Weigh-In Day

I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

I have no discipline.

Not exactly an earth-shaker, is it?  But it's true - I can give up on something that is hard faster than anyone I know.  I'll cut so many corners, my project will be a circle when I'm done with it.  But sometimes, I get dedicated to something and knock it out - but if I get distracted or overwhelmed, then I'm all about jumping off the Titanic.

Take this past weekend.  My wife was VERY ill - leaving me to be single dad to our two monsters angels, plus the primary caregiver to my nurse spouse.  Have you ever taken care of a nurse, or someone in the medical profession?  It ain't easy.  They know better than anyone what to do (in their opinion, but it's also fact), and they won't listen to anyone about "rest, fluids, sleep, etc.".  So - yeah, the thought of pushing her down some stairs crossed my mind once or twice over the past 96 hours.

My kids were another challenge.  There was nearly a "Harry Potter Moment" - where they were going to live their formative years in the closet under the stairs.  I considered putting them up on Craigslist.  I almost started a Twitter account, so I could remember such gems as "I'm going to stuff you in the microwave!" for posterity down the road. 

Through all this, I was supposed to be exercising and dieting.  Didn't happen.  I justified it with "sick wife and crazy kids", and just eschewed doing anything over the weekend.

Today was weigh-in day, and I stepped on the scale with trepidation.  Then I opened my eyes, and Charlotte (god bless her, in her tight sweaters and "are they real?" hooters) was holding her fist out for a bump.  I looked down.

244.1 - a total loss of 1.9 pounds.  1.9 pounds away from the elusive 20 pound barrier.

Let me quote one of my favorite scenes from "Saturday Night Live" - Will Farrell and Darrell Hammonds on "Celebrity Jeopardy" -

"Despite your best efforts, my friend, you were successful."

I'm not sure how it happened, but I'll take it.  I have a boys' weekend this weekend, where the beer will flow like wine, and the women flock like the salmon of Capestrano.  I'm not holding my breath on some magical weight loss formula this time, but maybe I'll get lucky twice.  I'm sure as hell not disciplined enough to work out while on vacation.

Preschool

Today was a big day.  Well, not for you guys - but it was a landmark occasion in my house.

My little girl started preschool today.  She's four years old, so we had the option of keeping her back one more year - she's a July birthday, so she's either going to be the youngest kid in her class, or the oldest.  I was flip-flopping back and forth, trying to decide if she was ready, then she made the decision for me.

I came home from work one day, and she was playing school.  This is not an odd event at our house - in fact, it happens six days out of every week.  This time was a bit different though. 

Usually, she coerces her younger brother (age two) to be the student.  Since he will do ANYTHING she tells him to, loyally and obediently, he was sitting at attention, "learning" the alphabet.  Then I noticed her other pupil.

Our dog Turner was sitting there, with his head down, tail between his legs, ears drooping.  This stance is usually struck after I've beaten him mercilessly for chewing up the blinds or a hole in the wall - but he was in full "crap, when will they stop yelling at me?" mode right now.

Apparently, he "wasn't paying attention in class" and was getting a good scolding from Miss Raven.  My son, Bad News, was laughing his ass off at his furry buddy's misfortune.  Then I noticed my spouse was standing in the corner.

"What'd you do?" I asked.

"She put me in timeout for talking during class."

Then, Miss Raven finished admonishing our dog and turned her venom towards me.

"Where's your note?!  You're late!"

Dumbfounded, I informed her that I didn't have a note.  I got detention.

Yeah - she was ready for school.

The Bitch Next Door

A bit of a sidebar from the diet angle (down to 248.2 after 5 weeks, thank you) - but this one has been hanging over my head for some time now.

Recently, the wife and I bought a new house.  After nearly 10 months of living in her parent's basement, I cannot express to you how liberating this is.  Not just the "walk around naked" part of owning your own house (though that part is pretty boss) - but just having room, a kitchen, and not worrying if the mother-in-law is going to follow me after I used the guest bathroom.

So, with a new house comes new neighbors.  First, let me let you in on a little insight to my personality.  I don't like ANYONE right away.  I'm not proud of it like some people are (I mean, there are a LOT of people who seem to take great pride in being a dick or a bitch.  It's not a badge of honor, folks).  It's just my disposition.  Now, thankfully, most people prove me wrong in pretty short order, and I come around pretty quickly on most folks.  There are some exceptions, however.

Cookie is an exception.  Cookie is my next door neighbor - and I place her age roughly between 55-1,000,000.  I honestly have no idea how old she is.  Within three minutes of meeting her on the day we moved in (and that's not an exaggeration), she casually mentioned this:

"We had agreed with the previous owners to cut down one of the trees in your back yard, because the roots are threatening to pierce the lining of our pool.  It costs about $300 - do you want to pay for it and we can split it with you?  Or we can have someone come over right now and do it and you can pay us back.  Because, you know, $300 is a lot cheaper than $40,000, which is what it would cost to replace the lining in the pool."

Now picture this scene.  I am sweating my ass off, holding a box of crap that we don't need.  I'm on approximately 4 minutes of sleep the last three days.  There are my dear friends and family that are helping us move, asking me where stuff goes.  My children are driving me batshit crazy, asking me to get their toys and books out and stuff.  And then - Cookie.

Read what she told me again.  My god - politicians aren't this prepared for national debates!  What an ambush, too!  And who the FUCK has a $40,000 pool?

The thing is - the tree in question is like 30 feet from her pool.  There is no way the roots could pierce the lining of their Kardashian-esque pool.  And it provides some valuable shade in the afternoon for our backyard and deck.  Hell, one of the reasons I bought the house was BECAUSE of the trees in the back yard.

Amazingly, I was polite and told Cookie that we would discuss it later.  Undeterred, she has brought it up with me EVERY SINGLE TIME I see her.  She brought it up with my wife.  With my mom.  With my father-in-law.  Anyone and everyone who crosses her path gets asked about that tree.

Well, you know what, Cookie?  There is no fucking way I'm EVER cutting down that tree.  Unless God herself (yeah, I said it) blasts that tree out of the ground with a bolt of lightning, it will remain there. 

Cookie is also a bit of a gossip.  Actually that's not true.  Calling Cookie a "bit of a gossip" is like calling Abe Lincoln "a little bit dead".  My Christ - this woman has dirt on EVERYONE on the street -and if you listen to her, we live on Wisteria Lane from "Desperate Housewives". 

My favorite was how she said the guy across the street (nicknamed "Mr. Perfect") is a drunk and had papers served to him by the divorce court - but she and her equally bitchy friend across the street from me "just happened to find the papers blowing around" their yard.  I'm sure it was more like Cookie tackled the process server and beat him to death with her cigarette case until he coughed up the papers.

I've met Mr. Perfect a couple of times, and his lovely wife.  They seem happy enough.  Never seen him drink, either (though he's seen me...plenty).  You might be surprised to hear this, but Cookie just might be full of shit.

So - now I have to outlive Cookie.  I'm pretty sure she's lonely.  She lives with her husband Tom, who's never home (can't imagine why) and her sister - who I don't think is right in the head.  I may be wrong, but it sure would explain why she was wearing two kimonos in the middle of summer.  But man - Cookie is my least favorite type of person - a gossipy phony who will spread stories and rumors just to give her something to do.
God know what she's said about us already.

Your Move, Fatty

(Originally written on July 13th.  It took me some time to decide if I was going to post this or not)

I'm fat.

Maybe not morbidly obese, but certainly heavier than I should be.  I used to be insanely skinny - in high school and my freshman year of college I was 6'2", and a whopping 117 pounds.  The ass-kicking I took during high school basketball games is almost indescribable.  I was nearly stuffed through the hoop when Derrick Hood, who had signed with the University of Arkansas, decided to practice his drop-step move and I thought it would be wise to try to stop him.

I just kept growing in high school and college - I finally stopped at 6'5" - and it didn't matter how much I ate back then. My doctor put me on a Michael Phelps-ian diet that was about 6,500 calories a day.  Didn't work.  I used to eat two footlong meatball subs from Subway in a single meal.  Didn't matter.  My mom used to buy those HUGE chicken pot pies from Costco - and she'd cook one for me (caloric intake - about 4,200 with roughly 5,233,971 grams of fat) and one for the rest of the family.  Didn't matter.  I used to eat an entire loaf of peanut butter sandwiches at night, because I thought that it would stick to me better overnight.  No such luck.

So - when I finally stopped growing, I just kept eating.  I "ballooned' from 117 to 185 in two years.  Unlike most people who gain a shitload of weight in college, it looked good on me.  Then, reality set in. You know where this is going, right?

I finally topped out at about 205 when I graduated.  I played tennis all four years of school, and did other athletics, so I wasn't heavy.  I wasn't the most in-shape fella around, but I was hardly the moving land mass I am today.

I won't bore you with the details, but I slowly kept adding pounds, and rationalized every single step.  Once I got to 220, I thought "This is it - as long as I don't go over 220, I'll be okay".  Then I hit 230 with the same rationale.  Then in the past year, things went plaid in terms of stress levels. 

My wife and kids and I moved from everything and everyone I know from Kansas City to Omaha.  I started a new job.  We were trying to sell our house in KC in the worst housing market in the history of the world (or pretty close to it).  We were living in her parent's basement - 33 years old, and I was living in the basement of my in-laws. It's amazing that someone didn't find me with my head stuck in the oven one morning.

So, to compensate, I ate the shit out of everything that was put in front of me.  To make matters worse, my employer has the ONLY Chick-Fil-A in the state of Nebraska IN THE FUCKING BUILDING where I work.  Chick-Fil-A is my kryptonite in the morning.  Pepsi is my Achilles' heel, too.  I drink 3-5 per day.  I know it's bad for me - but then again, smokers know that cigarettes aren't exactly prolonging your life expectancy, either.

Then I went to the doctor, and the first thing his nurse says is "step on the scale".  I hesitated.  I bargained with her.  I offered to wash her car.  I threatened to kidnap her dog.  Nothing worked - she wanted me on that scale, and by God, I was getting on that scale.  So...I stepped on.

262.5.

I nearly cried.  No shit.  I almost broke down and started crying.

How the FUCK did this happen?  Holy hell - really? 262.5, Shamu?  How did you go from "homo sapien" to "orca" in a year?  Jesus - if I had a hot brunette in a red and gold bikini, I could've gone as Jabba the Hutt for Halloween this year.

So - here we are.  On a mission to regain who I once was.  This won't be hearts and angels and feel-good stories.  This will be swearing and anger and sweat - but I am determined to lose weight.  It's embarrassing to sweat while you sleep.  It's awful that I hate bending over to tie my kids' shoes.  My pants don't fit, and my belt is on the last hole.  My wife - God bless her - will never say anything, but I'm certain she's noticed.  I would notice if she had puffed up like a wasp had stung her.

Why am I writing this?  I'm not sure yet.  Maybe as a measure of accountability on my part - god knows there hasn't been any in the past 3-4 years.  If I write about how I'm doing, maybe it'll make what I'm doing a little more tangible.  Maybe it's to take my mind off dieting (that's probably most likely).  Whatever it is, don't expect a lot of inspirational quotes and stories - this will be more along the lines of a strip club/construction site/car crash - but a goal is at the end.  We'll see how we do getting there.