dinner with all the trimmin's...

Tomorrow I cook my first Thanksgiving dinner. Okay, I know: tomorrow isn't Thanksgiving. But it will be at my dad's house, and I am the chef. Here's what I am cooking:

--Roast chicken (there are only 4 of us - turkey would be too much)
--Stuffing
--Mashed potatoes
--Homemade gravy
--Green Beans
--Homemade yeast rolls
--Sparkling apple cider (not homemade, but dee-lish)
--Apple pie w/vanilla ice cream & caramel sauce

I'm excited. I already feel so domestic. I'll take lots of pictures and post how it all went.

peace

I'm sick. Blech. Don't like it much. Messes with my body and my head. I'm reading the post I put up a few days ago and think maybe I was temporarily possessed by rabid aliens, or there's a secret ingredient in my DayQuil no one told me about. As it turned out, both sets of parents were wonderful (and not at all petulant) about making sure Jason and I could attend all festivities with all involved family members - Mom & Gary on Thursday, Dad the Tuesday before. And I'm not so neurotic about what the heck I'm going to eat. It's just turkey, for chrissake.

The real joy yesterday was that I got to wash babies. I work as a nurse tech on a mother/baby (aka postpartum) floor, and I wasn't looking forward to a 12-hour shift when all I really wanted to do was to go home, rest, and go through a couple hundred boxes of Kleenex. The Powers That Be assigned me to the nursery - normally, I am spending most of my time with the moms on the rest of the floor, not the cute chubbums, so I don't get to "play with babies" all day, as many people think I do when I tell them where I work. But being assigned to the nursery (for the first time) was a bit intimidating at first: I had never given a newborn a bath, and that's a lot of what you do in the nursery. Plus, my first baby to bathe had an excited "tag-along" daddy who had to videotape every moment of his daughter's first bath... augh. Pressure, anyone? But it was fantastic: you get them all soapy with baby shampoo, and then they're basically lying on this soft mat while you wring warm water from a washcloth to rinse them off. You put them on their tummies to get their backs, get all the cheese off of them (babies are born covered with "vernix", which is a protective layer that resembles cottage cheese), dry them off, wrap them burrito-style in a soft blanket, and stick 'em under a radiant warmer to bring their temperature back up. I have to admit, putting this little pink miracle under a radiant warmer and then giving her a lotion rub-down made me feel like I was basting the poor child, only she gurgled and cooed and farted in delight for me. There really is no possible way to be in a bad mood after going through that whole bathing process.

the holiday shuffle

Ah, the holidays. I never know the right thing to do with the two-house shuffle. There's my mom and Gary, her boyfriend/significant other, and their Thanksgiving dinner, complete with turkey, stuffing, pies of all sorts, and assorted offspring and friends. Then there's my dad: my stepmom is spending Thanksgiving up in Kentucky with family, and I guess felt okay about leaving my dad behind, who couldn't get out of work, so my dad is alone on Thanksgiving. Except that he has to work until about 6pm that day, and the feast at Mom & Gary's starts at 7pm. There was this whole run-around about Thanksgiving dinner with my dad: I felt bad for him and somehow agreed to cook the feast myself for him, myself, Jason, and my brother for that afternoon, then try and scoot over to Mom & Gary's place before 7pm to break bread with them. Only now that's not going to work, and like petulant children, neither parent is willing to sacrifice Thanksgiving dinner with me on the actual blessed day itself to accommodate the other. Naturally.

And then, if we do manage to work the whole two Thanksgiving feast arrangement out, there's the issue of the two meals. Let's face it: there's a reason why serving "tofurky", low-fat stuffing, and healthful fare produces gales of disbelieving laughter or twisted, grossed-out faces. And the Wise Gods of Weight Watchers tell me to just adjust my portions to fit it all in, but come on, how realistic or obvious will it be when I reach for only 1/4 cup of stuffing (my favorite)? Or pass up on the array of desserts? It makes me look unnecessarily pious and martyred, seems to make other people think I am judging them for their overflowing plates when I am, in fact, eyeing their generous portions greedily, wishing I had done the same... and in the end, I'm hungry as a cow and miserable, with everyone making remarks about my weight, my diet, how "good" I am, which only serves to remind me how freaking hungry I am. I can get away with normal (aka generous) portions with one meal of the week, but two?

While trying to work out this crazy two-house holiday whirl, I'm also trying to come to terms with what seems most realistic: that I will have not one but two very delicious, non-lowfat and very sugar-laden meals, and I will likely not lose any weight this week. In fact, I'll probably go up a few pounds. Which, theoretically, is just fine: I think someone told me that the average American packs on 10 pounds each holiday season that never comes off, so I think even a minor setback won't deter my good progress so far. But then there's that horribly perfectionistic version of myself inside my brain, the one that I am often compelled to listen to, the one that wants to have the perfect track record, even throughout the holidays (isn't she remarkable? Losing weight even during the holidays! My my!). I'm slowly learning to tell her to just sod off and let me be.

running

different me's

This is kind of interesting: there's a website called My Virtual Model where you can make, well, a virtual model of yourself (shocker!). So you can go a little crazy and make pictures of yourself at your start weight, your current weight, your goal weight, whatever. And you can dress your model up with clothes and everything. So here's me at my starting and all-time highest weight of 188:




and me now:




and me at my goal of 120:




Pretty interesting... and no, you cannot undress me, as my husband sulkily found out. For whatever reason, it wouldn't let me save any outfits on my models, so I'm just in what looks like either chaste underwear, workout clothes, or bum-around-the-house gear. I'd say these models accurately represent me - at least the first two - so I'm kinda hoping that the kick-ass girl at the bottom is a fair representation of what I'll look like in several months. I'm so gonna pull a Kirstie Alley and get a bikini (though I won't appear on Oprah) when I hit 120.

not perfect

I'm learning - slowly - that it's okay not to be perfect. If I don't lose weight one week, well, it doesn't negate all the other weeks/months of progress. As much as I want the numbers on the scale to go down tomorrow, there's a chance they may not. I got a little too excited this past week over McDonald's caramel sundaes, partly because I "forgot" how bleh sugar makes me feel and partly because I had a sort of rough week and tried to make myself feel better with low-budget ice cream. But oddly enough, I'm not beating myself up over it. Very unlike typical me.

And I took a really stinking hard pharmacology test, and I got a 91. That was practically a miracle, given how hard the material was, but unless I get a 100 on the next exam AND earn a few extra bonus points somewhere, I'm outta the ballpark for an A. My other class is looking about the same... and at 5 credits each, my GPA will take a hit. As every nurse tells me, C=RN. I want an A. I really do. But I know I'm still going to be a damn good nurse whether I make an A or a B in pharmacology, and graduate schools will still want me if my GPA is a 3.0 this semester instead of a 4.0. It's OKAY. (But I still want an A.)

sadness

I lost a dear friend yesterday. Or at least, I feel like I lost a dear friend.

Any of you who have been in a band or small musical group for any length of time know how close you get to your bandmates/fellow musicians, even after a short time. The musicians on our ragtag little worship team are my family: some of them are literally related to me (like my husband) and still others are so closely knit to my heart that they might as well be biologically tied to me. We laugh and make music together, we cry together, and sometimes we don't like each other all that much, but family is family.

I lost a member of that family last night, and I am sad about it on so many levels that I cannot adequately verbalize. There was no physical death involved, only a set of devastating personal circumstances that, I suppose, caused my friend to feel that being on our worship team was no longer an option, even though I know how very much this person loved being with us and looked forward to each rehearsal and each Sunday. I can't explain particulars, but those circumstances had absolutely nothing to do with us or with Grace Fellowship or the worship team... but now they do, I suppose, because we lost family.

Jason and I have tried, in vain, to reach our friend - no success. I don't even know if this person is still in town or not. I am full of regrets and wishing, like many of us do in similar situations, that it wouldn't have come to a situation like this for me to express just how much we love someone and how much they have touched our lives and our hearts. Musicians come and go, and we can certainly find a replacement for the actual musical void, but it was that incredible gentle heart, the quiet strength, the amazing humility (even with such mind-blowing talent) that will all be impossible to replace. Most of you know how much it takes to get me to cry, particularly in public, and when I got the news last night that this person was no longer a part of our family (certainly not by anyone else's wish) I sobbed like a baby, without reservation. My heart still feels like a lump of lead.

I know that loss is one of those unavoidable parts of life that we must all endure, but I still don't understand it. I trust God and I know He does all things to benefit, not harm, His children... but this doesn't feel particularly beneficial at the moment. Not that I am doubting Him - I just know I can't fathom the bigger picture in all of this. And I find myself trying to ease the hurt with whatever can fit into my mouth. Food won't change anything, but try telling that to my heart. My sorrow could knock over a half dozen delicatessens right now.

There is always the remote possibility our friend is reading this right now. If you are, please come home. We love you and we miss you.

as requested

Here are the skinny jeans. My husband is a foot taller than I am, so the angle of the picture makes my legs look about 3 inches long...



This is at nearly 25 pounds gone... scroll down to do a before-and-after comparison.

skinny jeans

I think every woman has a pair of these somewhere in the recesses of their closet. You know, the jeans that are one or several sizes smaller than everything else you wear on a daily basis, the ones you wish you could fit into even if they are out of style now, the ones you keep around as a motivator for losing weight but sometimes end up accusing you silently from their designated spot in the dresser drawer? Okay, maybe your jeans don't communicate with you the same way mine do, but nevertheless, skinny jeans are an almost universal female experience.

Saturday night, I tried on my skinny jeans on a whim. They fit. They FIT.

I was going to wear them yesterday morning to church, but I chickened out: they are "slim leg" jeans, and while they do fit (no mushroom-top waist bulging out), they're just a little too tight in the butt to wear to, say, lead worship, which is what I do every Sunday morning. Out on the town with the girls would be a different story. I think Jason was looking forward to showing me off in the skinny jeans (which have not fit for over 4 years) - I walked into the sanctuary where he was setting up, and he looked all disappointed and said, "You didn't wear the skinny jeans!" I still wore jeans that I haven't worn in several years also, but they were a little looser, a little less Christina Aguilera.

It occurred to me that now I'm going to have to buy an even smaller pair of jeans to keep that universal female experience of the Skinny Jeans That Just Won't Fit... in a size I may have seen briefly when I was 11 or 12 years old. It's a strange, electrifying experience to be shrinking, indeed. More on that later.

my journey

I think I've been on a diet since I hit puberty. That's a long time to be worrying about what you eat, how many calories you take in, if your butt looks fat in your neon jammie shorts, or whether you might be more popular if, just if, you could lose ten pounds and not be so chubby.

I've been to nutritionists, registered dietitians, therapists, and personal trainers. I've walked in the doors of Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem, and Weight Watchers. I've tried the Zone, Atkins, Weigh Down, Oprah/Bob Greene, and dozens of other books that all ended up with the same outcome: they never stuck. I've tried to just accept myself as a fat chick and deal with life as such, but I could never do it. I even tried hypnosis, but I just ended up laughing the whole time.

Enter nursing school and its vast array of convenience foods, drive-thrus, break room goodies, and vending machine cuisine that all becomes de rigeur when you become a full-time, time-strapped student. I was eating horribly, feeling even worse, and generally not a nice person to be around. Here I was, learning skills to help care for other people, and I was making myself sick. I got done with finals and was so stressed out, it took me the entire 2 weeks of break to unwind. I said enough was enough, and I walked back in the doors of Weight Watchers for a last-ditch effort.

This time, I ended up doing their Core plan: it focuses on fresh fruits, veggies, lean meats, whole grains, and lowfat dairy, without the obsessive counting of points that drove me to insanity all the other times I tried WW. This is a picture of me the day I started Weight Watchers:






This is a perfect picture of how I was: sugar-coma and tired, depressed, overweight, with that glazed-eye look. Who wants to be like that?

So I committed. There were several reasons why this stuck: first, my thirtieth birthday is just around the corner, relatively speaking, and I couldn't face the idea of approaching middle age looking like I was already over the hill. Second, Jason and I are thinking of starting a family, and my weight as it was would be a huge impediment to getting pregnant. (PS - Don't ask me when I'm getting pregnant.) And, in addition to wanting to wear cute clothes not bought from Lane Bryant or the larger end of Old Navy's sizes, run around the beach in a bikini before I hit a bikini-unacceptable age, and enjoy getting my picture taken, I was finally, truly doing this for me. I wasn't doing it to hopefully get a date, or to lose weight for an upcoming event, or trying to reduce before graduation/summer/Christmas/my birthday, or trying to get into my wedding gown. This time, it's just me.

I started losing, and then I started running. My cousin Jen - practically my sister - is a marathon runner, and I always thought she was crazy or incredibly driven (or both) to get up and actually run for miles, day after day. But she looks fabulous, healthy, fit, and she genuinely loves it, as do many of my friends, so I decided to try it again. Someone somewhere along the way told me that to start running, I should run slower than I think I should, but run for longer than I think I should. I ran around the apartment complex a few times. I started adding more laps. And then I ventured down to Cady Way Trail and ran 2 miles without stopping. It didn't happen overnight, but it was still pretty quick, probably a couple of weeks. People could actually fast-walk faster than I was running, but I didn't care, because I was running, I was doing something athletic and succeeding, and I liked it. I finally got what all the fuss was about.

So here I am, 23 pounds lighter, a couple of 5K races under my belt, and looking at life a lot differently. Cliche, I know, but it's true. I run about 16-18 miles a week, I eat fresh vegetables and hardly touch sugar, and all my clothes are getting looser and looser.

That's my story. I'm sticking to it. Really.