am.

Addressing it.

In another post.

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First though, I've been visiting a ton of blogs by people who are much much better at this writing thing than I am. Like, say, Scott's blog. Or the Queen of Dysfunction, who is now totally my idol in blogging about family matters and such. That chick knows how to bring the funny. Seriously. And although I know it's difficult to contemplate, I think she has a better grasp on profanity than even I possess.

I have an English degree (which I've mentioned once or twenty times here). All I can think when I look at this blog is that my professors must have been on some serious crack.

And then there are all the clearly focused blogs, like Mostly True Stories (labor and delivery), or any one of Angel's blogs (chronic headaches, weight loss, hurricanes, quilting, and crafting, in that order), or Stan's blog, which chronicles his adventures in Chantix land and the aftermath thereof.

Me? I'm all over the place. Rants? Got 'em. Family silliness? Got it. Bleeding forever without dying? It's here. Smoking? Yep. And now the quitting smoking and Chantix stuff.

I'd link it, but, well... you can find it in the archives if you're interested.

And to all this mish-mash, I'm adding weight loss issues.

Oish.

So if any of you come here hoping for some kind of consistency in the nature of the posts, I'm very sorry for disappointing you.

I mean that sincerely.

Hell, sometimes I wonder why I do this myself. I'll notice readership going up, get all freaked out, and wonder if I should even keep inflicting this mess on a small but slowly-increasing segment of the unsuspecting public.

But then I screw my head on straight and figure, well, I like blogging. I liked it before anyone even read this damn thing (I have two other ancient blogs to attest to this). And apparently, it's good enough for some folks to read.

I just question your judgment and mine in my more dark and introspective moments ;)

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Anyway, on to weight issues!

I was always a very skinny little kid. Or slender. Whatever. When I was four I had my tonsils out and scared my parents out of about ten years' growth by my impersonation of an ambulatory skeleton for about six months after the surgery.

Mom was very conscious about feeding her family healthy food. I remember once in mid-elementary school we were learning about what happens when food goes bad. It must have been related to a book the teacher was reading us or something. But anyway, one night Mom was serving us meatloaf and I spied something, uhm, "off" in my slice of loaf.

"Mom! This meat is bad! It's... it's... green."

"That's just a spice, sweetie."

Uh-huh. But gullible child that I was, I swallowed her lie.

And the freaking peas that she'd ground up and put into my Holy and Sacred ketchup-drenched meatloaf.

I hate peas. Hate them with a passion unequalled. I came home from class one day to find my husband (who is well aware of my hatred of these particular legumes) feeding our precious-and-then-only son this vile vegetable.

The little ingrate was gulping them down with great relish.

Since that time, when the man cooks? He makes peas as the vegetable. And I, conscientious mother that I am (I will set a good example, dammit), shovel them into my mouth in HUGE spoonfuls, hold them carefully on my tongue, and then swallow them down whole with a huge gulp of whatever liquid I'm happening to drink that night.

If it's wine, I'm good and buzzed by the time I have to do the dishes.

When #2 son was born, I stared the nasty beast of engorgement dead in the eye. What was the solution to the agony of my breasts? Frozen. Freaking. Peas.

God, I can still smell them thawing/cooking on my chest. I saved them for after-care for my husband's vasectomy-that-has-yet-to-happen.

I probably should toss them, along with the frozen breastmilk that's been gathering dust for four years.

And then there's the placenta from Son #2's birth, which we really meant to plant/ bury somewhere. But we didn't, and as it's a biohazard we're supposed to take it back to the birth center to dispose of it. So there it sits, taking up room in my freezer... oish.

Anyway...

Brought up eating healthily, even if slightly against my will, skinny kid, blah blah blah... which brings me to high school.

I was in the high school orchestra with Angel's husband. Our director was an interesting individual. One time I was wearing a skirt that clearly showed my rather narrow waist (it was twenty-two inches back in the day), and our conductor said, "Do you ever eat?"

Uhm, yeah. Actually, I did. I had a rather healthy relationship with food. My parents had given up trying to serve me peas -- it helped that I ate just about any vegetable that wasn't a pea -- and when it came to hunger, I ate. When I wasn't hungry anymore, I didn't eat.

You know, reasonable stuff like that.

But with this being orchestra, and with various evening performances and eating afterward, it was like some sort of eagle eye was upon me.

We'd go to Pizza Hut and I'd eat a slice of pizza or two, and all I'd hear was, "Good lord, eat girl! You're going to waste away to nothing!"

No, no I wasn't. Yes, I had a very narrow waist, but that isn't where I gain my weight. First place any excess weight goes on me is to my thighs and butt (the song Baby Got Back was so written for me). Saddlebags are the bane of my existence. In a full skirt with a narrow waist, sure I looked like a toothpick. But put me in jeans, shorts, or a straight skirt and it was very VERY clear I wasn't skeletal.

Still, I was at that whole "craving approval" stage, so I ate on command.

Over time, I got used to eating more than I should, just so no one would look at me with that "She's anorexic, we must feed and/or institutionalize her" expression in their eyes. Luckily, at that point my metabolism kicked all kinds of ass, and I stayed within the 122-127 range.

Unfortunately, over time my metabolism slowed. And over time my stress increased, and I dealt with stress by cramming more and more food down my gullet. After all, eating gained me approval. Approval felt good. Ergo, stress was relieved by eating!

Brilliant, eh?

Still, I managed to hold my weight around 140 or 150 up until I hit my early thirties. I wasn't totally happy at those weights, but my husband met me at 140 and thought I was the most beautiful creature he'd ever met (have I mentioned how insanely brilliant he is recently?), so I was content.

But then I went back to work. And although working was definitely a stress reliever in some ways (I didn't have to potty train my second son -- hah!), it brought stress in other ways, especially the whole "Dealing with clients who are getting divorced/ dealing with CPS/ looking at prison sentences" thing.

And so I ate, and ate more. Because it felt good.

Then I was out trying to buy something to wear for my brother's May 2006 wedding. Holy cow, everything I tried on made me look fat!

I was wearing my size 18 "immediately post-partum" jeans by then, but still, they were clothes I already owned, so I hadn't really paid attention to the increasing girth of my body.

The pictures came back from the wedding. Ouch. I'd weighed myself sometime within relatively recent memory and had seen that I was weighing about 180. Not good.

But that "recent memory" had been several months in the past.

Finally, in August of 2006, it happened. That "Eureka!" moment. The moment I knew I'd crossed the line from "rather curvier than usual" into "fat."

It was a Saturday. I was at Publix with my kids. My elder son got on the scale to weigh himself -- it's a hobby of his -- and then I figured I might as well see the bad news.

I didn't have to see it. The dear boy broadcast it for the entire store.

"Mommy, you weigh 200! Isn't that quite a lot?"

Shit.

"Yes, honey, it is quite a lot."

My mother had noticed my weight gain more than I had up until that point, and had said that she'd pay for a month of NutriSystem for me if I wanted to try it out. She wasn't pushy (she's never pushy with stuff like that), but she let me know the offer was there.

I e-mailed her the following Monday and let her know I was ready.

I stayed on NutriSystem for three months, and lost 27 pounds on it. After that point, I decided to do it on my own. And besides, Lean Cuisine is really rather tasty, in a "good Lord, would they just give me MORE FOOD" kind of way.

So since that time I've been counting calories, and have attempted to keep my daily intake between 1200 and 1500. If I go over it, eh, it happens. And if I'm under 1200, I eat until I've made it to 1200. I don't want to totally freak my body into starvation mode or anything.

Besides, cheese is really really good at 10:00 at night. Hee.

So now, about a year later, I weigh between 159 and 160. It's hugely different from the 200, but it's still a far cry from the 150/140 I was accustomed to, and even farther from the 122-127 range I used to enjoy.

I don't need to ever hit the 120's again. But I wouldn't mind dipping into the 130's. So I keep going, keep counting, and keep hoping.

So anyway, that's my whole "Amanda Gains and Then Loses Massive Amounts of Weight" story. Yeah, it's "only" forty pounds, but folks, it's FORTY FREAKING POUNDS. That's EIGHT 5 lb. sacks of flour.

That's the weight of my four-year-old.

So hell yeah, it's an accomplishment. And I'll shout it to the rooftops.

And that, dear readers, is why I'm panicked about gaining weight while I quit smoking. It's not totally rational, but I hope this makes it a bit more understandable.

Just Stuff

First, I've been tagged to do a meme by Babs. Topic? TANSTAAFL, or in other words, There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.

I must cogitate.

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And trying to think about how I'm to do justice to that particular topic is a bit difficult at this point, because I took my first Chantix today and it appears to have fried my brain. The good news is that I'm not wanting to smoke as much even now, which I'm sure isn't due to the Chantix because a) I felt like this before I popped my little pill (yay!), and b) the stuff really hasn't had enough time to build up in my body anyway.

But still, it's definitely a good thing.

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In the realm of "not such a good thing," or perhaps, "too much of a good thing," I ate too much for lunch. That wasn't bright. I've spent almost a year scraping these forty pounds off my formerly-ever-widening-ass, and the last thing I need to do is pile them back on again. Yeah, yeah, one meal won't kill me, I know. It's the cumulative effect of overeating that'll do me in.

Since I'm quitting smoking, though, and am on Chantix, I have this lively horror that I'm going to pack the pounds right back on. I like how I look now, and am working on dropping a few more pounds (5'-7", 160 lbs, small bone structure... yep, still need to lose a few). I know how to make it work. I just need to continue obsessively calorie-counting and diary-ing my food, and make sure to stay within certain limits.

But it's really got me freaked out a bit.

I Can Has Chantix?

Well, the Chantix came home with me today. Happy belated birthday, dear husband of mine! Here's to many, MANY more years before us, free from these nasty little cancer sticks.

Sad thing is, I can call them "cancer sticks," I know they're bad for me, I hate the stench, I hate what they do to me, but I still. Freaking. Want. Them.

What led to the Great Chantix Experiment is that I found a very old, stale, nearly full pack of cigarettes in our kitchen. Yipes!

My husband and I looked at them. And looked at them.

Himself: They're stale.

Me: I know.

Himself: We've gone more than two days.

Me: I know.

Himself: We can do this.

Me: I know.

Me, five minutes later, firing one up in the back yard... sigh. Guilty bliss.

I went to Himself, thrust the pack into his hands and said, "Get rid of these. I can't take it. Make them go away."

Dude took me at my word. I came home yesterday and went to the garage to get something out of the chest freezer. The first thing that hit me was the distinctive smell of stale cigarette smoke.

"You've been smoking!"

"I've only smoked some butts out of my ashtray."

"Uh huh. Then why is the pack I gave you to make 'go away' half empty?"

Himself hung his head.

We finished them off that night. With great glee, I might add.

I hate this addiction. I hate how I still like smoking.

Ergo, the Chantix. We sincerely do want to quit smoking, but apparently are unable to do it on our own. We're hoping the Chantix will help kill off the "Gosh, smoking's FUN!" feeling and get us on the more realistic path of "And I want to suck smoke into my lungs because why???" frame of mind.

Here we go. Life is and will be GOOD!

Chantix

Whine, whine... the good news is that at least I'm self aware about my whining as well as my ability to quit smoking without a bit more assistance.

I went to my GP today, who is also conveniently my husband's GP. After he nearly threw his back out doing the happy dance because Himself and I are serious about quitting smoking, the Very Nice M.D. wrote us both prescriptions for Chantix.

Actually, he did the prescriptions on this little PDA which fired them directly off to our pharmacy. Cool, huh? So, Chantix, here we come!

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In other news, Angel has posted pictures of the two of us from the HP7 release. The first one, she looks great. I'm grinning so widely though that my cheeks are trying to cover up my eyes and I appear to have developed some weird side-dimples.

On the plus side, as Angel pointed out, it's a good shot of the rack. Magazine rack, of course, is what I mean.

The third picture shows off my nice yellow nicotine-stained teeth. I think I'll use that for motivation in addition to my other stuff.

But we had a blast at the release, and hopefully I'll get my pictures off my camera someday so I can post a few of my own. Those of you who've been waiting for more of my vacation pictures know how long that can take...

Blast it.

It's gonna have to be Chantix.

Why? Because I'm a total wimp. And apparently, so is my husband, aka He of the Will of Iron (not to be confused with Forging Iron Man, because, cute as Scott is? So not my husband, LOL).

So, we're wimps. Fortunately, our family doctor (my GP) is next door to my office. I'll be making a call in the morning and I'll see what he can do for us.

I'm tired of smoking. Even still.

Sorry for the "Smoking is BAD" theme, y'all. Not meaning to go there, seriously. Just spewing. If you're still smoking, I have nothing to say about it. Honestly. Been there. Still there, in so many MANY ways. So... no worries, y'all.

Nerd Test

Well, I took the nerd test I found over in the sidebar at Scott's blog:



Heh. And why yes, yes I'm finding things to do to occupy myself rather than smoke. Why do you ask?

By the way, Scott, welcome to my blogroll*. May God have mercy upon your soul.

*(You'll show up as soon as Blogrolling stops dragging its feet...)

Edited to add: My husband took the test. Same score. Hee.

Thank You Note

Forty-eight hours and no one's dead yet. This is definitely an accomplishment.

On the other hand, I've been doing some reading on withdrawal from nicotine addiction, and now firmly believe that whoever thought of calling this first week off nicotine "Glory Week" seriously needs to be shot.

At any rate, as my mother always told me it was only polite to express one's thanks via written form:

Babs and AD, I'm going to look into Chantix. I know it's very easy to lapse (see my fine print), so I figure I need all the tools in my arsenal I can get. Actually, I'd heard of the new medication but could only remember it started with a "C", so the reminder was quite timely (and most appreciated)! Now I just have to get off my duff and call my GP, who said he'd prescribe it for me the moment I asked him to.

Bless that man.

Awesome Mom, thank you for your hopes that we make it through this without killing each other. We happen to share that hope, although there are doubts of the outcome at certain times. Currently Himself is voted most likely to be the victim of any capital crime, primarily because his method of dealing with stress is to be an outward ass. Mine is to be an inward bitch, which is much harder for him to catch.

Okay, I just read that to him and he says it's not hard for him to catch at all, so perhaps the stakes are somewhat more even than I'd thought.

Monkeygirl, I had to laugh at what you said. The office is currently trembling in fear. Well, they're trembling when they're not laughing behind my back as the withdrawal is making me incredibly ditzy. I have my moments of dopiness here in blogland, but at work I'm usually damn sharp. This week? Not so much.

Thanks for the waves of support -- I can definitely use 'em!

Maui, I've heard it can be like that (where a cigarette will smell good for a moment even decades after quitting). My father and mother quit over 30 years ago, and they still have that urge occasionally. I just need to get far enough along that I'm not seriously tempted to torch one up. Way to go for you on 25 years!

{{{{{Angel}}}}} Thank you! Just think, I won't have to sneak out of the restaurant when we finally have lunch to go fire one up :) And I don't know how hard the Lyrica withdrawal was. I remember reading about it in the backposts of your blog, and I think it's probably equally hard, just with different difficulties in different places. For me, it's both the nicotine addiction (which I'm helping with the gum) and the physical habit, like, "Gosh, I'm sitting at the computer... now where is that danged cancer stick anyway?"

Judy, I didn't know about your husband, and I'm so sorry to hear about it. Thank you for your support and for sharing what's going on in your life {{{{}}}}.

Felicity, thanks, and LOL on the "breaking up with your husband," part. It doesn't sound quite right, but I know exactly what you mean by it so it's all good.

Besides, it made me giggle and that's totally welcome at anytime, especially at this moment!

TZ, thanks for pulling for me! And here's hoping you and AD are right on this. I know my family history is bad, but who knows, I could have been dealt some incredible combination of genes that will make this all work out.

Even if not, I've still done some good. If not as much for me, but for my kids.

And fishwithoutbicycle, thank you for dropping by and the well-wishes!

All of you are very much appreciated. I'm going to find a pencil to gnaw now. One of my hugest fears is putting the weight I've lost back on.

On the plus side, I can always re-lose the weight. I hear it's a bit harder to recover from death.