Why are people such cowardly shits sometimes? I mean, it's like this: if you don't like me, just tell me. I'll get over it. But if you just ignore me and expect that I'll simply fade into the ether, I mean...come on. Let's be grown-ups here, shall we? It's not that I can't take a hint, it's that I refuse to, based on mere principle.
*frantically searches for dog-eared copy of He's Just Not That Into You*
Where is the line? Seriously! If I decide to move on my own terms I'm selfish. If I blow off a date or do not avail myself, I'm chastised. Yet if I show enthusiasm or optimism, I'm branded a stalker.
I give up. I just can't fucking win this one. Short of getting a personality transplant, I'm doomed in this department. And ironically enough, this time I wasn't even looking for anything. It found me, and it still kicked my ass.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
To the Curb
Operation Project Toss Redux continues.
My mom is having a garage sale next weekend, and I'm furiously trying to go through all my shit and figure out what I don't need anymore. I'm convinced that if I just clear all the junk from my house, the junk in my head will follow closely behind. It's actually a proven fact that a messy house = a messy mind, and vice versa. Ironically enough, it's also been proven that messy people are pretty damn smart. I'm not kidding; studies have been done correlating IQ with level of messiness. Something about how the smarter you are, the more pies your fingers are likely to be poking around in, the more interests you have, and the more likely you are to collect stuff. It goes with being creative as well - to a creative mind, there is a potential use for just about anything.
This all makes sense to me, but it's a vicious irony, because I have all this crap laying around with the intention to turn it into something someday, and in the meantime I'm hindering my ability to get anything done in the here and now. Ah, Procrastination, my old friend...time to kick your ass to the curb.
Speaking of the curb, why will I never, ever learn my lesson when it comes to letting people into my life who don't belong there? Well, maybe I'll figure it out once I get rid of all this shit piled up all over the house.
.................................................................................................
Oh, and I've lost 16.8 pounds! Squeeeee! If you're interested in reading still more of my ramblings, musings, and grumblings related to this venture, check out my other blog!
My mom is having a garage sale next weekend, and I'm furiously trying to go through all my shit and figure out what I don't need anymore. I'm convinced that if I just clear all the junk from my house, the junk in my head will follow closely behind. It's actually a proven fact that a messy house = a messy mind, and vice versa. Ironically enough, it's also been proven that messy people are pretty damn smart. I'm not kidding; studies have been done correlating IQ with level of messiness. Something about how the smarter you are, the more pies your fingers are likely to be poking around in, the more interests you have, and the more likely you are to collect stuff. It goes with being creative as well - to a creative mind, there is a potential use for just about anything.
This all makes sense to me, but it's a vicious irony, because I have all this crap laying around with the intention to turn it into something someday, and in the meantime I'm hindering my ability to get anything done in the here and now. Ah, Procrastination, my old friend...time to kick your ass to the curb.
Speaking of the curb, why will I never, ever learn my lesson when it comes to letting people into my life who don't belong there? Well, maybe I'll figure it out once I get rid of all this shit piled up all over the house.
.................................................................................................
Oh, and I've lost 16.8 pounds! Squeeeee! If you're interested in reading still more of my ramblings, musings, and grumblings related to this venture, check out my other blog!
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Operation Project Toss Redux
In my initial post way back in March of 2005, I mentioned that I am an incurable messie. I've thought about blogging more about it, but it's pretty damn embarrassing, to be honest. Basically, I suffer from CHAOS - Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome.
So anyway, here I am trying to find things to do with myself instead of eat. I decided that cleaning the house would be something that might keep me occupied for, oh, about six years, so this morning I set to work. An hour into it, I got a call from the Williamsville store asking me if I could cover a shift this afternoon. Being the hour whore that I am lately, I said yes, dropped my trash bag, and hopped in the shower. By the time I got home all I wanted to do was eat dinner and watch a movie and take a nap. But this place is getting to the point where even I can't stand it. Yeah, it's that bad. So I decided that this summer's project is going to be getting this dump into some semblance of order. I'm calling this "Operation Project Toss Redux." (The original OPT was a few years ago before moving here). I took photos, in fact, but I'm not going to post them until I've finished the job.
This is not a job for the weak at heart, believe me. Despite having pushed myself for the last couple of hours to try and at least make a dent, it seems like such an endless venture, like Sisyphus and that damn boulder. Well, at least I won't be bored. Between the diet and the house project, I'm gonna be getting rid of a lot of junk. I hope.
And hey...I lost 5.4 pounds! Ha!
So anyway, here I am trying to find things to do with myself instead of eat. I decided that cleaning the house would be something that might keep me occupied for, oh, about six years, so this morning I set to work. An hour into it, I got a call from the Williamsville store asking me if I could cover a shift this afternoon. Being the hour whore that I am lately, I said yes, dropped my trash bag, and hopped in the shower. By the time I got home all I wanted to do was eat dinner and watch a movie and take a nap. But this place is getting to the point where even I can't stand it. Yeah, it's that bad. So I decided that this summer's project is going to be getting this dump into some semblance of order. I'm calling this "Operation Project Toss Redux." (The original OPT was a few years ago before moving here). I took photos, in fact, but I'm not going to post them until I've finished the job.
This is not a job for the weak at heart, believe me. Despite having pushed myself for the last couple of hours to try and at least make a dent, it seems like such an endless venture, like Sisyphus and that damn boulder. Well, at least I won't be bored. Between the diet and the house project, I'm gonna be getting rid of a lot of junk. I hope.
And hey...I lost 5.4 pounds! Ha!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
The Fat Chick Speaks
Weight Loss Counselor: So, Deanna, if you continue in your current habits, where do you see yourself a year from now?
Me: Dead.
Morbid? Yes. Exaggeration? Not so much. As stated before, many moons ago when I gave Weight Watchers my 14th try, this is not a weight loss blog. Chronicling the ebb and flow of the number on the scale and blogging about every morsel that passes my lips is not the point of this venture. But it's worth mentioning that my weight is something I've struggled with my whole life, starting when I was about 10 years old. I put up a humorous, Roseann-esque front about it most of the time (like yesterday when I pointed out the irony of the shirt I was wearing - it had whales on it), but deep inside I've always known it would be my demise if not lassoed and corralled for good.
When I was in my 20's, weight loss came easily. Weight gain came easier. I bounced up and down the scale at astonishing speeds. And then when I turned 30, it was like I could hear the audible grinding halt of my metabolism, damaged by years of yo-yo-ing and a myriad of eating disorders, and I've done little else but pack on weight ever since. I'm not going to crunch numbers here, or reveal how much I actually weigh, but I will say that I am officially 108 pounds heavier than I was six years ago, and the most I've ever weighed in my life. Somewhere in those six years I lost about 40 pounds, and put it back on, then lost 35, and put that back on even faster. And while it's been weighing heavy on my mind (nice pun, ha, I kill me!) these last few months, Bill's death last month was the wake-up call I needed. Bill wasn't even overweight, but it brought to light the fact that if I could lose two acquaintances and nearly lose another - all under 40 - to heart attacks, then it wasn't so far-reaching to think that I, myself, weighing over 100 pounds more than I should - could be on a mortician's slab before long. I'm not "obsessed with death," as has been charged by some; I'm simply faced with my own mortality.
I will confess that I waxed poetic about the futility of life for a while after Bill died, thinking, "wow, what's the point if I eat this donut or not...I could drop dead in the street tomorrow anyway." Yet if I'm going to be found dead on the street, I don't want to weigh so much that they need a fucking piano crane to lift me up into the coroner's wagon. I'd also like to lose some weight so that I have the energy to clean my house before I drop dead and end up with one of my friends or family members saddled with the task.
So. Yeah. I joined Whoopi's ranks today and signed on with L.A. Weight Loss. In the last 20 years or so, I've tried Weight Watchers (several times) and various offshoots like dear old Ida's Ideal Weight Program (several times). I've done the Idiot's Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Hollywood Diet (oh, yuck), pills, pills, and more pills, from quack mail-order shit from the back of Cosmo to Metabolife to prescriptions like Meridia and Phentermine. I've consumed enough Slim-Fast to drown an entire small nation in artificial vanilla flavor. I've done protein shakes, South Beach, Beach Body, fasting, and some diet that a customer gave me to try. Some of these plans have worked. Some of them worked well. Others didn't work at all. But nonetheless, the weight always came back, and with a vengeance. I never tried Susan Powter's diet, but I can see now where the "Stop the Insanity!" sentiment comes from.
Anyway, this entry has gone on long enough. You get the point. I'm fat, and I'm trying to not be. But more than anything, I'm just trying not to be dead.
Me: Dead.
Morbid? Yes. Exaggeration? Not so much. As stated before, many moons ago when I gave Weight Watchers my 14th try, this is not a weight loss blog. Chronicling the ebb and flow of the number on the scale and blogging about every morsel that passes my lips is not the point of this venture. But it's worth mentioning that my weight is something I've struggled with my whole life, starting when I was about 10 years old. I put up a humorous, Roseann-esque front about it most of the time (like yesterday when I pointed out the irony of the shirt I was wearing - it had whales on it), but deep inside I've always known it would be my demise if not lassoed and corralled for good.
When I was in my 20's, weight loss came easily. Weight gain came easier. I bounced up and down the scale at astonishing speeds. And then when I turned 30, it was like I could hear the audible grinding halt of my metabolism, damaged by years of yo-yo-ing and a myriad of eating disorders, and I've done little else but pack on weight ever since. I'm not going to crunch numbers here, or reveal how much I actually weigh, but I will say that I am officially 108 pounds heavier than I was six years ago, and the most I've ever weighed in my life. Somewhere in those six years I lost about 40 pounds, and put it back on, then lost 35, and put that back on even faster. And while it's been weighing heavy on my mind (nice pun, ha, I kill me!) these last few months, Bill's death last month was the wake-up call I needed. Bill wasn't even overweight, but it brought to light the fact that if I could lose two acquaintances and nearly lose another - all under 40 - to heart attacks, then it wasn't so far-reaching to think that I, myself, weighing over 100 pounds more than I should - could be on a mortician's slab before long. I'm not "obsessed with death," as has been charged by some; I'm simply faced with my own mortality.
I will confess that I waxed poetic about the futility of life for a while after Bill died, thinking, "wow, what's the point if I eat this donut or not...I could drop dead in the street tomorrow anyway." Yet if I'm going to be found dead on the street, I don't want to weigh so much that they need a fucking piano crane to lift me up into the coroner's wagon. I'd also like to lose some weight so that I have the energy to clean my house before I drop dead and end up with one of my friends or family members saddled with the task.
So. Yeah. I joined Whoopi's ranks today and signed on with L.A. Weight Loss. In the last 20 years or so, I've tried Weight Watchers (several times) and various offshoots like dear old Ida's Ideal Weight Program (several times). I've done the Idiot's Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Hollywood Diet (oh, yuck), pills, pills, and more pills, from quack mail-order shit from the back of Cosmo to Metabolife to prescriptions like Meridia and Phentermine. I've consumed enough Slim-Fast to drown an entire small nation in artificial vanilla flavor. I've done protein shakes, South Beach, Beach Body, fasting, and some diet that a customer gave me to try. Some of these plans have worked. Some of them worked well. Others didn't work at all. But nonetheless, the weight always came back, and with a vengeance. I never tried Susan Powter's diet, but I can see now where the "Stop the Insanity!" sentiment comes from.
Anyway, this entry has gone on long enough. You get the point. I'm fat, and I'm trying to not be. But more than anything, I'm just trying not to be dead.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Random thoughts from the bowels of hell
It's like a thousand degrees in my house right now, and I can't sleep...so I'm updating this thing instead.I've been meaning to update for the last week or so, but just haven't gotten around to it. So hey, why not take advantage of not being able to sleep?
This heat is making me think of those Chicago summers when it would be so hot I would strip down to nothing, jump into a cold shower, and then lay in the middle of the living room floor under the ceiling fan. I still marvel at how I survived living in all those third-story walkups with no air conditioning. I can still remember the first summer there, the way my kitchen on Pratt smelled like coffee and cigarettes and pine-sol, mixed with the occasional rotting banana. There was only one small window in the kitchen, and it faced another building. Our back "porch" was little more than a landing, and in the summer our lack of diligence in taking out the trash would manifest itself in yet another lingering smell in the sweltering kitchen. Michael and I would sit around and smoke and read and guzzle gallons of iced coffee and slurpees while the pets would flatten themselves out into furry pancakes on the bathroom floor.
My second summer there, 1995, was the most brutal summer on record. Over 800 people died in one of the worst heat waves in Chicago history. It was so bad that the city had to call in refrigerated trailers to store the bodies, because the morgues were all full. I was managing the Shell station at that point, and I would get up at 4:00 in the morning, walk the dog down to the lake, and the two of us would jump in and swim for half an hour. Then I'd go back up to the sweltering apartment, take a cold shower, and go to my air-conditioned job, where I'd stay for the entire day - not because I had that much work to do, but because it was cooler than my apartment. I hated that job, in fact, but it kept my body temperature down.
Speaking of the apartment on Pratt, the friend who found it for us - Michael's best friend since childhood, Bill - passed away last week. He's the third person under 40 I know who's had a heart attack in the last year, and the second one to have not survived. I had a whole entry on the fragility and futility of life planned out after I learned of his passing, but I just haven't had the energy to write it. Maybe if the temperature drops a bit.
This heat is making me think of those Chicago summers when it would be so hot I would strip down to nothing, jump into a cold shower, and then lay in the middle of the living room floor under the ceiling fan. I still marvel at how I survived living in all those third-story walkups with no air conditioning. I can still remember the first summer there, the way my kitchen on Pratt smelled like coffee and cigarettes and pine-sol, mixed with the occasional rotting banana. There was only one small window in the kitchen, and it faced another building. Our back "porch" was little more than a landing, and in the summer our lack of diligence in taking out the trash would manifest itself in yet another lingering smell in the sweltering kitchen. Michael and I would sit around and smoke and read and guzzle gallons of iced coffee and slurpees while the pets would flatten themselves out into furry pancakes on the bathroom floor.
My second summer there, 1995, was the most brutal summer on record. Over 800 people died in one of the worst heat waves in Chicago history. It was so bad that the city had to call in refrigerated trailers to store the bodies, because the morgues were all full. I was managing the Shell station at that point, and I would get up at 4:00 in the morning, walk the dog down to the lake, and the two of us would jump in and swim for half an hour. Then I'd go back up to the sweltering apartment, take a cold shower, and go to my air-conditioned job, where I'd stay for the entire day - not because I had that much work to do, but because it was cooler than my apartment. I hated that job, in fact, but it kept my body temperature down.
Speaking of the apartment on Pratt, the friend who found it for us - Michael's best friend since childhood, Bill - passed away last week. He's the third person under 40 I know who's had a heart attack in the last year, and the second one to have not survived. I had a whole entry on the fragility and futility of life planned out after I learned of his passing, but I just haven't had the energy to write it. Maybe if the temperature drops a bit.
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